by Rick Partlow
“Did they make contact with the aliens?” Sam asked with palpable excitement.
“There were no aliens to contact,” another of the Whitesuits at the table answered. He was a broad-bodied man whose ID registered him as Dr. Kama T’Leva, one of the chief researchers of the Resolution Science Council. “In fact, there was no higher animal life on the planet whatsoever. Nothing but bacteria and primitive lichens. It looked very much like a half-completed terraforming job.”
“You’re not saying…” Sam shut his mouth, unwilling to put it into words.
“We’re not saying anything.” A woman at the opposite end of the table stood and erased the hologram with a wave of her hand. “We don’t have time for theatrics and we don’t have time for speculation.”
Sam stared at her, not because of her pronouncement, and not just because she had no ID file registered with the housekeeping computer, but because of her. Sam was not a man easily distracted by a pretty face, but this woman went far beyond pretty. She was perfect, and not just in appearance. There was an unmistakable grace in the way she moved, a grace he had seen in null-grav ballet dancers and martial arts masters and damn few others. Matched with the almost haughty self-assurance with which she held herself, Sam had the feeling he was looking at a fairy queen out of a medieval fantasy.
“Captain Avalon,” she continued, “this is the situation. A cursory look at the features of the world in the ship’s system of origin told our investigators that it had been terraformed. But there is no Mother computer, no Terran species introduced larger than bacteria, and no trace of any Gaia probe. Mother has no record of ever dispatching a probe to the system. If there was a Gaia probe sent to this world, we have no knowledge of who sent it or where it came from. But the aliens who once lived on that world did…or thought they did.”
“Gaia’s blood…” Sam murmured. “You mean that world…”
“Not only had life,” she confirmed his worst fears, “but intelligent life. A technological civilization.” She let out a long breath and for the first time he could see emotion play across her perfect face. She pushed a stand of light-brown hair out of her eyes. “We discovered remains, records on one of their moons. They were remarkably advanced in some areas. Unfortunately for them, nanotechnology was not one of those areas. They watched helplessly as their world was transformed from one perfect for them to one where the air and water were poisonous.
“From the little we were able to glean from the remains of the moonbase, they held their world in a sort of religious awe. It was part of them, part of what they considered their collective spirit. They could have fusion bombed the terraformed ecology from orbit and re-engineered the world as it was, but to them that would not be the same. They thought of themselves as empty shells with no spirit, living ghosts of a race. So most of them stayed there and died with their world.”
Sam closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to keep his emotions under control. Billions of intelligent beings wiped out as if they were a bacterial culture…
“Most,” she went on, “but not all. Around a million of their best scientists, researchers and engineers went into orbital colonies and began a crash construction program that took over three centuries.” She shook her head. “It’s amazing really. They developed an incredibly sophisticated electromagnetic field technology basically from scratch…and 347 years later, they had built a starship.”
“What the hell kind of ship is it though?” Sam had to ask. “I’ve never seen anything like it---how can it maintain that sort of acceleration over interstellar distances?”
“It’s something that used to be called a Bussard ramjet,” Dr. T’Leva interjected. “It uses electromagnetic ramscoops to collect interstellar hydrogen and fuses it. The old Consensus, as advanced as they were, never came close to having the kind of technology to build one---and we didn’t need one after we discovered the Transition drive.”
“At any rate,” the woman took back over, shooting the scientists a harsh glance, “they built it, and they launched it and then they blew up their space habitat and killed themselves. And right now, an object twenty kilometers long and travelling at a very good percentage of the speed of light is heading toward Earth.”
“How did they find out where the probe came from?” Sam asked. “Assuming it did come from Earth, I mean.”
“We don’t know. There’s a hell of a lot we don’t know, but we can’t wait for more information; we have to act now.”
“So it’s headed for Earth,” Sam prompted. “How are we going to stop it?”
“That’s the meat of our problem,” she acknowledged. “There are no star systems between the Centauri system and Earth, so there is no Transition line terminus where we can position an intercept, and no way to bring enough raw materials there even if we could reach it. Which means we have to base our activities in the Solar System…with all the political obstacles that involves.”
“Can we stop it?” Sam asked. “I mean, how do you stop something that big and going that fast? Put an asteroid in front of it?”
“We doubt that would accomplish anything,” Dr. T’Leva shook his head. “The device must have automatic defenses to take care of such dangers. To stop this weapon, we will have to use something more sophisticated.” He half-smiled, stepping naturally into a pedantic mode. “The best way is to construct a very large Teller-Fox warp device, like the one used in the Transition drive but in a fixed position, and send the whole ship into T-space.”
“And you think the Consensus is just going to sit around and watch that?” Sam cocked an eyebrow.
“That will be our job, Captain Avalon,” the woman told him. “My name is Priscilla, and I will be leading a delegation to Earth to attempt to convince them to let us try to stop the weapon. You and your crew will provide transportation and support for the duration of the mission. Your ship is being refitted as we speak and we will be leaving orbit in six hours.”
