Déjà Vu (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  Palm trees lean over the beach, casting shade on the hot sand. Leafy green trees dot the shoreline, leading around to the headland. Gannets nest on the cliffs rising defiant above the ocean.

  Clouds dot the vibrant sky. Gulls drift on the breeze, calling to each other, circling over the beach, looking for scraps of food.

  A gust of wind causes strands of hair to dance in front of my face. The sun is setting, but sunlight still warms my cheeks. I’m lying on a beach towel, leaning on my elbows, running sand through my hand. Thousands of fine grains slide between my fingers.

  Astoria Holidays has to be good for something. If I’m living in an illusion, it might as well be one of my own choosing.

  I lean back and close my eyes. My muscles sag. The stress I’ve been feeling melts away.

  “Jess?”

  I don’t want to open my eyes, but I can already feel the change. Damn it! I don’t want to give up the beach just yet, but it’s already gone.

  Jorgensen says, “They’re ready for you.”

  The sand has been replaced with the hard floor of the lab, but somehow I’m still lying on a crumpled beach towel. The ocean, the sky, the gulls, and the warmth of the sun are gone. Such an abrupt change does my head in.

  I get up off the floor.

  “We need to get you dressed,” he says.

  It’s disconcerting being in a bikini one moment and then a pretty dress the next. I’m suddenly wearing a bra, underwear, a dress, shoes and have a light dusting of makeup on my face. My hair’s been styled. Growing up, I would have thought this was wonderful, but my autonomy has been lost. My privacy has been violated, highlighting how much has changed. I’m bits and bytes in a machine. I’m Live-Action Barbie. I feel alive, but I’m not. I can feel the bra strap reaching around my ribcage, interlocking behind my back, but it’s not really there. The straps running over my shoulder are an illusion, as are the yellow and red flowers on my dress.

  Pretty Boy notices. He peers over the engine bay of a nearby cruiser, working with a robotic tool testing pressure seals. He should be looking at the results scrolling across the hologram in front of him, but his eyes focus on me. Without being mean, I turn to face Jorgensen.

  “Well, I guess I’m ready,” I say, with my hands falling to the side of my floral dress.

  Jorgensen looks nervous. I’m the one that’s supposed to be nervous, not him. I don’t like the sense of uncertainty hanging in the air. I’m vulnerable. Exposed. It’s horrifying to realize how easy it is for someone to violate my autonomy in my virtual world, even with the best of intentions. I can’t worry about that now. I need to focus.

  I ask, “Where’s Dr. Everton?”

  “Who?”

  A crane looms overhead. It’s attached to a metal track on the ceiling, carrying a dual-seat spacecraft. Jorgensen ducks as the slick metal casing glides past. I duck as well, not that the spaceship could hit me—it’s a reflex reaction. Something drops from the side of the craft. It’s the future equivalent of a hub cap as it’s shiny and doesn’t appear to have any real purpose. The sound makes me jump, even though I’m in no danger. The hub cap rolls around a little. Someone grabs it, apologizing profusely. They rush after the vehicle as it’s led toward the roller doors on the side of the fancy garage. I’m fascinated. There’s condensation on what I guess are fuel tanks. Wisps of vapor drift behind the vehicle. Are they about to take this sports-car/spaceship for a spin?

  Jorgensen says, “We need to get moving.”

  “Wait…”

  Jorgensen’s impatient. His eyes dart around, betraying the mental list he’s trying to complete. In an abrupt tone, he fires off, “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  I was just about to ask him something, but it’s slipped my mind. With the uncertainty of leaving the lab for the first time weighing on me, that nagging thought is lost. It was something important, I’m sure of it.

  Jorgensen loads up equipment on a cart. I’d help if I could, but my hand will pass right through these things. For Jorgensen, this is proof of my incorporeal form, but I could say the same thing about him. I struggle with where reality lies. From my perspective, everything I experience is real. It’s his world that’s ghostly and without substance.

