by Allen Steele
“As do we all.” Sinclair gave Torres a look that seemed to shrink the poor man even more. “Now that we’re finished here, may we see the prisoner, please?”
“Of course. This way, gentlemen…” Torres signaled for the two Guardsmen to accompany them. With one quickly stepping forward to lead the way and the other bringing up the rear, they marched toward a vaultlike metal door watched by two sentries behind a louvered glass partition. A brisk wave of a hand, and the door buzzed and parted in its center, revealing a mooncrete corridor whose floor sloped gently upward.
Shillinglaw waited until the door shut behind them, then he slid in beside Sinclair. “Thanks for coming to the rescue,” he murmured.
“Think nothing of it.” Sinclair didn’t bother to lower his voice. “I’m just sorry we had to meet this way. Some of our officials have an unfortunate tendency to put their noses where they shouldn’t.” If Torres overheard them, he pretended otherwise; he kept his back toward his two guests as they walked up the corridor. “Where’s the prisoner now?” Sinclair added, speaking as if Torres had heard everything they’d said. “In an interrogation room?”
“No…no, sir, he’s not.” Torres tried to keep his voice steady, but Shillinglaw detected a nervous stammer. “He’s on the farm just now…”
“On the farm?” Sinclair’s voice raised just slightly. “Why wasn’t he taken to…?”
“I didn’t…I’m sorry, señor, but I didn’t understand your earlier message. I didn’t think you yourself wanted to participate in this meeting, so I…”
“Never mind. Just take us to him.” Sinclair briefly closed his eyes in exasperation, then gave Shillinglaw a sidelong glance: Bureaucrats…never can get anything right.
Yet Shillinglaw wasn’t so certain that Torres had screwed up. Something about the entire arrangement raised his suspicions, yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “Pardon me, Mr. Torres,” he asked, “but I thought he was confined to maximum security. Isn’t the farm…?”
“We transferred him to the medium security wing three years ago.” The warden glanced back at him. “His conduct had been very good for the previous six years, and so when he formally requested the transfer, the board decided to let him take a job on the farm…on probation, of course. So far, he’s behaved quite well.”
“And the other inmates?” Sinclair’s tone was skeptical. “They’ve accepted him?”
“Pretty much so, yes. Only a handful are aware of the nature of his crimes, and they either avoid him or else decided to look the other way. For the rest, he’s just another convict. And he’s volunteered to lead a couple of activities. Teaching astronomy classes, organizing a chess club…”
“Trying to earn points toward parole, I take it.” Shillinglaw didn’t mean to sound cynical, but nonetheless it came out that way. By then, they’d reached the end of the corridor. Another vault door confronted them, with two more Guardsmen watching them from behind an armored window.
“I don’t think you understand.” Torres stopped to let the soldiers open the door. “He’ll never get out, and he knows that. Even if he lives to be five hundred, he’s here for the rest of his life.”
I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Shillinglaw thought. He kept his mouth shut, yet from the corner of his eye, he saw a knowing smile flicker across Sinclair’s face.
The prison reeked of marijuana.
The floor of Dolland crater was a little more than four miles in diameter, and nearly every square foot of it had been cultivated with hemp. Acre upon acre of dark green weed, ranging from tiny sprouts nurtured in hydroponics tanks until they reached maturity and could be transplanted to beds of rich brown soil, to mighty giants twice the height of a man, their serrated leaves reaching for the sunlight streaming through the polarized panes of the airtight dome that covered the crater from rim to rim.
The prison farm grew cannabis for the Union’s lunar colonies. Once the plants were harvested, they were processed for all variety of industrial uses: paper, rope, machine oil, ink, pharmaceuticals, paint, clothing, shoes, anything that could be made from the hardy, easily grown weed. The fact that the female plants had once enjoyed a heyday as a vice was almost forgotten; the underground now had dope half as easy to produce and twice as potent. Of course, those caught manufacturing or distributing these things were often sentenced to Dolland, where they’d find themselves growing hemp until they were sick of seeing it.
