Survival--A Novel Page 10

  “And life on Earth survived them.”

  “Some life. Most life was destroyed when the gamma radiation swept through your region of the galaxy.”

  “Our biologists will be interested to learn that.”

  “Yes, we imagine that they will.”

  Ignatiev suddenly remembered. “Speaking of biologists, you said that Gita Nawalapitiya was here.”

  The human figure pointed. “Here she comes now.”

  Gita was striding along the balcony, a hugely pleased smile on her dark face. A humanlike figure—dressed in exactly the same semi-military uniform as Ignatiev’s own companion—paced along a few steps behind her. As she approached she called, “Professor Ignatiev!”

  “Alex,” he corrected, then immediately felt inane.

  She blinked her large, deep brown eyes once, then repeated, more softly, “Alex.”

  Her humanoid guide came up beside her. “We have been looking at the biosphere—”

  Gita interrupted, “It’s fantastic! A complete self-sufficient biosphere. An exact duplicate of the world up on the surface! A whole phalanx of biologists could spend the rest of their lives studying what they’ve created here!”

  Ignatiev grinned at her. Such enthusiasm, he thought. She’s found a world to explore. I’ll have to get her to report to the executive committee tomorrow.

  Then he remembered. Turning to his avatar, Ignatiev said, “We’ll have to return to the ship.”

  “Not necessarily,” the human figure replied. “We can link you to the ship in orbit quite completely, as if you were actually physically there.”

  “Why can’t we actually be physically there?” Ignatiev challenged. “Why must we remain down here?”

  Patiently, the avatar explained, “You are accustomed to being physically present at such meetings. That is not required. We can project your presence so completely that the others at the meeting will believe you are actually among them.”

  “And our communications link, Aida, why have you cut us off from her?”

  “Your communications link is rather primitive. We can provide you with everything you need, in its place.”

  “I am familiar with Aida. I would feel more comfortable if I could make contact with her.”

  “With it,” the avatar corrected.

  “It,” Ignatiev grumbled.

  With an almost human sigh, the avatar agreed, “Very well, if you insist.”

  Instantly, Ignatiev heard Aida’s voice in his mind. “How may I help you, Professor Ignatiev?”

  Pleasantly surprised, Ignatiev said, “Give me the agenda for tomorrow’s meeting of the executive committee, please.”

  Aida began reciting the agenda as it scrolled across Ignatiev’s vision. His report on the conditions his team had found on the planet’s surface was the first item, just as the avatar had promised.

  Blinking the remainder of the agenda away, Ignatiev asked Gita, “Did you get it, too?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, slightly amazed.

  The avatar asked, “Are you satisfied?”

  “Quite satisfied. Thank you.”

  “You see that there is no requirement to haul your physical bodies back to the orbiting ship. You can be present at your meeting quite completely while remaining here with us.”

  Ignatiev dipped his chin in reluctant acknowledgment.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Walking in perfect step together, the two avatars led Gita and Ignatiev out of the biosphere facility. The four of them walked at a leisurely pace along another long, featureless corridor.

  “Where are we going?” Ignatiev asked.

  “To the quarters we have prepared for you,” the humanlike figure replied. “We have tried to produce living quarters that will be comfortable for you.”

  Ignatiev realized that the humanoid walking beside Gita had said nothing since they’d met, back in the biosphere facility. My guide does all the talking, he said to himself. But they’re both the same, both extensions of the machine intelligence of this planet.

  Ignatiev tried to read the expression on his avatar’s humanlike face, but it was impossible. Like trying to read the expression on a mannequin: blank, perfectly human in its overall features, but no spark of humanity, no passion, no … He hesitated to use the word, but found that soul was the term he was searching for.

  “An interesting concept, the soul,” said the avatar. Again, Ignatiev realized that his thoughts were no longer his own private possession.

  “An immaterial, unsubstantial entity that exists within every individual human being,” the avatar went on. “Yet despite its nonmaterial existence, it bears the responsibility for every action a human individual undertakes.”

