Coming Home

by Jack McDevitt

  Time’s the king of men,

  He’s both their parent, and he is their grave,

  And gives them what he will, not what they crave.

  —William Shakespeare, Pericles

  The shuttle brought us down over the Atlantic. We dropped out of the clouds into driving rain and headed over open water toward the American coast. Alex was seated by the aisle, consulting his notebook. “We’re over the Jersey Islands now,” he said. “That big one there is Manchester Island. I think.” He peered out the window and checked his notebook again. “Yes. And just north of it is Plumsted. They’re popular vacation spots.” A cabin cruiser was moving west, leaving a wide wake. Nothing in that direction except ocean.

  * * *

  Ardmore was a spectacular city, blending Golden Age architecture with ultramodern spires and cones. Broad parks and walkways were visible as we came in off the sea and landed at the terminal, where Jay Carmody, an old friend of Alex’s, was waiting. He was a methodical guy with blond hair and golden eyes. Handsome by anybody’s standards, except that he could have used some animation. He said how good it was to see us again. “I’m not sure how much I can help, Alex,” he said. “But I’ll be happy to do whatever I can. I never actually met Garnett Baylee. I knew about him, of course. He was a big name here. I saw him a couple of times at conferences. But always from a distance. When did he die?”

  “About eleven years ago.” He thought about it. “Maybe a bit more in terrestrial years.”

  We were at the baggage section. I tried to pick up my luggage, but Jay wouldn’t hear of it. He got both of my bags and led the way toward the exit. Outside, we put everything down and waited while he went to get his car. Forty minutes later, we were pulling up under a full moon in front of a modest two-story cottage about a quarter mile from Sabat University, where Jay was a history professor. Lights went on, we climbed out, passed through a gate in a picket fence, and went up three steps onto an enclosed porch. The door opened, and a smiling middle-aged woman came out and waved. “It’s good to see you again, Alex,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

  They embraced, and Jay introduced me to his wife Kali.

  * * *

  “I’ve looked into a lot of this stuff,” Jay said. “The Corbett you mentioned was one of the artifacts they moved off the Moon at the beginning of the Dark Age. They closed everything down and brought back what they could. That included the Apollo 11 lander. They put most of it, including the transmitters, in the Huntsville Space Museum. There was never a mention of the Apollo 11 after that. Nobody knows what happened to it.”

  We were seated in their living room, surrounded by family pictures, Kali and Jay with their two kids, and with an older couple who were probably the parents of one or the other. Lots more of the kids. And a German shepherd. The shepherd’s name was Vinnie. He was on the floor beside Kali’s armchair.

  Jay turned toward his wife. “Huntsville,” he said, “also had most of what had been in the Florida museum. Stuff from the very beginning.”

  “That’s the one,” she said, “that was located near the launch facility, right?”

  “Yes. At Cape Canaveral.” He looked my way. “It’s still a tourist attraction although you have to take a submarine to see it.” All of Florida save the northernmost hundred miles or so had gone into the sea during that period. “What we need, Alex,” he said, “is for somebody like you to come up with Cutler’s diary. You know who Cutler was?”

  Alex did. “Abraham Cutler,” he said, “was the director at the Huntsville museum when the situation got critical.”

  “That’s right. Mobs moved in, looted some of the stuff, and set some fires. That was enough for Cutler. Within the next few months, he moved as much out as he could. Sometimes under fire. There’s some evidence he might not have survived the experience, that he was killed by the thieves. We just don’t know.” Jay’s frustration was apparent. “You mentioned how valuable the Corbett is. I’d give two of them to get my hands on Cutler’s account of what happened. The standard story is that everything was taken to Centralia and put in a storehouse in Union City. That’s probably true, but what happened after that is a mystery.

  “There’s a report that Cutler’s sister published his diary. But you know the situation. When the electronics went to hell, everything was lost. In some respects, we know more about the ancient Egyptians than we do about the United States of that era.”

  Alex smiled sadly. The Egyptians had carved everything in stone. There had been a second United States, a few centuries later. Most of the major nations that had collapsed during the Dark Age came back. None of them still existed, of course. At least not in the same form. Somebody finally figured out that as long as there are independent nations, there will be friction, and all that’s necessary is one idiot in charge somewhere, and you get a war. Not good with the hyperweapons that kept getting more lethal. Which is why there’s a single government now, overseeing several hundred worlds and outposts.

  “Cutler,” Jay said, “was effectively a minor figure. We don’t even have proof, at least none that I know of, that he was the one who actually cleared the museum. But however that may be, someone did.”

  Kali looked good. Dark hair, bright eyes, and a smile that suggested she lived in a world that was endlessly amusing. They introduced the kids, who within a few minutes retreated upstairs, ostensibly doing homework. We could hear soft music and occasional conversation and laughter.

  “Can I get you guys something to drink?” she asked.

  I was unfamiliar with the choices and went for something called a Virginia bullet. It was okay, but a little strong for my tastes.

  “Do you by any chance know Les Fremont?” asked Alex.

  “I know him to say hello to. That’s about all.”

