Double Contact (9 page)

The captain nodded and showed its teeth. “Three of them,” it said. “The first is that you should rest and clear your body and mind more often. The second and third are, how soon can we meet, and where?”

Less than an hour later Prilicla was watching the captain's Earth-human hands beside his as they began the reexamination of the strange life-form, and suddenly he remembered his odd waking dream. He was about to mention it, then had second thoughts. The captain was not the sort of person with whom one discussed one's dreams.

CHAPTER 9

Murchison reported that the condition of the three casualties remained stable, and asked permission to go along to assist with the forensic examination. It had insisted that as an other-species pathologist its field covered all forms of intelligent life, and not just the organic variety. Prilicla had heard few lamer excuses for satisfying professional curiosity, which in Murchison's case was every bit as intense as that of the captain and himself, but he had agreed. Murchison was his principal assistant and the person most likely to inherit the senior medical officer's position on
Rhabwar
—and besides, he was curious to see how it dealt with a totally new situation.

That was why most of the talking was being done into the recorder by Captain Fletcher, with Murchison making an occasional interjection, while Prilicla spent long periods saying nothing at all. Following a meticulous examination with the special scanner provided by Lieutenant Chen—a scanner normally used to detect obscure symptoms deep inside ailing machinery—the captain straightened up, placed the instrument gently on the deck, and spoke with feelings of excitement and enthusiasm.

“This creature, entity, artifact, or whatever,” it said, “displays a degree of design and structural sophistication well beyond the Federation's present capabilities—if it was, in fact, built by anyone or anything but itself. The internal circuitry and actuator mechanisms are so incredibly fine and intricate that at first I couldn't recognize them for what they are. This thing wasn't just put together by watchmakers but by the mechanical equivalent of a microsurgery team. I've traced several of the peripheral nerve networks to a processing area in the central body which seems to house the brain and heart equivalents. I can't be sure of this because that location has been damaged and the contents fused by the heat and radiation discharge that destroyed the creature. The sensory circuits underlying the surface in the same area have also been burned out, probably by the same agency, which may or may not have been a wide-focus heat weapon of some kind.

“But there is clear evidence throughout the whole body,” it went on, “of a highly developed self-repair capability of apparently indefinite duration. Until it sustained that blast injury, this thing would have been capable of regeneration and growth. Any organism that can do that is technically alive.”

Prilicla had a question but Murchison asked it for him. Quickly it said, “Are you sure that your subject isn't alive now?”

“Don't worry, ma'am,” the captain replied. “How sure would you be if your subject's brain and heart had been burned to a crisp? Besides, its muscles—I mean its actuator linkages—are designed for light, precise work and are not all that robust. Physically it would not represent a serious threat”—it smiled—“except possibly to Dr. Prilicla.”

Murchison returned the other's smile, because practically everything larger than an Earth kitten was a serious threat to Prilicla.

“Something else is worrying me,” Murchison said, “I watched your internal scanner examination, Captain, and saw that the subject's body is solidly packed with circuitry, metal musculature, and sensory receptors. But why is it that particular shape?”

Fletcher remained silent, radiating the confusion and impatience characteristic of a mind that had been expecting a different question.

“Robotics isn't my specialty,” Murchison went on, “but isn't it usual for one to be mechanically more functional? I mean, shouldn't it basically be a box with loco-motor appendages simpler and more versatile than the six limbs we are seeing here; with a variety of specialized manipulators sprouting out of the body without regard to aesthetic balance; and with all-around visual sensors instead of just two in the head section? If this thing had been normally organic we would classify it as a CHLI. Rather than adopting a functional robotic shape, it seems clear that this body configuration is decidedly organimorphic. My question is, why would a nonorganic intelligence copy itself on a CHLI?”

“Sorry, ma'am,” the captain replied, looking and feeling apologetic. “I have no answers, just a wild guess.”

Murchison nodded and said, “Which is?”

The captain hesitated, then said, “This isn't my field, either. But think about the evolution of an organic life-form as opposed to that of an intelligent machine. Ignoring the religious perspective, the first begins as an accidental grouping of simple, cellular forms which takes several millions of years of environmental adaptation with other competing species to become the dominant intelligence. The second doesn't do anything like that because, no matter how long it is given, a simple tool like a monkey wrench can never evolve through the intermediate stage of a lawn mower to become a superintelligent computer, at least, not without outside help. That simple tool has to be created by someone in the first place, and at some later stage the creator has to provide the machine with self-awareness and intelligence. Only then would there be the possibility of further self-evolution.

“I'm speculating, of course,” the captain went on, “but a further possibility is that the beings who first bestowed on their machines the gift of self-aware, intelligent life are a permanent part of their racial memory—or inherited design—and that they were made, or in gratitude made the choice to remain, in their CHLI creators' image.”

“In your opinion, friend Fletcher,” Prilicla asked, “would this entity have been capable of disabling a starship?”

“No, Doctor,” the captain replied firmly. “At least, not directly. Although composed of metal with plastic-insulated circuitry, the appendages were designed for precise and delicate work rather than hard labor or fighting, although there would have been nothing to stop it using those digits, as we DBDGs have been known to do, to operate a variety of destructive weapons. I'll be looking for anything like that when I'm searching the ship. All the evidence points to our robot friend being dead on arrival, and the type of heat and blast injuries it sustained were too unfocused to be caused by a Corps hand-weapon.

“And now,” it went on, looking at the opened seams in the hull plating of the ship all around them, “I have to examine the body of a larger, metal cadaver, one that is more familiar to me.”

