Dark Mind

by Ian Douglas

“So they were,” she replied. “But living in a completely different reality. They have no idea we’re out here . . . probably.”

  “‘Probably’?”

  “Well, we assume they have watchdog programs running to keep an eye on things, maybe give them a kick in the ass if there’s a threat. If you’re bulding for eternity, you have to make allowances for things going wrong over time.”

  “Yeah. Like your temple falling down.”

  “I doubt they care about stuff like that.”

  “I heard scuttlebutt,” Courtland said. “Something about the Rosetters destroying the uploads?”

  “We don’t know that yet, Rog,” she told him. “The Rosette Aliens were here. We know that much. What they might have done to the inhabitants . . . we don’t know.”

  “Our orders are to make contact with the Beyondies if they’re here,” Courtland told her. “If we can.”

  “‘Beyondies?’ Oh . . . the Baondyeddi.”

  “It’s what we call ’em.”

  “Ah,” Carter said. “Dr. Yuan’s found something. Catch you later.”

  The spidery robot began stilting toward the broad steps leading up the side of the Temple platform. Another spider was already up there, gesturing with one spindly leg. Courtland sighed, took another look around, then hitched his plasma weapon a bit higher on his plastron and moved forward.

  Overhead, golden shapes made of translucent mist hung within a deep violet sky. On the horizon, Bifrost’s immense crescent loomed above the mountains, the intense ruby pinpoint of the Kapteyn’s Star balanced atop the curve of the crescent’s bow. Bifrost’s ring system was nearly invisible, a vertical silver thread stretched taut across the sky.

  Courtland reached the top of the platform, where several dozen Marines had already spread out to create a protective perimeter. He approached one of the big gun walkers, all fuzzy shadow and subtly shifting color, and yelled, “Hey! Donnie!”

  A portion of the fuzzy mass split open, revealing the Marine inside, Lance Corporal Jimmy Donahue. Fresh faced and red-haired, he looked like a kid.

  Close enough, Courtland thought. Donahue was all of twenty.

  “Yeah, Gunny?”

  “Stick close to the spiders, okay? Just not too close. Keep an eye on ’em, but allow yourself some room in case you have to bug out.”

  “Sure, Gunny. What’s up?”

  “The civilians’re gonna be poking around in this shit. If anything’s going to kick over the wasp’s nest, that’ll do it.”

  “Gotcha. Sure thing.”

  Courtland didn’t add that he had a bad feeling about this place. He was a USNA Marine, which meant that when he went anywhere, he went in expecting the place to bite him. When it came to alien worlds like this one, you lived longer if you were just a little bit paranoid.

  “Hey, Gunny?”

  “What is it, Donnie?”

  “The guys were sayin’ there are ghosts here.”

  That again. The Marines in his platoon had been scuttlebutting about ghosts for the whole trip out from Earth. The rumors claimed that the Kapteyn’s system was haunted, and the ghosts were supposed to be anything and everything from the uploaded Beyondies to the mysterious Rosetters to the spirits of Confederation personnel from the science base. In fact, the rumors had been circulating long before the Rosette entity had arrived in this system. If there was something there, Courtland thought, it was most likely some effect or leakage from the Baondyeddi technology.

  But alien spirits? Courtland doubted that.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “What do you think?”

  It was impossible to shrug in Mark IV combat armor. “Doesn’t much matter what I think, does it? If something wants to talk to us, we take it to the xenosophs. If it attacks us, we kill it.”

  “Shit, Gunny. How do you kill a ghost?”

  “We’re Marines, Donnie. We can kill anything.”

  “Ooh-rah, Gunny.”

  “Now button up and peel the Mark-one optics. I got a feelin’—”

  And at that moment all hell broke loose.

  New White House

  Washington, D.C.

  United States of North America

  1648 hours, EST

  “We have a preliminary report, Mr. President. You asked to be kept informed. . . .”

  Koenig looked up from his high-tech desk. Dr. Hoffman’s holographic image had just winked on, having been announced by Koenig’s chief of staff.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Koenig replied. “I appreciate how quickly your people moved on this.”

