by Ian Douglas
“What did you find?”
“An intriguing fact. During a single thirty-seven-year period in the early twentieth century, a total of twenty bright novae—exploding stars—were observed from Earth.”
“Go on.”
“Five of those twenty novae occurred within the arbitrary boundaries of the constellation Aquila.”
It took a few seconds for the import to sink in. “My God—”
“Twenty-five percent of all observed and recorded novae, in other words, occurred within point two-five percent of the entire sky. This, we feel, is statistically important.
“One of these novae,” Cara went on, as a bright, new star appeared on the skymap just to the west of Altair, “was Nova Aquila. It appeared in the year 1918, and was the brightest nova ever recorded until Nova Carina, almost six centuries later. Two of the other novae appeared in the same year—1936—here, and here.” Two more bright stars appeared as Cara spoke, followed a moment later by two more. “And the last two, here in 1899, and here in 1937.”
“Five novae, though,” Alexander said slowly. He didn’t want to jump to unreasonable conclusions. “That’s still too small a number to be statistically significant.”
“It could be a random statistical clustering, true,” Cara told him. “Statistical anomalies do occur. But the extremely small area of sky involved—one quarter of one percent—seems to argue strongly against coincidence as a factor. And there is this, as well, a datum not available to twentieth-century cosmologists.”
The group of stars showing in Alexander’s mind rotated. The geometric figures of parallelogram and triangle shifted and distorted, some lines becoming much longer, others growing shorter.
A constellation was purely a convenience for Earth-based observers, a means of grouping and identifying stars in the night sky that had nothing to do with their actual locations in space. With a very few exceptions, stars that appeared to be close by one another in Earth’s sky—all members of the same constellation, in other words—appeared to be neighbors only because they happened to lie along the same line of sight. That was the fatal flaw in the ancient pseudoscience of astrology; one might as well say that a building on a distant hill, or the sun rising behind it, were physically connected to a house three meters away—or to one’s own hand—simply because they all appeared from a certain viewpoint to overlap.
Rotating the volume of space that included Aquila demonstrated this fact clearly. On a 2D map, the stars of Aquila appeared close together—the three brightest, Altair, Alshain, and Tarazed, for example, lay almost directly side by side in a short, straight line. Viewed from the side, however, Altair—Alpha Aquilae—was only 16.6 light-years from Earth, while Alshain, Beta Aquilae, was 46.6 light-years distant. Both, in fact, were quite close to Sol as galactic distances went. Gamma Aquilae, however, the third brightest star in the constellation and better known as Tarazed, was 330 light-years from Earth. Epsilon was 220 light-years distant; a few others were extremely distant; Eta Aquilae, for instance, was 1,600 light-years away, while dim Nu Aquilae, so distant it vanished off the window to the left when the display rotated, was actually a type F2 Ib supergiant 2,300 light-years distant.
The novae could be expected to show a similar range of distances, but this, Alexander saw, was not the case. They were clustered; Nova Aquila was about 1,200 light-years from Earth. The other four were all positioned at roughly the same distance, though they were spread across the constellation like a sheet, defining a flat region of space roughly fifty light-years deep and perhaps 200 to 300 light-years wide, some 800 light-years beyond the borders of human-colonized space.
Alexander felt a stirring of awe as he examined the 3D rotation. “Just when did these novae actually light off?” he asked.
“That represents a second anomaly,” Cara told him. “The light from all five novae arrived at Earth within that single thirty-eight-year period between 1899 and 1937. Again, that might have been coincidence, but, as you see, they actually are located in relatively close proximity to one another. All of them, we estimate, exploded within a few years of one another, right around the year 700 C.E.”
In the year 700, Alexander knew, Byzantines and Franks had been battling it out with the Arabs for control of the Mediterranean world on Earth, and the most startling advance in military technology was the stirrup. Twelve hundred light-years away, meanwhile, someone had been blowing up suns.
Random statistical anomalies happened, yes…but as Alexander studied the 3D constellation map, rotating it back and forth for a better feel of the thing’s volume and the relationship of the stars within it, he was dead certain that something more than chance was at work here.
“If this is…artificial,” he told Cara, “if this is deliberate…”
“We estimate a probability in excess of sixty percent that this clustering of novae is the direct result of intelligent action.”
“Intelligent action.” Alexander snorted. “Funny term for something on this scale.”
“We know of several sapient species with technologies sufficiently high to effect engineering on such a scale,” Cara told him. “The Builders, the Xul…and possibly the N’mah of several thousand years ago, though they would not be capable of such activities now. The artificial detonation of a star is certainly feasible, given what we know of the three species.”
“I wasn’t questioning that,” Alexander said. “It’s just, well, I see three possibilities here, assuming that those novae were artificially generated. One, of course, is that the star-destroyers were the Xul.”
“Possibly. We have no evidence that they have blown up stars in the past.”
“No. I agree, it’s just not their style.” The Xul’s usual modus operandi was to pound a target planet with high-velocity asteroids, quite literally bombing the inhabitants back into the Stone Age…or into extinction. “But the Xul have been around for at least half a million years, now, and if anyone has the technology to blow up a star, they should.”
