by Allen Steele
And that was when, against all odds, Raziel produced its first positive contact.
“At first, Raziel thought it might only be an undiscovered Kuiper Belt object that just happened to cross its focal plane,” Ramirez said. “But when it locked on the target and began tracking it, a different sort of light-curve signature was produced.”
He reached forward to tap a command into his screen. Above the floral arrangement, a holographic image appeared: a tiny black dot silhouetted against the ruddy orb of Proxima Centauri. “When our people saw this initial image, they believed at first that the system had made a mistake. When they magnified it further, though…”
Ramirez entered another command; the holo expanded, and the dot became a small, featureless sphere. At that magnification, they could see a small speck hovering close to the object. “That’s what drew Raziel’s attention,” he went on, pointing to the speck. “It might have only been a natural satellite…a small captive asteroid, perhaps…but the primary’s mass was too small and the second object’s orbit around it was too narrow. So Raziel gave it a closer look, and as you can see…”
He magnified the holo to twice its previous size, this time adding wire-frame lines of latitude and longitude. Ramirez then tapped in a sequence of time-lapse images; although the primary object didn’t gain any additional detail, it became apparent that its companion was moving in orbit around its equator. “Again, it could have been a natural phenomenon,” he continued, “but then Raziel captured this one particular image…”
He waited until the speck had almost completed its transit of the object, then froze the image and magnified it to its highest resolution. Only the western limb of the primary could be seen, but that wasn’t what drew everyone’s attention. For the speck was no longer a speck but instead a tiny ellipse, with Proxima sunlight gleaming through the cavity at its center.
“Clearly, this is an artificial construct.” Even though Ramirez had studied this particular frame dozens of times in the past few days, he still felt a shiver run down his back. “Not only that, but subsequent examination of the primary confirmed it was a little more than two-point-oh-five light-years away. In other words, the primary, along with its companion, wasn’t in orbit around Proxima, but instead passing in transit between the Centauri system and our own.”
Murmurs from around the table as conference members studied the image. While some were awestruck, others were plainly skeptical. Ignoring them, Ramirez went on. “Although Raziel spotted it only for a moment—one-ten-thousandth of a second, to be exact—it was sufficient to trigger its recognition mode. Even as it relayed a priority message to Muscoviense Centre, it proceeded to the next stage.”
He touched his screen again, relaying a graphic image to everyone else’s screens. “In the event of something like this, Raziel was programmed to transmit a sequence of short-burst microwave signals representing prime numbers…two, three, five, seven, eleven, and so forth…on a frequency of fourteen hundred twenty megahertz, or twenty-one centimeters wavelength. This has been long considered the frequency most likely to be noticed by an intelligent observer…or, at least, one possessing the proper equipment…that wouldn’t be mistaken for cosmic background radiation.”
Ramirez waited a moment, letting his words sink in. “That was about four and a half years ago. On April 1, Mare Muscoviense’s long-baseline array intercepted a signal, this one transmitted at the exact same frequency. At first we…I mean, our people…thought it might only be an echo of some sort, because the signal commenced with an identical string of prime numbers. But then the sequence became much more complex, lasting thirty-four seconds until it began to repeat itself.”
He touched another key, and a new image appeared on the attendees’ screens: rows of digits, beginning with two, three, five, and seven, and continuing into five-place prime numbers, before breaking pattern and becoming a complicated string of numbers that had no obvious pattern. “We have no idea what this means, of course,” Ramirez went on, “but there’s no doubt that’s the product of extraterrestrial intelligence. Nor is there any doubt that it came from the…um, object.”
“Spindrift,” Cole murmured.
Ramirez looked at him. “Pardon me?”
“Spindrift. The code name ESA and the Union Astronautica have agreed upon for this phenomenon.” Cole sat up a little straighter, touched his mike to activate it. “Thank you very much for the background on this discovery, Dr. Ramirez. I think I speak for everyone when I say that I’m very pleased that you agreed to participate in this conference and that your creation has borne fruit at long last.”
