Seeker

by Jack McDevitt

  We went back out onto the dock, where, we assumed, the Bremerhaven and the Seeker had once tied up.

  “How’d they do it?” asked Alex.

  The ships would have dwarfed the station. We found tethers. They were thin, and it was hard to imagine either of the behemoths secured by them. “The dock has magnetic skirts,” I said. “They just locked it in and tied it down.”

  “I’d have expected to find something broken,” he said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Maybe I’m wrong. But I’ve assumed the Bremerhaven would not have been operational after they removed the parts we saw in the Seeker.”

  “I don’t really know for sure, but that’s almost certainly right.”

  “So what happened to it?”

  I looked at the retracted tethers. Everything was in order. “They released it,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Maybe they didn’t want the dock wrecked.”

  “Chase, the dock got thrown a long way. You seriously think they didn’t know that was going to happen?”

  “I have no idea, Alex.”

  He touched one of the tethers. It had lost its flexibility. “Why bother releasing a ship that couldn’t go anywhere?” he said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t want to have it come down on their heads during whatever it was that was happening. So they got rid of it.”

  “Maybe.” He looked at me for a long minute, although I couldn’t see his face inside the darkened helmet. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  Belle called: “We have a candidate for the moon.”

  As soon as we got within range, we saw that it was the satellite from the holograms. There was no mistaking the craters and the ridgeline and the mountain range.

  Belle usually had a hard time understanding the vagaries of human behavior. She thought the discovery was reason to celebrate, so she showed up dressed in a black off-the-shoulder gown, looking like a model from Sand and Sea. She held both fists over her head while her bosom heaved, and she showered us with congratulations. But the mood on the ship remained gloomy.

  Like the Seeker, and the dock, the former moon had gone into solar orbit.

  “Circumference at the equator is thirty-five hundred kilometers,” Belle announced. Big for a moon, even by the standards of Rimway’s oversized satellite. “I do not detect any indication of catastrophic damage.”

  You’ve seen one moon, you’ve pretty much seen them all. This one was heavily cratered on one side, the side we’d seen in the hologram. The other was relatively smooth, the product of an ancient lava flow, I supposed. We went into orbit around it and began looking for anything that might tell us how it had gotten there.

  Alex took pictures, and we mapped the object. We measured it and scanned it. We hoped to find signs that someone had walked on it. A base, a monument, a wrench dropped in the dust. Something. But if it was there, we didn’t see it.

  “Orbital period approximately seven hundred thirty-five years. It is now inbound midway between aphelion and perihelion.”

  “We’ve got a dock and a moon,” I said. “We might be able to use them to figure out where and when the event happened.”

  He nodded. “Do it.”

  My chance to shine. “Belle,” I said, “track the orbits of the moon and the dock back nine thousand years. Do they at any time intersect?”

  “Working,” said Belle.

  “That’s good, Chase,” said Alex. “You may have a future as a mathematician.”

  “That would be a step down,” I said.

  Belle was back. “No. They do not intersect. But there is a close approach.”

  “How close?”

  “They come within two point three million kilometers on March 3, 2745, in the terrestrial calendar.”

  “Fifty-five years after they’d first touched down,” said Alex.

  “Let’s see what it looks like, Belle. Show us the biozone, too.”

  She dimmed the lights. Gave us the sun. Drew a wide circle around it to indicate the biozone. She added a bright yellow arc. “This is the dock.” And a second arc, passing well to one side of the dock. “The moon.” The approach took place on the inner edge of the biozone.

  “Belle,” said Alex, “show us where the terrestrial world was on that date.”

  “It’s hard to be certain, because the planetary orbit might have been different prior to the event.”

  “It would have been different, Belle,” I told her.

  “Then what am I looking for?” She sounded annoyed.

  “Assume the terrestrial world originally had a standard orbit inside the biozone, near its inner edge. Where would it have been?”

  “One moment, please.”

  Nobody said anything.

  A blinking marker appeared a hand’s width away from the moon. Farther from the dock.

  “Not exactly an intersection,” said Alex.

  TWENTY

  We will interrupt the ideological nonsense, whether it be political, religious, or social, that flows from generation to generation. We will begin anew, in a new place, with a new approach. We will learn from history, and we will discard the doctrines that have kept the human race anchored firmly to a cacophony of discord and confusion. We have always known the potential for greatness, because we have seen what can be done when individuals throw off the shackles of conformity. Now we will demonstrate what can happen when an entire society prizes, above all else, free minds.

  —Harry Williams,

  Remarks at the Freedom Day Celebration in Berlin, March 3, 2684 C.E.

  We were still orbiting the moon when Belle reported that she’d located the Bremerhaven. “The final piece,” I said.

  “We’ll see.”

  It was smaller, leaner, and longer than the Seeker. No blown engines this time. No sign of damage except dents where it had probably been struck by drifting rock and ice. It carried the same flag, and a more fluid style of lettering on the hull.

  We saw no signs of human remains inside. There were some pieces that would have looked good on Rainbow’s inventory, but Alex decided, without explaining why, that we would take nothing from the Bremerhaven. “Leave it for Windy,” he said.

