The Unearthing
Page 36
“The Ship wants to determine that we are sufficiently intelligent, sufficiently advanced as a species, before communicating with us,” Aiziz answered, “And learning Shiplanguage, with its complexities and nuances would seem an appropriate test.”
♦♦♦
Upon being informed of the status of communications with the Ship, the World Ship Summit immediately set up a videoconference with the senior members of the Ship Survey Expedition. Bloom and her people sat around the conference table in the SSE’s briefing room facing the large wall console opposite them. Onscreen the senior delegates to the World Ship Summit sat around a far more elegant table in far more opulent offices in Geneva.
“Good afternoon Colonel Bloom,” Wilhelm Danielewski, the World Ship Summit’s chairman said.
“Good evening, Wilhelm,” Bloom replied, in deference to the time difference between the World Ship Preserve in New Mexico and Geneva.
“Needless to say, we were quite surprised by the report you filed today,” Danielewski said, “We had expected it to take several days—weeks, even, to begin direct communication with the Ship.”
“This isn’t a case of accelerated progress, ladies and gentlemen,” Bloom said. “Doctor Aiziz and the SSE linguistics team have spent every day since the Expedition was suspended working on this. Very likely had the attacks not occurred, we would have reached this point two or three weeks earlier.ning
“We understand this as well, Colonel,” Selah Hamdi, the Egyptian delegate replied, “What concerns us is that we have barely begun exploring the Ship; we know next to nothing about it and we have gone from just barely learning the basics of Shiplanguage to being on the verge of dialogue with it.”
“Then the World Ship Summit should also realize,” Aiziz spoke out, emboldened by her frustration at these bureaucratic hesitations, “Is that the Ship doesn’t simply wish to communicate with us; it wants us to learn how to communicate with it. Very likely, if the Ship wanted to it would be able to join this videoconference and speak for itself. Instead, the Ship is teaching us by giving us problems to solve, based on our own acquired knowledge. We can only learn what we have the capacity to recognize, which makes learning Shiplanguage an especially challenging—and rewarding—task.”
“Would it be fair to say that the Ship is testing us to find out our level of development?” the American delegate asked.
“I’d say the Ship has a fair idea of our level of development, already,” Bloom replied, “We dug it out of the rock; scanned it from orbit; established a small city around it; we have aircraft flying over it several times a day, we blast microwave transmissions and we’ve hit it with every type of scan we call imaginable, from Alpha-particle bombardment, to X-ray spectrography. The Ship knows where we stand, developmentally speaking. What the Ship wants to establish, unless I miss my guess, is if our intelligence and maturity as a species is as far along as our technology.”
“I think my colleague’s question was directed more towards the Ship’s intentions,” The Israeli delegate said.
“I thought that my answer was directed towards that, as well,” Bloom said.
“A threat assessment against the Ship was made, not long ago,” Bloom said. “And as I recall, it was done by this very Summit.”
“We have new information, now.” The American delegate said, icily. Bloom didn’t like his tone. She got to her feet, walking around the conference table to where the vidcam was mounted.
“If you freeze up the Ship Survey Expedition every bloody time we discover something new,” Bloom growled, “We won’t be getting much work done. The Ship is not doing anything we can deem threatening. We’re already operating under orders to wait for the World Ship Summit before we initiate real communication with the Ship. We have the potential to be in full communication with the Ship within days. I would suggest that now is the time to prepare whatever list of questions and statements you want us to deliver to the Ship. We’ll abide by our orders and wait for your authorization, but keep in mind the Ship is probably going to expect us to have something to say sooner rather than later. I think it’s in all our interests, therefore, to move forward. I’m sure that the World would agree, given the trillions of dollars that the World Ship Summit and the Ship Survey Expedition has already cost its voters…and its taxpayers.”
