Neptune Crossing

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  *

  It was only as they were arriving back at base that he realized that Charlie was not just worried; he was unwell. There were occasional flutters of distress that made Bandicut shiver, and once or twice he had dream-flashes of quarxian memory: flickering glimpses of alien beings, alien worlds, and feelings of grieving over some undefinable loss.

  “You okay there, Bandie?” Jake asked, turning from his locker. The Amerind zipped up his casual jumpsuit. “You’re looking a little green.”

  Bandicut rose from the bench where he’d been sitting and pulled on his own suit. “Yeah—fine, Jake. Fine. See you later, okay?”

  Jake peered at him. “Okay. But you look like you should get some rest.”

  Bandicut nodded and waited for Jake to leave. /You okay, Charlie?/ he asked again, and this time the quarx answered, but only after he’d started down the corridor toward the cafeteria.

  /// John, is there some place . . .

  where we can be in private,

  and not be interrupted? ///

  He sensed a great exertion. /Well, yeah, I guess. What’s wrong? Can I get some supper first?/

  The quarx whispered,

  /// John, I may have . . . miscalculated . . .

  please, no delay. ///

  /We could lock ourselves into one of the VR rooms. It’s plenty private there./

  /// Yes . . . ///

  He walked quickly to the lounge and checked the VR occupancy board. One room was available and he ducked in, securing the door behind him. /Okay, we’re alone. What’s wrong, guy? Are you all right?/

  The quarx seemed to perk up a little in the new surroundings.

  /// I’m . . . okay for the moment, I think.

  What is this place? ///

  /It’s a virtual reality room. I thought you watched a lot of TV. Don’t you know a VR setup when you see one?/ He opened a panel and showed Charlie where the visor, vest, gloves, and shoes were kept.

  /// Old TV. It didn’t show anything like this.

  You’re sure it’s private here? ///

  /It’s about the most private place on Triton. People are expected to talk to themselves and generally act weird in here, because it’s all make-believe once you turn on the holos and the feedback gear. That’s the whole point./

  /// Good. That’s good.

  Very good. ///

  Puzzled, Bandicut said, /So do you want me to put this stuff on, so you can see how it works?/

  /// Yeah . . . uh, sure. ///

  He began putting on the shoes and gloves, and realized that this was all wrong. The quarx had needed to talk. /Charlie, hold it—this VR stuff can wait. Tell me what’s wrong./

  The quarx shivered.

  /// It’s . . . okay, John.

  It’s just that . . .

  Well, I think I’m getting ready to die. ///

  Bandicut felt a sharp pain across his chest as he tensed. His hands froze, the gloves halfway on. /What?/

  /// You remember, I told you . . . ///

  He remembered, the quarx had started to tell him once, something about how he might die at some point in the future. The conversation had been interrupted. But it hadn’t seemed very real then, anyway, or at least he hadn’t known Charlie so well then. /You started, but you didn’t finish. What is this, Charlie?/

  /// I’m sorry, John—

  I’d wanted to prepare you better. ///

  /But . . . when? Why?/ Somehow, he’d known from the dreams that death came to the quarx in ways that were going to be difficult for him to comprehend. /Charlie?/

  /// I’m . . . not sure when.

  But soon, I think. ///

  Bandicut swallowed, suddenly dizzy. /What do you want me to do? What should I expect?/ He felt a strange mixture of fear and urgency and . . . something almost like relief. He was ashamed of the relief. He knew there was a lot at stake. Not just the quarx, or him. Earth, maybe.

  /// There’s nothing you can do

  about my dying.

  And don’t . . . be concerned about your feelings.

  They’re perfectly natural,

  I think. ///

  /How the hell would you know?/ Bandicut cried. /Charlie, what about . . . what about . . . everything? Your mission? And the translator?/

  /// You’ll have to carry on.

  There will be . . . another.

  But I must brief you.

  You must . . . get the data to the translator. ///

  Bandicut swallowed. /Charlie, I don’t want you to die./

  He felt a sudden surge of empathy from the quarx.

  /// I’m glad, John.

  But look—we’re getting all morbid.

  I don’t want to get morbid.

  Please—

  how about showing me something on that . . .

  VR thing. ///

  Bandicut drew a sharp breath. /Are you serious? Now?/

  /// Please . . .

  something peaceful.

