V.
“Since we can’t break free,” said Coburn, “we need to persuade the object, or who or whatever controls it, to talk to us . . . and to release us.”
“We’re beginning the applicability analysis for First Contact procedures,” replied Celestina, adding instants later, “Analysis complete. There is no indication of preferred technology, other than gravitonic control. Our systems cannot be configured for gravitonic communications.”
Besides which, we’d be out of power and frozen solid before finishing the first message. “Start with EMF transmissions. Binary code basics.” Coburn had doubts about the effectiveness of EMF transmission of binary codes, given that binary was based on an on-off, either/or mindset, which was definitely human-centric. And what kind of mind lay behind the giant rectangular object that had ensnared Celestina? Coburn doubted it was human. Even on Earth, intelligence came in many forms. One might estimate and model with some accuracy the mindsets of cetaceans, but still, no one could really tell how cephalopods thought, not with nine brains. Coburn didn’t even want to think about the diffuse and web-extended intelligence of arachnids. So, just how likely was it that an alien intelligence would live or think in the either/or world of Homo-not-so-sapiens?
Still, since Coburn didn’t have a better idea, and since that was the first step, according to the so far never-used First Contact procedures, waiting and dropping back into slowtime until the cumbersome process was finished was the only possibility as Celestina went through the entire EMF range.
After a light touch from Celestina and several minutes of reorientation, Coburn emerged from slowtime, asking, “Was there any reaction to any frequency?”
“At the first transmission, the lambent lighting manifested through the object’s hull increased slightly, but the higher intensity remained constant throughout the entire range.”
“What’s your analysis?”
“The object recognized that we were signalling, but either did not understand the message, is attempting to process and decipher it, or is choosing not to respond.”
“Did the object emit any signals or energy elsewhere that might be messages?”
“No radiation of any kind was detected.”
“Is it possible that the object has a communication system we cannot detect?” asked Coburn, suspecting that the answer lay in the limits of human technology.
“Based on current science and theory, that is not possible.”
“Based on current science and theory, the object which has captured us is not possible,” replied Coburn, “but it doesn’t strike me as unreal.” Time passed. “Has the illumination pattern of the object’s hull changed?”
“It remains at the same level as when we began EMF signalling.”
“Then it’s waiting for us to do something else. What about sending binary in laser flashes?”
“Commencing laser binary transmission.”
“Is there any change in the hull lighting?”
“A ten percent increase in intensity.”
Coburn waited for Celestina to complete the laser-signalled binary transmission before asking, “How did the object respond?”
“The higher light level was sustained through the transmission, then dropped back to the previous level when we ceased transmitting.”
“Use the laser to project a visual image, images of geometric shapes.”
“Commencing transmissions.” Several seconds passed. “Hull light level up five percent.”
“They, or it, liked the binary flashes better.”
“That assumption is unfounded,” replied Celestina. “A stronger response may not be positive.”
“We don’t have much choice except to assume it’s positive,” countered Coburn. “We could remain locked here until we freeze solid if we do nothing. We still have marker buoys. Activate and deploy one with enough motion so that it will drift toward the object.”
“Deploying signal buoy. Activated and functioning.”
Coburn immediately concentrated on following the buoy as it moved away from Celestina, just a shiny sphere of metal with an intermittent signal that mining drones or uncrewed research-analysis units could home in on.
The signal buoy emitted one pulse . . . and vanished.
“What happened to it?” asked Coburn.
“We’re unable to determine. There was no increase in energy or temperature.”
“So, it wasn’t incinerated or vaporized?”
“That appears improbable.”
“Could the object have snatched it somehow?”
“That appears the most likely possibility.”
“So, now we wait and see what it decides?”
Celestina did not respond.
Coburn continued observing and inspecting the object, and, after a time, asked, “Any change in illumination or energy emissions?”
“Hull illumination has lowered to initial manifested levels. No detectable energy emissions.”
How else can we try to communicate with the object? Coburn kept going over everything that they’d tried—EMF at all levels, laser and light, signal buoy. What about sound?
“Can you modify the distress feature of the comm laser to create a photoacoustic effect on the object’s hull?” asked Coburn.
“The laser system can be focused and adjusted to create a photoacoustic effect on normal matter. It can’t be determined whether it would create that effect on the hull or surface of the object.”
“Go ahead and try it. Once you have it operating as well as you can, is there some sort of acoustic code . . . ?”
“We can try Morse Code.”
Coburn had never heard of it. “What’s that?”
“It’s an early electric-impulse code, but it was also used with signal lights.”
“Then try it.”
Time passed. Coburn didn’t check. It didn’t matter.
Then Celestina said, “The laser is ready to operate in photo-acoustic mode. What should we say?”
“Try the same message you sent on the EMF trial.”
“We’re commencing transmission.”
Almost immediately, Celestina said, “The object’s hull lights are brighter. Five percent greater intensity than any previous response.”
