Seeker

by Jack McDevitt

  “No,” said the AI. “We do not have any such person on the rolls.”

  I broke the connection. He pulled me over to one side and looked anxiously at the crowd swirling around us.

  “You think that was meant for us?” I asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “No survivors,” somebody was saying on a news spot. “Names have not yet been released pending notification of next of kin.” The reporter turned to another journalist. “Bill, what do you have?”

  “Lara, this is believed to be the first shuttle accident in more than a century. The last one occurred—”

  People were gathering to watch.

  Alex called security. He gave them Charlie’s description and told them he might be involved in what had happened to the shuttle. This was the guy I’d thought shy.

  Two minutes later, a man and woman showed up and asked a lot of questions. After we’d given them what little we had, they looked skeptical. But they thanked us, assured us they’d make a full report, and asked us where we could be reached if additional questioning became necessary.

  “Maybe they can get him before he gets away from the station,” I said.

  “Let’s hope.”

  The media account continued: “—Air and Space will be issuing a statement shortly—”

  A man standing beside us shushed his kids. A woman on the far side of the concourse collapsed.

  “—Twenty-two people, including the pilot—”

  I looked around, wondering if I might spot Charlie somewhere. Wondering if he might make a second attempt at us.

  “—Into the ocean. Rescue teams are just arriving on the scene—”

  Alex opened the box. Everything was accounted for. “Try to hang on to it,” he said.

  “—They’re telling us there was no hint of a problem, Lara. No distress call. Nothing like that. They just dropped off the scopes without warning—”

  The screen showed schematics of the L700, which was the shuttle model used at Skydeck. An analyst began explaining its safety features.

  A pair of paramedics arrived to attend to the woman who’d collapsed. There were cries of Look out and Give them room. Then they carried her away.

  “—Tell us it’s the safest shuttle in the fleet. It’s been in service throughout the Confederacy for more than sixty years. And this is the first—”

  We disengaged from the crowd and found seats in one of the boarding areas. I think we were just beginning to grasp the reality of what had happened. Twenty-two dead. It would constitute one of the worst disasters of modern times. But I’m not sure that was what I was feeling. I pictured myself inside the cabin and suddenly blown into the sky.

  “You okay?” Alex asked.

  “Yeah.”

  The security people came back and took us to a central location where we described Charlie again for an artist. “Did you know,” Alex asked, “there was a time they used surveillance cameras in places like this? Recorded everything.” In fact, he added, Rainbow had sold one of the devices to a collector years ago.

  “Maybe we need to get them back,” I said.

  By the time we were finished, we’d missed the nine o’clock shuttle, too. Assuming there’d been one.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Nothing quite shocks the system like murder. It reminds us that, even in this relatively enlightened time, there are still barbarians among us.

  —Barringer Tate,

  Civilized to a Fault, 1418

  By morning they had the names of the passengers. I was not surprised to see there was no Charlie Everson among them.

  “He wasn’t one of our people,” Windy told me, speaking over the circuit. “I didn’t even know you guys were back until your call came in.”

  “We got in yesterday.”

  “Thank heaven you weren’t on it. You really think this was an effort to kill you and Alex?”

  “It’s the third attempt.”

  “My God, what’s going on?”

  “Alex thinks somebody was hoping to put us out of the picture and claim the Seeker.”

  She brightened considerably. “You found it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it. What kind of condition is it in? Where is it? Did you find Margolia?”

  I paused briefly for effect. “We orbited the place.”

  She caught her breath. “Really? You wouldn’t kid me.”

  “No, Windy,” I said. “We were there.”

  She clapped her hands, screamed “Yes!” and came out of her chair with such force I thought she was going to charge physically into my office. “Marvelous!”

  “It’s a jungle now. Nothing left.”

  “It’s okay! But you found it? Wonderful! Are you sure? How do you know if there’s nothing left?”

  I needed several minutes to explain. Then another few minutes elapsed while we talked about the effect it would have on the archeological community. After she’d settled into a radiant glow, she switched back to the shuttle. “What did Charlie look like?”

  I described him.

  She shook her head. “Rings no bells.”

  “I assume it’s safe to say you don’t know anything about a tracker either, right?”

  “No. What tracker?”

  “Somebody tried to play bumper cars with us.”

  “This is crazy,” she said.

  “Right. We think the danger’s past now that we’ve filed the claim.”

  “Be careful anyhow. When did you file?”

  “First thing this morning.”

  “You included us?”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. We need two things.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “We’d like to have an announcement made right away. With a big enough splash so we can be sure these lunatics know it’s gone public. Just in case they’re not following developments at the Bureau of Records. We want them to know Margolia is off the table.”

  “Okay. I’ll set one up for tomorrow morning. What else can I do for you?”

