"No, it’s fixed with respect to the sun.”
"That’s not possible.” She checked the readings. "There’s no sign of heat from station-keeping thrusters or antigrav.”
"Everything moves in real-space.”
"You’re suggesting this thing has an active connection to N-space?”
"The only things that don’t move in real-space, to our knowledge, are the Minoan buoys that are anchored in N-space. Too bad we don’t know how they do that.”
"Yeah, but we’ve got N-space travel because they do.” She pointed toward another graph. "This thing isn’t a buoy. It isn’t emitting anything on the EM spectrum. There’s no track and lock signals, nothing, and there’s no known way to shut buoys down once they’re initialized.”
"They can be destroyed with TD weapons.”
She looked away. "There’s a healthy sun here. I don’t think it was ever hit by a TD detonation.”
"Ura-Guinn may still exist, right? So—”
"Why don’t we launch our touchy-feely bot and get a closer look, huh?” The bot sent back some astounding close-up video once it was near the artifact.
"I’ve seen a lot of time buoys, even older ones, and that doesn’t look like Minoan design or workmanship,” Ari said.
"Amazing,” was all Matt could say.
They weren’t surprised when the bot had to fire chemical thrusters to resist the gravitational force from the artifact. Any simple N-space connection could generate a gravitational field; that was how the gravity generator worked on the Aether’s Touch, as well as any other ship or habitat. It wasn’t a strong field, but it affected the bot’s navigation.
"Let’s land it and see if we can scrape a sample or two,” Matt said.
That’s when everything had gone wrong.
"What do you mean it won’t respond?” Matt demanded. "It’s still feeding us data.”
"Yes, but it isn’t accepting commands. I can’t get it to take a sample. Look at the video.”
The bot walked around the cylindrical surface to the side toward the sun and oriented its solar panels for maximum exposure, yet it didn’t need to charge its batteries. It didn’t stop recording or transmitting, but it ignored all commands to move or take samples. Then they tried to make it return. No good. Finally, they tried abort commands. Nothing changed.
That’s when he’d had the brilliant idea to go EVA to retrieve it, and keep the ship as far away from the artifact as possible. He was going untethered, keeping an open mike, with a thruster pack and several hours of air. His words when departing the air lock on Aether’s Touch were "Don’t worry, I’ll have that bot back in no time at all.”
When he got to the artifact, he was able to crawl on it because of the gravity field. His stomach felt strange, particularly when he crept about a midsection that had a diameter of only ten meters and a tiny circumference of approximately thirty meters. While his every action should cause an equal and opposite reaction, that was a real-space rule and it didn’t apply to this artifact. It didn’t roll or move, although it shuddered a tiny bit when he landed.
"What did you say? No time at all?” Ari’s voice asked in his ear bug, twenty minutes and many creative curse words later.
"It’s running away from me.” Matt was sweating and puffing, making his environmental controls ramp up. The suit and pack weren’t easy to maneuver, particularly when he needed quick, abrupt movement.
"Matt, hold on.” She sounded worried. "I’m reading a signal. I think this thing suddenly switched on. The artifact’s emitting—something.”
"What?” He paused on the dark side of the artifact, staring at the bot that was less than a meter away, taunting him. It seemed to have no problem using its wheels and multijointed feet to scamper around. Maybe if I stay still, it’ll come forward. He crouched closer to the surface of the artifact.
"I think you ought to get off, Matt. I’m reading a faint, but repetitive, signal on a frequency in the microwave region.”
That was when the bot shut off its lights, moved toward him, punctured his suit with one of its sampling arms, and retreated.
"What the fuck?” He backed away, seeing status lights inside the helmet blink red for a moment. Above his wrist joint was a tear about a centimeter long.
"What’s happening? You’re on the dark side and your helmet light sucks.”
He backed away, clumsy in the EVA suit and unbalanced by the tank with thrusters. The suit was self-sealing and he heard the hiss of sealant expanding. The sealant fixed the leak, but it also stiffened and thickened the suit near a crucial joint, hindering his mobility even more. In the dim light from his helmet, he saw the bot advancing, both arms moving fast enough to blur.