  On the bridge, we opened the panels and looked at disconnected power lines. And at empty spaces once occupied by control boxes. Alex clomped around in his magnetic boots and poked his lamp into every open space. “Chase,” he said at last, “answer a question for me. After they transplanted the black boxes to the Seeker, would this thing have been capable of going anywhere? Under its own power?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “But you’re not sure.”

  “I’m not familiar enough with the ship. It’s possible, for example, there’s an auxiliary control center elsewhere on board.”

  “All right,” he said. “Is it possible for us to make a determination?”

  I remembered a set of Bremerhaven power relays in the Seeker’s engine room. “Let’s go look at the drive units,” I said.

  I’ve remarked elsewhere I don’t know much about third-millennium technology. But you don’t have to if you’re just looking to see whether parts are missing and power cables are disconnected. I only needed a quick glance to know that the Bremerhaven wouldn’t have gone anywhere on its own.

  We removed nothing. Mostly we just made a visual record. Then we went back aboard the Belle-Marie, and poured ourselves some coffee.

  Alex was adrift somewhere.

  “What?” I asked, finally.

  He took a long pull at his coffee. “I think the jungle world is Margolia.”

  “Even though the orbits didn’t match up?”

  “Yes. I don’t know how, or why, but they’re buried on that world somewhere.”

  There was no indication there had ever been a settlement. But of course, give it a few thousand years, and the heavy vegetation we were looking at would have buried Andiquar. We took the launch down and padded around a bit on the surface, looking for ev
idence. But there was nothing. Confirmation one way or the other would take specialized equipment.

  “Chase?”

  “Yes, Belle?” I was napping on the bridge while Alex looked over images from the surface.

  “I’ve been examining the orbit of the Bremerhaven.”

  “And—?”

  “On March 3, 2745, it was thirty million kilometers away.”

  “From this world?” asked Alex.

  “Yes.”

  We looked at each other. “How do we explain that?”

  “For now,” he said, “let’s just call it an anomaly.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  In the midst of celebration are we overtaken by calamity.

  —Kory Tyler,

  Musings, 1312

  We slipped back into our home system at the end of a flight that people would probably be talking about a thousand years later. We’d found our Atlantis, but it had been a disappointment on a scale so vast that it weighed down every other consideration. Had we guaranteed ourselves a great bottom line? Absolutely. Were we going to be celebrities? I pictured myself being interviewed on every show from Round Table to Jennifer in the Morning. Money would pour in. And I was already thinking about a book. Still, we had hoped for an Atlantis that would be, despite all odds, up and running. Or at least, visible.

  “What will you call it?” asked Alex, referring to the book.

  “Last Mission,” I said.

  He pressed his fingers against his temple and adopted the tone he might have used with a child. “I hope you’re not suggesting you’re going to retire. And anyhow, titles shouldn’t be about you.”

  “It’s not about me. I’ve no intention of retiring, Alex. It’ll be about the Seeker. Trying to go for help, having a load of children on board, and the engines go down. No rescue possible within light-years. Everybody on board dies, and Margolia loses its only hope. It’s a tragic story.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It sounds like a downer. I think you need some daylight in there somewhere.” He was sitting in the common room, in front of a chess problem to which he paid no attention. When I asked how he planned to announce the discovery, he looked uncertain. “I haven’t decided,” he said. “What do you think?”

  “We could call a press conference, jointly with Windy.”

  He picked up the black king, studied it, and put it back. “I’m not anxious to do that. I don’t want to stir up Kolchevsky and the other morons. Why don’t we try to keep a low profile for now, and move our stuff as quietly as we can?”

  “You know that’s not going to work, Alex. Once it gets out that we found Margolia, every journalist in the world is going to be beating down our door. We need to know what we’re going to say to them.”

  We docked, made entry, and went in through the zero-gee deck because we had three containers filled with artifacts.

  As we came out into the main concourse, a tall, young man was waiting for us. “Charlie Everson,” he said. “How was the trip, Mr. Benedict?”

  “Okay.” Alex looked in my direction. Did I recognize him? I’d never seen him before. He had black hair and a conservative bearing, but something about him reminded me of one of those guys who are always trying to impress you with their positions in the world.

  “Windy sent me,” he said. “She’s anxious to know how things went.”

  “Tell her,” said Alex, “it was a productive operation. We’ll get over to see her first thing tomorrow.”

  “Good.” He seemed pleased. “She’ll be anxious to hear the details.” I expected him to press us, to ask whether we’d found what we were looking for, but he shoved his hands into his pockets and said she’d been talking about throwing a dinner in our honor. “By the way,” he added, “we’ve arranged your passage on the shuttle.” He had large brown eyes, and they focused on the containers. “Compliments of Survey.”

  “Well, that’s good of you,” said Alex. “Thanks.”

  “It’s our pleasure. Are those artifacts in the cases?”

  “Yes,” Alex said.

