Portals (Into The Galaxy Book 1)

by Ann Christy

  “So, your name is the same as the station? Doesn’t that get confusing?”

  Jack’s brows rise a little and he looks up at the ceiling like he’d like to know the same thing, so I guess my question wasn’t as stupid as it sounded in my head.

  “I suppose it could be confusing at first, but it’s quite clear to me.”

  Well, that will have to do, I guess. I’m certainly not done with my questions, though. “Next one. Who made you? Who ordered you to do this on Earth? Who’s in charge of you?”

  Jack’s back hunches a little and his eyes roll, like I’ve asked a really rude question. It’s too late to turn back now.

  “I’m in charge of myself. There is no other entity which decides my actions. As to who made me, that was long ago and the civilization that created me no longer exists.”

  I detect hints of sadness in those final words. There’s nothing overt, nothing specific that I can point to that can be parsed as sad, but it’s there. Jack doesn’t seem to notice. Even so, I feel like I’m treading on another person’s feelings, which is strange, because Hub is a space station.

  “Okay, sorry. That’s it for now. I’m ready to be orientated.”

  “Excellent. Please observe.”

  The big screen in front of us brightens with a beautiful image of the stars and the vast darkness between. The image is so clear and sharp that I can tell when I’m looking at a galaxy shaped like a spiral or one shaped like a big ball. I suck in a sharp breath at all that beauty. Even Jack is looking at the screen with his eyes round and wide. Their screen resolution makes our best screens on Earth look like old black and white TVs. Seriously.

  The Hub starts right in, and doesn’t hold back. The image zooms in until the Earth becomes a blue and white pearl of perfection. A glance at Jack tells me that he thinks it’s as amazing as I do. We’re lucky to have such a wonderful planet.

  Well, lucky until whatever it is wipes us out in twenty-seven years.

  “Earth is a remarkable planet,” Hub says in the same calm, cool tone it always uses. “It is, perhaps, more remarkable than it might seem even to you. It is—if I use a term borrowed from humans—a miracle. It is utterly unique and unlike any other planet we have seen, living or dead. There are hundreds of millions of planets in our small galaxy, but there is only one Earth. Statistically, there is likely some other planet precisely like yours somewhere in the universe, but I have no knowledge of what lies beyond our galaxy. Within this galaxy, it is unique.”

  As Hub speaks, I start to feel uncomfortable. This is the same feeling I get when I hear too many compliments and it moves into creepy territory. I got this same feeling when a neighbor used to tell me how pretty I was when I was very little. Well, not precisely the same, because that neighbor was pervy, but close enough. I keep silent though, because I’m sure Hub won’t leave it there. It will explain. It does seem to like doing that.

  The screen shifts and all sorts of annotations populate the screen, superimposed on the planet. Axis lines, degree arcs, even a line from the moon to the Earth appears, all of it peppered with numbers and math symbols.

  “The confluence of events which led to you and all life on your planet is complex, and all of them rather unlikely. When taken together, the odds of all such events occurring in exactly the right order at the right time are almost beyond calculation.”

  Okay, I’m getting some weird religious vibes here and I better not start hearing that. If our planet is a mystery, okay, but there are aliens all over this space station that shouldn’t exist if we paid attention to any single religion on my planet.

  I hold up a finger to pause, though I have no idea if Hub can see it. I don’t see cameras anywhere. “Do you have something to say, Lysa?”

  That answers my question about whether or not Hub can see me. I clear my throat and say, “Listen, no offense, but I don’t want to be preached to. However unlikely it may be, the Earth does exist, so whatever needed to happen did happen. Unless you’re trying to tell me that we were created by some super-being we think of as God, that is. Are you?”

  “I’m not implying anything of the sort. The Earth is indeed a natural planet, not a construct left by another civilization.”

  Wow, if there are species out here that build planets, then humans are way out of our league. Rather than digress further, I wave a hand and say, “Okay, sorry. I just wanted to be clear.”

