Star stuff, p.4
Star Stuff, page 4
"I'm coming to the bridge," Tom said. "I want this racket turned off by the time I'm there."
He hung up, rose from bed, and grabbed his uniform. He dressed quickly, his fingers dancing over the brass buttons of his navy-blue coat. He ran a hand through his hair and placed his cap on his head. On the way to the door, he glanced at his reflection in a mirror.
There he was. There he stood. Captain Tom Emery of the HSS Galapagos. Apparently, back on Earth, he was something of a celebrity. He was an Emery, after all. A scion of royalty. His grandfather was the famous Marco Emery, the War Poet, the great hero of the Alien Wars. His grandmother was Addy Linden, the Fire Queen, the heroine who raised Earth in rebellion against alien invasions.
Tom Emery was just the captain of a small starship. The Galapagos was no great machine of war, just a scientific vessel, tasked with mapping the vast darkness. There were dozens of others like him, captains exploring the depths of space.
But he was an Emery. That made him different.
Every child across the Human Commonwealth worshiped his grandfather. There were War Poet movies, video games, hell—even action figures.
And I look just like the old guy, Tom Emery thought.
He was thirty-nine, but he looked older. The rigors of space had placed dark bags under his eyes, lines around his mouth, and silver in his hair.
At my age, my grandfather was already the hero of four wars, he thought. And I haven't discovered a single new planet yet. At least not any worth colonizing. If only I—
The song suddenly grew even louder, and the speakers sparked and cast out smoke.
Bahay kubo, kahit munti,
ang halaman doon ay sari-sari …
"Goddammit!" Tom spat, wincing and covering his ears.
He left his cabin and marched down the corridor. Other officers emerged from their cabins too, buttoning their coats and smoothing their sleep-ruffled hair. But they stood at attention as Tom marched by. He snapped his fingers, summoning a few to join him. The communications officer. The astrobiologist. The physicist. The android. Whatever was going on here, he wanted them around.
Tom barged onto the bridge, his feet thumping against the deck. The night crew rose, stood at attention, and saluted.
"Captain!" said Lieutenant Mikhailov. He was a young, pasty officer with sunken eyes, not yet thirty. "I command the bridge tonight, sir, and …"
It was impossible to hear the rest. The song was even louder here.
"Can somebody turn this damned racket off?" Tom shouted.
A high, melodious voice filled the bridge. "Yes, sir!"
Commander Titania rose from behind a console, grinning. Her glass eyes and ceramic teeth shone.
Tom shuddered. That damned machine gave him the willies.
Titania was an android. The latest model from Chrysopoeia Corporation. With a dual positronic processor moving at quantum speed, she was often the first to follow his orders. The machine was shaped like a slender, attractive woman with a platinum bob cut. Her body, clad in a tight blue uniform, flowed gracefully toward a computer terminal.
Funny how they never make androids look like my Aunt Edna, Tom thought wryly.
The android began to type, each hand tapping at another screen, fingers moving so fast they blurred. Finally the damned song died. The android turned toward Tom and grinned even wider. The manufacturers had probably intended to design an adorable smile. Instead, the grin seemed too wide, full of too many ceramic teeth. The grin of a madwoman.
Tom looked away from the android. He stared across the bridge at the human crew. The night staff still stood at attention. A few were pale. One man was trembling.
"Is this some kind of a prank?" Tom said. "You woke up the entire crew. Hell, you probably woke up everyone on Earth, and our homeworld is fifty light-years behind us."
The pasty Mikhailov gulped. "Sir, this was no prank. It's … well, it's … a radio signal, sir."
Tom frowned. He stepped toward a terminal and began typing, pulling up reports. He frowned.
"Goddamn." He squinted at the monitor. "A radio wave. And it's still washing over us. Why did it start playing from every speaker across the ship?"
Titania cleared her throat. Androids didn't get sore throats, of course. But they still liked drawing attention to themselves.
