It just all seemed . . . not just sad, but inappropriate somehow. It shouldn't end this way. Not the first alien contact for all of humanity. No one else even knew about it. He had been the sole point of contact with the race of quarx. And now Charlie was gone.
Bandicut sat down on the sand, trying to swallow. It wasn't just the loss of an alien contact. It was the loss of a . . . friend. He stared across the vast expanse of ocean at the fiery red orb, until the intensity of the glow began to hurt his eyes, and only after a few minutes did he begin to wipe at the streaming tears that were blurring his vision of the setting sun.
Chapter 11
Charlie?
HE REMAINED WHERE he was until the holographic sun had sunk beneath the horizon and the sky had begun to darken. Finally he told the VR room to switch itself off, and he hung the sensory gear in the closet. Still, though, he lingered before leaving the room. He had no idea what to do with himself now. He was exhausted physically and emotionally, but sleep was out of the question; so was eating. He knew he ought to think through the implications of what Charlie had said at the end: that he had to take responsibility, that there would be "another," that he needed to get the data to the translator. EineySteiney. But he couldn't; he just couldn't think about all that now.
He left the room finally and found himself walking down the corridor toward the gym and the centrifuge room. Maybe that would be the best antidote: to put in some pounding physical exercise and just utterly drain himself. There was no doubt he needed the exercise. Maybe it would help him get his mind off Charlie.
The late Charlie.
When he got to the gym, he had to wait for a chance in the 'fuge room. He spent the time warming up on the leverbenches, doing shoulder stretches and waist flexes. He was aware of the desk scanner-robot peering his way from time to time and began, ridiculously, to feel self-conscious. He wondered if his inner distress was showing clearly enough on his face for even a robot to see it. Flushing, he stepped up his pace of exercise. If he had to look distressed, by God, it was going to be because he was pushing himself. He didn't need anyone nosing around asking what was wrong.
Sweat beading on his forehead, he still could not keep from spinning his mental wheels, trying to think what to do next. He couldn't keep his experience with the quarx a secret forever. If he was supposed to be taking responsibility, then he had to make decisions. Ultimately, this was something the world needed to know about: the first living contact with an alien intelligence. Maybe someone who was smarter than he was could figure out why the Earth was in danger. But whom could he tell, and with what for evidence . . . unless he led a search party back to the cavern and the translator?
But to do that, he would have to tell Cole Jackson. The man would never believe him; and even if he did, Jackson would only look for some way to grab the credit, the way he did when that stranded Time-Life photographer was rescued two months ago—when he took a commendation "on behalf of" the two men who'd acted, while he'd stood around scratching his ass, making plans. Bandicut could imagine Jackson's pleasure in taking credit for alien contact.
But whom else could he tell? Despite the fact that they were here on Triton to dig alien metals out of the ground, there was no department assigned the job of dealing with living aliens. That might be stupid, but there it was.
That seemed to leave two other choices. There was Dr. Switzer, who would probably find nothing in Bandicut's mind except psychosis; and there was the tiny exoarchaeology group, where Julie Stone worked. He felt a certain appeal in giving the science people a chance before the marketing people took over. But exoarch wasn't part of MINEXFO, and it would not be viewed favorably for him to tell exoarch instead of going through company channels. In any event, he had a hunch—Julie notwithstanding—that exoarch would think he was as crazy as a loon, just like everyone else. He knew if the situation were reversed, he wouldn't believe a story like his, not for a moment.
He puffed, straining against the levers.
"Mr. Bandicut!" said a synthesized voice. "Do you wish to use the centrifuge or not? There are others waiting."
"Huh?" He sat up on the leverbench and peered toward the front desk. The scanner robot was staring unblinking in his direction. "Okay. I'm going," he grunted, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. He extricated himself from the leverpress and went through the sliding door into the 'fuge room.
The centrifuge room rotated around the gym like a gigantic, inward-banked angel food cake. Bandicut paused on the wide, stationary inner track, then stepped out across the red, orange, and yellow transition bands, staggering a little as his weight increased by increments, each ring outward moving faster than the one before. He made his way to the green outer ring, which held the main .8 gee running track and an assortment of high-gee exercisers strung along its outer circumference.
Taking a few deep breaths, he jogged up to speed, finding a gap among the other runners. The sensation of revolving was disconcerting at first, as he whizzed past a couple of people on the slower, inner bands. But he adjusted quickly, and began a steady, mindless pace, pounding his way around the track. He didn't speak to anyone, and didn't bother to count laps or keep track of his speed. The monitor on his wrist would let him know if he was about to keel over—if his knees didn't buckle under first.
It wasn't long before the burning in his lungs told him that he had become far too lax in his exercising; he needed to do this more often. He tried to empty his mind, except for the physical ache. But inevitably his thoughts drifted back to Charlie, and to how he might locate Charlie's translator and produce it as evidence of his discovery.
Please don't tell anyone.
