Rollback (28 page)

"Of course, we'd create it in a biologically secure facility," said Sarah. "Besides, what would be the point of sending such a thing?"

"The message says the individuals whose genomes have been provided are alive on Sigma Draconis II," said Gunter. "Or, at least they were when this message was sent. They hope to converse with their clones here, albeit with a 37.6-year round-trip message time."

"So the source Dracons back home are like the parents?" asked Don. Through the window opposite him, he could see that the sun was coming up.

"In a way," said Sarah. "And they're looking for foster parents here."

"Ah, yes. The questionnaire!"

"Right," she said. "If you were going to have someone raise your children, you'd want to know something about them first. And, I guess, of all the answers they received, they liked mine best; they want me to raise the children."

"My ... God," said Don. "I mean ... my God."

Sarah shrugged a little. "I guess that's why they cared about things like the" rights of the parent who wasn't actually carrying the child."

"And the abortion questions—were they to make sure we wouldn't get cold feet and terminate the fetuses?"

"Maybe. That would certainly be one interpretation. But remember, they liked my answers, and although I was willing to concede rights to the parent who wasn't carrying the child, the rest of my answers must have made it pretty darn clear that I'm pro-choice."

"Why would that make them happy?"

"Maybe they wanted to see if we've transcended Darwin."

"Huh?"

"You know, if we've gotten past being driven by selfish genes. I mean, in a way, being pro-choice
is
anti-Darwinian, because it tends to reduce your reproductive success, assuming you terminate normal fetuses that you could have raised, without unreasonable cost, to adulthood. Doing that would be one psychological marker for no longer being bound by Darwinian notions, for having broken free of mindless genetic programming, for ceasing to be a lifeform driven by genes that want nothing but to reproduce themselves."

"I get it," said Don, watching now as the window autopolarized in response to the rising sun. "If all you care about are your own genes then, by definition, you don't care about aliens."

"Right," said Sarah. "Notice they asked for a thousand survey replies. That means they knew we wouldn't have just one set of views. Remember, you used to say that alien races either would become hive minds or totalitarian, because, after a certain level of technological sophistication is reached, they simply couldn't survive any longer if they allowed the kind of discontent that gives rise to terrorism. But there must be some third alternative—something better than being Borg or having thought police. The aliens on Sigma Draconis apparently knew they would be dealing with complex, contradictory individuals. And they looked at the thousand responses and decided that they didn't want anything to do with human beings in general—they only wanted to communicate with one oddball." She paused. "I guess I'm not surprised, since most of the sets of survey answers
did
suggest ethnocentrism, exclusive concern about one's own genetic material, and so on."

"But knowing you, yours didn't suggest those things. And that's what makes you the one they want to be the foster mother, right?"

"Which surprises the heck out of me," Sarah said.

But Don shook his head. "It shouldn't, you know. I told you this ages ago. You're special. And you are. SETI, by its very nature, transcends species boundaries. Remember that conference you attended in Paris, all those years ago? What was it called?"

"I don't..."

Gunter spoke up. " 'Encoding Altruism: The Art and Science of Interstellar Message Composition.'" Don looked at the Mozo, who did a mechanical shrug. "I've read Sarah's CV, of course."

" 'Encoding altruism,'" repeated Don. "Exactly. That's the fundamental basis of SETI. And, well, you were the only SETI researcher whose answers were sent to Sigma Draconis. Is it any wonder that the recipients, who, by definition, are also in the SETI business, found your responses to be the closest to what they were looking for?"

"I suppose. But..."

"Yes?"

"My child-rearing days are way behind me. Not that that's unusual, I suppose, in a cosmic sense."

Don frowned. "Huh?"

"Well, Cody McGavin was probably right. The Dracons, and just about every other race that survives technological adolescence, almost certainly is very long lived, if not out-and-out immortal. And unless you're endlessly expansionist, moving out to conquer new worlds constantly, you'd soon run out of room if you kept breeding
and
lived forever. The Dracons have probably all but given up reproducing."

"I guess that makes sense."