  I’d like to see Earth.

  Are there any Earth scenes? ///

  Bandicut read the selections. /Okay,/ he whispered, and made a choice. The room vanished, and the sound of a gentle surf filled his ears, and a brightening light overhead turned into a beaming midday sun. He was standing on a beach, looking out over an expanse of sea. After a moment, he murmured, “VR Control—give me late afternoon. Sunset.” The sun faded from overhead and reappeared, enormous and crimson over the ocean. The bottom edge of the sun’s disk touched the water, flattening outward in a rippling reflection. /How’s this?/ he asked, stepping to the water’s edge.

  /// John, it’s . . . breathtaking. ///

  There was a deep wistfulness in the quarx’s voice. Bandicut wondered if it were making him homesick. He felt a momentary dizziness, and suddenly felt himself hurtling headlong through space, through flickering light, tumbling and turning himself inside out. Then the feeling went away, and he was standing by the seashore again, swaying a little. He took a deep breath. Was Charlie reliving his life? Bandicut knelt and ran his hand through the sand. /Was your . . . world . . . anything like this?/

  Charlie hesitated.

  /// I don’t think so. No. ///

  Bandicut gazed up into the setting sun. /What was your world like?/

  The answer came in a whisper.

  /// I wish I . . . could remember.

  John, we must talk now. ///

  /Yes./ Bandicut frowned, wondering, how long had it been since the quarx had seen his own world? A million years? A hundred million? Did he even have a world of his own? /You must brief me,/ he whispered.

  /// John.

  You will not be . . . alone.

  Expect another.

  But you must be prepared to . . .

  take responsibility. ///

  Responsibility? He swallowed, thinking—the Earth is in danger from some cosmic collision, and I’m supposed to take responsibility? This is madness . . . madness . . .

  /// John, the data that you hold in your mind . . . ///

  /Data?/ Yes yes, of course, the ephemeris.

  /// I have marked its location so that

  I . . . your new companion . . .

  will be able to give it to the translator.

  It must reach the translator! ///

  /Right,/ he whispered. He didn’t know what else to say. He couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Another . . . new companion . . . what the hell did that mean?

  /// And John, you must remember . . .

  EineySteiney pool! ///

  /What—?/

  /// Remember it.

  It’s the most important thing.

  That, and the data. ///

  /Okay,/ he whispered, bewildered. /Charlie—what did you mean when you said there would be . . . another? Another what? Another quarx?/

  He felt a sudden physical weakness, and almost doubled over.
<
br />   /// Aw jeez, Bart—it’s gettin’ all fuzzy, ///

  the quarx groaned abruptly.

  /Charlie? What are you doing? What are you talking about?/

  /// Yeah, real fuzzy like.

  Kinda’ . . . misty ’round the edges. ///

  The quarx was speaking in a drawl, some kind of goddamn phony western accent, probably from those goddamn old TV shows. Charlie loved that shit, he thought.

  /// Ahhhh, jeez, Bart—

  the pain! ///

  /Stop!/ he said. He was starting to become angry. /What the hell do you think you’re doing—?/

  /// I’m not gonna make it, old buddy— ///

  /Stop it, damn you!/

  The quarx gasped,

  /// Let me—go out in style—John— ///

  /NO, damn it!/

  /// I’m not gonna make it.

  I think this may be it . . . ///

  Bandicut felt a sharp sinking feeling in his chest. /Goddamnit, don’t pull this shit on me! Charlie!/

  /// It’s such a beautiful view—

  I just wish I could . . . aaahhhhhhhh . . . ///

  There was a gasping sound, then silence. Bandicut scowled, looking around the beach, as though he would find the quarx there. /Charlie? Charlie? Goddamnit—!/

  There was no answer, no stir of presence.

  Bandicut was stunned into sudden silence. Was he gone, then? Was Charlie gone—the only alien in the solar system? Bandicut didn’t know what to think. He felt a profound confusion, and fear.

  Three heartbeats later, he heard a soft chuckle.

  /// Gotcha. ///

  For ten more heartbeats, he couldn’t speak. When he did, it was with barely controlled rage. /You asshole. You are a total asshole. Do you know that? Was that supposed to be some kind of joke? WAS IT?/

  The quarx whispered hoarsely,

  /// I’m . . . sorry.

