Survival--A Novel

by Ben Bova

  “They can certainly move fast,” Jackson pointed out. “They built all this in the few hours since we landed.”

  “Or perhaps,” Ignatiev said, “they scanned our thoughts, our memories, as we approached their planet.”

  “Either way, it’s pretty spooky,” Jackson admitted.

  Ignatiev pointed out, “Either way, we’re their prisoners.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ignatiev did not sleep well that night. He felt uneasy, almost frightened. He tossed restlessly on his bed—his bed, the one he had slept in for so many years in St. Petersburg. When he finally managed to drift into sleep, it was troubled with menacing dreams of vague unearthly beings hovering around him, reading his thoughts, making him feel small and insignificant.

  He awoke covered in cold sweat.

  “Aida,” he whispered, “are you there?”

  “I am with you, Professor Ignatiev.” But even Aida’s calm, soothing voice seemed to have a hint of foreign inflection, as if the AI had been invaded by an alien.

  Ignatiev sat up in his bed, feeling helpless, close to overwhelmed. Then he heard himself ask, “Aida, how old is Gita?”

  “Dr. Nawalapitiya will be eighty years old on June seventh,” came the reply.

  Eighty years old, Ignatiev said to himself. She doesn’t look a day more than thirty, thirty-five at most. Life-extension therapies. She’s a child, a gamine. A very lovely houri out of the Arabian Nights. I’m old enough to be her grandfather, her great-grandfather, even. Yet the thought of her pleased him. So young. So vital.

  He lay back in bed and fell peacefully asleep.

  * * *

  The avatar had told him the truth. Sitting on the couch in his living room, Ignatiev was at the head of the conference table, up in Intrepid, with the full executive committee in their seats.

  It’s like being in two places at the same time, he said to himself, consciously suppressing an urge to blink at the committee members sitting around him.

  Jugannath Patel, sitting at his right, was asking, “These machines actually built living quarters for your exploration team?”

  Ignatiev waggled a finger. “I don’t believe we should think of the machine intelligence as a set of separate devices. It is one machine, completely interlinked and in constant, instant communication with all its parts.”

  “And it can read our thoughts?”

  Nodding, Ignatiev replied, “There’s plenty of evidence for that.”

  “And they don’t want our help?” one of the others asked.

  “They say they have no need of our help. They have survived earlier death waves and they believe they will survive this one as well.”

  Aida’s three-dimensional image on the wall display pointed out, “I have been unable to contact Earth for the past twenty-two hours and eighteen minutes.”

  “They’ve cut us off from Earth?” Patel asked, suddenly wide-eyed.

  Ignatiev said, “It’s probably temporary. Remember, they cut our ground team off from this ship, at first.”

  “But why? What reason could they have—”

  The avatar’s humanlike image replaced Aida’s. “Please do not be alarmed. We thought it best to keep you from contacting your homeworld until you understand us better.”

  “Really?” Ignatiev said.

  The human figure smiled slightly. “Really. You have much to learn about us. We have much to teach you.”

  “But we would like to report back to our colleagues on Earth,” Patel tried to explain. “They must be concerned about us.”

  One of the other executive committee members said, “They might think we’re dead!”

  “You must be patient,” said the avatar. “Your communications link will be restored in time.”

  “Meanwhile,” said Ignatiev, “we’re your prisoners.”

  “Our guests,” the human figure corrected. “Our honored guests.”

  A wary silence fell across the conference room. The committee members looked at one another apprehensively. Ignatiev felt their fear.

  The avatar tried to lighten the situation. “In the meantime, Professor Ignatiev, it should please you to know that we have retrieved the recipe for potato vodka from your AI system’s memory files. An adequate supply of the refreshment is being prepared for you, and anyone else who would like to share it.”

  Ignatiev dipped his chin slightly in acknowledgment. “Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.”

  But he thought, Maybe they believe they can keep me sedated with the stuff.

  * * *

  The executive committee’s meeting dragged on. Ignatiev doggedly went through the items on the agenda that Patel had prepared: communications, technology, geophysics, exobiology.

  Then the head of the ship’s propulsion department reported, “The main drive engines are unresponsive.”

  “Unresponsive?”

  “The engines’ control systems don’t respond to our inputs. It’s as if they were dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “We won’t be able to break orbit and leave this planetary system. We’re stuck here.”

  The chief of the communications department added, “And we can’t contact Earth, either, remember. The QUE system is down and we don’t know what’s knocked it out.”

  Ignatiev looked up at the avatar’s image on the wall screen. “What does this mean?” he demanded.

  Calmly, the machines’ avatar replied, “We don’t want you to leave until you’ve learned as much about us as you can.”

  “You’re preventing us from leaving? You’re preventing us from even contacting Earth?”

  “Yes. If you left now, or if you reported your first impressions of us, we are afraid it would present a distorted image of our civilization. We want you to understand us as fully as possible before you report back to your homeworld.”

  Ignatiev realized once again, We’re prisoners here. We can’t leave unless and until the machines decide that they want us to leave.

  “We’ve got to get back home!” one of the committee members insisted.

  “You will,” the avatar replied smoothly. “In time. You must be patient.”