  “I assume Survey will be sending a mission?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay. You’ll want to get moving on it. These people, whoever they are, have a head start. They could do a fair amount of looting before anyone gets there.”

  As soon as I’d finished talking to Windy, I called Shara. “I heard what happened,” she said. “I’m glad you guys missed the flight.”

  “There’s more to it than that, Shara. Somebody tried to take us during the mission.” I explained about the tracker.

  “How could that happen?” she asked. “Who knew where you were going?”

  I hesitated. “Nobody except you.”

  She covered her mouth with a hand. “Hey,” she said. “I didn’t tell anybody.”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask. No one came around, asking questions?”

  “No. Not a soul.”

  “Would anybody have had access to the information you gave us?”

  She took a deep breath. “The staff.”

  “What staff? Who, specifically?”

  “Chase, anybody who works for Survey’s administrative staff could have pulled it up.”

  “Shara—”

  “I used my office to run the program. That made it accessible.”

  “To the whole world.”

  “I’m sorry, Chase. You didn’t say anything about a need for secrecy.”

  “I thought it was obvious.”

  “It wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay. At least we know what happened.”

  “If I’d realized, I could have put a security code on it.”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “I didn’t know—”

  Fenn called us and that afternoon we got interviewed by two more investigators. We went over everything we’d told the first team, then went over it again. They asked who would want us dead and looked skeptical
when we told them we didn’t know. “Not that I don’t have enemies,” said Alex. “Can’t avoid it in my business. But I don’t know of anyone who’d qualify as a homicidal maniac.”

  “And you think they were after this Margolia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds like the biggest claim jump of all time.”

  They were male and female, very serious, thank you ma’am, are you absolutely certain? The male was short and dumpy, the female tall and trim. The male seemed to be in charge.

  They called up images of every Charlie Everson on the planet. None of them was the guy. Then they showed us through a rogues’ gallery. Nobody there, either.

  “Was it a bomb?” I asked.

  The woman nodded. “Yes.” Her voice showed strain. Subdued rage, maybe. “Hard to believe,” she added after a pause, “anyone would put a bomb into a vehicle loaded with people. I don’t know what we’re coming to.”

  “They’ve implemented all kinds of security measures,” said the male.

  Alex asked whether the police had any idea who might have done it.

  They replied they weren’t in a position to comment.

  They advised us to be careful and call if we saw anything suspicious. “Don’t assume you’re safe,” the woman said, “simply because you’ve filed a claim. It would probably be best if you didn’t travel together. Until we sort this out.”

  Nobody was much interested in archeological discoveries when the breakup of the shuttle was dominating the news. Windy tried anyway. She arranged the press conference for next day as she said she would, and Alex made the official announcement. He stood in front of a crowd of about fifteen writers and journalists—normally, for an event like this, there would have been close to a hundred—and told them Margolia had been found.

  The immediate reaction was laughter and snorting. Surely he was speaking metaphorically.

  No. “It’s actually there. We’ve been there.”

  “Are they alive?” someone asked, to more laughter.

  “No. It’s a long time dead. It’s jungle now.”

  “Are you sure?” They started to calm down. “You’ve got the right place, I mean?”

  “Yes,” said Alex. “There seems to be no question.”

  He went on to describe what we’d seen, and what we surmised about how it had happened. Probably a passing star.

  The writers kept him busy more than an hour. How long had the colony lasted before the catastrophe? How had he felt when he went inside the Seeker? How do you spell that? What did we estimate the population of Margolia had been when it was destroyed? Were we going back? What had led us there?

  He was ready for that last one.

  “I have to confess that Chase and I were not the persons really responsible for the discovery. Adam and Margaret Wescott found the Seeker almost forty years ago. It was a Survey mission, and when they returned they were still trying to figure out the significance of what they’d seen when both were killed in an earthquake.”

  There was a flurry of questions at this point, but Alex overrode them. “Fortunately, they’d brought back a cup from the Seeker, and that eventually led the way for us.”

  When he described what we’d found on the derelict, the room became briefly quiet.

  He never mentioned the three containers of priceless artifacts that had survived in the Tinicum region nine thousand years, only to get blown apart on the shuttle.

  We weren’t even out of the building before we’d heard that Casmir Kolchevsky had issued a statement describing our activities as “desecration.” He was appalled, and suggested it was time some serious legislation was put on the books to “stop the thieves and vandals who make a living looting the past.”

  We got a call on the way back to the office from Jennifer Cabot, the host of Jennifer in the Morning. “Alex,” she said, “I just wanted to alert you that Casmir will be on tomorrow. He’ll be talking about Margolia. I thought you might like a chance to respond.” Casmir. Her buddy, in case there was any doubt whose side she was on.

