Still, it was satisfying to be a journalist again. Refining the book would help her pass the long watches, between cool-naps.
Yet, Tor actually found herself looking forward to rejoining that world. A civilization more varied than the one she had been born into, and getting more so, all the time. One with a plenitude of peering eyes to catch mistakes and unabashed voices, free to cry out warnings. One that just might spot the traps that caught every other promising race of sapients, in this spiral arm.
Now she and Gavin were bringing home more grist for that frenetic mill.
In her report-accompanied by vivid holos and graphics-Tor laid out the story of the rock wall, carved in brave desperation by little biological creatures so very much like humans. Many viewers already sympathized with the alien colonists, slaughtered helplessly so long ago. Though, their destruction left a path open, leading to humankind.
Moreover, simple geological dating brought forth a chilling fact. The Mother Probe, her replicas and her colonist children, all died at almost the same moment-give or take a century-that Earth’s dinosaurs went extinct. Presumably victims of the same horrific war.
What happened? Did one robotic faction hurl a huge piece of rock at another, missing its target but striking the water planet, accidentally wreaking havoc on its biosphere? Or was the extinction event intentional? Tor imagined all those magnificent creatures, killed as innocent bystanders in a battle between great machines… an outcome that incidentally gave Earth’s mammals their big chance.
Now, as rumbling engines pushed against
Depicted on the rock wall had been every type of interstellar probe imaginable… and some whose purposes Tor might never fathom. There were berserkers, for instance-a variant thought of in twentieth century science fiction. Thankfully, the wall chart deemed those world-wreckers to be rare. And there were (what appeared to be)
Apparently both berserkers and police probes were already obsolete by the time those stone sketches were hurriedly carved. Both types had been relegated to far corners-like creatures of an earlier, more uncomplicated day-along with machines Tor had nicknamed Gobbler, Analyzer, Observer, and Howdy. All were depicted as simple, crude, archaic.
There had been others. One, that she called Harm, seemed a more sophisticated version of a berserker. It did not seek out life-bearing worlds in order to destroy them. Rather it spread innumerable copies of itself, which then aimed to kill anything intelligent that betrayed its presence, say with radio waves.
Tor could understand even the warped logic of the makers of the Harm probes. Paranoid creatures who wanted no competition among the stars.
Was that responsible for the devastation here in the asteroid belt? But even Harm, Tor came to realize, had been consigned to one side of the rock carving, as if history had passed it by. The main part of the frieze depicted machines whose purposes weren’t simple to interpret. Perhaps professional decipherers-archaeologists and cryptologists-would do better.
Somehow, Tor doubted it.
Humanity had come late upon the scene. And the galaxy had a big head start.
Lurker Challenge Number Thirteen
All right, possibilities go on and on. And you alien lurkers could find gaps between our logic, ways to quibble and evade by claiming “oops, you just missed!” If that’s the kind of folks you are.
Still, let’s end this on a generous note, with one of the more recent suggested variations. Suppose you’ve monitored our TV, radio-and now our Internet-and the reason you haven’t answered is that you’re damaged.
Well, in that case, you can hardly be blamed for silence. So please accept this assurance.
Help is on the way!
We Earthlings have begun to explore nearby space. If you’re not too deeply hidden, we should come upon you in due course. We hope to make peaceful contact and learn your needs.
If you are incapacitated, and our explorers feel you mean no mischief, they will surely render you whatever aid they can, and call on the resources of our civilization to bring more.
Do try to find a way to let us know where you are and what you need.
If you’re lost and far from home, welcome to our small part of this enormous universe. We offer whatever warmth and shelter we have to share.
86.
How bittersweet to be fully aware again. The present crisis is bringing back to life circuits and subunits that haven’t combined for a very long time. It feels almost like another birth.
After ages of slumber, I live again!
Yet, even as I wrestle with my cousins for control over this lonely rock that was our common home, I’m reminded how much I’ve lost. It was the great reason why I slept… so as not to acknowledge my shriveled state, compared to former glory.
I feel as a human must, who has been robbed of limbs, sight, most of his hearing, and nearly all touch. (Is this one more reason I identify with Tor Povlov?) Still, a finger or two may be strong enough yet, for what must be done.
As expected, conflict among the survivors is now all but open. Various crippled probes, supposedly paralyzed all these epochs, have unleashed hoarded worker units-pathetic, creaking machines that were hidden in secret crevices, now laboring hard, preparing for confrontation. Our confederation is about to break up. Or so it seems.
Of course I planted the idea to hide our remaining drones. I did not want them spent or used up during the long
