Collected short stories, p.120
Collected Short Stories, page 120
He likes the sound of those words. Usually he nods and smiles, even when he's pointing out, "Our mirrors have seen plenty of earth-sized worlds. Sev-eral hundred, the last time I counted. But how many of those places show any trace of life?"
"It's early in our search," I have to remind him. And myself.
Then Tenwolf will look out the open doors of the machine bay, staring at the empty dust and the hard black sky, finishing our conversation by say-ing, "I believe you. Shit, what are my choices here?" Then he laughs, adding, "But doesn't it look like a fucking waste, all the emptiness that we've seen so far...?"
Sue is our diplomat, our easy woman. Sometimes she sleeps with Tenwolf but more often with Conrad. She's also made overtures to me while we dis-cuss her feelings and fears. Sue has surprisingly small hands for a big-bod-ied woman. On several occasions, she has set her hand on mine, and then with a focused smile, she will say nothing. She just stares at my eyes and waits, and it's up to me to steer us back to a proper subject.
"They knew what they were doing," she likes to tell me, and herself. "Putting the five of us together, I mean. Out of twenty thousand applicants, we're the best people. The best team. A perfect team, I think."
Twenty thousand applicants is an exaggeration. After the unstable and incompetent were excluded, the working list was barely six hundred names.
"You've got to be pleased," Sue tells me. "We've been here for five months, and has there been one serious fight?"
"No," I admit. "Not one punch thrown."
"Seven more months to go," she remarks. "I can't believe it. We're nearly halfway done with our assignment."
Sue has a soft voice. A deep, soothing voice. I suspect that's one reason why men go to bed with her so willingly. They know that after sex, they can close their eyes, letting her pleasant words wash over them, pulling them into a good hard sleep.
Sometimes I wonder about her and me: She drops her hand on mine, and I let her. We're standing in the hard vacuum of the machine bay, each wear-ing a bulky lifesuit, but I can feel the pressure of her hand through my glove. I look into her plain gray eyes, watching her dare me to make the next move.
"Who do you think is responsible for all these good feelings?" I ask. It's the day before the Virgo signal arrives, and I'm shamelessly fishing for a com-pliment. I wink and smile, saying, "Sue," with my own soothing voice. "Who do you think does the most to keep us happy?"
But she doesn't tell me, "You do, Xavier."
Instead Sue lifts her eyebrows and smiles with a chilled delight, telling me, "Opal does."
"Our AI?" I sputter.
"Why not?" She laughs, pulling her hand out from under mine. "She's al-ways pleasant, always professional. She's never busy or tired. And she's al-ways at the center of everything we're trying to accomplish up here. Know what I mean?"
"They didn't always call themselves the Blessed," we are told, species took that name late in their history."
Conrad says, "Okay, I'll bite. Why is that, Opal?"
"They were technological creatures for a long time. For nearly one hun-dred thousand years, by human count." She pauses, pretending to take a thoughtful breath. "Their galaxy is enormous," she reminds us. "It has more than a trillion suns and far more than ten trillion planets. The Blessed built dishes and mirrors that dwarfed everything human-built, and when their telescopes didn't give answers, they sent out fleets of robotic starships. They wanted to find intelligent aliens. They wanted friends. So they looked for worlds like theirs, and when they couldn't find any, they broadened their pa-rameters, studying water worlds and jupiters and cold worlds with ammo-nia or methane seas. And after all that, they realized just how rare life was and how lucky they were. And that's when they began calling themselves the Blessed."