Prilicla used his antigravity belt to move outside and fly forward to the control deck while Murchison stayed with the captain, both to satisfy its curiosity and to help move aside troublesome debris. There was minimal risk because both of them were experienced in negotiating ship wreckage, and he was pleased that neither their voices in his headset nor their feelings indicated that they were taking risks.

When they rejoined him, the two crescents of facial fur above the captain's eyes, and its emotional radiation, were indicating extreme puzzlement.

“I don't understand this,” it said, gesturing aft. “Discounting the effects of atmospheric heating and buffeting on the hull on the way down, the ship's systems and linkages—power, guidance, life support—are all in pretty good mechanical order. Why should one of the officers have had to go aft to operate the main thrusters on manual? But that is what he did, and the answer has to be here somewhere in control.”

“Including, friend Fletcher,” said Prilicla, “the reason why the casualties wanted us to stay away from their ship?”

“That, too, Doctor,” it replied. “And thank you for the reminder and gentle warning, which I'm pretty sure is unnecessary. Pathologist Murchison reported earlier that, apart from their severe burn trauma, there is nothing clinically abnormal about the patients' condition. On the way here she also told me that the only microbes present were the usual harmless, Earth-human bugs that came on board with them and were trapped in the air-circulation system, plus a few airborne varieties native to this world which cannot cross the planetary species barrier and so need not concern us.

“I agree with everyone exercising a high degree of caution,” it went on, its feelings if not its voice registering impatience, “but surely it is no longer necessary to wear sealed suits, or for your team to continue working in an isolated, prefabricated unit with limited facilities rather than on
Rhabwar
's casualty deck. There is nothing to threaten us here.”

“It must be nice,” said Murchison, radiating sarcasm, “to feel so sure of yourself.”

“Friend Fletcher,” Prilicla said quickly, in an attempt to reduce its growing irritation and head off a possible exchange of verbal violence, “no doubt you are quite right in everything you've said, but I, for physiological reasons that have made my people a species of arrant cowards, am extremely cautious. Please humor me.”

The captain nodded and its feelings once again became calmly analytical as it began its examination of the damaged control consoles around them. It trained the vision pickup on each and every item and discussed its observations for the recorders. Apart from a few minutes checking with Naydrad on the condition of the casualties, they watched in silence the progress of a technically-oriented postmortem as painstakingly thorough as any the pathologist had performed on organic cadavers. Prilicla had always derived pleasure from watching an expert at work, and he knew that his feelings of appreciation and admiration were being shared by Murchison. But finally the work was done and the captain was staring at them with an expression and emotions that could only be described as a large and perplexed question mark.

“This doesn't make sense,” it said. “The main and secondary computer systems are down. That shouldn't happen. They are strongly encased, protected physically and electronically in case of damage during a major malfunction or collision. They perform the function of the black boxes in atmosphere craft so that, in the event of an accident, the investigators have some idea of what went wrong. But there was nothing structurally wrong with
Terragar
except that all its computers are dead, or as good as. This is ridiculous. With all our fail-safe systems and protective devices, that should not have happened.…”

It broke off for a moment, then with a sudden burst of emotion intense enough to make Prilicla tremble it said, “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“We're not telepaths, friend Fletcher,” said Prilicla gently. “You'll have to tell us what you're thinking.”

“I'd rather not tell you anything just yet,” said the captain, “in case I'd be making a complete fool of myself.” It reached into its equipment satchel and indicated one of the consoles whose plastic trim was only slightly heat-discolored. “There may still be some life left in that one. Instead of talking to you, maybe I'll be able to demonstrate my idea with this tester. The instrument has a small screen so you'll have to move closer. But don't touch it, or allow any of your equipment to make contact with it. That is very important. Do you understood?”

“We understand, friend Fletcher,” said Prilicla.

“We think,” Murchison added.

With the pathologist's feeling of bewilderment matching his own, they watched in silence as the captain expertly removed the console cover to lay bare the underlying circuitry. Then with a magnetic clamp it attached the tester to a convenient bulkhead, activated the display screen, unreeled one of the device's many probes, and went slowly and carefully to work. If it had been a sick patient rather than a malfunctioning machine, Prilicla thought, the other's movements could not have been more delicate or precise.

Many minutes passed while the display screen remained lit but blank, then suddenly it flickered and a schematic diagram appeared. The captain bent closer, excitement diluting its intense concentration.

“I'm into the ship's main computer now,” it said, “and there's something there. But I don't recognize the … what the hell!”

The image was breaking up and generating random, geometrical lines and shapes that were drifting off the four edges of the screen until all that remained was an expanse of sparkling white noise. The captain swore and jabbed at several of its control studs without result. Even the green
POWER ON
light was dead.

The type and intensity of the captain's emotional radiation was beginning to worry Prilicla. He said, “Something has happened, friend Fletcher. What is troubling you?”

“My tester just died,” said the captain. Suddenly it grabbed the instrument in both hands, raised it high above its head and slammed it downwards with all of its strength against the deck before adding, “And I was expecting it to happen, dammit!”

“Temper, Captain,” said Murchison, radiating irritation and surprise as it bent down to pick up the remains of the device.

“No!” said Fletcher urgently. “Stay away from it. Probably there's no physical danger to yourselves because it's dead, defunct. But don't touch it until we know the technical reason for what happened here.”

“Which was what?” said Prilicla.

He spoke very gently because the other's feelings were confused, fearful, excited, and radiating all over the emotional spectrum. It was an unprecedented mental condition for the usually calm and imperturbable captain to display. Murchison's feeling of irritation at the other's brusque manner was being replaced by the clinical calm of a physician towards someone who might shortly become a patient. But before the captain could reply, there was an interruption from Naydrad speaking on their headsets.