  Ignatiev said, “Earlier generations of humans believed that the soul is the human being. Our bodies are merely temporary shells.”

  “You do not believe that?”

  “You know that I don’t, don’t you?”

  The avatar replied, “Ah, but you do. You believe in the concept of the soul. You believe that your soul is your very essence, the ultimate, incorruptible, irreproducible core of your existence.”

  Ignatiev fell silent. He’s right, he admitted to himself. Even though I don’t accept the religious claptrap, I believe deep within me that I have an individual soul, different and quite distinct from every other person’s.

  “Fascinating,” said the avatar, “how these primitive concepts maintain their grip on your intelligence.”

  Ignatiev had no reply.

  * * *

  As the four of them resumed walking down the long, featureless corridor, the avatar beside Gita winked out of existence.

  Gita flinched surprise.

  The avatar near Ignatiev explained, “We have no need for two simulacrums. We can give you all the information you need with one.”

  Ignatiev nodded, and Gita seemed to recover her composure. As the three of them resumed walking along the corridor she asked question after question about the biosphere facility, chattering along, her excitement growing with every step of the way.

  “Are there primatelike species in your facility? Precursors of the creatures that built your ancestors?” she asked as they walked along.

  The avatar replied, “Our creators were extinguished in a death wave event some two hundred fifty million of your years ago. They had produced intelligent machines and were learning to interact with them when the death wave destroyed them all. Our forerunners were quite surprised. I would say they were shocked, but of course they were incapable of such an emotional reaction.”

  Gita asked, “All organic life on your planet was destroyed?”

  “Down to the benthic fishes, in the deepest depths of our oceans.”

  “But your precursors—the AI devices—were not affected by the death wave?”

  “Many were, of course. But enough survived to continue our development, up to the present moment. It was not easy, but we survived.”

  Suspicious, Ignatiev challenged, “If the planet was wiped clean of organic life, how did the organic forms living on the surface today come into existence?”

  The avatar turned slightly toward him. “Why, the same way that your biologists on Earth have re-created long-extinct organic species.”

  “Rewilding!” Gita exclaimed. “Re-creating extinct species from samples of fossil DNA.” To Ignatiev, she bubbled, “I’ve been involved in that, Dr. Ig—er, Alex. I was part of the bio team that brought the sauropod Diplodocus back into existence.”

  Ignatiev stopped walking, and the two others stopped alongside him.

  “Can you tell me,” he asked the avatar, “why you haven’t re-created the intelligent organic creatures who developed your own ancestors?”

  The avatar stared at him for almost a full minute. Ignatiev counted the time by listening to the pulse thumping in his ears.

  Finally, the human figure answered, “We saw no need to do so. Organic intelligence had served its purpose by creating us. We decided it would be
too stressful for such creatures to live in a world where machine intelligence had so far surpassed their own achievements.”

  “You didn’t want to have any competition.”

  The human avatar smiled coldly. “You see? Your immediate interpretation is based on the concept of competition. How would the organics face up to the situation where they are not the lords of creation that they always assumed themselves to be? How would they accept the fact that we machines have evolved much farther than they ever could have?”

  “So you decided not to re-create a race that might compete with you,” Ignatiev said.

  “There would be no competition,” the humanoid figure said flatly. “Machine intelligence is demonstrably more capable than organic.”

  “Including we humans.”

  “Yes.”

  Gita’s expression had shifted from excited exhilaration to guarded anxiety. Ignatiev himself felt as if he had opened a powder keg.

  But the avatar let the tension slide past. “Come,” it said, pointing down the corridor, “we are almost at the area where your quarters have been built.”

  * * *

  So they started walking again, this time, though, in silence. It doesn’t matter, Ignatiev told himself. They can read our thoughts just as clearly as if we spoke them.

