by David Brin
What—on Earth or Heaven or the Mesh—could he mean by that?
44.
LAYERED REALITY
Outside the dome, miffed from losing at water polo, Noisy Stomach complained to his young comrade, Three-Tone, as they jetted away some distance from the Tribe. Three-Tone groused about the stupid referee, the stupid ball, the stupid captain of their team.…
# Foolish Yellowbelly, should have put me in!
# Let me score! I’d score more!
Noisy Stomach had already dismissed the game from his mind. A silly pastime. A legacy of the days when humans used to live inside the dome and made things interesting in so many ways, with flashing lights and strange sensations, always fussing over pregnant females, or else begging sperm donations from males. Better times.
Now?
For a while the Tribe once again had a tame human of their own, to remove parasites and handle the net and bear the brunt of jokes. Only, the elders had decided, it was time to give him back. For his health.
Noisy Stomach mourned.
# What about MY health?
# Who will pick my pecs and clean my sores?
# Should have kept him. He is ours!
They both breached to inhale, tasting in the moist, tropical air signs of a coming squall, maybe late this afternoon. That always freshened things. Rain pushed down some of the unpleasant tang of metal and plastic and man-feces, especially strong near shore.
Noisy Stomach felt a grumble of hunger resonate from his innards to the space around him—a trait that made him poor at stealth, forcing him to specialize in beating, rather than catching. He was about to resume griping—something that young males often did for pleasurable competition, as much as from resentment—when he noticed that Three-Tone had zoomed away, propelled by powerful fluke strokes, leaving a swirl of I-have-just-detected-something-interesting bubbles in his follow-me wake.
Gamely, Noisy Stomach gave chase, always willing to go poke at something interesting. But what could it be? While in hard pursuit of his friend, he concentrated on sampling the sea sounds with left and right swings of his sensitive jaw, trying to figure out what had sparked Three-Tone’s sudden burst of speed, racing to the north.
As usual, there was a lot of spurious noise—the pounding of surf on a nearby beach and waves crashing against a more distant reef. Of course, there were irksome human motor sounds, a grating fact of life, both day and night—with one or two of them evidently heading this way—or toward the habitat dome—at high speed.
Evidently, the Tribe was about to lose its pet. Ah well. None of that seemed to be what sparked the interest of Three-Tone.
Could this be about food? Or danger? A quick scan found nothing unusual amid the fish frequencies, where tightly bunched schools could be heard, swirling like cyclones, surrounded by hunters who made quick-flicking dashes … and prey thrashed, delightfully constrained by clamping jaws. His hunger deepened, almost in syncopated rhythm … but no, there was nothing on those channels to excite Three-Tone so.
Swimming hard to catch up with his friend, Noisy Stomach sought clues in lower, complex layers of textured sound. Strata that the older dolphins were always obsessing about, forever wispy, tentative, that wove through dreams. It was here that you often heard the great whales speak to each other, with moans and cries and songs that traversed all the way across whole ocean basins. Sometimes about food and mating, of course. But also conveying the sea’s own, slow gossip.
And, even lower still—nestled amid the groans of a creaking, quake-prone Earth—you could just make out the chittering, scrabbling commentary of the crabs, crawling and scooting and clambering everywhere, who snapped at anything unusual, combining to create a deep background susurration. A murky, clickety chatter that seemed to rise right out of the ubiquitous mud.
That was where Noisy Stomach finally heard it too. A patterning—wavering and nebulous, but persistent—of surprise.
# … starlight … flowing upward …
# … very strange, indeed …
That was how he interpreted the skittering-clattering scrabble-sound. Catching up with Three-Tone at last, he quickly matched swim-rhythms with his friend, kicking and then arching, to jet out of the water for air, then hurrying along again beneath the surface, in perfect synchrony. Apparently, they were heading toward only the nearest of many sites where bottom-dwellers were behaving this way.
At least three others lay within a day’s swim … and something told him that there were more, and more, even beyond the horizon.
