by David Brin
Hamish nodded.
“Very well. Lead on.”
As he followed the keeper of animal auguries, Hamish considered the question he might pose—a very different one than Tenskwatawa had sent him to ask.
If I confess my crime, will it help me influence world events and bring outcomes I’ll desire?
He would have to simplify the query further, of course, and couch it as a yes-no, either-or choice for the feathered fortuneteller to pick between, opening one labeled box or the other for a tasty treat. In truth, Hamish wasn’t sure he believed in these supposed seers. Most reputable scientists scoffed at the whole idea, attributing their “track record” to statistical flukes. But as long as he was already here.…
What if the answer is yes? Do I have the guts to carry out my plan?
Even if I find the courage, I’d require help to pull it off. But who? I’ll need people with technical skills, who are good at acting in secret … and quickly …
His subconscious was already ahead of him. Hamish realized this when he found his left hand absently fondling a small case in his pocket, containing a single contaict lens.
They helped me once … my mysterious benefactors … to see through the banality of the aristocrats’ club.
They said I had only to get in touch, again, if I wanted to go farther down a rabbit hole. This certainly would qualify as a leap!
But do I dare work with people I don’t even know?
Can I trust them?
Will they even go along with what I have in mind?
Would anybody?
Hamish heard a squawking sound ahead, as Dr. Nolan entered a chamber whose walls were covered with drip-veg hangings, lending the place a jungle ambiance.
“Awr. Hi Jill! Hi Jill! Hello-o-o stranger! Awk! Tall! Awk!”
Shifting her weight on a wooden perch, a gray parrot rocked eagerly, ready to get to work, building her moderate, but above-average, score in the Worldwide Predictions Market. Of course she didn’t know about any of that, nor did she care whether her tally of successful forecasts qualified as prophecy, coincidence, or statistical fluke. Perhaps (according to some) not caring might be part of the reason for it all.
Hamish spent a few minutes refining his paired, yes-no questions, writing them on two slips of paper, then inserting them behind clear labels, covering separate hatches in a wooden cabinet. Then he stood back, still clutching the little container in his pocket, breathing shallowly as his heart raced.
Am I really this credulous? This superstitious?
Of course I am. Or I would never have written so many tales about the price of hubris and ambitious pride.
Only now, shall I attempt to alter human destiny, through actions of my own? Not via stories on a screen or the pages of a novel, but in real life?
Isn’t that arrogant, in its own right?
Minutes later, he had his answer, Patmos chuttered happily, fussing her way through devouring a nut. The door she had chosen lay open behind her.
Wordlessly, with barely a nod of thanks, Hamish turned to go.
First order of business? A quiet place to slip on the contaict lens and commune with the people behind it, seeking their help to carry out a desperate, impromptu plan. A plan to rescue the world from diabolic alien invaders.
If this works, I’ll owe the inspiration to you, Roger.
Rest in peace.
THE CONFESSION OF A HOAXER
Hello. My name is Hamish Brookeman, and with this statement I admit and avow to having committed a crime.
First, though, I’m told that I am the 246th most famous person on the planet. But for those of you who still don’t know who I am, here’s my bio. A lot of folks say that I’m pretty good as a story-maker, scenario-builder, vid-director, and so on. In fact, those very skills are why I was invited, some years ago, to join a conspiracy. A scheme that I once believed in—
—that I now confess to be monstrous and wrong.
In my defense, let me say the plot didn’t seem bad, at first. Those behind it appeared sincere, claiming we’d save the world! A world riven by political, military, and ethnic feuds that threatened Armageddon in dozens of ways. A world that’s withered and worn out from ecological neglect and overuse by ten billion ravenous consumers. A world where venerable traditions hang in tatters and every day brings more news of insolent technological “wonders” that might end us all.
Was it still possible to divert lemming-humanity from its doom?
The concept we came up with was simple, having been portrayed in science fiction dramas going all the way back to a classic Outer Limits episode and one of the great comic books of the 1980s.