  I stand there, watching as he transfers the three brain fragments. Jorgensen places mine next to my holographic projector. I have no idea how the projector works, but it’s not point-like. In my day, if you walked in front of a projector, you broke the beam and cast a shadow. This one, though, doesn’t need a clear line-of-sight. I can walk behind the bench without disappearing. I’ve learned I have about thirty to forty feet. Stray any further afield and reality dissolves. Reality or this crazy dream?

  The largest fragment is me—apparently. Grey mush hangs lifeless from the underside of the skull, devoid of any blood. I’m not sure which lobes are intact, but part of the brain stem and cerebellum are present. Jorgensen’s told me it’s less than a quarter of the original mass, but it’s still viable. Jansen wasn’t so lucky. Only 14% could be revived, while MacArthur has a little more at about 18%. I’m told they don’t feel any pain, but I’m not sure I believe that—I did. I still remember the way the oxygen was sucked from my lungs. I remember the heat of an alien sun scorching my face. I cannot forget the cells in my body being ruptured in the bitter vacuum of space.

  “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “Who are you trying to kid? I’m already dead, remember?”

  Jorgensen laughs, although, to be honest, I wasn’t joking. He pushes the cart out into the hallway. I follow, not that I need to. I’m chained to that projector.

  Jorgensen could unplug me and bring me back online once he reaches the chamber. I appreciate the way he’s trying to make me feel more real.

  This is the first time I’ve been outside the lab. I’ve caught glimpses through the door, but it seems corridors are universally boring regardless of the epoch. This one could be in the MSFC back on Earth. Fancy lights, but not much else of note.

  “This way.”

  Yeah, because I’m a flight risk, right? Liable to wander off? Get lost?

  A sliding door opens. We walk out into a courtyard between buildings. Above us, the alien gas giant is waxing gibbous, or it would be if it were the Moon as seen from Earth. Dark clouds swirl within the atmosphere of the distant planet. Unlike Saturn with its golden glow, Styx is shrouded in sepia tones. The planet catches the local starlight, forming a brilliant crescent in the black sky. The rings are stunning. Silver bands stretch around the gas giant. They’re impossibly thin, appearing almost fragile. At a guess, we’re roughly a million miles out from Styx, well beyond the planetary ring system itself. It seems Erebus is a moon orbiting off the planet’s equatorial plane. That means the visual shape of the rings will shift over time, which is something I’m looking forward to seeing. I wonder what our orbital period is? A week? A month? Longer?

  At this distance, the gas giant appears four to five times the visual size of Earth’s moon. Even though it’s daytime, with the star sitting low on the horizon like the setting sun, the sky above is pitch black. There’s no atmosphere scattering the starlight. Although I can’t see it, I imagine there’s a dome stretching over the city. Cliffs rise beyond this futuristic metropolis. The mountains are lifeless. In the words of Buzz Aldrin, they’re the magnificent desolation of a barren, alien world.

  “Wow. This is amazing.”

  “Never gets old.”

  “I bet.” I walk slightly behind Jorgensen, but my neck is craned to the sky, taking in the view. “We were much closer. In the shadow of the planet. Right in among the rings, passing through the gaps formed by shepherd moons.” Jorgensen doesn’t reply, which I find strange. I thought he’d be interested in that detail. I guess I’m like a 16th-century pilgrim being transported to modern-day New York. Nostalgic comments about Plymouth Rock would be a novelty in the city that never sleeps.

  There are plenty of people in the courtyard. They pass betwe
en the various buildings in silence. It’s strange to see a crowd so quiet. Jorgensen notes my interest in them.

  “Neural nets. They’re redeeming the time.”

  I guess neural nets have superseded the internet.

  Redeeming? That’s an archaic term to hear in the 60th century. It seems everything that’s old is new again. I've noticed both Jorgensen and Dr. Everton pause in the middle of conversations. I suspected they were accessing some kind of implant for information. Like these guys in the courtyard, they must have been looking up stuff on Google or whatever’s aggregating information in this epoch.

  A few people stare at us as they pass. I wave. I guess it’s the novelty of seeing two people talking instead of whatever they normally do.