  Then he realized that he didn’t seem to feel tired at all. This planet’s gravity isn’t that much lighter than Earth’s, he thought. Yet my legs don’t ache; I feel much younger than I did before. The ALS …

  The humanlike avatar, pacing along beside him, said, “You feel well, Professor Ignatiev.”

  “Quite well.”

  “Perhaps learning new things, confronting new concepts, puts fresh strength in your legs.”

  “Or you’ve cured my ALS?”

  “Oh, no. Not that. We would never interfere with your bodily processes without your permission.”

  “But … could you cure me?”

  “Perhaps,” said the avatar.

  Perhaps, Ignatiev said to himself. Perhaps.

  He saw a blank wall at the end of the corridor. As if his glance activated a hidden mechanism, the wall dissolved as they approached it. Another elevator, Ignatiev saw. Will it take us back to the surface or deeper downward?

  Answering his unvoiced question, the avatar said, “We are constructing a village for you, up on the surface. Soon it will be large enough to house all your people.”

  “All two thousand of us?” Ignatiev asked.

  “Yes. And your laboratories and workshops, as well. We intend for all of you to live here in comfort.”

  The elevator rose swiftly. And when the doors opened again they were back on the smooth, flat surface of what Ignatiev now thought of as the roof of the machines’ city. In the distance he could see their shuttlecraft, inert and alone, waiting for them.

  The avatar pointed in the opposite direction, and Ignatiev saw—at the far end of the rooflike expanse—a cluster of small buildings. They reminded Ignatiev of an urban apartment complex, although he could see no windows, no balconies, nothing that allowed a view of the outside. On their far side, industrious construction machines were busily erecting more such buildings.

  “Your new quarters,” the avatar said smoothly.

  They work fast, Ignatiev thought.

  The avatar led Gita and Ignatiev into the nearest of the buildings. Inside its blank, featureless entrance was a circular passageway, marked by doors that bore nameplates on them.

  “We have tried to make your quarters here as comfortable as possible,” said the avatar.

  The first door bore Ignatiev’s name. It slid open as they approached.

  Ignatiev stepped through and looked around. The avatar came in with him, while Gita hesitated outside in the circular corridor.

  “Will this be satisfactory?” the avatar asked.

  Ignatiev turned a full circle. He was standing in the front room of his house in Saint Petersburg, his home, the home he had shared with Sonya for so many years.

  The fireplace crackled with a real fire. Ignatiev went to it and warmed his hands.

  “This is satisfactory?” the avatar asked again.

  “I presume you have potato vodka stocked in the kitchen,” Ignatiev replied.

  “We have tried our best. No one in your crew seems to know the exact formula for potato vodka.”

  Ignatiev grunted, then said, “It’s the thought that counts.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The avatar smiled pleasantly at Ignatiev and started for the door. “We will leave you alone in your quarters, for now. The kitchen is voice-activated. It can prepare a wide variety of meals for you, all you have to do is tell it what you want.”

  “Thank you,” said Ignatiev.

  As it reached the door, the avatar turned and reminded, “Your executive committee meeting will convene at nine A.M. tomorrow.”

  Nodding, Ignatiev replied, “Yes, I know.” Through the open doorway he could see Gita, standing in the corridor like a lonely waif.

  “You can attend the meeting right here, in your sitting room.”

  “Very convenient.”

  “Good evening, then.”

  “Good evening.”

  The human figure went through the door; it slid shut softly behind him, but not before Ignatiev saw it gesturing to Gita to follow it farther up the hallway.

  Alone now, Ignatiev took a few steps back toward the crackling fireplace. The flames were real; he enjoyed their warmth. He turned and went to the couch. It was the same, exactly the same, as the couch that he remembered from his Saint Petersburg living room. Even the creases in the leather upholstery and the worn, shining spots were the same.

  Of course, he said to himself. The machines picked through my memory to create this room.

