by Allen Steele
Darkness swept in upon him, and he was gone.
PART FIVE:
The Secret of Shaq-Taaraq
SEVENTEEN
UNKNOWN
“Wake up, Dr. Ramirez. Please, wake up.”
The voice was low and not unpleasant, and also familiar, although Ramirez had trouble placing it. He struggled toward consciousness, eyelids fluttering against the bright nimbus of light that seemed to surround him, lungs aching with every breath he took.
“Dr. Ramirez, are you awake?” The voice remained gentle, yet there was an undertone of impatience. “Please speak if you are able.”
“I…I…” His mouth was parched, his throat dry. “Water…please, I need…”
“Yes, you may have some. There is water in a glass next to you.”
Not making this easy for me, are you? Squinting against the glare, Ramirez tried to sit up. His limbs were weak, though; his entire body felt drained, as if he had run for kilometers without rest. Every impulse told him that he should go back to sleep. Yet his thirst was desperate, and the thought that a cool drink of water awaited him at the end of the ordeal was enough to make him fight against the weariness that threatened to overcome him.
Through sheer force of will, he made himself sit up from the hard surface upon which he lay. He wore a white robe that extended down to his ankles; beneath it, he was naked. His pupils adjusted to the glare; looking down, he saw that he was in a biostasis cell almost identical to the one aboard the Galileo…
No, no. That couldn’t be right. When he’d gone into hibernation, he was aboard the Maria Celeste. Yet this cell looked so much like the one aboard the Galileo that he…
Then he raised his eyes, and realized that his first impression had been correct. He was in the hibernation compartment on Deck B of the Galileo. Same antiseptic floor, same windowless bulkheads. Directly across from him was another cell, its coffinlike lid closed, lights gleaming from its instrument panel.
What the hell? The Galileo had been destroyed. Or at least so he’d been informed. So how could he be…?
A rollaway cart was parked beside his cell. Upon it rested a glass of water. Forgetting everything else for the moment, he swung his legs around so that he could sit up straight, then reached over to pick it up. The glass was strangely thick and heavy, almost as if it had been carved from a block of crystal; he nearly dropped it when he picked it up, and had to hold it with both hands. And the water was tepid and flat, warmer than he expected. Yet it was just what he needed; he drank as much as he could without choking, and gasped when he finally pulled the glass away from his lips.
The Galileo. He was back aboard the Galileo. So Collins had been wrong. The ship must have survived the nuclear detonation she’d witnessed; the Maria Celeste had been located, and he and the others had somehow been brought back from Spindrift, where they’d been revived from biostasis.
So where was everyone else? He’d heard a voice when he woke up, yet so far as he could tell, the hibernation deck was empty. Or had he only imagined that? “Hello?” he asked as he looked one way, then the other. “Is anyone there?”
“I am here,” the voice replied, and Ramirez looked around again to see Donald Sinclair.
Ramirez nearly dropped the glass. The last person he expected to see was him. Nick Jones, perhaps, or another crewman, but not Sinclair. Why hadn’t he noticed him earlier?
“I apologize.” Sinclair stood a couple of meters away, his arms at his sides. “I did not mean to”—a pause—“surprise you. Are you awake now?”
“Um…yeah, I’m awake.” Ramirez returned the glass to the table. He noticed now that it was absent of anything else he might’ve expected to be there; no medical instruments, no drugs, not even a linen cloth to cover its stainless-steel surface. “Least I think I am. Where’s…where are the other guys?”
“Guys?” Sinclair stared at him, his gaze unwavering. “What do you mean?” Then he slowly blinked, almost deliberately, and nodded. “Yes. Commander Harker and Lieutenant Collins.”
“Uh-huh.” Sinclair’s reticence was as unnerving as his stare. “Ted and Emily.” He glanced at the cell across from him. “You haven’t brought them up yet?”
