Lost Harvest: Book One of the Harvest Trilogy

by Joe Pace

  Amongst all of this, there were even sentient creatures; some bipedal, some verbally communicative, some bearing vague physical resemblance to humans. Among the scientists in Banks’ ministry were xenobiogenesis theorists who spent their careers in the grasping study of the origins of life in the cosmos. Their work included Ingram’s Taxonomy, the herculean and virtually impossible effort to slot every form of life encountered into meaningful categories based on shared characteristics. The people of Kepler-22B bore the designation Homo cygnusi, so close were they physiologically and even genetically to Homo sapiens. Speculation existed that that the two peoples, of Earth and Cygnus, descended from some common ancestry, a theory dismissed in serious academic circles but persistent on the scientific fringe. There had been a mildly sensational paper presented some years earlier, hypothesizing that when a massive prehistoric asteroid collided with Earth, dooming the dinosaurs, it had struck with force enough to launch terran matter into space with speed and trajectory sufficient to escape the solar system. According to the paper, that matter was laden with DNA that could have endured the long trek to another world.

  Banks himself was an agnostic on the question of panspermia, the theory of galactic origins for humanity which might well have seeded similar planets with similar genetic raw material. He was not an evolutionary biologist, nor an astronomer, and stepped only gingerly into the debate when it emerged from time to time to trouble the deliberations of the Royal Society. At the moment, he did not care why Kepler-22B shared such close kinship with Earth. He did not care why, except with some vague scientific curiosity, the Cygni should be so human-like. He only cared that they were, and that in that similarity, the deliverance of all humanity might reside. And now that he had done all he could to bring that deliverance to pass, he could only wait.

  He not only felt small, he felt powerless.

  ****

  Lord Rajek Djimonsu felt powerful.

  He stood, alone as always, in his brightly lit office. It was past midnight, but the sun never set on the markets of the United Kingdom. The Tokyo Exchange would be closing soon, and a late run on desalinization technology bore watching. In just three or four hours, the Colonial Crown Index would be opening in New York, and the Chancellor had carefully orchestrated a quiet deal that would prop up algae prices long enough to wriggle free of some poorly-performing royal investments in that sector. He was a fiscal Cromwell, the Lord Protector of the Kingdom’s economic health, the threats to which were potentially legion. The pound sterling never slept, and Djimonsu rarely did either, perhaps three or four hours out of twenty-four.

  He was married, of course. That had been arranged by his father, when Djimonsu had been all of eight. His wife was neither attractive nor intelligent, but she had come from a family redolent with wealth and name, and that had been more than enough for the late Bijali Djimonsu. There was no hint of the woman in the Lord Chancellor’s office, no handsome framed portrait of the Privy Councilor with his doting spouse and three children. His daughters and their mother were safely distant in Mumbai, where their bumbling provincialism could do his career no harm. There were other female companions as needed, appropriate to his station. One had visited him earlier that evening, discreetly of course, a yellow-haired native Briton. Yet another delectable daughter of Albion, he thought. They were always pale Britons – the vendors knew his tastes. He had entertained her in his sprawling apartments a floor below this office – exquisite wines, imported foods, professional sex. Through the complicity and generosity of grateful patrons, it was a scene he repeated there often.

  There. Never here. Here, between the gleaming walls of the Treasury, he had only one true love, and that was Britannia herself, the United Kingdom of Earth. And there was nothing he would not do for her.

  A shrill chirping interrupted his thoughts. Djimonsu had twelve different sounds assigned to varying categories of incoming message, and he knew them all intimately, the better to know whether any given call or alert was worth his time at that moment. This sound he would never ignore. Henry. With a touch, he accessed the text of the message. It had come from halfway across the galaxy, and it was utterly innocuous. Be a good girl. Listen to your mother. Blah, blah, blah. Djimonsu smirked, an expression he had perfected over the years. Banal trivialities, designed to slip, scarcely noticed, through the perfunctory review of the commander of the Harvest, across the vast emptiness of the galaxy, past the somewhat more advanced scrutiny of the Admiralty, to one of his agents here on Earth, to him. It took less than a minute for the translator program to de-encrypt the language and rearrange the letters into meaningful intelligence. As he read, the Chancellor’s smirk became a broad smile.

