Alien Artifacts

by Seanan McGuire

  Her visions, though, weren’t like her Mom’s—she’d never aimed at the really big time—the big scopes, that was what Mom had wanted; big fame. Though it meant leaving the fractious little family of musicians, her mom had gotten her wish. The big news these days in astronomy was the discovery of the tentacle of dark matter reaching from the Coalsack, right on by the solar system and off to Scholz’s star. Her mom was on the team studying that piece of star-quality science.

  That wasn’t for Seika.

  No, she’d wanted to be up close and personal with the stars. ANSMET—The Antarctic Search For Meteorites—had been on her radar for years—which Aminah had known, and practically shoved her out the door to catch the—

  “Safka,” Brad said, his voice crackling in her earphones, “Safka! Answer!”

  Funny, a few minutes ago they’d been talking like they were in each other’s laps, which they’d practically been, and the sound had been crystal clear. Now the reception was weepy and distant. Still, the man deserved an answer.

  “Here, tovarisch,” she said, her voice sounding gritty in her own ears.

  “Say what? Can barely hear you! Please repeat!”

  She took him literally, said “Here, tovarisch,” and after a count of three, added ; “Can you see me?”

  Carefully, she looked up, but there was no Brad-blot against the tiny piece of sky, and it seemed like the tiny piece had gotten tinier. If the ice closed up over her...

  A sound then, a rumble and cracking noise, with a few extra bits of icy debris hurtling down past her.

  “Are you OK?,” she asked. “Brad?”

  There was no immediate response, then came a fluttery connection.

  “The other sleds are breaking their grids and heading this way. I’m about thirty meters away from where you went in, right now, it looks like there’s a…dip there, a sort of split across an ice dome or something. I could feel it move when I tried to get closer…backed off. Calling base to get the ‘copter in here.”

  This time, the sound was sharp and definite. The glimpse of blue sky grew wider as another section of ice slid down, scraping along the uneven sides of the ice chimney. One section tumbled grandly, and Seika ducked, too late, as ice bounced off the wall and then off the opposite side before a section that looked as big as her head collided with her helmet.

  * * *

  She woke to flashes of light, in series. Her head hurt, and her eyes had a tendency to cross. The flashing was coming from the other side of the cleft; the place she had last seen the artifact.

  She started to move, to assess the damage to her sled; and the ledge on which they rested. Using her eyes made her nauseous, though, and she closed them. Behind the lids, she saw a neat, progressive spectrum, each color soft and soothing. Her stomach eased, and her headache did, too.

  She sighed, and spoke, loudly.

  “Brad, ANSMET FOUR!”

  Across the crevasse—across the greatly widened crevasse—was the thing—the artifact—from the ice, up top. It was not only there, but, in the glow of sunlight from the hole up above, it had become ghostly blue at the center, with edges going from red to orange, to—to another color that she couldn’t quite make out, which was just crazy.

  Wasn’t it.

  She’d seen it tumbling with her, she realized, tumbling ahead of her, on the shaky way down, looking like a big rutilated quartz crystal with shades running from gold to rose to deep red. The last gout of snow and ice that had come down the chimney had left it out in the open, so she could see it plain, glowing, not just with the distant sunlight, but with an internal light, crystalline and beautiful.

  What had Brad said it was? A chunk of reflective ice? Brad better get his eyes checked, pronto. Hopefully, the drone had gotten a better angle on it, even if its operator was going blind.

  This close, it wasn’t anything like a chunk of ice. Clearly, it had been built. It wasn’t gem cut but purpose-cut. Not meant for pretty, but to be a tool. It had the feel of equipment, the way a space probe has the feel of equipment, no matter how much gold foil they swathe it in. And like a space probe, there were marks on it. Information. IDs. In no language she recognized.

  She squinted, but the lettering didn’t come any clearer. No chunk of ice, this, no more than it was a meteor. She was good at identifying random booster parts and failed satellites, and she’d swear that it wasn’t any bit of man-made tech at all. No, what she had here was of no earthly manufacture. She’d bet her Sunday fiddle on it.

