Analog SFF, March 2012 (17 page)

"Which don't appear in the other cocoons."

Poe nodded. “Correct. A point in my favor. But going beyond this scenario into specifics of who or what these beings are, and their various properties, would be conjecture at this point.” He tapped a thin read-write screen on his desk. “And things are more complicated than I had originally believed. These patterns in the charts—they're amazingly complex. I've even detected patterns nestled within patterns. Almost like fractals. There's a great deal of substructure in these waveforms."

"Which means?"

"That's just it, Marlon. I've no idea."

It sounded like Poe was beginning to doubt his own theory. I wasn't sure if that made me feel better or not. I shifted gears and asked him about Clarissa. The question threw him for a moment. He obviously hadn't been doing much thinking about her.

"What do I know about Clarissa?” He paused. “Nothing, really. I'd never heard of her before I got here, but that's no surprise—she hasn't published much. I assume she was invited to study this phenomenon because she's bright, it's related to her specialty, and she was nearby."

"Do you like her?"

A fleeting grin passed over Poe's face. “I presume you're wondering if I resent her because she's become one of my more vocal critics. I'm not annoyed at all. In fact she performs a valuable service. All my critics do, and I assure you that Clarissa hasn't been the only one—and not nearly the most acerbic."

"A valuable service?"

"If I can answer the objections of my staunchest critics, I'm much more confident in my ideas. Theories are sometimes like children to their originators. If you come up with an original idea, you're usually too involved, too close to evaluate it properly."

"But what if they never accept your answers, even after you've become convinced you're right?"

"Then that's their problem. Truth isn't affected by how many people believe it."

I thought his reply was too glib. “But your scientific reputation and funding opportunities depend on what your colleagues think of you."

"To a certain extent. But once you're right about a few things, and you prove it to the satisfaction of the majority of open-minded people, you don't have to worry.” Poe flashed another quick smile. “You can be an
enfant terrible
and still have a successful career, as long as you don't go too far over the top."

"And your wife?"

Another question that threw Poe. As I intended. He recovered quickly, only a trace of irritation in his voice.

"You've heard about her, I gather. She's not over the top—she's not a scientist, either. I frankly admit that I don't believe in much of what she says. I mean I trust her, she's sincere, but I don't think her interpretation of certain things is a correct description of reality. But I love her anyway. Does that make any sense? I suppose it doesn't, at least to some people, but it's true nonetheless."

To me it made sense. I thought about my own situation. I'd been wanting to ask Sara to marry me for more than a year, but I kept putting it off. Sara knew me as someone else, a fictional person—an identity corroborated by my employer. At the end of my contract the government was supposed to make that identity permanent if I requested it. Then I could become Arlen Reyers, freelance consultant. For real.

But I wondered what Sara would say if she knew who I really was.

Which raised another point. Who, exactly,
was
I?

It gets to you after a while—all the snooping, the lies, the deception. You don't know who you are anymore. Sometimes you don't even know if you're real. You don't know if anything is real. Everything begins to have a fragile, tissuey feel to it; a good tug and everything you thought you knew falls apart.

Maybe that's why I was taking Poe's theories so seriously. They intrigued me in a fundamental way, a level deep below the surface.

One thing I knew for sure: I had to get out of this business.

My comm beeped in that funny way—three short beeps followed by three long and then three more short—which indicated an emergency. I said goodbye to Poe and hurried into a private consultation room to take the call.

The news was good. The local police had found the missing guard and orderly, alive and well.

By early next morning our people had gained custody of the two suspects. To avoid complications, we removed them from the county jail and took them to an office building where the government rented some space.

When I walked in, four tall, broad-shouldered men were standing over the two suspects. Tied up in office chairs with the casters pulled off, the guard and orderly were looking up and protesting their innocence. The room was small and windowless; the air was stale, and there was an overpowering aroma of fear emanating from the two suspects.

I told the interrogators to wait outside until I needed them. They glared at the suspects as they stepped out. When the door closed, I smiled, sat at the edge of a fold-up table in front of the chairs, and said, “So what's the story?"

I'd already heard their story but I wanted it first-hand.

The face of Sheldan, the old guard, was ashen, but he seemed the more composed of the two. Trey, the young orderly, looked scared to death.

"The man overpowered me,” said the guard. “He was strong and fast. But he let me go. I promised him . . . I promised I wouldn't interfere."

"Wouldn't interfere with what?"

"What they had to do,” said the orderly.

His relatively steady voice surprised me. The fearful look hadn't left his eyes but he seemed calm.

"And what was that?"

Both the orderly and the guard shook their heads. They claimed to have no idea.

I prompted the rest of the story out of them, and what they told me matched what they'd told the cops. The two hibernators treated them well, said they would be amply rewarded if the hibernators “succeeded.” The nature of the operation wasn't divulged, but the tech-savvy orderly helped the hibernators to escape the hospital without triggering any hospital alarms. He also educated them about government sensors, although after a quick round of questioning I concluded that Mr. Trey didn't know as much as he thought he did about the latest government surveillance techniques.

Yet the hibernators had so far done a good job of hiding. We still hadn't found them. And the reports of Trey and Sheldan indicated that the hibernators had awoken on their own—as Poe hypothesized.

The hibernators had locked up the guard and orderly in a little-used warehouse not too far from the hospital. They left them plenty of food and water, some readers—one-way, which couldn't be used to contact anyone—a monitor tied into the television feeds, two mattresses and blankets, and a portable toilet with an air scrubber. Couldn't ask for anything more. When the cops found them there was plenty of food and water remaining; either the hibernators were being generous or they expected the guard and orderly to be cooped up for much longer. But a warehouse inspector found them when he discovered a lock on the room that shouldn't have been there, and the sound of a television set coming from within. He expected to find some illegals hiding there.

