Seeds of Memory

by J. Richard Jacobs

  “The project to save our species officially began on 10 October 2221. Several teams were put to work determining what was required to accomplish the goal, and fourteen stars were chosen as primary targets. We know there were alternates selected, but we don't know what they were.

  “Solar disturbances continued to grow in intensity and frequency. Elaborate underground shelter-cities were constructed to protect the population. Because of their limited capacity there were choices and sacrifices to be made, a global triage.

  “Engineers and scientists were split between expanding and improving the shelter-cities, by then known as Undercities, and working out the mechanics for the project. More quietly, because the moralists and religionists were raising hell over suspected genetic manipulations, geneticists were at work designing the seed biologicals, the Space Babies. That's where you came from. Still others were busy creating the genetic modifications needed for the planetary preparation teams.

  “There is some doubt about the date, but in July 2222 the first group of planetary preparation teams were born or, more precisely, removed from their incubators. They would be raised and trained for one purpose; to ensure you had the best chance of surviving in your new home. They would be doctors, geneticists, engineers, scientists, philosophers, and everything else needed to create the foundations for your colony.

  “Actual construction on the Interstellar Colonizing Units, later known as ISCUs, began on 1 December 2240 in a far orbit around Saturn.

  “Solar disturbances continued to worsen, and underground living had become necessary most of the time. Surface life was mainly nocturnal.

  “Loading of the cryogenic sections began in December 2251. Sixty-six thousand two hundred and fifty seed biologicals, as well as four hundred and eighty Level Two, and four hundred and eighty Level Three planetary preparation teams already in stasis were loaded aboard each ISCU. In the same month all hell broke loose on Earth.

  “Members of the International Moralist Party, IMP, and fanatic followers of Religions of Terra (ROT) formed an alliance protesting sending engineered freaks as representatives of the human species. They stormed the compound housing of the Level One planetary preparation teams and seized control of Mars Central, where the mission fuel cores were being readied for transport to the waiting ISCUs. They began to destroy the fuel cores and threatened to pull the plugs on the planetary preparation teams unless real humans were sent, instead of the freaks.

  “The rebel forces were crushed in a bloody clash with Surface Earth forces on 1 January 2252. They had been successful in destroying one third of the primary fuel cores before they were routed from Mars Central on 8 January.

  “Final fueling and loading operations were concluded on 12 August 2256, and the launch schedule was set for 10 December 2256.

  “The first self-sufficient subterranean city was completed in 2263. Solar disturbances were abating in number but intensifying in magnitude. Some believed this to be the harbinger of collapse.

  “Although huge flares were still erupting, their frequency had stabilized to zero growth by June, 2800, and concern over internal damage to the sun waned. Earth had suffered a major depopulation since Vaunt-Courier's arrival, and many animal species had been irradiated into oblivion. The human species and most of the animals useful for food endured thanks to the existence of the Undercities. There was hope building that Earth would see a renaissance of human activity, hope that we would regain the surface.

  “Records show that, in 2883, a man named Abraham Denning was the first to take up life on the surface, but no one knows if that is true. We do know that, by 2890, there were several communities on the surface, and the first one was Denning Village, presumably named after its founder.

  “Reclaiming the surface was dangerous work and, in the early days, many people attempted to occupy existing structures. Most of those buildings would fall at a touch. After all, the newest of them was three hundred and fifty years old and suffering radiation decay.

  “The first all-new surface city was dedicated on 10 December 2956 in honor of the seven hundredth anniversary of the Star Migration. It was named New Denver, after its ancient predecessor."

  The station com lit up with the face of Commander Uri Yamaguchi. He didn't look happy, and it didn't appear like he was going to tolerate being ignored. Pax thought she would push her luck.

  “Technology stood still in many ways during our time in the Undercities, which we call the Dark Years. In some ways we had gone backward. However, we plodded ahead in general—slow, to be sure—but there was progress.

  “There were few people and communities were isolated, so we were free to occupy our time with things other than global strife, conflict, and damaging forms of competition. All the communities were different—so different that there was little to bind them, except Commonspeak, the human desire to relate and, of course, spread the gene pool. It has been observed that Commonspeak, a product of the late twenty-second century, was one of the keys to our survival."

  “If you don't respond in ten seconds I will give the order to board your vessel, Pax,” Yamaguchi said.

  All right, he wasn't going to go away.

  “Good morning, Commander. What can I do for you?"

  “Pax, I have two men here who tell me you and your second officer assaulted them last night. Is that true?"

  “Absolutely, Commander,” Pax said. She used a tone she hoped he would translate as pride.

  “They have filed charges with the adjutant's office, and the legals are demanding that you return to face those charges."

  She'd always thought there was a limit to stupidity, but maybe she had been wrong.

  “What? That's absurd."

  “You heard me, Pax."

  “You may feel free to tell them to go straight to hell, Guchi."

  “Pax, please, don't make me do this."

  “Do what?"

  “Come get you, damn it."

  “Oh, come on, Guchi. This is an SESC priority one project. You can't do that for anything less than mutiny and murder."

