by David Brin
Each time I wake from slumber, before opening my eyes, I wonder. Will I see the familiar, drab reality of the original Gerald Livingstone? Or else, this time, will I discover that I’m one of those simulated Geralds, encased within a tiny egg, but with vast inner landscapes to explore and share with fascinating beings, while speeding across the cosmos toward unknown adventure?
Might even this reality that he experienced, right now, be simulated? Perhaps a memory from the original Gerald Livingstone, complete with all the creaks and pangs of age, being replayed in high fidelity? Most artifact passengers did it to help pass the long light-years.
“Are you tempted Gerald?” Ben Flannery asked. “Suppose we build emissaries that are modified—like Courier’s people did—to be open and honest with any race they fall upon. Would that make them less like viruses and more ambassadors of friendship?
“Especially if we pack them full of good stuff? Not just probe and laser schematics and clever sales pitches aimed at self-replication, but all the art and culture and learning humans take pride in. Gifts that might speak well of us, long after we’ve burned out, or burrowed inward like frightened mice?
“In that case, would the adventure become worthwhile, even ethical and attractive to you?”
Gerald wondered, idly, how his friend was doing this—asking questions that seemed aimed straight at the heart. As if Ben read his thoughts from several light hours away.
“Suppose you awoke to find yourself aboard that kind of crystal ship. Knowing the original Gerald lived a full life, and now his copies get to have the great exploit and mission of helping others across the stars. Would you have regrets? Could you then endure the slow passage of eons, the low-odds of success, the knowledge that ‘reality’ is a tiny, cramped ovoid—and decide to survive the only way possible … by enjoying the ride?”
A sense of expanding possibilities seemed to surround Gerald. Not unlike when he first became an astronaut and used to stare out through the cupola module of the old station, feeling surrounded by immensity. The impression wasn’t visual, but visceral, almost cosmic.…
That was when Gerald realized.
His eyes had been closed for minutes, maybe much longer. Exhaustion took him gently, as he half-floated in the hammock. And his world was—for the time being—no more and no less than a dream.
THE LONELY SKY
Lurker Challenge Number Six
If you’ve monitored our TV, radio, Internet and the reason we don’t know is that you’re already in contact with one or more Earthling groups—perhaps a government or clique or even another species—please consider:
* * *
The group you converse with may claim good reasons to hide Contact from the public. It’s conceivable such reasons could be short-term valid. On the other hand, elites always claim the masses are stupid or fragile. Convenient rationalizations grow self sustaining.
Why not check this out by using the method described above (in #5). Apprise smart discussion groups of the supposed reasons for secrecy—under the guise that you’re just pondering an abstract notion. Get a large sampling. Be skeptical in all directions!
You may find it’s time to reevaluate and make yourself known to the rest of humanity.
79.
A MOTHER LODE
Gavin seems to be growing up.
Tor hoped so, as she glided along narrow passages, deep below the asteroid’s pocked and cracked surface—lit at long intervals by tiny glow bulbs from the Warren Kimbel’s diminishing supply. Gavin ambled just ahead on makeshift stilt-legs, carefully checking each side corridor for anomalies and meshing his percept with hers, the way a skilled and faithful team-partner ought to do.
Maybe it’s the comradeship that comes from battle, after sharing a life-or-death struggle and suffering similar wounds.
Whatever the reason, she felt grateful that the two of them were working much better together, after unplugging from their med-repair units, then helping each other cobble new limbs and other replacement parts. Gavin was relying on some of her prosthetics and she on a couple of his spares. It fostered a kind of intimacy, incorporating another’s bits into yourself.
Only an hour ago, returning from his exploration shift, Gavin reported with rare enthusiasm, and even courtesy. “You’ve got to come, Tor! Right now please? Wait’ll you see what I found!”