"Matt?”
"It’s attacking me—get away! What the—”
"I’m coming closer to give you better light.”
"No! Ari, don’t let the ship near, I don’t want her systems compromised—hey! You piece of junk!”
He had rips in both arms and near the control panel on his chest. As he rolled backward and pushed off, the bot sliced an area near his left knee. His suit could take only so much abuse.
He pushed off hard enough to soar ten meters away, but when he tried to activate his thrusters, nothing happened. His status light indicated no connection. Without thrusters, he couldn’t turn, but he was happy to have his feet oriented toward the artifact. The bot’s arms were reaching toward him. He came down kicking and damaged one of its arms, but received more punctures near his right knee and left ankle.
Bright light erupted about him. Behind him, Aether’s Touch had moved close enough to use floodlights. He grabbed the moving sample arm with his left hand, feeling more sealant expand. How much more could this suit take?
The bot’s arm was stronger than he expected, jerking his torso left and right while his other hand groped about, searching. He found the memory module and yanked. Luckily, it’d been designed for quick disconnect. Pushing off with all the strength he could muster in one arm and his stiffened legs, he rose toward the ship.
He saw a status light on the bot’s front panel blink and go orange, but it still had power. It moved around toward the sunny side of the artifact and he lost sight of it. Tumbling slowly, head over heels, he saw Aether’s Touch come into view. The ship was so close that he could see the seams in her skin. The doors to her large bay were open and the interior lights were on.
A rush of gratitude for Ari’s quick thinking loosened his tense muscles. Thank Gaia she never listens to me.
CHAPTER 4
A thought experiment I pose to my students: What if the
Minoans didn’t help mankind off Earth (Terra) or establish FTL (Nous-space, N-space) travel for us? We might
never have migrated out of the Helios (Sol) system. To
the contrary, we wouldn’t have suffered spasms of
planetwide economic and political destabilization, followed by warfare. At this point, some student will bring
up the latest theory of alternate universes. . . .
—Marcus Alexander, Sophist at Konstantinople Prime
University, 2042.261 UT, reindexed in 2093 by
Democritus 18 under Cause and Effect Imperative
"I don’t see you dealing with punctured suits and insane bots!” Matt realized he was yelling and clamped his jaw shut.
Mr. Customs was leaning backward and squinting, refusing to give way to Matt’s aggression by stepping backward. Matt took a moment to collect his emotions and backed out of the inspector’s personal space.
"I apologize. I’m rather tired right now,” Matt said stiffly. He didn’t really want to make a scene that would titillate the lurkers. Too late now.
Mr. Customs looked at the watching remotes for a minute. His sneer had relaxed into a frown that looked ingrained and after a moment, he handed over the slate.
"I don’t write the law, Mr. Journey.” Customs didn’t make an apology, but at least he used a mild tone. "I’m required to personally in
form you that you must provide proof of pursuit of discovery, plus justification of reasonable profit. That’s in addition to proof of pedis possessio using manual or telebot methods.”
The words came out in a rush and were probably meaningless to Mr. Customs, who turned quickly and shuffled his feet awkwardly as he walked away. From the gawky gait, he was newly assigned and a grav-hugger as well. Why would he have applied to work on a habitat in the first place?
Matt waited alone, except for clusters of remotes still cam-eyeing him. Where was his security? He fidgeted, about to put through another request, when the heads of two brawny security agents became visible over the curve of the deck.
"Mr. Journey?” One of the security team handed him a slate. Hired muscle was smart enough to ensure that they were paid with verified funds. Once they received their verification code, they relaxed into almost-smiles, which was possibly as friendly as they got.
"We can carry that, Mr. Journey,” said one, extending a beefy arm.
