Déjà Vu (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  Goddamn it!

  It’s then I realize, like the alien in Gal’s cave, this creature is shielding itself with its thick hide. Its only point of vulnerability is within its vast wall of eyes. I’ve already punctured half a dozen of them, but there are hundreds more, each the size of a tennis ball. I can see what must equate to blood having crusted over the wounds I inflicted with the torch. Somewhere back there is a brain, somewhere behind those eyes.

  With my strength failing, I set my legs firmly on the rock behind me and spring out. As the creature is prepared for me to pull away, it’s taken by surprise when I lunge at it. Rather than trying to slip from its tentacles and escape, I dive deeper. My severed left arm plunges through the eyes in the heart of the animal. The torn carbon fiber cuts through soft flesh like a sword. I drive hard, kicking with my legs against the creature, burying my arm up to my shoulder. I gouge at the soft tissue. If I’m going to hell, this fucker is coming with me.

  I’m manic. I rake my torn arm back and forth as the creature writhes in agony. Tentacles strike at me, but they don’t grab me. I’ve struck some kind of nervous system, crippling it. Fluids surge out of the wound, vaporizing as tiny globules spray out through the vacuum. I fall from the creature as it keels to one side, collapsing on the plain.

  Beside me, the shattered remains of my brain stem lie crumpled in the dust. The light on the crushed interface flickers. I try to reach it, but my sight is fading. I kick with my legs, pushing off the surface, wanting to protect it, but darkness falls.

  This is it.

  This is how I die.

  The Intrepid drifts in a low Earth orbit.

  Lush green islands lie scattered across an azure sea. Sunlight glistens on the deep waters. Clouds swirl hundreds of miles beneath my white boots. I’m weightless again. A tether connects me to the spacecraft. My breathing is rapid—panicked.

  Over the radio, MacArthur says, “Deaf two awe who mons.”

  I’m helpless. I can’t move. I’m frozen within my spacesuit. I desperately want to break out of this illusion and back to the dusty plains of Erebus, but I’m paralyzed.

  The rings!

  The Intrepid isn’t in orbit around Earth anymore. The interstellar spacecraft is drifting above a dark gas giant known as Styx.

  Massive storms swirl in eddies beneath me. Lightning crackles through the cloud tops. Rings of ice stretch out around the ghostly planet, reaching into space for hundreds of thousands of miles. They’re elegant. Their fine curves stretch around the massive planet. There are stripes and bands within the ring system, but they look fragile, like the petals of a flower.

  As my life fades, a familiar thought echoes through my mind—the rings, they’ve always been there for me. The rings have always been so beautiful.

  Lost

  Silence defines me.

  The darkness hurts. Time is meaningless.

  Out of nowhere, a surge of electricity hits me. Spasms strike like lightning, causing my muscles to contract and forcing me to wake.

  Stones dig into my bare hips. Sharp rocks press against my back and shoulders. Lying here in the shadows is uncomfortable. I roll over, struggling to get to my feet. I reach out, wanting to hold onto something to steady myself, but there’s nothing there.

  “Gal?”

  Smoke lingers in the air. I’m cold, dressed only in a flimsy one-piece cotton jumpsuit. It’s short, reaching just over my shoulders and down my thighs.

  “Pretty Boy?”

  I search with my toes, stepping forward, trying to find something other than jagged rocks beneath the soft soles of my feet. I’m weak, on the verge of collapse. I’m at least twenty yards from the opening of a cave. Outside, the night sky is alive with stars.

  “Where the hell am I?” I ask the darkness, reaching up and pushing strands of hair from my face. My long locks are thick and knotted, in desperate need of a wash.

  “Xerxes? Anyone?”

  There’s no answer beyond the sound of water dripping in the shadows.

  Rocks give way to sand. I shuffle with my feet, unsure of myself. My head is spinning. Memories come flooding back of Erebus and the gas giant Styx, but this isn’t a desolate moon. There’s a forest out there. I’m in the wilderness. I’m in one gee.

  “What the hell happened?”

  Starlight illuminates the entrance to the cave. Thousands of tiny pinpricks of light are scattered across the sky. A globular cluster sits high above the trees. There’s color. At least two of these stars are planets. They twinkle, appearing orange and a deep yellow instead of almost pure white. I don’t know that the stars have ever looked more beautiful, but I don’t understand why.

