Omega к-4

by Джек Макдевитт

  “You’re not serious.”

  Mac had liberated some chocolate cookies from the kitchen. He held one out for Maureen, who took it happily and told Mac he wasn’t supposed to give any to Babe. That was the kitten, who showed no interest anyhow. “Tor,” he said, “most generations produce a handful of rational people who, so far, have been able to keep us going while everyone else spends his time falling into the works. Most people are programmed by the time they’re six, and learn nothing worthwhile afterward.”

  Tor made a sound indicating he was in pain. In fact, of course, he was used to Mac’s exaggerations and would have expected no less.

  But Hutch never got used to it. “Are you suggesting,” she asked, “that we should give an IQ test before rescuing someone, or something, in trouble?”

  “Not at all. By all means, we should help anyone if we can reasonably do it. And the Goompahs do look worth saving. But I think you’re facing a no-win situation.”

  That surprised her. “How do you mean?”

  “You’ll probably have to break the Protocol to do anything for them. I mean, you’re even going to be shipping relief supplies. How do you possibly get them to these creatures without announcing your presence?” A look of genuine concern passed over his craggy features. “If you don’t succeed in helping them and a lot of them get wiped out, or they all get wiped out, you won’t forgive yourself. And the Academy will take a beating.”

  Tor nodded reluctantly. “He’s probably right, Hutch.”

  She looked at Mac across the top of her wineglass. And then leveled her gaze at her husband. “What would you two have me do? Just ignore them? Let them die by the thousands and not lift a finger?”

  For a time no one spoke. Maureen looked at her oddly, as if Mommy had misbehaved. Babe the kitten came over and tried to chew on her ankle.

  “I take it,” said Mac, “that there really is no way of shutting down the cloud?”

  “None that we’ve been able to figure out. There’s never been enough money to fund a serious effort.”

  Mac laughed. “But there’s enough money to underwrite the farming industries. And to provide tax breaks for General Power and Anderson & Goodbody.” He growled. “The truth is that it’s hard to justify spending money on a hazard that’s so far off, Hutch. Or that’s threatening somebody else. Still, I can understand the reluctance.”

  She knew that. Mac had remained silent while major pundits laughed at Senator Blasingame, when he’d put together a bill demanding an extensive effort to find a way to neutralize the omegas. Blasingame had even made Hal Bodley’s annual Boondoggle List. Mac might have been able to stem the tide had he gotten into the fight.

  “We could have used you,” she said.

  “Hutch, the sun’s going to expand in a few billion years and wipe out all life on Earth. Maybe we should do something about that, as well.”

  “Try to keep it serious, Mac,” she said.

  “Okay.” He emptied his glass, trundled out to the kitchen, and came back with a refill. It was an uncomfortable moment, and Hutch suspected she shouldn’t have said anything, but damn it, Mac’s point of view was shortsighted. Maureen got a pulltoy out and she and the kitten retreated into the den.

  Rachmaninoff’s Concerto Number Two was playing softly in the background. Light swept briefly through the window as a flyer descended onto the landing pad they shared with the Hoffmanns.

  “It strikes me,” Mac said, easing back into his chair, “that it’s not true. Or at least, it’s not a universal truth.”

  “What isn’t, Mac?”

  “That cultures get swamped when they encounter a more developed civilization.”

  “Can you name an exception?”

  “Sure,” he said. “India.”

  “They weren’t swamped,” said Tor. “But they were taken over.”

  “That doesn’t count. The Brits at the time were imperialists. That wouldn’t apply on Lookout. But my point is that Indian culture survived pretty well. The essentials, their music, their marital patterns, their self-image, didn’t change at all.”

  “What about the Native Americans?”

  He smiled. “It’s a myth, Hutch. They didn’t collapse because they were faced with an intrinsically stronger culture. They were beaten down by a superior military. And maybe because their own cultural habits wouldn’t allow them to unite.

  “Priscilla, if I felt the way you do, I wouldn’t mess around with all these half measures.”

