Firebird

by Jack McDevitt

  “What’s Parnassus House?”

  “Alex will know. It was the world’s nerve center when they were having their collapse. Anyhow, we’re going to have a celebration tomorrow at Doc’s place. You know where it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “We aren’t going to make a formal announcement yet of what we have. The plan is to wait awhile.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “At the moment, you and Alex and Dot are all the news. We don’t want to crowd you. By the way, I was sorry to hear about her. About Dot. She must have been a remarkable woman.”

  Parnassus House, Alex said, was the place where, during the final days on Villanueva, executive decisions got made. “We don’t have a clear picture of events at the end. It’s so long ago. There are all kinds of conflicting stories. Margus Virandi was a heroic leader who seized control from Philip Klaus, an indecisive idiot who operated inside a bubble and never seemed to know what was going on. Virandi lost an arm during the coup, but he made the right calls and saved a lot of lives, ultimately sacrificing himself by staying too long. Or, he was a power-crazy nut who thought the predictions about the encroaching cloud were a conspiracy designed to make Klaus look heroic. And in the end he got a lot of people killed unnecessarily.”

  “I can’t believe,” I said, “nobody ever went in there before this to pick up the AI.”

  “In fact, there were at least two attempts. Both failed, and in one of them the entire mission got wiped out. Nobody really knew where the AI was. I suspect Doc succeeded because he had Charlie along.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “they’ll give Charlie an award.” Nothing like that had ever happened before. And, of course, it didn’t happen that time. In fact, nobody got an award.

  If Doc Drummond had any serious intention of keeping his find quiet, he was dreaming. Whenever someone goes out of Skydeck on an operation in which the media are interested, there’s no way it can return without someone’s blowing the whistle. Usually, it’s the operations people. Or one of the bosses. In return, they get to meet and sometimes even hang out with people like Brockton Moore, the host of Round Table.

  The result was that Drummond was confronted by reporters when they were still two hours out from Skydeck. He’d been subjected to some media attention when he’d left several weeks earlier, but that had been nothing compared with the reception on their return. The media were not, however, all that interested in the historical aspects of the mission.

  Had anyone been killed? “That was our first question,” one of the reporters told me that evening. “It wasn’t exactly a proud moment for us. We must actually have seemed disappointed when we found out there’d been no casualties. Although we pretended to be relieved.

  “We asked whether they’d been attacked.

  “And, what had they brought back? Most of my colleagues had no idea who Margus Virandi was.” He shook his head. “How can our guys know so little and pursue this kind of career?”

  “I don’t know,” I told him, trying not to grin. “Sometimes reporters can be pretty dumb.”

  As can we all.

  The commotion produced, for us, a fresh avalanche of calls. Jacob responded with stock answers, that Alex had no direct connection with the mission, that he was glad to hear they were safely back, but that since he was not involved, he had no further comment, thank you very much.

  Doc’s near-palatial house was lit up when we got there, and the place was jumping with music and laughter and applause. We drifted in through a murky sky and set down on the pad, where AIs took over and moved the skimmer into a parking area. Inside, a couple of hundred people wandered among lush curtains and sculpted furniture, lavish bookcases and electronic artwork. Doc and his wife, Sara—she’d gone along on the trip, too—welcomed us and introduced us to medical colleagues, members of the mission, neighbors, a task force from nearby Conseca University, and a couple of big names in the entertainment world. The people who’d accompanied him were there with their families, of course. They were mostly big, competent-looking types, the sort that nobody would want to mess with. I realized, despite my first impression, he’d known precisely what he was doing.

  And, of course, Charlie was present, still in his Rod Baker persona, standing with a small group in a corner of the library, describing how they’d descended into Buchanan Harbor and come away with an AI—“a Beta”—that had once belonged to Cassandra Talley, the classical humorist who is still read today, thousands of years after her death. Nobody doing comedy has lasted so long.

  Seven of the other Betas were also active. They joined Charlie in strolling about, projecting themselves as bon vivant males, beautiful women, and, in one case, as a former Villanuevan president. An eighth, who’d been found on a ship that had run aground in coastal waters and, miraculously, never been submerged by the tides, was perhaps a bit more shy. He provided no hologram, but he spoke with anyone who wished to converse, explaining how happy he was to have been rescued. He described to me how he’d spent time wishing the waters would rise, or the ship would come apart, so that his power would be cut off. “Now,” he said, “I’m grateful it never happened.”

  Doc gave us a lot of the credit for his success, and said contributions were coming in for more missions.

  I’ve been back to the Caton Ferry Museum a couple of times. Eliot Cermak still looks proudly out of the heroes’ gallery. Handsome, courageous, a guy who appears utterly selfless. I couldn’t help thinking that, if Elizabeth had said yes that evening, and he’d spent the night with her on Virginia Island, he would have survived the quake and gone back to pick up Chris Robin. And had he done that, the loss a few years later of the Capella, with its twenty-six hundred victims, might have been avoided. Alex never again talked about what he believed had happened that fatal night. He couldn’t see that any good would come of it.

  The day after the celebration, Shara asked us to meet her at Tardy’s for dinner. “My treat,” she said. “I have news.”

