by Steve Gannon
Reaching into the crib, Aaron stroked Daniel’s head, the child’s hair silky beneath his fingers. How quickly he’d grown! Every day he looked more like a little boy. Daniel stirred, and Aaron withdrew his hand.
Numbly, Aaron stood in the darkness, gazing down at his beautiful, crippled, cherished son.
Instead of returning to bed after leaving the nursery, Aaron exited his living quarters and took a slidestrip to his lab. Upon arrival he found the large room deserted, as expected. With grim determination, he sat at the sensor console. Powering up the array of astronomical devices contained therein, he began his search.
The stars in the viewing field were blue-shifted by the relativistic effect of the ship’s velocity. Adjusting his instruments to compensate, Aaron located the small sun he had recently discovered. Over the centuries, a high percentage of the stars encountered by Genesis had proved to be binaries—two suns closely circling each other—and routinely devoid of habitable planets. The rest of the suns that had fallen within their velocity cone were either too hot for life or disappointingly sterile and planetless. This new star, however, appeared to be perfect: stable, burning on the main sequence, and at only seven light years distance, a definite possibility.
Although at seven light years Aaron’s equipment was inadequate to actually see a planetary system, the presence of orbiting worlds could be detected by painstakingly observing light from the parent star. Unfortunately, those measurements often took months. Aaron had been scrutinizing the yellow sun for barely two weeks, and until now the results had been within the statistical range of error inherent in his sensing devices. Nevertheless, he felt certain there was a habitable planet circling the new star. There had to be.
Working frantically, Aaron continued his measurements through the first watch and into the second. When he finished, he knew he was close, so very close. Granted, he still had nothing definite, but within weeks he would know for sure, and he now felt confident he had enough to again petition for a delay of Daniel’s sentence. After gathering his research notes, he hurried back to his living quarters. He wanted Susan at his side when he once more faced the council.
When he arrived, she was gone.
Standing in the nursery, Aaron stared into the empty crib. The rumpled covers lay pushed to one side, partially hiding the stuffed bear. With a sinking feeling, he sent his consciousness throughout the ship—the clinic, galley, assembly hall, hydroponics, engineering—racing from mind to mind, calling her name.
She never answered.
He found the thought-tube on their bed, lying on his pillow. He picked it up, afraid of what it might contain. Fighting to control his nervousness, he touched the crystal cylinder to his temple.
Susan’s image sprang to life in Aaron’s mind, and she spoke to him for the last time. Wordlessly, she left him all her memories of Daniel—his birth, his first smile, the wonder in his eyes, and more. She told him that she knew they could never have another child, but that was not the reason she was leaving. The reason was simple: She could not let Daniel go into the darkness alone.
She told Aaron that she loved him. And finally, she bid him good-bye.
Hours later Aaron Rhodes sat on the ship’s observation deck, watching as the stars wheeled slowly past. He held a black-and-tan object in his hands. Looking down, he noticed that a bit of wadding had begun to spill from the torn seam he’d noticed earlier. Concentrating on the toy swimming in his vision, he carefully pushed the stuffing back in.
And then, for the first time in his life, ignoring the curious stares of others, in a straining, broken voice that cracked and faltered with effort, using ancient words from a long-forgotten language . . . he began to sing.
Virus
I am alone.
Not counting the Magellan and what’s left of the two alien vessels, the nearest ship, the nearest colony, in fact the nearest anything is ten thousand light years away. I’ve still got plenty of juice left in my EV suit, though, and my oxygen tanks are almost full. Plus there’s a fresh voice spool in my recorder. Before turning off my suit’s heater coils, I want to leave behind a record of what happened. There sure as hell won’t be one in the Magellan’s computer log. Besides, I’m in no hurry to freeze.
So here goes. What I’m about to say may be hard to swallow, but I swear it’s true. All of it. One thing before I start, though, and this is really, really important: Whoever finds me, do not, repeat, do not attempt to download any of Magellan’s computer files.