  “What would you do, Mac?”

  “I’d send the Peacekeepers out there and get them all out of the cities when the damned thing gets close. Get them behind rocks or in caves or whatever else they have until it passes. It only takes a day or so, right?”

  “Mac, I can’t do that.”

  “Then you don’t have the courage of your convictions.”

  She glanced over at Tor. He was shaking his head at her. You know better than to take Mac seriously. Relax. Let it go.

  “There is this,” pursued Mac. “If you called out the troops, you’d have the satisfaction of knowing you gave it your best shot.”

  Maureen had finished her cookie, leaving crumbs everywhere. Hutch let her head drift back for a moment, then got up and took Maureen’s hand. “Time for bed, Mo.”

  “Too early, Mommy,” said the child, who began to fill up. She hated going to bed when they had company. She especially liked Mac. What on Earth was there about him that a child could love?

  “We’ll read for a while,” she said. “Say good night to Uncle Mac.”

  Maureen made a sad face at Mac. “Good night, Uncle Mac,” she said. And she reached for him, and kissed his cheek.

  “Good night, darling,” said Mac.

  HUTCH COULD HEAR them chattering away downstairs while she read to Maureen. Benny Rabbit makes friends with Oscar the Cat. Hutch would believe it when she saw it. But Maureen giggled and Babe the kitten joined them and stayed when Maureen fell asleep and Hutch turned out the lamp and went downstairs.

  They were talking about Paxon Carbury’s latest novel, Morley Park. It had gotten strong reviews, and Tor had liked it, but Mac was consigning it to the unwashed. “It’s just more adultery in the suburbs,” he said.

  And that seemed to settle it. Tor made a few objections, tried to explain what he had liked about the book, then backed off. Mac asked Hutch whether she’d read it.

  “No,” she said. “I’ve been a little pressed lately.”

  In the background, the commlink chimed. Hutch excused herself and went into the dining room. “Who is it, George?”

  “Academy watch officer,” said the AI.

  She was beginning to hate these calls. A screen lit up. Actually it was Charlie. “I hate to bother you at home,” he said.

  “Yes, Charlie, what have you got?”

  “You wanted to hear anything that came in on the hedgehogs.”

  “What happened?”

  “They found another one.”

  “Who?”

  “The Santiago. We don’t have any details yet. But it’s beginning to look as if they all have them. All the clouds, I mean.”

  “Yes, Charlie, I think you’re right. Thanks. Let me know if you hear anything else.”

  “There is something else.”

  “Yes?”

  “We don’t think the hedgehogs and the clouds are actually running at the same velocity.”

  “Oh? I didn’t think any questions had been raised about that.”

  “They hadn’t. The difference is so slight, it’s hard to detect. Even now, we’re not really certain. But it looks as if the hedgehogs are moving a bit slower.”

  “How much?”

  “Almost too little difference to measure. It’s why we didn’t pick it up at first. I mean, a cloud’s not a solid object, so you don’t really get—”

  “How much difference, Charlie?”

  “The escorts are slower by between four and five meters an hour.”

  “All of them?�
��

  “Two of them. We’re still trying to get measurements on the others.”

  SHE DIDN’T KNOW what to make of it. It didn’t sound especially important until she found herself telling Tor and Mac about it. And suddenly the lights went on and a chill ran through the room. “Dumb,” she said, breaking into the middle of a sentence.

  “What is?” asked Tor.

  “Me. I am.”

  “In what way, Priscilla?” said Mac.

  “You know about the tewks. We think they all happen where there are clouds.”

  “And—?”

  “If each cloud has a hedgehog, and each hedgehog is running at a slightly slower speed so that the cloud eventually overtakes it—”

  “Oh,” said Mac.

  “The escorts are exactly the sort of things that the clouds seem to want to attack. Lots of right angles. Couple hundred of them.”

  Tor was nodding. “They’re designated targets.”

  “I think so,” she said. “Has to be.”

