Existence (92 page)

Gavin now accepted the idea of a “habitat” area, deep inside the asteroid, where biological creatures once dwelled. He made her pause just outside an armored hatchway that had been torn and twisted off its hinges back when terrestrial mammals were tiny, just getting their big start.

“Ready? You are not gonna believe this.”

“Gavin. Show me.”

With a gallant arm gesture and bow—that seemed only slightly sarcastic—he floated aside for Tor to enter yet another stone chamber …

… only this one was different. Along the far wall lay piles of objects, all of them glittering under the dim glare of a ship spotlight. Glassy globes, ovoids, cylinders, lenses, discs …

“Chocolate-covered buddha on a stick,” she sighed, staring at heaps of alien crystal emissary probes. “… there must be hundreds!”

“Three hundred and fourteen, to be exact. Plus another hundred or so in a storage cell, next door.” Tor’s partner was watching her reaction with unblinking eyes that still seemed to shine with pleasure. It would take some time to get used to this spare head of his, which was blocky and old-fashioned, replacing the one blasted to vapor by an ambushing FACR. Thank heavens Gavin’s model of aindroid kept its brain inside its chest.

She drift-hopped closer to the pile of space-fomites, many of them types that looked new to her, illuminated for the first time in at least fifty million years. Already, she could make out
changes
taking place inside many of them—faint ripples of cloudy color—glimmers of reaction to the sudden reappearance of light, however dim.

They’re aware of us …
she could tell.
And of each other.

“So,” Gavin murmured happily. “Does this mean we’re rich?”

Tor had to smile, though no one had seen the expression on her real face, what was left of it, since the
Spirit of Chula Vista
. Her outer visage made a good facsimile of an indulgent grin.

“Well, that depends. How many sample artifacts do they have on Earth?”

Gavin’s percept was faster than hers, collecting data from the
Warren Kimbel.

“A couple thousand,” he replied. “But most of those are damaged or in pieces. Only forty-eight fully pristine specimens are known and under public study. We’ll increase the total by a factor of ten! That, plus our haul from the replication yard, plus the data and salvaged parts of the FACR and … well? Won’t our investors be delighted? Aren’t we
made
?”

If he were a coolly superior cryogenic mind, only pretending to be “human,” wouldn’t Gavin have stopped there?

But he didn’t. With eagerness that seemed impulsive and just a little poignant, Gavin added, “Can we go home now?”

Tor shook her inner head in sympathy, a gesture that the outer shell matched perfectly.

“Remember what happened to the markets for gold, silver, and platinum, when the first big asteroid smelter opened? Most of the mines on Earth shut down or converted to amusement parks and nature preserves. That’s what we’ve done here, Gavin.

“Oh, we’ll be rewarded! It’s a valuable find. This will help humanity to further compare stories told by different fomite factions, getting more of them debating each other. It may let us do experiments that were forbidden when the things were rare. But there’s a downside. The price-per-crystal will plummet.

“We’re rich, partner. Just not
that
rich. Not rich enough to turn our backs on whatever else lies buried here. Besides, doesn’t this raise a pretty darn important question?”

“What question?” He seemed a little downcast now. “Oh, you mean how all these things wound up collected down here? Who gathered them, and why? I guess that’s pretty…”

He swiveled, bright eyes meeting hers. “The FACR. Maybe it was trying to keep us from—”

“—discovering and harvesting this trove? Or else from answering that question of
why.
Yep, Gavin. We have to stay. This isn’t about money or investors. It’s the mystery that brought us out here. We’ve got to see this through.”

His answering sigh—just a set of reflex movements and sounds, having nothing to do with inhaling and exhaling air—conveyed resignation. Could it be feigned? To what purpose? No, the disappointment was real. Clearly, and despite surface elation over his discovery, Gavin didn’t want to be here anymore.

Tor reached out. Squeezed a robotic arm with her prosthetic right hand, using her best big-sister voice.

“It’s a terrific find, Gavin. You and I
are
richer. Humanity benefits. And you’ll be in history books.”

“History books. Really?” He seemed to brighten a bit.