  “Brad, are you there?”

  No reply, and now pain was working in from her limbs as the adrenalin of the fall gave way to a cunning kind of depression. This might do it, she thought, this might be the church door’s worth of luck run out.

  “Brad? ANSMET?”

  She tried the other channel, one that ought to reach one of the other two teams. Nothing. Back to the regular channel, and nothing.

  Maybe he’d run for help, leaving her in a hole twenty-two kilometers from anywhere. Maybe...

  She’d better distract herself. If she was going to be down here a while, she ought to know what her resources were.

  “Equipment check,” she told herself, “and make it snappy.”

  She’d taken a hit to the helmet and…something clicked as she ran her hands over the helmet controls and headset. She pushed at the microphone, feeling something snap and seat, like maybe it’d gotten knocked loose when...

  “Safka? ANSMET! What the hell happened? I lost you!”

  It wasn’t a strong signal, but she sighed in relief, felt the relief drain her to near collapse.

  “Here! Safka here! Took a hit on the helmet and it knocked the mike loose. Brad, that thing I saw. It’s here, and its glowing real bright. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before! Ought to be able to see it up there where you are.”

  “Am in touch with base and the other sleds. They’re coming,” Brad said, like he hadn’t heard her, and…maybe he hadn’t. “But I can’t get close right now—the edge is fragile. Got no video, nothing to see. Talk to me about you. We need to inventory how you are!”

  The inventory wasn’t fun, since it involved her trying to feel things that were wrapped in cold-defying clothes and good boots. Beneath the overalls her regular travel vest, bulging with pockets of this and that, pens, note devices, a trio of harmonicas—A, C, and G of course, also three kinds of chocolate bars—dark, darker and really dark! —three dice—one six sided, one eight sided and one twelve sided—and three different sizes of pocket lights. Under that the heavy shirt, and under that ribs, whole ribs! She pulled shirt tight, sealed the vest, closed the wind seal on the overalls, pulled the—ouch!

  The right foot, now…and maybe the right leg, those were problematic. Apparently the helmet cam wasn’t broadcasting, but the radio was. Good enough. She needed to keep going.

  Seika grimaced. There were now two sleds above, said Brad, though the sounds in her icy chamber hadn’t changed. She carefully worked her cold hands into her riding coveralls, flinching, but finding no immediate signs of broken ribs among those aches. She was avoiding getting off the sled, fearing the footing as well as not trusting her foot or leg. She used her left foot, carefully leaning in that direction enough to put weight on it on the debris pile she sat on. It was nearest the ice wall, but with an awkward angle she could move it with some force, and so she kicked an ice ball into the crevasse, not liking the two count it took for the first strike, nor the echoes as some small cascade followed into the blue abyss.

  Checking her head meant taking the helmet off and hanging it carefully so it wouldn’t be lost. She felt bruises on the temples, and a scrape on her face. The back of her head yielded several palpable and painful lumps and some other tenderness. Scary, but no blood. The pulse in her throat was strong, if elevated.

  She reported in, her “Oh, ow!” reaching ears above as she adjusted the helmet again while she went over the state of her head, if not the state of her mind, and told off her bruises, and pain.
/>   “A little tired,” she admitted. “Guess the adrenal rush is down.”

  “And the sled? Your samples? The survival kit, first aid pack?”

  And yes, the sled, other than the shattered running gear and twisted skis, was together; the seven samples from the morning’s run still in their foam-lined case. The survival pack was in reach, which meant she had a way to turn ice into water and tea to go with the calories of the food bars. If she needed to, she could turn the seat heaters up.

  “All things considered, I’m whole,” she told them. “No way I’m getting up that wall. So I’ll just sleep a bit while you pull together a rescue rope...”

  She’d been joking about the sleeping, but she caused a riot at the top, with everyone on the radio—five of them, at least, chiming in at once until the voice that might have been Brad came through with a hint of command.

