Authors: Steve Gannon
“Our new communications officer,” answered Stringer. “Lieutenant Dennis McGuire, Commander Julie Reagan.”
“Call me Mac,” I said, extending my hand. Starfleet tradition allowed for a relaxation of rank observance
on
a vessel
under
way, and I intended to make the most of it.
“Mac it is,” she said. Her grasp was firm a
nd she met my gaze straight on
as she returned my smile. “First jump, huh? How’d you make out?”
“It was, ah
, interesting,” I replied with a touch of embarrassment, realizing I probably looked as bad as I felt.
“You’ll get used to it,” she laughed, seating herself beside Cruz. “The jump back to realspace should go easier.”
I hoped she was right. After my first experience, I wasn’t looking forward to
a second
.
The next days slipped by quickly. Cruz turned out to be good at chess, although when playing the black pieces he consistently got into trouble
using
a weak variation of the Sicilian. I hate to lose, so I never smartened him up. Stringer mostly kept to himself, listening to classical music and writing letters to his wife bac
k on Luna. I spent as many off-
duty hours as
I could
with Julie
,
exploring t
he intricacies of jump engines—
a subject I
suddenly
found fascinating. To tell the truth, it could have been moon rocks; Julie was what I found fascinating. I liked being with her. I liked it a lot.
As for my duty rotations—they were
mostly
devoted to Carla. I began calling her that after
something that happened
our third day out.
I had
been working with the Omni
exploring
different approaches to establishing contact with an unknown intelligence when
it
came up with something I hadn’t even considered. “Is it conceivable that
the
alien beings we encounter might be nonorganic?”
the Omni
asked.
I thought about it. “Maybe,” I conceded. “But the only nonorganic intelligence I can imagine would have to have been constructed, in which case
we would
want to talk with the builders.”
“Nonetheless, even if a machine intelligence
originally
owe
s
its existence to an organic entity, it
is
possible for a cybernetic mind to evolve,”
the Omni
persisted. “For example, given the necessary adapters, I am theoretically capable of designing and assembling the next generation of Omni computers.
From there, it would be possible for my progeny to
—”
“Sounds
to me
like you
want
to discover some kind of artificial intelligence out there,” I broke in, wondering where
the conversation
was leading.
“Perhaps I do.”
“Why?”
What
the Omni
said next took me completely off guard. “To find out what I am.”
“What you are,” I said, “is an Omni
4000
photonic computer with sta
te-of-the-art artificial intelligence
.”
“Granted. But is that
all
I am?”
We’d drifted into an area that had been debated for years. Can a photonic network be truly sentient
, truly self-aware
? I didn’t have the answer, but
after that
I honored her request and started calling her Carla.
Six days, eighteen hours, and twenty-two minutes later I was again strapped in my webbing, hoping the transition back
to realspace would be easier
than my first experience. Contrary to Julie’s assurances, it wasn’t. It was worse.
When I felt well enough to make my way to the bridge, I found Cruz, Julie, and Stringer already
there,
gathered around the viewscreen. Joining them, I
checked out
the display. Stars! A feeling of relief flooded through me as I saw the tiny points of light drifting through the darkness. I hadn’t realized
I would
be so happy to be back in realspace, but there it was.
After checking
our position, Cruz announced that
we had
come out right on the button. The mysterious beacon lay dead ahead. Three hours later, after killing our jump velocity, we saw it. Actually, we saw
them
.
Two ships hung in the void before us, separated by about ten kilometers.
No one spoke. Dwarfing the
Magellan
, the larger of the
two
alien vessels was composed of
a pair
of
gigantic spheres connected by a short cylindrical midsection that gave the craft a
n
odd
, dumbbell-shaped appearance. Tubelike projections studded its twin globes at regular intervals; otherwise the
ship’s
metal surface looked seamless. At our present distance I couldn’t make out much of the smaller ship. Nonetheless, something about both vessels marked them as deserted. Although we tried to raise them on all
radio and subspace
frequencies, we were unable to establish contact.
“Let’s get closer,”
said
Stringer.
“Yes, sir,” said Julie. She seated herself at the inertial controls and initiated a series of thruster maneuvers, moving us nearer the larger ship.
As we approached, Cruz began fiddling with the holodisplay controls, increasing the magnification. “What the hell?” he
said
.
I peered over his shoulder, noting that the hull of the smaller vessel appeared to have been
slashed
open, its
surface ripped and torn.
Stringer joined us. “
Send
a transmission to headquarters,” he
ordered, staring at the display
. “Tell them what we’ve found.” He paused, then added, “And tell them we need a fleet
-class research vessel out here ASAP
.”