“Yes, but…”
“We’ll now open the floor to comments.” Cole gave him an admonishing glance, silently telling him to shut up. Then he pointed to a stuffy-looking academic who’d picked up his placard and placed it end up on the table, indicating his desire to speak. “Dr. Waterstone…”
Many hours later, Ramirez found himself alone in his room, gazing through the window and, once again, wondering why he was there.
His quarters were located on the second floor of the southwest wing, a cozy but comfortable suite with a private bath, a modest luxury that he’d almost forgotten after nine years in Dolland. The window overlooked the small graveyard of the adjacent chapel; floodlights along the manor’s roof eaves illuminated rows of eroded slate tombstones, each marking the final resting place of a member of one of the families that had possessed Wiston House since the mideighteenth century. The last mellow glow of twilight had fallen over the distant hills; he’d cracked open a window to get some air, and now he could hear the crickets commencing their evening concerto.
The conference had dragged on through the rest of the morning and late into the afternoon, interrupted only by lunch in the main hall and teatime in the library. He’d spoken little since his presentation, save to answer the occasional question from another attendee. Indeed, no one except Shillinglaw, Cole, or Sinclair seemed willing to acknowledge his presence, even though it soon became obvious that, even after having been absent from the scientific community for nearly a decade, he was still the person in the room most knowledgeable about extraterrestrial intelligence.
That was to be expected. Even before his conviction, the field had shrunk until it’d largely consisted of little more than a dozen specialists, all of whom had been struggling for recognition. Humankind had finally gone to the stars, true enough, but when no alien races had been found out there, the view that Homo sapiens was alone in the cosmos had gradually gained widespread acceptance. In its wake had come Dominion Christianity, with a belief system based upon a misreading of the anthropic principle; it wasn’t natural selection that favored the human race as the inheritors of the galaxy, but the will of God. The fact that, so far, only one habitable world had been discovered was enough to bolster this particular article of faith; if the Western Hemisphere Union hadn’t nearly bankrupted itself by building a small fleet of starships that it had already dispatched to the 47 Ursae Majoris system, then subsequent vessels would’ve doubtless contained legions of Dominion missionaries.
Even if none of the conference members were Dominionists—and Ramirez suspected that one or two might be—enough remained skeptical of Raziel’s findings that, for the rest of the day, the sessions had bogged down in endless debate over fine points of data. At first, Ramirez tried to defend his findings, but after a while he realized that few seemed willing to listen to him. It wasn’t because of what he’d said, but because of who he was. The message had been accepted, but the messenger was to be ignored. So finally he’d gone silent, sucking on hard candies and absently playing with the wrappers, while scientists who’d earned their credentials while he was doing hard time in Dolland split hairs over the mathematical permutations of the Spindrift signal that even a postgrad physics student could have correctly interpreted.
So why was he there? He didn’t know. All things considered, though, he might as well be somewhere else.
There was no c
hain-link fence around Wilton Park, and no one had put him back in manacles after dinner. Leaning upon his cane, Ramirez had stood at the window for nearly a half hour now, and still he hadn’t spotted any security guards. All he had to do was open the window a little more, then slip his legs over the sill. No more than an eight-foot drop lay between him and the ground below; if he did it right, he might be able to land without breaking a leg. He had little more than the clothes on his back, and it wouldn’t be long before a police alert was put out for him, but nonetheless there was a small chance that he might be able to escape.
Do it, man, he thought, staring at the half-open window. Now or never. Wait until the conference is over, and they’ll just pack you off to Dolland, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in that hellhole. Go. Get out of here…
All of a sudden, there was a knock at the door.
Startled, Ramirez looked around. He started to reach over to shut the window, then resigned himself to his fate. Cursing beneath his breath, he hobbled across the room to the door. No doubt the window was rigged with sensors. And this would be one of the SAS men, politely wondering if he was all right, if there was anything he might need…
Instead, he found Shillinglaw waiting for him, hands clasped behind his back.