  “To illustrate the complexity of the series of events that must have occurred, please watch the screen.”

  I do, and by the time Hub stops speaking and asks me if I have questions, my mouth is hanging open. I’m pretty sure I’m in a state of information overload and awe. Hub is right about one thing. The series of events is amazing, even though I don’t understand how they happened, only that they did. Even the axis of our planet is important and unlikely, yet perfect. And the water, the land, the warm heavy mass at its center, the moon…all of it. It’s just as Hub said; perfect.

  “Holy shit on a stick,” I whisper.

  Jack frowns at my words, then listens for a second and his face clears. He mutters, “Oh, that makes more sense, because the other way…” He makes a disgusted face and then I get it. He took my curse words literally.

  Yet again, I’m taken by surprise. This time I think my overwhelmed state of mind simply adds to the hilarity. I’m not saying I’m hysterical, but I will admit that I’m not too far from that line. I’ve never thought about profanity in the literal sense before and I start laughing. Really laughing.

  Jack looks at me worriedly for a minute, but every time I look at him, I start laughing again. Eventually, Hub asks, “Are you alright, Lysa? Do you need us to stop for a while?”

  I wave my hand and shake my head, trying to pull in a breath that doesn’t come out as a laugh. “No, no. It’s just…holy shit on a stick. I can’t stop laughing.”

  “Jack, will you get Lysa some water, please?”

  He hurries away, and I can tell by his stiff stride that he thinks I’m laughing at him. He hands me a metal cup of water, but doesn’t really look at me. Trying to pull myself together, I squeeze his fingers around the cup and say, “I’m not laughing at you. I promise. I just never thought of what the words meant before. It’s one of those sayings you say, but don’t think about.”

  He cocks an eyebrow at me, clearly skeptical, then nods and pushes the cup at me. “Right.”

  I don’t think he’s entirely mollified, but I drink some water and my laughs eventually peter out. Even so, I’m not going to look at him for a while, just to be safe. Eventually, I start to feel a bit stared at, sort of like that awkward person that interrupts class, leaving everyone to glare at them while they do their thing.

  “I’m good,” I say, setting my cup down on the bench next to me. Do I sound casual? I think I sound casual.

  “Are you certain you’d like to continue?” Hub asks.

  “Absolutely sure. I get it. Humans really are as awesome and unique as we thought, because our planet is unique. So, that’s why you’re saving us?”

  It’s Jack’s turn to look a bit disbelieving, and he gapes at me. I’m not even sure how to interpret the look on his face.

  “What?” I ask.

  Rather than answer, he looks away and Hub speaks. “While I’m sure you’re a lovely human, no. All life on your planet is unique. Humans are merely one species among many. They are, however, the most troublesome of those species. By a large margin. By orders of magnitude.”

  My mouth drops open and it’s my turn to gape. “We’re the black sheep of Earth?” When Jack’s brow creases and a suspicious look crosses his features, I add, “That means the bad ones.”

  The fact that he merely shrugs confirms it. Hub drives it home when it says, “That would be an appropriate metaphor.”

  “But you’re still going to save us, right?”

  “I’m trying. We’re trying.” Hub sounds like that’s almost more trouble than it’s wor
th.

  A hand lands on my leg in a position I would normally not allow until at least the third date, and Jack says, “That’s our fault. If your planet had been slated earlier for intervention, then you would have been less technologically advanced, and it would have been easier. No one could have predicted this much change.”

  Hub interrupts to say, “That’s not entirely true. I did forecast the change, but it was an outlier prospect…less than one percent chance. In addition, there had been no indicators that Earth would require an intervention until very recently. The event Earth will experience was…unanticipated.”

  Pushing Jack’s hand closer to my knee than my hip—but not off my leg entirely—I say, “You really don’t know humans if you didn’t anticipate how fast we’d advance. We like change as much as we hate it, but hate it or love it, we do it constantly.”