Everyone says begin at the beginning, right? Okay, here’s how things began. I’m Lieutenant Dennis McGuire, communications and cybernetics officer aboard the Federation Starship Magellan. We left Lunar orbit eight days ago to investigate a subspace disturbance in the Horsehead Nebula. It was my first jump. Having spent three dreary years on Lunar Orbiter 7, I was overjoyed to hear that I had finally drawn starship duty. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining about orbiter work; somebody has to keep the photonic brains on the mining robots operational, and it got me offplanet. Nonetheless, it was a big comedown from the theoretical stuff I had been exposed to at the Academy—which I guess is what got me out here in the first place.
Let’s back up a bit. I have a knack for cybernetics, along with a talent for getting into trouble. Although finishing at the top of my Academy class, I also managed to rack up one of the lowest fitness reports ever posted. At least that’s what Captain Wheatly told me the day I graduated. I remember his exact words. “Mac,” he growled at me from across the spit-shined surface of his desk, “in the past four years you’ve set a new standard for academic excellence. You’ve also been a royal pain in the ass.”
“Yes, sir,” I agreed, figuring one out of two wasn’t bad. Besides, I knew he was right. The military system and I didn’t see eye-to-eye on a lot of things, but joining the service was the only way for me to get offplanet. I had resigned myself to life in the military, but that didn’t mean I liked all the damn rules.
“You don’t deserve this, but I’m gonna do you a favor,” Captain Wheatly continued.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, trying to look appreciative. In view of my fitness reports, I suspected that his idea of a favor would be a nice long tour on a Lunar orbiter. I was right. Anyway, for the next three years I kept my nose relatively clean and kept reapplying for deep-space duty. And when it finally came through, I jumped at the chance.
I had six hours to brief my orbiter replacement, clean out my locker, and catch a shuttle over to the Magellan, a four-man explorer I had seen dropping into docking orbit earlier that morning. I made it over as quickly as possible, which, as it turned out, wasn’t fast enough.
“Lieutenant McGuire, where the hell have you been? We’re due to jump in thirty minutes!” Captain Stringer, the Magellan’s CO, yelled at me as I struggled through the airlock. Stringer was tall and lanky, with red hair and a temper to match.
“Sir, my orders stated—”
“Those orders were changed,” Stringer snapped. “Didn’t you get the word? Never mind. Go help Cruz with the jump calculations. And welcome aboard,” he added brusquely.
I had barely entered the computer bay when I felt the Magellan lurch under her inertial thrusters. Realizing we were already climbing out of Lunar orbit, I hurried to the computer console. That’s when I got my first big surprise. Our onboard computer was an Omni 4000, the most advanced computer system ever built.
I had logged some time on an experimental Omni at the Academy, one of only three in existence. What was an Omni doing aboard a starship? I wondered. It didn’t make sense.
Granted, an onboard computer is and always has been the heart of every starship, controlling navigation, propulsion, environmental support, communications—even the cryo-systems that allowed early explorers to cross interstellar distances in frozen stasis. With the development of jump technology, a ship’s computer suddenly became even more indispensable, for it alone could handle the mind-boggling complexities of navigating hyperspace. The point is, a
ll this takes a staggering amount of computing power. On a starship the computer of choice is usually a Gates Mark 9, which has way more than enough. Compared with an Omni, however, it’s a toy.
“Impressive, huh?” said a dark, muscular man seated at a nearby console. I looked over, noting that although the man’s nose appeared to have been customized by more than a few knuckles, the rest of his face was wearing a big, lopsided grin. “She asked us to call her Carla,” he added.
“She?”
“The Omni.”
“She asked you?”
The man shrugged. “Don’t look at me. We just got her installed onboard yesterday.” Then, leaning over, he pumped my hand in a viselike grip. “You must be McGuire. I’m Felipe Cruz, ship’s navigator.”
“Call me Mac.”
Abruptly, the intercom crackled. “Cruz, those equations ready?” Captain Stringer’s voice came over the navigation speaker.
“Working on ’em now, Cap.”