How to get all peoples and nations to put down their petty squabbles and unite in common cause? Why, by offering them a shared enemy.
A credible external threat would provoke the goodwill and fellowship that humans always show to other members of their tribe, when confronted by dangerous outsiders. Across history, leaders used this method to rally their subjects.
But how to accomplish it? A lot of ideas that seem elegant, say in a movie, prove impossible to implement, especially by a small and secret cabal. By the time they came to me, the group had already considered the problem, long and hard. They knew better than to try anything too ornate, like forging a complete “alien spaceship,” or even the partial wreckage of one. The world’s scientists and sages would quickly discover telltale signs of Earthly origin, in every alloy and part, down to the distribution of isotopes.
As for the invaders themselves? Well, not even great nations like China, America, or Brazil are so scientifically advanced that they could fake an extraterrestrial being, down to organs, metabolism, and a foreign genome.
But the Group did have one area of advantage. Simulation technologies had been squirreled away for quite some time—a quirky holographic technique here, a crystalline storage method there, some tricks of ai—set aside by skilled workers and innovators in Hollywood, in the defense establishments, and gaming industries. Separately, they didn’t amount to much. But together? Well, imagine how dedicated these far-seeing idealists had to be, in order to keep their best breakthroughs hidden, instead of exploiting them to get richer! In sum, together, the sequestered techniques added up (we thought) just enough, so that their combination might seem impressively advanced, even far ahead of contemporary human abilities.
And that’s where I came in. Who was better qualified to write the back story? The scenario. The characters. Their behaviors and motives. The things they’d say … in order to fool the world with simulated aliens?
Of course, by now you all know I’m referring to the Havana Artifact and its collection of “extraterrestrial emissaries.”
And yes, I am hereby claiming, confessing, avowing, and admitting It was all a great, big hoax!
* * *
But hang on a moment. Let me finish. For, you see, there remained arguments over how to present our simulations. Perhaps hide a transmitter aboard one of the big, deep space probes sent out by ESA, NASA, or Sinospatial—perhaps the Maffeo Polo or Voyager Twelve—heading out to Uranus or Neptune. The clever notion was for our little parasitic device to detach from the main ship, just as the mission swung close to Jupiter, for a gravity slingshot maneuver. If done properly, at that crucial point, the two pieces might go very different ways. (See the concept illustrated here.)
A few years later, the secret transmitter would then turn toward Earth and beam a SETI signal to our planet, purporting to be from some faraway world and laying down a threat that might unite humanity! It was a clever plan … but impractical, I’m told. The space agencies and their astronautics experts might not be fooled for long. They would soon trace back the orbits and figure it all out. Anyway, smuggling a parasitic cargo onto a scientific planetary probe is about as easy as persuading your wife to hire three Swedish “nannies.” It can’t be done.
So my fellow conspirators settled on the Artifact Option. No need to stow away on a voyage to deep space.
Instead, use all those hidden techniques to make a simple block of reactive crystal that could be powered by sunlight alone. Embed the right simulation programs … then simply release it into orbit near the Earth! In such a way that it would have to be noticed, and grabbed, by one of the debris-snagging teams … ideally, by some astronaut who was bored, burnt out, and easy to fool. Drop a hint or two, get him assigned to work in the desired area—and there you have it!
At the surface, our deception worked better than any of us could have hoped or imagined. And I admit, I felt pretty darned proud of the results. Especially my aliens! It was some of my best writing, ever.
Oh, sure, some people have cried “hoax!” since the beginning. But we expected that. So long as a majority believed there were genuine aliens, and that First Contact had finally been achieved, then the whole world’s attention would zero in on the same thing, at the same time.…
Only, then some things went wrong. I began to see the story go off track. Our synthetic aliens, simulated inside the Artifact, started diverting from my script! Moreover, instead of uniting the world, this “First Contact” was having the opposite effect, splintering society and causing everything to fracture!