Sarah's eyebrows went up. "In fact,
that
might be the third alternative!"

"Huh?"

"Evolution is a blind process," said Sarah. "It has no goal in mind, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have a logical outcome. It selects for aggression, for physical force, for being protective of one's blood relations—for all the things that ultimately contribute to technological races destroying themselves. So maybe the Fermi paradox isn't a paradox at all. Maybe it's the natural result of evolution. Evolution eventually gives rise to technology, which has a survival value
up to a point
—but once technologies of mass destruction are readily available, the psychology that the Darwinian engine forces on lifeforms almost inevitably leads to their downfall."

"But if you stop breeding—"

"Exactly! If you voluntarily opt out of evolution, if you cease to struggle to get more copies of your own DNA out there, you probably give up a lot of aggression."

"I guess that does beat becoming a hive mind or totalitarian," said Don. "But—but, wait! They're reproducing now, in a way, by sending their DNA here."

"But only two individuals."

"Maybe they breed like rabbits, though. Maybe it's a way of launching an invasion."

"That's not a concern," Gunter said. "The two individuals are both of the same sex."

"But you said the source Dracons were pair-bonded..." Don stopped himself. "Right, of course. How provincial of me. Well, well, well..." He looked at Sarah. "So what are you going to do?"

"I—I don't know. I mean, it's not like the artificial womb and incubator are things you and I could cobble together out in the garage."

Don frowned. "But if you tell the world, governments will try to control the process, and—forgive me, but they'll probably try to squeeze you out."

"Exactly," said Sarah. "The Dracons surely understand that upbringing is a combination of nature and nurture. They wanted a specific sort of person to be responsible for the ... the Draclings. Besides, if the genome gets out, who's to say that others wouldn't create Dracons just to dissect them, or put them in zoos?"

"But once the child is born, anyone could steal its DNA, no? Just by picking up some of its cells."

"They might be able to get that, but not the plans for the incubator or all the other things. Without actual access to the full message, it would be very hard to create a Dracon." She paused, considering. "No, we have to keep this secret. The Dracons entrusted the information to me, and I've got an obligation to protect it."

Don rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Maybe—but there'll be those who'll say you should release all the information. They'll say your principal obligation is to your own kind."

But Sarah shook her head. "No," she said. "It isn't. That's the whole point."
 

"It's important," Sarah said a few hours later, "that you commit to memory the decryption key—not the whole thing, of course, but how to recover it."

Don nodded. They were sitting in their kitchen, eating a late breakfast. He was now dressed in a T-shirt and jeans; she was wearing a robe and slippers.

"My survey was number 312 out of the thousand sent," she said, "and I changed my answer to one of the questions at the very last minute. It was question forty-six, and the answer I actually sent was 'no.' Got that?"

"Three-twelve, forty-six, and no. Can I write that down somewhere?"

"As long as you don't put any explanatory text with it, sure."

"So number forty-six was the magic question? The one the Dracons cared about the most?"

"What? No, no. It just happened to be the one I changed my answer to. The key consists of all eighty-four of my answers exactly as I actually transmitted them. Any time you need the key you can reproduce it by looking up the archival copies of what was supposedly sent to Sigma Draconis, and making that one change."

"Got it."

"Now, make sure you keep it secret!"

He looked across the table at his wife, who seemed visibly older, and not just because she'd gotten very little sleep. Over the last few weeks, she had aged noticeably. "I, ah, don't think we can keep it secret from
everybody
," he said. "I really think you need to tell Cody McGavin."

Sarah was hugging a cup of coffee with both hands. "Why?"

"Because he's one of the richest people on the planet. And a project like this is going to take deep pockets. Synthesizing the DNA, building the womb, building the incubator, synthesizing the food, and, I'm sure, lots of other things. You need somebody like him to come on board."

Sarah was quiet.

"You have to tell
someone
," Don said. "You'll..."

He trailed off, but she nodded. "I'll die soon. I know." She paused, considering, and Don knew enough to just let her do that. After a time she said, "Yeah, you're right. Let's call him."