  “He had a connection with Baylee. I understand they spent a lot of time together.”

  “Yeah. Wish I could help, but I don’t have anything on that. I can tell you that Fremont shares the same passion for Golden Age archeology that Baylee did. But that’s about it.”

  “Do you know where we can locate him?”

  “Herbert,” he said, addressing the house AI, “what do you have?”

  “He still lives in Chantilly, Jay.” Herbert gave us an address. Chantilly was on the shore of Lake Washington.

  “Okay,” said Alex. “Good. How about Luciana Moretti? Do you know anything about her?”

  Jay repeated the name to himself. Frowned. “I’ve heard it somewhere.”

  “She’s an adjunct of the Southwick Foundation. And a music professor.”

  “Oh, yes. A music professor with an interest in archeology. She used to show up at conferences.”

  “Did you ever run into her?”

  “I did. Nice lady. But it’s like Fremont. Strictly hello, and it’s been nice to meet you. You want Herbert to check?”

  “Please.”

  “Herbert?” he said.

  “She was formerly an instructor at Beckham University,” he said. “Left there three years ago. Took up a similar position at the Amazon College of the Arts.”

  “Where’s that?” asked Alex.

  “Corinthia,” said the AI.

  “It’s in South America,” added Jay. “On the Amazon, of course.”

  SIXTEEN

  No single place in the world so embodies the spirit of the age as New York. If a time ever comes when its name is unknown, when it has disappeared from the maps, we will have forgotten who we are.

  —Marianne Coxley, On the Road, 2044 C.E.

  We caught a maglev into Chantilly. The last ten minutes of the ride took us along the lakeshore. We saw piers and boats and a few people fishing. And then, without warning, the Washington Monument rising from the water. It was supposed to be taller than the original one although there was no way to be sure. But reconstructing it constituted the ultimate
act of defiance by the American people against the rising seas that were engulfing them and the rest of the world.

  The cupola and dome of the old Capitol building had at one time also risen above the lake waters. But they were deemed to suggest a broken nation. They detracted from the grandeur expressed by the obelisk, so they were taken down.

  I knew, of course, what the Golden Age capital had looked like in its halcyon era. When we’d visited Atlantis in the tour sub a few years earlier, there’d been no emotional reaction to the submerged ruins because there was no record of Atlantis in its prime. But this was different. Riding along that lakefront, I wondered what visitors to Andiquar, arriving in ten or eleven thousand years, would see? You wander around near Independence Park and the Hall of the People, and you get a sense that they will be there forever. But forever is a long time. The people who lived in Washington before the waters came probably thought that about their city. But it’s all temporary, baby. Perpetuity is an illusion.

  The planet was no longer a place Neil Armstrong would have recognized. Most of the historic Golden Age cities had been located on or near water. Consequently, they were for the most part gone. Paris and Rome remained. And Madrid and Tehran. A few others.

  The international borders were gone as well. They’d dissolved during the Fourth Millennium, and with them the nation-states they’d defined. All prior attempts to form a world body had ultimately failed, resulting in international disruptions, until the rise of the World Union at the beginning of the Fifth Millennium. The much-feared global government had finally appeared, but it turned out to be, at worst, no more inefficient or corrupt than the governments that had preceded it. Its major contribution, during those early centuries, had been that it kept the peace. Gradually, when the turmoil subsided, and the Dark Age had passed, a quiet and efficient civilization emerged. On Earth, everyone lived, effectively, in a county or its equivalent. It may have been that a fair level of tranquillity finally arrived because people had decent lives. Controls were in place to keep power-grabbing loons at a distance. Professional politicians no longer existed. And maybe, as Ingmar Moseka commented, liberal education was available to all, and the result was a responsible population that wasn’t as easy to fool as it had been in earlier times. Laws were made and policies developed by citizens who served a limited term, then returned to their lives. And people were free to live as they wished, without having to worry about where their next meal was coming from.

  Advanced technology made food and housing available for all. AIs and robots did most of the work that no one else wanted to be bothered with. Most people managed careers, some simply lived lives of leisure. And humanity’s movement to the stars, which had begun in the twenty-sixth century, accelerated. The half dozen worlds we occupied at the beginning of the Dark Age blossomed, a thousand years later, into a vast network.

  People lived at leisure everywhere if they so desired. Even on the home world, it wasn’t necessary to work if one wasn’t inclined. Education was available for all, as was opportunity, and in the end, success was defined primarily by one’s contribution to the community. Major achievements, scientific, literary, artistic, began to come in from distant worlds.

  The people of Earth, however, never forgot who they were. They were never quite ready to accept equality with those whom they still thought of as colonials. Despite that, throughout the several hundred worlds of the Confederacy, the human race gradually evolved into a family.

  Well, at least we’d gotten closer than ever before.

  * * *

  Les Fremont was still active with the North American Archeological Institute. He’d written two books on what he called expeditions into time, and he still participated in fieldwork. We arrived shortly after noon at a modest chateau located in a neighborhood filled with oaks and hedges. Kids tossed balls around at a corner playground. Fremont’s home had a small lawn, surrounded by a plastene fence. A swing hung from a tree limb.