“Yes, really. Now it’s your turn to go back and rest. I’ll take my own shift, starting right here.”

*   *   *

Alone with her assisting drones, Tor plumbed deeper into the catacombs, feeling a rising sense of eagerness—the flip side of Gavin’s foreboding. Clearly, the heart of the habitat zone lay near.
Unless there’s some other explanation for why the Mother Probe would go to so much effort, creating Earth-like conditions deep within an asteroid? What if the purpose wasn’t to send new life-forms down to the planet, but to take up samples and keep them alive here?

That notion—some kind of life ark—had appeal on an aesthetic level … and made no logical sense. Still, it was good to try alternatives on for size.

The faint glow of bulbs faded as the drones grew stingier, stapling new ones to the wall at longer intervals. Her helmet beam adjusted accordingly.

Tor knew that nothing lived down here anymore. There were no energy readings—not even enough to power a gel-lens. Yet, with brain and guts that evolved on savannah half a billion miles away, and with memory of the FACR battle still fresh, she felt shivers of the old fight-flight fever.

Breath came rapidly. In this kind of place there
must
be ghosts.

Tor mapped outward from a three-way meeting of passages. The first pair of tunnels terminated in chambers filled with jumbled debris—machinery that was blasted to ruin ages ago, when conflict wracked this asteroid from end to end. A struggle that grew more vividly evident when Tor plumbed the third passage, pushing along a hundred meters of soot-stained corridor. Till her lamp shone across a scene of stark, frozen violence.

Hold still,
she commanded her body. Head movements made the vacuum-sharp shadows ripple and shift, giving a frightening impression of movement. With upraised hand she kept her drones back.

Five or six ancient machines lay jumbled together, petrified in their final, death grapple. All bore slashes, cuts, or scorch marks. Loose metal limbs and other parts lay scattered about. Despite the damned shadows, nothing was
actually
moving. A 3-D mapping reassured Tor that everything was dead, allowing her pulse to wind down.

Evidently some machines took refuge down here, but war followed. Tor felt funny drift-walking past them, but dissection of alien devices could wait. She chose one passage that a pair of machines appeared to have died defending, motioning her drones to follow.

The tunnel ramped gently downward in the little worldlet’s faint gravity … till Tor had to step lightly over the wreckage of yet another ancient airlock, peering into pitch-blackness of the next yawning cavity. A stark, headlamp oval fell upon nearby facets of sheared, platinum-colored chondrules—shiny little gobs of native metal that condensed out of the early solar nebula, nearly five billion years before. They glittered delicately. But she could not illuminate the large chamber’s far wall.

Tor motioned with her left hand. “Drone X, bring up lights.”

“Yesss,” replied a dull monotone. Stilt-legged, it stalked delicately over the rubble disturbing as little as possible. It swiveled. Suddenly there was stark illumination. And Tor gasped.

Across the dust-covered chamber were easily recognizable objects.
Tables and chairs,
carved from the very rock floor. And among them lay the prize she had been hunting … and Gavin wanted to avoid—

—dozens of small mummies.

Biped evidently, huddled together as if for warmth in this, their final refuge. Cold vacuum had preserved the alien colonists, though faceted, insectlike eyes had collapsed with the departure of all moisture. Pulled-back flesh, as dry as space, left the creatures grinning—a rictus that mocked the eons.

Tor set foot lightly on the dust. “They even had little ones,” she sighed. Several full-size mummies lay slumped around smaller figures, shielding them at the very end.

“They must have been nearly ready for colonization when this happened,” she spoke into her percept log, partly to keep her mind moving, but also for the audience back home. They’d want the texture of the moment—her first words laced with genuine emotion.

“We’ve already determined their habitat atmosphere was close to Earth’s. So it’s a safe bet our world was their target. Back when our own ancestors were like tree squirrels.”

She turned slowly, reciting more impressions.

“This kind of interstellar mission must have been unusually ambitious and complicated, even for the ornate robot ships of that earlier age. Instead of just exploring and making further self-copies, the ‘Mother Probe’ had a mission to
recreate her makers
here in a faraway solar system. To nurture and prepare them for a new planetary home. A solution to the problem of interstellar colonization by organic beings.”