  “Not a problem, Mr. President. Besides, there was a lot riding on this, after all.”

  “Some of my senior people,” Koenig added, gesturing. “Admiral Armitage . . . Phil Caldwell . . . Larry Vandenberg. I should also mention that the AI Konstantin is present as well. Konstantin?”

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” a disembodied voice said, speaking in the minds of all present. “It is very good to be here.”

  “Gentlemen,” Koenig went on, “Dr. Hoffman is the senior medical officer on board the medical research vessel Vesalius. He tracked the outbreak of the disease on board the America, and was in charge of the human disease researchers at Luna.”

  “Actually, it was Andre who was running the show,” Hoffman said. “And once we hit Lunar Orbit, the CDC took charge.”

  “Andre?”

  “The medical AI on board the Andreas Vesalius,” Konstantin put in. “We can link him through to this conference if there is a need.”

  “Ah. Of course. Well, Doctor, so far as I’m concerned, this has been your show from the get-go. What do you have for us?”

  “Again, Mr. President, this is a preliminary report. We’re going to be researching this bug for a very long time to come.”

  “Of course.”

  “The organism tentatively named Paramycoplasma subtilis appears to be a new example of emergent intelligence . . . of sapience arising from and within an interconnected community of microorganisms. It has an extremely limited awareness of what we would call the outside world, but maintains intimate biochemical connections with its host organism. In general, it can be considered a symbiotic organism rather than a pathogen—”

  “We’ve seen all of that, Doctor,” SecDef Vandenberg said, interrupting. “Tell us what we need to know. Is this bug a threat to humans?”

  Hoffman hesitated, then shook his head. “Our considered opinion is that it is not. It was driven by a logical need to protect itself, and did so by influencing its various Sh’daar hosts, having them attempt to limit human research into certain technologies that they considered a threat. Their attempt fit well with existing Sh’daar paranoia concerning alien species that might attain a Technological Singularity. Neither the Sh’daar host species nor the paramycoplasmid Symbionts were fully aware of what they were doing. The bacteria were responding to what they were picking up from their Sh’daar hosts, while the Sh’daar were unconsciously reacting to the urging of the bacteria colonizing their bodies.

  “You could say, however, that we have now cracked the language code that will allow us to communicate more or less freely with the paramycoplasmids. And the Sh’daar will now be aware of what’s been urging them on.”

  “So, where does that leave us?” Armitage asked. “Are we supposed to sign a peace treaty with a bunch of germs?”

  “Actually, that would pose considerable problems,” Konstantin put in. “Communication is not merely a matter of translating words or concepts. The worldviews and cultures of the two communicants must also be taken into account. An organism like Paramycoplasma subtilis has a very different view of the universe than do humans.”

  “Yes, but you’ve got to admit that Paramycoplasma does have a culture,” Armitage quipped. He held up a hand, indicating a circle a palm’s breadth wide. “It’s in a dish this big, and it’s kept in an incubator. . . .”

  “Please, Admiral,” Koenig said.

  “Sorry.”

  “You’re
saying,” Koenig went on, “that the Symbionts don’t know what a treaty is.”

  “Exactly right, sir. There’s also the problem of communication between separate super-organisms. The emergent mind of the bacteria inhabiting Admiral Gray’s body is not in constant communication with the mind of those inhabiting Chief Drummond’s body. We’re still not sure how the super-organisms communicate with one another. It is likely that the Sh’daar seeds play a role in this,” Konstantin pointed out.

  Koenig searched his memory, only to have Konstantin upload the info to his mind, and the president remembered. Sh’daar seeds were BB-sized spheres of various metallic and ceramic alloys that had been detected buried inside a number of Sh’daar species—notably the Agletsch . . . even those Agletsch who appeared to operate outside of Sh’daar territory. USNA intelligence had determined that the devices were nanotechnic short-ranged transmitters that could store the being’s sensory impressions and conversations, and send them as burst transmissions to a Sh’daar communications node when they were close enough to detect.