  The cab pulled into the driveway, and Fremont came out the front door. He was a large, elderly man who walked with a limp. He waved as we got out of the cab and moved carefully down the steps leading off his deck. “Alex?” he asked.

  Alex waved back. “Hello, Dr. Fremont.” He looked around. “Beautiful place.”

  “Thank you. My name’s Les, by the way.”

  They both turned toward me. “My colleague, Chase Kolpath.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Chase.” Fremont extended a hand and led us inside. “Hot out there.” It was.

  We sat down in the living room, and he asked what we’d like to drink. “We only have wine and fruit juice,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t think of it. I tend to overlook stuff now.”

  He offered no further explanation. But he glanced at a woman’s framed photo. We all went for the wine.

  He brought it out and settled into a large chair that might have been custom-made for him. We raised our glasses to Garnett Baylee, “who was,” according to Fremont, “one of a kind.” Then he folded his hands. “Alex, how may I be of assistance?”

  Alex explained about the Corbett.

  Fremont almost went into shock. “Really? Are you sure? He found a Corbett transmitter and didn’t tell anybody? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s correct, Les.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s why we’re here. We’re hoping to get an answer.”

  “When you do, I’d like to hear what it is.”

  “Did you have much contact with him when he lived here?”

  “I saw him pretty often. Garnie and I were friends. And we were both interested in Golden Age archeology. Although, if you want the truth, I think he was a little over-the-top.”

  “That’s pretty much what we’ve heard generally.”

  “The thing he really cared about was the Huntsville museum artifacts. He spent a lifetime trying to figure out what happened to them.”

  “And what did he conclude?”

  “I don’t know if he ever did reach a conclusion. The last time I saw him, which was a year or so before he left us, he was still on the hunt. You know he lived near here, right?”

  “No. I wasn’t aware of that. Do you have the address?”

  “Let me write it down for you.” He reached for a pad, wrote on it, and handed the sheet to me. He’d have had to get up to pass it to Alex.

  Alex looked at it. “Thanks,” he said. “He lived nearby, but you lost contact with him for a year?”

  “He just wasn’t around much.”

  “Okay. By the way, Les, the Corbett transmitter Baylee’s son-in-law found in his closet was on the Huntsville museum inventory.”

  “Why did I think you were going to say that? Is that really true?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s hard to believe, Alex. If he’d found something like that, he would have told me. There’s no way he’d have kept it to himself.”

  “Can you recall anything specific? Did he ever express any theory about where he thought the artifacts might be?”

  “Well, he entertained different theories at different times. But none of them ever worked out. He was still wandering around trying to get an answer when I lost touch with him. So I don’t know where he was looking during his last year or two here. He might even have backed off. He did that periodically. He’d join a mission to the Middle East, or Germany or somewhere. I was always glad to hear about that, that he was doing something else, because the whole thing seemed hopeless. I mean, we’re talking about ancient history. What kind of condition was the transmitter in?”

  “Actually, it was in pretty decent shape.”

  “Really? That seems strange.”

  “I know. I wondered about that, too. Wherever he found it, it had been in a safe place.”

  * * *

  There was nothing more to be gained from Fremont, so we rode over to Ba
ylee’s former house. It was a modest place, a cottage with a view of a river, and, in the distance, a bridge. Several trees rose above the lawn. Two women were seated on the porch, one in a canvas chair, the other in a rocker.

  Alex told the cab to stop. We got out and stood at the end of a walkway. The women looked in our direction, and we waved. One raised her hand in a halfhearted return of the gesture.

  We went about halfway to the porch and stopped. “Hello,” Alex said amiably. “We’re doing some research on Garnett Baylee. I wonder if we could talk with you for a minute?” They glanced at each other. Neither appeared to have any clue who Baylee was. “I believe he owned this place at one time. About eighteen years ago.”

  The woman in the rocker frowned as we went closer. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “My name’s Alex Benedict.” He smiled at me. “This is Chase Kolpath.”

  “Hello,” I said, putting as much good cheer into it as I could manage.

  The other woman got to her feet. “Is there a problem, Mr. Benedict?”

  “No,” he said. “No problem. But Garnett Baylee was a famous archeologist. He used to live here.”

  “I never heard of him. I’m not even sure what an archeologist does.” She laughed as she saw Alex’s reaction. “Just kidding,” she added.

  “We’re writing a paper on Baylee, and I wanted to get a look at where he used to live. It’s quite nice.”

  “Thank you. We like it.”

  Alex said something about the beautiful view and what an attractive neighborhood it was. “Did you buy the property from him?”

  “I really don’t recall what the owner’s name was,” said the woman in the rocker.

  “Are you the current owner?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “May I ask how long you’ve been here?”

  She had to think about it. “About seventeen, eighteen years. So it probably was him.”

  “Mr. Baylee died a few years ago, on Rimway. His family found a valuable artifact in one of the closets of his home there. It was a mechanism used by the early starships.”