Echoes of Earth

by Sean Williams

  “I’m not talking about the communicator per se,” Samson broke in. “Obviously Earth doesn’t have the technology to reply, even if they heard us. But we have the hole ship, and it has a working communicator. We could send it to Earth and—”

  “Wait a minute. Hold it right there. We’re not sending that ship anywhere yet.”

  “But Caryl, you really—”

  “Look, I’m not saying I disagree with you.” Hatzis folded her arms, trying to effect a casual pose while at the same time indicating her inflexibility on the matter. “I’m just saying this isn’t the time. There are a lot of things to consider, not the least of which is the fact that we don’t know what’s waiting for us there. And is it even reasonable to send Peter on his own on such a trip? Even if we could teleoperate a droid while the hole ship is working, there’s no way we could operate one from here when he arrived.”

  Samson listened begrudgingly. “All right. But we’ll talk about it soon?”

  Hatzis nodded. “Soon, yes. I’ll call an executive meeting tomorrow, if you like.”

  “I just feel this should be dealt with urgently—”

  “Listen, Cleo,” she said. “You’re not the only one with an agenda aboard this ship, you know. We’re barely scraping the paint off the gifts at the moment; give us ten years, and we’d still be swamped. If we send Peter away for any length of time, we’re only going to make our job more difficult here. I don’t want that, and I won’t be pushed into it. Not by you or anyone else. Understand?”

  Samson’s expression didn’t change. “I understand perfectly,” she said.

  “Good. Then get the hell out of my face, and let me get on with my work. You’ll be informed when the executive meeting is called.”

  The woman nodded and left the bridge without looking back, walking formally for the exit and passing through it as though it was real.

  Hatzis took her seat in the center of the room, feeling oddly as though she was the one who had been dismissed.

  “Caryl, we’re picking up something from the dock.” Jene Avery was filling in for Sivio while he rested. “Emissions are spiking.”

  “Is everyone out of there?”

  “It’s clear.”

  “Right,” she said, finding an overall view of the dock. “Then let’s see what happens.”

  She didn’t have to wait long. A bright point of light flared in the center of the giant chamber, then faded to reveal a tiny, white sphere. The white sphere grew until it was its previous size, at which point the black sphere issued from its side and resumed its patient orbit.

  The two spheres in close conjunction looked to Hatzis like an animal with a huge body and a small head, reminding her of an orb weaver spider she had once seen as a child. An appropriate comparison, she thought, given the hole ship’s design.

  “We’ve regained contact with the droid,” said Avery. “The conSense link to Peter is also open.”

  “Are you okay in there, Peter?” Hatzis asked, although she could now see through the droid’s eyes perfectly well.

  “Never better,” he said. “That was some trip. You should try it.”

  “Doesn’t look like I’ll be able to in a hurry.”

  “Nonsense. We have plenty of spare bodies. I’m sure Kingsley can rig up another brain to stick you in, like mine. You’ll love it, I promise.”

  She grimaced. “No thanks,” she said. “I’m too used to the high life, now.”

  “Oh well,” he said with a shrug. “Your loss, I guess.”

  There was a sharp edge to his ribbing that she didn’t miss. He seemed to be enjoying the fact that, for once, he had something she didn’t have. He might be damaged and face an uncertain future, but he was traveling faster than light—possibly the first human to ever do so. Personally, she didn’t regard it as much of a trade-off, but he seemed to, and that was what mattered. If the notion made him happy, then it also made him more amenable to her orders, and that could only be a good thing.

  “Does the hole ship have a name?” she asked Alander, to change the subject.

  “They’ve never mentioned one.”

  “How about Arachne?” Hatzis suggested, thinking of the spider image she’d had.

  “As in the Greek myth and spiders?” He looked somewhat baffled by the choice for a moment, then shrugged and said, “Yeah, sure.”

  “Okay, Peter, I’m going to put you back in Otto’s hands for a while. He wants to run our new toy through its paces. We might not be able to discover how it actually works, but knowing what it can do will be a start. Then you can take a break, if you like, before getting to work on the rest of the gifts.”

  “No rest for the wicked, obviously.”

  “If you’ve got time to be wicked,” she said with a slight smile, “then I’m clearly not working you hard enough.”

  * * *

  The Frank Tipler normally operated on a so-called “4-5-6” duty roster, with every twenty-hour day divided up into four shifts, each five hours in length. There were five daily rosters in a week, and six weekly rosters in a month. A good administrator could cycle through those rosters in such a way as to ensure optimal efficiency while at the same time preventing the crew from becoming stagnant or too accustomed to working with the same faces over and over. The Tipler had programs designed to optimize an administrator’s choices, but Hatzis still preferred doing it herself. That way she always knew who was working when and on what. At any given moment, she liked to know exactly what resources she had at her disposal.