The medium-security inmates lived in cells excavated within the crater wall; every morning they rose to look out upon a vast jungle of weed, and their days and nights were spent with its dank, cloying odor in their noses and mouths. Still, it was preferable to the fate suffered by the maximum-security prisoners; isolated within lava tubes beneath the crater, they saw neither sunlight nor the faces of anyone else save their guards, and spent their time pacing their cells and quietly going mad.
Shillinglaw found Inmate 7668 on his hands and knees beside a half-grown cannabis bush, carefully pruning vestigial leaves from its underside. He didn’t look up from his work until one of the guards ordered him to stand, and even then he took his time getting to his feet. He put down his blunt-nosed plastic clippers, then slowly rose, casually brushing away the dirt from the knees of his bright orange coveralls. It wasn’t until he turned around that Shillinglaw recognized him.
Jared Ramirez had changed considerably in the years since his face had been on every netcast and newspage. His wiry frame had thickened slightly in the middle, a testament to a diet of carbohydrate-rich prison food, and his hair, once jet-black and artfully groomed, had become a raggedy grey mop. Yet his eyes remained as sharp as ever, his gaze direct and inquisitive as he regarded his visitors with sullen curiosity.
“You’ve got visitors, convict,” the closer of the two guards said, his voice formal and yet not unkind. “You can take a break now. Warden says it’ll count toward your work quota, so take your time.”
“Thanks. Tell Mr. Torres I appreciate it.” Ramirez ignored Shillinglaw and Sinclair as he pulled off his work gloves. “I can speak to them, can’t I?”
“Sure. Just watch what you say.” The guard stepped back a couple of feet, the butt of his rifle resting upon his hip, while his companion moved past them and took up a similar position on the gravel pathway leading between the rows of plants.
Once again, Shillinglaw nervously looked around. Even with two armed guards as escorts, he didn’t like where he’d found himself. The farm surrounded them like a primeval forest, its warm air humidified by the fine spray of water from the gridlike network of irrigation pipes high above their heads. Here and there among the cannabis, he spotted other inmates, some spreading mulch and trimming leaves while others cut full-grown plants and loaded them into wheelbarrows. Gazing at the nearby crater wall, he saw a couple of prisoners lounging against the railing of one of the lower-level cell tiers; they stared back at him, their expressions implacable until one of them raised his fingers to his lips and blew him a kiss.
Shillinglaw hastily looked away. No wonder Torres had left him and Sinclair at the crater entrance. Even with armed guards at his side, he felt vulnerable. He suddenly realized Torres’s intentions: instead of letting him talk to Ramirez in the privacy of an interrogation room, he’d made sure the meeting took place where his unwanted visitor would be intimidated. But with Sinclair in the picture, that idea had backfired, and now the warden wanted to distance himself as much as possible.
“So…let’s hear what you have to say.” Ramirez shoved his gloves in his back pocket. “Better not be another psych profile, though. I’m done with them.”
“I’m sure you are.” Sinclair regarded him with undisguised contempt. “Anyone ever find out what’s wrong with you? I mean, besides the fact that you hate the human race?”
“Not the entire human race, no…just certain members.” Ramirez bent forward to peer at Sinclair’s lapel pin. “We’ve never met, but I have little doubt that you’re among them.”
Sinclair smirk
ed, a retort hovering on his lips. Shillinglaw cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves,” he said before the conversation could degenerate further. “I’m John Shillinglaw, associate director of the European Space Agency. My colleague…um, companion…is Donald Sinclair, from the…”
“I know where he’s from, thank you.” Ramirez turned his attention to him. “ESA, you say? How interesting…which department?”
“Extrasolar Exploration. It’s…”
“New, isn’t it? Have you made any progress? Toward building your own starship, I mean.” He absently glanced up toward the pressure dome high above. “We don’t get much news here. Or at least I don’t…the warden restricts my net access. Just sports and the occasional fic.”
From the corner of his eye, Shillinglaw saw that Sinclair was listening with great interest. “We’ve made some progress,” he replied, and quickly changed the subject. “I’ve come here to discuss an important matter with you…something you may be able to help us understand.”