Sinclair didn’t respond for a moment. Now Ramirez began to notice other details that had previously eluded him. The robe he wore wasn’t like the one he’d been given when he’d originally emerged from biostasis. This one was thicker, and seemed to have been specially tailored for his own body. Looking down at it, he saw odd designs woven along its sleeves and chest, like none he’d ever seen before. But that wasn’t all. As he reached up to touch his face—how odd, no beard stubble—his right sleeve fell back from his forearm, and he saw that the inside of his elbow was unmarked. No puncture wounds where Harker had inserted the feed tubes. Not even a bandage.
Come to think of it, where was the suspension fluid? His body should be covered with slimy blue gel, yet his skin was dry. He looked back at his cell, saw no indication that it had been recently used. Not only that, but the soft pad that lined its bottom was missing, nor could he see any indication of intravenous lines or oxygen tubes.
“They have been revived.” Sinclair spoke as if uncertain of his words. “They will join us soon. First, I have some questions for you.”
“Uh-huh. I’ve got a few of my own.” Ramirez gently pushed himself out of the cell. His legs felt weak, yet there was none of the unsteadiness he’d felt before. “How long have I been…?”
He stopped, not quite understanding at first what he was seeing. Although Sinclair appeared to be standing just a few steps away, he didn’t cast a shadow upon the polished metal floor. Yet Ramirez could see him just as clearly as if…
“I have no doubt that you do.” Sinclair didn’t seem to notice that Ramirez was openly staring at him. “All will be explained in time if you will only cooperate.”
“Sure…whatever you say.” Ramirez glanced at the next cell over. Although its indicators were lit, he couldn’t see a face through its window. It was empty. “Go ahead. Fire away.”
Again, a pause, as if Sinclair was taking a moment to divine the meaning of his words. “Why did you come to Spindrift? What did you believe you would find there?”
“You should know this. You’re the political officer, aren’t you?” Ramirez felt his heart quicken as he gazed around the compartment. Although it superficially resembled Galileo’s hibernation deck, it lacked a certain sense of detail. Almost as if it was an elaborate stage set, reconstructed from photos of the actual compartment, yet missing the small, almost unnoticeable things that would have lent verisimilitude to anyone who’d been there before.
“Yes, I am the designated representative of the Western Hemisphere Union.” Sinclair spoke with stiff formality, as if introducing himself to Ramirez for the first time. “Is there a reason why you do not believe me?”
“I can think of at least one.” Without warning, Ramirez snatched up the water glass. “Here…catch!”
He tossed the glass to Sinclair. He made no effort to catch it, though, and Ramirez watched as it passed through his body and shattered on the floor behind him. Sinclair remained still, his arms at his sides, no emotion on his face.
Ramirez let out his breath. “This isn’t the Galileo,” he murmured. “You’re not Donald Sinclair.”
“You are very perceptive. More than we believed you would be.” Sinclair—or rather, the three-dimensional image of Sinclair—slowly raised a hand in a placating gesture. “You are correct. This is not your ship, nor am I the person you knew. We had hoped that returning you to a familiar environment, along with a representation of a familiar individual in a position of authority, would prompt you to speak candidly.”
An involuntary shudder passed through Ramirez, and he wrapped his arms around himself. If this wasn’t where he first thought he was, then there was little doubt where he might be. “If you’d worked at this a little harder, you might have succeeded. But there’re too many…” Suddenly, he felt f
ear being replaced by anger. “Enough already. You know all about me…so who are you? And where have you brought me?”
The fake Sinclair let his hand drop to his side. “I will tell you these things, but first you have to answer my questions.” A pause. “I should caution you that the outcome of this is entirely predicated on your honesty. Any attempt to deceive us will be detected at once, and will have consequences.”
“You mean, don’t lie or else.” Ramirez regretted losing the water glass; his throat had become dry once more. “How would you know if I did?”