They were streaking toward a site more than an hour away from the dome. It made Noisy Stomach start to worry. Would he miss the hunt? Only making it back to the Tribe in time to pick at fish skeletons, hanging in the net? Were they both risking hunger, on the basis of a CRAB RUMOR? Crabs, who were barely smarter than the rocks they hid under?
Though … if it were happening in so many places.… Indeed, even the whales seemed to have noticed, pausing in their painful, deep ponderings. Swiveling that slow curiosity of theirs.
Noisy Stomach knew they were getting close. For one thing, the excitement had spread to other sonic layers, shorter range and smarter. He could hear, just ahead, a squealfest of excited pinnipeds, for example, drawn from a nearby island rookery. Sea lions mostly, and monk seals. Then—rapid scans of subtle sonar that could only mean …
He pulled up short.
Dolphins. A whole pod of Tursiops, already arrived on the scene.
Strangers. Naturals—unaltered and almost certainly suspicious of the clan that Noisy Stomach belonged to. His small clan of cetaceans, tainted by the delicious agony of human meddling. Sometimes, other Tursiops were outright unfriendly toward members of the Tribe, snapping at the dolphins-who-had-changed.
But Three-Tone was plunging ahead, straight toward an island headland—a cliff face jutting out of the crashing sea. Not a safe place, even at the best of times. Yet, the sea lions and other dolphins were already gathered there, swooping about and chattering with excitement.
Noisy Stomach approached cautiously.
This time there appeared to be no overt hostility. A trio of attractive females—two of them in heat—gave him a look-over as he passed close. None of the males from their pod hovered nearby to guard them. That was queer enough, in its own right!
Though tempted to tarry, he kicked hard to hurry after Three-Tone, drawing toward a place where cetaceans and pinnipeds were swirling about each other nervously, darting up for air and then diving to poke away at something in the shallow muck.
It appeared to be no more than a jumble of rocks and debris from some fairly recent landslide—a collapse of the nearby cliff that must have happened in the last day or so. Dolphins were beak-poking at the detritus, moving small stones with their teeth or prying larger ones aside, as if burrowing for crustaceans to eat. Only they weren’t murmuring with tunes of eager hunting. Curiosity—that was the theme of the moment.
Noisy Stomach pulled up alongside Three-Tone, wary, in case they might have to defend themselves. This clan had females in heat. That, plus all this excitement …
Then he saw the glow. It came from just below a stone jumble, illuminating the underside of one dolphin’s rostrum. The native Tursiops responded by hurrying faster, as a couple of sea lions—and Three-Tone—joined in. Against his better judgment, Noisy Stomach got caught up in the moment, taking his own turns at beak-digging, at mouthing away pebbles and clumps of dirt …
… until all that remained in the way was a single big rock piled on top of the light source, too heavy and obstinate to move with their mouths. Several dolphins from the other tribe spewed rapid sonar clicks of frustration, as did Noisy Stomach, wishing he could intimidate the stone, or crumble it to bits, with blasts of sound from his brow.
# Move aside. Move aside now.
# Let us show. Show you how.
He swiveled, surprised that newcomers could have approached without him realizing. Especially members of his own kind. The only voi
ces on Earth who spoke like that.
It was Old Yellowbelly, accompanied by Sweet Thing and Storm Bluffer and … almost the entire Tribe! They must have followed, drawn by the tumult.
Most of the natural dolphins edged backward, clicking nervously. Younger males darted about, blustering with harsh sonar beams that probed Noisy Stomach and his clan-mates deep enough to tell what they had for breakfast. Bravado that was clearly unbacked by real courage.
Sky-Biter approached. Between strong jaws he carried a slender pole, as long as he was. Noisy Stomach wondered—did the big bull haul that thing here, all the way from the dome? Or did Sky-Biter find it nearby, just now, amid the clutter of man-made debris that littered every patch of sea bottom?