Coburn watched, but when the transmission ended, the hull lights dimmed, if not back to the lowest level. “They want something else.”
“We could try voice transmission,” suggested Celestina. “We have your voice parameters and recordings. What do you want to say?”
“Just something that tells them we’re trying to communicate.”
“The physical reconstruction will take a few minutes real-time.”
I’m not going anywhere.
“Transmission beginning.”
Almost immediately, Coburn saw the object’s hull illumination increase, and then fade as Celestina announced, “Transmission completed.”
“Try a longer message, one of several minutes.”
“We’ll need a little longer to prepare that.”
“I’ll wait.”
But when Celestina transmitted the longer message, the object’s lights faded perceptibly even before the transmission ended.
“They’re looking for something acoustical,” declared Celestina. “They like voice, but it’s not enough. Have you considered music? Perhaps even opera?”
“Try something simpler,” said Coburn. “Popular music, first.”
“Not opera?”
Coburn detected a hint of something, perhaps pique. “If popular music doesn’t work, then you can try opera.”
“Preparing transmission.” Celestina’s “tone” came across as definitely miffed.
Coburn said nothing.
“Beginning transmission.”
The object’s hull lights flared brighter for several minutes, then faded.
Almost as if in disappointment. Coburn would have offered a wry smile, had that been possible. “You just might be right. Pick an operatic vo
cal, with complexity, but great emotion . . . and then be ready to follow it with others. Try to keep their lights on. Maybe that will work.” If it doesn’t . . . Coburn worried. What other form of high-level acoustical/vocal complexity is there?
“That will take some time,” replied Celestina, definitely sounding happier.
Once more, Coburn waited.
Finally, Celestina declared, “The transmission is ready to send.”
“Then send it.” Coburn concentrated on the image of the object, the now-fainter flickering sheets of bluish light seeming to fade by the moment. “Let me hear it as well.”
“You won’t get the same sound quality as the object does.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“Commencing transmission.”
Almost instantly, the intensity and flicker frequency of the object’s hull lights increased. In moments, the intensity was so bright that Coburn mentally adjusted the brightness of the image. At the same time, the orchestra and soprano voice became engulfing, even without comprehension of the language of the song. Ancient German . . . maybe . . .
The light emanating from the object continued to brighten, so much so that Coburn had to cut off the visual feed, even though it was only a mentally simulated image.
The first aria was followed by a second, and then a third, and while Coburn saw nothing, the data inputs showed energy flowing out from the object . . . more . . . and more . . .
Then there was nothing . . . nothing except a definite sense of dislocation . . . and a high, single note echoing . . . somewhere . . . and then dying away.
“We’ve been moved . . . shoved away,” said Celestina.
Coburn could have sworn there was disbelief in those words. “Where? How far?”
“Not that far. We’re just a few light minutes back toward Sol, but no time elapsed . . . as if we were . . . somewhere not in spacetime. Open your visual. We’re feeding an image of the object . . . or what was the object.”
What was the object? Coburn opened the visual . . . and just looked . . . stunned at the coruscating point of light, a miniature star . . . or the equivalent.
“It protected us . . . moved us, before that happened.”
“Was there any . . . other response . . . other communication?”
“There was,” replied Celestina. “We captured it. Would you like to hear it?”
“Please.”
Coburn listened . . . to a song . . . without words, yet it was a song, a song of joy, of triumph . . . and yet of evanescence. If it had been possible, Coburn would have wept . . . but the tears were embedded deep in Coburn’s thoughts and mind . . . and always would be.
Far too soon, the song ended.
For a time, Coburn could not think.
“Was . . . there anything else?” Those words came hard, felt insensitive, unfeeling, after the glory of the song . . . if that was what it had been.
“Just the song . . . and a lot of data. Maybe the scientists can get something out of it all.”
“What songs . . . did you use?”
“Not songs, not mere songs,” declared Celestina, “arias, the greatest arias sung by the greatest voices—‘Ach ich fühl’s,’ ‘Depuis le jour,’ ‘Sempre libera,’ ‘Un bel di,’ and even more.”
The names meant nothing to Coburn. But they meant something to Celestina . . . and they definitely conveyed something of import to the object . . . more than just something.
Coburn called up the image of the mini-star that had been the object once more, taking in its glorious radiance, wondering if anyone would ever truly know what that small star signified . . . and what message its last and only song conveyed.
Peel
By Julie E. Czerneda
Author’s Note: Sometimes the worlds we shape are our own.
Water seeps through the windowsill when the wind blows from the east. It finds a path through a crack in the plastic. It soaks the plaster within, lingers in hidden wood.
Best of all, it peels the paint.
Her fingers tremble over the imperfection, stroke the ripples like a lover’s skin.
With a nail, she marks the edge of softness, then pulls ever-so-gently. The paint—its colour of no importance—comes away willingly. She grasps the tiny beginning between fingertips; her tongue’s between her teeth.
She tries not to hope too much.
