by Ian Douglas
The result was a tough heat shield that completely shrouded the forward tank, extending out and back far enough to create a pocket of calm behind the blazing, deadly heat playing across the balyute’s leading surface. Sir Isaac was flying the Jefferson; his superhuman precision and speed were necessary to keep the thrusters balanced, the ship properly aligned as it whipped around Jupiter. Any mistake, any imbalance of forces adjusted too late, and the Jefferson would begin tumbling. If that happened, she would vaporize in Jupiter’s upper atmosphere long before she could be crushed by the intense pressures of the Jovian deep.
Kaitlin wished she could see out, but the bow cameras were all completely blocked by the balyute heat shields, and the various masts, booms, and projections along the vessel’s length that included optical electronics with their sensor suites had been retracted. She had nothing to look at except for the steel-gray overhead of the bridge, as the G pressures grew moment by moment, accompanied by a shuddering, mounting vibration. Dragging a tail of ionized plasma a hundred kilometers long, Jefferson plunged into the fringes of Jupiter’s upper atmosphere, as Europa set beneath the giant’s horizon.
They’d been too late. The thought gnawed at her stomach and throat and in the pain behind her eyes. She felt lost and utterly alone. Everything, everything had been in vain.
E-DARES Facility
Ice Station Zebra, Europa
0415 hours Zulu
“Major Warhurst?” Chesty announced over the bulkhead speakers. “I have an incoming radio message.”
Jeff was alone in C-3, still going over the details of the assault that had so nearly overrun the base while he was gone. “Great! The Jefferson?”
“No. It appears to be one of the Chinese scientists, a Dr. Zhao. He is using a private channel relayed through one of the Chinese communications satellites.”
“A scientist.” Jeff had to think about that one. What was going on over there? “Put him on.”
“This is Dr. Zhao, calling the CWS commanding officer,” a new voice said.
“This is Major Jeffrey Warhurst, U.S. Marines. I am in command of Cadmus Base. Go ahead.”
“Ah, yes, Major.” The voice carried the somewhat metallic flatness of an AI translator program, a rather simple-minded one, from the sound of it. Chinese AI technology was still considerably behind the Western tech curve. “We need to…talk.”
“I am not surrendering this base,” Jeff replied. Only a few hours ago, he’d been willing to consider the possibility, but with the Star Wind knocked out of commission by the Jefferson in a hurtling fly-by shooting, the Marines were now in a somewhat better situation.
“It may be too late to discuss such things as who has won, or who has lost, Major,” Zhao replied. “I needed to tell you…”
“To tell me what, Doctor?”
“I am sorry. This is difficult. I am afraid the commanding officer here may be…unbalanced.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you Americans noticed any unusual physiological or psychological effects in the vicinity of the alien Intelligence?”
Jeff hesitated before answering. This could be an attempt to get information. And yet…
“Some. Yes. With men who happen to have cerebral implants of various types.”
“Exactly. Many of us have such implants—more, perhaps, than do you. I understand you rely now on other, noninvasive means of forming a direct human-machine interface.
“Many of us are sick. I…I am suffering from extreme pain in my head, blurred vision, and from a strange kind of rootless terror…I think brought on by infrasonic vibrations, induced by the alien’s long-wave radio frequency leakage. And…we are closer to the source here than are you.”
“What is it you want of us?” For a moment, he wondered if the Chinese were surrendering to him. How would he handle that logistical nightmare?
“Our commanding officer, General Xiang, is attempting to contact the aliens. He has a submarine—”
“What? What kind of submarine?”
“A small, two-man research vessel. We call it Little Fish. We were bringing several to Europa to facilitate direct contact with the aliens beneath the ice…just as you Americans did. He is trying to recover one from a crashed lander out on the ice and launch it as we speak..”
“And what is it you expect us to do?”
He heard a sigh on the other end of the communications link. “Sir, General Xiang is not himself. I believe he may be unbalanced, partly from the effects of the radio wave induction in his implants, partly because of the pressure he has been under here since we arrived.” There was a pause. “You Marines have not exactly made it easy for us.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I accept the compliment. But what does that—”
“Major, think a moment. Put aside your military prejudices and think, please. We sit, almost literally, on top of a very old, very powerful intelligence, something that may have become trapped beneath the ice as long as half a million years ago. There is something alive down there. Think. Certainly, it responds to us, to the noises we make here on its roof.
“But what could be alive after so many thousands of centuries? Immortals? An artificial intelligence that cannot die? The descendants of the original crew? We do not know. But I do know that the first human to establish contact with this—this entity should do so for all humankind, and not for himself, or for his own survival, or even for national salvation, as he claims.
“Major, General Xiang intends to attempt to contact the intelligence and win its support in fighting you. I can see only a disastrous outcome if this course is followed. We humans must speak as one when we face the gods of the Silver Han, not many…and certainly not as warring factions in ideological disputes no extraterrestrial could possibly comprehend or care about.”