“We’re jumping in twenty-six minutes. It would be nice if the solutions were completed by then. Get McGuire to help.”
“What’s the rush?”
“Just do it, Cruz.”
“Aye-aye, Skipper.”
“Damn,” Cruz grumbled after Stringer clicked off. “Twenty-six minutes is cutting it thin. Let’s go, Mac. Time to shine.”
Although I knew almost nothing about navigating, one of my duties as communications officer was to assist with hyperspace computations. Despite my puzzlement at the Omni’s presence, I sat at the keyboard, wondering whether the system had the Dexter Navigational Program in its memory. That particular algorithm-laden program had been a stunning, albeit impractical, breakthrough in hyperspace navigation when I was studying at the Academy. The trouble with the program was that only an Omni had the raw computing power to run it, and as I said, there weren’t many Omnis around—especially on starships. Anyway, I checked the Omni’s program files. To my amazement, the program I wanted was in there.
I glanced over at Cruz. He was working furiously at the nav console. He had set up the destination tensors, but the look on his face said he would never solve them in time. “Gimme the coordinates,” I said.
“What?”
“Just gimme the coordinates. The Omni will do the rest.”
Cruz regarded me doubtfully.
“C’mon, Cruz. What’ve you got to lose?”
“At this point, nothing.” Dubiously, Cruz rattled off a long series of digits. I entered them into the Omni. Moments later the twelve-dimensional equations of motion flashed up on the display.
Cruz stared incredulously at the screen, then thumped me on the back. “Mac, I think I’m gonna like having you around. You too, Carla.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Cruz,” the Omni replied.
The jump to hyperspace came off right on schedule. When it happened I was strapped in my webbing chair, wondering what the transition would feel like. Despite all I’d heard, it wasn’t what I expected. Not even close. Oh, I was ready for the blinding flash of light and the weird, sideways lurch. What I wasn’t prepared for was the feeling that someone had reached down my throat and turned me inside out like a glove. I’ve heard it’s different for everyone, but for me it was, well . . . let’s just say I was glad when it was over.
After I pulled myself together, I made my way to the galley. Cruz and Stringer were already there drinking coffee. Stringer eyed me as I entered, then smiled. “First jump?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “What’s it like out there?” I knew the answer; I just wanted to change the subject.
“Black,” Stringer answered. “No stars, just black. We won’t be seeing anything till we arrive.”
Recalling the jump coordinates, I did a quick mental calculation, coming up with an ETA of just under a week. “What’s our mission?”
“And why the big hurry to get there?” added Cruz.
Stringer took a sip of coffee, then glanced at Cruz. “Sorry I couldn’t tell you earlier. This is top secret. Two days ago the deep-space listening array picked up a subspace signal coming from somewhere in the Horsehead Nebula. Looks like a distress beacon of some sort.”
Cruz shook his head. “A beacon? Way out there on the galactic rim?”
Stringer shrugged. “There’s more. Whatever it is, it’s not ours. We’re being sent to investigate.”
“Not ours? Are we talking aliens here?”
“Who knows? If so, it’ll be our first contact with another race. Understandably, the brass wants us out there ASAP.” Stringer turned his gaze to me. “Which reminds me—do you know a Captain Wheatly?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered. “He was my CO at the Academy. Why?”
“He recommended you for this assignment. Very highly, in fact.”
My jaw dropped. Highly recommended? By Wheatly?
“We don’t have the faintest idea what we may find out there,” Stringer explained, “so the consensus was that we needed a communications officer with a flexible approach to problem solving, outside-the-box thinking. We also needed someone who had experience with an Omni. According to Wheatly, you fit the bill.”
“Why the Omni?”
“If we run into an alien race, communicating is going to be a problem. That’s where you and the Omni come in.” At that point I noticed Stringer’s eyes drifting to a spot just over my left shoulder. “Julie,” he said. “Smooth jump, Commander.”
