Relic

by Alan Dean Foster

  Uncertain whether he was retracting his sarcasm or emphasizing it, she decided to approach the subject from a different angle. “Your current degraded mental state is making it difficult for Bac’cul, myself, and others to work with you. While the questions that are asked may seem trivial to you, I assure you they are very important to us, both as individual researchers and in enlarging our knowledge of human civilization as a whole.”

  “A black hole,” he responded absently.

  “What?” She hesitated, then gestured with two arms. “Is there something about me personally that requires you to triple the degree of sarcasm in your replies?”

  Not for the first time since he had been brought to live among the Myssari, he was ashamed of himself. He looked up at her. “I told the explorers who originally found me wandering on Seraboth that I was a poor representative of my kind. When I fail to confirm it, one of you usually manages to do so.”

  Something small and bright blue landed on her sloping left shoulder. It fluttered to the middle, then to the right one. Looking up from where he was seated, Ruslan could see it clearly. Each of its four wings was mottled with yellow and brown streaks that flashed according to how they were struck by sunlight. Alien butterfly camouflage, he told himself, though the creature had single-lensed eyes, a normal mouth, and perfect, tiny nostrils. He had never seen a butterfly anyway. It was a creature that survived only within the extensive depths of recorded human knowledge. Something that had lived on old Earth, the accompanying material insisted. He wondered.

  If the Myssari succeeded in locating Earth, would it still have butterflies? He hoped so.

  Thoughts of both served to mute his disdain. “I’m sorry. No matter how I feel, I have no right to take it out on you or Bac’cul or Kel’les or anyone else.”

  Her voice, already Myssari-soft, fell to a near murmur. “Do not apologize. You have no one else to ‘take it out on.’ ”

  Dark and wrenching, sorrow welled up in him. It had not paid him a visit in more than a year. He thought he was done with it, that he had banished it to the same cold, remote place where he had put away most of his feelings. Frustratingly, it surged up and out now, manifesting itself in tears that streaked his face like flow channels on a dry world. He wiped at them angrily.

  Cor’rin stared, fascinated by a phenomenon she had read about but never seen in person. There were a great many questions she wanted to ask about the biological process. Instead, she said nothing. That much, at least, she had learned about humans. Or at least about this human.

  Two hands came down to rest on his shoulders while the fingers of the third draped themselves over his right knee.

  “I wish I could find a means of improving your life outlook. There is much that is Myssari for an alien to enjoy. Not just the physical beauty of the worlds we have settled, but in our culture as well.”

  He sniffed forcefully and rubbed his nose with the back of his left sleeve. “I know that. In my time among your kind, I’ve seen much of it and certainly enjoyed some. It’s just that every once in a while the loneliness takes me by surprise and—it’s overwhelming.” He looked up at her as she removed her hands. “There’s nothing anyone can do to help. It’s like a recurring disease. You work through it until it goes away of its own accord. Then you wait for it to come back when you least expect it.”

  “There is something that would help, but unfortunately it’s not possible.”

  His curiosity was piqued. “Something none of your analysts or xenologists has already proposed? I would’ve thought they’d tried everything by now.”

  “They have. Everything psychological. Everything chemical. There are certain biological remedies that are unfortunately not viable.”

  He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “There are—engineering problems. The therapy to which I refer would be akin to trying to build a starship utilizing both Myssari and human components.”

  “What?” Realization dawned. “Oh. Oh.” The last of the tears spilled. As they dried he found himself smiling slightly. “I have to ask, Cor’rin: do your thoughts regarding this matter arise out of considerations that are professional or personal?”

  “Both.” She continued to stare at him. Having brought up the subject herself, she was plainly not in the least reluctant to discuss it further.

  “Well. We agree on one thing. None of your colleagues has so much as broached the possibility. ‘Engineering problems,’ yes, to be sure. But I am flattered that such an outré thought would even occur to you.”

  “Why should you be so surprised? Your continued well-being is of great interest to all of us. If you are not well and alert mentally, it diminishes the accuracy and therefore the reliability of your responses to our queries.”

  “Certainly, certainly.” He paused a moment. “Tell me, Cor’rin: even though it’s self-evident that this concept cannot advance beyond a hypothetical line of thinking, it must have prompted a mental image or two.”

  “That is only natural,” she replied. “For you as well.”

  “It surely did.” He shook his head. “But I can’t, even working at the extremes of my imagination, envision how an intermet would come into play.”

  “Surely in the course of studying our culture you have had occasion to encounter descriptions of the process?”

  “Descriptions into which I can’t conceive of inserting myself…so to speak.”

  She rose from where she was sitting. “I have succeeded in getting you to engage the expression called a ‘smile.’ Therefore I count our conversation a success.” Pleased with herself, she started toward the nearest building. “If you ever wish to repeat such a conversation, I am on call to respond to your query no matter what other work I may be doing. We all are. That is how important your satisfaction and well-being are to every member of the science contingent.”

  “I know.” His smiled widened. “Don’t worry, Cor’rin. If I want to talk, I’ll let you know. I’m not shy.”