  He slumped down onto the worn old couch with a tired sigh and sank his head in his hands. These damned machines, he moaned inwardly. Everything is perfect. Exactly duplicated. Exactly. He half expected to see Sonya coming in from the kitchen.

  He straightened up. No, he told himself. That way lies true madness. She’s gone and you can’t bring her back. All you can do is replay the memories; the damned machines will be playing a game with you. It won’t be Sonya. It can’t be.

  Ignatiev forced himself to his feet. Don’t sink yourself into the past. Don’t fall into that trap. Forward. That’s the only way to go. Face the future as you always have. Whatever happens, you must go forward, into the future. Leave the past behind. It’s dead and there’s nothing you or these devilishly clever machines can do to bring it back.

  He caught an image of himself in a mirror hanging on the far wall of the room. Straighten up! he commanded himself. Damn the ALS! Head high, shoulders back.

  Face the future.

  Very deliberately, Ignatiev called out, “Aida, can you hear me?”

  “Of course,” said the AI’s synthesized voice.

  “Please contact Dr. Nawalapitiya for me.”

  Gita’s bright, eager face took form on the holographic display above the fireplace.

  She seemed surprised. “Professor Ignatiev!”

  “Alex.”

  She blinked once, then amended, “Alex.”

  Suddenly, he didn’t know what to say. “Er … how are your quarters?”

  Gita broke into a happy smile. “Very comfortable. Very homey. It’s a duplicate of my university rooms at Trinkomalee. Home, you know.”

  “You’re comfortable?”

  “I’m sure I will be.”

  Ignatiev ran out of words. What do you do now, idiot? he snarled to himself.

  Gita saved him his embarrassment. “The rest of the group is meeting in the common room. Won’t you join us there?”

  “Common room?” Ignatiev asked, feeling stupid.

  Her brows wrinkling slightly, Gita said, “It’s three … no, four doors up from your quarters.”

  “I’ll see you there,” he said.

  * * *

  Raj Jackson and all of
the other members of the team were there when Ignatiev stepped through the door of the common room. It was a generous space, furnished with a scattering of upholstered chairs and couches. A small bar occupied one corner, and displays along the walls showed views of the planet’s greenery and the distant craggy mountains.

  Gita was standing at the bar when Ignatiev entered, her slim figure looking almost childlike next to Jackson and the others. She broke into a warm smile when she saw Ignatiev.

  He headed straight for the bar, beside her.

  Jackson already had a glass in his hand. “I don’t know exactly what this stuff is,” he said, pointing at the glass’s amber contents with his free hand, “but it’s good.”

  There was a machine behind the bar: a square of metal and synthetics, with four flexible arms. No face, no humanlike features at all. But it asked, “What can I produce for you, Professor Ignatiev?”

  “Potato vodka,” Ignatiev answered immediately.

  “Unfortunately,” the robot’s voicebox responded, “no one here knows the contents of potato vodka. Would distilled grain alcohol satisfy you?”

  “It’s good,” Jackson repeated encouragingly.

  With a resigned nod, Ignatiev said, “Distilled grain alcohol, then.”

  Within a few minutes, the team pushed the room’s chairs into a rough circle. Everyone seemed happy enough, at ease. Ignatiev sipped at his drink. The source of their delight, he thought.

  “It’s been a very interesting day,” he said.

  “And then some!” said one of the women.

  “They just built these apartments for us, out of thin air!”

  Ignatiev held up a cautioning finger. “They have studied us since we arrived in orbit, I’m sure. Perhaps from before we established orbit.”

  “They could see our ship approaching, I imagine,” said Jackson.

  “And they can read our minds,” Ignatiev added.

  “Really? You think so?”

  “I’m certain of it. We’ll have no secrets from them.”

  Gita’s normally cheerful face became somber. “They were able to cut off our comm link with Aida and Intrepid. That’s a bit scary.”

  “If they can really read our minds…”

  “How do you think they could reproduce our homes on Earth?” Ignatiev said.