  We’d just left the traffic stream and were heading in over the newly developed homes and malls that now covered what used to be old forest west of Andiquar. Alex made the kind of face he does when flying insects have gotten into the house. “What time do you need me?” he asked.

  When we got back to the office, I wondered whether he’d want me to help him prepare for his debate. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll be fine. Take the rest of the day off. You’ve earned it.”

  It sounded like a good idea, but there was too much to do. We were in the center of the day’s news, and calls were coming in from clients all over the world, each of whom seemed to think we had a pile of artifacts to make available. In fact, we had five, three cups, a plate, and the Abudai plaque.

  We also had received more than twenty requests for interviews with Alex. This was an opportunity unlikely to come again, so I wanted to take advantage of it.

  That evening, I set aside a few minutes to talk to Harry and update him on what was happening. You’re supposed to do that with avatars, so they can be more responsive to the next person who needs them. But generally people don’t bother much.

  Usually, I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble myself. But I couldn’t not do it.

  I told him a fresh expedition was going out.

  “Chase,” he said, “do me a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “If anybody is able to figure out what happened to Samantha and my kids, let me know.”

  Okay. It’s silly. I knew he couldn’t remember them, had never known them, didn’t even know what they looked like. It was strictly his software functioning.

  And maybe mine. I decided to see what I could find out.

  I called Shepard Marquard at Barcross’s department of terrestrial antiquity. “I want to talk about Harry Williams, Shep.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Congratulations on what you did. I saw the press conference. You guys are something else.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wish I’d been with you. That’s some score.” He cleared his throat. “Information about Williams is fairly sparse. What did you need?”

  “His family. How much is known about his family?”

  “Did he have a family?”

  “Wife. Two kids. Boys.”

  “Okay.” He glanced down at something off to his right. “I’m looking now.” He frowned, shook his head a few times, stared hard, laid his index finger against his lips, and finally looked up. “Wife’s name was Samantha,” he said. “And yes, there were two sons.”

  “Harry Jr. And—”

  “Thomas. Thomas was the younger. About five when they left.”

  “What else do you have?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Can we check off-line?”

  “Can you make yourself available for dinner? I’ll be in town tomorrow. As it happens.”

  “Of course, Shep,” I said. “That would be nice.”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  . . .Granted in recognition of exemplary achievement in the service of mankind . . .

  —From the inscription on Survey’s Person of the Year Award

  Shep showed up at Rainbow looking handsome and very much the man of the evening. He brought a data chip and a couple of books. “I have some information on Samantha,” he said. “I also thought you’d enjoy watching the departure of the Seeker.”

  “You have that?” I asked, delighted.

  He held the chip in his palm. “Hologram record,” he said. “Reconstructed. From December 27, 2688.”

  I was anxious to see it, but he shook his head. “Dinner first,” he said.

  “Why can’t we take a quick look now?”

  “Because this way you have to invite me up.”

  “Shep,” I said, “the facilities are better at the office.”

  He grinned. It was a splendid, clean, hold-nothing-back smile. “I doubt it,” he said.


  So we ate at the Porch Light, and I took him back to my apartment.

  We watched colonists trek through the narrow concourses of an antiquated space station. The Seeker had been too big to dock, so passengers were taken to it twenty at a time by shuttle. According to the narrator, it had required almost a week to lift nine hundred people into orbit and transfer them to the ship. They were all ages, not just young, as I’d expected. And there were lots of kids. Some trailed balloons and chased each other around; others were in tears. Reluctant to leave home, I guess.

  A reporter conducted interviews. Everything had been translated into standard. They were headed for a new frontier, they were saying, and life was going to be better. I was surprised to hear that they expected relations between the colony and the home world eventually to be established. “After we get things up and running.” Up and running seemed to be the catchphrase.

  I’d had the impression the colonists had all been well-off. That they were a moneyed class. But the people in the visual record looked ordinary.

  There didn’t seem to be any well-wishers present to see them off. I assumed that melancholy fact rose from the cost of riding up to the station, which must have been considerably more expensive than it is today. Good-byes would have been said on the ground. Still, there was something lonely and dispiriting in that final departure.

  A white placard had been left on a seat. I couldn’t read the ancient inscription, but the translator gave it to me: Margolia or Bosom.

  It made no sense. Still doesn’t.

  The last few filed up a narrow ramp and boarded the shuttle. The hatches closed, and the shuttle slipped away, while a correspondent talked about new pioneers.

  Then we were standing in a room with a fireplace where several people discussed “the significance of it all.” The significance of it all seemed mostly to be gloom and doom. The colonists were malcontents. Their good sense was questionable, as were their patriotism, their motives, and even their morals. They were putting loved ones in danger. Failing to support a government to which all owed gratitude and allegiance. “It’s the kids I feel sorry for.”