As Opal speaks, she shows us glimpses of the ancient data. Worlds slide past like snowflakes. Like brown and gray and muddy blue snowflakes. There is a dreary sameness to these anonymous bodies. I notice it even be-fore I read the brief descriptions culled from official reports. The small worlds resemble Mars, pitted with craters and desperate for water. Many of the larger worlds have been suffocated by runaway greenhouse events. But many more are as wet as the Earth, with mild atmospheres and continents that practically beg for life. Yet something has always gone wrong. Eccentric orbits are numbingly common. Impacting asteroids and comet showers are brutal clichs. But more likely still are the supernovas that have sterilized every world within several light-years. And more terrible than exploding suns are the gamma radiation storms that arrive whenever neutron stars collide-a vicious, amoral event that kills everything within a thousand light-years. And if the world is lucky enough to escape those disasters, it has to face a final nightmare: The core of every galaxy can turn active, gases and entire suns falling into the central black hole, a quasar-like belch rav-aging every planet that isn't buried inside the deepest, darkest clouds of in-terstellar dust.
The Blessed have given us a grim, sobering encyclopedia. After another five minutes of wastelands and ruin, Aisha groans, "Did they find life any-where, Opal? Anywhere at all?"
"Many times, yes," says Opal. "But life usually comes as single-cell organ-isms living in subterranean refuges."
"Usually," Conrad echoes.
"The Blessed found three examples of robust, high-functioning bios-pheres." She shows us one of those worlds: It looks very much like the Earth, complete with blue-green jungles and an emerald blue ocean. But be-fore we can take hope from this image, our AI cautions, 'This is a much old-er world than the Earth, and its fauna are simple-minded and slow to change. Left alone, intelligence wouldn't evolve here until long after its sun left the main spectrum."
I give a low, anguished moan.
Yet Sue insists on finding hope. She says, "But Opal. What percentage of worlds did the Blessed study in depth? In just their own galaxy, I mean."
"A little less than 1 percent," the AI reports.
Sue brightens. She looks at all of us, promising, "There could be dozens of intelligent species that they didn't find. And that's just in their neighborhood."
"Maybe it's an extra dangerous galaxy," Conrad suggests. "Because it's so large. Because its core is sure to be more active than ours."
I like the sound of those words.
But then Opal says, "No, actually. The Blessed are absolutely clear about this. High-technologies have to be exceedingly rare in the universe."
"How rare?" I ask.
"According to the Blessed's formulas," she says, "within our Local Group-the Milky Way and Andromeda and the assorted dwarf galaxies-there is no reason to expect even one technological species."
"But we're technological," Conrad complains.
"Maybe we're just very, very lucky," Tenwolf adds. His expression is un-naturally calm, a tight lid set over his emotions. He breathes hard, once and then again, and then he asks Opal, "Is that what we are? A fluke?"
"According to the Blessed," she maintains, "life survives only because of many enormous strokes of good fortune."
Aisha glances at me.
"Okay," I begin. "Opal. How did the aliens arrive at this conclusion? Do they tell you their rationale?"
"By many means, yes," she says.
"So what's the reason?" Conrad demands to know.
The pause is long and unnerving.
Then our AI offers words that I have never heard from her, or from any other machine. Quietly and with a palpable sadness, she tells us, "Really, this is just awful, awful news."
Sometimes I use Opal as the counselor's counselor. I'll mention my moods, blue or otherwise, and her voice will make the appropriately sympathetic sounds. She wears a veneer of mock-empathy on top of her vast intellect. As well as any lover, she can say, "I'm sorry you feel that way. What can I do to help you?" But after the next false breath, her real nature surfaces. "We have a variety of mood-altering medicines in stock. Or perhaps you should sleep more. As I'm sure you know, sleep deprivation is a problem in modern society."
"Thank you, Opal."
"Have I helped you, Xavier?"
"Not at all," I will admit.
"I'm sorry," she replies, no trace of sorrow in her smooth, untroubled voice. Nor any hint of disappointment, either.
But she does help me. She's an ineffectual counselor, and that always re-news my own fragile sense of purpose. She reminds me that only humans can minister to human troubles. I don't care what Sue believes: Opal is just a machine-our machine-and she is designed for a few exceedingly narrow tasks. She steers the telescopes with a precise touch, and she has a genius for sorting and interpreting the endless data. But genius isn't a steerable dish. You just can't point it anywhere and focus it on any thing. We are sta-tioned here because Opal wasn't able to manage unexpected malfunctions. By the time we touched down, nearly half of the facility was in sleep-mode, a string of little catastrophes having done their worst. Yet the machine was un-embarrassed by her failures. With a cheery voice, she told us, "Welcome." She said, "It will be my honor to work with you." Then without a trace of shame, she said, "I'm a poor mechanic. Please, take this duty out of my unfit hands."
