Echo. Part 1

Echo.

Jack McDevitt.

For Ron Peifer, always the man of the hour

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

I'm indebted for advice and technical a.s.sistance to David DeGraff of Alfred University, Walter Cuirle of the U.S. House of Representatives Page School, and Michael Fossel, author of Cells, Aging, and Human Disease Cells, Aging, and Human Disease. Thanks also to Ralph Vicinanza, for his continuing support. To Sara and Bob Schwager, for their suggestions. To my editor, Ginjer Buchanan. And to my wife, Maureen, who has to read the early version.

Lost in the wind was the last dying echo of who we were.

-JOSHUA KILBRIDE, DOWNSTREAM

PROLOGUE.

LATE WINTER, 1403, RIMWAY CALENDAR.

Somerset Tuttle's AI announced that Rachel had arrived. "Do you wish to admit her, sir?" "Do you wish to admit her, sir?"

"Of course, Jeremy. Tell her I'll be right there."

Rachel had been upset when she called. That was utterly out of character for her. Sunset, she'd said, verging on tears-he loved being addressed by the nickname, intended by his rivals as a commentary on his career, but which nevertheless had an adventurous ring-I have to see you. No. Tonight. Please. Whatever you're doing. No, I don't want to tell you over the circuit. Are you alone? Well, get rid of them. You won't be sorry.

When he'd suggested they meet over dinner, she'd all but come apart. "Now, Sunset. Please." "Now, Sunset. Please."

He liked Rachel. She said what she thought, she had a good sense of humor, she was smart, and she was beautiful. Soft brown hair and penetrating blue eyes and a smile that lit up his life. He enjoyed having her with him when he attended social functions because she was inevitably the most beautiful creature in the room. The nitwits who thought he was crazy because he'd invested a lifetime trying to determine who else might be out there-the most important question of the age-could only watch enviously as he escorted her through the crowd.

She worked for World's End Tours, where she took people sightseeing among the stars. And over on your right is Anderson's Black Hole. And straight ahead is the Crab Nebula. He smiled at the image and kept the smile in place to rea.s.sure Rachel that, whatever was bothering her, it would be all right.

His great hope was that one day he would introduce her to someone not born of human stock, someone other than the idiot Mutes, of course, who'd been around so long it was hard to think of them as alien. That they would sit down over lunch with a true Other, fill the winegla.s.ses, and talk about purpose, design, and G.o.d. That was what mattered.

Tuttle had been looking for over a century, sometimes with colleagues, more often alone. He'd examined literally hundreds of terrestrial worlds, places with running water and bright sunlight and soft winds. Most had been devoid even of a blade of gra.s.s or a trilobite. A few possessed forests and creatures that scampered through them, and seas teeming with life. But they were rare.

Nowhere had he seen something that might have been able to appreciate who he was and where he came from. Something that, on occasion, might have looked at the stars.

He didn't look forward to Rachel's upcoming hysterics. He couldn't imagine what it might be that had rattled a woman he'd considered, until this moment, unflappable. But he didn't want to get involved with what was clearly a sticky personal situation. It sounded like a problem with her boyfriend, but surely she wouldn't bring that to him him. What then? Trouble at work? That had to be it. Maybe she'd gotten caught in some sort of compromising situation with one of the pa.s.sengers. That was prohibited, for reasons he'd never understood.

She'd needed fifteen minutes to get there, a stretch of time that had seemed endless. Now she stood in the open doorway, staring at him with red-rimmed eyes. Sunset straightened his shirt and opened his arms to her. "My dear, come in. What's wrong?"

The door and entryway were gla.s.s, and the snow-covered grounds behind her gleamed in the sunlight. Rachel's sculpted features were frozen. The animation that fueled her loveliness was gone.

"Sunset." It was all she seemed able to manage.

She was wrapped in a light jacket, too delicate for the weather. He took her by the shoulders and started to embrace her, but she pulled away. "Rachel, it's good to have you back. Come in and sit down. Can I get you something?"

She shook her head, holding back tears.

He led her into the sitting room. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Oh, yes, please." She collapsed into a chair while he got her favorite liqueur, Margo's carousel, out of the cabinet. He poured two gla.s.ses, walked back, and handed her one. She'd taken off the jacket, and he was surprised to see that she was wearing her uniform. It was dark blue, and a captain's silver stars rested on her shoulders. But the collar had been pulled open.

"Now what seems to be the problem?"

"Sunset," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, "I need help."

She'd been gone three weeks. He hadn't expected her back for another few days.

"Of course, love. What can I do?"