Then came the Core Message. This thing about making millions of copies was bad enough. But to claim that nobody survives?
That’s when I realized … I’d been had. In my gullibility, I had lent my services, my creativity, to a conspiracy. One that had communicated with me only by encrypted overlays, never in person. What had seemed a prudent security measure, I now saw as a way to keep me from ever tracking down my comrades in crime. Compatriots who—for some reason—had chosen to alter the message, giving it a twist I never intended. From hope to despair.
Why? I honestly don’t know! When I wrote my scenario, I considered the possibility that some ulterior motive underlay the Group’s surface idealism. Perhaps I was a dupe and all of this would turn out to be just a publicity stunt for some new interactive game. Oh, I turned out to be a dupe, all right. But the underlying scheme was deeper, more malevolent than anything I imagined.
I’m running out of time, so let me leave all the details for later. Suffice it to say, for now, that I’m ready, even eager, to make up for my role in this crime. It is undeniable that I broke the law … attempting a hoax to startle the world out of its modern illness. A medicine that might have worked, if done properly.
It now seems likely that for my part in the hoax—for my sin of pride in thinking I could “save the world”—I will almost certainly spend time in jail, or worse. But it feels cleansing to get the truth out there … and to counter a plot that I now recognize as misguided, even vile.
To the authorities, let me assure you, I’ll cooperate, tell all, and accept my fair punishment with good grace, according to the traditions of Gandhi, King, Solzhenitsyn, and the other fighters for truth.
As for the rest of you, please accept my humble regrets for contributing to this unfortunate disruption in your lives. Lives you all can return to, now that we—humanity—are once again alone in our universe.
52.
APPRAISAL
“… ideally, by some astronaut who was bored, burnt out, and easy to fool…”
Gerald felt all eyes swivel toward him.
“Ouch!” Genady commented. Akana audibly ground her teeth.
“Well, he accomplished one thing,” Emily murmured. “The sumbitch just vaulted from 246 to number nine in just a few minutes. The fastest fame-flame in history! Sorry, Gerald, he just streaked past you.”
“Hush,” was his only answer. None of them had picked up the first airing of Brookeman’s broadcast. By now it was ten minutes old. Almost ancient. World commentary had already tsunamied past all records, overwhelming the gisting systems. Yet the periphery of Gerald’s tru-vu seemed remarkably calm. It was set to such a high filter level that only a few, ultra high-reputation virts fluttered around the center image, a tall, slender sci-fi author, uttering his “confession” in dry, even unctuously sincere tones.
“That’s when I realized … I’d been had. In my gullibility, I had lent my services, my creativity, to a conspiracy.…”
Gerald sighed. The man was good. In fact, he had never seen the like. Right now it didn’t matter that most of the high reputation virts were glimmering phrases like Bullshit artist! and Absurd! These were comments by reputable scientists and technology experts, not the man or woman on the street.
“It is undeniable that I broke the law … attempting a hoax to startle the world out of its modern illness.”
Ben Flannery let out a sigh that was partly pure admiration.
“Do you see how that pakeha bastard just boosted his credibility, by playing the willing martyr card? Who would confess to a crime, if it weren’t true? I recall something…” He scratched his head. “Someone else did that recently.” Ben wasn’t wearing specs, so he didn’t get an instant answer. “Oh, but we are in for it now!”
Keeping his thoughts to himself, Gerald mused.
Are we? Any worse off than before? Thank heavens at least the Artifact was being kept busy by several technicians across the room, downloading technical information, so the alien entities weren’t getting this feed. Best to ponder how to break it to them, that they were a “hoax.”
“To the authorities, let me assure you, I’ll cooperate, tell all, and accept my fair punishment with good grace, according to the traditions of Gandhi, King, Solzhenitsyn, and the other great fighters for truth.”
Emily pounded the table and Genady groaned.