  “Wonderful.” He smiled again. Looked at me and looked away. This was a guy on the shy side, I decided. Someone who rarely had a good time. “Congratulations, Mr. Benedict.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll let Windy know. And I’ll tell her to expect you tomorrow.” We all shook hands. “It was good to meet you both.” He started away, paused, and turned back. “Reservations are in your name, Mr. Benedict. The shuttle leaves at six.”

  Alex thanked him again, and he went on his way. Had other business to take care of, he said.

  We stopped to arrange shipping for the containers. I was carrying a few of the more fragile artifacts in a box, which I intended to carry aboard the shuttle. At first they told us there was no room for more cargo, and they’d have to go down on a later vehicle. Alex showed them some money, and they found space.

  We had almost an hour to spare when we left the kiosk. Alex was looking hesitant. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I’m hungry.”

  There were plenty of snack shops. But Alex insisted we go to Karl’s, with its candles, soft music, and sizzling Dellacondan chicken.

  “We don’t have time,” I said. It’s true that an hour on Rimway is moderately longer than a terrestrial hour, but we’d still not come close to making the shuttle. At Karl’s, you were expected to relax, enjoy the ambience, and let the food catch up to you, so to speak.

  He frowned. “There’s another flight at nine.” He looked at me with those big eyes. Come on, Chase, we’ve been cooped up for weeks. Let’s relax a bit. “Why don’t we just take it easy?” he said. “Take advantage of the opportunity?” He was really asking whether I wanted a decent meal, or preferred the prepackaged stuff on the shuttle.

  So he called the reservation desk to make the change, and we strolled up to B Deck, and poked our heads into a couple of the souvenir shops. I bought a shirt for a nephew, and Alex got some chocolate for the ride down. Then we wandered into Karl’s.

  Despite the mixed outcome of the mission, it was a night to celebrate. We got our table and sat down and I put the box and the souvenirs on the seat beside me and told Alex not to let me forget it. There was sultry music drifting from the piano at the far end of the dining room. We tossed off drinks and stared into each other’s eyes like a couple of starstruck lovers. We told each other how good we were, and how the entire world was going to come to our doorstep to ask how we did it. We ordered seafood. White staple, supposedly from the Inland Sea. Whatever, I enjoyed every bite. It’s funny, I can clearly remember the details of that meal, the way the salad looked, the dressing I used, the shape of the wineglasses, everything as if it happened yesterday. I can still see the chandelier, and the half-filled dining room. I can see Alex, swept away by the emotions of the evening, sitting at the apex of his career, simultaneously delighted and depressed. The plight of those people so long ago had gotten to him. Had I been behaving that way, he’d have told me to get my act together. Everybody dies eventually. It’s ancient history.

  Well, it was that.

  I remember his joking about how there should be an antiquities dealers’ hall of fame. About time they got the recognition that had long been withheld. And he took time to thank me for my contribution. I think by then he’d drunk a bit too much.

  The piano player was real rather than virtual, a tall, serious-looking guy with a bristling mustache and gray eyes that didn’t quite match the romantic music. I can still tell you what he played, and that he wore a red carnation and looked mournful. I remember thinking maybe it was a result of his wistful repertoire. “Lost Without You.” “Night with No Moon.” And “Chandra.”

  I’m not sure precisely when I became aware of a change in atmosphere. We’d gotten well past the meal and were simply sitting, drinking, and enjoying the evening. I was beginning to wonder if we’d make the nine o’clock flight. And gradually I noticed a change in the mood of the place. The spontaneity seemed to evaporate, and
people were whispering and looking around and shaking their heads. Alex saw it, too. When our waiter came over to refill our glasses, Alex asked if something was going on.

  “The shuttle,” he said. “It blew up on the way down.”

  I have to confess my first thought was not for the victims, but for us, how close Alex and I had come to being part of the disaster. Had it not been for his appetite, and his inclination to visit Karl’s at every opportunity—

  The victims. They’d been walking around the concourse a few hours ago brushing shoulders with us. And the guy with the shy demeanor. Charlie. Had he been aboard?

  I don’t recall that either of us ate or drank anything after that. The waiter had no details. I heard someone sobbing out in the concourse. I remember getting up from the table while Alex paid the bill. We wandered outside in a daze. “These things happen,” I said.

  He gave me a strange look and shook his head. I don’t know how I got there, but I ended in his arms. “It’s okay,” he said.

  I just hung on.

  Alex shifted his weight.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The artifacts.” He called the shipping service. Yes, they were sorry, but the three containers had been on the six o’clock shuttle. “But I see they’re insured. No need to worry, Mr. Benedict.”

  Insured for a nominal sum. Insuring them for their true value would have overwhelmed the shipping company and they’d have refused to accept the packages.

  At that moment I remembered the box, the only remaining artifacts. Which I’d left at the table. I started back, only to see the host hurrying my way with the box and my purchases in his hands.

  We tried to call Windy. Her AI informed us she was on another circuit, extremely busy, planning for a conference starting tomorrow.

  I asked whether they knew about the shuttle.

  “Yes,” he said. “Dr. Yashevik knows.”

  “I’ve a question,” said Alex. “Is there a Charlie Everson on Windy’s staff?”