SIXTEEN
CONVERSATIONS
The time it takes most users of Oil to become addicted to the drug varies somewhat, but as a rule the average user needs one week or less of habitual dosing to become addicted. Habitual use is defined as between one and three doses daily. Some people take to a drug like fish take to water. Others try a drug once and move on. James Johnson fell squarely into the former category. Having used Oil steadily already for several weeks, James was an Oilhead, a “forty-weight” in common vernacular. Within a week James had gone from stabbing himself in the leg with a fast-injector whenever he had a panic attack to using Oil three or four times a day for the sake of using it. Within two weeks Allison and Laura discovered he was using. Of course they tried to get him to stop. But they couldn’t hope to understand. They didn’t know how horrifying the Fear was; how much it hurt to feel. In the same way, they couldn’t hope to know the rush, the bliss, the orgasmic peace that Oil gave him. James knew the statistics even as they lectured him on them: Ninety-eight per cent addiction rate; twenty per cent rehab and among addicts, one hundred per cent fatality within three to seven years. James knew that the very thing he’d turned to for release from the Fear of Death would kill him. He knew how the toxins would build up, crippling and destroying his organs, or that he could simply die from one shot too many. James was surprised to discover he didn’t care. He was free from the Fear and he was in constant Bliss. At the beginning of his third week as an Oil addict, James moved out of Laura and Allison’s apartment and their lives.
♦♦♦
The delegation to Laguna and the World Ship Preserve gathered together for a final blessing from the Pope before leaving. Dozens of scholars, clerics, priests, acolytes, and support personnel clustered around the Pontiff. Paul Santino looked out over the small sea of faces and wondered just what it was they all expected to find at the Ship and how. Not that he wasn’t anxious to get his own look inside the Ship, but he couldn’t fathom how just going there and looking around would lead them to anything. Granted, Pope Simon-Peter and his fellow heads of the religions represented here had drafted instructions more specific than just taking a look around the place; but Santino still wondered if their delegation could hope to accomplish anything. He also wondered again, for the umpteenth time, why he had been “personally chosen” to lead this delegation.
“I wanted to go, myself,” Simon-Peter had said to him, when he gave Santino the news, “And I must confess that not being allowed is one of the few disappointments I have experienced since becoming Pope. My handlers would not permit me to go to Laguna. Given the events that transpired there, they feel I would be at too much risk. So you, Elder Santino, who have in so short a time become so dear to me, will go in my stead as head of our delegation.”
Santino had never been a member of any religion because of his own absence of faith. But despite that lack of belief, both towards any potential god and the potential success of the Fourth Vatican Council’s Delegation to the Ship, despite his lack of conviction that he was the right man for this post, Santino’s mood was far from sullen. He was as exuberant as anyone else about the trip. Santino’s mood was so light today because he was going home. Soon he’d be back in Laguna and among the familiar faces and sights that he’d left behind when summoned to Rome.
♦♦♦
Aiziz set the case down between her feet as the lift car began its descent into the Ship. Inside along with her console, scanner sets and other odds and ends, was an electronic document, just linxed over to her this morning. There were fifty-plus pages of ten-point type, single spaced, and it had the unwieldy title:
Comprehensive List of Approved Questions and Phra
ses, Forbidden Questions and Phrases and Questions Not to be answered Without Prior Authorization, While in Communication with the Ship
The title didn’t exactly roll off the tongue and the text wasn’t any easier to muddle through. Before they’d left that morning Paulson had rigged up an aural context-recognition system which if it heard any of the phrases on the World Ship Summit’s hit list it would flag to Aiziz’s attention, immediately. Waiting for Peter to code out the ware and install it into her translator/recorder delayed the Linguistics Department’s descent into the Ship by two hours. Aiziz was angry at the World Ship Summit and their damned delays. Michael was with her now as they made the descent into the Ship. His presence was appreciated; the added burden of the List, as they called it, meant she needed all the help she could get. They were agonizingly close to real communication with the Ship. Their translator had to learn the meanings behind the rest of the runes in Shiplanguage and they had to demonstrate applied Shiplanguage knowledge to the Ship’s Control Entity. They were close, so close to being able to speak with it. It would still take time—a few days at best before they were at the level of communication that would truly necessitate use of the List. Michael’s presence here would be an asset, but it was offset by Meg’s absence: Colonel Bloom was playing host today. As Commanding Officer of Fort Arapaho it fell to Bloom to greet the dignitaries from the Interfaith Vatican IV as they arrived. Though, herself a devout Muslim, Aiziz was wary of the presence of religious leaders at the Ship. Religion had long been the opponent of progress, not its champion. Things with the Ship were...tenuous and required, in her opinion, far more clarity and open-mindedness than members of Holy Orders ever seemed to demonstrate.
