Michael McCollum - Maker 2 - Procyion Promise

PROCYON’S PROMISE

A Novel By

Michael McCollum

Sci Fi - Arizona, Inc.

Third Millennium Publishing

An Online Cooperative of Writers and Resources

PROLOGUE: THE MAKERS

PROLOGUE

The Makers had never heard ofHomo sapiens Terra , nor would they have been particularly impressed

if they had. By their standards, mankind had little to brag about. The Makers’ cities were old when

Australopithecus first ventured out onto the plains of Africa. By the timeHomo erectus was lord of the

Earth, they had touched each of the twelve planets that circled their KO sun.

Individually, Makers were long lived, industrious, and generally content. Their population was stabilized

at an easily supported fifty billion and war was an ancient nightmare not discussed in polite company. So,

when the Makers came to the limits of their stellar system, it was with a sense of adventure that they

prepared to venture out into the great blackness beyond.

The first ships to leave the Maker sun were ‘slowboats’, huge vessels that took a lifetime to visit the

nearer stars. After three dozen such ventures, the Makers found they had made two important

discoveries. The first was that life is pervasive throughout the universe. Nearly every stellar system

studied had a planet in the temperate zone where water is liquid. Such worlds were found to be teeming

with life. More exciting to the Maker scientists, on twelve percent of the worlds visited, evolutionary

pressures had led to the development of intelligence. Two were the homes of civilizations nearly as

advanced as the Makers’ own.

The second great intellectual discovery was the realization that the Galaxy is a very large place, much too

large to be explored by slowboat. In a spirit of curiosity more than anything else, the Makers set out to

circumvent the one thing that retarded their progress. They began searching for a means to exceed the

speed of light A million years of scientific endeavor had taught them that the first step in any new project

is to develop a rational theory of the phenomenon to be studied. The Makers, being who they were, did

not stop when they had one theory of how faster-than-light might be achieved.

They developed two.

Each was supported by an impressive body of experimental evidence and astronomical observation.

Each should have resulted in the development of an FTL drive. Yet, every effort for a hundred thousand

years ended in failure.

There is a limit to the quantity of resources any civilization can divert to satisfy an itch of its curiosity

bump. The FTL program had long since passed the point of economic viability. Yet, the effort continued

apace. For while the Makers were mounting their assault on the light barrier, they found a more

compelling reason than mere curiosity to break free of their prison.

Their stellar system was beginning to run lowon the raw materials Maker civilization needed to sustain

itself.

The first signs were barely noticeable, even to the economists who kept careful watch over such things.

Eventually curves could be projected far enough into the future to foretell a time when civilization must

inevitably collapse of resource starvation. To avert catastrophe the Makers would have to obtain an

infusion of new resources, either by importing raw materials from nearby stars or else transplanting their

civilization to virgin territory.

Unfortunately, both options required a working faster-than-light drive.

The frustrated scientists redoubled their efforts. It was not until another hundred millennia had passed that

a Maker philosopher began to wonder if they were asking the right questions. The Great Thinker had

dedicated his life to the study of the years immediately following the slowboats’ return from the stars. He

noted that Maker science had taken great intuitive leaps in those years. The old records told of many

cases where the combined knowledge of two races had led to discoveries unsuspected by either.

His questions were as fundamental as they were simple: “Could it be that our concepts of how FTL may

be achieved are wrong? Is the failure to break the light barrier simply a matter of having missed the

obvious? If so, might not some other civilization have avoided our error and found the true path to FTL?”

Once the questions were asked, they could not be ignored. A program was immediately begun to

provide an answer. At first, it was a minor adjunct to the FTL research project. But as answers kept

coming up negative, as each promising avenue of approach turned out to be a dead end, the program to

PROBE the knowledge of alien civilizations grew.

By the time humanity discovered agriculture, it was all the program there was.

PART I: HOMECOMING

CHAPTER 1

Henning’s Roostwas renowned throughout the solar system. Its reputation stretched from the

intermittently molten plains of Mercury to the helium lakes of Pluto, from the upper reaches of the Jovian

atmosphere to the subterranean settlements burrowed deeply into the red surface of Mars’ dusty plains.

Wherever men and women worked at hard or dangerous jobs, wherever boredom and terror were

normal components of life,The Roost was a standard subject of conversation.

Henning’swas a pleasure satellite, the largest ever built. Its owners had placed it in solar orbit ten million

kilometers in front of Earth. There was a story told of a spaceman who had arrived at The Roost with a

year’s accumulated pay in his pocket, stayed ten days, left flat broke, and pronounced himself well

satisfied. It was a testimonial to the diversions provided byHenning ’s management that the story was

widely accepted as completely reasonable. Besides which, it was true.

