Survival--A Novel

by Ben Bova

  She grabbed Ignatiev’s arm and pulled him away from the others unloading the generators.

  “We’ve come to study the protohumans,” she announced, without preliminaries of any kind.

  Ignatiev knew that the mission directives ordained that any such move had to be discussed by the executive committee and agreed to by the committee’s chairman: himself.

  But he smiled at Fogel’s blunt flouting of the expedition’s rules.

  “I quite agree,” he said. “Providing that you take me along with you.”

  Fogel’s deeply tanned face contracted into a frown. “You’re not an anthropologist.”

  “True,” he admitted easily. “But I have two of the most important qualifications for going with your team.”

  “Two qualifications?”

  “One: I am just as curious about those creatures as you are.”

  Fogel made a grudging smile. But she asked, “And the second qualification?”

  “If you don’t permit me to accompany you, I’ll call Intrepid’s captain and have him send a squad of his huskiest men to take you back to the ship.”

  Fogel’s smile evaporated. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Try me.”

  She stared hard at Ignatiev. Trying to intimidate me, he knew. Finally she gave it up and nodded. “All right, you can come with us. But we’re not going to carry you! You make it on your own two feet, just like the rest of us.”

  “Of course,” said Ignatiev, hoping he could keep up with them, hoping that the ALS didn’t hobble him.

  * * *

  Gita was upset.

  When Ignatiev returned to their quarters and started packing a rucksack, she turned pale.

  “You’re going with Fogel’s team?” she cried. “You’re too old for an expedition into the forest!”

  “I went with you, didn’t I? That’s how we spotted the hominids in the first place.”

  “But your ALS. You were huffing and puffing most of the time.”

  “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “It could be dangerous,” Gita insisted. “You’re not supposed to be trekking through the countryside.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Alex, please, I’m worried for you.”

  He took her by the shoulders and kissed her tenderly. “I’ll be fine,” he repeated. “The machines will be watching over me. They won’t allow anything bad to happen.”

  “Not unless they want to see you dead.”

  Ignatiev had no reply to that.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  He was indeed huffing and puffing. Ignatiev kept pace with Fogel and her three cohorts, but just barely. Although Fogel gave the appearance of a slender waif, blond and wide-eyed, Ignatiev realized that the woman was tough, hardened by years of trekking through wild country.

  Using the data stored in Aida’s extensive memory, Fogel led her little team through the brush and meadows of Oh-Four’s countryside, to the spot where the crumbling remains of the ancient city stood. Ignatiev trailed along with them, gasping and aching, clambering over twisted vines and thick foliage until they reached the place where the primeval wall stood.

  “This way,” Fogel said, her head bent to study Aida’s map on her wrist display. Ignatiev wanted to say, “I know,” but he was too short of breath to do more than grunt.

  They reached the wall’s decaying doorway and stepped through. Fogel held up a hand to stop them.

  Turning to Ignatiev, she asked in a low voice, “This is where you saw the hominid?”

  He nodded, too winded to speak.

  The five of them were crouched down in the thick foliage that ran along the wall’s base. Each of the five wore a full biosuit, complete with transparent helmet, and carried on their backs a rucksack of supplies.

  Ahead of them spread the grassy meadow, with clumps of low-lying bushes scattered here and there. Off to the right rose a forest of tall trees, their bases hidden in flowering shrubbery. The anthropologists busily recorded the scene in their cameras.

  “This is where you saw the creature?” Fogel whispered again to Ignatiev, almost accusingly.

  He stretched out an arm and panted, “Over there … in that patch of shrubs.”

  “No sign of him now.”

  One of the anthropologists, a husky, heavy-browed young male, said to Ignatiev, “You should have ordered a surveillance satellite to keep this area under observation.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Ignatiev said drily.

  Fogel swept the scene with her eyes, then gestured to the little group. “Come on.”

  She straightened up and started for the shrubbery where the hominid had appeared. Ignatiev noted that none of them bore a weapon. Not even a slingshot, he said to himself. What if one those tigercats comes at us? Or worse, one of those giant amoebas?

