Echoes of Earth

by Sean Williams

  “Right, then,” she said. “Jayme, you were saying?”

  “I raised the possibility of sending Arachne to Earth without Peter on board.”

  “The benefit of that being that we risk less,” she said, nodding. “I am aware that work will grind to a halt in some respects without Peter here to communicate with the Gifts. But I still believe that a great deal of work can still be done without the Gifts ever speaking another word to us. In fact, according to them, the ultimate intention is for us to learn from what they have given us to date, so that—”

  “It’s too soon,” said Wyra. “We need Peter here now in order to do our job properly.”

  “But are we even doing the job properly now, with him already here?” put in Kingsley Oborn. “I don’t know about you, but I’m likely to be as confused in ten years as I am now, with or without Peter.”

  “I don’t think it’s a matter of how well we can do,” said Donald Schievenin. “It’s more a matter of our resources being stretched so thin at the moment.”

  “Which is the very reason we need to contact Earth,” said Hatzis. “And the sooner the better.”

  Alander saw Samson open her mouth at that, but she shut it again without saying anything. Had she been surprised by Hatzis’s stand on the matter?

  “We’ve already strayed off topic,” Hatzis went on. “What we’re discussing is whether sending the empty hole ship is a less costly way of getting the help we need right now. I mean potential costs, of course; we have no way of knowing what Arachne would be flying into until it arrives. And that, unfortunately, is the crux of the problem.”

  “We could make a close flyby of Sol,” suggested Wyra, “to see what’s there.”

  “Maybe,” Hatzis said. “Has anyone looked at the Map Room to see what that shows for Sol?”

  “I have.” All heads turned to face an exhausted-looking Nalini Kovistra. “It shows the sun and the gas giants, but that’s all. I’m assuming it was surveyed from a distance, hence the absence of the smaller planets. A lot of the systems around here are listed like that, including Upsilon Aquarius.”

  “So, perhaps a recon mission would be a good idea.”

  “Assuming, of course, that we can send the hole ship on its own,” said Schievenin.

  Alander jumped at the opportunity to join in the discussion. “I could always ask,” he said.

  “Do that, Peter.” Hatzis waited while he relayed the question to the Gifts.

  “The hole ship is capable of following complex instructions given in advance,” they confirmed.

  “But the question remains open whether it will do as it’s told,” said Schievenin. “Just because they say it will doesn’t mean it actually will.”

  “If we lose the hole ship,” said Samson from where she sat seething in the corner, “we lose our only remaining chance of contacting Earth.”

  “But if we send Peter and the hole ship,” retorted Wyra, “we risk losing both of them! I don’t think the mission can afford that.”

  Alander felt pleased for a moment, despite his misgivings, by Wyra’s suggestion that he was a valued member of the crew. Hatzis, however, was clearly not impressed by the direction the conversation was taking, and she sat at the head of the table, glowering.

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “Can we just move on from this point for the moment? Nalini, did you get a chance to look at many of the other survey systems?”

  “A couple of dozen, actually,” the astrophysicist replied. “They seem to be like the map of Sol, though, containing little we didn’t already know.”

  “So they were observed from a distance,” Hatzis mused.

  “Or in haste,” said Kovistra.

  Hatzis nodded. “Either way, it tells us something about the Spinners,” she said. “It tells us that they probably haven’t come this way before. More than likely, we are the first in the region to be contacted by them, and maybe the last. We can’t assume that they will continue toward Sol just because they have encountered us. We are, after all, out on the very edge of surveyed space; they may have detoured just far enough out of their way to leave us the gifts, on the assumption that we would pass them on to others of our species.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, Caryl,” said Wyra. “But why does it have to be now? This instant? What’s the hurry? In a month we’ll know ten times as much as we do now; in a year we might know a hundred times. Rushing back to Earth might actually do us more damage than good.”

  “Thinking of your Nobel prize, Otto?” Oborn chuckled deep into his beard, with no indication of rancor.

  “Maybe we all should be,” returned Wyra humorlessly. “Because if we do send that ship to get help, Earth will immediately take over the operation, whether we like it or not.”

  “How about we send an ftl transmitter back to Sol on board the hole ship?” suggested Sivio. “The ship can drop it off somewhere near Earth. We could send messages from here for the transmitter to relay normally without us having to risk anything more than a quick flyby.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Hatzis scanned the room. “Any thoughts on that, anyone?”

  “We only have two working transmitters,” said Nalini Kovistra. “The one in the hole ship, and the ring itself. Until we figure out how they work and build another one, we’re back where we started. The only way to communicate with Earth is to send the ship itself, preferably with Peter aboard to deal with any unpredictable situations.”

  “I disagree that it’s so clear cut,” said Hatzis above an instant response from Wyra. “But I’m prepared to call for an interim show of hands. Who thinks we should send Peter in the hole ship, and who doesn’t? The ayes first.”

  Samson’s hand went up, then Kovistra’s and Schievenin’s.

  “Nays?”

  Otto Wyra immediately raised his hand, followed by Kingsley Oborn and Jayme Sivio.