  It begins, he thought. Pearce was exhibiting signs of strain. Discipline problems with the crew. Discord among the officers. Pirate attacks. And all of this before the expedition had even reached Cygnus. You’ve done well, Henry. Satisfied for the moment, Djimonsu encoded and archived the message. He tried to return his gaze to the monitors, but suddenly realized how tired he was. There was nothing there that wouldn’t keep until morning, and he had done his service for King and country that night. Lord, I hope I’m right, he thought, before recalling his own maxim: a strong man may have doubts before a decision, but never after. It was time to sleep, if only for a while, and to dream of satisfied clients and an orderly world.

  Nine

  Landfall

  “It’s so…green.”

  Pearce knew what Musgrave meant. The orb that filled the viewscreen was a pastel smudge against the blackness beyond, like a child’s marble from antiquity. Earth, viewed from orbit, was a bruise of mottled black and indigo, all sprawled cities and lifeless oceans. The lights kept virtually every mile of the globe glowing unnaturally, illuminating a ball of hard edges and unremitting progress. This was none of those things. This blue-green jewel was the planet known to His Majesty’s Royal Navy as Kepler-22B, charted by Captain Jane Baker on her third, and fatal, voyage. The indigenous people there were the only sentient race thus far found in the old-style constellation of Cygnus. They had their own name for themselves, something difficult enough to properly pronounce that they were usually referred to simply as the Cygni.

  “Are those…” Hall asked, his mouth slightly open in wonder. Pearce nodded.

  “Icecaps.” Their orbital attitude was almost precisely equatorial, giving them a clear view of both polar regions. Massive bursts of white spread out from both top and bottom, a spectacle of frozen water.

  “Right on the surface like that.” Hall’s whistle was low and impressed, and not a little astonished. Earth had not seen icecaps in living memory. For a man like Hall, who, like so many of the working-class, had lived his life amongst steel and concrete and then the vacuum of space, he might as well have been looking out at Eden before the fall.

  “Prepare the cutter,” Pearce ordered. “Pott, you have the Harvest until I return. Worth, please extend my courtesies and request that Sir Green and Dr. Reyes join us on board. Lieutenant Fletcher, with me.” She followed him off the Quarterdeck to his star-cabin. Once they were inside, he asked her to close the door and sit down.

  “You’ve studied the language?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.” She stood at artificially rigid attention, looking over his shoulder.

  “Damn you, Lieutenant. Christine!” Her gaze shifted to his eyes. “I regret this…this coolness between us. I may be partially at fault, but now is not the time. I need your support and cooperation if we are to be successful. And we must be successful. Now, you have studied the language?” Fletcher didn’t relax her posture, but he thought her tone was slightly less brisk, and she continued to meet his eyes. It will have to do, he thought.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Good. Thank you. Now, I am not certain what we will encounter when we land. These Cygni have a volatile society. They may welcome us with open arms, or they may meet us with violence. It has been twelve years since an Englishman has set foot
on their planet, and we were not…on the best of terms at the conclusion of that visit. Regardless, we must have their cooperation, so I am empowered to treat them with great generosity and patience. Christine, the men will do as you and I do. Our conduct will inform theirs. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.” The ghost of a smile drifted across her lips. “Best behavior, sir.”

  “It is more than that. We will be here for three weeks, maybe four. Dr. Reyes tells me it may take that long for her to complete her work. In that time, should we be so fortunate to restore friendship with the Cygni, there will be great opportunity for…cultural exchange.”

  “The language program included instruction on what we know of their xenopology, Captain. I believe I understand you.”