He stumbled, lost his balance with the Coriolus veering, and rolled off the track to the outside. Had he just heard a voice—a tiny whisper? He thought it had sounded like the voice of Charlie. More likely, it was his memory of the quarx's voice. His monitor was beeping furiously, his heart pounding. He grabbed for the mute switch on his wrist, and he searched frantically in his mind. /Charlie?/ he whispered. It took all of his self control not to call the quarx's name aloud.
The only answer was the pounding of his pulse in his eardrums. He dragged for breath in the heavy gravity. It must have been the strain, the lightheadedness from running. He had imagined the sound.
"Hey—you okay there?" One of the other runners was bending down next to him.
"I, uh—" he croaked, wheezing in another breath.
The runner put his hands on his hips, catching his own breath. "Whooeee. I thought mebbe you were having some—"
"No—" Bandicut panted, waving the other man on. "I'm fine. Just a little . . . winded."
" 'Kay. See ya." The runner jogged off again.
Bandicut sat back on the padded sidestrip, watching the stream of workers jog past. His heart rate was coming down slowly. /Charlie?/ he whispered. /Did you plant that memory?/
He thought he heard a high keening sound, like his sinuses depressurizing; then it was gone. Maybe it was his sinuses depressurizing. He felt no presence of a quarx. He sighed and cursed and got to his feet. Maybe it was time he went to bed, after all.
*
Stretching out in the privacy of his bunk, he knew that he was not going to be able to sleep yet. He pulled his notebook out of the cubby beside his head and, resting on one elbow, jacked it into the wall. He wanted to check the system board to see if Jackson and the department had left him any messages about their investigation. They had: Jackson wanted to know if he had heard anything in the rover before the nav and comm went out on him. He typed a short reply: No. He sent a separate query asking when they anticipated putting him back on survey duty. It was not that he had even the slightest idea what he would do when they put him back out there. But some of the posts on the general-comments board were from miners offering their services for survey driving, and it worried him that someone else wandering around in his territory might stumble into Charlie's cavern.
The little screen seemed to glow back at
him like a living thing on his bunk. He paused in his browsing of messages. There was really very little that he was interested in here; he was just postponing sleep. He was also, he realized, extremely tired. If nothing else, that made a fertile ground for silence-fugue. That was the last thing he wanted to deal with now. He unplugged the unit, stashed it in the cubby, and lay back, closing his eyes.
Sleep did not come easily. He seemed surrounded by irritating noises, sounds he ordinarily did not notice at all: the voices of men coming and going in the dorm rooms, even the adjoining rooms; the sounds of plumbing in the can, ten meters away; even someone's holovid, in this dorm room or another. It was certainly strange for him to be hearing all of these things through his privacy curtain, which ordinarily screened out all but the loudest sounds. But he was too tired, too groggy, and too depressed to think anything more about it than how annoying it was.
Even his own heartbeat seemed to thunder in his ears.
He felt as though all of his senses, both inner and outer, were afire—as though Charlie, in his departure, had somehow flayed his nerve endings so that he would forever be adrift in a sea of noise, fretfulness, and chaos. /Damn you, Charlie, for leaving like that . . ./
His thoughts seemed to drift away like whispers on the wind, Damn you, Charlie . . . damn you, Charlie . . . and then it was gone, like the sound of a dream passing in the night. He thought he heard an answering whisper, Who is Charlie? and he blinked his eyes in the dark and searched his mind, and wondered: indeed, who was Charlie? And why did he come to me, and then leave before his work—our work—was done? And will I be hearing voices in my imagination for the rest of my life?
And he felt a creeping sense of inevitability wash over him, saying, yes you will . . . as he drifted off to sleep at last.
*
It seemed only an instant later when he was startled awake by a gurgling sound:
/// Where the . . . (glurrrk) . . . am I? ///
He heaved himself up on one elbow, staring into the near-total darkness of his bunk alcove. The tiny red clock readout provided the only light, glowing blood red as it floated in space beside him, telling him that it was 0447, the middle of the night. What the hell had awakened him? "Charlie?" he called out softly.
For a moment, through his grogginess, he felt the weight of his own stupidity. What was he doing, calling out aloud to a dead alien? But he was certain he had heard something.
There was another gurgling sound, like a clogged drain. He strained to hear. Was it coming from outside? From the lavatory? No . . .
He wondered if he were going out of his mind. Silence-fugue? It didn't feel like it, but . . . voices in the night? Probably just a dream, for God's sake. Was he losing the ability to distinguish between dream and reality? Was it that hard, losing Charlie?
/// Char-leee? ///
Bandicut froze. That was a definite voice.
/// Was that . . .
what you called—? ///
/Charlie!/ he screamed. He was suddenly gasping again, overwhelmed by a need to drag air into his lungs. /Charlie, is that you?/
/// I'm—not sure— ///
/Charliiiiie! What are you doing to me, damn you?/ He fell back on his pillow, holding his head in both hands. /Furgin' hell, is this some kind of—/
He was interrupted by a stronger voice:
/// Please—
please stop shouting, sir!