  We got there early, and had already put away some celebratory wine—it had to be good news, something out of the notebook—when she came in. A dark cargo, her favorite drink, was waiting. She was all smiles. “We’ve had a breakthrough,” she told us. She took a swallow. “We’ve known for a while that the level of hazard to a ship making a jump in a black-hole track is a combination of factors, the type of drive and whatnot. You know all that.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been complicated. But we’ve come up with a formula.”

  The waiter arrived. “Hello. My name’s Kaleff. Are you ready to order?” he asked.

  “We’ll need a minute,” said Alex.

  Kaleff smiled, bowed, and left.

  Alex never took his eyes from Shara. I refilled the glasses and passed them around. Shara, drawing out the moment, had more of hers. “Not bad,” she said.

  “Come on, Shara,” said Alex.

  “All right. Look, if we have the initial departure reports on a ship that’s gone lost, we will be able to work out, within a reasonable estimate, where and when the ship is likely to reappear. We don’t have it down cold yet, but we’re making progress.”

  “So you’re saying what—?”

  “It looks as if the Capella will surface in four years. And, Alex, we are going to be there when it does.”

  The world is changing its perspective on AIs. I’m not suggesting that Alex and I were responsible for any of it; nevertheless, the term Beta has come into common usage. Some say that’s simply because it’s easier to say than AI. But Betas are now able to own property in a number of municipalities around the globe. Other Confederate worlds, unhappy with what is happening here, have charged Rimway with being weak and foolishly sentimental.

  Charlie has a condo in the mountains northwest of Andiquar, and we’ve been up there occasionally for parties. He likes parties. The issue is also becoming a movement on Dellaconda. And somebody there has introduced a bill that will give Betas the vote.

  Researchers are arg
uing over how an AI can acquire consciousness, while others debate when it might have happened. Some maintain that they’ve had consciousness since ancient times. Since the literary world discovered that the great twenty-third-century novelist, Max Albright, was a pseudonym for a Beta.

  Recently, Christian and Judaic groups have both taken the position that even though no one knows for sure whether Betas have souls, it would be prudent to assume they do. Islam, which is usually out front on liberal issues, is still making up its mind.

  Makes me wonder what the world will look like in another thousand years.

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  EPILOGUE

  “Dot, get out of there. It’s starting.”

  She saw it. The cable becoming transparent, losing substance, coming back, flickering like a light with failing power. The radio filled with frantic voices. Get away from it. Look out. Dot, don’t—She grabbed hold of Rowena. Pulled on her arm. “Let go,” Dot said. She knew that Rowena couldn’t hear her. There hadn’t been time to show the women how to use the radio. But it didn’t stop her from trying. “For God’s sake, let go.”

  Rowena hung on, refusing to release her grip even when there seemed to be nothing to hold on to, even when her arm had gone away.

  Then they were back, the cable and the arm, Rowena still holding tight, and the frantic voices.

  “What’s happening?”

  “My God, I knew we shouldn’t have done this.”

  “What’s wrong with the cable?”

  Dot’s stomach turned over, and she felt momentarily nauseous.

  Where was the McCandless? She looked desperately in all directions. The Intrépide was still there, but the McCandless was gone. “Melissa,” she said. “Answer up, please.”

  The voices went away.

  The Intrépide’s navigation lights were growing brighter. As was the glow from the cabin.

  “Melissa, are you there?”

  No response. Everything beyond the Intrépide was growing dark. The stars were becoming dim. Fading. The Veiled Lady shrank to a wispy glow before it, too, slipped into the all-encompassing night.

  “Chase? Please? Melissa?”

  She expected no reply. And got none. Only the lights on the ship remained—

  Lisa had come up behind her. She took hold of Dot’s arm. Tried to say something. Dot watched her bite down on her lips. The cable had been severed. The end that had been attached to the McCandless was gone. “It’s okay,” she said, hoping everything would come back. “We’re okay.”

  The Intrépide looked as solid as ever. “Chase, are you there? Melissa? Somebody?” She gazed unbelieving at the empty sky. The heavens, seen from off-world, are not like what you see from a beach. An atmosphere does not obscure them. The stars are always bright. Now it was as if she were in a dark room, a room that stretched endlessly in all directions.

  “Is anybody there?”

  She let go of Rowena. Turned to Lisa and would have embraced her had she been able, had the suit allowed it. “We weren’t quick enough,” she said. It was irrelevant that nobody could hear her. “Might as well go back inside.”

  Lisa kept asking questions. Dot understood. Was the rescue off? What had happened? Her eyes looked out of the helmet, needing an answer.

  Dot pointed back toward the airlock. God help me, yes. It’s over.

  Inside the Intrépide, there was movement. Frightened faces looked out through the ports.

  She didn’t want to go back, didn’t want to join the people she’d tried to help, people she wouldn’t even be able to communicate with, to tell them what was happening. And, of course, she was stuck now. She’d ride this thing, this ghost out of a distant past, in its trek toward a highly uncertain future.

  Sixty-seven years, Shara had said.

  Good-bye, Melissa. Mom and Dad. Harry.