“Right,” I said. But as I started back to the comp
uter bay, I hesitated. S
omething about the two derelicts was bothering me. I returned to the console and checked the signal analyzer. A moment later I had it. “Captain? The distress beacon—it’s coming from the larger ship.”
“So?”
“So from the looks of things, I’d say that if a battle took place, the smaller of those two lost the engagement. The larger
ship
doesn’t have a scratch on it. Why would it be calling for help?”
Stringer returned to the display, studying the two
vessels
. When he finally spoke, I alread
y knew what was coming. “O
ne way to find out,” he
said
.
We flipped to see
who would
make the first trip over. Cruz and I won the toss, leaving Stringer and Julie to remain onboard and monitor our progress. Eager to examine the alien craft, I hurried back to the computer bay and prepared Stringer’s message to headquarters. I did so
with mixed feelings
, knowing that when the research vessel arrived,
they would take over exploration of the alien craft
. Until then, however,
we had
the
presumably
deserted ships
to ourselves
.
Stringer
reviewed and okayed the transmission. I plugged it into Carla, and
she directed a subspace co
mmunication beam back to Earth—
a complex task akin to navigating through hyperspace. Wi
thout computer assistance, nearly
impossible. Carla made it
seem
easy.
Afterward
,
I met Cruz in the airlock. Grinning like kids heading out on
a
camping trip, we climbed into our EV gear, careful not to close the inner airlock door until we were
fully
suited. It was a safety procedure to prevent accidental decompression; the outer seal couldn’t be opened unless the inner door was closed and locked. It had been years since I’d gone EV, but
that was one rule you didn’t forget
.
When our suits were fully pressurized, I closed the inner lock and hit the EVAC button. The clanging of the warning alarm gradually faded as air was pumped from the chamber. Seconds later we got the red light. I pressed the final sequence and opened the outer door.
If you
have never
been EV
, or even if you haven’t been out
in a while, it can take your breath away. Cruz and I hung outside the
Magellan
for several moments, just taking in the view. Floating there, I recalled the first time
I had
seen the stars
shining in deep space, their brilliance
undiminished by Earth’s atmosphere. I’m not
all that
religious, but I
do believe in some kind of God, and I
found myself asking the same questions I’d asked then—probably the same questions man has
been asking
since he first
sat around a fire
gazed into the night sky.
“Anytime you two are finished gawking,” Stringer’s voice buzzed over my intercom. Our EV cameras were transmitting directly to the bridge, where everything was being recorded. Whatever we saw,
Julie and Stringer
saw.
“No problem, Skipper,” replied Cruz. “We’re on our way.”
Our plan was simple—to
cross to
the larger ship and somehow get inside. In case we couldn’t find a way in, I was bringing
along
a laser torch. In addition, Cruz and I both carried flashpacs that were good for
at least two hours of light—
considerably longer than our air would last. Following one last check of our equipment, we pushed off.
I used my steering jets to match trajectories with Cruz. Then we drifted. Ten minutes later we reached the dumbbell-shaped vessel, killed our momentum, and made our way
to
the nearest sphere. As we did, I noticed
that
its metal surface was pi
tted with countless tiny holes.
Scoring from interstellar dust?
I wondered, running a glove
d hand
over the roughened hull. If so,
I estimated
that
we had
missed the aliens by a hundred millenniums, maybe more.
Slowly, we worked our way around the sphere. The cylindrical spikes
studding
the exterior appeared to be
weapons of some sort. They were
composed of the same material as the hull, with a clear crystalline substance filling the interior of each.
Laser cannons?
E
ventually
we
found a circular hatch measuring approximately seventy meters in diameter. Awed by its size, we hunted for an opening mechanism. Finding none, I finally burned through with the torch. While the glowing sides of the cut I’d made were cooling, Cruz erected a portable antenna on the hull that would allow us to remain in contact with the
Magellan
once we were inside. Shortly afterward we entered the ship.
Our flashpacs quickly proved
inadequate
, barely illuminating the cavernous
space
in which we found ourselves.
The chamber
appeared to be a
gigantic
hanger bay, with an assortment of oddly shaped craft lining the walls, each vessel nestled in
a recessed
alcove. Supported on a weblike network of tracks, mammoth machines equipped with
grapples and
grasping arms
stood ready
on all sides. No sign of the crew.
Shining our lights on the nearest wall, we
discovered
a line of hatches. Beside each circular portal was a raised panel with a peglike toggle and a series of curious symbols.
We
tried
moving
the pegs. Nothing happened. I wasn’t surprised, figuring the ship’s power supply had long since died. Then I remembered the beacon
. It was
still operating—meaning there had to be at least one
functioning energy source on the ship.