“I hope it’s not about the Savants again.” Ramirez looked down at the ground. “Look, it was a mistake. I’ve lost everything because of what they did…and if I’d known what they were planning, I would’ve never helped them in the first place. So if you’re trying to find out more about their plans, believe me when I tell you that I’ve already—”
Sinclair made a flatulent sound with his mouth. Shillinglaw chose to ignore him. “It’s not about the Savant genocide,” he said. Mindful of the nearby guards, he lowered his voice. “It’s about Raziel. It’s received a signal.”
Ramirez’s eyes snapped toward him. For a moment he seemed to shake, like a man who’d just received a cold chill. Then he stepped closer to Shillinglaw, closing the distance between them. “Artificial?” he whispered, and Shillinglaw nodded. “Confirmed?” Shillinglaw nodded again. “When? How?”
“Ten days ago…and no, this is not an April Fool’s joke, although that possibility crossed a few people’s minds. Two radio telescopes on Earth unpinned their dishes and used them to confirm what showed up on Raziel’s multichannel analyzer.” Shillinglaw paused, then added, “It’s real. It’s as real as it can get.”
“Oh, dear god.” For the first time, Ramirez noticed the folder Shillinglaw carried in his left hand. “Is that the data? Let me see it…”
Impatient, he started to reach for the folder, as if to snatch it away from Shillinglaw. The suddenness of his action drew the attention of the closer of the soldiers; before either of them could react, the Guardsman grabbed Ramirez’s arm and roughly hauled him back, while the other one brought up his gun to cover his partner.
“It’s all right!” Raising his hands, Shillinglaw moved between Ramirez and the second Guardsman, blocking his shot. “It’s okay! I’m fine! No problem!” In the background, he could hear whistles and catcalls from the other inmates; somewhere above them, one of the prisoners who’d been watching them pounded on the railing, apparently signaling to the others that a fight was about to break out. Shillinglaw tried to put it out of his mind. “He just got excited, that’s all,” he said quickly. “Leave him alone, please.”
The soldiers seemed unconvinced until Sinclair walked over to the one holding the rifle and murmured something in his ear. Shillinglaw couldn’t hear what he said, but it was enough to make the Guardsman lower his weapon. A brief nod to his colleague, and the other soldier released Ramirez, albeit reluctantly, and stepped back. More whistles, this time mixed with a few boos, then the inmates gradually quieted down.
“Sorry.” Ramirez gently massaged his arm where the guard had grabbed him. “Just a little overstimulated.” A wan smile. “Nine years in this place, and now this…I hope you understand.”
“Sure. I would be, too.” Shillinglaw was surprised to see that Ramirez’s face had gone pale; there was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. “Besides, if there was any trouble, your friends would’ve helped you out.”
Ramirez’s smile faded. “No, I’m afraid not,” he said quietly. “They were probably hoping that the guards would beat the crap out of me.” He glanced at the folder again. “If I may…?”
Shillinglaw held out the file. Careful not to take it from him too quickly, Ramirez accepted the folder with quivering hands. Half-turning away from him, he opened it and began to study the technical printouts. Some pages he flipped quickly past, while others he examined more thoroughly, his lips moving as he whispered to himself.
As Shillinglaw watched him, he found himself torn between long-standing disgust for the man and a certain grudging respect. Nine years ago, no one outside the scientific community had ever heard of Jared Ramirez. An American astrobiologist working within the confines of the Western Hemisphere Union, his principal line of research had been the search for extraterrestrial intelligence…a field that had gone out of vogue in recent years, despite the Union Astronautica’s development of the diametric drive, due to lack of evidence that intelligent life existed beyond Earth. Indeed, it’d even been argued that, because humankind had discovered the means to go to the stars, only to find no one waiting for them, this was proof that Homo sapiens occupied the pinnacle of creation.