  I ask, “Are you hooked up all the time?”

  “All the time.”

  “Even when you’re talking to someone?”

  “Even now.”

  “But you shut it down when you go to sleep, right?”

  “It’s background noise,” Jorgensen replies. “Like music playing softly.”

  “Only it’s not,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Music.”

  “It can be. It’s a personal choice. Me, I love eavesdropping on lectures.”

  “Huh.”

  I don’t think I want to be connected to the neural net. I’m an extrovert, but I feel a little introverted when faced with the prospect of an electronic onslaught directly inside my head. I imagine it’s a bit like sucking on a firehose.

  No thanks.

  The Council

  Shuttlecraft glide thousands of feet above the city, curving in arcs that follow the shape of the moon we’re on.

  My impression of gravity is artificial, being part of the virtual world Jorgensen has created for me. Although it’s not necessarily the same as what he experiences, I note he’s not bouncing in light-gee. I’ve been on several moons of a similar size. Bunny hopping is the most convenient way to get around. Here, though, Jorgensen moves with the same gait he would have on Earth. I’m left wondering if the problem of artificial gravity has been solved. That would make life easier, as health problems arise in reduced gravitational wells. Humans are susceptible to low-gee biological issues. Bones become fragile. The red blood count drops. Eyesight distorts. Muscles waste away. Living in low-gee is like aging at an accelerated rate. It makes sense they’d want to manipulate gravity to avoid medical problems.

  I’m looking forward to catching up on thousands of years of scientific progress. Has anyone harnessed dark energy? I’m tempted to ask about dark matter. The Copenhagen interpretation of Quantum Mechanics must seem quaint to scientists in this age. What about black holes? Do they have hair? Easy, Jess. There’s plenty of time. I wonder if there are any cultural aspects still in play from my era? Has anything slipped through from before the Constellation went nova? Religions? Political ideologies? For Jorgensen, having me around must be like resurrecting Ötzi the caveman.

  We walk into a building, pass through the lobby, and step out onto what I guess is the fifteenth floor. The view out the window shifted seamlessly from the ground floor to towering above the courtyard in barely a second. Damn, these open elevators are freakishly quick. They seem to defy inertia. That will take some getting used to.

  Ceremonial guards stand by the doors to the academy. I’m hoping the term ‘academy’ hasn’t lost its meaning. I’d like to present myself to a scientific board of some description.

  We enter a circular room. Impractical, but okay, it’s your epoch. Holograms glow on a raised dais stretching around the room. There are twelve virtual figures seated behind what I think is a real table. Their images are faint, being visible only from the waist up. I get the feeling this room is purpose-built to intimidate. Whoever’s presenting has to look up at these figures, giving them a sense of regal importance.

  There’s an air of pomp to the chamber. Everything I’ve seen on this moon has had a relaxed avant-garde feel, but the chamber looks old—not 16th-century old, or even 20th-century old, though. Nothing dates back that far. But old by their standards. With thousands of years to choose from, it’s not hard to come up with a stuffy, formal setting.

  Curtains hang from a ceiling hundreds of feet above us. It’s a show of extravagance, wasting space. The marble floor has been polished like a mirror. If I look at Jorgensen pushing the cart, I see a near-perfect reflection. White veins run through the highly polished jade floor.

  There’s nowhere to sit, nowhere to come to a halt other than in the middle of the floor. Yeah, this place is about exercising power indiscriminately. I’d pity the poor sap that has to stand here in judgment if that sap wasn’t me.

  The holograms behind the dais are stationary. Were it not for their ethereal form, it would be easy to mistake them for mannequins. Given my solid appearance, this is deliberate. There’s no technical reason for them to appear ghost-like. One of them moves, speaking with a voice that emanates from all around us.

  “Plenary session ordered. Agenda one: apparition Gamma-November.”

  Jorgensen leaves the cart in the middle of the room, stepping back beside me. I’m nervous. I have no idea what to expect from proceedings in this age, let alone the need for one in my case. I would have thought the entire situation was self-explanatory. I guess they want to hear from the freak herself.

