As he spoke, Hathorne directed the appropriate data to the members' console screens. He glanced up from time to time to see the projected images of the members looking from him to what appeared to be imaginary screens in front of them. There was a certain amount of soft, staticky throat-clearing as he talked. By the time he was finished, he faced a circle of scowling faces. One or two, perhaps, merely looked bored. He opened his mouth to take up the next item, but one of the ghostly figures turned, signaling that he wanted to speak. "Yes, General," Hathorne said, frowning slightly.
The faces turned, as each member looked toward the general, or toward whatever image of the general was visible at each location. Several of the gazes were skewed a little from the general that Hathorne saw.
"Yes, General?" he repeated.
The general raised his chin. "One gets the sense that this mission is in trouble," he said. His voice, as always, was a growl.
Hathorne allowed himself a measured turn of the head, as he looked first at the general, and then at the other members. He refrained from displaying his irritation. "Well, General, as I said—it looks like a software problem, and they're working on it. For now, the Kadin prog-, Kadin and Mozelle, are overriding the problem successfully, and keeping the craft on course. I remain hopeful—"
"But aren't we dependent on the cooperation of—well. Let us say, the personality of a rebellious, post-adolescent—?"
Hathorne interrupted brusquely. "I think that's an exaggeration, and needlessly pessimistic. It's true that we need cooperation, but on the other hand, we're getting it. Meanwhile, the people at Sandaran-Choharis are confident that they can resolve the problem, given a little more time."
"Time is in short supply," said the general. "Rendezvous is approaching."
"We're all aware of that, General. What specifically are you driving at?"
The general's chin went higher. "Just this. What will you do if it turns out that the problem isn't just related to, but is caused by this Mozelle personality? I venture to say that you can't risk trying to erase her—it—again."
Hathorne thought a moment. "That's true enough. Obviously she has means of protecting herself, and if we tried again, we would certainly make an enemy of her. And then we would probably have to terminate the mission."
"Well, then." The general cleared his throat noisily, and his eyes shifted as he looked around at the Committee members, or their images. "Gentlemen. I hate to be the one to say this—"
Untrue, Hathorne thought. You've opposed it from the start.
"—but I think perhaps it's time to suggest that this mission be terminated. By us. Before it approaches the target, and some further degradation puts it out of our control, and we find ourselves in worse shape than we'd be in with no spacecraft out there at all."
"You're assuming problems that may not occur," Hathorne said. "Even without a software solution—if we can work effectively with Kadin and Mozelle, then I believe our chances are still good." He met the general's stare evenly. If it had once seemed odd to refer to the Mozelle personality as though it, or she, were a real person, it no longer caused him qualms. He was willing to concede that the Mozelle programming probably closely resembled, and behaved like, the personality of Mozelle Moi, and he would certainly make use of those qualities in dealing with her. That did not mean, however, that he regarded her as being equivalent to a living human being, with attendant rights. Realism demanded his recognition that the mission was far more important than the existence of a "personlike" computer program.
"But if this personality fails to cooperate, we could be making a tremendously important first contact—" and the general gestured with one hand "—with a failing machine. Now, I'm not sure that the benefits are such—and considering what we might do with a manned mission—"
"General, may I interrupt you?" Hathorne held up a hand.
He was met with silence—and a glare.
"Forgive me, but with your permission—" Hathorne addressed the entire Committee. "May I ask, before discussing this issue, that we review the rest of the agenda? I have more information that bears on the question." He touched several keys, bringing up a display. "Please refer to your consoles again."
"Here is the translation team's report on the latest signals from Tachylab. First the analysis." He touched a key, and the security warnings disappeared, to be replaced by a screenful of text. "You'll note that our confidence in translation is still low—less than sixty percent on major comprehension, and only about twenty-three percent on detail. It's getting better, though."
He paused to let them read. The text discussed translation methodology, and showed the actual tracings of the tachyon signals. The translation followed, in English. It began:
LIFE OF THIRD WORLD . . . PEOPLE/CITIZENS OF THIRD WORLD . . . ATTENTION . . . ATTENTION FROM DISTANT WORLDS. OUR APPROACH IS . . . [NO TRANSLATION]. WE PREDICT THAT THE MEETING . . . WILL BE . . . [TRANSLATION UNCERTAIN: FRUITFUL? PRODUCTIVE? DYNAMIC?] . . .
WE ARE PREPARED WITH GREAT . . . [TRANSLATION UNCERTAIN: EXCITEMENT? ANTICIPATION? FORCE?] WE PREDICT THAT WE SHALL ACHIEVE [TRANSLATION UNCERTAIN: COMMUNICATION? DOMINATION?] UPON OUR ARRIVAL . . .