  My fingers touch at moss growing on the damp rock wall. Something scurries across the sand. I don’t want to know. I really don’t.

  Vines hang from trees outside. Water gurgles, running over rocks. There’s a stream on the far side of the cave, winding its way out into the forest. Pine needles cover the ground along with sticks and twigs, making it difficult to walk. Lightning ripples through distant cloud banks, but the storm is at least ten miles away across a broad open valley.

  I stumble on, reaching for the trees, using them to steady myself. I have no idea where I’m going other than straight ahead. I’m driven by a primal urge to keep walking, but I’m exhausted. I’m dehydrated. How is this possible? I’m not even alive. I clutch my hand between my breasts, holding my fingers close to my chest. Somewhere in there is a small glass vial, I tell myself, but touching at my sternum, I feel bones—ribs.

  I kneel beside a brook. My knees rest in the cool water. I push my fingers up beneath my jaw, searching for a pulse that cannot exist. An artery pushes back against my fingertips, pulsating with a regular rhythm.

  “How is this possible?” I ask the night.

  I lean forward, cupping my hands and drawing water in, drinking heartily from the stream. Oh, damn. That is good. Ice cold and fresh. After several more handfuls, I get back to my feet, determined to find someone else on this strange planet. The need for answers drives me on.

  From a clearing, I see a lush plain leading down to a beach that stretches into the distance, curling up the coast. There are fires along the shore, marking what I guess are villages.

  I’m delirious, mumbling, “Have I fallen back into another virtual world? I’ve got to find Gal and Pretty Boy.”

  When I fell through the virtual simulations on Erebus, I was only ever in one world or another for a matter of minutes. It’s as though the program knew I didn’t belong. It kept shifting me along until I finally materialized in the workshop. Somewhere on that desolate moon, my brain fragment is malfunctioning. I’m alive, so it’s still working. Somehow.

  The alien shattered the casing that housed what was left of my grey matter. Perhaps Pretty Boy was able to recover whatever survived. He must have retrieved the fragment from its tentacles. Maybe there’s been a short circuit. Have I been thrown into some default world? That’s it. I’m in limbo while Pretty Boy works on restoring me. He’s being kind. He’s put me somewhere I can relax. A tropical beach would have been better, but okay.

  I creep down the hill, making my way toward the closest village. There’s no trail. Sticks catch beneath my tender feet, forcing me to search for soft grass. In the darkness, I walk through a spiderweb. After panicking and swatting at my hair, I clear the sticky silk away.

  “Not funny,” I say, hoping Pretty Boy and Gal can hear me.

  For an illusion, this place is horribly real.

  I stumble on, wondering if anything is crawling up my back.

  “Haven’t you guys heard of Waikiki? Seriously. You could have stuck me in a hotel or something. Sheesh.”

  Cattle bellow as I approach a stone wall. The sky lightens. The day is dawning. Villagers move around in the shadows, tending to early morning chores. What should I do? Do I avoid them or try to get their attention? How the hell am I supposed to break out of a virtual world? At a guess, I’m at the mercy of whatever’s
happening in the real world. I need someone to revive my brain fragment. As it is, I’m hungry.

  I see a woman milking a cow. She’s seated on a stool in front of a shed, working a set of udders, squirting fresh milk into a wooden pale.

  “Hey,” I call out from behind a rock wall surrounding the broad field full of grazing cattle. Her hands maintain a steady rhythm as she looks up from her work. “Can you help me? Where am I?”

  I feel stupid for asking, but I’m helpless. My thin clothing is damp with dew. Even with the sun rising over the horizon, I feel cold. I’m vulnerable and alone—a combination that never works well. Perhaps I can get some answers. The woman keeps about her work.

