Octavia Gone

by Jack McDevitt

  “I have no idea, Gabe.”

  “She is Rick Harding’s sister.”

  Alex’s brow creased. “The name rings a bell.”

  “He was one of the people lost on Octavia.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Amanda had finished her remarks and was part of a small crowd that had gathered around us. “I knew Archie,” she said.

  “Archie Womack?” The question came from several people.

  “Yes.”

  Everyone turned and looked at her. They said they were sorry to hear it and asked whether they’d been close. Alex was visibly surprised. “I don’t recall your mentioning it at the time.”

  “He was a good man,” she added. “He had a special interest in orphans. I don’t know how many of them got through Andiquar University thanks to his support.”

  “You came to know him through the museum?” somebody asked.

  “Actually, no. We belonged to the same bridge club. Over the years we got closer. He was at the house a few times. We had lunch together occasionally. I’m pretty sure you met him once.” That was directed at Alex.

  “Really?” He was trying to reach back, but he produced nothing. “I remember getting introduced to a lot of your friends over the years.” He shrugged. “I just don’t remember.”

  Her eyes closed and she shook her head. “I’m sorry he’s gone. I wish they could pin down what happened.”

  “So do I,” said Gabe.

  “The best they could come up with,” said Amanda, “is that they got attacked by pirates. Or kidnapped by aliens.”

  “You don’t buy into either, I assume?”

  “We don’t have any pirates. And in either case, if someone they didn’t know showed up, they’d certainly have sent a message. No, wait, I take that back. There was a period of about thirty hours every few months that they were blocked off. That the black hole got between them and anybody they could have contacted. And that was when it happened.”

  “Interesting,” said Alex. “Any reason someone would have wanted to attack them?”

  “None I’ve ever heard of.”

  “That would be worth looking into, Alex,” said Fenn Redfield. “I take it you’ve never gotten involved.”

  “No, not really. No way I could.”

  Fenn asked Gabe what he knew about it.

  “Not much. If my memory serves me right, the Octavia tech, Rick Harding, was the owner of the trophy. Angela said she found it in a closet after the station disappeared. She brought it in here and asked me if I’d ever seen anything like it before.”

  “Had you?”

  “Not at first glance. Unfortunately I never had time to work on it. I can tell you there’s no record anywhere, in any known age, of a set of characters that looked like the ones on the artifact.”

  “So it might have been legitimate? A product of an alien civilization?”

  “Possibly.”

  Alex looked puzzled. “If it was, why did he have it in a closet?”

  “I think you just asked the right question.” Gabe looked seriously unhappy. “Unfortunately I don’t even have a picture of it.”

  • • •

  We drifted back into the party. But Gabe and Alex spent much of the rest of the evening in what was obviously a serious conversation. The truth was there was no way those two were going to walk away from a lost artifact. But Gabe had committed to join an archeological team that was preparing to leave for the Korkona, a star system that had housed a failed colony during the sixth millennium. And Alex was facing a trip around the world in two days to attend an antiquities conference. So I got the assignment of taking the first step. “Chase,” said Gabe, “do we have a contact for her?”

  “For Angela Harding?”

  “Yes.”

  “She lives in Newbury. Or at least she did when she retrieved the artifact.” I passed the question to Jacob.

  “Negative,” he said. “There is no listing for anyone by that name currently living in Newbury. Nor is there a forwarding address for the Angela Harding who formerly lived there. She seems to have dropped off the listings in 1431.” Four years earlier. Newbury was about sixty kilometers west, a quiet little leisurely town.

  “Okay.” Gabe shook his head. Nothing’s ever easy. “Chase, see if you can track her down. That okay with you, Alex? I don’t want to be taking over your assistant.”

  Alex grinned. “I don’t exactly think of Chase as an assistant. But sure. Do whatever you need.”

  “Right. Okay. If you can locate her, we’d like to recover the trophy, if possible. And if you can, let’s get more information on Harding. It would be especially helpful if we could find out where he got the thing.”

  “Gabe,” said Alex, “you probably remember this better than we all do, but when nobody could explain how a space station could disappear, even one circling a black hole, rumors started showing up. Harding was the tech. The station had thrusters. Could he or someone else have used them to send the station into the black hole?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Gabe. He passed the question to me.

  “I doubt he could have used the system to steer the thing into the hole. It was a station, not a ship. He’d have had to destabilize it, get it out of orbit. It would have taken a while, and it’s hard to believe the others would have just stood around and watched.”

  “There were also rumors,” said Amanda, “that DPSAR figured out what happened but kept it quiet.”

  “Somebody wrote a book,” I said. “The title was Lost on Octavia. It claimed that a bomb had been planted on the station.”

  “How could that have happened?” asked Gabe. “They were out there for what, a year and a half? And they weren’t changing the personnel.”

  “There were periodic visits by supply vehicles. Mostly bringing food and water. The problem is they couldn’t find a motive for anyone, so the author invented one. Blamed it on religious extremists who thought we were breaking into divine territory. But she could never point the finger at anyone specific.”