  Jorgensen addresses the session.

  “With leave, she’s Old Tongue. I bid permission for antiquity as protocol.”

  “Granted. Proceed.”

  They’ve agreed to speak in terms I understand.

  “Gamma-November was an exploratory reconstruction. We were looking at the destruction of the starship Intrepid. This was the first vessel to reach our system. The Intrepid was experimental, using a primitive version of the star drive. Even back then, it was prone to instability.”

  Each council hologram responds to what’s being said, but they react at different intervals. It seems the speed of light still holds as a physical limitation on communication. Their tele-presence is subject to different delays. This gives me some idea about their distance from this room. The main speaker’s motion, eye movement, and speech are slightly more than a second removed. He can’t be more than an Earth-Luna distance away from us. The others are more staggered. They’re up to a million kilometers from here, although in which direction, I’m not sure. Maybe they’re on other moons around this planet. I’m fascinated. I turn, spotting a woman who hasn’t moved at all. Where is she? Perhaps she’s on their equivalent of Mars and won’t get to see any of this until it’s long over.

  “Our study was to determine the cause of the explosion on board the Intrepid. We were looking to identify any possible external influence.”

  The primary speaker replies, saying, “You think there may have been an interloping party? I thought astrobiological origins were dismissed for this star system?”

  “They were, but it was a possibility we felt we couldn’t ignore.”

  Jorgensen is well prepared, but where’s Dr. Everton? Best I understand their professional relationship, he reports to her. Why isn’t she here? I can’t imagine she doesn’t appreciate the importance of this petition. From what Jorgensen told me, I’m an oddity. I’m the first-ever revived biological intelligence, even though I feel as though I never died. For me, being dead for nigh on four thousand years was but the blink of an eyelid. It’s somewhat disconcerting to be resurrected, but it’s also a relief.

  Jorgensen says, “I was exploring a proposition advanced by the historical society. They suggested the destruction of the craft may have been precipitated. They thought it was the result of a hostile interaction with an exo-species then present in the Proc.”

  Precipitated is hardly Old Tongue, as they refer to the English of my day, but I get the gist of what Jorgensen’s saying. I’d feel a lot more comfortable if Dr. Everton was here. Why am I so nervous? I think it’s because Jorgensen pauses after each statement. He’s waiting to see if there
’s any response from the council members. As it takes them a few seconds to receive and reply, there’s a painful staggered silence within the chamber.

  “And was there any evidence of this?”

  Jorgensen says, “Our investigation was inconclusive. We aborted the experiment before the planned three-sigma distribution of results was achieved. Within the first forty runs, we noticed a significant deviation. One of the subjects departed from the study parameters.”

  I think that’s me.

  “When the subject failed to reemerge in a subsequent run, we realized the membrane associated with the simulation had been breached.”

  Yeah, that’s definitely me.

  “A broad spectrum scan of the macrocosm revealed the subject passing seamlessly through multiple membranes.”

  I’m on the verge of blurting out what I saw, but I have no idea why these particular worlds opened up to me.

  The lead counselor says, “But no direct evidence of extraterrestrial intervention was found.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And the subject has undergone meta-analysis?”

  I can’t help myself. I have to say something. “I’m right here. You can talk to me as well, you know.”

  Jorgensen is horrified. He bats at the air, wanting me to be quiet, but isn’t this my show? Aren’t I here to demonstrate that it’s possible to do more than simply simulate the past? I’m proof ancient life can be revived.

  He says, “We ruled out the possibility of artificial mimicry or interpolated synthetics.”

  “And the anomaly is persistent?”

  Anomaly—yet again, that’s me.

  “Hey, I’m alive. Okay? I can hear everything you’re saying.”

  I feel as though that needed to be said, but I suspect I’m not making Jorgensen’s job any easier. For me, though, there are too many big words. Why pay fifty bucks for a fancy word when there’s a bunch on sale for a dime?