Don crossed the room, got the cordless handset, and told it who he wanted to speak to. After a few rings, a crisp, efficient voice came on. "McGavin Robotics. Office of the president."

"Hello, Ms. Hashimoto," Don said. "It's Donald Halifax."

Her voice became slightly cold. They had, after all, butted heads repeatedly during his many attempts to reach McGavin back in the spring. "Yes, Mr. Halifax?"

"Don't worry. I'm not calling about the rollback. And, in fact, it's not me who's calling at all. I just dialed the phone for my wife, Sarah. She'd like to speak to Mr. McGavin about the Dracon message."

"Ah," said Ms. Hashimoto. "That would be fine. Please hold. I'll put you through."

Don covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Sarah. "She's putting the call through." Sarah motioned for him to give her the phone, but he held up a hand, palm out. After a moment, the familiar Bostonian accent came on. "Cody McGavin speaking."

"Mr. McGavin," said Don, with great relish, "please hold for Dr. Sarah Halifax." He then counted silently to ten before handing the handset to Sarah, who was grinning from ear to ear.

"Hello, Mr. McGavin," Sarah said.

Don moved close enough so that he could hear both sides of the conversation. It wasn't hard, given that the handset had automatically pumped up its volume when Sarah had taken it. "Sarah, how are you?" McGavin said.

"I'm fine. And I've got big news. I've decrypted the Dracon message."

Don could practically hear McGavin jumping up and down. "Wonderful! What does it say?"

"I—I don't want to say over the phone."

"Oh, come on, Sarah—"

"No, no. You never know who's eavesdropping."

"God, all right. We'll fly you down here again, and—"

"Um, could you come here? I'm not really feeling up to flying these days."

Don could hear McGavin blowing out air. "It's our annual stockholders' meeting in two days. There's no way I can come up until after that's over."

"All right," said Sarah. "How about Friday, then?"

"Well, I could. But can't you just email me the decryption key, so I can look at the message here?"

"No. I'm not prepared to divulge it."

"What?"

"The message was intended for me alone," Sarah said.

There was a long pause. Don could only imagine the incredulous look that must be on McGavin's face.

"Sarah, is, um, is Don still there? Maybe I could have a word with him..."

"I'm not senile, Mr. McGavin. What I'm saying is absolutely true. If you want to know what the message says, you're going to have to come here."

"Oh, all right, but—"

"And don't tell anyone that I've found the decryption key. You have to promise to keep this secret, at least until you get here."

"All right. Let me get the details of where you are..."

After she got off the phone, Don looked around. "Gunter does such a good job of keeping the place clean, I guess there's not much we have to do to get ready for McGavin's visit."

"There is one thing," Sarah said. "I want you to take the Dracon survey."

Don was surprised. "Why?"

She didn't quite meet his eyes. "We'll be talking a lot with McGavin about it. You should be up to speed on it."

"I'll read it over."

"No, don't just do that." She sounded emphatic. "Actually fill it out."

He raised his eyebrows. "If you like."

"I do. Go get your datacom; you can download a copy from the official response website."

He nodded. It was hardly as though he had anything better to do. "All right."

Once he'd loaded the survey, he lay down on the couch and started working through the questions. It took almost two hours, but finally he called out, "Done!"

Sarah made her way slowly into the living room, and he handed her the datacom. "Now what?" he said.

She looked at the device. "Save as 'Answers Don,'" she said to it. "Run Flaxseed. Load Answers Don. Load and unlock Answers Sarah Revised—passphrase 'Aeolus 14 umbra.' Execute."

"What are you doing?" Don said, sitting up. "What's 'Flaxseed'?"

"It's a program an ethics prof designed years ago, when we were studying the million-plus sets of survey responses that were uploaded to our website. It measures the degree of agreement between respondents. See, comparing survey responses is a bit tricky. Many of the eighty-four questions have four or five possible answers, or use graduated scales, so you can't just look for exact matches—two answers that are different might only be subtly different. A person who chooses 'A might be thinking along the same lines as someone who chose 'B,' while someone who picked 'C' clearly has a different mind-set."