“Examine the robe you’re wearing.” Sinclair pointed to him. “It is called a sha. Among my people, it is considered to be a sacred vestment, worn by our spiritual order. You should be honored to be given one, although for this purpose it has been adapted for your form. While dressed in this, a…holy person, if you will…cannot tell an untruth.”
He paused. “Try, if you would like. Tell me something that you know to be false and that you believe I might not know to be so.”
Ramirez considered this for a few moments. This entity—he had to assume that it was alien—obviously knew enough about him already that it not only understood his language and was able to speak it, but was also aware of his name and certain details about the Galileo. How he’d come across so much information was almost beside the point, at least for now.
“My mother’s name is Jean,” he said, “and my father’s name is Douglas.”
From within the patterns on the sha, a cool blue radiance. “This is a true statement,” Sinclair said. “The sha has revealed that. Now, tell me a lie…”
“My uncle is a chicken,” Ramirez blurted out. “He crossed the road so that he could meet my…”
Before he could finish, he felt the robe grow uncomfortably warm, almost as if he was swathed in an electric blanket whose thermostat had been turned up too high. When he reached down to pull it open, he saw that the patterns had become an ugly shade of brown.
“Leave it be.” The image didn’t raise its voice, but nonetheless there was enough authority in its tone that Ramirez dropped his hands. “That was a lie…we know that now. But if you remove the sha, we will assume that is an indication you no longer intend to cooperate with us.”
“And if I don’t?”
Sinclair displayed no emotion, yet his voice became colder. “We will further assume that you intend to deceive us and will respond in an appropriate manner.” The image paused. “I warn you not to do this. The lives of you and your companions are already in jeopardy. Do not try our patience more than you already have.”
Again, Ramirez felt a chill. Reaching out with his left hand, he braced himself against the side of the biostasis cell. Unintentionally, he’d become a player in a game whose rules he barely understood, with an objective that he didn’t comprehend. With nothing in his favor, he had no choice but to cooperate.
“All right,” he said. “I understand. What do you want to know?”
“My first questions remain the same.” Sinclair gazed at him with the same implacable eyes. “Why did you go to Spindrift? What did you expect to find there?”
Ramirez told him everything.
It took longer than he expected. At least an hour, although there was no way to be certain; the nearest chronometer was perpetually frozen at 07:01:00. Yet the Sinclair-thing listened with endless patience, never interrupting him or revealing any emotions, always regarding him with steady, unwavering eyes that never once blinked or looked away.
More than once as he spoke, Ramirez wondered what lay behind the façade. Was he speaking to a member of the same race that he and Harker had discovered in the lightless depths of Spindrift? Or was the hologram the creation of some sort of machine intelligence, one that could fool even the most advanced Turing test? He had no way of knowing for certain, yet there was no point in lying, or even committing the sin of omission. The sha would expose him if he dared to do so. Not only that, but since he had no idea where he was or who was holding him, the only way out was to give his captors what they wanted. So truth was his best defense, even if it might not cast him and the rest of the expedition in the best light.
He finally reached the part of the narrative where he and Harker returned to the Maria Celeste only to find that the Galileo had been destroyed, at which point the survivors decided to go into biostasis in hope of eventually being rescued. “And that’s it,” he finished. “Next thing I knew, I’m here.” Sinclair continued to stare at him. “Wherever or whatever this place is,” he added. “Perhaps you’d care to tell me?”
“Perhaps.” Again, the pseudo-Sinclair displayed no emotion. “I still do not understand why the Galileo launched a missile at our vessel.”
Our vessel. A small clue there, however minute. “Nor do I,” Ramirez said. “My best guess…that is, my conjecture…is that something occurred that gave our captain reason to believe that his ship was under attack. He may have been trying to defend himself, or…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine.”
The hologram didn’t respond for a moment. “Your captain was afraid of us,” Sinclair’s doppelgänger said at last. “He may have misinterpreted our attempt to contact you as hostile action…is that what you believe?”