Opal has no soul.
A genuine soul would have been angry and embarrassed and defensive-all the reactions that good people think of as ugly weaknesses. But nothing is weak or ugly in Nature. We evolved our thin skins for the best reasons. Pride makes us excel, while nothing can defend our good name quite like an old-fashioned hissy fit.
Opal was designed by souls who believe in ugly things, and that's why they made her endlessly polite and pleasant. That's why she has no soul, and that's one of the reasons why I sometimes catch myself feeling envy to-ward her.
A helpful and lovely little envy it is.
"Our universe is frail," Opal declares. "The Blessed discovered the fragili-ty in certain mathematical constructions, and at least twice, their re-searchers came treacherously close to disaster."
Conrad acts offended. "What do you mean, frail?"
"Our universe only pretends to be stable." Her voice wears sadness, but beneath the words I hear something else. Opal sounds interested. Intrigued, even. "Human physicists have already suggested the possibility. The uni-verse was created tiny and hot, and it was stable in one fashion. But that stability failed, and that's what caused the inflationary expansion. This is why we live within an enormous flat universe today." Opal pauses, giving us a moment to consider her words. Then she says, "Imagine a ball and a long steep hill. Our universe is that ball. We started on the flat crest of the hill, but with the inflationary period, we started to roll free. The expansion end-ed when the ball came to rest on a second, extremely narrow ledge. And that's where we exist today."
"Shit," I mutter.
Everyone says that simple, perfect word.
"Are you familiar with these concepts?" Opal inquires.
It sounds familiar, yes. But this is an ugly, mostly discredited concept that's usually buried in the back of undergraduate texts.
"In one sense, natural events cannot make the universe unstable," Opal assures us. "Yet in a different sense, it is easily accomplished."
"Explain yourself," Conrad snaps.
"Extreme energies coupled with certain quantum manipulations will cre-ate tiny pockets of chaotic pseudomatter, each pocket ripe to begin a cascad-ing, catastrophic event. This is what the Blessed achieved on at least two oc-casions."
"They did this on purpose?" asks Tenwolf.
"Never," says Opal. "The pseudomatter arose without warning. The math-ematics are complicated and misleading, which is why they were unaware of the danger. In the first case, there was a one-in-ninety chance of disaster. The second incident arose from entirely different means, and if the work hadn't been aborted instantly, there would have been a one-in-three chance of obliteration."
Sue slumps forward, gazing at the cement floor.
Aisha looks past me, her almond eyes wide and empty.
With an angry, almost defiant tone, Tenwolf asks, "So what would hap-pen? If they'd gotten that ball rolling again, I mean."
"The universe would fall apart," Opal replies.
Nobody speaks.
She explains, "At the speed of light, beginning at the point of the initial event, our laws would fail and matter would find itself transformed, and no mathematics can predict what would form in whatever was left behind.
Again, I say, "Shit."
"At the speed of light," Aisha repeats. "That fast?"
"Yes," says Opal.
"But that's slow," Sue points out. "I mean, if it happened now, and it began a billion light-years away-"
I interrupt her, admitting, "I don't understand. How did this prove to the Blessed that intelligent life is very rare?"
But then I see what is ugly and obvious.
"The universe appears to be intact," she tells me. She reminds everyone of this hard fact. "When the aliens looked into the sky, they saw stars and galaxies. If there were any species with their technical skills, they rea-soned, and if these species were a mere one or two million years older than them...well, then at least one neighbor would have accomplished the un-thinkable."
"But you wouldn't see it coming," Conrad points out. He looks at each of us, shrugging his shoulders with a forced nonchalance. "It's like an accident around the bend. You can't know it's there until you're on top of it."