  Mac couldn’t accept the idea. “Not at those rates of closure. You’re talking a couple of thousand years before the clouds catch the damned things.”

  “But what’s the point?” asked Tor. “I don’t get it.”

  She reactivated her link. “Charlie?”

  “Yes, Hutch?”

  “Contact Serenity. Tell Audrey the hedgehogs may be triggers.”

  “Triggers?”

  “Right. They go boom. And they initiate something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a tewk. Listen, I’ll be in touch with her tomorrow. Meantime, I want her to start looking at sending a mission to push one of the damned things into a cloud. See what happens.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “Explain that we’ll want the whole thing done by robot. Nobody is to go anywhere near any part of the operation. Okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll pass it on.”

  She switched off. “When you talk to her tomorrow—” said Tor.

  “Yes—?”

  “Tell her to pick a cloud that’s well away from anybody’s neighborhood.”

  LIBRARY ENTRY

  The stores are filling up with Goompah dolls, and we are becoming increasingly aware of the existence of these terminally cute off-world wobblies. Children cannot resist them. They are showing up in games and books. There is already an activist society devoted to their welfare. Yet they face possible extinction.

  It may be necessary to lay the Noninterference Protocol aside. Indeed, it’s hard to see how we can go to their rescue without doing so. But it would help if we defined the exception as a one-time only affair. Make it clear that we are not setting a precedent, and draw a line across which interested manufacturers, religious groups, charitable organizations, trading companies, and everybody else who’d like to use these creatures to play out their own fantasies and ambitions, may not venture.

  — Gregory MacAllister

  “How’s the Jihad Going?”

  Lost on Earth Interview, Monday, March 17

  chapter 11

  On board the Jenkins, in orbit around Lookout.

  Tuesday, March 18.

  …Be advised that your primary objective is to get the job done. If you find it necessary to set the Protocol aside, this constitutes your authority to do so…

  …Collect and run analyses of food samples…

  …Time is of the essence. In view of the lag between Lookout and your other points of contact, you are free to use discretion.

  IN FACT, JACK didn’t like the idea of using discretion. Not in this kind of situation. It was purely political. No matter what he did, and how things turned out, he would be criticized. Any blame to be assigned would come his way, and credit would go to the Second Floor at the Academy. He’d been around too long not to know how these things worked.

  After watching Hutchins’s transmission, Winnie was exasperated, too. “How,” she demanded, “do they expect us to record conversations down there? For a start, where are we going to get recording equipment?”

  “We might be able to rig some pickups,” said Digger.

  It had required more than two weeks for their report to cross the interstellar gulfs, and the answer to come back. And their instructions had been a surprise. They were to attempt to establish contact with the Goompahs. They were to record conversations, if in fact these creatures actually conversed, and send the results back, where a team of linguists would work to break into the language. They were to get visuals of the creatures as they spoke, so that nonverbal cues could be included in the translation effort. And they were to provide whatever additional information they could to help ferret out meaning. And they were to do all this, preferably, while respecting the Protocol.

  Preferably.

  Bureaucratic double-talk.

  Translation: Get the job done without compromising the Protocol. If you compromise the Protocol, and things go badly, you will be asked why you found it necessary to do so.

  Markover knew Hutchins, had always thought he could trust her, but he’d been around too long not to understand how these things went.

  There was good news: The air sample analyses they’d transmitted to Broadside had undergone additional tests. No dangerous bioagents had been found, and no toxins. That was no surprise: So far, experience indicated that diseases from one world generally had no effect on life-forms from another. (Just as creatures operating outside their own biosystem would have a hard time finding anything digestible.) They could, if necessary, operate for a short time outside the e-suits.

  Jack and Winnie both had notebooks, which were, of course, equipped with audio recorders and projectors. These could be used as pickups. Kellie said she thought the ship could contribute three more units.

  “So how do we go about this?” asked Winnie.

  Jack could see only one way. “I think,” he said, “if you read between the lines, we just go down and say hello. See how they react.”