  I just thought, it’s my last chance . . .

  I’m awfully mokin’ sorry. ///

  /Sorry? That was the dumbest-ass stunt I’ve ever seen! Sorry! Christ, I thought you were really gone!/ Bandicut picked up a handful of sand and flung it into the ocean. /Christ, Charlie!/

  /// I really am . . . sorry.

  I don’t want to go, I don’t want to die, but

  I thought this might— ///

  /Asshole!/

  /// —make it a little easier— ///

  Bandicut let another handful of sand run through his fingers. He felt as if his thoughts were melting into the ocean along with that great crimson sun. /Lamebrained dingo-shit is what it was, Charlie./

  /// I’m sorry . . . Bandie. ///

  He looked up into the sky, squinting. /Did I give you permission to call me that?/ he whispered, swallowing.

  There was no real answer, just a soft, distant sigh somewhere in the back of his mind. He felt suddenly drained of energy, as if something had gone out of him. He heard, or imagined that he heard, a single whispered word: Bye.

  /Charlie?/ The quarx didn’t answer, and he started to get angry all over again. He got up and walked along the beach, waiting for the quarx to reappear. “Charlie?” he called aloud. “Don’t you have to finish briefing me?”

  There was still no answer. He stepped to the edge of the water, then into the water, and felt the cool sea wash over his feet. The sunset was gorgeous, a flattened glowing orb settling into the ocean. “That’s something I really miss, from Earth,” he murmured. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I shouldn’t have gotten so sore. Charlie? You there?” /Charlie, DAMN IT, answer me!/

  In the silence that followed, he grew increasingly anxious. He felt none of the inner rustlings that marked Charlie’s presence. /Charlie?/ he whispered, pleading. /Are you still there—somewhere?/

  And that was when he knew . . . Charlie had whispered his farewell, and meant it. He was gone. Bandicut turned and walked the other way along the water’s edge. It hurt to take a breath in, and to let it out. He blew through his clenched fist and thought: I don’t even know if I should be happy or sad. Maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world for him to be gone. Maybe, for him, it’s a blessing. But . . . /Damn you, you never even told me where you were from—or about your people, or—/

  It just all seemed . . . not just sad, but inappropriate somehow. It shouldn’t end this way. Not the first alien contact for all of humanity. No one else even knew about it. He had been the sole point of contact with the race of quarx. And now Charlie was gone.

  Bandicut sat down on the sand, trying to swallow. It wasn’t just the loss of an alien contact. It was the loss of a . . . friend. He stared across the vast expanse of ocean at the fiery red orb, until the intensity of the glow began to hurt his eyes, and only after a few minutes did he begin to wipe at the streaming tears that were blurring his vision of the setting sun.

   Chapter 11 

  Charlie?

  HE REMAINED WHERE he was until the holographic sun had sunk beneath the horizon and the sky had begun to darken. Finally he told the VR room to switch itself off, and he hung the sensory gear in the closet. Still, though, he lingered before leaving the room. He had no idea what to do with himself now. He was exhausted physically and emotionally, but sleep was out of the question; so was eating. He knew he ought to think through the implications of what Charlie had said at the end: that he had to take responsibility, that there would be “another,” that he needed to get the data to the translator. EineySteiney. But he couldn’t; he just couldn’t think about all that now.

  He left the room finally and found himself walking down the corridor toward the gym and the centrifuge room. Maybe that would be the best antidote: to put in some pounding physical exercise and just utterly drain himself. There was no doubt he needed the exercise. Maybe it would help him get his mind off Charlie.

  The late Charlie.

  When he got to the gym, he had to wait for a chance in the ’fuge room. He spent the time warming up on the leverbenches, doing shoulder stretches and waist flexes. He was aware of the desk scanner-robot peering his way from time to time and began, ridiculously, to feel self-conscious. He wondered if his inner distress was showing clearly enough on his face for even a robot to see it. Flushing, he stepped up his pace of exercise. If he had to look distressed, by God, it was going to be because he was pushing himself. He didn’t need anyone nosing around asking what was wrong.