  “A tie with four abstentions,” said Hatzis. “I abstained in deference to Cleo, who feels that I’m trying to influence the group. The rest of you have been notably quiet. Jene, Ali, Peter, what do you think?”

  Jene Avery looked uncomfortable. “I guess I tend toward caution. I don’t see why we have to do anything about it right now—”

  “A nay vote, then,” broke in Wyra.

  “But,” Avery continued, shooting him a glare, “I do feel we should send him at some point. I’d probably vote with the ayes in a month’s time.”

  “Okay,” said Hatzis, nodding. “Ali?”

  “We need more data,” said Genovese. “We don’t have enough to cast an informed vote at the moment, and I certainly don’t think we can break it down to a for/against vote under any circumstances. It comes down to gut feelings, and I think that’s a terrible foundation on which to base such a decision.”

  Hatzis nodded again. “And Peter? What about you? This concerns you more than anyone else here.”

  He shifted awkwardly in the free-fall environment of the Dark Room. Hatzis stared impassively out of the screen at him. Did she really care what he thought? he wondered. Or was she just humoring him?

  “I want to go,” he said, thinking of his own agenda. “But I’m prepared to go along with whatever decision the rest of you come to.”

  “Why do you want to go? What’s in it for you?”

  He felt decidedly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of everyone. All attention at that moment was upon him. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I can’t see that you have much to gain by putting yourself at risk like this. Christ, for all you know, you could be flying into a war or anything back there. Is communicating with Earth worth risking your life for, now that you’ve only just got yourself back together again?”

  “I think it’s important,” he said, keeping his voice as level as he could. “It’s something I know I can do. And as I’m the only one who can do it, I feel like I owe it to the rest of you to give it a try.”

  “But do you yourself think you should go?”

  “Yes, I do.” />
  Hatzis closed her eyes for a second, then shrugged in a helpless gesture. “All right,” she said. “That makes four ayes, then, to three nays. I’d vote with the ayes, too, except that I’m not yet convinced Peter can be relied upon to carry out the mission properly.” She glanced at Alander. “I’m sorry, Peter, but it’s the way I feel.”

  “That’s okay, Caryl,” he lied, knowing he shouldn’t blame her for being honest.

  “You’ve improved dramatically in recent weeks,” she went on, “especially since the Spinners came, but this mission is too critical. If something goes wrong, if you make the smallest mistake, we could lose both you and the hole ship. And I’m not prepared to take that kind of chance.”

  “So what do you vote?” pressed Samson.

  “I defer on the grounds that we should wait and see. If Peter remains stable or another opportunity presents itself... then we’ll see.”

  Samson looked suddenly smug. “That still gives us a clear majority.”

  “Not at all,” Hatzis said. “If you count the abstentions as nays, given that they’re certainly not ayes, that means you lost four-six.”

  “But...” Samson reined in her disappointment with some effort. “So what decision are you going to make?”

  “None, Cleo. We’re deferring it until the entire crew has had a chance to discuss and cast a vote. Then we’ll discuss it again and finalize the details. I’m not prepared to let my own personal feelings get in the way of this, as I said before. It’s too complicated an issue for me to ignore the many informed opinions around me.”

  “I think you’re doing the wrong thing.”

  “I’m sure you do, Cleo,” she said tiredly. “And that’s your prerogative, of course.”

  “It’s nothing to do with me, Caryl. You don’t have any choice! The mission regs—”

  “Were written by bureaucrats over one hundred years ago and some four hundred thirty trillion kilometers from here. Are you trying to tell me that they knew more about this situation then than we do now? That they’re better qualified than I am to decide what’s best for this mission?”

  Samson seemed startled by the passion of Hatzis’s response. “No, but—”

  “I’m sick of hearing ‘but’ from you, Cleo. Everything I say comes back to you disagreeing on some technicality. I know you want to hear from the people back home; Christ, I want to hear from them, too! One day I’d even like to go home. But that day’s a long way off, and we have to work toward it gradually. Jump too far now, and we may miss the target. I don’t want that to happen, so I’m prepared to listen to other people’s opinions—the people around me, as well as those guidelines given to us by those we left behind. Do you understand, Cleo?”

  Samson’s lips were white. Alander had never seen her look so strained. “Yes,” she said.

  “Good.” Hatzis paused then, as if to compose herself before continuing. “Look, part of this process includes listening to you, Cleo, but I’m not going to do so indefinitely. Bear that in mind over the next couple of days. You’ve had your say at this meeting, and you might get to have it again before I make a final decision, but for now, I think your contribution is complete. Unless you have something new to add, I suggest you keep quiet.”

  “You can’t do this,” Samson said softly, rough-edged.

  “Oh, I can, Cleo; I can.” Alander was surprised by Hatzis’s sudden change in tone. Instead of angry, she sounded weary, conciliatory. “I know you’re under a lot of pressure; I know how much you’ve been working. Take some time off to catch up on your sleep, and maybe you’ll feel differently. We’re not going to do anything behind your back, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about.” For a moment Alander was afraid that Samson might launch into another tirade, but she didn’t seem able to find the words or the strength. “What’s the point in ever trying to reason with you?” she said. “You just don’t see it!”