  Gabe sent me a tolerant smile. “When did Angela come back for it?”

  I checked the receipt. “Midsummer, 1429.” Six years ago.

  “I guess she got tired of waiting for me.” A bird—I think it was a turik—landed on a windowsill, flapped and squawked in the moonlight, and fell off. We all glanced at it and watched it fly away. Then Gabe continued: “Chase, if you can catch up with her, see if you can find out whether she ever learned whether it was actually an alien artifact. Was it real?”

  “Okay.”

  “And by the way, apologize for my not getting back to her.”

  “I already did that. At the time, she didn’t realize you’d been on the Capella.”

  “I hope she didn’t get rid of it,” said Gabe.

  Alex was not happy. “You said you didn’t get any pictures of the thing.”

  “That’s correct, Alex. I was on the run at the time.”

  “That’s the first thing we do, Gabe, when something like that comes in.”

  Gabe’s expression hardened, and I thought the old animosity between the two might break out again, but he didn’t say anything. In case he was thinking about it, I jumped in: “If she does have it, and she’s found out it’s a legitimate alien artifact, do you guys want to make an offer?”

  They looked at each other. “If she tells you it’s legitimate,” said Gabe, “and she still has possession of it, tell her we’ll be in touch. If she’s sold it, see if you can find out to whom.”

  • • •

  It was getting late. Alex got everyone together in the conference room. “Something else we need to take care of,” he said. He looked over at Gabe, who was talking with Amanda and Fenn. “Uncle Gabe, would you come forward, please?”

  Gabe looked around him as if Alex was actually speaking to someone else. That was Amanda’s cue to take his arm and escort him to his nephew’s side.

  “Gabe,” he said, “I’d like to remind you that you’re sur
rounded by friends and family who’ve come together not only to show you how pleased they are to have you back but also because we have something for you.”

  He stepped aside and was replaced by Hiram Olson, head of the archeology department at Andiquar University and a longtime friend of Gabe’s. Hiram was a tall, wide-shouldered man with the electric features of a comedian. He could in fact play almost any role needed. On that evening, he was dead serious. He reached down and took a package from beneath the table. He removed the wrapping, revealing a gold-framed plaque. “Gabriel,” he said, “eleven years ago, you inspired a search that made it possible for Alex to unearth a previously unsuspected piece of history. One of the keys that led to that happy result was the classic poem ‘Leisha’ by Walford Candles, written during the Mute War.”

  He held the frame where everyone could see it. The poem was inscribed on the plaque, beneath Gabe’s name and above a visual of Christopher Sim’s Corsarius.

  • • •

  Amanda took him aside a few minutes later. “Gabe,” she said, “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but you’re on the inside track for the Fleminger Award this year.” For anyone who doesn’t know, the Fleminger is granted for special achievement in support of historical research. The recipients have been frequently associated with archeology.

  A few minutes later Gabe approached his nephew and said thanks. “It wouldn’t be happening without you.”

  III.

  The terror of the graveyard

  Is not that it waits at the end of life’s journey,

  But that it becomes, as time goes by,

  The resting place of family and friends,

  Of so many who matter.

  —WALFORD CANDLES, “LIGHTS OUT,” 1212

  If the trophy had actually been an alien object, and Angela Harding had disposed of it, it would almost certainly have shown up on the datanet. So when I got home, I showered, got into my pajamas, sat down, and asked Carmen to run a search. She found nothing.

  So we looked for the background of the Angela Harding who had lived in Newbury. She arrived there in 1427, lived a quiet existence for four years, and dropped out of sight. That’s not especially unusual. A lot of people, with an interest in maintaining a level of privacy, keep as much of their data off the net as they can.

  “Do you see anything of value?” asked Carmen.

  “Not yet. I wonder if she has an avatar?” Most people do. But of course the reader already knows that. We can go to one and experience the illusion of talking with the actual person. We can get that individual’s opinion on just about anything. All kinds of information about accomplishments is accessible. Of course, there’s no guarantee about accuracy, but then, as most of us realize, it would take all the fun out of the exercise.

  But again Angela was a negative. There was an Angela Harding in Piedmont, a large island eighty kilometers off the coast. But she was only nine years old. “Maybe she’s related?” I said.

  “I’ll check.” I watched while Carmen contacted the parents and asked if there was another branch of the family located in the area. They said not that they knew of. The child had a grandmother in Andiquar, but there was no familial connection with anyone else of that name.

  “All right. Let’s try a general search.”

  Carmen needed only a moment: “There are approximately six hundred persons named Angela Harding spread around the planet. That doesn’t take into account the possibility that she got married and changed her name.”

  There had been an avatar, but it was taken down in 1429, about the same time Angela returned to the country house and recovered the trophy.

  The most curious aspect of all that was that she’d removed contact information. I wondered why. Unfortunately it meant that instead of just calling, I would have to visit Newbury and start looking for her. In the morning, I notified Alex. “I won’t be going in today,” I told him. “I’m headed for Newbury.”

  “All right,” he said. “Did you find her?”

