The Unearthing (44 page)

“No, but what happens if the Ship wakes up and decides to swat the mosquito?” Bloom countered, “We’ve seen that the Ship has a pretty big hand. I don’t want to have it coming at me.” Kodo frowned, as he looked around the hall.

“Look Doctor Kodo,” Bloom said, “I can clear PET and CT scans, even MRIs, if you want them. But I don’t think we should take invasive action without the World Ship Summit’s approval. Not given the power that the Ship’s demonstrated.” Bloom’s linx chimed.

“Bloom here,” She said, toggling open the channel.

“Colonel it’s Doctor Aiziz; we’ve begun a direct dialogue with the Ship.”

♦♦♦

Paulson and Benedict were crouched over a pile of photonic systems components, making modifications to a high-power microwave relay. They were in the Pyramid, trying to align their relay with its twin in the First Chamber and complete a signal network between the Ship and Fort Arapaho.

“I really wish James were here,” Paulson said, “He’s the real tech hound. He’d have had this whole relay up and running, by now.”

“That’s James Johnson?” Benedict asked, “He’s the one who sent the signal from Laguna to INN about the Unearthing, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter replied, “But it wouldn’t have made a lick of difference if Concord Three hadn’t sent that signal.” Benedict smiled.

“I hear they only got out a partial feed,” He said.

“That’s not what I heard,” Paulson said, “But no, James did get a good, strong signal out to INN; and he cracked into a portable US Army Grid backbone to do it.”

“That’s no easy feat,” Benedict said, as they completed calibrations on the microwave relay’s signal beacon, “In fact, before your friend James did it, there were experts who would have said it was impossible. It sounds to me like you miss him.”

“I miss him a lot,” Peter affirmed, “I haven’t spoken to him since the Prof’s funeral. I tried linxing him, but he hasn’t been getting back to me.” They worked in silence a few more minutes before standing up. Benedict checked the beacon with a handheld device.

“This looks okay,” He said, “There are a few more adjustments that need to be done on the one downstairs, though. Let’s pack up our tools and go.” They put away their equipment and stepped into the waiting lift car. The crystalline egg sealed itself and began its descent to the First Chamber. Paulson’s face was troubled with grief, as they crossed the cavernous gap of the airframe into the Ship.

Peter remembered the first time they’d dropped into the Ship; the SSE newly-formed, still not quite gelled as a group. James had stared out the crystal walls of the lift car at the gargantuan airframe with as much humbling awe and wonder as any of them. But in James’ eyes Peter had seen a glare; a fire of anticipation, desire. And that night the Prof had died, shot and killed by Francis George Franck. Whatever ambition the Ship had stirred in James’ soul, the Prof’s murder snuffed it. Peter heard from Laura Echohawk after one of his many linxes to James had gone unanswered. James wasn’t doing too well since the attacks by the United Trinity Observants. He was hitting hard drugs, suffering panic attacks, withdrawing…Peter’s friend was lost and there was nothing he could do to help.

The lift car sank into the inner hull, halting inside the First Chamber. The crystalline wall parted to allow Peter and Benedict to exit. Doctor Cole, on constant vigil within the infirmary stepped up to meet them.

“You’re just in time, gentlemen,” She said, “Doctor Aiziz has just entered into direct communication with the Ship.”

♦♦♦

The senior members of the Ship Survey Expedition were gathered around the central column in the Language Lab. Aiziz stood with her back to it, seven pairs of eyes focused on her. Even to such a familiar group of people as her colleagues in the SSE, speaking to a group was terrifying.

“I have spent the last little while learning from the Ship the meanings and contexts of many of the runes in Shiplanguage,” She said, her voice faltering, “We have the whole runic alphabet already, as found on the Codex in the First Chamber. There are two hundred and twenty-seven runes in Shiplanguage.”

“That’s the same number of elements on the Ship’s periodic table,” N’banga added.

“Yes,” Aiziz said, “Fortunately for us, the periodic table is represented by its own, different set of symbols. Otherwise Shiplanguage might become impossibly confusing.”

“How are you managing to learn the definitions of the runes?” Bloom asked.

“The Ship generates pictographs beside each rune, the meaning of which becomes clear with examples. The only complexity is with certain abstract concepts that the Ship does not express the same way we do. However, we are able for the most part to work around them.”

A
iziz referred to a handheld console and continued: “We believe the individual runic meanings that we’ve missed will become evident as we continue to communicate with the Ship. Professor Andrews has worked out a method of determining the context and meanings of the runes. Professor?” Aiziz stood aside as Andrews came to stand in front of the black dais. He sent a file to everyone’s console.

“The Ship has provided us with equations that allow us to determine the definition of each of the two hundred and twenty-seven runes, according to their numeric value between one and two hundred and twenty-seven,” Andrews said, “The placement of any given rune within a Shiplanguage sentence, which contains between three and eleven runes, and the numeric value and placement of the runes immediately adjacent to each particular rune determine the meaning and context of said rune, therefore determining the meaning of the sentence when viewed as a whole. You can see by the arrows on the diagram I’ve sent you which runes in which order affect the context and meaning.” Here Andrews paused, so they could study the diagram in question:

“Shiplanguage is complex and highly evolved. However it is also easily translated, once the rules governing the definitions of the runes themselves are compiled.” Andrews concluded.

“We are also aided by the fact that the Ship seems to have already mastered several Earth Languages.” Aiziz said.

“It’s
what
?” Bloom demanded.

