Firebird (41 page)

“I see where this is going. But these are special circumstances.”

“Of course,”
said Alex.
“Like us, they're programed to show frustration when things go wrong. Isn't that what you were going to say?”

Kolchevski simply stared back.

“AIs are dependent on us. And when the AIs on Villanueva had been deserted, had been left on their own, they reacted as they would have if they were actually, mentally,
aware
of the desertion. And over thousands of years, when no one came to help, they developed some resentment. Some of them became deranged. Violently so. Isn't that right?”

“Yes. Of course it's right. So what's your point?”

“Their programing, then, established no limit on the degree of frustration?”

“That would seem to be the case.”

“That would seem to be criminal negligence, though, wouldn't it?”

Kolchevski pushed his chair back and stood.
“This is ridiculous.”
He looked over at Jennifer.
“There's no talking to this man.”

I met Alex out by the pad when he got home. “You know,” he said, “I think the definition of stupidity has something to do with standing by your position despite having no evidence to support it.”

“Which of you were you describing?” I asked.

“Funny, Chase.”

We walked across the lawn and up onto the deck. “The real problem,” I said, “has to do with an inability by people to admit that a position they've held a long time
might
be wrong. That's all. Not that it
is.
Just that it
might
be. I don't know why it is, but we tend to fall in love with the things we believe. Threaten them, and you threaten us.” The sun was high and bright, and a warm, pleasant wind was blowing in from the west. “Anyhow, I thought you did pretty well, Alex. Kolchevski looked like an idiot.”

“It won't matter. We won't change anyone's mind.”

“You might change a few.”

The door opened, Jacob said hello, and we went inside.

“I'm going up and crash for a while,” Alex said.

“Okay.”

“You have plans for lunch?”

“Yes,” I said. “Sorry.”

“It's okay. Talk to you later.”

He started for the stairs. But Jacob stopped him:
“Alex? I can't put away a hamburger. But I'll be free at twelve if you'd like company.”

THIRTY-SIX

We assign names and even personalities to everything that is important in our lives. To our homes, to our cars, to the vacant lot down at the corner. Deep in our psyche, we know that the bedroom we deserted long ago is somehow glad to see us back, even if only for an evening. Is it any wonder, then, that we acquire an affection for machines that talk to us? That we believe they share our emotions? It is a happy illusion. But it is an illusion that says much about who we are. I for one would have it no other way.

—Ivira Taney,
My Life and Look Out
, 2277
C.E.

Dot Garber called me to say she'd be making the flight personally. Two days before we were to leave in pursuit of the
Antares,
Shara, Alex, and I met on Skydeck with her, with the pilots from Prescott and Orion, and with the various other pilots who would be accompanying us. Dot had already briefed everybody, but Alex wanted to get to know them before we launched. Also present was Dot's daughter Melissa, who would be riding along.

The meeting took place in the Sagittarius Room at the Starlight Hotel. Drinks and hors d'oeuvres were served, while Alex wandered around, shaking hands and exchanging small talk.

I'd known one of the independents for years. He was Michael Anderson, a newly retired Fleet officer. Michael had been involved in some of the skirmishes with the Mutes and had been aboard the
Cameron
two years earlier during the engagement off the Spinners, which had almost brought the peace process down. It's still unclear who fired the first shots, but the
Cameron
was severely damaged, and eleven of its crew lost their lives. “They say it's over now,” he'd commented to me the last time I'd talked with him, “but I'll believe it when I see it.”

Representing the Fleury Initiative was Jon Richter, tall, lanky, very serious, and newly licensed.

Allie Svoboda attended for Prescott. Allie was a middle-aged, strictly business brunette, who commented that she enjoyed crazy missions, and she'd never heard of anything crazier than this one. “By the way,” she asked in a quasi-serious tone, “was there any truth to the rumor that we weren't really looking for a ship from the past, but one from another universe?”