"Captain." The android spoke with a high, soothing voice. "I take full responsibility. I programmed our SETI protocols myself. If the central computer detects a meaningful alien signal, it bumps it up to top priority. I forgot one detail. The ship's computer is programmed to broadcast top priority messages from every speaker." She gave a curt bow. "A bug, sir. My apologies."
She's been buggy for a while, Tom thought, staring at the android. She was buggy that day on Ganymede. The day that—
No. He pushed that thought aside. His own throat suddenly felt sore. This was not the time nor place for that old pain.
"An alien signal," he muttered. He turned toward the grand viewport. It covered an entire wall of the bridge, displaying a vista of space. Tom gazed out at the stars. "Are you telling me we're picking up an alien radio station?"
"The golden oldies station, apparently," Titania said, cracking a rare joke. "Can we change it to country?"
You gotta love android humor.
"Let me hear it again," Tom said. "Just here on the bridge. And not so damn loud."
Titania tinkered with the controls. The music emerged again from the speakers, softer this time. They caught the tail end of the same song. Many voices sang together, while an accordion played in the background. It sounded scratchy. Like something played off an antique record.
"It sounds human," Tom said, eyebrows rising in wonder. "But out here? In deep space? Impossible. It must be alien. Aliens similar to us."
His fingers tingled.
I found something.
For so many years, Tom had struggled under the weight of his family name. He had barely shone in his grandfather's mighty shadow. For years, he had explored the darkness, seeking worlds to colonize for Mother Earth. He had found only barren rocks, fiery balls of hell, and frozen worlds of ice.
But this—this was hope!
I will become more than a grandson. I will discover something. Something important. A new world. A new species.
His crew stood, staring at him, eyes wide. Tom looked back and squared his shoulders. He knew this was an important moment. That his following words would echo across history. He chose them carefully.
"Men and women of the HSS Galapagos. You are all officers of HOPE, Humanity's Outreach Program of Exploration. For years, we've sailed the cosmic ocean, seeking new worlds, new civilizations. For years, we found nothing. But after so long in the darkness, it seems we've found an alien civilization." He winked. "And they like music."
A few smiles and handshakes passed around the bridge.
But then one officer stepped forward.
"Excuse me, sir?" she said, voice trembling.
She was a young ensign with a black ponytail, light brown skin, and dark eyes. She wore golden wings on her lapel, marking her a helmswoman. She must have been piloting the ship during the night shift.
"Ensign Floribeth Santiago," Tom said to her. "How can I help you?"
The young officer straightened her back. "Sir, with all due respect, this is no alien song. I recognize it. I understand the words. My grandmother used to sing it to me." She smiled shakily. "It's 'Bahay Kubo,' a Filipino folk song."
Tom felt the blood drain from his face. Just like his hope of glory drained away.
"What the hell is a Filipino folk song doing out here in deep space?" he said.
The young helmswoman took a step back. "I don't know, sir."
Tom pursed his lips. "I want answers. Night crew—continue your shift. The rest of you—with me. To the briefing room. Now."
If this is just an old signal from Earth, I'll look the fool, he thought, stepping off the bridge. And worse—a useless fool. An explorer lost at sea.
As he marched down the corridor, he clenched his fists.
You did not die for nothing, my brother, he thought, eyes stinging. Your sacrifice will mean something. I will finish what you started. I promise. Our starship will go down in history.
CHAPTER TWO
Tom Emery stood in the briefing room, staring out a porthole into space. The stars streamed by in smudged lines. The HSS Galapagos was not a particularly fast ship. She was not a warship built for devastating speed. But in her engine room shone an azoth crystal, able to bend spacetime like a diamond refracts light. The starlight warped across the invisible bubble of spacetime engulfing the starship.
Tom first saw warped space as a teenager, traveling with his grandfather to Alpha Centauri. He had never forgotten that first sight of starlight streaking like a million endless comets. Whenever he gazed at the stars now, he remembered the old man.
Your shoes are bigger than this galaxy, Grandpa, he thought. I'll never fill them.
He turned back toward his officers. They sat at a long table. Scientists. Explorers. Friends.