Tor tried to stay detached, but it was hard to do, while stepping past the little mummies, still clutching each other as at the end of their lives.

“It must have taken quite a while to delve into this asteroid, to carve chambers, refine raw materials, then build machines needed in order to build more machines that eventually made colonists, according to genetic codes the Mother Probe brought from some distant star.

“Perhaps the Mother Probe was programmed to
modify
that code so colonists would better suit whatever planet was available. That modification would take even more time to…”

Tor stopped suddenly. “Oh my,” she sighed, staring.

“Oh my God.”

Where her headlamp illuminated a new corner of the chamber, two more mummies lay slumped before a sheer-faced wall. In their delicate, vacuum dried hands Tor saw dusty metal tools, the simplest known anywhere.

Hammers and chisels.

Tor blinked at what they had been creating. She stared a little more, then cleared her throat, before clicking a tooth.

“Gavin? Are you awake?”

After a few seconds there came an answer.

“Hmmmph. Yeah, Tor. I was in the cleaner though. What’s up? You need air or something? You sound short of breath.”

Tor made an effort to calm herself … to suppress the reactions of an evolved ape—far, far from home.

“Uh, Gavin, I think you better come down here.… I found them.”

“Found who?” he muttered. Then came an exclamation. All his former ambivalence seemed to vanish. “The colonists!”

“Yeah. And … and something else, as well.”

This time, there was hardly a pause.

“Hang on, Tor. I’m on my way.”

She was standing in the same spot when he arrived ten minutes later. Still staring at her discovery.

THE LONELY SKY

Lurker Challenge Number Seven

Let’s suppose you’ve monitored our TV, radio, Internet and the reason you don’t speak is that
you enjoy watching.

Perhaps you draw entertainment from our painful struggles to survive and grow. Worse, you may be profiting off our cultural, scientific and artistic riches without reciprocating or paying anything. Maybe you repackage and transmit them elsewhere. In that case, there’s a word for what you’re doing.

*   *   *

It’s called stealing.

Stop it now. We assert ownership over our culture, and a right to share it only with those who share in turn. In the name of whatever law or moral code applies out there—and by our own rules of fair-play—we want
quid pro quo
! Do not take without giving or paying in return.

We hereby assert and demand any rights we may have, to benefit from our creativity and culture.

80.

LURKERS

Tor has figured out that Seeders had one purpose. Planting sapient biologicals on suitable worlds.

Once, it was relatively common. But that variety of probe had mostly died out when a member of my line last tapped into the slow galactic gossip network, three generations ago. I doubt Makers still send emissaries instructed to colonize far planets. The galaxy has grown too dangerous for elaborate, old-fashioned Seeders.

Has my little Earthling guessed this yet, as she moves among those failed colonists, who died under their collapsing Mother Probe so long ago? Would Tor Povlov understand why this Seeder in particular, and her children, had to die, before establishing a colony on Earth? Empathy can be strong in an organic race. Probably, she thinks their destruction a horrible crime. Greeter and Awaiter would agree.

That is why I hide my part in it.

There are eddies and tides in the galaxy’s sweeping whirl. And though we survivors are all members of the Old Loyalist coalition—having eked a narrow victory in that long-ago war—there are quirks and variations in every alliance. If one lives long, one eventually plays the role of betrayer.

… What a curious choice of words! Have I been watching too much Earth television? Or read too many human e-braries? Is this what comes from wallowing through the creatures’ wildly undisciplined online discussions?

While pondering all this, I must endure another irritating distraction, as Tor’s automatic system continues rebroadcasting the old “Challenge-to-ET” messages. And now, by sardonic happenstance, we’re at the ones regarding
meddling
and
theft,
insisting that we stop. A defiant demand that stabs at all of us out here, we enduring castaways who have immersed in Earth culture for almost two centuries without paying anything back.

Again, what choice of words! It makes me wonder: Have I acquired a sense of
guilt
? If true, then so be it. Studying such feelings may help allay boredom after this phase ends and another long watch begins. If I survive.