“Believe, no. I can only speculate…but I can’t do that without knowing more than I do now.” Ramirez crossed his arms. “You said you attempted to make contact with us. When was that?”
Another pause, one that lasted a little longer than before. “When our vessel transmitted a message to the Galileo,” Sinclair replied at last. “Since you were responding to the signal transmitted by our starbridge, we deduced that you had interpreted its meaning, and therefore were capable of interpreting…”
“Stop. Wait just a second.” Ramirez raised a hand. “What signal? You mean the one we…I mean, my people…picked up when we detected Spindrift?”
“Unless there has been a misunderstanding among our races…”
“I think it’s safe to say that there’s been one, yes.” Ramirez nodded. “Please, go on.”
“The signal transmitted by our starbridge was a warning to all races that might happen to discover Shaq-Taaraq…what you call Spindrift. If it had been correctly interpreted, it would have told you that Shaq-Taaraq was under the protection of the Talus…”
“The what?” Ramirez peered more closely at the holo. “The Talus? What’s that?”
“That is difficult to explain.” Although Sinclair’s expression didn’t change, the short pause that followed was as close to any emotion Ramirez had yet detected during the entire discussion. “We will return to it later. A message was sent, instructing your people not to attempt rendezvous with Shaq-Taaraq…”
“Which we didn’t understand. We only saw that it was an alien transmission and decided to investigate its source.”
“We understand this…but only now.” The holo remained stoical, yet Ramirez detected a tinge of regret in its mimicry of Sinclair’s voice. “If your kind had only taken the time and effort to interpret its message, all this could have been avoided.”
Ramirez let out his breath. “Perhaps…but you have to understand that we’ve been anxious for so long to make contact with another race. When we detected Spindrift…or Shaq-Taaraq, as you call it…our curiosity compelled us to find out what it was.”
“This may be so.” The ghost of the dead political officer stared at him. “If that is the case, then we may also share the blame, for failing to realize that emergent races might be so enthusiastic that they would make such a venture without knowing what was there.”
“Look before you leap,” Ramirez said quietly.
“Leap where?”
“Sorry. Old expression among my kind…not to be taken literally. Go on, please…you were saying that we didn’t understand your language.” A new thought occurred to him, one so obvious he was surprised it hadn’t occurred to him before. “You seem to understand ours quite well. Or at least Anglo. Do you also spea
k Spanish? Se habla español?”
“Sí. Un poco.” The holo didn’t bat an eye. “This is only because Spanish is among the languages stored in your shuttle’s data retrieval system. There are many others. Russian, French, German, Italian…”
“So you’ve been able to gain access to our comps. That means you’ve also read everything else that was stored there.” Remembering now that Galileo’s flight recorder had been automatically backed up by the comps aboard the Maria Celeste, he felt uneasy. How much else had the aliens learned about them?
“Correct. Your craft’s memory was quite extensive. From our study of it, we were able not only to decipher your languages, but also construct a facsimile of the Galileo’s hibernation facilities.” The holo spread its hands apart. “As you can see, we were also able to form an image of your political officer, using samples of his voice to duplicate it. Donald Ramon Sinclair, born April 5, 2246, in Mobile, Alabama, Western Hemisphere Union…”
“I believe you.” Ramirez shook his head. “But why go to all the trouble? Why not simply ask me what happened?”
Again another pause. Whoever was controlling this puppet, Ramirez was beginning to realize, was inherently cautious. Indeed, they were probably just as wary of the intruder they were interrogating as he was of them. If not even more so.
“We were unsure of your motives.” Sinclair lowered its hands. “Try to understand our point of view. Your ship made rendezvous with Shaq-Taaraq despite warnings transmitted from our starbridge. You sent an exploration team to its surface, again despite warnings to stay away. When we learned of this incursion and dispatched a vessel to investigate, our efforts to communicate were unsuccessful. Your ship launched a missile at us, which our own commander was forced to detonate by remote means in order to protect his vessel…”