Sheldan and Trey told officers that the hibernators spoke unaccented English and seemed normal in every way except one.

"They were so damn persuasive,” repeated Frank Sheldan. He stared at me with his old, tired eyes. “I mean it, mister. If you could have talked to them you'd say the same thing. They said they weren't going to hurt anybody, they said they never hurt anybody. They were in some kind of trouble. Big trouble. I don't what, and I don't know who they are, but I knew they weren't lying."

And I knew the guard wasn't lying. I concluded that both of the suspects had told all they knew, as truthfully as they could. I couldn't authorize the release of the suspects but I told the interrogators to find something else to do.

My report to the boss was discouraging. If the hibernators could get help as easily elsewhere as they did at the hospital, they would be extremely difficult to find. However, if you believed they meant no harm, there might be no reason to become alarmed.

The boss refused to look on the bright side. That's not what you did when you worked in security.

"I didn't say I believed they mean no harm,” I said. “It's just a possibility."

"A possibility we shall dismiss until proven otherwise.” The boss's voice came from an overhead lighting fixture in the break room of the office building. Some people might find that amusing. I bet the people who worked here wouldn't.

"Lean on Poe,” ordered the boss.

"I'm leaning."

"Lean harder. We need a better idea what we're dealing with. And another thing. Don't make trouble for Clarissa Jardin."

So she was a Fed, as I suspected. Whoever was monitoring me or had been reading the transcripts of my conversations must have noticed that I'd tripped her up.

"One last thing,” said the boss. “Why did you dismiss the interrogation team? They felt they could have learned something more from the suspects."

"They're wrong."

"No, they're not. They can always learn something more."

True enough—you could always learn a little more. My point was that we'd obtained all the available
useful
information. Why was the boss questioning my field decisions? He'd been doing this more frequently recently.

"Negative on further interrogation,” I said firmly. “I have all the facts I need at the present time.” It was my call as the head of field ops on this case. The boss would just have to live with it.

The boss signed off with an unruffled voice but with a suggestion, I thought, of huffiness.

I understood the concern of the higher-ups. They're paid to worry, and there was still plenty to worry about. In the worst case scenario, we could be in serious trouble. Even if Poe wasn't entirely correct, the hibernators were a special kind of people—or beings. We knew they could hibernate; what else could they do?

Perhaps more importantly, what else did they
want
to do?

At noon I returned to the hospital. I checked on the six remaining hibernators, whose status hadn't changed. On my way to Poe's temporary office I ran into Clarissa.

"What's the latest news?” asked Clarissa, giving me a sharp look.

A test, perhaps? To see what I would divulge?

Clarissa had a twinkle in her eye that suggested she already knew everything I did about the case. She was probably a higher-up, though the inscrutable hierarchy of security made it impossible for me to find out.

"Nothing important from the guard and orderly,” I told her. “They seemed to be willing volunteers for the hibernators."

"You're going to talk to Poe about it?"

I nodded.

Clarissa smiled faintly as she walked away.

I walked into Poe's office, which I knew would be bugged. And the boss would know that I knew.

As usual, Poe was hunched over a screen, analyzing some kind of chart or graph. I plopped in the chair beside his desk. He glanced up, appearing to be slightly surprised or puzzled at my presence. Then he went back to the data, saying “next” each time he wanted to view some more graphs.

Poe ignored me for five minutes. I waited patiently, saying nothing. Finally he looked up. “I've found more genetic anomalies in the hibernators’ DNA,” he said without preamble. “Hox genes—a critical set of genes that regulate embryonic development of most species on earth—are altered and rearranged in the hibernators. I'm convinced that their configuration in the hibernator DNA would expedite development. I've set up a simulation to test that idea, and although it hasn't finished yet, I strongly suspect I'm right."

"It wouldn't take long for these bodies to develop in some kind of womb-like membrane?"

"Exactly."

"Made to order."

Poe shrugged.

I told Poe about the guard and orderly. “What do you think of their behavior?” I asked.

"Interesting, certainly, but I'm not sure what meaning to read into it, if any. If you're wondering what we can determine about the hibernators’ brains and intelligence from their genes, I'm afraid the answer will be disappointing—it isn't much. We haven't found very many links between genes and complex behaviors and traits such as intelligence. The apparent persuasiveness of hibernator behavior is noteworthy, but the data are weak. An alternative hypothesis is that the guard and orderly are more gullible or susceptible than normal."

"Perhaps, but I doubt it."

Poe knew I had interviewed them, and he seemed to accept my conclusion.

"What about consciousness?” I asked. “You still think it was . . . transferred?"

"It remains the best hypothesis, yes."

"So it can fly in and fly out?"

"A reasonable assumption."

"But what happens to the being's consciousness after the energy or radiation or whatever it is flies away? What I mean is, what happens to the body's mind? Is it like being cloned?"

"You're asking if something gets left behind?"

"Yes. And what was in there before?"

Poe leaned back. “Good questions. We can only speculate at this point. There may be nothing—no conscious thought—before the absorption or after the emission."

"But what about the electrical activity of the brain? And its rhythms?"

Poe shrugged. “What about them? They may be necessary but not always sufficient for consciousness."

"But if that's true . . .” I thought about the implications for humans.

"It need not be the case with us,” said Poe, picking up on my train of thought. “The hibernators have been modified in ways that we, as yet, little understand. Our brains may work differently."

"What if they don't? Or what if the differences aren't important? Maybe we can be potential hosts."

"That's a breathtaking idea, and not beyond the realm of possibility. But there's no evidence yet to support such an assertion."

A woman's voice said, “Maybe these beings are what we regard as souls."

I whirled around, almost fell out of my chair. I'd been so involved in the discussion with Poe that I hadn't noticed someone else had entered through the open door.