  “Less so than a Myssari,” she called back to him. Her head having swiveled 180 degrees, she kept walking toward the building while continuing to stare back at him. She held the gaze for as long as practically possible before her head snapped back around so that she could see where she was going.

  With a deep, resigned sigh he once more leaned back against the horizontal tree branches. She had succeeded in snapping him out of his funk. Sorrow had been banished, however temporarily, and he could once more see the sky as blue instead of black. He felt better.

  Though whether this was the result of the pseudo-butterfly’s visit or the image of a complex physical impossibility she had left with him he could not say.

  * * *

  —

  “Gather your personal belongings.”

  Seated in the midst of frolicking chelabar, Ruslan heard the words only faintly. He was reluctant to comply. Undulating beneath the waves, the school of four-meter-long eel-like chelabar were nearly transparent, a trait that rendered them invisible to most predators. But when they leaped clear of the surface in their exuberant mating displays, cells in their skin that were sensitive to contact with the gaseous nitrogen in the atmosphere reacted to the exposure by strobing several colors of the spectrum. Males leaned heavily toward purple and females to pale orange, while the chelabar intermets flashed all the way over into the ultraviolet.

  Even though he could not perceive the latter hue, the totality combined to create an exciting, almost transcendent display. Drifting on the surface of the sea in a thin body masque that both warmed and concealed him, he watched as the gracile, gliding creatures danced in the air above the foam. No land was in sight, no support craft. He was adrift in the center of the south Myssari ocean, alone with the inborn radiance of that world’s remarkable sea life. The only sounds were the lapping of the waves, the splashing of chelabar as they returned to the water from th
eir brief aerial excursions, and the coarse cry of broad-winged simmets and bubble-like aiau.

  “Please,” came the irritating, intruding words again. “A shuttle arrives this evening. The ship comes only for us. It is a notable honor. And an expensive one.”

  No matter how much he wished for it to go away, the voice of veracity persisted. It belonged to Kel’les. With great reluctance Ruslan waved a finger in the direction of the controls. Romping rainbow chelabar, wide-winged wind-riding simmets, and amusing chirping aiau vanished. So did cerulean sky and blue-green ocean. The displacement bubble and the comforting images that surrounded him evaporated, as did the relaxed mood in which he had been immersed. Resigned to reality, he swiveled in his specially modified chair to confront his determined minder.

  “What’s all this about a shuttle and a special ship?”

  “We are departing Treth tonight.”

  Ruslan still did not grasp the situation. Or maybe he didn’t want to.

  “What do you mean, leaving?”

  “All of us.”

  Striding through the human’s quarters, Kel’les had begun collecting personal items and placing them in neat piles. There was not much to gather. In hopes of keeping him content and cooperative, the Myssari Combine had offered him nearly anything he wished. Needing very little, he had accepted very little. It was not as if he were going to boast of his possessions to his neighbors.

  “We are leaving Treth.” The minder spoke as s’he worked, handling even the simplest of the human’s belongings with care.

  As Ruslan slumped back in the chair visual echoes of the sea scene in which he had just been immersed flickered teasingly across his retinas. “I guess I lost track of time. I thought we were supposed to be here for another thirty-three-day period.” A wry smile cracked his expression. “From what you’re saying, I suppose it means even Wol’daeen has given up on the idea that I might have something to contribute here. I’m not surprised. Depression is a poor interpreter, and that’s all I’ve had to offer lately. I won’t be sorry to get back to Pe’leoek.”

  Pausing in the work, Kel’les looked over at him. “We are not going back to Myssar. A discovery has been made and a ship diverted to take us to its location. We are to be sent to Daribb.”

  It took Ruslan a moment to connect with the name. That he recognized it was not surprising. Learning the names of all the human-settled systems had been a part of every child’s basic education on Seraboth, as it likely was on every similar world. In the course of working with Myssari researchers, there had been numerous occasions on which he had been obliged to recall such names. Still, he needed to confirm it.

  “Daribb. That is a human-colonized system, isn’t it?” The busy Kel’les gestured affirmatively. “What do they want with me there?” He raised a hand. “No, let me guess. The Myssari have a scientific research station there not unlike this one and the staff desires my inimitable input.”

  “There is that,” Kel’les admitted. “But it is not the main reason. I am told that your presence is requested in the event certain sightings turn out to be confirmed.”

  He was only mildly intrigued. “What kind of sightings? Active automatons? Still-functioning weaponry? Mysterious cultural artifacts that your people cannot comprehend?”

  Kel’les put down the pair of pants s’he was in the process of folding into three layers. “A pair of free-ranging aerial automatics scouting new territory reported the possible sighting of a live human or humans.”

  Delivered in the intermet’s usual matter-of-fact tone, the words went through Ruslan like an electric charge. His mind momentarily blanked and for an instant he stopped breathing. Then he made Kel’les repeat what s’he had said. Confirmation that he had heard correctly birthed a thousand questions, to which it quickly became clear Kel’les had less than a thousand answers.

