Otherness

by David Brin

  "There is no coincidence," he began. "Or at least it's not as great a coincidence as Dr. Sato thought. It's still surprising that two stars as near each other as Sol and Murasaki developed technological cultures so close in time. But we did not just happen on Genji's solitary industrial revolution. It's occurred on this planet before, at least six or seven times." From a pouch he drew a corroded lump of metal. "This coin or medallion was found locally, only a little ways down, but no native can identify the writing. I doubt they'll be able to on the mainland, either.

  "The present culture settled this island eighty generations ago. Before that it was deserted. But earlier still, other Irdizu lived here. Those occupations came in multiple waves. And several times they had metallurgy."

  "Did they . . . was each fall because of war?" Yukiko asked in a hushed voice.

  "Who can say? Oh, there's no sign of nuclear combat, if that's what you mean. No war-induced endless winter. You might think there was such a holocaust, though, from the way species died out in waves, then recovered after Irdizu receded again. And every decline seemed to occur at the same pace as environmental degradation."

  "No wonder Dr. Sato's mad at you! You agree with the Americans and Spacers—that technology can harm a world!"

  Minoru shrugged. "There was a time when that was the main dogma of ecology. Perhaps we abandoned such a view too quickly, for reasons more political than scientific."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "No matter." He shook his head. "Anyway, the Genjians appear to have been lucky; one of the limitations of their race actually led to its survival. Since they were—and are—constrained to living near the shore, none of their past civilizations did much harm to the interiors of the continents. Those and the great oceans served as genetic reservoirs, so that each time Irdizu civilization fell, and the natives' numbers plummeted, there were lots of species that could drift into the emptied niches and fill them again. In fact, it's rather startling how quick some recovery times were. As little as a thousand years in one case."

  Yukiko frowned. "I'm beginning to see what you mean. Back at Okuma Base engineers talk about advantages we can offer the Irdizu. With the right tools they could exploit much more territory—" Then she blinked. "Oh . . . and we humans will make our homes in the highlands where we can breathe without machines. But anything we do up there will affect whole watersheds. . . ."

  Minoru shrugged. "Just so."

  They sat in silence. Minoru regretted having spoiled the mood, and was at a loss how to recover their previous high spirits. Idiot, he thought. Can't you ever leave business at the shop?

  But he shouldn't have worried. Yukiko nudged him. "Well, we humans haven't done any harm yet, have we? Never borrow karma from next week, I always say."

  He grinned in response. "A wise woman is a treasure beyond price."

  "And it's a wise man who realizes what outlasts beauty." She answered his smile. "So it should be almost time now, yes? Let's eat!"

  The moot was still in its last phases when they returned to the cook area. But stragglers were already slithering into the clearing to line up in winding queues with clay and wicker utensils. Newcomer females mixed with the locals in apparent conviviality, and Minoru could tell Emile's plan must have worked. For now, at least, all thought of strife had been put aside.

  He fished the zu'unutsus from the coals and gingerly unwrapped the steaming leaves. Balancing their meals on native crockery, he and Yukiko claimed jars of a yeasty native brew that had been deemed only marginally poisonous by Okuma Base doctors . . . no more dangerous than some of the concoctions whipped up aboard the Yamato during the long voyage out.

  When Yukiko inhaled the aroma, then bit into her first roll, the expression on her face was Minoru's reward. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and he heard a soft sob of joy. The ridiculousness of such emotion—to be spent on a mere meal—did not escape her, and she burst out laughing, demurely hiding her mouth behind one hand. Minoru, too, alternately laughed and cried as he savored the rich, delicious flavors.

  Together, silently, they ate and watched Murasaki's Star settle toward the horizon, igniting the western cloud banks with streamers of golden fire.

  At last, wiping his mouth through his helmet's chow-baffle, Minoru commented. "Stupid Spacers. They hurried home with a few chemical samples to patent and sell. So what? If they'd stayed another few months, we could have sent zu'unutsus home with them, and we'd all be rich, Spacer and Yamato crew alike."

  "I'm just as glad that never happened." Yukiko sighed. "For the first time . . . I think I can picture this as my home. I don't even want to share this with Earthlings."

  Then she grinned at the irony of her remark. It felt good, stretched out in the twilight, laughing together and sharing the very first moment two humans drew a full measure of sustenance from Genji and only Genji. "Of course we'll have to plant Earth crops on the highlands, and make orbital farms, and do lots of other things. But it's good to know we can partake of this world, too, if we just search long and hard enough."

  She agreed in silence, but set his heart beating fester by slipping her hand into his.

  The noisy clamor of Irdizu banqueting rose behind them, followed by a round of their strange, atonal singing. Minoru and Yukiko lay contentedly, watching Chujo head slowly from crescent to quarter phase. They barely turned to look when Phs'n'kah waddled up to ask if there was anything more Minoru needed. It seemed several of the newcomer females wanted to serenade Phs'n'kah, tonight, and he had gotten a babysitter for the kids. . . .