This is her lucky day. The paint peels with extravagant generosity, bringing with it strips of paper from the dampened wall. She shifts her fingers to the edges, careful to work with it, adjusting to the growing tension as the peel reaches the end of the invading moisture. It becomes stubborn and brittle and falls free at last.
She cradles the peel in her hand, watching it curl. Her fingers echo the shape.
She sits back to survey the result, the chill of tile unnoticed in the blush of triumph. Multiple greys mix with black specks of mould. Paper feathers the sodden plaster. She sees faces in textures; landscapes in whorls.
Change whispers in her ears. Enthralling. Enticing.
Forbidden.
Footsteps.
She releases the curtain, tucks her hand—and the peel—in her pocket, stands. There is time for this, and no more, before . . .
“Oh, there you are, dear!” The woman’s voice is soft and warm. Her face is smooth and lovely. Her clothing is fitted, its colour of no importance. There is no flaw in form or gesture.
She touches the peel and remembers. There had been lines beside her mother’s eyes. Hard work and sun had conspired. There had been lines beside her mother’s mouth. Laughter and worry had taken turns.
The woman’s skin is perfect.
“Your ride’s here, dear. Have a nice day at work. Wear your coat.”
She doesn’t answer, simply walks to the door. The rudeness brings no frown or puzzlement.
Nothing changes.
She touches the peel; her new talisman.
She walks with her eyes straight ahead. The sidewalks are clean and even, slicing obedient lawns. The vehicle disturbs not a blade as it waits, silent and steel. Its colour is of no importance. A set of steps lead up and in.
Faces smile from their rows. All are smooth and lovely. She feels no warmth or welcome. She can’t tell them apart.
Her fingertip fondles the peel as she sits.
Murmurs, soft and melodious, thicken and twist the air. “It’s going to be a nice day.” “Look at that sky. Perfect!” “You know what Monday means.” “We never forget. Movie night at your place.” She hums without breath, a discordant, dangerous humming; rebellion in her bones.
She remembers. The peel left change in its wake.
A sign.
She knows to move as they do, without flaw, always with purpose. Her hands reach. Her left picks up a rod, her right the ring that slips over it. Make them one, put them down. Her hands reach. Her left picks up a rod, her right the ring that slips over it. Make them one, put them down. The material is inanimate, its colour of no importance.
Murmurs gather around her feet, as if dust. Gentle, warm murmurs. “What a nice day to be at work.” “Look how well this fits.” “Here comes another one.” “It’s so good to be here.” “The movie will be fun too.”
Then, without warning, a shard falls, lifts a plume of dismay.
“We could play cards tonight instead.”
The murmurs choke themselves to silence.
Her hands reach, as all hands here do, in unceasing synchrony. Her left picks up a rod, her right the ring that slips over it. Make them one, put them down.
Her hands don’t need her eyes. She lifts her gaze, seeks the shard.
His face is smooth and lovely. He works in silence, moving without flaw. But, for an instant, his lips misplace the peaceful smile painted on the rest. They peel back, showing a glimpse of teeth. A rictus. It could be fear. Or surprise.
Change.
Her groin burns. Her breath catches in her throat. She cannot move.
Another sign.
>
His lips close, then open. “The movie will be fun, too.”
Her hands reach. Her left picks up a rod, her right the ring that slips over it. Make them one, put them down.
Inside, she hums something discordant, dangerous.
Different.
She sits, knees and feet together, back straight. On either side, others sit, knees and feet together, backs straight. Before them, scenes of carnage alternate with lust. Faces can’t be seen. Voices have no words. Deeds have no context. It is the same movie they watch each Monday.
Her hand finds its pocket. Her fingers find the peel. It’s smaller. It shrinks into itself. It will dry and fragment soon, becoming something new.
Finding the peel, she remembers. The man who sits to her left. There had been calluses on his palms. Thorns and gravel had etched them. There had been a broken nail and scars. Strength and tenderness had been in every touch.
The man’s hands rest, flawless, on his lap.
“This movie is nice.” “I always like this movie.” “What a great day at work.”
She simply stands and walks away. Her body blocks the image from their view. The rudeness brings no protest or complaint.
Nothing changes.
Almost.
Something changed today.
She almost smiles.
Leaving the midst of the movie is . . . change.
Walking down the sidewalk, the ker-pat ker-pat of her small quick steps the only sound, is . . . change.
Alone, she dares revel in it, dares throw back her head and stretch out her arms, dares . . .
“Hello, dear.” The woman’s voice is soft and melodious. It comes from the dark beside her, a stranger’s kiss. Shadows without substance tremble in the cold east wind.
Dropping her arms, she savours her fear, in its way as novel as hope. “Hello.”
“Why aren’t you at the movie with your friends, dear?”
She says the expected. “It was nice.” Then, with the peel in her pocket and the glimpse of teeth in her memory, adds: “The movie machine stopped working. It needs repair. I came home to see you. Mother.”
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