Firebird (33 page)

Alex nodded.
“I'd say so, yes.”

“Okay.”
She signaled for a clip.
“Here you are on the
Peter McCovey Show
a year ago.”

Alex and McCovey blinked on. They were seated at a table in the more formal setting of a studio.
“Peter,”
Alex was saying,
“it's easy to understand why people want to argue that their AIs are
alive.
They have every quality of a living person, so we bond with them. Even to the extent of doing foolish things. There was a guy a week or two ago who got killed in a tornado because he went back to rescue his AI. I think 'Harry' was his name. Right? The AI's name?”

“Yes,”
said Peter. “
I believe that's correct.”

“It's natural that we acquire an affection for something that is so good at mimicking us. That can seem to be one of us. But it's an illusion. And I think we need to keep that reality in mind.”

The display switched back to Mia.
“Those comments seem to contradict what you're saying now, Alex.”

“I'm smarter now.”

“Really?”

“Mia, somebody said something once about consistency and little minds.”

“Then you think consistency is of no value?”

“I'm saying it's foolish to hold to a proposition simply because we held it at an earlier time in our lives. But let's put that aside. If we're going to talk about Villanueva, there's something else that we should consider.”

“And what's that?”

“That world is a piece of history frozen in time. We abandoned it seven thousand years ago. Because some people felt that the AIs were sentient, they left the power satellites in place. Even did occasional maintenance work on them. But forget the argument about sentience. The oldest functioning AIs in existence are there. Imagine what it would mean to a scholar to have access to the Villanueva network, to be able to research the issues of that age. Think what a terrestrial historian in the third millennium would have given to be able to talk Egyptian politics with someone who'd actually lived on the Nile during the era of Rameses III. But for us, they're available. All we have to do is go collect them.

“There's another consideration, Mia. The AIs from that age would make pretty decent collectors' items. Understand, I'm not encouraging anybody to go out there and try to salvage them for money. It's too dangerous. But they'd bring a substantial price on the open market.”

For two or three nights he was the big story again on the media landscape. Various political figures, who couldn't get close enough to him two years earlier when we'd come back from Salud Afar, went after him for encouraging people to risk their lives to retrieve “useless junk,” as one legislator put it.

And there were reports of more people getting ready to set out for the lost world, seeing a chance to make their fortunes. “I didn't mean for that to happen,” Alex told reporters.

Academics jumped in, as well. Alex became a tomb robber again, only this time he was endangering those foolish enough to take the bait. And there was extensive coverage of a lone-wolf pilot and his brother-in-law, headed for Villanueva.
“How hard can it be?”
the pilot said, responding to a reporter's question.

I tried to reassure Alex that there wouldn't be many who would make the effort. “People aren't
that
dumb,” I said.

He was slow to answer. “I wish I'd stopped to think before I mouthed off. But there's no going back now. Whatever happens, I'm going to have to live with it.”

I knew what was going to happen. We both did. I was trying to keep us separated from the responsibility, but there was no way to do that. I'd been worried before he went on Mia's show that he would get carried away and do something like that. Maybe I should have raised a red flag. Though I'm pretty sure if I'd done so, it wouldn't have mattered. He'd have gone ahead anyhow. But at least my conscience would have been clear.

The reality was that I didn't know why I hadn't said something. I still don't know. Maybe it was out of a sense of supporting him at a difficult time. Or maybe I believed he would do the right thing. Whatever it was, I wished then, as I do now, that I'd come forward.

The first Villanueva casualties showed up on the news at about the same time. Two guys had gone down into one of the cities and hadn't been heard from since. Their lander was still visible, on a riverbank, being disassembled by a small army of machines. The machines were pulling everything apart, cutting into the hull, and carting off the pieces. Then, gradually, the exposed interior simply went away. It took about a week before all traces of the vehicle were gone.

Everybody blamed Alex. Or almost everybody. Even his supporters somehow managed to deepen the wound. Harley Evans, identified as someone close to him, commented that if young people choose to risk their lives, they should do it for a just cause and not simply to make money. I knew what he meant, but it didn't come out as intended.

I don't think, in all the years I've known him, I've seen Alex more subdued. I avoided the subject, but the media were all over it, and I could see the effect it was having on him. Audree came by regularly, and he put on a good face for her, but she knew what he was going through, maybe even better than I did. “I'm sorry you guys ever got involved in this,” she told me when we were alone. “I can't see any benefit from it. And, to tell you the truth, I think you and Alex should just let it go.”

I told her about the black-hole tracks.

“That has nothing to do with the AIs. You could have stopped him, Chase. Why didn't you?”

“You know how he is, Audree. He wasn't going to listen to
me.
And, anyhow, I'm not sure I don't agree with him.”

“Come on, Chase, there was no way you couldn't see what was going to happen.”

“Audree, you weren't there when Charlie begged us to help him.”

“I wish I had been,” she said. “If I'd been there with you, I'd have shut this down.”

I tried to imagine Alex backing off because Audree, or anybody else, tried to warn him away from a project he'd set his mind to. It just wasn't going to happen.

We needed a lander. The missile on Villanueva had done too much damage to the old one. Ordinarily, shopping for something like that would have served as a diversion. This time, though, I expected him to tell me to take care of it, but he said no, he wanted to make sure I made the right choice. And, for a moment, his manner softened because we both understood he didn't know a damned thing about quality in a space vehicle.

The leading manufacturer at that time was Steele Industries. Their closest display center was in Pasqual County, which was about two hours away. We could have simply managed the purchase without leaving the country house. But he needed to get out, so I stressed the importance of actually sitting in the vehicle and taking it up.