  “I not only can ... I will. Station Security and the legal staff take precedence over all SESC directives in matters of violence. Now, wind down your launch program and come on in, or by Jupiter's ghost, I'll have you dragged back."

  “What violence?"

  “The meds say one of them won't be watching a ZG handball game for a couple of months, and the other guy will be vomiting everything he eats for a week. That's violent enough, Pax. Now, do it ... please."

  “Look, Guchi, I'll make a deal with you. Are you listening?"

  “Okay, Pax, let's hear it."

  Pax toggled the Rammix return switch.

  “Yes, Alex,” the Rammix said.

  “Proximity scan; three hundred meters, Rammix."

  “Nothing within scan range, Alex,” the Rammix responded.

  “What are you doing, Pax?” Yamaguchi said.

  “Rammix. Set proximity defensive test to two hundred meters and activate weapons system—full charge.” Pax smiled at the image of a befuddled Yamaguchi.

  “Systems set and charged,” the Rammix said.

  “Pax, you can't..."

  Yamaguchi was obviously disturbed.

  “I just did. If you value those two pukes more than your cute little station, then come on in. I think you have an understanding of what the Hermes can do, and we have totally zero to lose over whatever I do at this point. I remind you that the Hermes has none of the protection fail-safes of other SESC ships; all targets are good targets."

  “But, Pax, the—"

  “But nothing, Guchi. We are pulsing out on schedule. Wish us luck?"

  “Pax, you—"

  She turned off the com link and licked her dry lips. She didn't want anyone hurt, particularly not over two limp-brained morons, but nothing was going to stop her from pulling the trigger now. Hermes would leave as planned and on time.

  I'll never get this thing done.

  “All right.
A few interested individuals decided to discover what had become of the Great Star Migration. Reclaimed and refurbished radio telescopes and one new array were turned to the known target stars. We listened for anything telling of success. On 7 November 3005 a signal carrying intelligence was heard at Fairbanks Observatory. It lasted three seconds—the most electrifying three seconds in recent history. It was also inconclusive. Several repeats were needed to verify that the signal, and the intelligence it carried was anything but random space noise.

  “A month dragged by, and the excitement waned. On 29 January 3006 it was heard again—feeble, distorted, and fleeting, but it was the repeat needed to give some credence to the possibility that it was artificially produced and of human origin. The elusive signal was snared three nights in a row, then it disappeared. Over the following two years it was heard several times, and it contained elements of what little was known about the ISCU codes. It was coming from one of the target stars. It was the needed confirmation.

  “On 28 June 3011 Surface London confirmed a second signal. What was originally a desperate attempt to save the human species with little hope of success ... had worked. Not once, but twice. Might there be more?

  “By 3035 the population of surface Earth had climbed to 290 million. We were healing. An estimated 700,000 remained in the Undercities. Their culture grew increasingly estranged, distinct, and alien. Two of their main centers severed relations with their surface neighbors and refused to communicate with what they called the Hifolk. Few on the surface paid much attention; their eyes were turned in the opposite direction.

  “Around 3040 many of the off-Earth mines were back in operation, and we reconnected with the Martian colonies in 3041. They had not fared well, but they had survived.

  “Our reestablishing a presence in the system is owed to Lydia Seldon and what is known as the Seldon Drive. Thanks to her, the time required to reclaim our space-faring position had been reduced radically. Her propulsion system permitted a seventy percent increase in thrust over the old hydrogen plasma engines, and it was theoretically possible to achieve forty percent of the speed of light—given enough room and time. It hadn't been tried, but I doubt there was a driver in the system who didn't want to aim at a dark spot and flip the switch. In the meantime, tension between the Subs and the Hifolk continued to grow.

  “In 3045, Rudolph Schenk produced a successful working model of the neutron injector that, when coupled to the Seldon Drive, allowed thrust to be maintained for prolonged periods without eroding the guide tube structure. The outgrowth was a small ship fitted with the Selden-Schenk Drive to determine how close to the speed of light we could get. On 24 July 3051, the New Earth reached seventy-three percent, and we suddenly found ourselves entertaining thoughts of contact with the Star Colonies. The time to reach even the closer of the two assumed successful groups remained staggering, but it was considered reasonable for exploratory contact.

  “On the same day that the New Earth gave us reason to celebrate, the Subs undermined and sank a major farm implement plant in Sacramento on the Nevada Peninsula.

  “The first major conflict with the Subs began in 3091.

  “Although the search for signals had brought results that were the impetus for Project Find in 3116, the cost of the war held up any progress until 3150. A century later it was known there were no less than five successful colonies. The signals were old Earth-style telemetry, so it was suspected that the colonists, you, had made it back into space. I hope you have—it will make it easier to find you.

  “The last big war, in 3257, brought the project to a halt until 3273. The Subs withdrew and sealed themselves off from the surface. The schism was complete and thought to be irrevocable by 3275.

  “Another conflict erupted in 3340 and lasted 6 years. For twenty years we have been living in restless peace, interspersed with skirmishes and murder.

  “So, here we are, on 10 December 3366, ready for launch. Our destinations were drawn by lots, and each of the crews is certain that their mission will be the lucky one. I don't share that feeling. I hope we come out of this alive at the other end and that each of us finds a successful and friendly colony that welcomes our arrival.