I must know—who you are— ///
Bandicut gasped breathlessly. Suddenly he realized that he felt a multiple bewilderment—his own, and someone else's—someone in his head.
He sat up again, dizzily. /Charlie? Is it really you? Or—/
Time seemed suspended, through a long moment of uncertainty. Then a very soft, tentative voice said:
/// Charlie . . . ?
Perhaps . . . you could call me that. ///
Bandicut felt a cold chill run down his back.
/// Your name is . . . Bandicut.
Yes? ///
/Yes,/ he whispered. /But who—?/
/// I think I . . .
have memories of you,
John Bandicut. ///
Bandicut felt as if he were spinning in a centrifuge out of control, his mind staggering from unrelenting Coriolis veering. He lay back down.
/// Can you tell me please
. . . what happened? ///
/What happened? You died! Last night!/ He felt his bewilderment rippling back upon itself. His thoughts flashed involuntarily back to Charlie's death—reviewing the events as if in blazing holo. It was a disturbing, disorienting review—the death, and its emotional and physical effects. But there was a quarx in his head again. Was it really Charlie?
/// Something . . . else . . . happened. ///
Bandicut lay helpless as the thing in his mind struggled to sort its way through the facts. /What else happened?/ Bandicut whispered.
/// Not just . . . death. ///
/No—?/
/// —Something—
.
—quarx—
.
—I—
.
. . . ///
It seemed to run out of words.
Bandicut whispered, /Please—just tell me—are you the Charlie I knew?/
There was another long hesitation.
/// I . . . am uncertain . . . ///
/But—/
/// .
.
.
< quarx >
.
.
<< die >>
.
.
???
.
.
< quarx >
.
.
<<< reborn >>>
.
.
.
—I—
.
.
< uncertain >
.
.
< remembering >
.
.
—you—
.
.
—once knew—
.
.
—a Charlie?—
.
. ///
Bandicut struggled to keep from crying out his intense . . . he didn't even know what the emotion was, just that it was building like a scream that wanted to get out, but couldn't because a weight was sitting on top of it. He felt his breath rush in and out, and behind his closed eyelids, lights were flashing and he felt as if he were falling . . .
/// What—?
.
What is this?
.
Stop!
.
STO-O-O-P-P-P-P! ///
He felt himself jerked back to stillness, abruptly, as though a band of steel had clamped down upon his brain. He gasped, dizzily. /You . . . used to do that a lot more . . . gently,/ he wheezed.
/// ??? ///
He gulped. /Silence-fugue. It . . . hits me . . . and it's all I can do to . . . keep my head on straight until it passes. But you found a way to—/
/// I—? ///
/You. Before you—/ he choked on the word /—died!/ Bandicut felt himself suddenly burning with rage. /Before you started moking with my mind!/
/// —I— ///
the creature gasped at his rage
/// —did nothing— ///
/Then—/ Bandicut whispered raggedly, /please tell me—who are you? And where is Charlie?/
The quarx seemed stunned.
/// .
.
Charlie
.
.
transformed
.
.
I am
.
.
I am not
.
.
you may call me
.
.
Charlie
.
. ///
Bandicut's heart pounded.
/// You still don't . . . ? ///
No. I don
't understand. Or maybe I do. He felt a powerful sensation of wheels shifting and spinning in his mind.
/// Charlie died—? ///
whispered the quarx.
/Yes./
/// I am of the . . . ashes? ///
Bandicut stared into the darkness.
/// Now do you . . . ? ///
/Yes,/ he whispered. /I think I do now./
Chapter 12
Charlie-Two
WHEN THE ALARM chimed, he rolled out of his bunk with a groan. Although he'd eventually sunk into a muddled slumber, he did not feel rested in the least. He considered calling in sick, but he didn't want to have to concoct reasons. Vague claims of insomnia were unlikely to cut much mustard with Dr. Switzer.
He grabbed something to eat in the cafeteria and headed for the ready room.
/// What is planned for today? ///
asked the quarx. Charlie—the new Charlie—had awakened somewhat clearer-headed, or at least more articulate, than he had been in the middle of the night.
/I have to go to work,/ Bandicut answered curtly, trying to brush the question off. He hauled his suit out of the locker. They had a lot to talk about, but now was hardly the time—and truthfully, he hadn't much stomach for it. He wanted to pretend that Charlie-One was still with him, pretend that last night hadn't happened.
/// He . . . we . . .
did not mean for it to be
disruptive.
It's unlikely that he wanted to die,
you know. ///
Bandicut grunted, hauling the bulky mining suit up over his shoulders. The last of the other workers had just disappeared out the airlock. /No, I suppose not./ And how am I going to get through this day? he wondered. By pretending everything is okay? By doing nothing that will take me even remotely closer to understanding—much less accomplishing—Charlie's and my mission? /Do you—/ he whispered, /know what Charlie knew? Do you remember what we talked about? Our . . . purpose?/
The Chaos Chronicles Page 13