  Hub says, “That’s very apt. Very appropriate. May I use it? It would be an excellent addition to the training materials.”

  Is a space station asking me for copyright permissions? I think yes. “Sure, go crazy.”

  Jack’s hand is still heating up the area above my knee like he’s got a small nuclear reactor under his skin. The heat has somehow traveled up and lodged in my cheeks and neck too, which is unfortunate, because I don’t have jeans to hide it there. He squeezes my leg a little and asks, “Are you really okay?”

  Snatching up my cup, I cross over to the ubiquitous cabinets and counter along the back wall and pass my cup along it until something happens. The little sink thing pops out and I refill my cup, glad for something to keep my hands and mouth occupied for a moment.

  The truth is, that’s harsh news to hear about our species. I’m not one of those humans-over-all types, but I didn’t question we were top dog when it came to the conquer and control department. Did I always agree with that? No, but I didn’t question that it was true.

  It seems that was all wrong. We’re basically just another species, but more trouble than all the others combined. We’re what? Are we vermin? Are we rats you can’t get rid of, or in this case, corral so they can be moved to a safer area? Maybe raccoons would be a better comparison. Yeah, I’d rather be a trash panda than a rat.

  Either way, this is not at all flattering. If we’re that much trouble to deal with, why do they even bother? I sip my water, then look up at the ceiling and say, “It’s sort of insulting to be considered the trash pandas of the planet. I mean, we already have trash pandas and most people don’t look at them with admiration.”

  Jack is clearly confused by the term, then his head cocks and he says, “Ah, colloquialism for raccoon. Got it. Trash panda…nice.”

  Hub sounds a little less officious when it says, “Trash panda is a little extreme, but I understand what you’re saying. Unfortunately, you’re not far off in terms of generalities. If I can use the same example, then I’d say humans were more like very intelligent trash pandas with ambition and deeply complex language skills.”

  “Not helping,” I say, rolling my eyes. I hope Hub can see that!

  “Of course, Lysa. You’re not a trash panda,” Hub says, its voice still carrying hints of a tease in it.

  This is all very interesting, but it also raises questions, ones I think are probably better to understand now, rather than later.

  “Hub, I’m still not sure I understand exactly why you chose to save Earth now, particularly since you’ve made it clear that humans aren’t the reason you’re doing it. On Earth, species go extinct all the time, especially now. But you don’t save them? Or do you?”

  “Lysa, I think I understand your confusion. The short answer is that I don’t stop individual extinctions. Such extinctions are a natural process for all life-bearing planets. Where I intervene is when there is significant danger of a nearly complete extinction of life. Even then, I might not intervene depending on the situation and the source of the extinction.”

  “I’m not sure I understand that one.”

  “Let me give you an example, Lysa. If humanity were to corrupt their environment to such an extent that a total collapse would result, I might not intervene, since it was an intentional act—”

  “We would never do that on purpose!” I interject, perhaps a little too loudly.

  “As you say, perhaps not, but behaving in a way that entirely disregards the environment that supports your species is fairly common practice on Earth.”

  My treacherous cheeks go warm again, mostly because that’s the truth. An embarrassing truth.

  “Ah, okay. Go on.”

  “In such an instance, I may not intervene, because it was a purposeful act by a species. When it is an external event, such as an asteroid impact or solar event, then my calculations would more often result in an intervention. In those cases, no species belonging to the planet caused the event. Even in such an event, I might not intervene, depending on the level of extinction. In some cases, I intervene early, even when the calculations result in a moderate probability of extinction. At other times, I might wait until the predictions become more precise. I’m very skilled at this work, but I’m not all-knowing. I rely on sensors, data, and calculations. Does that make it clearer, Lysa?”

  Does it? I think what it does is drive home how incredibly complex this entire process is, and how completely unable a human mind is to grasp the complexity of such a process.