  Digger reread the message. “That’s not what I see between the lines.”

  “What do you see?”

  “The message literally says that we can ignore the Protocol. But she’d like us to use our imagination and find a better way.”

  Jack liked to think of himself as the kindly old director. Patient, easygoing, willing to listen. And to an extent he was correct. But it wasn’t true that he had no temper; he was simply quite good at not letting people see it. This business with Hutch’s message, though, was exactly the sort of thing that drove him up the wall. Because she was laying out contradictory propositions. If she could think of a way to accomplish what she wanted without talking directly to the Goompahs, why didn’t she say so? Or, if she couldn’t, why not just tell him flat out to take care of things. “Do you know of a better way?” he asked.

  “No,” said Digger.

  Winnie looked out the viewport, peering down into the sunstreaked atmosphere, as though she could find an answer out there somewhere.

  “Well,” said Jack, “barring any other ideas, I think what we do is go down and say hello. See how they react. Then we plant some pickups so we can start recording their conversations.” He swung around in his seat and looked at the transmission again.

  “FIRST THING WE want to do,” said Jack, “is to create an avatar. One of us to say hello.”

  “All right,” said Winnie. “You don’t think we’d do better to have someone just step out and wave?”

  “Too dangerous. Let’s see what they do when they see the avatar.” He looked around. “We need pictures of somebody who looks friendly.”

  Winnie studied each of them as if that was no easy task. “Who do you suggest?”

  “One of the women,” said Digger. “They’ll be less threatening.”

  Kellie was watching him carefully, her nose wrinkled, trying to restrain a smile. “I think you’d be our best bet, Dig.”

  “Me? Why?”

  But he knew. Nobody had to say it. Digger possessed a slig
ht approximation to their size and shape. He was a bit overweight, and somewhat less than average height.

  “I think that’ll work fine,” said Jack. “So we let them take a look at the avatar. It waves and says hello, and if things go well, we shut off the visuals and, Digger, you step out of the underbrush and continue the conversation. Make friends on the spot.”

  “First ambassador from Earth,” said Winnie.

  Digger sucked in his belly.

  Kellie beamed at him. “I’m proud of you, Dig.” She circled him, measuring his dimensions. “We should give him a large shirt. Yellow, I think. Green leggings. Nice floppy hat. Get you looking a little bit like one of the locals.”

  That hurt. “You think I look like a Goompah?”

  “No.” Kellie laughed and gave him a hug. “You’re cuter than they are. And you have a great smile.” She paused and must have seen he was embarrassed. Her tone changed: “Digger, you’re easy to like.” She gripped his arm. “If they’ll respond to any of us, it’ll be you.”

  Digger conceded. “Doesn’t fool me for a minute,” he grumbled. “And I don’t waddle, you know.”

  Kellie embraced him again. Longer this time. “We know that, Dig.” Her eyes told him she meant it. Or, if he did waddle, it didn’t matter to her. Either way, he guessed it was all right.

  They produced the appropriate clothing, floppy everything, and he put it on, a bright yellow shirt that felt as if it was made from sailcloth, and baggy green leggings and sandals three sizes too big. Most of it, Kellie informed him, was made from blankets. The sandals had belonged to the previous skipper. A woman’s red hat, origin unknown, came out of storage. Looked as if it had been with the ship for years.

  When he was dressed they took pictures of him. “Why not make me look like a Goompah?” he suggested. “Why stop here?”

  He half expected someone to remark that he already did. But Jack, reading his mind, only smiled. “Because eventually,” he said, “we’ll have to be able to talk to them. The avatar needs to look like you. Not them.”

  They made up the visuals and jury-rigged a projector by removing the heart of one of the VRs and connecting it to the power cells from a laser cutter. In the same way, they constructed three audiovisual pickups. They were clumsy and bigger than they’d have preferred. But the things worked, and that was sufficient for the moment. “All set,” said Kellie, after they’d tested everything.