  “We want you awake down there. You’ve got to stay awake!” There was a pause, and chatter and that followed with, “You could have a concussion, Safka. So really, the best thing is to stay awake. We’re trying to get some back-up transport in, but there’s weather coming in, so it might be a little while. Hang on, stay awake, we’ll get you out of there as soon as we can. Hang on!”

  She’d trusted that, then, trusted that teammates would come for her, the sled, and that thing over there, the thing that was glowing, casting rippling shadows across the chasm.

  “Remember, stay awake!”

  * * *

  They’d reminded her for an hour, and another, but the faux-cheer they offered was grating over time. Her feet and legs hurt despite now being wrapped in the supposed oven of a space-blanket rescue kit. The topside crew tried harder, explaining the state of the weather at the base—not good. They had to wait ‘til the wind died, but they’d be there. Soon.

  Soon.

  She fell to mimicking them, mimicry being one of her strong points as a musician and singer, and then, she fell to mocking them—

  “Brad’s Better Baked Butter Biscuits Bring Bright Bits to Batter Bamboozling Busy-talk,” she offered at his latest excuse for the delays.

  “Please repeat?”

  She did, trying to fit it to a song...

  “Hysteria’s not good for you, Safka. Please, keep calm. Keep centered. Don’t overdo the pain meds!”

  She laughed, the laughter, alas, pretty convincing as hysteria.

  “The wind’s up, Safka. We’re gonna hang in here with you. We’ll get you out, just as soon as that chopper gets here. Don’t go bonkers on us!”

  She’d gotten past fear to a pitiful patience; the patience melting away into anger. Her family was good at anger. Anger made you stronger—for a while. Sometimes, though, anger made you crazy. That wasn’t so good. She leaned on her left hand, recalling the deal she had with Aminah: “At all times one of us must remain sane.”

  “Safka? How’re you doin’?” That wasn’t Brad; female voice. She’d heard it before—Nancy, that was it. Well, and how did Nancy think she was doing, down here in her icy hole?

  Seika blew on her hands rather than yelling back into the mic. Nerves and anger fed panic, she knew that. Knew that you could use anger; it didn’t have to make you crazy. If you were smart, anger could focus you.

  When she was a kid, Mom had used that anger to bring her sharp just before her solo guitar run to open the Springsmere show. Hah. And later, Uncle Bly had tricked her into clarity on the stage at…at…damn...Unity!

  That was when Uncle Bly’d challenged her with the harmonica, asked if she expected to get by on skinny-girl-foo all her life. He’d had to explain that, and then he’d dumped five gigabytes of MP3 blues on her, and asked her to get back to him in a week...

  “Safka, please. Tell us that you’re there!”

  “I can stick the mic up my nose...”

  “Hey, c’mon. Tell us your life story. We need to be able to hear you—to know that you’re awake! The medic at McMurdo is standing by on relay and he says...”

  She blew on her hands, and Nancy must have misunderstood:

  “Heavy breathing’s not going to do it!”

  Seika made a classic raspberry noise into the mic, heard an “Ouch!” from someone and in cross-chatter “We’re trapped in the circuit...”

  Yes, she realized, they were. Yes! Captive audience. Needed to know she was awake, did they? She’d give them awake.

  This time she blew on her hands for real, and then reached into her overalls, finding the right pocket...

  And now to hand, her trio of travel harps. She remembered her first solo opening for the group, before Uncle Charlie did the lights, so some local guy had the spots. He’d refused to dim the low lights, which she hated—she wanted to see the people!

  Yeah, she’d been mad…but she’d nailed it. She’d had to look up into the balcony and watch the heads nod, saw the mouths open, for them that sang along.

  “Topside. Turn down your volume. I’m here, you’re here, we’re all here. You want a show? Got it! Seika Safka, and I’ll be sending out some JJ Cale to start!”

  A quick sip of water from her exercise bottle, a slight blow, across her lips, which were a mite dry, but still…practice was practice, and the harmonica was warm, fresh from her inner vest pocket.

  Sane. Sane wasn’t strong in her family, and if it hadn’t been for home-schooling she’d have probably been one of those troubled-teen drop outs. Instead she’d worked twice as hard as most kids, got her calluses from guitar, from rigging sets, from doing real stuff.

