The Unearthing

by Karmazenuk, Steve; Williston, Christine

  “You want me to go talk to him?” Allison asked Laura in a low voice.

  “I wish he’d come talk to me,” Laura said, “He and I have been friends for a long time. He’s supposed to be able to do that. So why won’t he?”

  “I don’t know,” Allison replied, “It’s not like he tells me much, either. I’ve tried to get him to talk to me about this, too. He only says so much and no more.”

  “Men are fucked,” Laura said and turned back to the wall console, upon whose screen the image of her mother was still frozen in place. Laura toggled a button on her earpiece.

  “Resume,” She said, bringing Bloom’s image back to life. James heard none of their exchange from the kitchen. And even if he had he still wouldn’t have been able to find the words or the voice to use them. How could he explain that thoughts of his own mortality plagued him every hour of every day? How when he was out at the university, working in the Archives, he was aware of each passing minute and could feel the day’s end when work was done as another day he’d never live? He felt the same when he slept too late: that he’d squandered precious time. Not even yet thirty, James could feel the weight of his years and measure it against the years that he might have left. So many things he’d never done, his youth almost over. The last ten years had gone in the blink of an eye. One day he’d been a high-school graduate and the next he was working his way through the final months of his masters studies while helping excavate the Ship. Allison came into the kitchen and sat down beside him. She waited, watching him long moments as he browsed the Grid from his console. Finally she took the console from him and set it aside.

  “How much longer do you think you can keep this shit bottled up, James?” She asked. He looked at her a long, difficult moment. Their encounter on the balcony had happened earlier that morning and was still achingly fresh in James’ mind. He found it hard not to think of the sounds he’d heard her making for most of the morning, the scent of sex that had been on her skin. Somehow her insistence that he talk about what was going on in his head only made her more desirable. James wanted to talk to her; but she’d think he was insane if he told her about the dark thoughts and terrors that he was suffering.

  “Let’s not get into this now, please,” He said, at length.

  “If not now, then when, James?” she asked. He sighed heavily.

  “Tonight,” He said, “Okay? We’ll go out and we’ll go grab a coffee somewhere. I just…I just want a chance to put my thoughts together a little, first.”

  “I’m going to hold you to this,” Allison warned, “Tonight.”

  “Alright,” He conceded.

  ♦♦♦

  For millions of years, the Ship had waited for indigenous, sentient life to discover and then to unearth it. A patient entity, the Ship had not minded the long, solitary vigil. It had been engineered to traverse extragalactic space with its crew safely in hibernation. The Ship was used to solitude and idleness. However, when it had at last been discovered there was a certain excitement to the sudden activity. When the subjects had completed the first test and descended into the Ship, it immediately began studying them, the technology they carried and their means of communication, which proved to be largely aural with some physical gesticulation. They had a grasp of written language as well, for it wasn’t long before they had solved the second, more complicated test. Therefore judged ready for first contact, the Ship opened the first of two doors leading further into its secretive interior. Soon, the subjects would learn how to enter into direct communication with the Ship and then a final determination of their intelligence would begin…

  The chamber they stepped into was brilliantly lit from its vaulted ceiling, the gold walls lined with what appeared to be consoles or workstations. The spacious room was built around a large central dais, which suddenly unfolded as the members of the Ship Survey Expedition entered. A large black column rose from its center and a panel covered in Shiplanguage runes and numeric icons blossomed below it.

  “HYSANIHUZA POGU VU WY,” Came a thunderous voice from all around them. Aiziz realized that the voice had the same crystalline timbre and tone as Shipsong. The black column in the center of the dais suddenly blossomed in gold runes and icons. Their ordered placement could only mean one thing.

  “Dear God, we’ve found the language lab,” Aiziz said, in hushed tones. Every screen surrounding the central column lit up with different runes and icons in different configurations.

  “My God it’s genius!” Andrews exclaimed, rushing over to one of the panels, “These are geometric equations and diagrams. And on this screen…this looks like trigonometry.”

  “I think I’ve found the periodic table, over here!” Kodo announced, standing by another panel, “I count two hundred and twenty-seven elements, but the organization and symbols are definitely a periodic table; looks like we have basic molecular layouts on the screens opposite.”

  “Images here,” Aiziz said, “It appears to be just basic shapes and word associations, but it could mean anything.”

  “Doctor Kodo, over here please,” Doctor Cole called, As the biologist came over, Cole pointed to the screen in front of her. “Doctor, would you say that this is a cell diagram?”

  “Definitely Doctor Cole,” Kodo replied, “It looks like it has all the same strange components as the cells I extracted from the lift tube, but it’s definitely a cell.” And so it went throughout the room. The SSE spent the rest of the afternoon recording and collecting data from the thirty-one terminals surrounding the central dais. They discovered information relating to chemistry, physics, mathematics, biology, astronomy. Other panels weren’t immediately identifiable, but Aiziz and Andrews seemed more than satisfied with what they had gleaned.