Matt instinctively clutched the case to his body tightly. Then he realized that anyone watching through remotes would notice his overprotective reflex. No sense in giving hints to lurkers. Trying to look nonchalant, he handed the case over to security. Then he moved away from the docks as fast as he could with a safe lope, trying to get used to habitat gravity. When they entered the crowds on commerce levels, his security earned their pay, plus generous tips. Both men kept close to Matt so that their combined privacy shields kept the remotes at bay. They didn’t let anyone physically bump into him and probe his implant firewalls.
They got to the burb-levels in record speed. After receiving admittance from Nestor’s flat, Matt released the security team and entered.
"So, what was the deal with customs?” asked Nestor. No greeting after these six months, no how-are-you, but hey, this was Nestor.
"Only a dumb-ass grav-hugger with a chip on his shoulder.”
"Yeah? It looked like your head was going to blow off during that fit you had.”
"Did the node coverage already get indexed? Or did you set a remote on me?” Matt was still tense.
Nestor’s tufts of blue hair bowed and waved to some fractal algorithm as he turned his lenses, which had one clear side, toward Matt. His propensity for using wearable interfaces, when most people used the myriad of available display surfaces, had earned Nestor the name of "Bug” at the generational orphanage. It was a name Matt knew he despised.
"I did what any lawyer or intellectual property broker would do. Particularly after foolishly broadcasting that you had such a good season.” Nestor shrugged.
"I don’t like being hounded by remotes.”
"Who does? Anyway, where’s that little pilot of yours? I always get a charge from her.” Nestor made a rude gesture toward his groin. Matt rolled his eyes. If Ari were here Nestor would be all awkward worship and adolescent admiration.
"Ari went on some job for what’s-his-face.” Matt tried to keep the rancor out of his voice.
Nestor spent a moment observing him in silence, perhaps illegally collecting biometric data. "If you want a pilot who charges you, that’s okay, but this one twists you up inside. You got to keep it professional.”
Professional. Matt nodded vaguely. At one time, he’d been objective about Ari. N-space pilots encountered unspeakable terrors during the drop, but those terrors usually didn’t follow the pilots into real-space and haunt them in their sleep. The cognitive dissonance enhancer, nicknamed clash, was supposed to ensure that the pilot couldn’t remember the terrors well enough to reexperience them in their sleep. After months of working together, however, Matt had determined that Ari’s nightmares had nothing to do with N-space; they were fragments of her previous military missions. He always made sure he was in the small galley heating drinks when she staggered out for her shift, sometimes sweating and shaking. During this past exploration season, as Matt stared at her in that tiny galley, he knew he’d stepped over a thin and indefinable emotional line.
"Ari’s a minor partner now.” Matt tried to change the subject. He shook off the picture of how she’d looked, dwarfed in her large sleeping shirt with the faded symbol of a snake, with her hands clutching the hot drink. He’d gotten into the habit of stocking Hellas Kaffi, even though it was expensive, and sharing it with her during shift overlap. Generally, crèche-get didn’t like strong flavors or spices, but there were two universal exceptions: coffee, even the generic kind, and reengineered cinnamon, when used sparingly. These flavors and smells seemed to appeal to the human psyche and instinct, regardless of environment and upbringing.
"So? Hire another pilot. Would she have a problem with reducing her seasons?” Nestor said.
"N-space pilots are hard to come by. Besides, whether I hire another pilot is my business.”
"Hmm. I’m a minor partner now and I’m just giving you advice. Which perhaps you should heed, since you handled Customs so well.” Nestor drawled his voice into sarcasm.
"He was new.” Matt shrugged. He opened his data case and examined the crystal. Since crystal was extremely rugged, the specialized padding was a marketing ploy to make the crystal look better when inside the case. What needed sapphire-based protection were the connection sockets and sensitive equipment that made data into light before writing it onto crystal.
"He crawled all over the ship, even taking measurements in the array compartment to check for interference,” added Matt. "I’ve never seen customs do that.”
"Might be taking his job too seriously, but my money’s on graft and greed every time. I think he was looking for something. He’s on the take, you know,” Nestor said.
"What?”