  “Not entirely, Hub, but I don’t think I can ever truly understand. Not the way you do, anyway. I think what you’ve said is that sometimes you save a planet even when you’re not sure the life will die out because it might die out. Other times you leave it alone, because it’s their own fault. Is that it?

  “Close enough, Lysa.”

  Jack has been sitting through this entire exchange, his facial expressions giving away confusion and comprehension by turns. While the Hub seems to understand me, it hasn’t escaped my notice that Jack must play catch up. True, he can do it by listening to something inside his head, but he still has to acquire the information. He doesn’t just know things, and I wonder how that works. Also, he was physically flawed and didn’t know it…and Hub didn’t tell him. I think there’s an interesting disconnect here and it might be useful to me someday.

  Yes, I have a million questions about all that I’ve just heard, but this particular issue is one I can latch onto. This is one I can get my head around without thinking of trash pandas. I want to be careful. I need to address things not quite so bluntly. I don’t want to give away that I’m searching for weak links and openings, for gaps in their security that I might use.

  After all, they may say I’m a non-transfer. They may say I can’t go back to Earth or forward to where they’re sending the other humans, but I’ve never said that I’m going to be satisfied with that. I want to go home and to do that, I’m going to have to find an opening I can slip through.

  Or a portal.

  “Hub, I have a different question. You understand me and the way I speak, the slang and so on. Jack doesn’t. Why is that? How do you know so much about humans, but my facilitator doesn’t?”

  “Lysa, Jack is biological, just as you are. I’m an artificial construct. My limitations are solely a function of my ability to process and store. I have been interacting with humans and have amassed a great deal of first-hand knowledge. I’ve also modeled the Earth and its inhabitants for a very long time. Jack must learn in much the same way you do. I can assist him, but he must learn as all complex biological organisms learn.”

  “And you’ve been what…studying us? Studying humans?”

  “Perhaps not in the way you’re using the word. I monitor all life-bearing or life-potential planets within our galaxy in some fashion or another.”

  “You do? All of them?”

  “All of them, except those I’m expressly forbidden to monitor due to treaties or agreements.”

  The scope of that almost stops the wheels in my head from turning. How can anything, no matter how complex, monitor so
much? I mean, Hub already said there are hundreds of millions of planets. How is that even possible? That brings up an alarming thought.

  “Hub, you’re not…umm…you’re not God or anything, are you?”

  The amusement in Hub’s voice is readily apparent this time. “No, Lysa. I’m a space station.”

  “And not an angel or anything I might call supernatural?”

  “No, Lysa. I was originally built by a civilization not much different from any other.”

  What a huge relief that is, particularly with all the eye-rolling I’ve been doing. That does bring up another question though, and it’s a biggie.

  “Then why? Why would you go to all the trouble to save planets? Why do you care?”

  “It is my only purpose, Lysa. I preserve life. All life in this galaxy that I can preserve, I must preserve, while also protecting the future possibilities of life. Only life matters. Life brings order to chaos, even as it creates a new form of chaos by existing. Without life, there is no point to the universe.”

  The enormity of the words hits me, then expands inside me until it becomes too big to hold inside. How can such a thing be? Imagine a station like this, one that knows so much and can do so much, and the only reason it exists is to save others. That’s just crazy…and crazy cool.

  All I can say is, “Wow.”

  Seventeen

  I’m more informed when my orientation is done for the day. I’m also completely overwhelmed. My brain is perilously close to fried at this point. When Jack stops at my door and asks if I want him to stay, I shake my head, unable to speak.

  He nods as if he understands, and says, “It’s a lot to take in.”

  The way he says it makes me think maybe he’s felt this way before, at least in a general sense. “Did you come here like I did?” I’m not sure why I’m asking.

  He smiles, but not a big happy smile or anything. It’s more a smile of commiseration. “Not exactly, but we were all new here once. I know what it feels like to be overwhelmed by it all. I know this will be hard for you to believe, but when I arrived, it was probably more of a shock to me than it was for you. I understood far less than you do.”