Cal Bickley worked for Orion. He was a grumpy-looking guy who made no secret of his belief that there'd been a misunderstanding somewhere, and nothing would come of the mission, but his bosses said do it. So, of course, he would. I liked him in spite of his attitude, and I let him see that I'd be available eventually. Maybe.

That turned out to be a pointless gesture since he wasted no time trying to move in on Shara. Cal, I found out later, was the only one of the lead pilots who had not invited someone to ride with him.

Shara actually looked as if she were considering traveling in his ship, but she must have decided the move would have been a bit too public. Anyhow, she was probably reluctant to be caught alone in the narrow confines of a yacht named the
Jubilant
with a strange male. So, to his obvious disappointment, she backed away.

Lynda and Paul Kaczmarek had their own yacht and simply enjoyed interworld travel and sightseeing. It was, Linda explained to me, what they did. Both were pilots. And, as far as I could determine, neither was employed. They were both enamored of the possibilities that attended the mission. “I hope you guys have it right,” she told me. “I would
kill
to be in on something like that. Though I have to tell you, I just can't believe it's actually possible.”

After a half hour or so, Alex asked everyone to be seated, and we closed the doors. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I know that Dot has already told you what we hope to do on this mission. I can't help noticing that a few of you are a trifle skeptical. And I don't blame you. But you've offered to help anyhow, and I want you to know we appreciate that. Without you, there'd be very little chance of success. Now, so you don't conclude that we're completely delirious, let me show you the evidence.”

Alex had asked me to narrate this part of the program on the theory that the audience would trust another pilot more than someone viewed as an outsider. So I took my place stage center as the room darkened, and the stars appeared. I explained how we'd gotten on the track of the Alpha Object. “I'll confess,” I said, “that I didn't really believe we were going to find something that appears every couple of centuries. That
surfaces
periodically with survivors still on board. But we did find it.”

We started the clips we'd shown around when we were trying to enlist StarCorps, Survey, and the politicians. The audience in the Sagittarius Room, I'm happy to say, was more receptive.

When they heard the voice coming over the radio, speaking in that strange language, the room went dead silent. And then Belle's translation.
Help us.

Code five.

They saw the ship, the unfamiliar design, the lights in the ports.

And, finally, the ship fading away.

The lights in the Sagittarius Room came on, but the audience sat stunned.

“When will they be back?” asked Linda.

“In the fall of 1612. One hundred seventy-eight years. It
might
come back in eighty-nine years. Or forty-four and a half. No way to be sure.”

I've never seen an audience so frozen. They sat and stared at me. Nobody moved.

Alex came over. “Thank you, Chase,” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen, now you see what we're dealing with.” He paused and looked around the room. “Let's talk about the
Antares
Object. We can't be positive of its precise time of arrival, although we're pretty sure we have it down to within a few days. We also can't be certain of the exact
place
it will show up. But we have the
neighborhood
pinpointed. It's essential that everybody keep in mind that it's caught in a time warp. That means it could submerge again without warning.”

A hand went up. Allie. “Alex, do we have a reading on how long it will stay with us? Before that happens? What's the term?
Submerges
r”'

“Yes, Allie. Possibly as long as six hours. More likely, about five. Because of the uncertainty, we want to caution you about boarding. We just can't be sure about anything. And the situation becomes even more doubtful since we are not likely to know how long it will have been in place. Your primary job is to find it and let us know where it is.”

One of the pilots I didn't know raised a hand. “And
you're
going to do the rescue?”

“That's the plan. Assuming there are passengers, we'll want you to approach with your landers and stand by. We'll be stocking each lander with additional pressure suits. Chase and I will attempt to board. If there is anyone in there, we'll try to get them to the landers as quickly as we can. We want you to stay clear. If the thing submerges, we don't know the size of the surrounding area that will be dragged under with it. Maybe it won't affect the surroundings at all. But we're assuming the worst.

“That means there
is
a risk. It's possible that, if it submerges, and you're nearby, you'll be dragged along with it. I wish we knew more about this, but that's our situation. So if anyone wants to rethink this, we'll understand.”