  “Not like you do, Cleo.” The steely tone was returning to Hatzis’s voice. “Go and sleep for a while—and that’s an order. Just because you don’t technically have a body anymore doesn’t mean you’re superhuman. Kingsley?” She turned to Oborn. “Make sure she does as she’s told. The last thing I need right now is another goddamn breakdown on my hands.”

  Alander winced at the reference to him. Samson didn’t respond at all. Instead, she just vanished from the simulation as though someone had pulled her plug. That in itself was a response, he supposed; in the world of the engrams, such an abrupt departure was considered extremely rude.

  Hatzis sighed heavily. “Does anyone else have anything to add? Because if not, I’m prepared to leave it there for the moment. We can look at it again when we have more data, or when we’ve all had time to think it through.”

  Sivio nodded, expressing a general consensus. Samson’s outburst appeared to have lost her the argument even with those who had originally supported her. “I suggest we leave it a week,” he said, “before calling for a general vote. By then we should have a better idea what the hole ship can do, at least... or another opportunity entirely might have presented itself. You never know.”

  “True. And that’s the whole problem with the gifts. We may never know everything. Until we do, I don’t intend to open us up to any more risk than we have to.”

  She stood, and the rest followed suit. She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped.

  “What—?” Sivio started. “Did anybody else hear that?”

  Hatzis frowned, then flinched as though someone had struck her.

  “What’s going on?” cried Nalini Kovistra with both hands balled into her eyes.

  Alander stared at the screen in alarm, asking himself the same question. He, too, was about to say something when a smell not unlike that of roses, only spicier, assailed his nostrils. He reeled backward from the screen, completely disoriented by the assault. The smell had been his mother’s, long ago, when he had been a child, and brought with it images of the town where they’d lived, the school he’d attended, the face of his best friend in an old photo, the sound of a train rattling by at night. They washed over him, around him, relentless waves that pounded him, threatening to drown him.

  He had just enough time to think: These aren’t my memories—when they were sucked away from him by a yawning void that opened all around him, drawing him down into a terrible blackness.

  1.2.5

  Time passed. He didn’t know how much. Engrams were supposed to have an innate time sense, given that they were intimately linked to the many processors working in tandem aboard the Tipler, and even he, running independently on his own processor, inside his artificial skull, should have possessed the same ability, too. But when the darkness pulled back and he was able to think again, he had no idea at all how many hours or minutes or even days had elapsed since the memories of his original’s childhood had risen up and attacked him.

  Something, clearly, had gone seriously wrong.

  He opened his eyes but was still only met by blackness. And, oddly, that seemed to reassure him. He had been floating in the Dark Room during the meeting; if anything had changed that darkness, he would have known that the Gifts were behind the breakdown. But everything was as still and empty as it had ever been. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing, which rang loud in his ears.

  He groped for the exit. A limp droid brushed his hand and rotated off into the void. Had the Gifts struck at last, exposing their true nature and destroying the Tipler when they had least expected it? Hatzis had expressed reservations about the Spinners’ motives, but even she had become less cautious with time. Naturally so, too; in the absence of tangible threat, there was no point maintaining constant alertness. Perhaps the Gifts had simply been waiting for the best opportunity to strike.

  But the idea was as preposterous as it was stupid. The Spinners could have wiped them out at any time. A single electromagnetic pulse would have fried the Tipler and the engrams with it;
one chunk of matter dropped from orbit would have finished him off without any trouble. If it really had been their intention from the beginning to eliminate the human surveyors, then they could have done so without even being seen.

  So had something changed their minds? Or was something else behind it? Alander had to find out what was going on and whether there was anything he could do about it.

  He got a grip on the door to the Dark Room and hauled himself through to the Hub.

  “Caryl? Jayme? Are you there?”

  He waited a moment, while his legs gradually reaccustomed themselves to gravity and his eyes adjusted to the brightness around him.

  “Caryl?”

  He took a couple of steps toward the door that led to Spindle Four, in front of which stood another immobile droid, balanced almost surreally on wildly splayed legs.

  “Can anyone up there hear me?”

  Nothing. Could a solar storm have killed satellite communications? It seemed unlikely—they would have had plenty of advance warning from the various solar observers stationed around the sun—but it was a possibility. It would certainly explain the lack of contact, if not the peculiar memory surge that had preceded it.

  “What about you, Gifts? Can you hear me?”

  “Perfectly well, Peter,” came the reply, doing little for his growing paranoia.

  “What’s happened to the Tipler?”

  “We cannot say with any certainty.”

  “Don’t give me that! I know you’ve been watching us. If anyone knows what’s going on, it’s you. Whether you’re responsible or not, I want you to tell me.”

  “We can assure you, Peter, we are in no way responsible for whatever has happened here. Normal transmissions from the Frank Tipler ceased approximately five minutes ago, in conjunction with an anomalous and disruptive break in data processing. Some processing has resumed, but not at its previous level.”

  Alander struggled to think this through. Communications had died at the same time something had knocked out data processing. Could a power surge have blown the engrams aboard the ship? It was impossible to say for sure. He did know the design tolerances of the reactor and the processors’ durability, but calculating the odds were beyond him. They had to be astronomical.