The Forge of God

by Greg Bear

  "I am. Trevor Hicks." He spelled the name and gave his American Express number.

  "Mr. Trevor Hicks. The writer?" the agent asked.

  "Yes, indeed, bless you," he said.

  "I heard you on the radio yesterday."

  He pictured the travel agent as a well-tanned blond beach bunny. Perhaps he had been unfair to KGB-FM. "Oh, indeed?"

  "Yes. Very interesting. You said you'd take an alien home to meet your mum. Your mother. Even now?"

  "Yes, even now," he said. "Feeling very friendly toward extraterrestrials, aren't we all?"

  The agent laughed nervously. "Actually, it frightens me.

  "Me, too, dear," Hicks said. Delicious, lovely fright.

  8

  Harry stood before the glass, hands in his pockets, staring at the Guest. Arthur conferred with two officers at the rear of the room, discussing how the first physical examination was going to be conducted. "We won't be entering the room this time," he said. "We have your photographs and . . . tissue samples from the first day. They'll keep us busy."

  Harry felt a small flush of anger. "Idiots," he said under his breath. The Guest, as usual, was curled beneath the blankets on the low platform, only a "foot" and "hand" sticking out from the covers.

  "Beg pardon, sir?" asked the current duty officer, a tall, muscular Nordic-looking fellow of about thirty.

  "I said 'idiots,' " Harry repeated. "Tissue samples."

  "I wasn't there, sir, but we didn't know whether the Guest was alive or dead," the Nordic man said.

  "Whatever," Arthur broke in, waving his hand at Harry: slack off. "They're useful, however they were taken. Today, I'm going to ask the Guest to stand up, allow us to photograph it . . . him—"

  "It," Harry said. "Don't coddle our prejudices."

  "It, then, from all sides, in all postures, while active. I'll also ask if it will submit to further examinations later—"

  "Sir," the Nordic man said, "we've discussed this, and considering the warning the Guest has delivered, we believe absolute caution is called for."

  "Yes?"

  "We're revealing a great many things about ourselves. It could be an information conduit to the object in Death Valley, and how we carry out our examinations, X rays, whatever, could tell them a lot about how advanced we are and what our capabilities are."

  "For God's sake," Harry said. He ignored Arthur's sharp glance. "They've been listening to our broadcasts for who knows how many decades. They know everything there is to know about us by now."

  "We don't believe that's necessarily so. A lot of information is simply not conveyed in civilian broadcasts, and certainly not in military broadcasts."

  "They can type us down to our toenails just by the fact that we still broadcast analog radio waves," Harry said, not moving from the window.

  "Yes, sir, but—"

  "Your warnings are well taken, Lieutenant Dreyer," Arthur said. "But we can't get anywhere unless we examine the Guest. If this means some two-way exchanges, so be it. If the Guest is a conduit to the ship, we might be able to learn how through the exams."

  "It's an interesting idea," Harry conceded in an undertone.

  "Yes, sir," Dreyer said. "I've been told to pass these on to you—your itineraries for the Commander in Chiefs visit. We're at your disposal."

  "All right. Let's have two-way back on." Arthur walked down the slightly sloping floor to the window and stood beside Harry. He pushed the button activating the intercom to the Guest's chamber.

  "Excuse me. We'd like to continue our questions and examinations."

  "Yes," the Guest said, pushing aside the blankets and standing slowly.

  "What is the state of your health?" Arthur asked. "Are you feeling well?"

  "Not altogether well," the Guest said. "The food is adequate, but not sustaining."

  The Guest had been allowed to choose between a variety of carefully prepared "soups." The first tissue samples had revealed that the Guest could conceivably digest dextro-rotary sugars and proteins generally found in Earth life forms. Purified water was being supplied in beakers passed through with the "food." Thus far, the Guest had not excreted anything into the wide stainless-steel sample tray left open in another corner. The Guest had eaten sparingly, and without apparent enthusiasm.

  "Can you describe substances that would please you?"