  But the meadow seemed empty of animal life. They’re frightened of us, Ignatiev thought. Hiding in their holes.

  They reached the edge of the shrubbery patch. Fogel spread her arms, stopping them.

  “Look,” she said, pointing to the ground.

  Ignatiev saw the greenish leaves of the shrubs, with a few sickly looking flowers of pale pink. And in their midst, a small pile of dung.

  Fogel smiled. “He was here, all right.”

  The husky fellow wrinkled his nose. “And not that long ago.”

  “Don’t be such a delicate flower, Osborne,” Fogel said. “Get a sample for analysis.”

  With some reluctance, Osborne slipped the rucksack off his shoulders and pulled a sample case from it.

  Ignatiev wished that his helmet totally blocked odors. The dung’s reek was sickening.

  Fogel grinned at him. “Collecting droppings is a significant part of anthropology,” she told him.

  “Then I’m glad I’m an astrophysicist,” Ignatiev replied.

  The only other woman in the group said, “You keep your hands clean, then.”

  Osborne asked, “What are you doing here, with us?”

  “I’m—”

  “Shh!” Fogel hissed, and dropped to her knees. Ignatiev and the others got down too. None of them landed in the dung, he noticed gratefully.

  Off on the edge of the forest, between a pair of thick-boled trees, stood a humanlike figure. Naked, covered with thick brown fur, but with long straight hind legs and a wooden stick grasped in one of its six-fingered hands. Heavy brow ridges shaded its eyes, and Ignatiev could make out sharp-looking teeth in its wide mouth. A bony crest ran from its forehead back toward the nape of its neck.

  “Do you think it saw us?” Osborne whispered.

  “Must have,” Fogel whispered back. “Stay absolutely still, don’t move a muscle.”

  Ignatiev froze, even though one of his thighs tightened in complaint.

  The hominid stood at the edge of the trees and swept the meadow with unblinking eyes. Ignatiev saw that it was a male. He looked right past us, he thought. Maybe he won’t notice us as long as we stay still.

  “Do we have anything to defend ourselves with?” he whispered.

  Without turning to look at him, Fogel muttered, “Stun wands in our backpacks.”

  They’re not going to do us much good in the goddamned backpacks, Ignatiev thought.

  The hominid took a cautious step out from the trees, swiveling its gaze back and forth. It raised its head slightly and sniffed the air. Ignatiev recalled that the biosuits they were wearing supposedly protected them from possible dangerous microbes.

  “I think it senses our presence,” Osborne muttered.

  “We can’t stay hunched down like this forever,” complained the woman anthropologist.

  “Stay with it,” Fogel commanded, her voice low but iron-hard.

  Suddenly a blur of orange-gray leaped out from the shrubbery between the trees, bounded once on six powerful legs, and with a paralyzing roar hurled itself at the naked hominid.

  The protoman had time to half turn toward the beast and scream before it slammed into him and he went
down on his back with the tigercat atop him, raking with its claws, its mouthful of fangs snapping centimeters away from the hominid’s face.

  Ignatiev leaped to his feet and hollered as loudly as he could, racing toward the struggling animals. The tigercat looked up, released the bleeding hominid, and turned to face Ignatiev.

  Ignatiev skidded to a halt, suddenly realizing that he was defenseless. The tigercat lowered its head and took a slow, measured step toward him. Ignatiev froze with terror.

  From behind him he heard the others shouting and sensed they were running toward him. The tigercat stopped, suddenly confused. Then it yowled in pain as an angry red gash seared its shoulder, raising a puff of gray smoke. It turned and limped back into the woods.

  Ignatiev bent over and braced his hands on his knees, gulping for air. Osborne and the others came up to him, still waving their arms. Fogel, though, gripped a stun wand in one hand, pointing it toward the spot where the tigercat had crashed back into the foliage.

  The hominid, bleeding from gouges across its shoulders and chest, clambered slowly to its feet, stared at the humans for a wide-eyed moment, then staggered away, into the woods.