  So, the closed eyes, brought the moment to her. The raising of hands above her head loosened the shoulders, and bringing them down to her lap, to center, brought her eyes open as Seika the performer.

  And, there, she sat stronger on the seat, brought the harmonica up for a quick intro that broke into “After Midnight,” playing with the bends in the music, and half closing her eyes—like she did sometimes on stage when the music grabbed her.

  She played it straight, slow, letting the energy build, like she’d planned her three sets for the fall tour she’d given over for her astronomy.

  For a hole in the ice, the acoustics were amazing; great place for a concert, if she overlooked the temperature. Her plan was clear: Mostly blues, but older stuff…Tin Pan Alley, some other classics, stuff by Howlin’ Wolf, Koko Taylor, Little Walter, Janis Joplin, Charlie Musselwhite, Janis Ian, Melanie, Jimmy Reed, Paul Butterfield, Bonny Rait...

  They’d promised her more light, once they got some ropes, but her eyes were getting used to—no, they weren’t.

  Across the chasm, the…artifact, was glowing bright, brighter, with a pulsing underbeat in sync with the fading song. Light ran from her right to left, giving the entire place a rosy, rather than blue, radiance.

  “OK,” she said into her mic, “our next song’s going to be for the visitor across way, a little slower. Hope you guys are paying attention…Koko Taylor’s ‘I’m a Woman!’”

  She knew how to play to an audience, reflect their mood—but what mood was this? The beat was simply, stark, hypnotic, and she had to reach to bend the notes for the harmonica fills, but…even without a bass player to match time the light pulses matched her well—even the slow up-tempo as the song went on relentlessly.

  Done and staring. She looked into the light and there were changes in the artifact’s appearance. She reached for her phone to take some photos, but the pocket was empty. There wasn’t any service on the ice fields so she’d left the phone in her gear pack.

  “You’ll all want to get some video,” she was saying, “but since there’s an audience, I’ll play on...”

  “We’re going to put together a care package—some more food, more water. We can try to drop you a camera, too, must be an extra…around here.”

  Right, water. Remember to stay hydrated. Seika heard a response from above, realized she’d said it out loud.

  “Yes, stay hydrated. We’re working on getting you out. But the medic says you gotta watch how dry it is. Don’t go overboa
rd with all this music.”

  She laughed. “Stay awake. Rest quiet. Jeez, I’m probably dying of frostbite and shock down here. Well, hell, the show must go on! Send that camera, damn you!”

  “Three hours. The crane copter’s coming...”

  “Promises!”

  “Tell us your body temp!”

  “Another song’s coming ‘round on the guitar,” she said, “but after that...”

  Of course there was no guitar, and two songs segued together. The…probe, as she’d begun thinking of it, the probe was starting to show more of itself. There were layers illuminated, and objects or instruments. There may have been a small meteor in there, and as solid as it looked, it looked like there was motion.

  Also, the probe was right snappy with the lights now, catching the twelve bar blues and picking up on back beat and...

  “Safka? Temperature, huh?”

  She was reluctant to put the C harp down, but…“Sure. Hold on.”

  The first-aid pack opened stiffly, or maybe it was that her hands were stiff, just a little too willing to keep the shape of the harmonica. Still, she found the thermometer kit, thumbed it on...

  “Hey, is this right? Ninety two point seven.”

  She heard that repeated, heard echoes of her own words and a distant rumble.

  “Are you coming now?”

  “Trying to stretch some ropes across the gap. We’ve got three sleds for anchors…if we can make them tight, we’re going to come in after you. Base wants us to wait for the copter. Better put your gloves on and turn the seat heat up if you’ve got power.”

  “Hear you,” she said, and saw the probe’s lights changing patterns. Or maybe the probe had actually moved a little. Or the walls had.

  “Brad, might be stuff’s shifting again down here. Looks like that probe—the artifact—it’s at a different angle now, and I think the wall behind me is swelling. Could that be? We’re on a glacier, right?”