“Ah, Jared…good to see you’re still up and about.” Shillinglaw beamed at him, and Ramirez nodded. “Would you be so kind as to join us for a drink downstairs? We’d like to have a chat with you.”
The library was on the ground floor, a spacious and comfortably furnished room whose oak-paneled walls were lined with shelves stuffed with books and academic journals. Mahogany sculptures of Zeus and Athena stood on either side of a marble hearth in which a holographic fire burned; concealed heaters warmed the men seated in leather armchairs in front of it.
Sinclair was there, and so was Beck; they smiled as Shillinglaw escorted Ramirez into the room. The third man seated in front of the fireplace, though, he didn’t know; in his midthirties, he guessed, although he somehow seemed younger, with a trim build and an unlined face. He hadn’t been in attendance at the meetings that day, or otherwise Ramirez would’ve recognized him.
“Jared! Please, come in. Have a seat.” Beck waved him toward an empty chair. “Can we get you something? Wine, perhaps?” Ramirez had never been much of a drinker, but everyone else either had wine stems in their hands or had parked them on the coffee table between them. He nodded, and Beck made a silent gesture to the waiter hovering nearby. “I hope we haven’t disturbed you, but…”
“Quite all right. I was just…meditating.” Whatever conversation the men had been having had ceased the moment he walked into the room. Unnerved by the sudden attention, Ramirez sat down in the offered seat. “I understand there’s something you wished to discuss with me?”
“Well, yes, but…” Beck smiled. “Relax. You’ve had a long day. And that was quite a presentation you gave this morning. At the very least, it gave everyone much to think about.”
Shillinglaw chuckled. With all the chairs taken, he leaned against a bookcase beside the hearth. Sinclair’s mouth briefly ticked upward, yet they continued to regard Ramirez as if he was a bug someone had neglected to crush. The young man, though, gazed at him with unabashed curiosity, like a university student coming face-to-face with a notorious figure whom he’d studied in one class or another, but never dreamed of meeting in real life.
“Glad to hear it,” Ramirez said dryly, “but I wasn’t under the impression that ‘thinking about it’ was the prime concern of this conference.” The waiter reappeared, bearing a tray with a glass of wine. “In fact, I’ve begun to wonder why I’m here in the first place,” he added, as the waiter handed his drink to him. “Not that I haven’t enjoyed the change of scenery”—even Sinclair smiled at this—“but anyone knowledgeable about Raziel could have delivered that talk.”
“Yes, quite.” Beck folded his arms together. “You’re absolutely correct…although your presence added a certain gravitas that might otherwise have been lacking. But that’s beside the point, really. As I said, we have something more important we’d like to discuss with you.”
Shillinglaw cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should introduce our friend here.” He gestured to the young man seated across from them. “Commander Theodore Harker, first officer of the EASS Galileo.”
“Which ship?” Ramirez shook his head. “Sorry, but I haven’t heard of the Galileo. Is that a new Mars cycler?”
“No, sir.” Harker’s voice held a slight Welsh accent, watered down by years of refinement. “We completed our shakedown cruise to Mars just six weeks ago, but interplanetary service is not our principal mission.” He paused. “The Galileo is a starship.”
Ramirez blinked. It took a moment for this to sink in. “A starship,” he murmured at last. “I’ll be damned…” He looked at Shillinglaw. “You have made progress while I’ve been away, haven’t you?”
“Don’t feel bad. You haven’t been that far out of the loop.” Shillinglaw stepped away from the bookcase. “Most of Galileo’s development was classified, strictly on a need-to-know basis. We didn’t go public with the project until we actually began construction four years ago…”
“And by then, of course, your intelligence operatives had achieved their goal.” Sinclair glowered at both him and Beck. “I have to hand it to you…they were very good at unearthing the details of our diametric drive. My government didn’t even know they’d been stolen until…”
“Oh, Donald, please.” Beck closed his eyes, shook his head. “ESA didn’t steal the diametric drive, and you know it. Our people developed it independently. Otherwise, why would the configuration of the drive torus be so different?”