  What choice do we have? Ignatiev asked himself.

  The men and women around the conference table were all talking at once, gesticulating, arguing. Ignatiev stared at the avatar’s image, sitting calmly, its face serene.

  To you we’re a bunch of chattering apes, he said silently to the image. We’ve got to prove to you that we’re much more than that.

  He slapped the tabletop with the flat of his hand, making several of the committee members twitch with surprise.

  “Let’s come to order,” Ignatiev said. Then, forcing a smile, he went on, “There’s an old piece of folk wisdom that’s appropriate to this situation: When handed a lemon, make lemonade.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Patel, shaking his head dolefully.

  Ignatiev replied in a strong, steady voice, “We are here. Apparently we will remain here for some time to come. Very well, let’s explore this planet as fully as we can. We are scientists: our profession is to learn, to understand, to bring new knowledge to light. Let us make plans to explore this world, and the machine intelligence that exists here. When we finally return to Earth we should bring with us as full an understanding of this world as we can achieve.”

  Silence around the table. They’re afraid, Ignatiev realized. They’d like to get away from this planet and return home. Well, we can’t do that. So as long as we’re stuck here, let’s learn as much as we can.

  “To that end,” he said aloud, “we should hear the presentation by Dr. Nawalapitiya, the exobiology representative on the ground team. She has plans for examining the organic species of the planet.”

  Looking up at the holographic display once more, he saw that it already showed Gita, sitting in the living room of her quarters on the planet.

  With a smile that he didn’t know he was smiling, Ignatiev said, “Dr. Nawalapitiya, your report,
please.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Gita spoke glowingly of the biosphere facility, and views of its lush growth filled the screen. The executive committee members stared, some in consternation, most in awe.

  “They maintain a full-spectrum sampling of the natural biosphere that’s on the surface of the planet?” asked the committee’s chief exobiologist, Dr. Okpara Mandabe.

  “Yes, sir,” Gita replied. “They use it to keep a real-time check on the biota living on the surface.”

  His dark, heavy-featured face almost scowling, Mandabe probed, “How far does this assessment go? Down to the cellular level? Or is it merely macroscopic?”

  “I don’t know,” Gita admitted. Then she quickly added, “Yet.”

  “What does that mean?” Patel asked.

  With a smile, Gita replied, “I’d like to explore the natural biosphere. I’d like to ask the machines’ permission to do so.”

  “Up on the surface, in the wild?”

  “Yes, of course. We have an opportunity to examine a fully alien biota.”

  “If the machines allow it,” Ignatiev cautioned.

  Gita looked surprised. “Why wouldn’t they allow it?”

  “Ask them,” said Ignatiev. “They seem to have their own agenda regarding us.”

  The wall display suddenly split in two; the avatar appeared alongside Gita’s.

  “We have no objection to your exploring the biosphere,” the avatar’s image said smoothly. “Although we suggest that you begin with the facility we have created here underground.”

  Gita nodded. “Yes. Then we could compare the facility’s condition to the conditions on the surface.”

  “Actually,” the humanlike avatar said, “you will find the two to be entirely congruent, to within the limits of your measuring systems.”

  Ignatiev said, “You’re implying that you don’t want us studying the surface biosphere.”

  “We are suggesting,” the humanoid said, with obvious patience, “that we can watch over you and protect you in the facility more completely than in the natural world on the surface.”

  “The surface is dangerous?”

  “Of course. The animals are wild. We do not control them. Many species are strongly territorial, and might attack intruders. There are infectious microbes, of course. And even predatory species of plant life.”

  “Really?” Gita’s eyes were wide with anticipation.

  “You would need to wear protective clothing, even in our underground facility,” said the avatar.

  “We have biosuits,” Gita said, her face glowing with enthusiasm.

  Ignatiev studied her face. She’s eager to explore. The dangers don’t deter her.

  Then he focused on the machines’ avatar. He’s trying to discourage Gita from exploring the surface. Why? Is he really concerned for her safety? Or is there some other reason?

  * * *

  The meeting dragged on for another hour and more. Ignatiev watched and listened as each and every member of the committee had his or her say, mostly repetitions or rehashes of what had already been said. But each individual ego had to be massaged, he knew.

  Finally, unable to stand the self-important blathering any longer, Ignatiev raised his voice. “Very well, then. We will put together a team to study the planet’s organic species, starting with the biosphere facility that the machines maintain.”

  Turning to the head of the exobiology department, Ignatiev asked, “Dr. Mandabe, do you have any objection to naming Dr. Nawalapitiya to lead the team?”

  For a moment, the head of the exobiology department looked startled, his red-rimmed eyes flashing wide. But he quickly regained his self-control and acknowledged grudgingly, “I suppose she’s earned the honor.”

  “Good,” said Ignatiev. Looking up at Gita’s image on the wall display, he said, “Congratulations, Dr. Nawalapitiya. You’ll coordinate your selections for the team with Dr. Mandabe, of course.”

  Practically beaming, Gita nodded and murmured, “Certainly.”