♦♦♦
Colonel Margaret Bloom, in full dress uniform, watched the plane circle around for final approach. It was a small-bodied jump plane and had shot into high-atmosphere orbit from Rome only a couple of hours before. Bloom was watching it on the 3D radar display in the Base’s air traffic control tower. This place reminded her, in an odd way, of Concord Station. She looked around at the banks of consoles, where military flight controllers kept a close watch over all the traffic in and around the World Ship Preserve. Flight paths had been detoured around its airspace since the Preserve had been formed, but it was still vital to make sure that all incoming traffic, such as the plane from Rome, were friendlies. The plane was coming in on a near-vertical landing approach, more of a touchdown than anything else. As it came in she watched from the tower windows as the retros fired, slowing its descent. The horizontal stabilizers fired twin spouts of blue flame above and below each narrow air fin, burning clearly in the morning sky. The landing struts extended and the plane touched down. As the engines shut down on the jump plane the struts each gave birth to a set of caterpillar treads, which in turn began rolling, taxiing the plane in towards the hangars. Bloom was out of her seat and down the spiral staircase of the air traffic control tower and out towards the gantry where the jump plane was now berthing. A transport met her. Major Benedict, also in dress uniform, sat in the back, the passenger seat next to him empty. Bloom climbed aboard and returned salutes from Benedict and their driver.
“Are the guest quarters ready?” she asked him.
“Everything’s been taken care of,” Benedict assured her as they drove towards the landing terminal, “Each member of the delegation will have an escort. They’ll also have two shadows each, said shadows known only to us and the Secret Service agents assigned to protect them.”
“Sleek setup,” Bloom said, “A bit like closing the airlock after explosive decompression, but still good coverage.”
“It’s amazing what essentially unlimited funds from the World Bank will get you, these days.”
“I know,” Bloom said, “Back in the day, it would have bought at least twice as much security.” They chuckled together as they pulled in to the terminal.
“Let’s go greet our guests.”
♦♦♦
Paul Santino debarked from the jump plane and followed the short gangway into the terminal building at the far end of Fort Arapaho. Behind him Rabbi Abrams, Brahman Radu, Father MacEndrick, High Priestess Walton Firestar and the other members of the Vatican IV delegation faded into periphery for him. Santino’s awareness was more focused on the fact that he was home again. True, he was not in the town of Laguna, but much of this land made up the Laguna District. At least, he reflected, it had until it became part of the World Ship Preserve. At the exit from the terminal ahead two soldiers stood in dress uniform. Santino immediately recognized Mark Echohawk’s ex-wife, Colonel Bloom.
“Hello Colonel,” Santino said, “It’s good to see you again.”
“Hello Paul,” Bloom said, “I’m glad it’s under happier circumstances. Welcome home. Allow me to introduce you to my Exo and head of security, Major Jack Benedict.”
“Major,” Santino said shaking the younger Black man’s hand. Santino turned and introduced Bloom and Benedict to his own entourage, the senior heads of the Vatican IV Council delegation.