“I’m honored to be chosen for such an important mission, Priscilla,” he told her. “I hope my crew and I perform to your satisfaction.”
“I’m certain you’ll do what I expect of you,” she replied, with what he could have sworn was a barely concealed smirk.
“Captain Avalon,” political officer Tellesian spoke up once more, “we shouldn’t keep you any longer. You will need to go supervise the refitting of your ship and brief your crew. Priscilla and the rest of the diplomatic crew will be joining you in a few hours.”
“Ma’am.” He nodded, rising from his seat, and exiting the room, pausing for one final glance at Priscilla. Of all the mysteries he had just been presented, she was perhaps the least understandable. Why were high-ranking scientific and political officers kowtowing to someone without even an official ID? Just who was she?
He let the questions fade as he left the room. One last thought stuck with him: it was fortunate that no colonists had been produced by the probe that had terraformed the alien’s world. He couldn’t imagine a colony of humans bearing the guilt of living each day on the bones of an entire race, knowing they existed only because of a horrible genocide.
* * *
Sam Avalon watched with skepticism and growing impatience as the technicians refitted his ship with the necessary equipment for the coming mission. As honored and excited as he was to be included on something so momentous, had it been practical to pace in zero gravity he would have been wearing a groove into the floor of the drydock.
You seem agitated, Sam, Raven’s voice echoed in his head. Is there a problem?
You ever get antsy, Raven? he asked the AI. Kind of worried for no good reason?
Never, Sam and neither do you. When humans do something without knowing the reason, it is a response to internal or external feedback of which they are not aware consciously. The difference between us is that I have no “instincts.” All my sensory input is deliberate. All my decisions are conscious and unaffected by body chemicals. I may be an Artificial Intelligence, but I am not an artifici
al human intelligence.
Do you consider that a weakness or a strength? Sam wondered.
Neither. It is just what I am.
“Avalon?” A voice behind Sam turned him around, his hand automatically slapping against the wall to stop the spin.
What he saw, floating awkwardly with a look that was a mixture of disgust and panic, was a short, pudgy male dressed in the whites of the Political Service. But this man was no ambassador or negotiator---the triangle patch on the left breast of his uniform marked him as far more than that.
“I’m Captain Avalon,” Sam replied, trying to hide his distaste, yet knowing that with this man, hiding anything would be next to impossible. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, if you’re the naïve do-gooder running this fiasco, I’m the unlucky son of a bitch who was shanghaied into doing your dirty work.”
Sam’s jaw dropped and he had to force himself not to simply stare at the man in astonishment.
“Aren’t you…” he stammered. “I mean, you’re a Sensitive, right?”
“Didn’t I just say that?” He snapped.
Thoroughly nonplussed, Sam accessed the man’s ID file through the station’s computer and saw that his name was Mawae Fallayah Danabri and he was indeed a Sensitive, as impossible as that seemed given his behavior. He also saw, much to his surprise, a list of commendations and awards for diplomatic service a meter long.
“Your luggage is already aboard, Mr. Danabri,” he said, not sure how to respond to the rude little man. “Raven’s AI will show you to your cabin.”
“Of course,” Danabri sneered, brushing past Sam---not an easy thing to do in zero gravity, but he had obviously practiced---and heading for the open hatch of the ship. “Why provide the courtesy of a human when a piece of machinery can do the job more efficiently?”
Sam was still staring after him in profound bemusement when a hand touched his arm, sending an almost electric shock through him.
“Captain Avalon,” Priscilla said, “is your crew aboard?”
“Yes…” He stumbled over his words, used to addressing superiors by their title but realizing that she hadn’t given him one. “…Priscilla. And one of your people, Sensitive Danabri, just boarded. Will you be bringing any other specialists along?”
“No, this is strictly a diplomatic mission,” she told him. “It was thought that bringing along technical personnel would seem presumptuous.”
“And you…you’ve worked with Sensitive Danabri before?”
“Not personally,” she said. “But I have been assured he is the best available. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” He shook his head. “Allow me to show you to your cabin.”
“No need for that.” She floated past him perfunctorily. “I can access your ship’s AI.”
Raven, he whispered silently, I don’t suppose there’s any scientific basis for premonitions, is there?
Of course not, Sam, the computer admonished him. If psychic abilities existed, the Resolution would hardly have to put so many resources towards raising and training Sensitives to read human body language and voice inflection.
Damn good thing, he nodded to himself, heading into the ship.
Chapter Three
Reality solidified around Sam Avalon and darkness filled the void left by the absence of existence that was Transition Space.
“There’s Mars,” Devon breathed in obvious relief, nodding toward a small, red star in the holotank, nearly half an AU away.
Sam knew how she felt. He didn’t think he had ever been so grateful to see a journey’s end in his whole life.
“Contact the Collective,” Sam ordered. “Let them know we’re coming.”