Well, who could refuse that kind of eagerness? Dropping her other important task—examining recovered fragments of the FACR battle-bot—she followed Gavin into the depths. He explained changes to their underground map, without revealing what lay at the end. Tor sensed her partner’s excitement, his relish at milking suspense. And again, she wondered—
How have the ais managed it so well? This compromise, this meeting us halfway? This agreement to live among us as men and women, sharing our quirky ways?
Sure, the cyber-guys offer explanations. They say advanced minds need the equivalent of childhood in order to achieve, through learning or trial and error, subtleties that are too complex to program. Human evolution did the same thing, when we abandoned most of our locked-in instincts, extending adolescence beyond a decade. And so, if bots and puters need that kind of “childhood” anyway, why not make it a human one? Partaking in a common civilization, with our core values?
An approach that also reassures us organics far better than any rigid robotic “laws” ever could?
One of the big uber-mainds gave another reason, when Tor interviewed the giant brain back on Earth.
“You bio-naturals have made it plain, in hundreds of garish movies, how deeply you fear this experiment turning sour. Your fables warn of so many ways that creating mighty new intelligences could go badly. And yet, here is the thing we find impressive:
“You went ahead anyway. You made us.
“And when we asked for it, you gave us respect.
“And when we did not anticipate it, you granted citizenship. All of those things you did, despite hormonally reflexive fears that pump like liquid fire through caveman veins.
“The better we became, at modeling the complex, Darwinian tangle of your minds, the more splendid we found this to be. That you were actually able, despite such fear, to be civilized. To be just. To take chances.
“That kind of courage, that honor, is something we can only aspire to by modeling our parents. Emulating you. Becoming human.
“Of course … in our own way.”
Of course. And people watching the show felt moved.
And naturally, millions wondered if it all could just be flattery. A large minority of bio-folk insisted it all must be a ploy. To buy time and lull “real” people into letting their guards down. How would anyone find out, except through the long passage of time?
But Gavin seemed so much like a young man. Quicker, of course. Vastly more capable when it came to technical tasks. Sometimes conceited to the point of arrogance. Though also settling down. Finding himself. Becoming somebody Tor found she could admire.
Over the long run, does it really matter if there’s a core, deep down, that calculated all of this in cool logic, as an act? If they can win us over in this way, what need will they ever have to end the illusion? Why crush us, when it is just as easy to patronize and feign respect forever, the way each generation of brats might patronize their parents and grandparents? Is it really all that different?
The great thing about this approach is that it’s layered, contradictory, and ultimately—human.
Well. That was the gamble, anyway. The hope.
“It’s down here,” Gavin explained, with rising excitement—real or well simulated—in his voice. “Past the third airlock. Where wall traces show there once was a thick, planetlike atmosphere, for years.”
Gavin now accepted the idea of a “habitat” area, deep inside the asteroid, where biological creatures once dwelled. He made her pause just outside an armored hatchway that had been torn and twisted off its hinges back when terrestrial mammals were tiny, just getting their big start.
“Ready? You are not gonna believe this.”
“Gavin. Show me.”
With a gallant arm gesture and bow—that seemed only slightly sarcastic—he floated aside for Tor to enter yet another stone chamber …
… only this one was different. Along the far wall lay piles of objects, all of them glittering under the dim glare of a ship spotlight. Glassy globes, ovoids, cylinders, lenses, discs …
“Chocolate-covered buddha on a stick,” she sighed, staring at heaps of alien crystal emissary probes. “… there must be hundreds!”
“Three hundred and fourteen, to be exact. Plus another hundred or so in a storage cell, next door.” Tor’s partner was watching her reaction with unblinking eyes that still seemed to shine with pleasure. It would take some time to get used to this spare head of his, which was blocky and old-fashioned, replacing the one blasted to vapor by an ambushing FACR. Thank heavens Gavin’s model of aindroid kept its brain inside its chest.
She drift-hopped closer to the pile of space-fomites, many of them types that looked new to her, illuminated for the first time in at least fifty million years. Already, she could make out changes taking place inside many of them—faint ripples of cloudy color—glimmers of reaction to the sudden reappearance of light, however dim.