Jeff didn’t reply immediately. This all still could be some sort of trick…and yet the words carried with them a horribly chilling plausibility. As Zhao had been speaking, Jeff brought up Chesty on his PAD and was reading a running commentary on the translation on his screen. He was particularly curious about the phrase gods of the Silver Han. Chesty explained: In Chinese cosmology, the Han, especially the Silver Han, referred to the Milky Way.
There was a chance, a tiny chance, that he could end this war here and now, a chance he had to take.
Besides, Zhao was right. It would be ironic indeed, and terrible, if humankind’s first ambassador to the representatives of an alien intelligence was mad.
The Life Seeker
Time unknown
2703: >>…they come…<<
1198: >>…are these the dominant intelligence of this world…<<
3165: >>…intelligence…not of the Mind…wrong/bad/tainted/evil…<<
1002: >>…use it…<<
Chorus: >>…use it…how?…<<
1824: >>…the Mind we touched. It was like the Mind. Rightly ordered…<<
2653: >>…not organic…<<
81: >>…the level of intelligence is low…<<
3111: >>…almost at a completely automatic level, only marginally self…<<
Chorus: >>…aware…<<
TWENTY-FIVE
28 OCTOBER 2067
Manta One
The Europan Sea
1623 hours Zulu
“I’ve got something, sir,” Hastings said. “Ten kilometers ahead, and below us. Depth about sixty kilometers.”
Jeff pulled himself onto the narrow, thinly padded couch of the Manta and pressed up against the starboard port, peering forward. There was nothing to see but the endless, blue-gray fog of drifting particles in Europa’s cold and sulfur-laden ocean. The endless, wailing lament of the Singer filled the Manta, and the minds of those aboard.
Hastings and Carver were there, sharing driver’s duty in the Manta. Shigeru Ishiwara was there as well, as observer, as scientist, as civilian alien contact expert, if that was required within the next few minutes.
There had been a hurried debate with both the civilian scientists
and his staff after Zhao’s call had been replayed for them all, fifteen hours ago. Opinion had been mixed. Vasaliev was all for blocking Xiang’s attempt to contact the Singer for almost exactly the same reason Zhao had stated—one man alone could not be allowed to represent all of humanity. Ishiwara had agreed, but because the CWS contact initiative might be blocked by Xiang’s efforts and anti-CWS propaganda. Lieutenant Pope, Kaminski, and his other senior personnel all thought that Zhao was most likely to get himself killed, and that their best course of action lay in staying well clear.
Jeff had considered both sides of the argument, then given orders to prepare Manta One for another voyage. He had to stop Xiang, if there was any way to do so. Zhao had claimed that no further attacks on the Marine base were planned. No one was sure how far he could be trusted, but it sounded as though the Chinese were as baffled by the phenomenon beneath their feet as the Americans.
The trouble was that Zhao was a lot closer to the Singer’s location than Ice Station Zebra. The Manta was launched within half an hour of the final decision being made, but it was a ten-hour journey to the Singer’s location. By the time the Manta was under way, another radio consultation with Zhao told them that Xiang had the Xiaoyu submersible, the Little Fish, clear of the crashed lander, had verified that it was undamaged, and was using tractors and APCs that had escaped the Marine raid to drag the vessel across the ice toward the crater half a kilometer away.
It was a race, and a close one, but one that Xiang would almost certainly win.
The sonar contact Hastings had just picked up, however, might be his vessel. “Close with him!”
“Roger that.” The Manta’s nose dipped lower, and the winged submarine dove toward blackness. They were at a depth of fifty-three kilometers, with a pressure of almost 720 kilograms pressing down on every square centimeter of hull, and going deeper with every passing minute.
He thought he could make out a faint, blue haze against the night absolute below. They were nearly on top of the Singer’s position now. They ought to be seeing that strange glow by now.
Yes. Second by second, the blue glow intensified. Even from twenty kilometers up, the glowing structure seemed to take up an enormous amount of space. From here, the pattern, all in pale blue light, was roughly circular, though with odd crinklings and chaotic crenulations along its borders.
“Range eight kilometers,” Hastings said. “He’s slower than us, but he’s going to get there first.”
“Are we close enough to open a radio link?”
“Not sure. There’s a lot of interference from our friend down there, but I can try.”
Radio worked underwater only imperfectly at best, and then only at longer wavelengths. Zhao had told them the frequency Xiang should be using, however, the Chinese equivalent of a command channel for use between submarines. “General Xiang,” Jeff called. “General Xiang Qiman. This is Major Jeffrey Warhurst, U.S. Marines. Please reply, over.”
There was no answer. The Manta continued plunging through mounting pressures toward the blue light.
Xiaoyu
Ten kilometers above the Singer
1628 hours Zulu
“General Xiang Qiman. This is Major Jeffrey Warhurst, U.S. Marines. Please reply, over.”
The words were blasted by static, but the computer screen on Xiang’s console printed out the words in putonghuà as the onboard AI pulled meaning from white noise and translated it.
“Should we answer, General?” the pilot in the submarine’s front seat asked.
“No. Continue the dive.”
