"The Antigod has taken the heretic,” came the High Priest's voice shouted from behind. “Praise God. And take you that as a lesson."
Jerik spun around. “No!” he shouted. That's a lie.” He startled himself; he'd never openly contradicted an authority—especially not the High Priest. He turned back briefly and pinged the lake. “Those are life-bubbles. But they are not from any god."
"It is time for your beating,” said Harshket, loudly and angrily.
"I will not be beaten,” said Jerik with equal anger. He heard a chirp of support from someone he knew to be a student in the Third School. Then he heard a flurry of encouraging chirps from other Third Schoolers—and then from students in the Fourth. He felt a surge in the current as a mass of the people came toward him, chirping encouragement—just about all the school and many of the older people as well.
Then, as one, they turned on the High Priest and his cohorts.
Jerik heard Harshket's voice over the crowd. “Your beating is deferred.” The priest and his allies then scuttled quickly away.
Yes, it is a lesson. Jerik greeted his friends from the Third, and then all his new friends. Finally, feeling both light-headed and light-weight, he excused himself and glided toward the Rippled Wall—to the cleft where he and K'chir had made their assault on heaven. At the base of that cleft would be his and K'chir's life-bubbles. He would absorb them, his and K'chir's alike. Jerik extended his mandible in the realization that he'd already absorbed some of K'chir's independence and maybe some of his courage as well. He pinged upward to the rising sphere, now almost at the chirp-echo limit, and thought of his friend. Jerik vowed that he'd devote himself to the struggle for change—to assure that when K'chir did return, he'd find a different and a better world.
"Damn it!” Mission specialist Paul Hopcroft let his fist fall at 0.145 Earth gravity onto his control panel. “The observation sphere. It's sinking fast. We've lost control."
"Is it still transmitting video?” Colin called from the “pool.” Surface team leader Colin Shepherd darted toward Paul's display.
"The signal's fine.” Paul peered at the transmission, watching as the group of craboid creatures grew distant on the screen. “Damned robot! I'll take a manned vehicle every time."
"If it weren't for the unmanned Jovian I,” said Alex, the other specialist, “we wouldn't have any idea what we were doing."
Paul gave a grunt of a laugh. “You mean, we know what we're doing?"
Colin, looking over Paul's shoulder, stared silently at the video monitor. Alex also came to look, drawn away from his own monitor by the much more interesting view on Paul's.
The three wore EVA suits, but with their helmets off. A transparent dome provided them with air, pressure, and warmth—and light.
The great orb of Jupiter looming large in the ink-black sky filled the dome with reds and yellows and bathed the Ganymede ice field in an orange glow. A half kilometer away, the lander, their bus home, gleamed against the ice.
The research dome, some twenty meters across, functioned also as an ice-fishing tent. At its center was a two-meter-diameter hole in the ice, the work of the borer module. Near the hole, looking like a kids’ aboveground swimming pool, stood the Ganymede Sub-surface Environment Chamber. A transparent cover sealed it so that the pressure and temperature beneath the ice might be replicated and preserved.
"Looks to me like organized, structured behavior,” said Colin, staring at the group of craboids in the display.
"Ant colonies show that too,” said Alex.
"This looks to be a much higher order,” said Colin, softly. “I'd call it intelligence. In fact, I'd be tempted to call it sentience."
"Sentience?” said Alex. “Come on."
"I tend to agree,” said Paul. “And their rich set of vocalizations could very well be speech."
Colin blew out a breath. “Who'd have thought the first alien intelligence we'd find would be in our own solar system?"
From the corner of his eye, Paul saw motion in Alex's display monitor. Paul turned to look—as did Alex and Colin.
"Ha!” exclaimed Colin. “The critter took the bait."
Alex shook his head, vigorously. “No. I didn't even get the chance to release the bait.” He dashed back to his control panel and gazed at the monitor.
"I saw it,” said Paul. “The craboid just jumped into the chamber."
"Hm,” said Colin. “Adventurous creature, isn't he?” He turned to Alex. “Let's get him up and into the pool—that is, if we can still control the ice-borer."
Alex worked a control. “Borer's fine. I'll speed it up. We should have our six-footed friend on the surface in about twenty minutes."
"Careful not to damage the borer,” said Colin. “I want to be sure we can return the creature to its home."
"Not pickle it and bring it back with us?” said Alex.
"I'm assuming it is an intelligent being,” said Colin with a small trace of anger.
A half hour later, the three had transferred the specimen container holding the craboid from the borer to the pool. They stood watching the creature through the pool's transparent cover. The craboid scuttled, upside-down, on the inner surface of the cover.
"Natural enough,” said Paul. “Its overall density is a bit lower than that of water."
"It does look weird, though,” said Alex.
Paul stared at the meter-long and about-as-wide creature with its six furry legs and fearsome head with unidentifiable organs. “It looks a lot more imposing up close, doesn't it?"
"The cameras and probes are all on, I assume,” said Colin.
"Of course.” Alex went to his console. “And all functioning."