Be that as it may, Chryse Haller was bored.

Chryse had arrived atThe Roost two weeks earlier for her first vacation in three years. She had plunged

immediately into the social whirl, sampling most of the diversions that were not ultimately harmful to one’s

health. She had playedchemin de fir , blackjack, poker, roulette, and seven-card stapo on the gaming

decks. Later, she had enlisted as a centurion in a Roman Legion on the Sensie-Gamer deck and slogged

for two days through the damp chill of a simulated Gaul. Her first battle convinced her that the difference

between ancient warfare and a modern butcher shop is mostly a matter of attitude, and she began to cast

around for new diversions.

She turned to the most traditional sport of all, availing herself of the large pool of male companionship -

both professional and tourist - thatThe Roost had to offer. The previous evening she had attended the

nightly Bacchanal on Beta Deck. That had been a mistake She would become involved with a handsome

young man whose only goal was to please her. Yet, in spite of the soft lights, the rich smell of incense,

and the warm glow of two drinks within her; she found herself losing interest with each passing moment.

She had ended up watching simulated clouds scud across a simulated sky. Afterwards, she made her

excuses and left early.

There was no doubt about it. Lotus eating was definitely beginning to pall.

Playing with a fruit bowl, Chryse now sat alone in a breakfast nook pondering the curious emotional state

into which she had fallen. Her reflection stared dully back at her from the polished depths of the table.

The image was that of a woman in her early thirties, blonde, with shoulder length hair that framed a wide,

honest face. The eyes were set wide apart above high cheekbones, a nose that seemed a trifle small, and

a mouth just then twisted into a slight scowl. The eyes were brown in the simulated mahogany of the

table, but green in actuality.

“Tenth-stellar for your thoughts.”

Chryse looked up to find Roland Scott standing over her. Roland had been a member of her section in

the Gaul campaign. They had mustered out together and she had taken him as a lover that same night. He

had been good for her psyche and they had spent three glorious days together before she suffered the

minor disappointment of discovering that he was aRoost employee.

“Hello, Roland.”

“Why so glum?” he asked.

“Just a little tired, I guess.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid there’s no cure for what ails me. You may have a seat if you like,

though.”

He quickly slid into the opposite side of the booth. “Maybe it would help to talk about it.”

She smiled wanly at him, recognizing his automatic response to a professional challenge. Still, Roland

really cared. He was paid to care. Of course, that was part of the problem.

“It’s this place,” she said, glumly.

“What about it?”

“It depresses me.”

His face acquired a look of surprise. “The Big Boss isn’t going to like hearing that. He has put billions

intoThe Roost . No one is supposed to be unhappy here, least of all Chryse Lawrence Haller.”

“You weren’t listening. I didn’t say I was unhappy. I said I was depressed. Different emotion entirely.”

“If you say so.”

“Look around you, Roland. What do you see?”

“What am I supposed to see?”

“Have you ever looked closely at your clientele?”

He made a show of scanning the restaurant. “Okay, I’ve looked.”

“You’ve got a good cross-section of humanity here. Both sexes, all shapes and sizes, every color. Yet, in

spite of our differences, we all have something in common.”

“Sure,” Roland said, nodding. “You’re all richer than anyone has a right to be. If you weren’t, you could

never afford us.”

“True,” Chryse said. “I hadn’t thought of that. Hmmm, that makes things even worse!”

“How so?”

“Can’t you see it? All your clients are compulsive personalities.”

“Aren’t you being a bit hard on yourself and the other guests?”

“If anything, I’m not being hard enough. We’re all on holiday, yet each of us is so desperate for diversion

that we play ourselves into exhaustion.”

“Considering the cost,” Roland said, “can you blame anyone?”

“I suppose that explains a few cases. But take old Joshua Voichek over there,” she said, gesturing

toward a spry centenarian seated at a breakfast nook halfway across the compartment. “After my father,

he’s probably the richest man in the system. He could spend a lifetime inThe Roost without making a

dent in his fortune. Yet, he wears himself out as quickly as the salesman who saves a dozen years to

come here.”

“Your theory, Madame Psychotherapist?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“We’re bored with life. The sense of adventure has gone out of us. There aren’t any frontiers left. No one

climbs Mount Everest anymore.”

Roland chuckled. “Why should they? If you want to reach the Everest Summit Hotel, you board an

airtram in Nepal. They leave every half hour.”

“Exactly! Where can you go in the solar system where you won’t find someone else’s boot prints?”

Roland shrugged, but did not answer.