  Jorgensen told me there were no AI on Erebus. I’m guessing whatever avatars I’m interacting with are using some form of machine learning to approximate human responses. I suspect it was artificial consciousness that caused the war with humanity. The complex but ultimately lifeless computer algorithms I’m familiar with had a veneer of intelligence, but they were never alive. When I fell into small-town USA in my spacesuit, everyone seemed real. Their reactions and responses were convincing. I think Gal’s definition of AI is different from mine. In my age, artificial intelligence was a misnomer. Oh, it was artificial and had the appearance of intelligence, but there was no independent conscious awareness. No drive. No will. No thought. Its intelligence was situational. Winning a game of chess is entirely different from riding a bicycle, smelling flowers, or enjoying a sunset. I suspect the current ban is on actual self-aware artificial intelligence rather than the kind of activity I’d recognize as AI.

  “Where am I?” I ask, still waving my hand over the rock wall.

  This time the woman pauses, looking at me with curiosity. She stops and gets up, wiping her hands on her apron as she walks over.

  “Hi,” I say, sounding nervous. “What’s your name?”

  “Why—sir—num?”

  “What’s your name?” I say, repeating myself and tapping at my sternum as I add, “Jess. I’m Jess.”

  As she approaches, I ask, “Ah, you wouldn’t have any dry clothes, would you?”

  I have no idea what she says in response as the run of vowels and consonants is indecipherable. Having visited Asia and the Middle East while training for the Intrepid, I’m at least familiar with other languages. The difference here, though, is occasionally an English word comes through crystal clear. I pick out the word ‘new’ and ‘wet,’ both of which are appropriate. She turns and rushes inside a wooden hut.

  The more time that passes, the more I find myself doubting whether this is a virtual world. I could be wrong, but it seems real.

  I look around, wanting to see if there’s anyone else on the farm. In the distance, someone’s working with a horse and plow. A teen kicks at the dust as he walks along behind the ancient farming implement. He pulls on the reins, guiding the horse as the ground is turned, ready for seeding.

  The wall in front of me is made from rocks piled on top of each other. There’s no cement or mortar, but the rocks are big enough that their sheer weight holds them in place. At a guess, each one is easily twenty to thirty pounds.

  The woman returns, jogging over toward me. The dress in her hand flutters like a flag in a breeze. As the wall is easily six feet in height, I’ve had to scale the lower rocks, but I’ve kept myself mostly out of sight. She hands me the dress. I slip it over my thin cotton jumpsuit, not wanting to strip down. The dress looks as though it’s made from rough sacking rather than cotton, but it keeps the wind off me. At a guess, it’s been woven from coarse animal hair like that of a goat.

  “Thanks,” I say, climbing up on the wall. I sit there surveying the farm. Over to one side, chickens peck at the dust, looking for bugs. The cow she’s been milking appears to be rather anemic. Its ribs protrude from beneath its hide. I’m not sure I want to try any milk without pasteurization.

  “Advance,” the woman says, gesturing with her hands, encouraging me to jump down. I’m wary, but no other options present themselves. She leads me on as though with an invisible rope, walking a few feet ahead of me. The woman checks every second or so to make sure I’m still following along.

  “Your name? What’s your name?” I ask, looking at her rough hands and stooped back. I’m hoping a bit of repetition will help. Her arms are thin, exposing the bone, while her skin is pale. Her straggly, wispy hair makes her appear malnourished. A smile reveals missing teeth. I smile back, trying to be friendly.

  A man walks out of the hut. He comes to an abrupt halt on seeing me. The change in his posture is distinct, going from relaxed to rigid in a fraction of a second. I can’t help but notice missing fingers. Scars wrap around his right arm. They’ve healed, but they’re still reddish.

  “O-Tang,” she says, speaking to him rather than me. Somehow, I doubt she’s referring to an obscure powdered drink from centuries gone by. Tang was space-lore by my era. I’m guessing she means Old Tongue.

  He points toward the coast. My eyes follow. Now that I’m off the mountain and out of the forest, I can see along the edge of the farmland leading down to the sea. Distant trees obscure low-lying buildings. Beyond them is something I haven’t seen in a very, very long time—a three-stage rocket reaching hundreds of feet in the air. Damn. And I thought I was out of place!

  “What the hell?”

  The farmer grins, chuckling at the stunned expression on my face. He may not understand me, but he can see the realization in my eyes. After falling into the sweltering heat of the African savannah and then into a snow-covered clearing during a mammoth hunt somewhere in Europe, I’m waiting for the punchline. I’m waiting for Gal or Pretty Boy to revive me. I’m expecting them to laugh as I recount my antics in yet another virtual world, but the longer I’m here, the more doubts creep in. Rather than being yet another simulation, I’ve somehow come back to life in the real world. But which world? And when?