The Xiaoyu, the Little Fish, was a blunt cigar shape four meters long and two wide, with a large opaque canopy over the two-man cockpit. Propelled by MHD thrusters that sucked water in at the nose and propelled it astern like a jet, the Xiaoyu could attain speeds in excess of fifty knots. The pilot had slowed, however, at Xiang’s orders, to avoid looking like a missile or torpedo to the Intelligence below.
“General Xiang,” wrote itself on the screen. “You must turn back, or we will be forced to destroy you. Please respond, over.”
“Faster,” Xiang said. “Make this thing go faster!”
The Little Fish started picking up speed.
Manta One
The Europan Sea
1629 hours Zulu
“He’s sprinting,” Hastings said. “He’s slower than us but way in the lead. I don’t think we can catch him.”
“Can you reach him with a torpedo?”
Carver, standing next to the pilot’s station, was wearing a VR rig identical to the pilot’s. “No problem,” he said. “As long as you don’t mind the fact that the Singer might think it’s an attack.”
Jeff considered for another second, then shook his head. “We might be screwed one way or the other. Take him down!”
“Aye, aye, sir. Firing one.” A faint thump sounded through the Manta’s hull as a teleoperated probe rewired with a few grams of antimatter slammed out into the alien sea.
“If you miss,” Jeff told him, “pull the torp up and have it heading away from the alien before you detonate it. I don’t want any stray shots waking that thing up.”
“We won’t miss,” Carver told him. “I’ve got him locked in. range five kilometers and closing…but if you didn’t want to wake the alien up, I’m afraid it’s too late.”
“Why?”
“Listen.”
Jeff listened…and realized that the endless song of the Singer had just fallen silent.
The Life Seeker
Time unknown
2703: >>…they come…<<
1198: >>…intelligences enemy/bad/evil/wrong…<<
3165: >>…intelligence…not of the Mind…wrong/bad/tainted/evil…<<
Chorus 1: >>…the first order of life is survival…<<
104: >>…we must survive, that the Mind will survive…<<
Chorus 2: >>…the second order of life is that the strong survive…<<
2187: >>…we are strong…<<
Chorus 3: >>…the third order of life is that competition threatens survival…<<
3108: >>…we are strong…<<
Chorus 4: >>…the fourth order of life is that competition must be exterminated before it becomes a threat to survival…<<
2703: >>…two technological artifacts of a possible competitor species approach…<<
1825: >>…one appears to be firing at the other…<<
926: >>…a protect situation is developing…<<
Chorus 1: >>…we must protect the Mind…<<
Chorus 2: >>…we are strong…<<
Chorus 3: >>…we will survive…<<
Chorus 4: >>…we will survive…<<
Xiaoyu
Five kilometers above the Singer
1629 hours Zulu
“General! The enemy has fired a torpedo!”
“Increase speed! Dive for the alien!”
Manta One
The Europan Sea
1629 hours Zulu
“He’s still trying for the Singer,” Carver called. “I think…no!”
Carver yanked the helmet off.
“What’s the matter?” Jeff asked him, turning on the couch.
“I…I don’t know! The torpedo was maybe half a kilometer from the target. Then it just vanished! I was riding it…then nothing!”
“Did you lose the teleoperation comm lock?”
“He’s right, Major,” Hastings said. “I had the torp as a blip, by sonar, radio, and IR. It simply vanished. Gone.”
Jeff looked out the forward port again. The alien artifact was larger now, spreading out below like a vast city, aglow with its own lights. A terror at least as sharp as that experienced by Kaminski was pricking at the back of his skull now, but it had nothing to do with infrasonics. The alien knew they were there.
It was stirring.
“Get us the hell out of here!” he said.
“Roger that!” Hastings said, and he stood the Manta on its side in a sharp bank, shearing away from the vast
and alien glow below. “Oscar sierra warning light is on!”
Jeff gave a grim smile at that. “Oscar sierra,” in military parlance, was a shorthand slang for “Oh, shit.” It could be used to indicate that an enemy missile was homing on you, or simply to suggest that you were about to have a very bad day.
They began climbing.
“Major?” Hastings said after a tense thirty seconds. “The Chinese sub is gone.”
“What…destroyed?”
“I don’t know. Gone like the torpedo. One second it was right there on my display. The next…”
“Okay. Keep going.”
“Getting the hell out of Dodge. Sir.”
The Life Seeker
Time unknown
2703: >>…the other artifact flees…<<
2714: >>…they are not so strong as we thought…<<
1911: >>…we have two of the organisms on board…<<
Chorus 3: >>…analyze them both…<<
Chorus 4: >>…that we can know the enemy we face…<<
Analysis of alien specimens was a simple process, though one that had not been attempted since the Ship had come to rest in this alien place. The scanners began at one end of the specimen and recorded it one molecule-thick layer at a time. The scanning process, of course, destroyed the specimen, slice by slice, and took a fairly long time to complete. Both specimens in the Life Seeker’s scanners made a great deal of noise as they were pinned immobile and reduced to simpler and more easily stored files of information. In fact, they continued to make noises until over half of their respective masses had been converted to data, and their organic processes finally stopped.