  “Very good.” He stood, leaning forward with his hands on his desk. “Lieutenant Fletcher, I want you to coordinate our operations on the planet below. Make sure the scientists have what they need, but also oversee the crew. Schedule their shore leave rotations, if we get that far. Manage their contact and relations with the Cygni. I am sure to be occupied with the rigors of formal diplomacy, so I need you to manage the informal.” He rose. In their years in space together, his trust in her had never wavered until now, and it had never been more vital. Sighing, he spread his hands in a gesture that was equal parts exasperation and supplication.

  “I have always relied upon your judgment and loyalty, Christine. I know we have had our troubles on the voyage here. We must set those aside, if we are to accomplish our goals. You are to be my representative ashore. There is no one I would rather rely on. I must know that I can trust you completely.”

  He came out from behind the desk, and he touched her arm. Could they bridge the crevasse, and recapture the luck and accord they had shared before? She had been such a vital part of his lucrative merchant career. Now, when he most needed her, it wasn’t the same. Something was different. Was it the rigors of Navy structure? Was it her? Or is it me? he thought. Am I pressing too hard, with all that’s on the line? It didn’t matter. There was no changing what had gone before. The future was all that mattered now.

  ****

  The Harvest’s two launches were small, and there was barely room in this one for the eight bodies now strapped into their seats. Fletcher slipped into the pilot’s chair, while Worth sat alongside at the support station, with Pearce in his slightly elevated command perch just behind them. In the passenger section rode the scientists. Dr. Reyes looked icy and reserved as usual, while Sir Green’s expression betrayed his anxious enthusiasm. Pearce understood that this was the man’s maiden voyage to an alien planet. He found it hard to understand how someone could live their whole life, especially one as privileged as his, and not even visit the Mars cities or the terrafarmed nurseries of Io or Europa. Excitement showed on Worth’s face as well, but the young midshipman did her best to appear calm. In the rear, at their posts by the cutter’s entrance, were the Royal Machrines. Sergeant Crutchfield had insisted on coming himself, along with two of the robots, Luther-45 and Victor-11. Crutchfield wore his scarlet field uniform, with crossed white bandolier and pulse rifle, and the plastisteel skin of the Machrines echoed the aesthetics. In his heart, Pearce wished for one of Captain Baker’s large landing shuttles, and twelve Machrines, rather than just two and their human officer. Even that hadn’t been enough for her, he thought. With no idea what they would find on the surface, this would have to be enough.

  He also wished that he could have left Reyes and Green aboard the Harvest, but neither would hear of it. Had this been an initial contact with an unknown civilization, Admiralty protocols would have prohibited civilians from joining the first landing, but since there had been contact with the Cygni before, those protocols did not strictly apply. That was a point Reyes in particular had made, rather heatedly, when Pearce had tried to convince them to wait until he had reconnoitered the situation below.

  “Captain, I believe it is written in your orders that Sir Green and I are to be consulted on all matters in this expedition once we arrive at Kepler-22B,” she had said in his cabin, as Green sat nearby, his hands folded over his belly, smiling benignly. “I suggest you read them again if you have forgotten. I am certain Lord Exeter was quite specific.”

  Pearce had his doubts whether Exeter had written that portion of his orders, yet the language was there. It was highly irregular, but then, everything about this voyage was highly irregular. So the scientists were part of this motley eight-member team, in whose collective hands somehow rested mankind’s future. And my son’s, thought Pearce briefly, before dismissing that thought to the nether regions of his own brain. He would have no time or energy for distractions in the hours ahead.