Yet although the strong anthropic principle had become the philosophical basis for Dominion Christianity, Ramirez’s research had earned just enough support within the Proletariat—particularly among the Council of Savants—that he was able to acquire funding for a SETI project based at Mare Muscoviense on the lunar farside. It only made sense that the Savants remained interested in finding other forms of intelligent life, for they were no longer quite human themselves. Scholars, philosophers, and dreamers who, for one reason or another, had decided that the normal human life span was a death sentence they couldn’t tolerate, they’d taken advantage of radical advances in cybernetics to have their cerebral patterns scanned and downloaded into quantum comps contained within mechanical bodies, thereby giving birth to posthuman life.
For a time, it appeared as if the Savants would peacefully coexist with baseline humans. Their enhanced ability to process new information, coupled with near immortality, seemed to make them the intellectual vanguard. Although they were still viewed with suspicion by the European Alliance and the Pacific Coalition, the Savants took advantage of the Western Hemisphere Union’s doctrine of social collectivism to have their representatives elected to the Proletariat, where they formed a third council that worked alongside the Patriarchs and Matriarchs. There they wielded considerable influence; it was upon their advice that the Union decided to build a fleet of five starships that would journey to 47 Ursae Majoris in order to wrest control of Coyote from the handful of colonists who’d arrived there only a few years earlier.
Yet no one knew that the Savants had their own agenda. Least of all Jared Ramirez, who’d become a collaborator in their plan to obliterate nearly one-third of Earth’s population. Unwittingly, or so he claimed…
“This is…this is absolutely incredible.” Still staring at the papers in his hands, Ramirez turned toward Shillinglaw. “And it happened by accident?”
“Pretty much so, yes.” Walking over to Ramirez’s side, Shillinglaw reached past his shoulder to turn back a couple of pages. “There, you see?” he said, pointing to the first column of figures. “The object was spotted when Raziel aimed itself at Proxima Centauri. It wasn’t engaged in a search pattern at the time, just using that star to recalibrate itself…”
“As it’s programmed to do, yes.” Ramirez shook his head in amazement. “I picked Proxima because it’s an M-class dwarf close enough for Raziel to locate without any trouble.” He chuckled to himself. “Of all the stars I’d least expect…”
“It’s not in orbit around Proxima. See?” He flipped to the next page, indicated another set of figures with the tip of his finger. “Once Raziel locked on to the object, it continued to track it while it occultated Alpha Centauri A and B, and later HR6416. So that means it’s…”
“A transient, right.” Shutting his eyes, Ram
irez lifted his left hand from the page, almost as if he was visualizing a star map indelibly etched in his mind’s eye. “Coming from the general direction of the outer Orion Arm. Heading toward the galactic center, slightly below the solar plane of ecliptic. And how far away did you say it was?”
“When it was first spotted about four and a half years ago…”
“Four and a half years ago? Why didn’t you…?” He stopped himself, and a wry smile appeared. “Oh, right. I was still in solitary. Makes consultation a bit difficult.”
“It was approximately two-point-one light-years from Earth. We estimate it as being approximately one thousand two hundred kilometers in diameter, spherical in shape…”
“Only one thousand two hundred kilometers?” He sighed and shook his head in dismay, then thrust the folder at Shillinglaw’s chest. “A rogue asteroid,” he muttered. “Space junk. Don’t waste my time. Nice to meet you, but I’m not…”
“Since then the distance has decreased to approximately two-point-oh-five l.y.’s, and it’s on a trajectory perpendicular to our solar system.” Shillinglaw didn’t take the file from him. “With that sort of velocity, does it still sound like a rogue? And before you answer that, let me show you one more thing.”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his pad. “Raziel is one hell of a system,” he continued as he opened its cover and entered a code number. “When it spotted something that looked like a possible candidate, it did what it was supposed to do…”
“It would’ve transmitted a signal. But it wouldn’t have done that unless…” Ramirez’s voice trailed off as a three-dimensional image materialized a couple of inches above the pad’s holoscreen: a dark, featureless sphere, like a small moon or a large asteroid, save for lack of surface textures. Yet it wasn’t that which attracted his attention, but the tiny object that circled around it like a miniature satellite.