  * * *

  Ignatiev adjourned the meeting at last, and found himself slumped back in the familiar cushions of his couch. Two hours of chattering to produce ten minutes of work: not bad for a committee meeting.

  As he pushed himself up from the couch and headed for the kitchen, the door buzzer sounded. Glancing at the small screen set in the wall to one side of the door, Ignatiev saw it was Gita.

  “Come in!” he shouted, and hurried toward the door.

  She was obviously excited. Practically prancing into the room, she bubbled, “You made me the team leader! I could kiss you!”

  Why not? Ignatiev thought. But he said to her, “Why shouldn’t you be the team’s leader? It’s your idea. And Mandabe obviously has no desire to come down to the planet and do any useful work himself.”

  “He wants me to report to him every day,” said Gita.

  Ignatiev shrugged. “He needs to feel important, to believe he’s in control.”

  “But you’re really the one in control, aren’t you?”

  He stared at her for a long, wordless moment: so young, so full of enthusiasm, so lovely.

  “No,” Ignatiev said. “You’re the one in control. Don’t let it go to your head.”

  She grew more serious. “I won’t. At least, I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

  “Good.” He hesitated a moment, then heard himself ask, “Would you like to have dinner with me? We can see what this kitchen can really do.”

  “I’d be happy to have dinner with you, Alex.”

  Ignatiev’s face broke into a huge, happy grin.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The kitchen was several notches better than the one he remembered at home in Saint Petersburg. Ignatiev asked for a certain dish and the ingredients automatically came sliding out of the cabinets and full-sized refrigerator. Mechanical arms sliced, diced, chopped, and mixed them into pots and slid the preparations into an oven that was a duplicate of the one from home—except that it operated without human intervention.

  A good thing, Ignatiev said to himself, remembering his own miserable attempts at cooking.

  Gita watched, wide-eyed, as dinner swiftly went from basic ingredients to an aromatic pair of steaming Wienerschnitzels on the kitchen’s small dining table.

  When Ignatiev went to the wine closet, sure enough there was a bottle of potato vodka on the top shelf. He even recognized the label.

  At last he and Gita were sitting at the table, facing each other.

  “It’s marvelous!” she pronounced, after a bite of the delicately flavored poached fish Ignatiev had ordered as their appetizer.

  Still chewing, Ignatiev nodded and agreed. “Good.”

  Once the veal dish came sliding onto their table, Ignatiev asked, “So you were born and raised in Sri Lanka?”

  “Yes,” Gita replied, reaching for her glass of wine. “My parents wanted me to marry, but none of the young men I knew interested me.”

  How about an older man? Ignatiev wanted to ask. But he kept silent.

  “I went to university and became fascinated with biology,” she went on. “And here I am.”

  “Two thousand light-years from home.”

  Her expression turned glum. “It’s a long way, isn’t it?”

  “When we get back to Earth,” Ignatiev said, suppressing the impulse to say if we get back, “four thousand years will have elapsed.”

  “We’ll be strangers. The entire civilization will have changed enormously, I imagine.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Exiles on our own homeworld.”

  “A new world to explore.”

  Gita smiled. “That’s the optimistic way to look at it, isn’t it?”

  “What made you agree to join this expedition?” he asked. “It’s like throwing your life away.”

  Her expression darkening again, Gita replied, “We’ve all done that, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, but why? Why leave everything you’ve
known, your family, your friends, to go on this one-way expedition into an unknowable future?”

  “That’s what you’ve done, haven’t you, Alex? And not just once. You were on the Gliese mission. Why?”

  “I’m an old man, Gita. Old and expendable. But you have your whole life ahead of you.”

  She looked into his eyes for a moment, then turned her attention back to the dish in front of her. “I’m a scientist, Alex. The same as you. I want to learn, to discover, to uncover new knowledge.”

  Ignatiev shook his head. “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

  Gita nodded. “Of course.”

  He realized he was being intrusive. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry into your private life.”

  “Why did you go on a star mission? Twice.”

  He hesitated. Then he admitted, “When my wife died I thought my own life was over. I was just going through the motions, waiting to die. The chance to join the Gliese mission … well, it was something to do, something different. Then when we returned to Earth I found that I’d become famous—”

  “For saving the mission.”

  “For being too stubborn to let it fail. They offered me this mission. Being officially a hero, I found it impossible to refuse.”

  “A true hero,” she said, smiling.

  Ignatiev heard himself admit, “A hero with an incurable disease.”

  Her smile vanished. “Disease?”

  Inwardly frowning at himself, Ignatiev told her about the ALS.

  “And it’s incurable?” Gita asked, disbelieving.

  He nodded. “The medical people can’t tinker with the brain cells involved, they tell me. They can delay the disease’s progress, but they can’t stop it altogether.”

  Gita’s face was a picture of sympathy.

  “I’ve got many years ahead of me,” Ignatiev said, brightening. “I’m not dead yet.”

  Sadly, she murmured, “We’ll all be dead, sooner or later, won’t we?”

  “Sooner or later,” Ignatiev agreed.

  For several long moments they stared at each other across the narrow table.

  Trying to brighten the gloom, Ignatiev said, “So tell me why you decided to come along on this mission.”