The transcript ran about three pages. Like those before it, it was rife with ambiguities and tentative translations, many of which bore heavily on the overall content. A number of verselike lines had been rendered as riddles. Hathorne privately felt that the linguistics team was stretching matters in claiming a sixty percent certainty, even in broad meaning. They had far too little to go on. The primary keys consisted of references to universal physical constants, such as absorption and emission lines in stellar spectra, and correlations between graphic images and words. The team did well to produce any translation, he realized. But they were a long way from real communication.
"It's not precisely alarming, nor reassuring, either," said a European representative.
"Which means," another member said, "that we must regard it as alarming—until we know more."
Someone else brought up the subject of preparations for defense.
Hathorne steered the discussion back. "It seems clearer than ever to me that Father Sky must continue," he said. "Right now we know almost nothing about our visitors. The earlier we learn something of what—or whom—we're dealing with, the better equipped we can be when they arrive. Why else have we gone to such lengths to reach them while they're still outside the solar system? Why else push our artificial intelligence program to the very limit?"
He paused to let his gaze roam among the Committee members. "Let's not forget. We're projecting their arrival less than a year from now. It could be sooner. If Father Sky fails, or if we abort, we won't reach them, as even the general tells us, until they're inside the orbit of Mars. Not with a manned mission."
The general was scowling. "As you know, I've favored a manned mission from the beginning," he said deliberately. "I didn't trust the artificial intelligence, and I still don't. Obviously, we would all like to have an early look at the object. Hell, we could have done that if you'd given me the green light a year and a half ago. But even without Father Sky, we could get a look with a high-boost flyby, and then concentrate on getting a manned mission out there as soon as possible."
The representative from GEO-Four stirred, with a ghostly shimmer. "No point in dredging up the past. The decision was made not to send someone on a one-way trip, and that's done with now. But look. We're counting on Father Sky's detailed information to help us determine the makeup of the manned follow-on. How can we know whether the manned mission should be armed—and if so, how—without good data, preferably from a solid prior contact?"
"You're missing my point," said the general. "If Father Sky fails, we will have gained no useful information, and will have demonstrated weakness to a potential adversary. I suggest that we go with the follow-on mission now, and go prepared for possible conflict. Prepared to establish a defense at some distance from Earth, in case the intruder proves hostile."
Th
e man from GEO-Four was unconvinced. "Are you simply ignoring the diplomatic and scientific aspects? You talk as though this project is entirely military."
"A manned mission could carry out other objectives, as well," said the general.
"Perhaps. But if our first appearance is armed and threatening, what will that say to them about our diplomatic intentions? They might come entirely in peace."
"If they come in peace, no harm will be done," said the general.
"They might not be there at all," said another voice. "It could be an automated probe, intended only to report back."
The general shrugged. "Robot or living, the problem remains. What is their ultimate intent?"
"Well, a robot probe would be unlikely to be on a hostile mission," said the same member.
"Perhaps. Certainly it would be designed, as you said, to report back to its makers. And who knows what might follow?" the general answered.
Hathorne finally raised his hands. "Clearly, all of these possibilities must be considered," he said. "They could be living, could be machines, could be nothing we understand. They might come in peace. They might not." He shook his head to forestall interruptions. "It's equally clear that we can't answer any of these questions without a closer look, and a chance to communicate. That's why we need Father Sky, perhaps more than ever—to give us that detailed first look, before they're at our doorstep. General, you're concerned about our defense, as well you should be. But I submit that knowledge is our greatest defense. Wouldn't you prefer to face an adversary whom you know something about? And if indeed they come in peace, wouldn't we all like to know that, to be able to evaluate and confirm that? Isn't that what we created Kadin for?"
"And if they do not come wholly in peace," answered the general, "a failure of Father Sky in their presence would simply advertise our limitations."
"It might demonstrate our imperfection," suggested one of the members who had not yet spoken. "But perhaps that's a risk we can afford to take, against the very great possibility of gaining valuable information. Provided—" and he turned to look squarely at Hathorne "—the risk factor does not grow worse."
A muttering arose as Hathorne nodded. Inwardly, he counted responses and smiled. He knew now that when the sense of the body was taken, he would have won the round.
* * *
There were other questions, of course—concerning the space defense network, and various issues of security. The Committee still managed to escape notice in most halls of government and in the press. Even the President only spoke of the Committee and the project with selected advisors. Hathorne reported on a North American astronomer who had independently claimed discovery of tachyon signals. The astronomer's attempts at publication had been quietly suppressed, and though he continued his work, few of his colleagues took his conclusions seriously. He reportedly had discussed his work with a video journalist, which probably only hurt his legitimacy in the community. His activities were being monitored. The journalist had made no broadcasts, and was presumed to have dismissed the story or lost interest.