We flew to Cantaka, in the heart of Pasqual County, and visited the Deep Sky Emporium. They'd have sold us one of their premier models if they could, but we had no need of cushioned seats and silver-plated controls. We took Gabe with us and installed him briefly in each of the models under consideration. In the end, his opinion counted more than anyone else's.

The salespeople still resist allowing customers to do that. They claim there's a danger to the onboard software, but once they realize that the sale hinges on their cooperation, they tend to go along with it.

We spent two days looking at the inventory before finally settling on a black-and-white Coyote. I liked it. It cost more than we'd expected to spend, but it was a solid vehicle. Gabe was ecstatic, though I think it was primarily because he was getting a home.

Meantime, Belle had begun reporting. As I expected, everything was negative. No
Firebird.
Everything quiet so far.

When we got back to the country house, I called Shara. She asked how Alex was doing, and I was able to tell her he seemed better. I thought he'd come to realize that he'd followed his conscience, and that was all he could do. “You'll like the new lander,” I added.

She asked what kind we'd gotten, and looked pleased when I told her.
“Must be nice,”
she said,
“to have that kind of money.”

I wasn't going to touch that. “The reason I called, Shara, is that I've been looking at the target area for the
Firebird.
It's
big.
If it doesn't broadcast, we won't have much chance of finding anything that small.”

“I know.”
She was in her office at the university.
“I've been going back over the numbers. You're right. It's a lot of space to cover. But you expect it to put out a signal, don't you?”

“Alex is hopeful. But we're not counting on it.”

Jacob pardoned himself.
“Chase, you have a transmission from Belle.”

I excused myself and tried to tamp down my heartbeat. “Let's see it, Jacob.”

1121. I think we've acquired the target.

We keep champagne stored in back. We celebrate a lot. Any kind of excuse, and we pop the cork. When I passed Belle's message to Alex, I'd waited for him to go back and get a bottle.

But he made no move to do so. It was, of course, possible that he'd forgotten. But that wouldn't have been at all like him. Alex lived for celebrations. Raise a glass and feel good about yourself or your friends whenever the opportunity permits.

Finally, I went back myself and brought a bottle out.

“No,” he said. “It's premature.”

I realized at that point that
finding
the
Firebird
was only the beginning of what he was hoping for.

THIRTY-ONE

The problem with patience is that it takes time. There's usually a payoff, if anyone is still around to receive it.

—Kosha Malkeva,
The Road to Babylon
, 3376
C.E.

The time of the sighting, 1121 hours, was of course our time. What Alex liked to call country-house time. A second message followed moments after I showed up with the champagne:

1127. It just jumped in. Have gone to intercept course.

Then another:

1129. Target vehicle is under power. Am attempting radio contact. Range approx 600 km.

And:

1134. No response to radio call. Or to blinking light.

Alex got up from his chair and moved closer to the display. The view from the
Belle-Marie
appeared. A sky full of stars. A marker blinked on.
This one.

1139. Location as indicated. No details yet.

I sat back. Tried to relax. “We're lucky,” I said. “I didn't think we'd find it this easily.”

“Why not?”

“There's so much empty space.”

“You're saying we just don't have the coordinates down to a sufficient degree.”

“Not exactly. I'm saying that when you're talking about the pit, open space for billions of kilometers in all directions, it's impossible to pin down a location within a few hundred, or a few thousand, kilometers. There's simply no way to measure it. It's like trying to pinpoint a specific butterfly somewhere on the continent when you have only the latitude and longitude.”

“Well, it looks as if we found the butterfly.”

1147. Still no response.

There was nothing visible other than the marker. Then it morphed into a dim ring.

“There it is,” said Alex.

Inside the ring, we began to see a light.

The room grew very quiet. Eventually, the light brightened and broke apart. The ring faded away. And we were looking at the outline of a vehicle.

Lights were fore and aft, and on twin fins. “I wish we had decent communications with Belle,” Alex said. “I hate this long-range stuff.”

1203. It's a Kandor yacht, approx manufacture date mid-14th cent.

Almost a hundred years ago. We'd gone through all the records and had nowhere been able to find a picture of the
Firebird.
We had no description and had no idea whether it had been a Kandor. But the odds of another vehicle being in the search area were remote.

“Is it at maximum magnification?” he asked.

“Yes.”

1206. I expect to be alongside within two hours. Will send more pictures as situation develops.

The display went blank.

Alex gradually extracted himself from the screen.

He isn't good at sitting still when something's happening. He walked over to the window, adjusted the blinds, wandered off to the rear of the house, came back and asked about a couple of routine business matters, called somebody about the lost comedy shows of Yang Sen Hao and maintained a pleasantly affable manner until he was off-line. Then he grumbled that a little more effort on the part of whomever he'd been talking with would help immensely.

It was almost an hour before the pictures came back.

1251. Interior lights are on. No indication of movement inside.

Alex muttered a barely audible
damn.
He showed no other reaction.

I decided to put a happy face on things. I should know better, of course. “Major breakthrough,” I said.

“I suppose.”

“Alex, we found the damned thing.”

“I know.”

“Two weeks from now, you and I will be out there.”

“Okay. Are we now in a position where we know exactly where we'll be going? And when we should arrive?”

“There's still a degree of uncertainty about it, Alex. It might take a day or two to get it right.”

“And it's probably only there for a couple of hours. Which means we might not find it at all.”

“That's possible. For one thing, there's no radio signal.”

“Okay. We need more exact data.”

“You want to send Belle a second time?”

“Will that help?”

“Yes. Even if it only tells us where
not
to look.”

“All right. That's the way we'll do it—” His voice trailed off. He was staring at the display.

I followed his gaze. The airlock was open. Or at least the outer hatch was.

“Can you tell,” he asked, “whether the
inner
hatch is closed?”