“Because you—”
“Look,” Ramirez interrupted, “I’m really not interested in hearing this.” Then a new thought occurred to him. “Or maybe I am. The last starship the Union Astronautica built…um, the Spirit…”
“The Spirit of Social Collectivism Carried to the Stars,” Sinclair said, reciting the ship’s cumbersome but politically correct full name. “The last of the five colony ships sent to 47 Ursae Majoris.”
“After the Alabama, of course.” Sinclair’s face reddened as Ramirez said this. Good social collectivists—particularly political officers—didn’t like to be reminded that it was the old, right-wing United Republic of America that built and launched humankind’s first starship, long before the Western Hemisphere Union rose from the wreckage of the former government. He started to sputter something, but Ramirez ignored him. “But the Union Astronautica exhausted their resources building that fleet,” he went on, “and…at least so far as I know…haven’t built any since.”
“Sometimes, there’s a certain advantage to being the tortoise,” Shillinglaw said quietly. “Especially when it’s obvious that the hare will soon take a nap.”
Sinclair glared at him, while Beck covered his bemused expression with his hand. “That’s one way of putting it,” Harker said, making an attempt to be diplomatic. “The fact remains that, at this moment, the EA has the only operational starship.” He smiled, and Ramirez couldn’t help but notice a certain twinkle in his eye. “Among other resources,” he added, as a mischievous grin crept across his face.
“I think you can see where this is going.” Beck leaned forward to place his empty wineglass on the table. “We mean to send the Galileo to Spindrift, with the intent of investigating the origin of these signals.” He nodded toward Sinclair. “This will be a bilateral mission. After all, it was the Union Astronautica that discovered Spindrift…”
“And ESA has the means to get there.” Ramirez toyed with the untasted drink in his hand. “Not a bad idea, if you have a ship capable of reaching the object…Spindrift, I mean…when it makes its closest approach.” He searched his memory. “Just short of two light-years, about two and a half years from now. You’re going to be cutting it close, even with diametric drive.”
“We have a certain…well, edge…that gives
us confidence that we can make it,” Harker said. “In order for us to achieve our launch window, we’re looking at a departure date of June 1.”
Ramirez raised an eyebrow. “So soon? That’s only six weeks away.”
“We believe that it can be accomplished.” Beck settled back in his chair, steepled his fingers together. “We already have a good crew, with Captain Lawrence in command…sorry he can’t be here, but he’s attending to other matters just now.” Harker made a face, but said nothing. “And we’re presently assembling our science team, with representatives from both the Union Astronautica and the European Space Agency.” He paused. “Which is why we’ve asked you to be here, Dr. Ramirez. We’d like to have you aboard.”
The glass slipped from Ramirez’s hand, spilling wine across the dark green carpet. He barely noticed the waiter as he rushed forward to sop up the mess with a terry-cloth towel. His heart skipped a beat; for a moment, it was hard for him to breathe. No one in the room spoke; Ramirez waited for someone to grin, laugh, tell him it was just a gag—Oh, no, we’re not serious…You’re staying behind, to act as a consultant—but everyone simply gazed at him, waiting for a response.
“Sure,” he said at last. “I’d love to.”
“Splendid,” Shillinglaw said. “We were hoping you’d say that.” He grasped Ramirez’s shoulder as he gazed at Harker. “You’ve got your astrobiologist, Commander…the best in the business.”
Harker gave him a tight smile, then nodded to Ramirez. Sinclair let out his breath and shook his head, while Beck asked the waiter to fetch a round of champagne so that they could make a toast to the mission. None of them noticed Shillinglaw as, still holding Ramirez’s shoulder, he leaned forward to whisper in his ear.
“There, you see?” he said softly. “You didn’t really want to jump out that window, now did you?”
THREE
MAY 29, 2288—TSIOLKOVSKY STATION,