“Agreed. What are your other two possibilities?”
“One, and the most intriguing one, I think, is the possibility that another technic species was detonating stars out there in Aquila over two thousand years ago.”
“That is the possibility that we noted when we uncovered this data,” Cara said. “Another high-technic species fighting a war to the death with the Xul. If we could make contact with such a species, ally with them, it might mean the difference between survival and extinction for Humankind. I do not see a third alternative, however.”
“It’s possible that what happened in Aquila had nothing to do with the Xul,” Alexander told the AI. “It was a civilization busy destroying itself. It might even have been an accident.”
“What kind of accident could—”
“An industrial accident on a colossal scale. Or an engineering accident…an attempt to manipulate whole stars gone terribly wrong?”
“I have no data that will permit me to evaluate these ideas.”
“Of course you don’t. We’re not used to thinking about engineering on an interstellar…on a galactic scale. But it is a possibility.”
“Perhaps the data was not as useful as we first believed,” Cara told him. The AI sounded almost crestfallen, and Alexander smiled. Artificial intelligences were superhumanly fast and possessed a range and scope and depth of knowledge that far surpassed anything humans were capable of, even with the most sophisticated cybernetic implant technology. Where they had trouble matching their human counterparts was in creativity and in imagination. Being able to imagine a cosmic engineering project on a scale that could annihilate stars was for the most part still beyond their operational parameters.
“No, Cara,” he told the AI. “The data are tremendously useful. This is exactly what we’re looking for…a focus, a direction in which we can work.” He thought for a moment. “The question is how to get out there. It’s a long way.”
“Which brings up the second bit of information our researc
h has uncovered. Look at this.” The image changed, showing what appeared to be a photograph of open space. A number of stars were visible, but one in particular stood out—a dazzling, white beacon. “That is the star Eta Aquilae,” Cara told him. “A star’s spectrum is unique, as unique as human fingerprints. There is no doubt as to the star’s identity.”
“Right. You just pointed that one out on the constellation image.”
“Actually, this image is in our files from one of our early Gate explorations. Our probes moved through a particular Gate pathway, took a series of photographs for later analyses, and returned.”
“Ah! And which Gate?…”
“As it happens…Puller 659.”
“God….”
“This pathway appears to open into a star system four hundred light-years from Eta Aquilae.”
“Four hundred…Then, the other end might be close to the area of novae?”
“A distinct possibility. Further, there did not appear to be a Xul presence there. For that reason, we have not been monitoring that path, but the original photographs were still on file.”
“Outstanding,” Alexander said with feeling. He was seeing all kinds of possibilities here.
“You concur that an expedition to this region of space might allow us to contact another technic species, one sufficiently powerful enough to help us withstand the Xul?”
“Yes, although we seem to be back to needing to enter Republic space. Again…we have several possibilities in front of us.”
“Perhaps you should list them,” Cara said. “I don’t seem to be seeing as many options and outcomes as are you.”
“Well…the big possibility is that there’s someone out there who beat the Xul two thousand years ago. If we can make contact with them, ally with them, like you said, we might have a chance to beat the Xul on their own terms.”
“Yes. This was the possibility we had noted when the data first turned up in our research. But…you also said the novae could have been caused by the Xul. If so, the species we’d hoped to ally with might have been wiped out two thousand years ago. A mission to the Nova Aquila region would be futile if that was the case.”
“Not at all. If the Xul resorted to blowing up stars—incinerating whole star systems—then they must have been up against someone or something that scared the liver out of them…assuming they have livers to begin with. Even if this hypothetical technic species is now extinct, we might find remnants…like the ruins on Chiron and elsewhere. We might learn why the Xul feared them that much.” He shrugged. “At least it’s a damned good place to start.”
“That possibility had not occurred to me.”
“Here’s another one. Imagine you’re the Xul, hard-wired to be paranoid about anyone different or advanced enough to be a threat. Two thousand years ago, someone in that one region of space gives you such a damned bad scare that you detonate stars to get rid of them. You think they’re all dead, wiped out when their worlds were incinerated…but two thousand years later, someone with a large battle fleet shows up in that same region and starts nosing around the wreckage of those stars. What do you think?”
“Either that the old enemy has reappeared, and is still a threat,” Cara said, “or, somewhat more likely, that another technic species is examining the wreckage of that former civilization—”
“And might learn something from the ruins. Exactly.”
“At the briefing, you emphasized that we needed to find a means of getting the Xul’s full attention,” Cara said. “A means of getting them to follow the MIEF off into the Galaxy instead of striking into Humankind space. The perceived threat posed by the MIEF at Nova Aquila might be sufficient for this.” The AI paused. “But suppose the Xul are not involved at all? You mentioned the possibility of a cosmic engineering or industrial accident involving some other species.”
“If all we find are the leftovers of a colossal cosmic engineering experiment gone bad,” Alexander said, “it still might help us. Even a mistake on that scale, something capable of detonating multiple suns, would represent an extremely advanced, extremely powerful technology. I would be willing to bet my pension that the Xul keep a watch on any such system, just in case.”