  Sweat beading on his forehead, he still could not keep from spinning his mental wheels, trying to think what to do next. He couldn’t keep his experience with the quarx a secret forever. If he was supposed to be taking responsibility, then he had to make decisions. Ultimately, this was something the world needed to know about: the first living contact with an alien intelligence. Maybe someone who was smarter than he was could figure out why the Earth was in danger. But whom could he tell, and with what for evidence . . . unless he led a search party back to the cavern and the translator?

  But to do that, he would have to tell Cole Jackson. The man would never believe him; and even if he did, Jackson would only look for some way to grab the credit, the way he did when that stranded Time-Life photographer was rescued two months ago—when he took a commendation “on behalf of” the two men who’d acted, while he’d stood around scratching his ass, making plans. Bandicut could imagine Jackson’s pleasure in taking credit for alien contact.

  But whom else could he tell? Despite the fact that they were here on Triton to dig alien metals out of the ground, there was no department assigned the job of dealing with living aliens. That might be stupid, but there it was.

  That seemed to leave two other choices. There was Dr. Switzer, who would probably find nothing in Bandicut’s mind except psychosis; and there was the tiny exoarchaeology group, where Julie Stone worked. He felt a certain appeal in giving the science people a chance before the marketing people took over. But exoarch wasn’t part of MINEXFO, and it would not be viewed favorably for him to tell exoarch instead
of going through company channels. In any event, he had a hunch—Julie notwithstanding—that exoarch would think he was as crazy as a loon, just like everyone else. He knew if the situation were reversed, he wouldn’t believe a story like his, not for a moment.

  He puffed, straining against the levers.

  “Mr. Bandicut!” said a synthesized voice. “Do you wish to use the centrifuge or not? There are others waiting.”

  “Huh?” He sat up on the leverbench and peered toward the front desk. The scanner robot was staring unblinking in his direction. “Okay. I’m going,” he grunted, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. He extricated himself from the leverpress and went through the sliding door into the ’fuge room.

  The centrifuge room rotated around the gym like a gigantic, inward-banked angel food cake. Bandicut paused on the wide, stationary inner track, then stepped out across the red, orange, and yellow transition bands, staggering a little as his weight increased by increments, each ring outward moving faster than the one before. He made his way to the green outer ring, which held the main .8 gee running track and an assortment of high-gee exercisers strung along its outer circumference.

  Taking a few deep breaths, he jogged up to speed, finding a gap among the other runners. The sensation of revolving was disconcerting at first, as he whizzed past a couple of people on the slower, inner bands. But he adjusted quickly, and began a steady, mindless pace, pounding his way around the track. He didn’t speak to anyone, and didn’t bother to count laps or keep track of his speed. The monitor on his wrist would let him know if he was about to keel over—if his knees didn’t buckle under first.

  It wasn’t long before the burning in his lungs told him that he had become far too lax in his exercising; he needed to do this more often. He tried to empty his mind, except for the physical ache. But inevitably his thoughts drifted back to Charlie, and to how he might locate Charlie’s translator and produce it as evidence of his discovery.

  Please don’t tell anyone.

  He stumbled, lost his balance with the Coriolus veering, and rolled off the track to the outside. Had he just heard a voice—a tiny whisper? He thought it had sounded like the voice of Charlie. More likely, it was his memory of the quarx’s voice. His monitor was beeping furiously, his heart pounding. He grabbed for the mute switch on his wrist, and he searched frantically in his mind. /Charlie?/ he whispered. It took all of his self control not to call the quarx’s name aloud.

  The only answer was the pounding of his pulse in his eardrums. He dragged for breath in the heavy gravity. It must have been the strain, the lightheadedness from running. He had imagined the sound.

  “Hey—you okay there?” One of the other runners was bending down next to him.

  “I, uh—” he croaked, wheezing in another breath.

  The runner put his hands on his hips, catching his own breath. “Whooeee. I thought mebbe you were having some—”

  “No—” Bandicut panted, waving the other man on. “I’m fine. Just a little . . . winded.”

  “ ’Kay. See ya.” The runner jogged off again.

  Bandicut sat back on the padded sidestrip, watching the stream of workers jog past. His heart rate was coming down slowly. /Charlie?/ he whispered. /Did you plant that memory?/

  He thought he heard a high keening sound, like his sinuses depressurizing; then it was gone. Maybe it was his sinuses depressurizing. He felt no presence of a quarx. He sighed and cursed and got to his feet. Maybe it was time he went to bed, after all.