“Know what I think? I think the human race is suffering from claustrophobia. We’ve learned the awful

truth that there are limits beyond which we cannot go, so we invent places like this to help us forget.”

“Isn’t that quite a lot to blame on an overpriced whorehouse?”

She looked at him sharply, suddenly aware of the undercurrent of anger in his voice. “A trained

entertainment specialist isn’t a whore, Roland.”

He raised one eyebrow quizzically. “Perhaps you can explain the difference to me sometime.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you. Put it down to overwork. Forgive me?”

“You don’t need my forgiveness. You can have me fired anytime you feel like it.”

“I guess I deserved that,” she said. She let her gaze slip from his angry face and move to the viewscreen

at the end of the small restaurant. The view was from a remote camera somewhere out on the hull. It

showed a jumble of I-beams, pressure spheres, and hull plates framed by the black of space. “Let’s

change the subject before we have an argument. I have been staring at that thing all morning. What is it?”

He turned to follow her gaze. “Just an old worker dormitory usedduring The Roost’s construction. It’s

abandoned now, of course.”

“I would think the owners would keep local space clear of all such hazards to navigation. Wouldn’t be

very good publicity for a shipload of tourists to run into that heap on approach.”

He shook his head. “It isn’t as ramshackle as it appears. Look closely. See the thruster cluster jutting out

near the airlock? There are twenty more scattered over the hull. That hulk and a half dozen others are

slaved to theRoost’s central computer.”

“Sounds like a lot of trouble to go to for a junkyard,” Chryse said.

“It’s part of the service. The hulks make good destinations for clients with a yen to explore the mysteries

of space.”

“The what?”

He laughed, his pique suddenly forgotten. “Haven’t you ever skin dived on a sunken ship?”

She shook her head.

“How about going up to Zeta Deck then? They have a near perfect simulation of theEsmeralda there.

That was a Spanish galleon that sunk off Key West in the Sixteenth Century. They took sixty million

stellars worth of treasure out of her back in the thirties.”

Chryse shook her head. “I’m tired of simulated adventure.”

He smiled, turning on the boyish charm. “That’s the reason for the hulks. They are the real thing. We

could check out two vacsuits at North Pole Terminus and make a day long picnic of it if you like.”

She shook her head. The idea of exploring a twenty-year-old work barge did not appeal to her, but

Roland’s suggestion had tweaked a stray memory. There was something in solar orbit she would very

much like to explore.

“Do they rent ships at North Terminus, as well?”

“No need. The maneuvering gear on the vacsuits is first rate and well maintained. Oh, they’ll rent you a

scooter if you want, but that costs extra.”

“I don’t want a scooter. I want a ship! Something with legs.”

“It’s expensive.”

“I can afford it.”

He shrugged. “There are a few rental jobs at North Terminus. I’m a fair-to-middlin’ pilot. I’ll take you

anywhere you want to go.”

“No thank you. Where I want to go, I would rather be alone. Maybe a bit of solitude will snap me out of

this mood I’ve fallen into.”

“Solo piloting is dangerous.”

“I’ll be all right,” she said. “After all, the computer runs the ship. If I get into trouble, it’ll scream for help,

won’t it?”

He nodded. “Okay, it’s your neck. You’ll have to sign a release, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Where are you going?”

“I thought that I would go see the probe.”

#

Three hundred years earlier, a spacecraft had entered the solar system from the depths of interstellar

space. Limited two-way communications were established almost immediately, and it was quickly

learned that the craft was an instrument package controlled by a self-aware computer.

The computer, which called itselfPROBE, had been constructed by an advanced race of beings, that it

dubbed “The Makers.” These Makers had been working to develop a faster-than-light drive for their

spaceships for thousands of years. In all that vast time, they had been singularly unsuccessful. So, faced

with dwindling resources at home and desperate to break free to the stars, they had hit upon the idea of

sending life probes to the surrounding stars to make contact with other advanced species. Once a probe

arrived in a strange stellar system, it bargained with its hosts to exchange their scientific knowledge for

that of the Makers. When it had learned all it could, the probe returned home to add its cargo to the

ever-growing pool of Maker knowledge. It was through this slow accumulation of the wisdom of many

races that the Makers hoped to eventually break free of the star that had become their jailer.

Over the centuries, thousands of life probes had been launched outbound from the Maker sun. They

cruised at speeds approaching ten percent that of light, taking centuries to complete their journeys. While

they traveled, they listened to the cosmos, ever alert for the energy discharges that betrayed the presence

of a technologically advanced civilization.