  Checking the records of the previous few days, she confirmed a vague impression that Cleo Samson had been popping up more often than expected. She had been around when Alander had taken the shuttle to Tower Five and the climber up to the Hub; she had been watching all through the first exploration of the gifts; she had been awake all through the test of the communicator and the hole ship. And yet somehow she was still managing to get her work done.

  Hatzis couldn’t bawl Samson out for pushing herself too hard, though. Hatzis was equally guilty of that. But at least she could compress her sleep periods into an hour or two by taking them at quadruple speed. Now that the immediate emergency was over and everyone was back in normal time, that gave her enough of an edge to justify the extra-long days. She felt like she was getting things back under control, inasmuch as she was able to, caught as she was between Alander and alien machines with undetermined motives.

  She played back a recording of a conversation between Alander and the Gifts that had occurred the previous day. He had been in the Library with Kingsley Oborn, scouring the voluminous references for anything to do with the Spinners. In the end, they had inevitably turned to the Gifts for help; the Library was simply too huge for two people to search effectively, even if they’d had months to do so. But the Gifts had been as tight-lipped as ever regarding their builders. They claimed that they had not been programmed with any information regarding their makers, but Hatzis was not totally convinced that this was the truth yet. The Spinners could have simply programmed them not to reveal any information about themselves. So she had Alander question the Gifts further on the Spinners, hoping—optimistically, she admitted—that they would slip up and reveal something.

  “You must’ve seen plenty of races in your time,” Alander said.

  “Yours is the only race we have encountered, Peter. Our time began when the spindles were created five days ago.”

  “The Spinners, then,” he pressed. “They must have come across many races in their travels.”

  “Yes, Peter. And any information regarding those races is contained in the Library and the Gallery.”

  “I know, but there doesn’t seem to be anything about how they were contacted—or when, for that matter. I’m just curious. Is it the same pattern every time: The Spinners find a new race, look them over from a distance, then send in the gifts as required?”

  “That is their preferred method for dealing with less advanced races, yes.”

  “Some might argu
e that such intervention could be damaging. Do they ever stop to think about that?”

  “Of course,” they replied. “Part of our role is to dispense the knowledge we contain in a manner least likely to cause harm.”

  “Is that why you won’t tell me anything about the Spinners themselves? Because such knowledge could be harmful to us?”

  “We tell you nothing because there is nothing to tell you,” the Gifts said. “We have no information on them, and we have told you that before.”

  “Yet you seem to know how they contact other races,” said Alander.

  There was a pause then. Had he tripped them up? Had he made a break through their block? It was impossible to say, because when they spoke again, the voice was as calm and impenetrable as ever.

  “Because we have been programmed with that information. It was obviously deemed relevant to you by our builders for us to be programmed with the data.”

  Alander nodded, as though satisfied with the answer, although his expression told a different story. He, too, had his doubts about the veracity of their words.

  “Okay,” he said. “So what about the more advanced races the Spinners have encountered? How are they contacted?”

  “There are a number of methods that can be used.”

  “Such as?”

  “We cannot answer that question, I’m afraid. You are not sufficiently advanced to be able to comprehend the methods employed.”

  “All right then, so what about races they’ve met before—the ones they’ve given gifts to? Have these races ever encountered the Spinners again?”

  “No.”

  Alander had waited for more of an answer, but that had been it: a single, definite negative.

  “None at all?”

  “There is no evidence in our database to suggest that any of the races have ever met up with the Spinners after initial contact.” Anticipating his next question, the Gifts went on, “You have to understand, Peter, the galaxy is a very large place. Even with faster-than-light propulsion and other advanced physics, exploration is time consuming and expensive. It would not make sense to return to a region they have already surveyed unless there was a specific reason for doing so.”

  “So they are wanderers, then? Nomads? Not diplomats.”

  “Based upon the available data, such a conjecture would seem feasible.”

  “I’m surprised no one has tried to follow them, at least.”

  “Maybe they have,” the Gifts replied. “But then, perhaps, our builders are expert at hiding.”

  The last comment had set Hatzis thinking. On the heels of their “there are civilizations who take delight in the destruction of others” comment and another stating that some planets on the map of the galaxy were “best left hidden,” she was beginning to wonder what it was, exactly, that humanity was getting itself mixed up in.

  Judging by the Library, there were many advanced races scattered throughout the galaxy. There were octopods, group minds, and sentient forests, even life-forms that looked like rocks. Most of them had made it into space one way or another, whether with help from others or without. Presumably they had also come into contact with other races and had developed protocols of their own to deal with such encounters. And just because the Spinners seemed to be altruistic did not mean that all aliens would be.

  One possibility that Hatzis didn’t like much was that the gifts themselves were the high-tech equivalent of CARE packages: bundles of essential supplies air-dropped to remote communities in times of hardship, such as war or famine. Humanity might not be the most advanced race in the galaxy, but it seemed to be catching up at a reasonable rate—or at least it had been the last time she had heard from Earth. Why then would aliens feel the need to dispense such aid? Did they know something about Earth that she didn’t?