"I wonder,” said Paul, staring at the creature with its agile limbs, articulated nearly to the point of being tentacles, “can a sentient species exist without artifacts or opposable thumbs—or any thumbs for that matter?"
"Hard to generalize from only a single case,” said Colin. “Until now, perhaps."
They gazed at the craboid in silence for a few seconds more. Then Colin said, “I'm going in."
Paul jerked around. “What? In the pool?"
"Our friend shows a spirit of adventure,” said Colin. “Can I do any less?"
Alex came back to poolside. “I'm not sure that's a particularly terrific idea."
Colin shrugged. He retrieved his helmet and had Alex and Paul help him with it. Then, after check out, Colin leaped to the pool cover, an easy task in Ganymede's low gravity. He went to the access hatch.
"You're sure you want to do this?” said Paul over the radio link.
Colin gave a hint of a laugh. “I'd rather not think about it at the moment.” He opened the hatch, slid into the water, and closed the hatch above him. In his EVA suit, he, like the craboid, was lighter than water. Colin lay horizontal, his stomach pressed to the inner surface of the pool cover.
"They're looking at each other,” Alex whispered.
"Not exactly,” said Paul. “The creature doesn't seem to have eyes. Wouldn't need them under the ice."
Paul watched as Colin slithered close to the creature. Then, slowly, very slowly, Colin held out his hand.
"Shaking hands,” Alex whispered. “You think?"
Paul gasped softly as the creature extended a front leg, then touched Colin's hand.
"I'm willing to bet,” Alex whispered, “that this image will be on a postage stamp next year."
Paul, mesmerized, could not pull his eyes away or even answer.
After a few seconds, Colin said a ritual greeting, loudly, so it might be heard through his helmet. The creature made some sounds as well: clickings and chirpings. Then, after another brief pause, Colin and the creature withdrew their appendages. Colin crawled backwards to the hatch.
Alex shook his head. “We're going to have one hell of a story to tell when we get back."
Paul, his eyes on the craboid, said softly, “And so will he."
Copyright © 2009 Carl Frederick
&nbs
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Novelette: WILDERNESS WERE PARADISE ENOW by H. G. Stratmann
Decisions must be based on the best information available—which can be dicey when that information is a hodgepodge of fact and illusion.
Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits—and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
Edward FitzGerald, The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
* * * *
"Do you think the aliens killed them?"
Dr. Alexander Stone, NASA's head of space medicine, didn't look at the woman questioning him. The former astronaut stared instead at the three huge screens in front of them at the Mission Control Center in Houston. He focused on the screens’ words, numbers, and computer graphics showing the data feed from Zubrin Base—as if trying to use those displays like a telescope to see what was happening on Mars.
Finally the physician turned toward her and replied, “We don't know if Slayton is still alive. It's been over fourteen hours since his last message, but he didn't seem to be in immediate danger then. However, based on the last vital signs and other telemetry information he transmitted on Savitskaya's condition, my medical staff and our counterparts at the Russian Space Agency agree she must be dead by now. The injuries she sustained when the two of them explored the aliens’ artifact were too severe for her to survive much longer."
Nancy Kelley, flight director for the project, sighed. “That means it's time to notify Washington and the next of kin, then face the media. Challenger, Columbia, the ISS incident—this is the type of press conference I hoped I'd never have to give. It's been nearly sixteen years since anyone's died from being in space. I know our luck had to run out sometime. But it still hurts."
The flight director briefly removed her wire-frame glasses and wiped moisture from her eyes. Though she was a decade younger than Stone, her face seemed to sag to his age and beyond as she continued, “Everybody, especially Martin and Katerina, knew this first flight to Mars was the most dangerous space mission ever attempted. The biggest wild card was what the aliens would do. After all the good they've done by terraforming Mars and moving the planet closer to the Earth, we gambled they wouldn't turn hostile once our two people landed.
"Looks like we lost our gamble."
Kelley gazed sadly at the cardiologist. “This is hard on you too. How are you holding up?"
Stone shrugged.
Kelley left to speak with several flight controllers seated at nearby consoles. Stone rubbed his palm over the back of his bristly gray hair and peered again at the silent screens. These last tense hours made him feel every second of his sixty years.
After his great failure on the International Space Station in late 2020, he'd managed to keep all the astronauts under his care safe and healthy—until now. Crews on the last missions to the ISS, later ones to its successors, and flights to the growing lunar base had experienced only minor medical problems. There'd been no serious injuries or fatalities caused by human carelessness in space—a track record he hoped was at least partly due to lessons learned from his last tragic journey into orbit nearly sixteen years ago.
And now the person whose success his well-concealed soft sentimental side cared about most was dead—killed on her thirty-third birthday. Katerina was several months younger than Martin and only five years older than his own daughter. Stone remembered that sweet, talented cosmonaut sitting beside her fiancé in the health classes he'd given them before their trip to Mars. He'd intentionally projected himself as a stern father figure to those two young people—trying to teach them right from wrong based on his own mistakes, and keep them safe.