One of the nearby virt-boards still glimmered where Gorosumov had been presenting his latest theory—that the Artifact was less like a chain letter than a living species. One with an “r-type reproductive strategy,” akin to ocean creatures who spew huge numbers of larvae into ocean vastness, so very much like space—gambling that one or two might find a warm place to grow and reproduce again. A fascinating comparison—and one more reason to resent Brookeman’s bizarre interruption.
“Lives you all can return to, now that we—humanity—are once again alone in our universe.”
At last, the lanky author was finished, smiling into the camera with an artful mix of boyish bashfulness and the noble mien of a saint. The scene dissolved …
… at which point the flurry of blits crowding Gerald’s tru-vus became a storm, no matter how high the filter settings. He took off his specs and glanced across the room again—
—at the table where his famous space Artifact gleamed, surrounded by cameras and other recording devices, downloading the first wave of technical diagrams and recipes that might help humanity to make more crystal probes, eventually, if that course was chosen. Just delivering tutorials might keep the alien machine occupied for months, possibly many years.
The Oldest Member was adamant that we switch to this mode, after only a few days conversing with individual artilens. Time to get down to business, he insisted. Too bad. Taken one at a time, the passengers were varied, fascinating, puzzling … and now Hamish Brookeman claims to have written them all!
For some reason that he couldn’t pin down, Gerald had begun thinking of Om and Brookeman as two sides of a coin. As co-symptoms of a greater puzzle.
Patrice Tshombe, the expert in animal behavior manipulation, commented on what they all just witnessed. Brookeman’s public statement.
“Impressive.”
Emily whirled. “Impressive? That … that liar! We’ve analyzed the Hoax Hypothesis from every angle. Some of the alien technologies may not be many decades ahead of ours, but there are lots! The best labs will spend years prying them apart. No way any little cabal of do-gooder Hollywood connivers—”
“Then there’s the orbital intersection,” Genady added. “It was spiraling in from deep space, along a trajectory where no human launch ever—”
But he, in turn, was interrupted by Haihong Ming.
“Refutation is even simpler, my comrades. The stones that are exploding underground, sacrificin
g parts of themselves in order to cry out and be retrieved. And those that glitter from the asteroid belt. These make the concept so absurd, one has to wonder that anyone at all pays heed to this Brookeman person.”
Oh, yeah. Gerald blinked, and gave the Chinese agent a wry smile. Sometimes the most obvious thing wasn’t the first to come to mind. And yet—
“Those shattered crystals and distant glitters are terribly intangible,” Gerald admitted. “We all know there’s a large fraction of the population that has trouble with logical abstractions. It would be different if we had a second stone that worked. That would seem palpable and no one would even listen to this guy.”
There was the bigger reason to want another artifact, of course. The story that it told might be different.
“Still,” continued Haihong Ming, “I have to wonder. Why did Mr. Brookeman even try this?”
Akana shrugged. “His aim is not to convince everybody. Certainly not the savants and intelligentsia. Probably not even a majority. Rather, as we learned early in the twenty-first century, here in America, it is easy to distract a large minority of the population with illogic and conspiracy theories. Brookeman is an expert at the art of manipulating the most human of all drives—the want that propels belief.”
“But—” Emily sputtered. “But to confess a crime…”
“As Ben just pointed out, it enhances Brookeman’s credibility. Who admits to something that could mean prison, unless driven by sincere guilt? But think! If all the scientists and legal experts proclaim there was no hoax, then for what can Brookeman be jailed? For making a blatantly false public statement, when he wasn’t under oath? Every year there are crazed ravings and ‘publicity stunts’ of similar, insipid untruthfulness, and nobody goes to the slammer.
“No,” Akana shook her head. “What impresses me most is the defense mechanisms that are built into his story. Think about what will happen when he is given a lie detector test, and he’s asked ‘Did you perpetrate a hoax?’ He can truthfully declare ‘Yes, I did.’”