  “Not that way!” Ignatiev shouted after it. “The cat’s in there!” He realized that his voice was weak, breathless.

  The hominid slipped into the foliage and disappeared.

  “That was stupid,” Fogel snapped at Ignatiev. “You might’ve been killed.”

  “I couldn’t … let it kill … the hominid,” Ignatiev heard himself answer, panting.

  Fogel shook her head disapprovingly, then turned to her three teammates. “Get out your stun wands and arm them. Max power.”

  They hastened to comply.

  “Now follow me,” she said, gesturing toward the woods where they’d last seen the hominid. “Stay together and be quiet.”

  Unarmed, Ignatiev sidled up between Osborne and Fogel. Feeling somewhat protected, he went with them toward the trees.

  “You acted quickly,” he said to Fogel.

  She shook her head inside her helmet. “I never got the chance to arm the wand. Something else hit that animal.”

  “The machines,” Ignatiev realized. “They’re watching every move we make.”

  “Thank god,” Fogel said.

  Ignatiev thought that, on this world, the machines were gods.

  * * *

  It was grueling, pushing their way through the tangled foliage that grew at the base of the trees. Twisted stalks and shoots tripped their feet. They had to duck beneath vines hanging low from the tree branches. Ignatiev plowed along with the rest of them, happy that their progress was slow enough for him to keep up with them—barely.

  They followed the beaten-down path that the hominid had left, his dark rust-colored blood spattered on the green leaves.

  Are there more tigercats lurking around? Ignatiev asked himself. Then he reassured himself that the cats were unlikely to attack the group of them. And even if they did, the machines were looking out for them. He hoped he was right.

  Suddenly Fogel stopped and sank to her knees. The others crouched down behind her.

  Peering over her shoulder, Ignatiev saw a clearing where a half-dozen of the hominids were bending over the prostrate form of their wounded kinsman. He was apparently speaking to them, his arms gesturing feebly.

  “Set up a camera for remote operation,” Fogel ordered. Osborn again pulled his backpack off his shoulders.

  “Quietly!” Fogel hissed. “They haven’t spotted us and I don’t want them to.”

  All three of her team nodded inside their helmets.

  Turning to Ignatiev, Fogel said, “We’ll need a continuous satellite monitoring of this area.”

  Pointing upward, Ignatiev said, “You won’t see much through the trees’ canopy.”

  “Infrared imagery,” Fogel countered, as if speaking to a dullard.

  Ignatiev called Aida and told her in a near whisper what he wanted.

  “Done,” said the artificial intelligence.

  “You got through to Intrepid with no problem?” Ignatiev asked.

  “No problem,” said Aida’s voice. “The chief of the surveillance division has confirmed your order.”

  “Good,” Ignatiev breathed, delighted that the machines weren’t blocking their communications again.

  Fogel and her group watched the hominids through most of the day. The little group of them picked up the wounded male and carried him tenderly to a shelter made of bent saplings and twigs. The anthropologists recorded everything on their cameras.

  “They don’t seem to have any weapons to protect themselves,” Ignatiev noted.

  Fogel shot him a disgusted glance. “You think not?” she half whispered to him. “What do you see in front of that makeshift shelter?”

  Ignatiev looked. “A tall stick embedded in the ground,” he answered. “Its top is blackened, as if it’s been…” His voice faded.

  “As if it’s been burned,” Fogel said. “That’s a torch, Professor. They have fire.”

  * * *

  The sun was almost touching the distant mountaintops when Fogel gave the order to leave.

  “The remote camera is operational,” Osborne reported.

  Ignatiev added, “A surveillance satellite is in geosynchronous orbit over this site. Infrared imagery is being recorded.”

  “Very well,” Fogel said, with an almost-satisfied nod. “We’ve done as much as we can for now. Time to start for home.”

  In stealthy silence they trekked back to the decaying wall of the ancient building, then headed for the machines’ city.