  Fletcher navigated the launch expertly through the upper stratosphere, while the massive emerald-and-sapphire orb, four times the size of Earth, swelled steadily beneath them. She was following the approach trajectory that Pearce had outlined for her, heading inexorably toward the same landfall that Baker’s crew had made a dozen years before. During the several planning sessions preceding departure, there had been much debate about the relative dangers and benefits of such an approach. Lord Banks had been insistent that it was the only logical choice, despite the violent circumstances of the Drake’s expulsion. Kepler-22B was a vast planet, and one with a level of political development roughly equivalent to Earth’s late 18th century. There was no known world government, and a strong likelihood that the language Pearce knew as Cygni was a regional dialect. Setting down elsewhere would probably result in linguistic barriers that would slow progress. Even more importantly, these Cygni, on the northeast corner of the second-largest landmass, had met Earthers before. The relations with the natives had been mixed, varying among the different castes, and there was the potential that the factions that had befriended Baker were once more in power. If so, renewal of those old ties was one of the primary reasons Pearce had been chosen to command this mission.

  And if not…well, if not, Pearce had his orders. If they couldn’t obtain what they needed through peaceful cooperation, he was empowered to seize it by force. With what force, exactly? he wondered, with a glance at his three soldiers.

  As a final consideration, their understanding of Cygnusian ecology was woefully incomplete, and there was the possibility that the grains they sought were peculiar to that region. And so they were headed back to the scene of their dramatic exit. Pearce could picture the spit of land as though he had been there yesterday, hear the shouts of his crewmates and the eerie sounds of those alien weapons, screaming in the predawn. Alexander-457’s eyes flickering, beseeching.

  “Captain, ten kilometers of altitude and well into the troposphere. Approaching cloud layer now.” Fletcher turned to look at him, nothing in her eyes but confidence. She’s only been on commercial runs, he thought, following established trade routes. He nodded at her.

  “Proceed, Lieutenant.” Then, louder, he addressed the entire party. “We believe the Cygni have only been visited by guests from another world once in their entire history, and everything we know about this world suggests that they are largely preindustrial, with no electronic detection devices monitoring their atmosphere. However, once we penetrate the cloud layer, we will be visible to the naked eye. Worth, estimate on arrival?”

  “Eight minutes, Captain.”

  “Very good. You have all been briefed, but I will remind you that no one is to speak or act unless expressly ordered to do so by me. Is that understood?” There was a murmur of assent.

  “And if something happens to you?” Pearce wasn’t looking at her, but he could hear the smirk in Reyes’ voice. He wished, for the hundredth time, that John Banks had known a more companionable xenobotanist.

  “Nothing will,” growled Crutchfield, and Pearce felt a surge of gratitude toward the bearlike soldier.

  “Thank you, sergeant. Still, in the event I am detained or…incapacitated, you will immediately return to the launch under Fletcher’s command and re
treat to the Harvest. I want no harm done to these people, if we can help it.”

  The clouds parted then, and they emerged into the lower atmosphere of Cygnus. They were some six or seven kilometers above the surface, most of which was open ocean, a shade of blue which none of them, except Pearce, had ever seen before. The cabin grew still.

  “My grandfather tells stories of when there was an expanse of water like this between the Caribbean and England.” Fletcher never took her attention off her controls, but there was a hollowness and wonder in her voice that made Pearce frown.

  “You’ve seen ocean before,” he said. “Two of the New Indies worlds have living seas.”

  “Not like this.” Fletcher’s voice was husky, and Pearce could only categorize her expression as one of longing. He noted, with approval, that her fascination wasn’t interfering with her piloting. “And we never get this close.”

  That was true. The commerce at New Indies was almost entirely conducted at The Exchange, the enormous trading station in orbit around the fourth world of that system.

  “Well,” he said, with a wry smile, “you’ll certainly get a closer look at these waters. Proceed to Point Friendship, Lieutenant.”

  It was morning on Cygnus, during their long summer, and the first rays of the alien sun reflected in dappled glory off the waking blue of the trackless ocean below. Fletcher banked the cutter, dropping lower and turning the equivalent of east, and the far horizon grew thicker, then corrugated, as the interior peaks swelled purple in the distance. As they came closer still, the sun struck the lands between sea and mountains in a riot of green.