All great minds, Tom thought. Working for a man with a great last name.
Even now, after years together, he still felt nervous speaking to his crew. A nervousness he would never show. He put on his captain's mask. His cloak of confidence.
"All right, I want answers," Tom said. "We have, to put it mildly, a strange situation. A Filipino folk song, sung in Tagalog, the language of the Philippines. It's riding a radio wave fifty light-years from Earth. How is this possible? Anyone?"
The exobiologist, a slender man with wispy hair, cleared his throat. "Could it have come from Earth?"
Tom turned toward the ship's android. "Titania, have you traced the origin yet?"
The android was busy running calculations. Ghostly lines of code raced across her eyeballs. She blinked, and the lines of code faded. She smiled—that exaggerated smile with too many teeth.
Once we're back on Earth, I'll have to talk to her technician about that smile, Tom thought. If we bump into aliens, that creepy grin could cause an intergalactic incident.
"Yes, sir," Titania said. "I just completed reviewing the numbers for a third time. The radio signal has come from Theta Scorpii, a star system two-hundred-and-fifty light-years away."
Tom inhaled sharply. "Are you telling me that this radio signal has been traveling through space for centuries?"
"Yes, Captain." A few more lines of code flashed across the android's glass eyes. "To be more accurate, the radio signal was launched in the year 1904, going by Earth time. Two-hundred-and-ninety-nine years ago. Three centuries." She smiled toothily. "In another fifty years, it will finally reach Earth, and they will hear the song too."
Murmurs and rumbles filled the briefing room.
"Rubbish!" muttered Commander Hancock, the ship's XO. "Worst rubbish I ever heard."
Second-in-command of the Galapagos, Hancock was a squat man with a bald head, a white mustache, and an underbite. People called him the old bulldog.
"I agree." Tom placed his fists on the table and leaned toward his crew. "This is impossible. In 1904, humans were just inventing the first airplanes. How the hell was a radio signal launched from hundreds of light-years away when the Wright Brothers were still crashing wooden planes at Kitty Hawk?"
Hancock rose to his feet. The old bulldog puffed out his chest and crossed his arms. "Because the robot's numbers are rubbish! It's gotta be a mistake."
Titania rose to her feet too. The android looked at the shorter, older man. "Sir. I assure you, my numbers are correct."
The bulldog snorted. "That's what you said at Ganymede too, and we saw what—"
"Enough!" Tom barked. "Ganymede is in the past. That's not the topic here."
Everyone was staring at him. Tom realized he had shouted. He saw pity in the crew's eyes.
Yes, Ganymede was hard for everyone, Tom thought. And they all know it hit me hardest.
He forced himself to take a deep breath, then sat down. "Let me see if I got this right. A radio signal is coming from Theta Scorpii, a star in deep space. It's playing a human song. Because radio waves travel at the speed of light, the radio wave must have been traveling since 1904. Way before any human had any business in space. Correct so far?"
Everyone nodded.
"What if …" Tom thought for a moment, then nodded. "What if a modern starship traveled to that planet recently? Within the age of spaceflight. They could be broadcasting radio signals through wormholes, right? What if this radio signal is only a few days old, and it just traveled the vast distance by wormhole?"
"Ah, there you go!" Hancock slammed his fists on the table. "Mystery solved. Now can I get back to the bar?"
"Not so fast, Old Bulldog," Tom said, stifling a smile. His friend was probably hung over and yearning for some hair of the dog. He turned back toward the android. "Titania, what do you think of my theory?"
"Sir," Titania said. "That's what I myself suspected at first. So I ran some tests. A wormhole, a warp bubble, or any other method to bend spacetime leaves a subatomic mark. A signature, if you will. Any photon that travels faster than light will display a distinctive quantum vibration. I analyzed this radio wave again and again. It never traveled faster than light. This radio broadcast is centuries old."
So much for hitting the bar early, Tom thought.
He stood up again. He paced the room. "So you're telling me that a planet hundreds of light-years from Earth, far beyond our little human empire, has a radio station playing Filipino folk music? And they were playing this song in 1904?"