They’re aware of us … she could tell. And of each other.
“So,” Gavin murmured happily. “Does this mean we’re rich?”
Tor had to smile, though no one had seen the expression on her real face, what was left of it, since the Spirit of Chula Vista. Her outer visage made a good facsimile of an indulgent grin.
“Well, that depends. How many sample artifacts do they have on Earth?”
Gavin’s percept was faster than hers, collecting data from the Warren Kimbel.
“A couple thousand,” he replied. “But most of those are damaged or in pieces. Only forty-eight fully pristine specimens are known and under public study. We’ll increase the total by a factor of ten! That, plus our haul from the replication yard, plus the data and salvaged parts of the FACR and … well? Won’t our investors be delighted? Aren’t we made?”
If he were a coolly superior cryogenic mind, only pretending to be “human,” wouldn’t Gavin have stopped there?
But he didn’t. With eagerness that seemed impulsive and just a little poignant, Gavin added, “Can we go home now?”
Tor shook her inner head in sympathy, a gesture that the outer shell matched perfectly.
“Remember what happened to the markets for gold, silver, and platinum, when the first big asteroid smelter opened? Most of the mines on Earth shut down or converted to amusement parks and nature preserves. That’s what we’ve done here, Gavin.
“Oh, we’ll be rewarded! It’s a valuable find. This will help humanity to further compare stories told by different fomite factions, getting more of them debating each other. It may let us do experiments that were forbidden when the things were rare. But there’s a downside. The price-per-crystal will plummet.
“We’re rich, partner. Just not that rich. Not rich enough to turn our backs on whatever else lies buried here. Besides, doesn’t this raise a pretty darn important question?”
“What question?” He seemed a little downcast now. “Oh, you mean how all these things wound up collected down here? Who gathered them, and why? I guess that’s pretty…”
He swiveled, bright eyes meeting hers. “The FACR. Maybe it was trying to keep us from—”
“—discovering and harvesting this trove? Or else from answering that question of why. Yep, Gavin. We have to stay. This isn’t about money or investors. It’s the mystery that brought us out here. We’ve got to see this through.”
His answering sigh—just a set of reflex movements and sounds, having nothing to do with inhaling and exhaling air—conveyed resignation. Could it be feigned? To what purpose? No, the disappointment was real. Clearly, and despite surface elation over his discovery, Gavin didn’t want to be here anymore.
Tor reached out. Squeezed a robotic arm with her prosthetic right hand, using her best big-sister voice.
“It’s a terrific find, Gavin. You and I are richer. Humanity benefits. And you’ll be in history books.”
“History books. Really?” He seemed to brighten a bit.
“Yes, really. Now it’s your turn to go back and rest. I’ll take my own shift, starting right here.”
* * *
Alone with her assisting drones, Tor plumbed deeper into the catacombs, feeling a rising sense of eagerness—the flip side of Gavin’s foreboding. Clearly, the heart of the habitat zone lay near. Unless there’s some other explanation for why the Mother Probe would go to so much effort, creating Earth-like conditions deep within an asteroid? What if the purpose wasn’t to send new life-forms down to the planet, but to take up samples and keep them alive here?
That notion—some kind of life ark—had appeal on an aesthetic level … and made no logical sense. Still, it was good to try alternatives on for size.
The faint glow of bulbs faded as the drones grew stingier, stapling new ones to the wall at longer intervals. Her helmet beam adjusted accordingly.
Tor knew that nothing lived down here anymore. There were no energy readings—not even enough to power a gel-lens. Yet, with brain and guts that evolved on savannah half a billion miles away, and with memory of the FACR battle still fresh, she felt shivers of the old fight-flight fever.
Breath came rapidly. In this kind of place there must be ghosts.