  “We have more than enough to begin deciphering Shiplanguage,” Aiziz said, “We obviously won’t be able to discuss elaborately abstract concepts with the Ship yet, but we will be able to do that eventually; once we’ve established direct communication with the Ship.”

  ♦♦♦

  “The doors are now sealed…” The Minister tuned out as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff gave the now-familiar opening oration to the meeting of the Committee Chairs. The Minister glanced over the eight other faces on his console screen as the Chairman’s image dominated the center of his screen.

  “Our operatives within the Ship Survey Expedition report a stunning breakthrough,” The Chairman said, “They are at this hour being debriefed by the World Ship Summit. As of now, only they know what we know: A language lab was found in the Second Chamber and the SSE has begun learning how to communicate with the Ship.”

  “Once communication has been established, we should expect the SSE to be able to breach the South Door from the First Chamber,” The Curator said, “Which will probably mean they’ll have full access to the Ship.”

  “Unless,” The British Defence Minister said, her image now sharing the main screen with the Curator’s, “The south Door opens into another test. If they even manage to enter into communication with the Ship, at all.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be?” asked the Solicitor General.

  “The Committee did a study on this a number of years back,” The British Defence Minister said, “First, communication with an intelligent alien life form depends on at least some similar evolutionary characteristics. We generally assume that sight, hearing, taste and smell will be senses universal to intelligent life. They most probably are not. The sense of touch is most probably the only sense that we would have in common with alien beings. And even then, their perceptions might differ from our own.”

  “What other possible senses could there be?” the Minister for Natural Resources asked. The British Defence Minister shrugged.

  “Virtually anything,” She said, “Telepathy, chemical communication; they might perceive only the infrared or ultraviolet ends of the electromagnetic spectrum instead of what we call visible light. They might be able to sense gravity, or even changes in local spacetime. We simply
have no way of knowing.”

  “Isn’t it safe to assume they have visual abilities, given the runes that we found?” the White House Chief of Staff asked, “And considering the liquid crystal imaging technology we recovered from the Bugs?”

  “That the aliens have or had visual acuity is likely,” The British Minister conceded, “But not necessarily very similar to our own. A multispectral scan of the imaging system aboard the Groom Lake Bug revealed that the system was broadcasting images on several wavelengths invisible to the Human eye.”

  “In any event,” The Chairman interjected, bringing the debate back to topic, “We must plan for the contingency that they will gain access to the rest of the Ship.”

  “Indeed,” MI-6 said, “Before the World Council gets inside we must have operatives within acquiring technology for us.”

  “Why?” the Minister asked, for the first time challenging MI-6, “To what end? The World Ship Summit and the Oversight Commission will be handling the catalogue and assessment of any technologies found within.”

  “Precisely why we have to get there first,” MI-6 replied testily, unused to being questioned, “The Committee’s goal is to acquire alien technologies to the advantage of our respective governments, Minister. If the World Council is to decide who gets what from the Ship and what technology is to be restricted or utterly banned, there will be no advantage.”

  “To that end,” the Chairman said, “I propose we prepare of team of operatives to infiltrate the Ship if and when access is acquired.”

  “Will Colonel Bloom be in a position to grant us access?” the Chief of Staff asked.

  “She’s in no position to refuse,” The Chairman growled.

  “I agree and second the motion,” MI-6 said. From his offices in London, the head of MI-6 crouched in closer to his console’s camera plate. The image of his face on the Minister’s console grew perceptively. It was almost as if MI-6 was addressing him. In fact, the Minister suspected he was.

  “All in favour?” MI-6 asked a fraction of a second before the Chairman could. The Minister took a moment to consider his position. He’d voiced his objections. Did he truly have enough reason to dissent here, to go against both MI-6 and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff?

  “Aye,” The Minister said when his turn came.

  ♦♦♦

  They were just outside of LA in a deserted park that Allison liked to frequent, sitting on the hood of her car and smoking a home-rolled joint. She blew the ash off the end of the cherry with a short puff and passed the joint to James. She held her breath as he took his hits, exhaling only as he passed it back to her. Before she took a hit, she spoke:

  “Okay, James,” she said, “Seriously, I don’t know you that well. But even I can tell you’re not normally as tense and brooding as you’ve been since you moved in.”

  She took a hit, held it a second and exhaled. She continued speaking.

  “I know that it’s not just about Laura’s dad, because even she’s picking up the pieces better than you are. So the way I see it, the shooting triggered something else that’s burning your chip.” She took a proper toke from the joint and passed it back. He took a long haul off of it, as though it were a cigarette. He coughed it out a second later and flicked the ash off the end of the joint. Allison took it as James began talking.