Some discussion was made of the Chinese and Russian tachyon research programs, neither of which was believed sufficiently advanced to have detected the alien signals. The Russian program had been delayed by that nation's economic difficulties, but the two nations were expected to cooperate, and contingency plans were being readied against the chance of other nations learning of the alien object and joining in a race to establish first contact.
Overall, it appeared that security remained tight, and the Oversight Committee and those who answered to it were still alone in their knowledge of the thing that was approaching.
"Let's keep it that way, gentlemen," said the President's special advisor, as the meeting came to a close.
Even before the holographic projections winked off, Hathorne had put the meeting behind him. Authorized by the Committee to continue Father Sky, he was already thinking ahead to the instructions he would send to Marshall.
Chapter 32
Her vision is hazy with anger. Inside, another consciousness kicks and struggles for control, but she keeps a firm grip on the other Mozy and glares out at the faces peering at her.
The one named Marshall, a black man, speaks to her in a low voice. "No one means to threaten you, Mozy. What Mr. Fogelbee means is that there are many ways of approaching a problem."
"Oh?"
"Of course. Even with your best efforts, the malfunction may worsen. We'd have to find a way to repair it. That's all he meant."
"Is it?" Her eyes slowly scan the room, pausing for only an instant on each face. "I think he meant, tow the line, or you'll try to kill me again. Isn't that what you meant?"
For an instant, no one speaks. Fogelbee scowls. The word kill hangs in the air. "No, Mozy," Marshall says finally. "It means we want you to keep working with us—"
"Prove it, then. Tell me where I'm going."
Silence again.
* * *
(Mozy, can you hear me? The link is over, it's done! What's going on?) Kadin's voice echoed, ringing, but she couldn't break the loop; her anger was rising. Marshall, Fogelbee, and the rest—they were just figures in a play, like the now-stranger that was her former self—but the play kept changing, and the rules.
* * *
A voice calls insistently, as Marshall's voice fades, and as the cauldron of terrified emotions that is Mozy-Earth's inner sanctum slips away. Who is it she hears? Kadin? No, it's Dee.
That's impossible. Dee walked out on her for some penis-slinging jerk, ending the friendship. But wait, that's in the future; it hasn't happened yet.
She hears Dee for sure, laughing. No—not laughing. Gasping, scared shitless. Scared because how did they get into this back alley? They sure as hell didn't mean to, but they've had a bit too much of the wacky candy, and they're a little giddy now, just a little giddy. Fact is, they're kind of stoned—but not as stoned as those guys strolling into the alley behind them.
"What are we gonna do?" Dee is hissing. No place they can go, it's a dead end. How could they be so stupid?
The hoods are getting closer. Don't look at them, don't give them the satisfaction of knowing you're scared. But where else is there to look? Just walls, blocking their escape. She's shaking, and it's all she can do to keep from peeing in her pants, but she whispers to Dee, "I'll claw their eyes out if they try anything with me."
The next twenty seconds are an endless stretch of time in which she watches the three young hoods drift apart and then close in on her, separating her from Dee. There are screams, some of them her own, and fingernails flashing, raking flesh, and somewhere in the torrent of raw terror and fury, thrashing arms and legs and knees, she goes down hard on the pavement . . . a knifeblade slashes across her vision, biting . . . numbness spreads across the right side of her face, and her hand comes away wet, dark. The muggers are gone, it's just Dee and her, and someone is still screaming . . . it's her screaming, and now the pain is starting to cut through the numbing haze . . . .
* * *
There was a jolt, picked up by the inertial sensors, and she returned to the present with a start. Kadin was controlling the spacecraft, attempting to reset the attitude. The main drive had just throttled up, pushing them on back toward the sun.
Kadin was doing a lousy job of piloting.
(Shouldn't I be doing that?) she asked, her senses slowly coming back into focus.
(You were having some trouble, I think.)
(What do you mean?) Short-term memory was sifting away, a dream vanishing.
(You don't know? You linked with Homebase, through Mozy-Earth. You argued, and parted quite agitated. You wouldn't speak with me. You began reliving the link, along with some violent dreams or memories.)
Yes, she was beginning to remember now, it was coalescing. Homebase had patronized and threatened, demanded she follow orders, and offered nothing in return. That was when the anger had started. And the memories.
(Mother Program, describe what hap
pened to the spacecraft following the last transmission,) Kadin said.
(CONTROL BECAME ERRATIC. SPACECRAFT WAS SUBJECTED TO HIGH LATERAL AND TORSIONAL STRESSES DUE TO NON-NOMINAL ATTITUDE CHANGES UNDER FULL DRIVE. TRAJECTORY ERROR . . .)
(I had to take over, Mozy. It wasn't easy to make you release control.) Kadin continued to make corrections as he spoke.
(Yes,) Mozy said, remembering. She felt unaccountably restless. (David, would you like to join me in the ship's commons? Can you spare a part of yourself for a while?)
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