  “We drew ISCU-9, that's you, and our target is Gamma One Volantis. Exactly 1110 years after your ancestors left the solar system, we will be on our way. If all goes well, we will be pulsing down into your system in the month of March, 3587—Earth Standard. If you are reading this, something has gone wrong and we have not survived. Please, accept my apology for not greeting you personally."

  * * *

  Chapter IV

  A shape hovered near him. It had no discernable form—just a shapeless shape that moved slightly now and again. Where was he? He was in a bed. Not his bed at home in Sochi, but it was a bed. He felt ... heavy. The shape moved and began to resolve into the form of a woman. He could see her, though out of focus, standing there framed in hazy light emanating from an invisible source behind her. She floated in a shimmering aura that lent a surrealistic mood to a scene not seen well at all. Was she even there? Was she real? Where was he?

  She bent down over him and gently wiped his forehead with a cool, damp cloth. It smelled of alcohol and something else. His vision cleared a little. Just enough to tell him that she was definitely a woman, but not from Sochi. Of that much he was sure. He tried sitting up but couldn't feel his body. It was as if he were made of solid lead. He tried to speak. Nothing happened, and panic swept over him.

  “Shh.” She brought her face close to his, and he could see the drugged, blank emptiness of his own eyes staring back at him from hers. “Don't try to move. You're going to be all right, Mr. Kaznov,” she said as she adjusted the sheet up under his chin. “You've suffered a severe spinal injury, so you've been chemically restrained. Don't you worry. This stuff is supposed to paralyze you, but by first light it will have worn off enough for you to move your arms a little. Don't expect too much, though. These things take lots of time, but you'll be up and out of here right after the Days of Disturbance. That's a promise. Now, try to get some rest."

  Maybe it was the drug, but he could remember nothing at first. He had vague memories of watching the seismic monitor when the big temblor began, then a flood of thoughts inundated his mind. Memories, swimming, all jumbled together, colliding like the seas at the south end of Nurusha as they fought for their individual identities. They sorted themselves into real recollections and shot through his mind in a flood of sharp images out of order. Then, he remembered. The seismic sensor readings jumped off the scale and the automatic shelter unlock froze, trapping Sochi's inhabitants forty meters down. The Operator's shack moved three meters to the east, stretching wires until they snapped, and cut him off from the system. His attempts at manual control proved fruitless—all the cables had parted.

  There was trembling, a rolling sensation, then rumbling as the main waves of the quake reached Sochi. The sensor was going crazy, then came the sensation of tumbling as the whole Operator's shack was tossed upward and inverted like a toy discarded in the street, cracked and useless. He made it to the Astro emergency alarm. How, he didn't know. Then a profound blackness and a nauseating, thrumming sound he just could not make stop swept over him and put an end to all memory. That was all, until now, whenever now was, a cool cloth being dragged across his brow and a distant, soothing voice saying, “Shh, don't try to..."

  * * * *

  Only Niki and two other Operators survived the Nurusha disaster. On that day, Sochi died. Nurusha split, rent by incredible forces, and most of the island sank into the Southern Sea. His mother, his father, everyone. Eight thousand good people gone, just because the Fathers had decided here was a viable planet on which to plant their seed. They had known what the planet of Paz was like—they had lived on it for three generations, though some said there had been more before they inbred and disappeared, by genetically dissolving into the Pazian pool.

  Damn them.

  Niki once thought he liked being alo
ne, but he had never been alone—not like this. When he was out on the boat he was disconnected from the island and its people, but that separation was always temporary because he knew he would return. He was never truly alone, not like he was now, and it was a most unpleasant feeling.

  Time in the hospital dragged, an hour growing to four. As he became more aware of what had happened on the island, he grieved for a time, but not too long. On Paz you lived with the stench of the Grand Terminator's breath in your nostrils as he chased after you, snapping at you with each step you took during the Days of Disturbance, and every year at least one someone would disappear from your life. It was commonly known that one day, you, too, would disappear from the lives of others, but still it hurt, and a grieving was needed. Few said they met such losses without pain, and those who did, he knew, were liars of the worst kind, for not only did they not say it true to those around them, they deceived themselves.

  Time passed and the body healed, but his mind grew more troubled as each day came and went. It was nothing he could describe—something that remained hidden from him—just more difficulty with sleeping and awful dreams, vivid but not remembered. Such dreams. Each night he would be brought out of his sleep more than once with a nagging feeling that he had forgotten something, that something important remained undone. A gut-deep stirring that he needed to finish some piece of work, but he had no idea what that work was. Yet, there it was—a command, not a suggestion—compelling him to do something. Something. But what?

  The Psych people were very good to him as they patiently explained his trouble was quite common among Operators. All Operators, they pointed out, if they took their responsibility seriously, suffered PPCEGD. It had rolled off their tongues as though it were the most ordinary of facts, but none of them took the time to define what it meant, so Niki looked it up in the hospital's generous library. “Post Perigamian Catastrophic Event Guilt Disorder." Fine, that sounded reasonable, unnecessarily long, perhaps, but reasonable. No wonder they used the initials.