"As strange as it sounds … yes," Titania said. "I can't explain it. But the numbers don't lie."
Tom stared at the android, then at everyone else around the table. Scientists. Mathematicians. Explorers. The brightest and bravest of humanity—all utterly bamboozled. The old bulldog grumbled under his breath, and his fingers inched toward the flask at his hip. Titania stood among them, chin raised, a small smile on her synthetic lips.
Tom could not stop the thought from returning.
The android was wrong about Ganymede.
And images flashed before him.
The fire in the mine.
The riots under the dome.
His brother shouting. Crying his name. Reaching out for Tom. And the bullets hitting him, and—
Tom forced those thoughts away. They would not help him here.
Titania is not to blame, he thought. My own pride killed my brother. His blood is on my hands, and mine alone.
"I'll be in my ready room." Tom rose to his feet. "I need to call the president."
Everyone rose and stood at attention. Tom left the chamber, lips pursed and eyes stinging, and he still heard the echoes of Aaron's dying cries.
CHAPTER THREE
Tom entered his ready room and closed the door. He stood for a moment, silent.
The ready room was his private office. He didn't spend much time here. A captain spent most of his time on the bridge, commanding his starship as it sailed the cosmic ocean. Or in the briefing room, discussing the problems of the day with his officers. Or in the galley, the thriving hub of a starship's social activity, where the toughest problems were often solved. And when all that was done with, a captain normally just collapsed to bed in his cabin.
The ready room was different. It was designed for quiet reflection, for reading, for writing, for documenting a captain's thoughts and discoveries. The idea behind it was good. But in practice, a busy captain could go for weeks, even months without entering this hallowed little chamber.
Tom had avoided his ready room since Ganymede.
As he entered it now, he remembered why.
So much of the room reminded him of Aaron.
A framed photo stood on the desk, showing the Emery children back on Earth. The three of them sat on a dock, wearing straw hats. Tom sat on the left, oldest of the group, more serious than the others. Winter sat beside him. His sister was grinning at the camera, holding a pink fishing rod. Aaron, youngest in the family, completed the trio. The camera had caught him laughing, holding up a panfish, his catch of the day.
That had been such a beautiful day. Their grandfather had taken them fishing that morning. You could just make out his shadow in the background. The man cast a very long shadow.
Several of Aaron's maps hung framed on the bulkheads. Two were maps of the stars, while the others were maps of Earth and other worlds. Aaron had always seen cartography as more than science—as art. To him, perhaps to all cartographers, maps weren't just about documenting a landscape but expressing its beauty.
Aaron had loved not only maps but antiques. Several of his treasures stood on shelves. They were family heirlooms now. An antique telescope wrapped in leather. A silver astrolabe, a navigational tool of sailors during the Golden Age of Sail. A little wooden ship in a bottle.
Tom himself had never cared much for art or aesthetics. He only looked at function. But Aaron had always valued beauty. He had once teased Tom, joking that he would feel perfectly comfortable flying through space in a tin barrel so long as it broke warp twelve.
I miss you, Aaron, he thought, holding up the photograph from that fishing trip. I'm sorry.
He looked at his brother for a moment longer. A boy with bright eyes and a ready smile. He wanted to remember Aaron like this. Not like the screaming man in the fire.
He put the picture frame down. He had not come here to brood. He had a call to make.
Every HOPE starship carried two azoth crystals. They were the priciest material in the galaxy—the only known material that could bend spacetime. The Human Commonwealth mined azoth on a desolate moon named Corpus, a hellhole rife with alien bugs and disease. Even a small crystal, a stone a man could hide in his palm, cost more than a treasure chest of gold.
And the HSS Galapagos carried two.
One, the larger crystal, was in the engine room. The size of a matchbox, it formed the glowing nucleus of their warp engine. That crystal worked day in and out, filtering spacetime through its prism, warping reality around the ship. Thanks to that priceless crystal, the Galapagos could explore the vastness of space.