I turned, doing a double take as I got a look at the fourth member of our crew. The Magellan’s pilot was tall and willowy, with clear hazel eyes, short brown hair, and a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her lips were full and sensuous, and the rest of her filled out her uniform nicely. Very nicely, indeed. Things were definitely looking up.
“Thanks, Cap,” she said, eyeing me curiously. “Who do we have here?”
“Our new communications officer,” answered Stringer. “Lieutenant Dennis McGuire, Commander Julie Reagan.”
“Call me Mac,” I said, extending my hand. Starfleet tradition allowed for a relaxation of rank observance on a vessel underway, and I intended to make the most of it.
“Mac it is,” she said. Her grasp was firm and she met my gaze straight on as she returned my smile. “First jump, huh? How’d you make out?”
“It was, ah, interesting,” I replied with a touch of embarrassment, realizing I probably looked as bad as I felt.
“You’ll get used to it,” she laughed, seating herself beside Cruz. “The jump back to realspace should go easier.”
I hoped she was right. After my first experience, I wasn’t looking forward to a second.
The next days slipped by quickly. Cruz turned out to be good at chess, although when playing the black pieces he consistently got into trouble using a weak variation of the Sicilian. I hate to lose, so I never smartened him up. Stringer mostly kept to himself, listening to classical music and writing letters to his wife back on Luna. I spent as many off-duty hours as I could with Julie, exploring the intricacies of jump engines—a subject I suddenly found fascinating. To tell the truth, it could have been moon rocks; Julie was what I found fascinating. I liked being with her. I liked it a lot.
As for my duty rotations—they were mostly devoted to Carla. I began calling her that after something that happened our third day out. I had been working with the Omni exploring different approaches to establishing contact with an unknown intelligence when it came up with something I hadn’t even considered. “Is it conceivable that the alien beings we encounter might be nonorganic?” the Omni asked.
I thought about it. “Maybe,” I conceded. “But the only nonorganic intelligence I can imagine would have to have been constructed, in which case we would want to talk with the builders.”
“Nonetheless, even if a machine intelligence originally owes its existence to an organic entity, it is possible for a cybernetic mind to evolve,” the Omni persisted. “For example, given the necessary adapters, I am theoretically capable of designing and assembl
ing the next generation of Omni computers. From there, it would be possible for my progeny to—”
“Sounds to me like you want to discover some kind of artificial intelligence out there,” I broke in, wondering where the conversation was leading.
“Perhaps I do.”
“Why?”
What the Omni said next took me completely off guard. “To find out what I am.”
“What you are,” I said, “is an Omni 4000 photonic computer with state-of-the-art artificial intelligence.”
“Granted. But is that all I am?”
We’d drifted into an area that had been debated for years. Can a photonic network be truly sentient, truly self-aware? I didn’t have the answer, but after that I honored her request and started calling her Carla.
Six days, eighteen hours, and twenty-two minutes later I was again strapped in my webbing, hoping the transition back to realspace would be easier than my first experience. Contrary to Julie’s assurances, it wasn’t. It was worse.
When I felt well enough to make my way to the bridge, I found Cruz, Julie, and Stringer already there, gathered around the viewscreen. Joining them, I checked out the display. Stars! A feeling of relief flooded through me as I saw the tiny points of light drifting through the darkness. I hadn’t realized I would be so happy to be back in realspace, but there it was.
After checking our position, Cruz announced that we had come out right on the button. The mysterious beacon lay dead ahead. Three hours later, after killing our jump velocity, we saw it. Actually, we saw them.
Two ships hung in the void before us, separated by about ten kilometers.
No one spoke. Dwarfing the Magellan, the larger of the two alien vessels was composed of a pair of gigantic spheres connected by a short cylindrical midsection that gave the craft an odd, dumbbell-shaped appearance. Tubelike projections studded its twin globes at regular intervals; otherwise the ship’s metal surface looked seamless. At our present distance I couldn’t make out much of the smaller ship. Nonetheless, something about both vessels marked them as deserted. Although we tried to raise them on all radio and subspace frequencies, we were unable to establish contact.