  Apparently, Konstantin believed that the devices served another purpose.

  “The devices appear to have a range of several thousand kilometers,” the AI continued.

  “Huh,” NSC director Caldwell said. “Far enough that every Symbiont on a single planet could be in constant touch with every other Symbiont on the same world. Slick.”

  “We shouldn’t discount the possibility that the seeds help the Symbionts communicate on some level with their host,” Hoffman said.

  “Can we use this?” Armitage wanted to know.

  “We need more data,” Konstantin told them. “Specifically, we need to exchange information with this species of Paramycoplasma in order to determine whether or not we can communicate with it at a deep and meaningful level. I suggest that the Turusch POW colony at Crisium would be useful in this research, as would those Agletsch individuals with which we maintain friendly relations.”

  “Sounds good,” Koenig said. “Dr. Hoffman, you might want to talk with a Dr. Phillip Wilkerson. Here’s a contact code.”

  “Good idea,” Caldwell said. “Wilkerson is head of the ONI xenosophontological research department at Mare Crisium. He’s been studying some captured Turusch there for twenty years.”

  “We have Turusch there? On the moon?”

  “Oh, yes,” Koenig told him. “We captured some back in oh four. Sent them to Crisium so we could study their language . . . which turned out to be a real bear. We offered them a ride home when peace broke out with the Tushies, but a few offered to stay put as a kind of diplomatic community. They have their own environment and habitat on Luna, and seem content where they are.”

  “If it were me,” Vandenberg said, “I’d be climbing the walls by now, wanting to go home.”

  “Agreed,” Koenig said. “But the Turusch aren’t even remotely human.” He remembered his first meeting with one at Crisium, back when he was an admiral and in command of the star carrier America. The Turusch had come that close to annihilating Earth. They’d done some serious damage with their impactor in the ocean. And their strike at the naval command center above Mars . . .

  Koenig’s mind was dragged back to Mars . . . to Karyn Mendelson, the woman he’d loved, killed when a Turusch high-velocity impactor had destroyed the Phobos Synchorbital facility. Damn . . . damn . . . the loss, the useless, futile, loss still burned, even after all these years.

  In some ways, it was as if no time had passed at all. People wondered why Koenig didn’t have any close relationships. Karyn was why . . .

  Angry, he pushed the memories back. Damn it, he thought, I don’t have time for this.

  “So we work at communicating with these . . . these super-organisms,” Koenig said, gaining control of his thoughts. “Tell me about the chance of humans getting sick from this thing.”

  “Quite high, Mr. President,” Hoffman replied. “Despite the low infection rate. The Organism, remember, was designed to infect humans. However, we now have the nanomedical programming necessary to counter the Organism.”

  “We’re certain of this?”

  “As certain as we can be, sir. Paramycoplasma subtilis had a pretty hard time crossing the species barrier to begin with. Out of several thousand crew members in the America battlegroup, only a handful—eight, on the America—actually became sick . . . at least at first. The number went up with time because we think the Organism was deliberately adapting itself to the new host.”

  “Wait,” Armitage said. “Deliberately adapting itself?”

  “Yes, sir. We know that bacteria are remarkably plastic in their genome, and can make startling adaptive changes in their genetics. Back before nanomedicine, farmers routinely overused antibiotics on their animals, and strains of bacteria resistant to those antibiotics then often made the jump to humans.”

  “But that wasn’t deliberate,” Vandenberg pointed out.

  “No, of course not. The point is that bacteria are quite flexible in their opportunistic use of adaptive mutations to begin with.”

  “What about the species barrier,” Koenig asked. “What’s it called? TB-something?”

  “TBB. The trans-biospheric barrier,” Hoffman said. “Yes, sir. That was what suggested that the alien bacteria were deliberately manipulated. Designed. Especially given that there seem to be dozens of different but related species infecting different and mutually alien species—the Agletsch, the Turusch, and probably most of the other Sh’daar species as well. We don’t think this was the Sh’daar Collective’s doing. It was the bacteria.”