“The Ship has mastered English, German, Japanese, Farsi, and Cantonese and Spanish,” Aiziz replied, “They represent the six most important languages on the planet for commerce and diplomacy. However the Ship wishes us to demonstrate a mastery of Shiplanguage before entering into a full dialogue with us.”

“Why?” Bloom asked, “Wouldn’t it be easier for us to converse with the Ship in one of our native languages? Why make us go to the trouble of learning Shiplanguage?”

“The Ship wants to determine that we are sufficiently intelligent, sufficiently advanced as a species, before communicating with us,” Aiziz answered, “And learning Shiplanguage, with its complexities and nuances would seem an appropriate test.”

♦♦♦

Upon being informed of the status of communications with the Ship, the World Ship Summit immediately set up a videoconference with the senior members of the Ship Survey Expedition. Bloom and her people sat around the conference table in the SSE’s briefing room facing the large wall console opposite them. Onscreen the senior delegates to the World Ship Summit sat around a far more elegant table in far more opulent offices in Geneva.

“Good afternoon Colonel Bloom,” Wilhelm Danielewski, the World Ship Summit’s chairman said.

“Good evening, Wilhelm,” Bloom replied, in deference to the time difference between the World Ship Preserve in New Mexico and Geneva.

“Needless to say, we were quite surprised by the report you filed today,” Danielewski said, “We had expected it to take several days—weeks, even, to begin direct communication with the Ship.”

“This isn’t a case of accelerated progress, ladies and gentlemen,” Bloom said. “Doctor Aiziz and the SSE linguistics team have spent every day since the Expedition was suspended working on this. Very likely had the attacks not occurred, we would have reached this point two or three weeks earlier.ning

“We understand this as well, Colonel,” Selah Hamdi, the Egyptian delegate replied, “What concerns us is that we have barely begun exploring the Ship; we know next to nothing about it and we have gone from just barely learning the basics of Shiplanguage to being on the verge of dialogue with it.”

“Then the World Ship Summit should also realize,” Aiziz spoke out, emboldened by her frustration at these bureaucratic hesitations, “Is that the Ship doesn’t simply wish to communicate with us; it wants us to learn how to communicate with
it
. Very likely, if the Ship wanted to it would be able to join this videoconference and speak for itself. Instead, the Ship is teaching us by giving us problems to solve, based on our own acquired knowledge. We can only learn what we have the capacity to recognize, which makes learning Shiplanguage an especially challenging—and rewarding—task.”

“Would it be fair to say that the Ship is testing us to find out our level of development?” the American delegate asked.

“I’d say the Ship has a fair idea of our level of development, already,” Bloom replied, “We dug it out of the rock; scanned it from orbit; established a small city around it; we have aircraft flying over it several times a day, we blast microwave transmissions and we’ve hit it with every type of scan we call imaginable, from Alpha-particle bombardment, to X-ray spectrography. The Ship knows where we stand, developmentally speaking. What the Ship wants to establish, unless I miss my guess, is if our intelligence and maturity as a species is as far along as our technology.”

“I think my colleague’s question was directed more towards the Ship’s intentions,” The Israeli delegate said.

“I thought that my answer was directed towards that, as well,” Bloom said.

“A threat assessment against the Ship was made, not long ago,” Bloom said. “And as I recall, it was done by this very Summit.”

“We have new information, now.” The American delegate said, icily. Bloom didn’t like his tone. She got to her feet, walking around the conference table to where the vidcam was mounted.

“If you freeze up the Ship Survey Expedition every bloody time we discover something new,” Bloom growled, “We won’t be getting much work done. The Ship is not doing anything we can deem threatening. We’re already operating under orders to wait for the World Ship Summit before we initiate real communication with the Ship. We have the potential to be in full communication with the Ship within days. I would suggest that
now
is the time to prepare whatever list of questions and statements you want us to deliver to the Ship. We’ll abide by our orders and wait for your authorization, but keep in mind the Ship is probably going to expect us to have something to say sooner rather than later. I think it’s in all our interests, therefore, to move forward. I’m sure that the World would agree, given the trillions of dollars that the World Ship Summit and the Ship Survey Expedition has already cost its voters…and its taxpayers.”

SIXTEEN

CONVERSATIONS

The time it takes most users of Oil to become addicted to the drug varies somewhat, but as a rule the average user needs one week or less of habitual dosing to become addicted. Habitual use is defined as between one and three doses daily. Some people take to a drug like fish take to water. Others try a drug once and move on. James Johnson fell squarely into the former category. Having used Oil steadily already for several weeks, James was an Oilhead, a “forty-weight” in common vernacular. Within a week James had gone from stabbing himself in the leg with a fast-injector whenever he had a panic attack to using Oil three or four times a day for the sake of using it. Within two weeks Allison and Laura discovered he was using. Of course they tried to get him to stop. But they couldn’t hope to understand. They didn’t know how horrifying the Fear was; how much it hurt to feel. In the same way, they couldn’t hope to know the rush, the bliss, the orgasmic peace that Oil gave him. James knew the statistics even as they lectured him on them: Ninety-eight per cent addiction rate; twenty per cent rehab and among addicts, one hundred per cent fatality within three to seven years. James knew that the very thing he’d turned to for release from the Fear of Death would kill him. He knew how the toxins would build up, crippling and destroying his organs, or that he could simply die from one shot too many. James was surprised to discover he didn’t care. He was free from the Fear and he was in constant Bliss. At the beginning of his third week as an Oil addict, James moved out of Laura and Allison’s apartment and their lives.