She looked up at a mural of the Milky Way, which dominated the west wall. She stared at it, sighed, shook her head, wiped away a tear. Then she picked up the gla.s.s and took a sip. Her eyes went back to the mural. "You've been looking your entire life, haven't you?" she asked.

"Yes, I suppose so. I got hooked when my father took me out on one of his missions."

"He never found anything, either."

"No. Rachel, n.o.body ever ever finds anything. Except Melony Brown." Melony had come unexpectedly upon the Ashiyyur, the Mutes, centuries ago, while she was measuring solar temperature ranges. She was the lady for whom the river had been named. "Did something happen on the tour?" finds anything. Except Melony Brown." Melony had come unexpectedly upon the Ashiyyur, the Mutes, centuries ago, while she was measuring solar temperature ranges. She was the lady for whom the river had been named. "Did something happen on the tour?"

"Yes."

My G.o.d, she'd been caught in flagrante on the ship with one of the pa.s.sengers. It would be the end of her career. "So," he said, keeping his voice carefully level, "what happened?"

She looked at him and suddenly he knew. It hadn't been a tryst.

There were stories all the time. Somebody saw lights out at Ringwald 557. Somebody else intercepted a strange communication in the Veiled Lady. A couple of people on a once-in-a-lifetime vacation came across ruins on Sakata III and came back claiming to have made the discovery of the age. Except that the lights never showed up again, the communication was never traced, and the ruins were five thousand years old, all that remained of a settlement lost to history. Just ordinary people from Flexnor, maybe, or Vikoda. n.o.body knew for certain. When you've been running around the Orion Arm for thousands of years, history gets lost.

A million systems that had never been looked at lay within reach. But the impulse to explore had gone away a long time ago. People had looked for centuries and found nothing more advanced than monkeys and dolphins. Somehow, for reasons still not clearly understood, the evolution of mental faculties did not generally exceed a fairly low level. Maybe it was that there was no clear survival value in drawing pictures on walls or writing poetry. Something almost unique must have happened with humans.

"Sunset," she said, "I saw something you'd be interested in."

Tuttle was accustomed to it. Aliens Aliens was a popular topic on the science talk shows, so he got a lot of invitations, and everyone knew who he was. To his colleagues, he was a man who'd wasted his life, chasing dreams. But to the more imaginative members of the general public, he was the guy they came to when they had, or dreamed they'd had, a strange encounter. They were inevitably mildly deranged. He'd expected more from Rachel. was a popular topic on the science talk shows, so he got a lot of invitations, and everyone knew who he was. To his colleagues, he was a man who'd wasted his life, chasing dreams. But to the more imaginative members of the general public, he was the guy they came to when they had, or dreamed they'd had, a strange encounter. They were inevitably mildly deranged. He'd expected more from Rachel.

"So what did you see, love?"

She started to reply, but her voice caught. She was wiping her cheek again. "It's not good," she said.

"Tell me what happened."

Finally, the tears came.

PART I.

The Tablet

ONE.

Antiquities are . . . remnants of history which have casually escaped the shipwreck of time.

-Francis Bacon, The Advancement of Learning

1431, TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS LATER.

"Chase, I may have found something of interest." Alex's voice, over the internal comm system, sounded dubious. Maybe he had something, maybe not. I was just getting ready to tackle the morning's work, which consisted primarily of calculating charges for our clients and getting out the monthly billing notices. It had been a good year, and if current trends continued, Rainbow Enterprises would experience breakout earnings. Alex's voice, over the internal comm system, sounded dubious. Maybe he had something, maybe not. I was just getting ready to tackle the morning's work, which consisted primarily of calculating charges for our clients and getting out the monthly billing notices. It had been a good year, and if current trends continued, Rainbow Enterprises would experience breakout earnings.

Interest in antiquities tends to move in cycles, and we were currently riding a wave. People wanted not only ordinary stuff, lamps and furniture from the last few centuries, but they were getting in line for rare, and sometimes unique, items. We'd just moved a chair that had belonged to E. Wyatt Cooper for a quarter million. Cooper had departed the scene more than a century ago, after a writing career that had appeared undistinguished. But his reputation had grown since his death, and today his vitriolic essays had become a staple of the literature. One who took mockery to the highest levels could expect to be defined as "cooperesque."