  “Alien bacteria evolving to influence its host,” Koenig said. “Evolving itself. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that one. You know, the more we learn about life Out There, the weirder it seems to get.”

  “But we can control the possibility of infection now?” Vandenberg said. “Maybe by vaccinating the entire population with nanobots with the appropriate programming?”

  “It should be enough to treat the disease if it appears,” Hoffman said. “I would imagine that you don’t want to generate panic in the general population.”

  “That would not be a desired outcome,” Koenig said dryly, “no.”

  “We do have some important strategic decisions to make, Mr. President,” Armitage said. “The human personnel at DT-1, for a start.”

  “Yes,” Caldwell said. “We’ll have to assume that all of them have been compromised by the bacteria.”

  “All crews that go to the N’gai Nebula will have to be vaccinated,” Koenig said. “And the next supply mission can handle their inoculation.”

  “The super-organisms might not like that,” Vandenberg said.

  “What’s the current status of Gray and the others?” Koenig asked. “Is he . . . are they all still infected?”

  “They are,” Hoffman said.

  “They are helping us continue a dialogue with the bacteria super-organism,” Konstantin added.

  “And how would a microbial super-organism inhabiting Admiral Gray’s body feel about being eliminated?”

  “As far as we have determined thus far,” Konstantin said, “the super-organisms don’t have a strong sense of self. Not like humans, certainly. It’s more like the Turusch, which live in closely linked pairs.”

  “Two Turusch actually share one name,” Koenig said. “I remember. And two speaking together produce a kind of audio interference that turns out to be a third line of dialogue.”

  “Yes,” Konstantin said. “The relationship between two Paramycoplasma super-organisms is not as close as that, but it shares points in common. The loss of one super-organism is not nearly so serious a matter to them as would be the threat of the extinction of their entire species.”

  “Okay, but is there still a risk? If we ‘cure’ Admiral Gray, will the rest declare war?”

  “I think it safe to say, Mr. President, that they understand the concept of ‘war’ even less than they understand treaties.”

  “We’re go
ing to have to chance it,” Koenig said. “Admiral Gray is one of the best naval officers we have. His crew is the most experienced. I want Gray and I want America back on the line.”

  “But if the crew has been compromised . . .” Armitage began.

  “We will inoculate them.”

  “It would be helpful, Mr. President,” Hoffman said, “if some of the infected crew members remained infected . . . at least for now. So that we can continue this dialogue with the aliens.”

  “Are they in long-term danger?”

  “Not that we’ve been able to ascertain, sir.”

  “Gene? Arrange for the others to be transferred to the Vesalius. TAD.” Which meant Drummond and the other personnel would be on Temporary Attached Duty under the auspices of either Naval Intelligence or the Navy Medical Corps . . . and possibly both.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But give me back Admiral Gray.” He looked at Hoffman’s image. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Hoffman. My chief of staff will give you a code that will let you link in to my office whenever you need to. Marcus?”

  “Already taken care of, Mr. President.”

  “Good. Anything else, Doctor?”

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir.” And the holographic image winked out.

  “What do you have in mind, Mr. President?”

  “We still have too many hot spots,” Koenig replied, “and not enough carrier battlegroups.” He thought for a moment. “The Senate seems dead set against an expedition to Tabby’s Star, at least right now.” Koenig had received the message from Senator Diane Francis, the head of the Senate Armed Forces Committee, just that morning. “As are you, gentlemen.”

  “Mr. President,” Vandenberg said, “we simply can’t afford to cover every avenue, every possibility. . . .”

  “I understand.” Koenig felt Konstantin stir in his mind, and he pushed the feeling aside. “Okay. We were going to form up a carrier task force around the America and deploy them to Heimdall. Have we heard anything from out there, yet?”

  “Not yet, sir,” Caldwell said. “But we’re expecting an update at any time. The Lexington should be out there now, and if there were Pan-European survivors, they should already be on the way back to Earth. Lexington and the Marne’s Marines will be at Heimdall. Again—if everything is on track.”