  Striding along through the green meadow as the sun sank toward the hazy mountains, Fogel allowed herself a satisfied smile. “It’s been a good day,” she said happily. Despite the pain that lanced through his legs with every step, Ignatiev smiled his agreement. But he wondered, Will the machines allow us to protect these protohumans from the coming death wave? Or will they stand by and let every living thing be destroyed—including us?

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Ignatiev was dead tired by the time he returned to the quarters he shared with Gita. His legs ached and each breath he took was scratchy, painful. She ran to him the instant he opened the front door and wrapped her arms around him, making him wince inwardly.

  “You’re all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, forcing a grin. “But I could use some vodka.”

  She laughed, relieved, and dashed off to the kitchen. Ignatiev lumbered to the couch and sank onto it, every muscle in his body complaining.

  While Gita pulled prepackaged dinners that the machines had contrived from the kitchen cabinets and slid them into the cooker, Ignatiev sipped his vodka and told her of the day’s adventure.

  “You ran at the tigercat?” she asked, in a voice that was part surprised, part admiring, and part reprimanding.

  “I couldn’t let it kill that poor creature.”

  “You’d rather have it kill you,” she said, frowning.

  They got through dinner, then Ignatiev had Aida show the camera recordings that the anthropologists had made.

  “They’re intelligent,” Gita said as she watched the holographic display. “They have language.”

  “Probably not more than grunts and growls,” said Ignatiev.

  “It will develop,” she said. “Evolve.”

  “Until the death wave reaches us.”

  Gita stared at him for a long moment. Then, “Do you really believe the machines are going to let us all die?”

  “I don’t know,” Ignatiev replied. “I don’t think they themselves know. Not yet.”

  “Not yet,” she repeated.

  * * *

  As they prepared for bed, Ignatiev realized that the avatar had not appeared to them all evening. It knows we were discussing the machines’ future plans, he reasoned, but it made no effort to join our discussion. Why?

  He looked around their bedroom, even up to the ceiling. No sign of the avatar. The m
achines are keeping their silence, Ignatiev told himself. Whatever they’re thinking, whatever they’re planning, they’re keeping it to themselves and not letting us in on their strategy.

  That worried him.

  As he slid into bed beside Gita, his drained and weary body overpowered his questing mind. Ignatiev fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

  And he dreamed.

  But it was a strange and uneasy vision. Ignatiev knew that what he was experiencing was more than a dream.

  He was floating in space again, as he had been when the avatar had shown him the machines’ astronomical explorations. Ignatiev seemed to be hovering near a huge, distended globule of glowing plasma. An interstellar nebula, he realized, a beautiful glowing cloud of ionized gases.

  It was spinning, and Ignatiev understood that thousands of years were passing with each beat of his heart. The nebula contracted, sank in on itself, its core getting hotter and brighter. A star was being created.

  With a flash of intuition he recognized that he was watching the birth of the Sun; not just any star, but the star that was the life-giving heart of the human race’s solar system.

  Planets coalesced out of the plasma filaments circling the young star-to-be. Huge, massive planets, so close to the protostar that they circled it in days.

  This can’t be our solar system, Ignatiev protested. It doesn’t look anything like home. Giant planets hugging the newborn Sun, sucking in the scattered rocky and icy debris swirling nearby, growing more massive, more bloated.

  Farther from the now-glowing proto-Sun orbited uncounted chunks of ice and rock that were getting warmer as the newborn Sun heated up and spread its warmth out into the cold, uncaring darkness of space.

  And the giant planets that hugged close to the Sun were warping each other’s orbits. Ignatiev watched, holding his breath for eons, as those massive inner worlds began an intricate ballet that started to move the giants farther and farther away from the star.

  The tinier worldlets in the system’s outer reaches were changing also. They collided, they recoiled, they moved in toward the warmth of the inner solar system.

  Ignatiev saw one of the huge, oblate giants spin out of the solar system altogether, hurtling away into deep space, alone and dark and sterile, freezing into the dark depths between the stars.