Jacob, who'd started life as the house AI for Alex's uncle, Gabe, had noticed the chair when it was put up for sale by a young woman who had no idea of its value. We'd intervened, getting to her before anyone else did, informed her of its value, and managed the subsequent auction. And, if you're wondering, yes, we could have bought it ourselves at a price that would have const.i.tuted virtual robbery, but Alex never took advantage of anyone, except those blowhards and would-be cheats who deserved it. But that's another story. Suffice to say that Rainbow Enterprises did not want to be perceived as disreputable. Our income resulted from putting clients in touch with one another. And our clients tended to be generous when they made twenty or fifty times what they'd expected for a hand mirror or a bracelet. It was essential to the business that they trust us.

Jacob had a long history of locating valuable antiquities amid the junk offered daily at the Rees Market, BlowAway, Ferguson's, and other online sites.

"Take a look, Chase," Alex said. Alex said. "You'll probably want to follow up on it." "You'll probably want to follow up on it."

"Okay."

"Let me know what you decide."

I asked Jacob to show me what he had. He produced two pictures of a pale white stone tablet, taken from different angles. The tablet was rounded at the top, not unlike some of the markers in the cemetery adjoining Alex's property. Three lines of symbols had been engraved across the front of the object. "Actual size," "Actual size," Jacob added. Jacob added.

It was a bit less than half as tall as I was, an arm's length in width, and a few millimeters thick. "What's the language?" I asked.

"I have no idea, Chase. It looks a little like the Late Korbanic period, but the characters don't really match."

"Angle it a bit."

The bottom wasn't smooth. Someone had used a laser to cut it loose from its base. "It appears to be a clumsy effort," "It appears to be a clumsy effort," Jacob said, Jacob said, "to reduce the size in order to make it fit somewhere." "to reduce the size in order to make it fit somewhere."

"Or to remove it from the original site. Who's the owner?"

"Madeleine Greengra.s.s. She's a tour guide at Silesia Park."

"What does she have to say about it?"

"Not much. She says it's been a lawn decoration at her house as long as she's been there. She's giving it away. Wants to get rid of it. Haul it off, and it's yours."

"See if you can get her for me."

I went back to the billings, but I'd barely started when a small, light-skinned woman appeared in the middle of the room. Her blond hair was cut short, and she looked tired. She wore a park ranger's uniform and was in the process of straightening her blouse while simultaneously drinking from a steaming cup. The scent of coffee came through. "What can I do for you, Ms. Kolpath?" "What can I do for you, Ms. Kolpath?" she asked, putting the cup down. she asked, putting the cup down.

"I'm interested in the tablet."

"I'm at Rindenwood," she said. she said. "You know where that is?" "You know where that is?"

"I can find it."

"Good. Gold Range, number 12. It's on the front porch."

"Okay. We'll be over later today."

"It's all yours. But you'll need a couple of guys to haul it out of here."

"Ms. Greengra.s.s," I said, "where did it come from?"

"It was here when I bought the house." She looked away. I got the impression she was checking the time. She looked away. I got the impression she was checking the time. "Listen, I'm running late. Take the tablet if you want it, okay? I have to go." "Listen, I'm running late. Take the tablet if you want it, okay? I have to go."

Alex was seated in the conference room, studying the pictures, which had been blown up to make the symbols clear. Behind him, an overcast sky pressed down on the windows. It was the first day of autumn. Despite the threatening weather, a few sailboats were out on the Melony. "Wish we could read it," I said.

"If we could, Chase, it wouldn't be half as interesting. Jacob, get me Peer Wilson." Wilson was an expert on all things Korbanic.

Jacob said okay, he was already on it, and Alex wondered aloud how old the tablet was.

"We have a recording," Jacob said, and played it. It was audio only: Jacob said, and played it. It was audio only: "This is Dr. Peer Wilson. I am currently unavailable. Leave a message." "This is Dr. Peer Wilson. I am currently unavailable. Leave a message."

"Peer," Alex said, "this is Alex Benedict. Give me a call when you can, please."

"What do you think?" I asked. "Is it worth anything?"

"Hard to say, Chase." I knew what he was hoping: That it would turn out to be a remnant from some forgotten colony world, seven or eight thousand years old. Something from the very beginning of the Great Emigration. "Where's she been keeping it?"

"It's on her front deck now."

"I mean, where's it been the last few years? It looks as if it's been out in the weather."

"In the garden, I guess. She said it was a lawn decoration."

He sank into a chair. "Even if it is is Late Korbanic, it's only going to have minimum value. Unless it turns out to be Christopher Carver's gravestone. Or something along those lines." Late Korbanic, it's only going to have minimum value. Unless it turns out to be Christopher Carver's gravestone. Or something along those lines."

Carver, of course, was the Korbanic hero who'd gone missing three centuries ago while walking in a park. "It looks like a grave marker," I said.