  "In space, we hibernated—"

  Harry emphasized the "we" in his notepad.

  "And our nutrition was provided by synthesizing machines throughout the voyage."

  Arthur blinked. Harry scribbled furiously.

  "I am not aware of the names of substances in this language to describe them. The food you provide seems adequate."

  "But not enjoyable."

  The Guest didn't respond.

  "We'd like to conduct another physical examination," Arthur said. "We are not going to take any more tissue samples."

  The Guest withdrew its three brown eyes and then produced them again, but said nothing, standing in what might have been a dejected posture—if the Guest could feel dejected, and if body language was at all similar . . .

  "You do not have to cooperate," Arthur said. "We don't want to force anything on you."

  "Difficulties with speaking, with language," the Guest said. It stepped sideways in one fluid motion to the far right corner of the room. "There are questions you do not ask. Why?"

  "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

  "You do not ask questions about interior thoughts."

  "You mean, what you are thinking?"

  "Interior states are far more important than physical construction, are they not? Is this not true for your intelligences?"

  Harry glanced at Arthur. "All right," Harry said, putting down his notes. "What is your interior state?"

  "Disorganized."

  "You're confused?" Harry asked.

  "Not at ease. Mission is completed. We will not survive this incident."

  "You won't ..." Arthur searched for clear words. "When the ship leaves, you won't be aboard?"

  "You are not asking proper questions."

  "What questions should we ask?" Harry tapped his pencil on a chair arm. The Guest appeared to focus its three sherry-colored eyes on this gesture. "What questions should we ask?" he repeated.

  "Process of destruction. Past deaths of worlds. How you fit into the scheme."

  "Yes, you're right," Arthur said quickly. "We haven't been asking those questions. We experience fear, a negative emotional state, and we do not really want to know. This may be irrational—"

  The Guest lifted its "chin" high, revealing the two slits and a shadowed, two-inch-wide depression on the underside of the miter. "Negative emotions," it repeated. "When will you ask these questions?"

  "Some of our leaders, including our President, will be joining us tomorrow. That might be a good time," Harry said.

  "I think we'd better hear it now, first." Arthur was uneasy at the thought of blindly springing information on Crockerman. He had no idea how the man would react.

  "Yes," the Guest said.

  "First question, then," Arthur began. "What happened to your world?" The Guest began its story.

  OFFERTORIUM

  9

  "You're privileged, folks," the new duty officer, a young, slender black woman in gray blouse and slacks, told her four isolated charges.

  Ed Shaw sat up on his bunk and blinked.

  "The President's coming here this evening. He wants to talk with you and commend you all."

  "How long until we get out of here?" Stella Morgan asked, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat and repeated her question.

  "I have no idea, Miss Morgan. We have a message from your mother. It's in your food drawer. We can relay any message from you to her that does not carry information as to your whereabouts or why you are here."

  "She's putting on the pressure, isn't she?" Minelli said. They had been discussing Stella's mother, Bernice Morgan, a few hours earlier. By now, Stella was convin
ced, Mrs. Morgan would have marshaled half the lawyers in the state.

  "She is indeed," the duty officer said. "You've got quite a mother, Miss Morgan. We hope to get this all straightened out quickly. Labs are running tests around the clock. So far, we haven't found any foreign biologicals on you or the Guest."

  Edward lay back on his bunk. "What's the President going to do here?" he asked.

  "He wants to talk to the four of you. That's ail we've been told."

  "And see the alien," Minelli said. "Right?"

  The duty officer smiled.

  "When are you going to tell the press?" Reslaw asked.

  "Lord, I wish we could do it right now. The Australians have told just about everything, and their case is even weirder than our own. They have robots coming out of their rocks."

  "What?" Edward sat on the edge of the bunk. "Is it on the news?"

  "You should watch your TVs. There are newspapers in your food drawers now. Starting tomorrow, you'll be getting CD machines. Infonet players. We don't want you to be ignorant when the President gets here."