  When Sivio woke from his rest period, she had him coordinate a meeting to discuss the possibility of sending Alander back to Earth to reopen communications. For a brief moment she thought about scheduling it during one of Samson’s rest periods—just to see what the woman would do—but then decided against it. She already had enough fragile tempers and egos aboard the Tipler to deal with as it was without kicking over that particular hornet’s nest.

  1.2.4

  Alander couldn’t bring himself to attend the meeting. To attempt something like that would be too disorienting. Just to have sat in the same room with his former colleagues would have meant embracing conSense completely, and he couldn’t do that yet. One person at a time was fine, such as Samson against a normal backdrop; even two, perhaps, but then only briefly. But a dozen all at once? In a room that didn’t exist? There was simply no way he could do it.

  He considered setting up a representation of himself in conSense and hopping in and out of it to give the impression that he was there continuously, even if he wasn’t. But while this might have been better for him, Samson said that this would have been disorienting for the people watching. It would look as though he was alternately freezing and unfreezing as the image-generating algorithm switched between internal and external cues.

  So Samson arranged a simulated flat screen on which his physical image could be displayed, along with full access to audio and partial video for him to monitor.

  “Picture yourself playing one of your father’s old PC role-playing games,” she said with a smile. “Just don’t pull out an assault rifle and start blowing people away, okay?”

  Despite her efforts to make him feel at ease, however, he was still nervous. He was unsure how he would go at keeping up with the various threads of conversation that would inevitably take place and whether he’d be able to keep track of who was saying what to whom. More than anything, though, he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Not now, not when he felt he was beginning to make progress. He was realistic enough to know that he was the one on trial as much as the plan itself to send the hole ship to Earth. If he demonstrated himself to be unreliable in a simple meeting, how could they trust him to travel seventy-six light-years away, into an unknown situation back home?

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Samson, her virtual hands brushing back an imaginary fringe.

  “Who are you? My mother?”

  She lowered her hands to her sides and took a step back. “What was she like?”

  Alander frowned. “What?”

  “Your mother,” Samson said casually. “What was she like?”

  The question took him completely off guard, and he found himself stammering a reply: “I... I don’t know. A lot like me, I think. She was very curious about things. Christ, I don’t remember that much about her, Cleo. She died in an accident when I was fifteen.”

  “At least you knew her,” said Samson a bit sadly. “I never knew mine at all. I lived with an uncle until I was old enough to get away. Later, at university, I took a class with one of my cousins, but I don’t think he even recognized me. I had changed so much by then.”

  He cleared his throat. She was clearly moved by the sudden recollection, but he was not. He looked back on his mother’s death with almost clinical dispassion. It really did feel as though it had happened to someone else. The only true memories he had were those recorded from the moment his original had entered the engram entrainment program, and the cameras had switched on.

  Lucia...

  “What brought this on, Cleo?” he said. “Some vain attempt to take my mind off things?”

  “Do you miss Earth, Peter?” she asked, ignoring his comments. “The trees and the sky, the rain and the wind, and the people... ? Especially the people. I miss them so much at times.”

  “Listen, Cleo,” he said. “I’m not really up to this at the moment. I’m finding it hard enough to concentrate as it is. Sorry.”

  She seemed almost literally to shake herself out of it. “No, Peter, I’m sorry. An odd feeling came over me, that’s all.”

  Slightly ashamed of his callousness, he gestured in a way that was vaguely, awkwardly, consoling. Without her permission, he would be
unable to actually touch her, and he didn’t want to risk rejection.

  “Like someone walked over your grave?” he said.

  “That, or perhaps one of me, somewhere, just fell into one.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that. At that moment, the chime rang to summon the executives to the meeting, and, thankfully, their conversation was over.

  * * *

  “Easy, easy!” The imaginary camera angle through which Alander was watching the meeting swung up to look at Caryl Hatzis. She had stood, trying to bring the meeting to order. “I know this is an emotional issue, but that’s no excuse for acting like children. Either talk like adults, or I’ll close the meeting entirely.”

  Cleo Samson was instantly on her feet, too. “You can’t make a decision like that, Caryl! It involves all of us.”

  “Then just sit down, Cleo, and shut up so we can get on with the goddamn meeting properly.”

  “The mission regulations clearly state—”

  “I said, sit down!”

  The shout had the intended effect. Samson stopped with her mouth open, hesitated for a moment, then fell heavily into her seat. Her eyes, seen via the virtual camera under his direction, were red.

  “Now,” said Hatzis, more calmly, “if we have any further outbursts from anyone, they will be expelled from the meeting. And I don’t give a flying fuck about regulations. I have the authority to demand that the mission be conducted in an orderly fashion. Is that fully understood by everyone?”

  No one contradicted her, and after a moment, she sat back down. Her eyes looked about the faces of the others, pausing slightly when her gaze fell upon the screen containing Alander’s image. Then she looked down the table to where Sivio sat.