Cal looked unhappy. “You might not be able to get there in time. There's less risk to everybody if whoever finds it first boards it and starts the extraction. The others can help as they arrive.”

Alex looked around the room. The others were nodding in agreement. “He's right, Alex,” said Allie.

“Absolutely,” said Dot.

And so it went, until Alex raised both hands. “Hold it a second. Look, we don't want to lose any of
you—”

“Too late now,” said Paul Kaczmarek. “First one there starts the extraction, right?”

Every hand in the place went up.

Dot was standing beside Cal. “Do we know when this thing will surface again? If we miss it this time?”

Alex let Shara answer. “Sixty-seven years,” she said.

“What kind of ship is this?” asked Michael. “Have we been able to identify it?”

“Negative.”

“It's too old?”

“That's what we think, yes.”

And it's still under power?”

“Yes.”

“My God,” said Cal, “you mean this thing might be seven thousand years old?”

“Yes.”

Dot smiled. Beatific. Beautiful. What a marvelous universe we live in.

“Any more questions?”

One more. From Linda: “Alex, you've described these black-hole tracks. If I understand what you're saying, you get in trouble if you try to initiate a jump while you're sitting in one.”

“That's correct,” said Alex.

“When we start back from the target area, we'll be right in the middle of it. Isn't there a possibility that one of us will get caught?”

Alex passed it to Shara. “Let me start,” she said, “by admitting we don't have everything down yet. But we're pretty sure we know what kind of vehicles are vulnerable. And under what circumstances. We'll have a couple of technicians look at every ship before we proceed. You should be safe.”

“Anything else?”

Apparently not. Shara passed out formation assignments, another two or three questions, and that was it.

“Okay,” said Michael. “I guess we have something to tell the grand-kids about.”

Dot lifted a glass to Alex, Shara, and me. “This,” she said, “is a proud moment. I'm delighted you guys decided to trust us. And we will give you our full support.” She laughed. “Let's hope we come home with some company.”

Afterward, as things quieted back down, she took me aside. “I've changed my mind,” she said.

“About what?”

“Charging you for one of the ships. I can't do that. Just cover our expenses. That's all I ask.”

Taiulus Zeta was, in fact, well past Antares. It was another long ride. Almost six days each way, several more days getting organized, plus however long we had to wait for our apparition.

We packed up and left the country house at midmorning on a beautiful day, birds singing, tree branches swinging gently in a soft breeze. As we lifted off, Shara called my attention to an elderly couple visiting the old graveyard just across the property line. “I hope,” she said, “that's not an omen.”

Four hours later, we launched from Skydeck, sixteen vehicles counting the
Belle-Marie.
(We'd picked up one more at the last minute.) The squadron reassembled out past the Moon, put identical settings into the drive units, turned in the general direction of Antares, and slipped into hyperspace in as coordinated a manner as we could manage.

Despite all efforts to stay close to one another, we knew we would emerge a substantial distance apart, and we'd need an additional day or two to regroup.

It was maybe the longest six days I've spent in hyperspace. I don't know why. A foreboding of some sort crept over me. I don't usually have a problem simply because there are no stars. Or because I can't communicate with other ships. Maybe it was that
Alpha
was still hanging over my head, with its terrified radio voice that wouldn't go away. I knew now there were people out there, from a time before anyone had ever come near Rimway, when most of the worlds of the Confederacy were unknown. From an age before Elmer Campbell and his religious engineers had erected the obelisks.

Shara didn't help matters by explaining how the darkness was probably only a kind of wrap, that it extended no more than a few meters beyond us. I told her that was crazy, and she tried to explain to me why MacKenzie's Theory required it. And, of course, MacKenzie was always right, except for one famous blunder. Which I've never understood, either.

I pretty much stayed off the bridge. I didn't want to be looking out the ports at Shara's black wrap. For whatever reason, it didn't bother me when I was sitting in the cabin, where I could push it out of my mind while we argued politics.