  Edward pulled open his food drawer, a stainless-steel tray that shuttled through the walls of the isolation unit, and pulled out a folded newspaper. There were no personal messages for him. His off-and-on girlfriend in Austin didn't expect him back for a month or two; he hadn't spoken to his mother in months. Edward began to regret his fancy-free life-style. He unfolded the newspaper and quickly scanned the headlines.

  "Jesus, are you reading what I'm reading?" Reslaw asked.

  "Yeah," Edward said.

  "They look like chrome-plated gourds."

  Edward flipped through the pages. The Australian Armed Forces had gone on alert. So had the United States Air Force and Navy. (Not the Army? Why not the Army?) Shuttle launches had been canceled, for reasons not clearly spelled out.

  "Why robots?" Minelli asked after a few minutes of silence. "Why not more creatures?"

  "Maybe they found out they can't take the atmosphere and the heat," Minelli suggested. "So they send remotes."

  That seemed to make the most sense. But if there were two disguised spacecraft—and why disguised?—then there could certainly be more.

  "Maybe it's an invasion," Stella said. "We just don't know it yet."

  Edward tried to recall the various science fiction scenarios he had read in books or seen in television and movies.

  Motivations. No intelligent beings did things without motives. Edward had always sided with the scientists who thought Earth too puny and out of the way to be of interest to potential spacefarers. Of course, that was geocentrism in reverse. He wished he had read more on SETI, the Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence. Nearly all of his science reading was in geology now; he seldom read magazines like Scientific American or even Science unless he needed to catch up on relevant articles.

  Like most experts, he had grown insular. Geology had been his life. Now he doubted whether he would ever again have a private life. Even if the four of them were released—and that question worried him more than he wanted to admit—they would all be public figures, celebrities. Their lives would change enormously.

  He shut off the player and turned to the comics page of the Los Angeles Times. Then he lay back on the bunk and tried to sleep. He had slept enough. His anger was getting to the point where he didn't think he could control it. What would he tell Crockerman? Would he rattle the bars of his cage and hoot miserably? That seemed the only appropriate response.

  "But look at the big picture," he murmured to himself, not caring whether anybody else heard. "This is history."

  "This is history!” Minelli yelled from his cell. "We're history! Isn't everybody thrilled?"

  Edward heard Reslaw clapping slowly, resolutely.

  "I want to see my agent," Minelli said.

  10

  Harry looked over the President's itinerary—and their own, neatly appended with a plastic clip—and sighed. "The big time," he said. "You're used to it. I'm not. Stifling security and appointments timed by the minute."

  "I've grown accustomed to being away from it," Arthur said. They shared a room in the Vandenberg Hilton, as the blocky, elongated, three-story concrete officer's quarters had been dubbed by the shuttle pilots who generally occupied the austere rooms. Harry handed him the paper and shrugged.

  "Mostly, I'm just tired," he said, lying back and clasping his hands behind his neck. Arthur regarded him with some worry. "No, not because I'm ill," Harry said testily. "It's all this thinking. Coming to grips."

  "Tomorrow's going to be very busy. Are you sure you're up to it?" Arthur asked.

  "I'm sure."

  "All right. Tonight we brief the President and whichever members of his staff and Cabinet he's brought along, and then sit in on the President's interviews with the Guest and the citizens."

  Harry grinned and shook his head, still dubious.

  Arthur put the papers down on the table between their beds. "What will he do when he hears the story?"

  "Christ, Art, you know the man better than I."

  "I never even met him before I was canned. When he was Veep, he stayed in the background. To me, he's a riddle wrapped in an enigma. You read the papers; what do you think?"

  "I think he's a reasonably intelligent man who doesn't belong in the White House. But then, I'm a radical from way back. I was a communist when I was three years old, remember. My father put me in red sweaters—"

  "I'm serious. We have to soften the blow for him. And it will be a blow, however much he's prepared by his staff. Seeing our Guest. Hearing from its own lips, or whatever . . ."

  "That Earth is doomed. Lambs to the slaughter."

  It was Arthur's turn to grin. The grin almost hurt. "No," he said.