Either way, several members of the Tribe immediately set to work. Yellowbelly took one pointy end of the rod and guided it toward a gap in the rocks, where the strange shine illuminated the approaching metal tip. When it was firmly planted under a large stone, Yellowbelly jetted away, to breathe at the surface. Suddenly, in acute need for air, Noisy Stomach followed. But he spumed and inhaled quickly, diving back down again to rejoin the others.
The natives were chattering louder than ever now, swimming nervous circles and prattling superstitiously about how weird and wrong this was. But Noisy Stomach proudly joined Three-Tone and half a dozen other members of his Tribe, seizing the rod along its length and pushing down.
The big rock budged, shifted to one side, then fell back into place. So they tried again from a different angle, and failed.
Then Storm Bluffer flew in and settled himself so that part of the pole, near the rod’s buried tip, lay across his broad back. Now, they all pumped with their flukes, pushing down on the other end of the rod, hard! Storm Bluffer grunted … and the obstruction flew off! As did the pole and most of the natural dolphins, fleeing in dismay, as the glow now spread freely from an exposed pit in the muck.
Members of the Tribe—plus a few of the bravest rustics—gathered around, spraying the site with exploratory clicks, and also bringing their eyes closer to peer at the source.
It had much the same sonic reflectivity as a river-smoothed stone, pockmarked and pitted by time, but it behaved like one of those machines that the dome-people used to shine at members of the Tribe, back when Noisy Stomach was little. Yet, something about it didn’t feel man-wrought at all. The light was unlike any he had seen emitted before, either in nature or by the tools of human-meddlers.
He could tell that blurry images were trying to form, under the scratches and gouges—shapes and outlines that wavered and rippled and failed to coalesce, then started to fade.
A collective sigh of disappointment fell from the onlookers. But Noisy Stomach would have none of that. He edged forward … a bit surprised by his own gumption … and aimed a chiding, focused beat of pure meaning at the stone thing.
# What? Give up so easy?
# Come on you, don’t be lazy.
# We came far—worked hard for this.
# Amuse us!
For some time nothing much happened. Faint ripples of gray coursed the oblong object, that might once have been smooth as wave-rolled glass. One end of it seemed soft, porous, and spongelike—almost crumbly—like bone that had been sucked of all its juices. Even as he watched, that end appeared to decay a little more, giving up some of its rigid essence, in order for the rest of the stone to brighten a bit.
Noisy Stomach felt one of the natural dolphins—a female—sidle up along his left side, her curiosity equal to his own. Both of them waited, holding their breath until it was almost stale. Then—
—the stone responded. This time with surface vibrations that shook its surface and resonated the surrounding waters, taking up the sonic glyph that Noisy Stomach had projected earlier and echoing it back, modified into a sculpture of crafted sound.
** … came far?
** … (YOU?!?) came far?
** ???
He did not need words like “irony” to interpret the underlying texture of that glyph. Such human terms could only aim, crudely, in the right direction.
Anyway, the dolphins did not need to understand. Whether they were of the modified variety or not, mere understanding could wait. It was enough that they all could tell—something both tragic and terribly funny was going on. Like a mullet, plaintively inquiring if mercy were an option, while thrashing between a pair of jaws.
And so … they laughed.
TORALYZER
Amsci Barcelona has intercepted and gisted an intelligence blip from one of the estates.
Apparently, nations and consortia all over the planet have paid heed to our seismic mapping-correlation. This posse’s hypothesis that the microquakes may come from “other” interstellar probes—possible rivals of the Havana Artifact that arrived long ago and are deeply buried, but that may now be trying hard to get attention. Perhaps desperate not to miss their one chance to make contact.
Taking this possibility seriously, several agencies have dispatched teams toward recent seismic sites. Most of them rocked deep layers of limestone or sandstone, hundreds, or even thousands of meters beyond easy reach. But dozens happened near or at the surface. Reports are expected from some of those locales, soon.