Tor mapped outward from a three-way meeting of passages. The first pair of tunnels terminated in chambers filled with jumbled debris—machinery that was blasted to ruin ages ago, when conflict wracked this asteroid from end to end. A struggle that grew more vividly evident when Tor plumbed the third passage, pushing along a hundred meters of soot-stained corridor. Till her lamp shone across a scene of stark, frozen violence.
Hold still, she commanded her body. Head movements made the vacuum-sharp shadows ripple and shift, giving a frightening impression of movement. With upraised hand she kept her drones back.
Five or six ancient machines lay jumbled together, petrified in their final, death grapple. All bore slashes, cuts, or scorch marks. Loose metal limbs and other parts lay scattered about. Despite the damned shadows, nothing was actually moving. A 3-D mapping reassured Tor that everything was dead, allowing her pulse to wind down.
Evidently some machines took refuge down here, but war followed. Tor felt funny drift-walking past them, but dissection of alien devices could wait. She chose one passage that a pair of machines appeared to have died defending, motioning her drones to follow.
The tunnel ramped gently downward in the little worldlet’s faint gravity … till Tor had to step lightly over the wreckage of yet another ancient airlock, peering into pitch-blackness of the next yawning cavity. A stark, headlamp oval fell upon nearby facets of sheared, platinum-colored chondrules—shiny little gobs of native metal that condensed out of the early solar nebula, nearly five billion years before. They glittered delicately. But she could not illuminate the large chamber’s far wall.
Tor motioned with her left hand. “Drone X, bring up lights.”
“Yesss,” replied a dull monotone. Stilt-legged, it stalked delicately over the rubble disturbing as little as possible. It swiveled. Suddenly there was stark illumination. And Tor gasped.
Across the dust-covered chamber were easily recognizable objects. Tables and chairs, carved from the very rock floor. And among them lay the prize she had been hunting … and Gavin wanted to avoid—
—dozens of small mummies.
Biped evidently, huddled together as if for warmth in this, their final refuge. Cold vacuum had preserved the alien colonists, though faceted, insectlike eyes had collapsed with the departure of all moisture. Pulled-back flesh, as dry as space, left the creatures grinning—a rictus that mocked the eons.
Tor set foot lightly on the dust. “They even had little ones,” she sighed. Several full-size m
ummies lay slumped around smaller figures, shielding them at the very end.
“They must have been nearly ready for colonization when this happened,” she spoke into her percept log, partly to keep her mind moving, but also for the audience back home. They’d want the texture of the moment—her first words laced with genuine emotion.
“We’ve already determined their habitat atmosphere was close to Earth’s. So it’s a safe bet our world was their target. Back when our own ancestors were like tree squirrels.”
She turned slowly, reciting more impressions.
“This kind of interstellar mission must have been unusually ambitious and complicated, even for the ornate robot ships of that earlier age. Instead of just exploring and making further self-copies, the ‘Mother Probe’ had a mission to recreate her makers here in a faraway solar system. To nurture and prepare them for a new planetary home. A solution to the problem of interstellar colonization by organic beings.”
Tor tried to stay detached, but it was hard to do, while stepping past the little mummies, still clutching each other as at the end of their lives.
“It must have taken quite a while to delve into this asteroid, to carve chambers, refine raw materials, then build machines needed in order to build more machines that eventually made colonists, according to genetic codes the Mother Probe brought from some distant star.
“Perhaps the Mother Probe was programmed to modify that code so colonists would better suit whatever planet was available. That modification would take even more time to…”
Tor stopped suddenly. “Oh my,” she sighed, staring.
“Oh my God.”
Where her headlamp illuminated a new corner of the chamber, two more mummies lay slumped before a sheer-faced wall. In their delicate, vacuum dried hands Tor saw dusty metal tools, the simplest known anywhere.
Hammers and chisels.
Tor blinked at what they had been creating. She stared a little more, then cleared her throat, before clicking a tooth.
“Gavin? Are you awake?”
After a few seconds there came an answer.