“I’d like to welcome all of you to Fort Arapaho and to the World Ship Preserve,” Bloom said, “We’ve assigned…attendants to each of you so that you can get more quickly settled into the routine of life on the Base. If you’ll follow me I’ll take you to your accommodations, where your attendants will give you a quick briefing. We understand you’ll all want to adjust to the time differential, so nothing beyond that is scheduled for the day. There will be flyover tours of the Ship available, as well as guided tours of the Village and the surrounding desert of the World Ship Preserve.” Goddamn, she made a good tour guide. She clapped her hands together to punctuate the end of her announcement and turned to leave the terminal. Benedict and Santino followed beside her, the rest of the delegates from Rome close behind.
♦♦♦
James had moved as far from Laura and Allison as he could. Minimum Quality Of Life standards imposed upon all signatories of the World Council Act meant James had free room and board in one of LA’s finest public housing facilities: a one-room rattrap apartment in Chino. James’ fellow tenement dwellers were addicts, mental cases, slouches and other losers abandoned by or who had abandoned any pretence of society. James’ only financial needs were for joints, drugs, cigarettes, booze and Grid access. As he had declared himself disabled by drug habit at an LA County Social Action Commission, James’ rent and utilities were paid for by government voucher and he was given credit chits redeemable for food at a local grocery. All he had to do was attend regular drug counselling. So to meet what he considered his “real” needs, James had taken an under-the-table job as a custodian in one of Los Angeles’ many Recreation Clubs. It paid enough to keep James Oiled, with the added benefit that he was allowed to copy the club’s “observation” camera’s optic slips for further “personal” use. James had also taken to selling copies of said same OS’s on the Grid, for additional money.
In his moments of clarity James was horrified at how far he had fallen, of how much he had lost. In these moments James grieved for all he no longer had: the Prof, the Ship Survey Expedition, his sanity, Allison…above all else, above everyone else, James mourned her loss. He had fallen deeply in love with her during their oh-so short time together. But it was no good. He was no good. Not now. Not as a forty-weight with poison in his blood. These moments of clarity never lasted long. James suffered sobriety long enough for self-pity to turn to self-loathing before dosing himself again.
He was careful never to wait for withdrawal to set in. It had once, going on two weeks ago. He’d been short on cash and had no dope to speak of. He’d scrounged for hours for the cash for one shot—just one!—as the excruciating pain began, seeming to fill his bones and veins and muscles. Then had come the nausea, forcing him to puke up what little he’d actually bothered to eat and the paranoid hallucinations were just starting when he’d reached his dealer. But by then the muscle spasms were so bad that his dealer had had to inject him. That was when James had star
ted trafficking in illicit porn as an aside. The club owner enlisted his help setting up a sub-network on the Grid for buyers and sellers, paying him a cut of some of the sickest smut James had encountered. Not that it mattered; extra cash meant not running out of dope. When you were an Oilhead you always needed extra cash. James danced an ampoule of the poison across his leg.
He’d seen Allison, today. She’d followed him after running into him. It had been an ugly scene. She’d left, finally, after a long shouting match. She’d been crying when she’d gone and James didn’t know whether it hurt him more to hurt her or to see her hurting because of him. James was starting to get dull aches in his bones; the beginning…the forewarning of withdrawal. The Oil would take away the Fear, the pain, the guilt…he’d forget Allison again for a while and soon enough. One stab into an arm, a leg and nothing else would matter. But for now James wanted to suffer, to Feel, for just a bit longer; just punishment for what he’d put Allison through.
♦♦♦
It was midmorning by the time Colonel Bloom and Major Benedict escorted the eager delegates from the Vatican Council out to the base of the Pyramid. Their first exposure to Shipsong made their eyes widen in surprise. Only Santino was unaffected; he’d had the advantage of being present the night the Ship had unearthed itself, of having heard it from up close. Their actual approach to the entrance made the hairs on the backs of their necks stand up; there on the Ramp, nearly on the surface of the Ship itself, the Shipsong commanded all. They paused outside the entrance to the Pyramid and Bloom turned to address the delegates one last time.