So, we in this posse have already had some impact! Is anybody up for …
… Oh, sorry. Most of you are mono-zoomed onto feed from the Artifact Conference right now.
All right. I’ll narrow down, too. We can follow up on attention-seeking, exploding rocks later.
Let’s see if the astronaut and his Contact Team can figure out the enigma.
45.
A PARROT OX
Words of the Oldest Surviving Member glowed across the face of the Artifact—and the screens and specs and contaict lenses of at least four or five billion Earthlings.
Our home species and civilizations and planets could not ever compete with one another. Because they never met.
Upon first reading that message, Gerald had felt his jaw muscles go slack. He couldn’t help it, even though he knew he must look silly, gaping in astonishment.
The maelstrom of virtual messages that had been swirling around his peripheral vision tumbled now like autumn leaves, dissolving as their authors lost interest in them, focusing instead on their own sense of confusion.
Everyone, on both sides of the quarantine glass, fell silent. Not one person had a single insight to contribute. Not if their thoughts were as blank and stunned as Gerald’s felt right now. You could hear the air-conditioning system purr … plus a hum from the floating display where the Oldest Surviving Member’s statement still glowed, while people here and across the globe scanned it over and over again, trying to make sense of an apparent paradox.
Amid this silence, someone’s phone abruptly rang—an impertinent jangling, expressing urgency. Even so, Gerald would have ignored it, along with everything else but the alien puzzle-statement … except there followed a sharp scream!
He glanced toward the Advisers’ Gallery, to see an elderly woman jump up and down, alternately shouting and sobbing while holding an old-fashioned joymaker handset. Lacey Donaldson-Sander, said an identifying caption—one of the world’s richest people. She seemed quite overcome. Professor Noozone at first tried to console her, then, grasping the news, grinned and hugged her. Those around the pair joined in, evidently having some reason for bliss.
Well, if anything were to shock us from our trance—our stunned cognitive dissonance—it might as well be somebody’s shout of joy.
He turned back to the latest alien missive, and decided it was a really bad idea to lose initiative. Time to get direct then. Specific. No more skirting the edges. Gerald leaned forward, enunciating toward the Artifact that he had grabbed out of space, rescuing the stone before it could plummet and crash upon the Earth.
“Question: Do you now exist as one of the artificially emulated inhabitants of an interstellar probe that was dispatched across the light-years, in order to meet and contact other species
of intelligent life such as ourselves?”
I am as you describe. And yes, that is a large part of our mission.
“Is this the usual method by which technological species learn of one another?”
Yes it is.
“Did you, repeatedly, offer an invitation to join your multispecies, interstellar community?”
We did. You will be most welcome among us.
Ben Flannery pounded the table in frustration. He leaned toward the Artifact and broke the agreed rules by shouting directly, impatience overcoming his sunny nature.
“Us! Us! You’re not telling us ANYTHING about who us is!
“All right, so there’s no war. Terrific! But how many sapient races participate in your federation? How is it governed? What are the benefits of membership? Which planet did this probe come from and how did it travel and how long did it take?… And…”
Genady and Ramesh finally managed to grab Ben’s shoulders and pull him back to his seat. Though, in their eyes, there lay clear sympathy for his frame of mind.
“Oh, shit,” Gerald said, as he saw a flurry of letters, glyphs, and ideograms flow into the Artifact. This time, apparently, Flannery’s shouts had been loud enough to register with the translation system. Akana met his eye with a shrug. No sense in trying to retract the questions. They were, after all, things that everybody wanted to know.
Oldest Surviving Member rotated his rotund form to consult with the others, before turning back toward the curved interface.
We have already replied that there are ninety-two races participating.
Governance is a matter of flexibly adapting to circumstances, as you earlier observed.
Gerald felt furious at Ben. These answers were obvious or redundant, or at best minor matters. When the whole world wanted to follow up on that cryptic remark about species having “never met.” Could the translation be literal, having only to do with having never met physically and in person? Somehow, that explanation didn’t seem right.