As D’jonni, the communications officer, carried out his directive, Sam sneaked a glance back at Mawae Danabri, knowing the Sensitive would notice but not caring. Things had begun badly with the man, and had only gotten worse as the voyage wore on. It had all come to a head just a few days ago during lunch…
***
“Is this what you people call food?” Mawae Danabri whined, tossing away a half-empty ration packet. Sam watched the plastic pouch cartwheel across the room, trailing little globules of meat broth, and made himself do a breathing exercise to avoid leaping across the room and throttling the Sensitive.
Arvid caught the packet and waved the loose bubbles of soup back into it, throwing Sam a pained look. Six days in Transition Space with the abrasive little man had worn down the patience of everyone on board.
“Is there something else you would prefer, Sensitive Danabri?” Devon asked, always the peacemaker.
“There are many things I would prefer,” Danabri sighed, letting himself float up against the safety webbing across his lap. “I would prefer to be dining at the Café du Lac on Amethyst. I would prefer to be part of a society where I wasn’t addressed by my function, as if I were some sort of goddamned cleaning robot. I would prefer it if I hadn’t been programmed on a genetic level and enslaved from birth as a human tool for the Diplomatic Corps. I would quite prefer it if I were in my own universe instead of somewhere so strange that if I looked at it I wouldn’t even see it. But most of all,” he growled, his voice raising, “I would prefer it if I had some fucking gravity so I didn’t feel as if I were going to puke every single minute!”
“Citizen Danabri,” Priscilla spoke up, and everyone’s head swung around, watching her propel herself into the chamber, “if you would take your anti-nausea medication, you would find your equilibrium to be adequate to the task.” She moved to the table and strapped herself into a restraint web. “As for your political complaints, I don’t recall there being any restrictions on emigration for citizens of the Resolution. If you don’t care for your function in our society, you could simply request asylum on Mars. Or I am sure the Consensus government would be simply delighted to offer you a place in their society…”
Arvid went into an impromptu coughing fit to cover his uncontrollable laughter, and it took all of Sam’s willpower not to do the same.
Danabri didn’t laugh, but he also didn’t seem angry. He simply stared at her with a look that Sam thought was more wistful than anything else.
“It’s easy for you to be dismissive,” he said quietly, staring her in the eye. “How can a goddess understand mere mortals?”
Sam thought that was a particularly hyperbolic analogy but for some reason it seemed to visibly affect Priscilla. She looked away from the Sensitive’s accusatory glance, and for a moment Sam thought she would retreat from the room. But finally, she gathered herself and replied.
“Perhaps being a goddess only seems easy when seen from below, Sens…Mawae Danabri. You decry your lack of choice, but how much choice do you suppose I have?”
“None of us have much choice, Priscilla,” he responded with a humorless chuckle. “That is the trouble with our society.”
“Yet is there another society available to us which you would prefer?”
He considered that for a moment before shaking his head and looking away.
“Then I trust I can depend on you to do your job to the best of your ability.”
“As always,” Danabri sighed, releasing himself from his restraints and giving a listless push out of the room.
Devon shot Sam a “what the hell was that” look, but all he could do was shrug helplessly.
“Could I speak to you for a moment, Priscilla?” Sam asked, wincing. He didn’t really want to talk about this, but his crew would expect it and perhaps Priscilla would as well.
“Of course, Captain Avalon,” she said, kicking off and leading him down the corridor into a computer maintenance bay.
She waited patiently as he shut the door behind them, and then turned to face her.
“It’s about this Danabri,” he said bluntly. “Are you sure he can do this? I don’t mean to presume here, but we are talking about a critically important task, and a very delicate one at that. With his attitude, he’s as likely to start a war with the Consensus a
s you are to convince them to allow us to help them.”
“You forget a few things, Captain,” Priscilla replied without a hint of anger at his questioning. “I will be doing the negotiating, not Sensitive Danabri, and I can assure you I am up to that task.”
“Of that I have no doubt…” he began, but she cut him off with a raised hand.
“Let me assure you that Mother did not make this decision lightly. Sensitive Danabri has an outstanding record. He will not compromise our mission.”
“What about his effect on my crew?”
“Captain Avalon, you are a professional, as am I, as is Sensitive Danabri. Just as you expect me to do my job and I expect him to do his, I trust that you will do yours, and take care of your crew’s morale.”
***
And that, of course, had been that. No help had been forthcoming from Priscilla and it had been up to him to head off any possible confrontations between Danabri and the crew. But thank the Mother, they were finally at Mars and at least facing the opportunity to get out of the cramped quarters of the ship and into a place with a bit more elbow room.
The Martian Collective central computer guided them in with an impersonal anonymity Sam wasn’t used to: Resolution AI’s were more talkative. Of course, Mars was different. Everyone knew that…even if damn few had actually been there. Sam was nearly as excited at the prospect of visiting Mars as he was nervous about their mission.
There were all kinds of stories about the Collective. Depending on whom you listened to, the Martians were either in bed with the Consensus, secretly passing them information on Resolution trade routes, or they were the purest ideological heirs to Charles Dauphin, living in peace and harmony with all other humans. Sam assumed the truth was somewhere in-between.