When the Russians discovered Katerina and Martin had become engaged and wanted to remove her from the mission, he'd talked them into keeping her. Yes, he'd honestly believed she was the best choice for this project and deserved to go to Mars. But no one else had to know that he was trying to help not just Katerina but himself too. She was his secret surrogate for another young woman he'd once known—a cosmonaut and colleague whose career and life he'd destroyed without wanting or meaning to. He'd been forced to choose between his responsibility as a physician to everyone who would ever travel in space and shattering only a single person's dream.
Did it hurt anyone besides him if he hoped Katerina's success might make up a little for what he'd done?
Now the cardiologist knew the answer to that question. History had repeated itself and he was responsible for destroying another life—
Stone noticed a growing commotion among the other personnel crowding the spacious control room. One screen in the front of the room showed an interference pattern that resolved into a picture transmitted from the sole human dwelling on Mars.
A video camera within the habitation module centered on a sight his training and experience as a physician refused to believe. If what he saw wasn't an antemortem recording, it was a medical miracle.
The slim attractive woman on the screen, transmitting from over twenty-five million kilometers away, had long auburn hair and hazel eyes. “Zubrin Base here. Katerina Savitskaya speaking. Martin and I are both alive. I cannot provide you now with more details about our situation. Do not, I repeat, do not try to contact us. I will send you an update when and if I can. End of transmission."
Stone stared at the screen where Katerina's image had just disappeared. The relief he'd felt momentarily was replaced by fear. She was alive—but based on her injuries and the limited medical care Martin could give her on Mars, she shouldn't be alive. Only something more than human could've healed her—and the price it demanded for doing that might be so high she'd be better off dead.
Something was very wrong on Mars—and he hoped Katerina and Martin could make it right.
Katerina stabbed a button on the communications console and ended the transmission. Her chair inside the habitation module's cramped compartment creaked as she rocked and prayed—struggling against the terrifying thoughts that tormented her. Her blue jumpsuit and black boots were caked and filthy with red Martian mud. Her whole body felt unclean.
The young cosmonaut's right hand clutched the three-barred golden cross hanging from a gold chain around her neck. She tried in vain to use this sacred symbol of her devout Russian Orthodox faith to exorcise the evil that possessed her. Attempting to free herself from the fears looping in her mind, she grabbed her music player from atop the console and fingered its click wheel. Finally she found a piece that matched her self-flagellating mood of anguished despair.
Hidden wireless speakers shook the tomb-like cabin with the Kyrie from Haydn's Missa in Angustiis. Katerina felt herself engulfed by shadows of D minor darkness too deep for the brightest light from heaven to dispel. The orchestra's slashing strings and solo organ's clashing chords mocked the pleas for divine mercy screamed by the chorus and soloists that echoed the ones in her own mind. Brutal fanfares by three piercing trumpets and a pair of pounding kettledrums sounded like steel-gray spikes being hammered through the outstretched limbs of the crucified Savior.
The music ended in a thundering repetition of its savage opening notes with no hint of hope or healing. Exhausted in mind and body, for now at least Katerina felt able to resist the “gift” the aliens had forced her to accept—the unwanted knowledge of how to manipulate matter, energy, gravity, and time that tempted her to be more than human. And while she possessed that hard-won self-control, she had to confront a challenge even greater than her own death had been.
Katerina walked stiffly through the habitation module's compartments to its open exit. Her boots thudded onto the short ramp leading down from the module, a squat metal cylinder nine meters in diameter by five meters tall and supported by an array of stubby legs, to the surrounding plain. She trudged out onto reddish-orange soil still damp from a recent shower and took deep breaths of the warm oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere the aliens had bestowed on Mars over
the past ten years.
The morning Sun, shining only seven million kilometers farther away than Earth's average distance from it, brightened a clear azure sky tinged with a roseate blush. Katerina fingered her golden cross and braced herself for what she had to do. She had to find the man she loved and redeem him.
And if he couldn't be saved, she had to destroy him.
* * * *
Martin Slayton stood floating a meter above the ground and laughed. The aliens were right about the gift they'd given him. It was easy to manipulate gravity.
He rocketed up another forty meters into the air—chuckling at the feathery tickle that ascension made in his stomach. Curling himself up as though he were about to do a cannonball dive, Martin did several slow head-first rotations in place—just as he'd done in microgravity four months ago on the Ares VII rocket traveling to Mars. Still suspended in midair, he eased himself into a prone position with arms extending straight out in front of him.
Of course, flying took more than just changing how his body was affected by the ambient 0.91 g gravity the aliens had given Mars. But they'd also shown him how to manipulate matter and energy in any way he desired. He just had to provide all the molecules in his body with the right amount of energy and correct vectors to move at the same time in the direction he wanted.
As he flew in lazy circles above the Martian plain, Martin didn't care if he seemed to be violating the conservation of energy and several other laws of physics. It didn't matter that the aliens hadn't explained why he could do all these things now. The fact they'd showed him how to do them was enough. After all, he'd learned to walk as a toddler without knowing he had bones and muscles in his legs—much less how they worked. His new abilities required no more effort than moving his arm. They were as natural as speaking—as easy as thinking.
Analog SFF, December 2009 Page 10