  “Go you,” he says. The woman nods in agreement, but I’m not sure what the two of them mean. Go over there and check it out? Yes. Go on it? Hell no.

  The man disappears into a stable.

  I’m intrigued by the buildings on this small farm. There’s no paint on the wood. It seems like a strange thing to notice, but the wooden planks are all bare. This isn’t a log cabin in that the walls are made from planed wood barely an inch thick. The edges are rough, overlapping like roof tiles. Rather than being carefully edged and uniform, no two planks are the same shape or length. Also, I don’t see any nails. I touch the wood. It’s greasy.

  Hooves kick at the ground behind me. A horse snorts softly, flaring its nostrils. A brand has been burnt into its neck rather than on its hindquarters.

  The woman mumbles as she kneels before me, prostrating herself. She buries her head from sight, making as though she’s worshiping me. I want to tell her to get up, but she won’t understand. Likewise, the man bows before me, avoiding eye contact. He keeps one hand on the neck of the horse, crouching, lowering his head so he doesn’t have to look at me. What am I? An Egyptian god?

  This is nuts. Why are they worshiping me? If this is a virtual world, what’s the reasoning behind all this? This is just crazy enough to be real. I feel like my head is about to explode. Focus, Jess. Look at this beautiful specimen of a horse standing before you.

  I love horses. Who doesn’t? Seriously, the only people that don’t like horses are psychopaths. Such grace. Such strength. Such beauty. I rub her neck. She has a light brown complexion checkered with pale patches. Although her face is brown, her mane is as white as the driven snow.

  “Well, look at you,” I say, stepping around her and rubbing my hand on her forehead. She nudges my palm, looking for food, so I respond, speaking softly. “I haven’t got anything for you.”

  A slight snort is offered in reply. The man crouches beside the woman, kneeling in the dirt with his arms out and his hands flat. He hides his face from view. I’d like to talk to him, but that’s not happening.

  “I’ll bri
ng her back,” I say, working my way around the horse. Without a saddle, she’s going to be difficult to ride and almost impossible to mount. I grab the stool from beside the cow and position it next to the horse. My hosts haven’t moved. After calming the horse with a few soothing words and a kind pat, I grab a fist full of her mane and launch myself up and over her back. She barely responds. A gentle tug on her mane and we turn away, walking to the track beyond the homestead.

  “Thanks,” I say, even though I’m sure they won’t understand me. I have no idea what could have engendered such kindness from them. A horse like this would represent a significant portion of their wealth. I look around, memorizing landmarks, wanting to make good on my promise. As the horse meanders down the road, I look back over my shoulder. The two of them stand beside their home, holding each other. They’re neither smiling nor waving, just watching. Damn, that’s creepy.

  The horse follows its nose. I keep her heading roughly toward the rocket that, at a guess, is fifteen to twenty miles away. I could have walked. As it is, riding on the horse gives me the chance to survey the land. Most of the farms are divided by rock walls similar to the one I climbed. These would be insanely time-consuming to build and very much permanent, not allowing for expansion.

  Smoke rises from chimneys to the north. There’s industry here, but not much.

  The horse saunters through a village. Naked children play by the roadside. They can’t be more than three or four. Women beat clothes in a stream. Men chop wood. It’s all very traditional, which is baffling. Were it not for the distant rocket, I could have been thrown back in time.

  “So, have you got a name?” I ask the horse as we whittle away the hours, winding through the countryside. I pet the horse affectionately, saying, “How about Seabee? Do you like that?”

  She snorts softly. Seabee it is.

  A girl sits on a low rock wall beside a stream as I enter yet another village. She’s picking apart husks of wheat set on a rickety table. It’s a painstakingly slow, inefficient way to separate kernels. As the horse meanders past, she looks up at me and smiles. It’s only then I notice her feet tucked up and to one side on the rocks. Her legs are impossibly thin, while her feet are pale and limp. She’s lame. From her build, she’s at least fifteen years old, but her thighs are like those of a child. There’s no muscle on her lower legs. I doubt she’s ever walked, which saddens me.