  "You don't believe it?"

  Arthur stared up at the ceiling. "Don't you feel something's not right here?"

  "Doom is never right," Harry said.

  "Questions. Lots and lots of questions. Why does this spacecraft allow 'fleas' to ride on its back and warn the populace before it can destroy their home?"

  "Smugness. Absolute assurance of power. Assurance of our weakness."

  "When we have nuclear weapons, for Christ's sake?" Arthur asked sharply. "A fighter pilot down in some jungle should show respect for the natives' arrows."

  "It probably—it should have weapons and defenses we know nothing about."

  "Why hasn't it used them?"

  "Obviously, it used something to land huge rocks without being detected by radar or satellites."

  Arthur nodded agreement. "If what landed wasn't something small, to start with . . . But that would contradict our Guest's story."

  "All right," Harry said, propping himself up against the wall with a pillow as a cushion. "It doesn't make sense to me either. This Australian statement that their aliens have come in peace for all mankind. Same group of invaders? Apparently; same tactics. Bury themselves in a duck blind. One ship has 'fleas,' the other doesn't. One ship has robot publicity agents. The other keeps silent."

  "We haven't seen the complete text from the Australians."

  "No," Harry admitted. "But they seem to have been candid so far. What's the obvious answer?"

  Arthur shrugged.

  "Maybe the powers behind these ships are incredibly unorganized or inconsistent or just plain callous. Or there's some sort of dispute within their organization."

  "Whether to eat the Earth or not."

  "Right," Harry said.

  "Do you think Crockerman will make this public?"

  "No," Harry said, fingers wrapped on his ample stomach. "He'd be crazy if he did. Think of the disruption. If he's smart, he's going to sit back and wait until the very last minute—he's going to see how people react to the Good News spaceship."

  "Perhaps we should be bombing Death Valley right now." Arthur stared at a painting over the nightstand between the two single beds. It showed four F-104 fighters climbing straight up over China Lake. "Cauterize the whole area. Act witho
ut thinking."

  "Make them madder than hell, right?" Harry said. "If they are being incredibly arrogant, then it means they have some assurance we can't hurt them. Not even with nuclear weapons."

  Arthur sat in a straight-backed chair, facing away from the windows and the painting. High-tech fighters and bombers. Cruise missiles. Mobile laser defenses. Thermonuclear weapons. No better than stone axes.

  "Captain Cook," he said, and then gently bit his lower lip.

  "Yes?" Harry encouraged.

  "The Hawaiians managed to kill Captain Cook. His technology was at least a couple of hundred years more advanced than theirs. Still, they killed him."

  "What good did it do them?" Harry asked.

  Arthur shook his head. "None, I guess. Some personal satisfaction, perhaps."

  President William D. Crockerman, sixty-three, was certainly one of the most distinguished-looking men in America. With his graying black hair, penetrating green eyes, sharply defined, almost aquiline nose, and lines of goodwill around his eyes and mouth, he might be equally the revered head of a corporation or some teenager's favorite grandparent. On television or in person, he projected self-confidence and a trenchant wit. There could be no doubt that he took his job seriously, but not himself—this was the image portrayed, and it had won him election after election along his twenty-six-year career in public office. Crockerman had only lost one election: his first, as a mayoral candidate in Kansas City, Missouri.

  He entered the Vandenberg isolation laboratory accompanied by two Secret Service agents, his national security advisor—a thin, middle-aged Boston gentleman named Carl McClennan—and his science advisor, David Rotterjack, soporifically calm and thirty-eight years of age. Arthur knew the tall, plump blond-haired Rotterjack well enough to respect his credentials without necessarily liking the man. Rotterjack had tended toward science administration, rather than doing science, in his days as director of several private biological research laboratories.

  This entourage was ushered into the combination laboratory and viewing room by General Paul Fulton, Commander in Chief of Shuttle Launch Center 6, West Coast Shuttle Launch Operations. Fulton, fifty-three, had been a football player in his academy days, and still carried substantial muscle on his six-foot frame.