  “No. No sign of her yet.”

  “Okay. Good luck. When are you leaving?”

  “In about fifteen minutes.”

  He started talking to Gabe. Then he was back: “Good. Can you hold for a second? Gabe wants to ask you something.”

  Gabe picked up. “Chase? My schedule has changed. You mind if I go along?”

  • • •

  He and Alex were both waiting when I touched down at the country house. At first I thought I was going to have two passengers. But Alex signaled no. “Hate to miss it,” he said. “But I have to get out of here this afternoon. Let me know if you find anything.”

  Gabe climbed in, we waved good-bye, and lifted off. “What’s the plan?” he asked.

  “The only thing I can think of is to head for the last address we had and see if we can track her from there.”

  “Sounds good.”

  A light rain began to fall as we swung west and flew out over the Melony. The wind picked up, and sailboats were taking advantage of it to get to shore.

  We didn’t talk much. Gabe seemed to have something on his mind. Maybe April. I made several efforts to find subjects that would interest him. Finally I decided to ask him directly: “You going to see her again, Gabe?”

  “See who?” He knew damn well who I was talking about.

  “April.”

  “She invited me to stop by for a visit. Said I’d like Craig. Her husband.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s a judge. She couldn’t resist telling me.”

  “Are you going to take her up on it?”

  He was looking off into the distance. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Anyhow, I’m pretty busy right now.” He fell silent again. Moved around in his seat. Adjusted his belt. Went back to staring out at passing clouds. And then sighed. “Best thing I can do, Chase, is to stay out of her life.”

  We both knew that. But it hurt.

  • • •

  The hunt for intelligent life has been a mainstay of space science since the first moon flights nine thousand years ago. We haven’t found much. The Ashiyyur, who lived among a relatively close cluster of stars, have been pretty much the entire game. There’ve been a few worlds with ruins, but on the whole life seems to happen on only a small fraction of even the most ideal worlds, filled with water and sunlight. And on the rare occasions that a technically advanced culture showed up, once they developed explosives they showed a tendency to use them. The Ashiyyur were the only ones we’d found who seemed to have survived through eons of advanced technology.

  “Gabe,” I said, “why do we care so much about finding aliens?”

  “I guess because the universe seems so empty. For thousands of years, we rode around the Orion Arm and saw nothing. If you read the histories of the period, people seemed to be convinced that they were probably alone. I mean, those years were seriously depressing. They did find an occasional world with trees and squirrels, but they were rare.” He turned and stared at me. “Why am I telling you all this stuff? You know this as well as I do.”

  “The thing that amazes me,” I said, “is that when we finally did find somebody, we got into a war with them.”

  “Yeah. That was dumb.” We were approaching a small town surrounded by forest. “Is that it?”

  “Next one over.” We kept going and a few minutes later came out of the rain, saw Newbury, and started down. The town consisted of about two hundred homes, a town hall, a theater, a church, a school, and a couple of bars. We descended into a field behind 716 Thornberry Avenue, Angela Harding’s home as recently as 1431, four years earlier. Some kids were playing cards in a tree fort. As we touched ground, they stopped and waved.

  The house was an attractive gold-and-white two-story villa with lots of windows, a cluster of palm trees, a swing, and a fountain. We climbed out and Gabe led the way to a timber fence. We passed through a gate into the front yard, checked the number, and climbed four steps onto the porch, where we introduced ourselves and explained
that we were looking for Ms. Harding. A minute later the door opened and a congenial young man appeared. He was probably just at the end of his high school years. He smiled but shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t think I can help you. I don’t know anybody by that name.”

  “She lived here, in this house, a few years ago,” said Gabe.

  “Oh. Well, come on in. Maybe Mom knows her.” He backed away to make room for us. We went into an interior filled with fabric furniture and a table that might have served for doing puzzles or playing games. We heard a woman’s voice from another room: “Who is it, Mack?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “They’re looking for—” She emerged, wiping her hands on a towel. Her hair was brown and a bit disheveled. She pushed it back away from her forehead and inspected us with matching brown eyes. “They’re looking for a Ms. Harding, Mom. Is she the lady we bought the house from?”

  Mom shrugged. “I’ve no idea. We never met the owner.” Her tone suggested she had no interest in hunting through paperwork. “Sorry.”

  Gabe glanced at me. Take it. “Ma’am,” I said, “maybe your AI could help?”

  “Allie came here with us.”

  “Oh. May I ask how long you’ve been here?”

  “About five years.” She looked around the room, indicating she had better things to do. “Listen, I don’t want to rush you people, but I’m busy at the moment, and I don’t think I can be of any help.”

  “You never heard her name at all? Angela Harding?”

  “Not that I can recall.” She opened the front door and stood aside. “I hope you find her.”

  We took the hint. “She was probably the wrong person to ask anyhow,” I said after we got outside.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I never met the people I bought my place from, either. I suspect that’s generally true. Let’s try the neighbors.” The homes on Thornberry Avenue were not far apart. You could walk to whatever was next door in a couple of minutes. So they probably knew each other fairly well.