  “Well, it’s like you said,” he began, “I don’t know you very well and this is shit I’ve never really talked to anyone about before.” He took the spliff back and took his own hits.

  “What’s the problem, James?” she asked, her tone serious and somewhat annoyed, “Laura’s worried, I don’t know you well but I like you and I’m worried. What the hell is up, James?”

  “I—” he began, grasping for words, “The Prof—” He shook his head. She took the joint. It was nearly done. She threw it down the gravel roadway leading into the hillside rest stop. He looked at her. She waited patiently for him to speak.

  “Do you believe in anything?” he asked her.

  “What?”

  “Do you believe in God? Or in life after death? Or reincarnation? Any of that?” Allison was taken aback by the question. The drugs were kicking in and it wasn’t entirely great trying to focus on such issues when she’d just been trying to get James to open up.

  “Well, yeah,” She said, “I…well, I’m a Marian Pagan.”

  “A what?”

  “You’re going to have to give me a second James,” she replied, reaching into her purse, “I need a butt and could you get me a can of Coke from the car? My throat’s paste.”

  “Sure,” He said, dropping off the hood of the car and moving to the door.

  “James? What has any of this got to do with you?”

  “Just tell me what you believe,” He said, “Okay?” Allison rolled her eyes. There was nothing worse having a conversation with somebody who was stoned and trying to make a point. He came back with her Coke and his ginger ale.

  “So what is a…Marian Pagan?”

  “I follow the Goddess worship tradition that says Maid Marian, from the Robin Hood legends, was the High Priestess of the Goddess’s cult. It’s not the same thing as Christian Marianistic Paganism, which is about making the Virgin Mary and Mary Magdalene into Goddess figures, but the two get confused all the time,” She told him as she finished lighting her cigarette. He took one, lit it.

  “Wait. Paganism…isn’t that like witchcraft and all that?”

  “No,” she replied, “Although most Pagan beliefs incorporate Magick into their ceremonies, Paganism is not strictly witchcraft. Marianism does use spellcraft and some Earth Magick, but we don’t classify ourselves as witches. We pray, we get together, we study our religion and we try our best to come to know the Goddess.”

  “Okay, so then who was Robin Hood?”

  “The High Priest of Hearn the Hunter, a Forest God represented by a Stag,’t t She replied, “He was consort to the Earth Goddess and his horned image was bastardized by the early Christian Church into that of the Devil and what the Hell does any of this have to do with your problems, James?”

  “I was raised Catholic,” He said, “I was raised to believe that Jesus died for our sins and came back to life so that we could live forever in communion with God. The thing is, since the Ship was found…well, I’ve been having doubts. And then…when the Prof died…I was raised to believe…I kept expecting…to feel something; to have some sensation, some knowledge that his soul had passed on. The bitch of it…the bitch of it is that I didn’t feel a fucking thing when he died. Not a fucking thing. I don’t know what I’m supposed to think.”

  He was choking out the words at the end and when he stopped speaking he took a long, angry drag from his cigarette. The wind blew the smoke into his face and burned the tears he was trying not to shed from his eyes. He snuffed a leak back into his sinuses and took another haul off the cigarette.

  “Fuck,” He rasped. Allison put an arm around his shoulders.

  “James,” she said, “Gods, James, I didn’t know.”

  “It’s not exactly something that comes up, is it?”

  “James…” She rubbed his back in what she hoped was a supportive manner.

  “I was raised to believe that God sent His only Son to Earth to die for our sins,” James said, “I was raised to believe that God made us. He loved us so much he died for us. Well if God sent the Messiah to us here on Earth, what did he do for all the other species of life that must inhabit the galaxy? For all we know there isn’t a single animal alive on this planet that didn’t evolve from something the Ship brought here! Where does God fit in to all that? Everybody always says that Constantine and the early Church bastardized history and Jesus’ teachings for their own end and now they’re saying that the Ship helps prove what a fraud the whole of Christianity is. Everything I’ve been taught to believe’s just been incredibly fucked up by the Ship. You’re supposed to know, to feel something when someone dies right in front of you. You’re supposed to witness somethi
ng. Feel something, think something…I don’t fucking know. But that’s what I don’t understand. What happened to the Prof, after he died? What happens to us when we die?” Allison held him then, simply drawing him into her arms. He went gladly and for a long time she just hugged him tightly against her.

  “James, this is really heavy shit you’re trying to deal with,” She said after a long silence, “I know, because I’ve been there. I don’t know if you’ll find the same answers I did or if you’ll find any answer at all. But James, you’ve got to learn to talk things out sometimes. Laura and I are your friends. That’s what we’re here for.”

  “I don’t think you guys can help me with this,” he said, pulling away from her. He shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit it, taking a long drag.