  “Enhancement of the recorded images and careful perusal of the report have apparently convinced senior researchers on Myssar that whatever the automatics saw, it was not a machine. Whether it was truly a living human, simply a native creature of similar shape and stature, or the product of convergent evolution they cannot say.” The intermet paused to ensure s’he was using the right words. “But should it turn out to be another surviving human, or more than one, it is considered imperative that you be present. Not only to confirm the discovery but to aid in acquiring the new specimen.”

  Despite Kel’les’s customary care in speaking, the use of the terms “acquiring” and “specimen” were ill-considered. Another time, Ruslan might have taken offense or responded with a riposte rich with his trademark sarcasm. Not now. Not this time.

  “How did it look?” The questions poured out of him rapidly and in uncharacteristically bad Myssari. “Old, young, male, female, in good health or bad, what? By all that is sacred and sapient, tell me something!”

  Kel’les’s tone was mournful. “I have told you all that I was told, Ruslan. There is no more to tell.”

  Rising from his chair, the diversionary oceanic delights of the displacement sphere now completely forgotten, Ruslan moved purposefully toward the small storage unit that contained the rest of his meager personal belongings.

  “Go prepare your own self for travel. I will be ready in nine smalltime.”

  “There is no need for haste. The shuttle will not arrive until—”

  “Nine smalltime. Go on, go!”

  Thus dismissed, a complaisant Kel’les departed, leaving behind the sole human on Treth. Awhirl, Ruslan’s thoughts clashed so hard that his head began to pound.

  Dare he hope? Dare he wish? The Myssari thought enough of the report to send a ship just to transfer him and his small group of attached researchers from one world to another. They might not have convincing proof of the discovery, but they clearly had expectations. Could he, after all these years convinced he was the last human alive, dare to hope otherwise?

  What if the report turned out to be wholly inaccurate? What if, as Kel’les had suggested, the scouts had merely taken note of the existence of some native primate-like lifeform? He struggled, he fought, to restrain his excitement. If that proved to be the case, disappointment would not kill him: human beings did not die from disappointment. Besides, why should he expect the report to be accurate? It would not be the first time. There had been previous reports of humans living on other worlds. All had turned out to be false; misperceptions of self-maintaining machines or local wildlife.

  But never before had the Science Sectionary gone to the trouble and expense of sending a ship solely to take him to help verify or refute such a report in person.

  He had lied to Kel’les about the time he would need to prepare himself. He was ready in a threepart.

  * * *

  —

  The name Daribb was familiar to him, but not the place. On the scale of suitability for human life, it ranked somewhere in the bottom third of habitable worlds. Such a designation indicated that rather than being unsuitable for settlement, it was more awkward and uncomfortable than dangerous. That it was quite literally a messy place had put off the fussy and starry-eyed. Those who had been willing to put down roots and work hard had done well. In the end it did not matter. The inhabitants of Daribb succumbed to the Aura Malignance as readily and rapidly as those who dwelled on more welcoming worlds.

  Most notably, Daribb was a flat place. Very flat. Any mountain ranges had long since been ground down. The few geological contusions high enough to be called a hill were few and far between. To these isolated continental bumps humankind had consigned their scattered settlements and cities. When they began running short of elevated places, they expanded out onto the surrounding flats—and onto the mud.

  It was everywhere. Slick and sticky and of varying viscosity, it averaged half a dozen centimeters deep no matter where one went. Below the scattered hills the cities, even the farms, were forced to build on raise
d platforms. It was not terribly difficult, this physical elevation of an entire society. Far less involved than putting down pylons on a water world, for example. Step off a platform onto the planetary surface, however, and a resident would find himself on a world of sodden soil and lugubrious organic goo. Agronomists did well out of the rich muck, miners less so. There was a living to be made, but Daribb required a particular sort of settler. Or rather, one who was not particular. Unsurprisingly, even at its peak the population had never been more than a fifth of that of Seraboth or Treth.

  Metropolitan areas were few and far between, with the bulk of the population living in scattered small towns and the agricultural areas that radiated outward from them. Located on an abandoned outcropping, the Myssari research base was smaller and less developed than the ones on Treth and Ruslan’s homeworld. Operating with less support and fewer personnel, the scientific complement nonetheless had compiled an impressive list of discoveries. Were the most recent one to prove accurate, it would certainly overshadow nearly every piece of research into vanished humankind since a team on Seraboth had recovered the survivor known as Ruslan.

  It was drizzling when he exited the shuttle. Sheltered within the flexed, extendable tubeway, he and his companions were shielded from the moisture. The Myssari reacted to rain much as they did to everything else, with aplomb and a disposition that was invariably sunnier than the weather itself. They evinced none of the gloom that would have afflicted a corresponding trio of humans. To them rain invariably meant growth, renewal, a refreshing of the world. Depending on individual mood, to a human it could mean that, or a moodiness that might linger.

  Despite the strain of the journey, Ruslan was too keyed up to be anything other than energized. The director of the outpost and their host, a mid-aged female named Twi’win, tried hard to distribute her attention among the four visitors. Used to putting awed Myssari at ease, Ruslan made it a point to reassure her.

  “Go ahead and stare. After years on the receiving end, it has long since ceased to bother me.” He smiled, wondering if the director had been better prepped on human expressions than on human appearance. “You should know that I don’t consider it a display of ill manners.”