  "No, I don't need anything more. You've already earned a bonus today," Minoru assured Phs'n'kah. "Tomorrow, though, I want to get together some of our best foragers and go after some more zu'unutsus! We must learn how to breed them in captivity. Send samples to Okuma Base. . . ."

  Minoru was already thinking how well this might serve as a peace offering to Dr. Sato, and so he rambled on for a while before noticing the stance of the Irdizu male, whose snorkel drooped disconsolately.

  "What's the matter?" Minoru asked through the translator.

  "No more zu'unutsus. All ***. This was the ***."

  Yukiko gasped. But Minoru squeezed her hand and laughed, a little nervously.

  "Oh, come on, I know they weren't plentiful. But surely there must be some hives left in the hills. Or on other islands . . .," he asked hoarsely.

  His voice trailed off as he wished he did not know this Genjian so well. Or that Phs'n'kah weren't so well-known for utter reliability and truthfulness.

  "That is where we had to go to find these," Phs'n'kah answered simply.

  "But . . ." Minoru swallowed. "Are you absolutely sure?"

  Phs'n'kah whirled his snorkel clockwise. "All the best *** foragers took part. We knew it would bond you to us . . . if only you could *** eat of Genji. So we made a vow of ***. We did not fail. Now it is done."

  Minoru sat back against the stone wall with a sigh.

  This was a blow.

  It was inconceivable.

  It was . . .

  Yukiko suddenly giggled. And Minoru could not prevent a flicker of a smile from twitching the corner of his mouth.

  It was . . . horribly hilarious!

  He laughed, saw shared understanding in Yukiko's eyes, and broke up, shaking with guffaws. Of course, he realized as his sides began to hurt. It had to be this way. In order to make this our home, we must do more than partake of its substance . . . we must also share its karma.

  And what better way to do that than to sacrifice the one thing on Genji we might have come to treasure above all others? Above—may the gods forgive us—even the Irdizu?

  What better way to demonstrate what we have to lose?

  Oh, he would do his best to persuade his fellow colonists to establish rules. Traditions that would keep the Earthling share of ecological shame to a minimum. Perhaps they might even help the Irdizu escape the cyclic trap that seemed to have kept them ensnared for so long.

  On the other hand, p
erhaps humans would prove a bane to this world, helping the Genjians complete a job of destruction their own limitations had prevented them from ever finishing before. He would fight to prevent that, but who could predict the future?

  All of that lies ahead, Minoru thought. All that and much more. For well or ill, we are part of this world now. Phs'n'kah was right. This is now our home.

  Yukiko held up the last pair of zu'unutsu rolls, now cold, but still aromatic with a flavor to make the eyes water with delight . . . and irony. "One we save for Emile, of course. Shall we seal and refrigerate the other one for Sato?"

  He took the tender object from her, tore off a morsel, and tossed it into the bay far below. She met his eyes, and reached out to do the same. Then, with his free hand, he helped her stand.

  "Let's save it, all right," he said. "But for a special occasion."

  "Like tonight?" Yukiko smiled. "I know just the thing."

  She took his arm and led him past the singing natives, down through a reed-lined valley, across glistening fens and up to a plateau where a white dome shone with a lamp over the door.

  Minoru glanced back to see Emile dashing to and fro, joyously recording every aspect of the native celebration.

  He probably wouldn't be back for hours.

  The Warm Space

  1.

  Jason Forbs S-62B/129876Rd (bio-human):

  Report at once to Project Lightprobe

  for immediate assumption of duty

  as "Designated Oral Witness Engineer."

  —BY ORDER OF DIRECTOR

  Jason let the flimsy message slip from his fingers, fluttering in the gentle, centrifugal pseudo-gravity of the station apartment. Coriolis force—or perhaps the soft breeze from the wall vents—caused it to drift past the edge of the table and land on the floor of the small dining nook.

  "Are you going to go?" Elaine asked nervously from Jesse's crib, where she had just put the baby down for a nap. Wide eyes made plain her fear.

  "What choice do I have?" Jason shrugged. "My number was drawn. I can't disobey. Not the way the Utilitarian Party has been pushing its weight around. Under the Required Services Act, I'm just another motile, sentient unit, of some small use to the state."

  That was true, as far as it went. Jason did not feel it necessary to add that he had actually volunteered for this mission. There was no point. Elaine would never understand.

  A woman with a child doesn't need to look for justifications for her existence, Jason thought as he gathered what he would need from the closet.

  But I'm tired of being an obsolete, token representative of the Old Race, looked down upon by all the sleek new types. At least this way my kid may be able to say his old man had been good for something, once. It might help Jesse hold his head up in the years to come . . . years sure to be hard for the old style of human being.

  He zipped up his travel suit, making sure of the vac-tight ankle and wrist fastenings. Elaine came to him and slipped into his arms.