I don't know why that should make me feel any better.
Our gloom makes Conrad angry. "Hey, people," he cries out. "It isn't going to happen. Even if the Blessed were right about everything-which is a big mess of ifs-then there just aren't that many species to worry about. And besides, shit...it's fifty million years later, and we're still part of the land-scape here...!"
I think about death, and another obvious question takes hold of me.
"Opal," I say.
"Yes, Xavier."
"Why did the Blessed kill themselves?"
"In part, because they didn't trust their own nature." Her sadness evapo-rates into a cool puzzlement. "They had discovered two routes by which they could destroy the universe, but that probably isn't an exhaustive list. Any researcher with a modern facility and a careless attitude might-"
"Wait," Conrad interrupts. "Let me understand this. They killed them-selves because they were afraid that they might do something awful in the future?"
"Essentially, yes."
I am numb and cold and empty.
"Shit, they don't sound human to me." Conrad gives out a big jolly laugh, forced and unseemly. "God, can you imagine us doing that? Can you?"
I stare at my nervous hands.
"Their message," says Opal, "is also an attempt to warn other species. Yes, they orchestrated a mass suicide. But this was also the only way to generate a signal sufficiently bright to be noticed by whichever species might be liv-ing inside distant, widely scattered galaxies."
Aisha wipes at her cheeks, flattening her tears.
Conrad decides on action. He stands and says, "Opal. How soon can we transmit through our tertiary link?"
"In another fifty-two minutes," she answers.
"Create a message. Keep it brief, and then show it to us."
I look up suddenly. I look up and blurt, "No. Stop."
As if offended, Conrad throws a hard glare my way. "What do you mean, stop?"
"There's choices here," I tell him. Then I take an enormous breath that leaves me shaking, and turning to the others, I explain myself. "We need to be careful. We have to find another course, if there is one." I gasp, and I swallow, and I add, "Please. Just let's talk it through with me once. Will you please?"
At the center of the Feynman Array stands a small and very dead vol-cano. A gentle road leads to a summit made smooth and simple by the end-less rain of micrometeorites.
When I'm in a reflective mood, or when my duties are too much to com-fortably bear, I will ride a buggy up to where the ground is flat, and I'll gaze out across the sprawling field of telescopes, marveling at the energy and re-lentless genius of Life.
I wish I were standing there now.
"If we tell the world," I begin. Then I lick my lips and swallow, my throat lined with sandpaper. "If we give people even a hint that we've gotten this message...well, I think we have to consider the consequences..."
"What consequences?" Conrad barks.
But the others trade worried little looks, thinking along the same awful lines.
"If the Blessed are right-" Aisha begins.
"This is horrible," Sue interrupts, wiping her eyes with little fists. "People will be terrified. How can we live, knowing that at any moment, without warning, the universe can come to an end?"
"An empty, lifeless universe," Tenwolf rumbles.
"I'm alive," Conrad counters. "Plenty alive, thank you!"
He means it as a joke, but nobody laughs.
"What we need to do now," I say, "is take our time. We won't do anything that we can't take back later, at least until we've reached a consensus. That's all I'm asking for." I show them a warm, caring smile. Or at least I hope I do. "We'll just let this first window pass. There's no need to sprint into the future without a little soul-searching first."
Everyone nods in agreement, except for Conrad.
But he finally begins to appreciate the general mood. Shrugging his broad shoulders, he admits, "That wouldn't be too awful, I guess. I mean, it's not like this news is going to go stale on us."
Sue touches him lightly on the an arm, squeezing in a comforting way.
"Opal," Conrad calls out. "No transmissions. Until you're given a specific order, we are off-line."
"As you wish," she replies.
Then his charm reasserts itself. He smiles and coughs gently into a loose fist, and then with a calm and reasonable voice says, "But of course, you know, this really shouldn't be our decision to make."
Sue glances at me, trying to read my response. Then she asks Conrad, "What do you mean? Whose decision should it be?"
"Good question," he allows.