"Don’t look so shocked. Many inspectors supplement their government income.”
"Yeah—but shouldn’t I be the one offering bribes? He never gave me a signal, not once.” Matt was dismayed. "What’s he paid for, and who’s paying?”
"I’m not sure. When he came on-station, I checked up on him. The payments are small, so I’m guessing they’re for information. When I discovered he’d been subverted so quickly, I widened my research to all of customs. They all get these small payments—from someone, for some sort of information.”
Matt was relieved; it didn’t sound as though Aether’s Touch had been specifically targeted. This wasn’t something he could ignore, but given the G-145 data, he had other priorities right now.
"Let’s address that later. The clock’s ticking.” Matt winced at inadvertently parroting Mr. Custom’s words. He thrust the open crystal case at Nestor. "Here’s the source from the ship.”
Nestor staggered as he carried the crystal over to his "wall o’ data.” Nestor had decorated his small flat in a monochromatic style befitting any crèche-get, particularly a bachelor. Both the furniture and floors were plush and the same deep blue as his hair. The unwary visitor had to fumble for seating because the furniture showed only where edges contrasted against wall displays and shiny support ribs. The walls were currently awash with moving screens, but Nestor often changed the flat to an opulent all-encompassing blue.
The entertainment area allowed four people to be seated, but only if they wanted to be intimately acquainted. The "wall o’ data” was programmed to look like glass and mirrored shelves of crystal art, but when long thin hatches slid aside, rows of protected sockets for temporary memory and crystal were exposed. If Nestor could afford to fill every socket with crystal, he’d almost have the equivalent of a vault.
Nestor rerouted data connections before installing the heavy crystal from the ship. He was one of those paranoid types who owned, rather than leased, his processors; he could physically segment his systems away from ComNet and still be functional.
"Let’s see what we have.” After puttering about, Nestor sat down beside Matt and turned off input over his right eye. On his wall, he displayed the indexes on Matt’s data. The room was lit by displays on every flat surface, but Nestor outshone his screens with a shirt that had a rolling marquee of "hot y
oung professional seeks limber arts type,” followed by several sexually explicit scenes. The shirt threw flashes of light about, reflecting off the chrome and glass surfaces.
"Can you turn that shirt off?” asked Matt. "You’re going to make me puke.”
"Sure. You’re not my type anyway.” Nestor felt around the front of his thin chest and the shirt became blessedly quiescent fabric.
They started defining the claims. The exaLOBs, the enormous amounts of large objects they had to release to public domain, weren’t indexed, making it impossible for a casual browser to assimilate. This data would give researchers years of entertainment. Nestor, however, had the advantage of organization: precious indexes prepared by Matt. Nestor dove immediately toward the important indexes and whistled in appreciation.
"I thought this only happened in v-plays. You found evidence of civilization on this moon? Ruins of structures? I’ll be damned by any-and-all-blessed-gods. Let’s see if you’ve got proof of discovery.” Nestor scanned for telebot data.
"The ruins weren’t exposed on the surface, except at a tiny protrusion,” Matt said.
"Physical exposure provisions are long gone,” Nestor said brusquely. "After all, we’re talking about space exploration and telepresence. Don’t get me wrong, exposure would make the placer claim easier to define—what is this, a column outline? It sure doesn’t look like architecture I’ve seen on Knossos.” Matt grinned. Nestor was going through the same sequence of assumptions that he and Ari had made. First assumption: These ruins are Minoan. Second assumption: This is prespaceflight civilization. Matt waited.
"I hope you didn’t get excited about this,” Nestor said. "Nobody gets rich off archaeological research, even when there’s lease potential with the entertainment industry. And statute 1622.3 prevents mining of natural resources in areas of cultural importance.”
"Wait.” Matt cut Nestor’s analysis short. He leaned forward and tapped out a sequence on the projected symbols on Nestor’s console.
"Analysis of this protrusion indicated a composite made from sophisticated ceramics and directional polymers, much like the composite we use against cosmic radiation on the skins of our ships.”
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