“Unless the system in question was so completely obliterated that, literally, nothing remains.”
Alexander shook his head. “Not possible. A supernova might vaporize any inner planets the star once had, and even then, I wonder if there wouldn’t be rubble of some sort left over, moving outward with the outer shell of explosion debris.”
“According to current astrophysical theory, supernovae are generated only by extremely massive stars,” Cara told him. “Stars that massive do not have planetary families, and in any case would be too young and short-lived to support the evolution of life, much less advanced technology.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved the remark aside. “That wasn’t my point. In Aquila we’re dealing with ordinary novae, not supernovae. The explosion blows off the outer layers of the star’s surface, and what’s left collapses down to a white dwarf. Any planets in the system would be cooked, maybe have their outer crusts stripped away, but the planetary cores would remain.”
“I fail to see how that helps us. Surely, the wreckage of any advanced technology would be obliterated by any wave front energetic enough to strip away a planet’s crust. Buildings, power generators, spacecraft, they all would be vaporized.”
“But the Xul watching the system, wouldn’t know that every trace had been vaporized,” Alexander replied. “Not with one-hundred-percent certainty. And with a spacefaring technic culture, there might be asteroids or outer-system moons with high-tech bases on them or inside them, or starships or large space habitats that rode out the nova’s expanding wave front relatively undamaged, or bases hidden inside some sort of long-lived stasis field.” He shrugged. “Endless possibilities. The chances of our going in and actually finding anything like that are remote in the extreme, granted, but the Xul won’t know for sure why we’re there, or what we might find. If they’re as paranoid as our xenosapientologists think they are, they’ll by God have to respond.”
“I take your point.” The AI hesitated. “It must be comforting to know—or at least to have a good idea—how the enemy will react in a given situation.”
He grunted. “There are still too damned many variables, and we still just don’t know the Xul well enough to predict how they’ll respond, not with any degree of certainty. The idea of them being xenophobes certainly fits with what we’ve seen of them up until now, as does the idea that they are extremely conservative, and don’t change much, if at all, over large periods of time. But, damn it, we don’t know. They’re still aliens…which means they don’t think the same way we do, don’t see the universe the same way we do, and we’d be arrogance personified if we thought we understood their motives or their worldview at this point in time.”
“But this gives us a starting point,” Cara observed.
“That it does,” Alexander agreed. “I’m actually more concerned—”
“Just a moment,” Cara said, interrupting. “Just a moment….”
Alexander waited. He knew the AI well enough to recognize that she was momentarily distracted by something entering her electronic purview. Whatever it was, it had to be a very large something to so completely monopolize her awareness, even for just a few seconds.
“General McCulloch’s EA is requesting connect time,” Cara told him. “Will you accept?”
“Damn it, Cara, when the Commandant of the Marine Corps requests an electronic conversation with a mere lieutenant general…” Alexander replied, letting the statement trail off.
“Will you accept?”
He sighed. AIs could be narrowly literal to the point of obsession. “Of course I will.”
“General McCulloch’s EA states that the general will be on-line momentarily, and to please hold.”
“Then I guess we’ll hold.
“Give me a quick update,” he told t
he AI. “I’m actually a lot more concerned about the PanEuropeans and how they’re reacting to the political situation than I am about the Xul right now. Is there anything new this morning on NetNews?”
“I’ve prepared your regular daily digest, which you can download at your convenience,” Cara told him. “Two hundred ninety-five articles and postings concerning the PanEuropean crisis. Most of those are classified as opinion pieces or commentary, and most tend to be alarmist or sensationalist in nature.”
“Nothing I need to be briefed on before I talk to the commandant?”
“In my estimation, no.”
“The usual crap, then.” He sighed. “Why do we have more trouble understanding ourselves and those like us than we do entities as alien as the Xul?”
“Human history suggests that this has always been a factor in human politics.”
“Mm. Yes. Agreed.”
“I am opening a virtual room for your conference with General McCulloch.”
“Thank you.” Alexander felt the familiar, lightly tingling surge across his scalp as the external reality of his office on board Skybase was swept away, replaced by a star-strewn void. The poly-lobed sprawl of human space filled his visual field; Puller 659, near the outer fringes of PE space, was highlighted as an unnaturally brilliant white beacon, outshining the strew of other stars.
“It appears General McCulloch is concerned about PanEuropean reaction if 1MIEF enters Republic space,” Cara told him.
Alexander snorted. “I’m concerned that we’re, both of us, Republic and Commonwealth, acting like apes around the water hole, thumping our chests, shrieking and grimacing at each other, and all the while the leopard is watching from the underbrush, getting ready to pounce. We should be working together, damn it, working toward the common cause, not clawing at each other’s throats.”
“Again, this appears to be a common pattern in human history. I submit that it represents a hard-wired feature of human psychology, and no doubt derives from the pre-tribal evolutionary period you refer to. Humans are apes, remember, and still possess the ape’s instincts regarding territory, protectiveness, threat, and strangers.”