  "You could try to delay them," she suggested without conviction . . . System-wide elections are next month. The Ethicalists and the Naturalists have declared a united campaign . . . ."

  Jason stroked her hair, shaking his head. Hope was deadly. They could not afford it.

  "It's no use, Elaine. The Utilitarians are completely in charge out here at the station, as well as nearly everywhere else in the solar system. Anyway, everyone knows the election is a foregone conclusion."

  The words stung, but they were truthful. On paper, it would seem there was still a chance for a change. Biological humans still outnumbered the mechanical and cyborg citizen types, and even a large minority of the latter had misgivings about the brutally logical policies of the Utilitarian Party.

  But only one biological human in twenty bothered to vote anymore.

  There were still many areas of creativity and skill in which mechano-cryo citizens were no better than organics, but a depressing conviction weighed heavily upon the Old Type. They knew they had no place in the future. The stars belonged to the other varieties, not to them.

  "I've got to go." Gently, Jason peeled free of Elaine's arms. He took her face in his hands and kissed her one last time, then picked up his small travel bag and helmet. Stepping out into the corridor, he did not look back to see the tears that he knew were there, laying soft, saltwater history down her face.

  2.

  The quarters for biological human beings lay in the Old Wheel . . . a part of the research station that had grown ever shabbier as Old Style scientists and technicians lost their places to models better suited to the harsh environment of space.

  Once, back in the days when mechano-cryo citizens were rare, the Old Wheel had been the center of excited activity here beyond the orbit of Neptune. The first starships had been constructed by clouds of space-suited humans, like tethered bees swarming over mammoth hives. Giant "slowboats," restricted to speeds far below that of light, had ventured forth from here, into the interstellar night.

  That had been long ago, when organic people had still been important. But even then there were those who had foreseen what was to come.

  Nowhere were the changes of the last century more apparent than here at Project Lightprobe. The Old Type now only served in support roles, few contributing directly to the investigations . . . perhaps the most important in human history.

  Jason's vac-sled was stored in the Old Wheel's north hub airlock. Both sled and suit checked out well, but the creaking outer doors stuck halfway open when he tried to leave. He had to leap over with a spanner and pound the great hinges several times to get them unfrozen. The airlock finally opened in fits and starts.

  Frowning, he remounted the sled and took off again.

  The Old Wheel gets only scraps for maintenance, he thought glumly. Soon there'll be an accident, and the Utilitarians will use it as an excuse to ban organic humans from every research station in the solar system.

  The Old Wheel fell behind as short puffs of gas sent his sled toward the heart of the research complex. For a long time he seemed to ride the slowly rotating wheel's shadow, eclipsing the dim glow of the distant sun.

  From here, Earth-home was an invisible speck. Few ever focused telescopes on the old world. Everyone knew that the future wasn't back there but out here and beyond, with the innumerable stars covering the sky.

  Gliding slowly across the gulf between the Old Wheel and the Complex, Jason had plenty of time to think.

  Back when the old slowboats had set forth from here to explore the nearest systems, it had soon became apparent that only mechanicals and cyborgs were suited for interstellar voyages. Asteroid-sized arks—artificial worldlets capable of carrying entire ecospheres—remained a dream out of science fiction, economically beyond reach. Exploration ships could be sent much farther and faster if they did not have to carry the complex artificial environments required by old style human beings.

  By now ten nearby stellar systems had been explored, all by crews consisting of "robo-humans." There were no plans to send any other kind, even if, or when, Earth-like planets were discovered. It just wouldn't be worth the staggering investment required.

  That fact, more than anything else, had struck at the morale of biological people in the solar system. The stars, they realized, were not for them. Resignation led to a turning away from science and the future. Earth and the "dirt" colonies were apathetic places, these days. Utilitariansism was the guiding philosophy of the times.

  Jason hadn't told his wife his biggest reason for volunteering for this mission. He was still uncertain he understood it very well himself. Perhaps he wanted to show people that a biological citizen could still be useful, and contribute to the advance of knowledge.

  Even if it were by a task so humble as a suicide mission.

  He saw the Lightship ahead, just below the shining spark of Sirius, a jet-black pearl half a kilometer across. Already he could make out the shimmering of its fields as its mighty engines were tuned for the experiment ah
ead.

  The technicians were hoping that this time it would work. But even if it failed again, they were determined to go on trying. Faster-than-light travel was not something anyone gave up on easily, especially a robot with a life-span of five hundred years. The dream, and the obstinacy to pursue it, was a strong inheritance from the parent race.

  Next to the black experimental probe, with its derricks and workshops, was the towering bulk of the Central Cooling Plant, by far the largest object in the complex. Jason's rickety vac-sled puffed beneath the majestic globe, shining in the sky like a great silvery planet.

  On this, the side facing the sun, the cooling globe's reflective surface was nearly perfect. On the other side, a giant array of fluid-filled radiators stared out on to intergalactic space, chilling liquid helium down to the basic temperature of the universe—a few degrees above absolute zero.