  Harry was her husband. Melissa’s father. A management consultant currently on assignment at one of the outlying stations. She’d forgotten which one. He’d have a shock coming when he heard—

  Damn it. Why hadn’t she listened to Alex?

  Well, this was not the time to start feeling sorry for herself. She could do that later.

  What would her life be without Melissa? She and her daughter had always been close. Melissa was ambitious but not to the extent that she was willing to work hard to achieve her goals. She had talked about becoming a pilot, but Dot did not believe it would ever actually happen. That was one of the reasons she’d brought her along on this mission, to try to light a fire under her.

  Melissa wanted to be things, especially, she said, to be a pilot. But she wasn’t prepared to put in the effort. We only have one life, she was fond of saying, so why should we spend it working when we have a leisure option? She’d gotten a degree in medicine, but it hadn’t really challenged her, and she had made her intentions clear enough: Just relax, hang out, party, meet guys, go swimming—she loved to swim, and she was as proficient in the water as anyone Dot had ever seen—and go for walks in the woods. That was the kind of life she’d wanted. Dot’s family had always believed there was something innately virtuous in work. But Melissa saw nothing wrong with a prolonged good time. “I wouldn’t want to find, when it came time to die, that I had not lived.” It was the adage she lived by.

  And Dot wasn’t entirely convinced she was wrong.

  Chase, too. Dot wasn’t that close to Chase Kolpath, but she qualified as a friend. You could trust her, and the attention Chase had gotten as a result of working with Benedict hadn’t changed her. Most people who had gotten into the media spotlight the way she had over the past few years would be full of themselves. But the woman just laughed it off. When Dot had commented on her accomplishments, she’d become visibly uncomfortable. “I’ve been fortunate,” she’d said. “Always been at the right place at the right time.”

  Odd that Harry and Melissa occupied her thoughts at a moment like this. And Chase. And Phil Cato, an old boyfriend. And—

  The Intrépide became the only reality, the only lights in the world. And the three women who were with her at that moment. They’d all grown quiet. Lisa, Michelle, and Rowena. They were probably wondering whether they’d ever get off that ship. Whether they’d ever see their homes again.

  They almost certainly didn’t know what had happened to them. No way they could know unless their captain had seen that the stars were out of place. Given thousands of years, that would have happened. She wondered whether he understood, and if so, whether he’d said anything.

  She led the way back to the airlock. The hatch had closed when they’d exited. She opened it again and waited while the three women climbed inside. She hesitated about following them. To do that somehow sealed everything. As long as she remained outside, there was a chance that the Belle-Marie would come out of the night, pick her up. Take her home.

  She thought about the two girls. Sabol and Cori. She had hoped to include their father in the second group she’d have taken across. He’d spoken to her with a calm intensity. She knew what he’d been saying: Please take them somewhere safe. Get them away from here. Well, at least she’d managed that. Something about him suggested he might be a physician. Maybe it was the way he’d looked into her eyes, as if searching for an abnormality. Maybe it was his soothing, deliberate voice, which—even though she couldn’t understand a word he said—had assured her that if she just took the girls, everything would be okay. Pretty gutsy, considering he knew so little about what was happening. But she’d never forget, however long she lived, his expression when she looked back as she took the kids into the airlock. He’d started fighting back tears, and he was scared to let them go, but he knew they needed to get off the ship, even if they were being taken by a stranger who spoke an unknown language.

  So she would have tried to get him off with the second group. Though she sensed he would not leave until the women were clear.

  Suddenly the lights came back on.

  The stars reappeared, hazy at first
. They brightened and became sharp dazzling points of light scattered through the darkness. My God. She was getting a miracle. Still hanging on to the hatch, she turned and looked behind her, searching the night for the McCandless.

  She saw the Veiled Lady, which had been behind it. But no ship.

  “Melissa, where are you?”

  Save for the stars, the sky was empty.

  “Chase?”

  Keep calm. She checked the time. It had been only nine minutes since they had all gone down the transdimensional drain. Something other than the stars was putting out a lot of light. But the glow was coming from the other side of the Intrépide. She let go of the hatch and rose above the hull. A long, sleek, brightly illuminated vehicle was approaching. It wore the silver and azure colors of the Confederacy. The Fleet was here. Thank God.

  She screamed with delight, and waved at the ship.

  One set of navigation lights blinked on and off. We see you.

  She went back to the airlock, and they all must have understood, because they waved their arms, and Rowena burst into tears.

  The visitor became visible. It had angled around and was approaching from the rear. Michelle grabbed hold of the cable and launched herself into a kind of improvised floating dance.

  Lisa jumped up, hit her helmet against the overhead, and bounced. But she was still laughing, and her lips carried the message: “Magnifique!”

  You said it, baby.

  “Melissa,” Dot said, “we’ve got help. Where are you?”

  The visitor was lit up like a summer carnival. It came alongside and took up a position where, a few minutes ago, the McCandless had been stationed. She could almost have reached out and touched it.

  “Melissa, answer up, please. Are you there?”

  Then, finally, a voice: “Relax, Ms. Garber. You are Dot Garber, right?”