Life Probe 53935 had been unlucky. For ten millennia, it had searched for intelligence

among the stars and not found it. Even when it finally pricked an expanding bubble of human

radio noise, it was not sure that its luck had changed. For humankind was low on the Maker

scale of civilization, perhaps too low to be of use to a life probe in need of an overhaul. The

probe had considered the problem of human capabilities for months while it fell toward the

Sun. Finally, at almost the last moment possible, fate had intervened to make the probe’s

decision for it.

One hypothesis common to all FTL theories was that a vessel traveling at superlight velocity would be

detectable in the sublight universe. Theoretically, any material object moving faster-than-light will create a

shock wave in the interstellar medium, a wave that appears to an outside observer as a source of highly

energetic, Cherenkov radiation.

For a hundred thousand years, the Makers and their far-flung probes had scanned the skies, searching

for just such a phenomenon. They had done so in vain until, in the human year 2065 AD, just as it was

approaching the solar system, the hyperwave detectors aboard Life Probe 53935 began clamoring for

attention. An intense source of radiation that closely mirrored the hypothetical properties of a starship’s

wake had been spotted in the Procyon system a mere twelve light-years beyond Sol. The age-old dream

of the Makers seemed finally at hand.

Except, there was a problem.

The struggle to climb to thirty thousand kilometers-per-second cruising velocity had cost the probe dearly

in terms of fuel. To slow its headlong rush at journey’s end would cost more, leaving its tanks virtually

dry. The probe had no fuel reserves with which to change course.

It studied its options carefully. The only sure way of reaching Procyon was a journey of two stages. The

first stage required stopping in the solar system to obtain new fuel stocks and a general overhaul of its

tired mechanisms. Once returned to a spaceworthy condition, the probe could launch outbound directly

for the Procyon system. The journey would last more than a century, but to a ten-thousand-year-old

machine, such a trip was a mere local jaunt.

Thus, humanity owed its first visitation from the stars not to any accomplishment of its own, but to the fact

that Earth was a natural way station on the way to more interesting vistas.

#

Chryse Haller sat at the controls of the rented daycruiser and finished off the sandwich she had made in

the tiny galley aft of the control room. She was some fifty-two hours out fromHenning’s Roost , and

decelerating for rendezvous, when the ship’s computer interrupted the soft music that filled the cabin.

“We are being challenged.”

Chryse leaned forward, her manner suddenly alert. “Identify challenger.”

“Automated Guard Station, Department of Antiquities Registration Number 7155.”

“Put it on the speaker.”

“...WARNING. WARNING. YOU ARE APPROACHING THE RESTRICTED ZONE

OF A PROTECTED HISTORIC MONUMENT. YOU ARE HEREBY ADVISED TO TURN

BACK IMMEDIATELY. FAILURE TO COMPLY MAY LEAD TO CIVIL OR CRIMINAL

PENALTIES BEING ASSESSED AGAINST YOU. WARNING...”

“Transmission, please.”

“Ready to transmit.”

“Attention, Guard Station 7155. I am Chryse Lawrence Haller, Ident MZH-93587116. I am

countermanding you. Return to standby mode.”

“ORDER RECEIVED AND ACKNOWLEDGED. RETURNING TO STANDBY. BE

ADVISED, CITIZEN HALLER, THAT YOUR ACTIVITIES WITHIN THE BOUNDARIES

OF THIS PROTECTED HISTORIC MONUMENT WILL BE MONITORED. ANY

ATTEMPT TO DAMAGE OR DEFACE THE MONUMENT WILL BE IMMEDIATELY

REPORTED TO EARTH.”

“Acknowledged,” Chryse said. She called for library function from the computer. “Reference: Life probe,

visitation of same. Reference date: Twenty first Century.”

“Data retrieved.”

“Show me a picture.”

A thirty-centimeter, translucent black cube materialized in front of her. Centered in the body of the cube,

filling its interior, was a mighty spacecraft. Its structure consisted of two spheres - each two hundred

meters in diameter - connected by a long central column. One sphere, labeled CONTROL SECTION in

the hologram, was an open latticework of small beams arranged in the familiar pattern of geodesic

trusses. There were gaps in the sphere where bits and pieces of machinery poked through, but it was

otherwise whole. Arrayed around it were a number of long booms tipped with irregularly shaped sensing

mechanisms.

Chryse shifted her attention to the sphere labeled DRIVE SECTION.As she did so, she let her gaze

sweep along the full eight hundred meters of the probe’s length. A number of long cylindrical tanks were

strapped to the thrust frame between the two major spheres. The drive sphere at the probe’s stern was

much more massive than the control sphere at its prow. The framework of beams was heavier, giving an

impression of massive strength. The sphere itself was more densely crammed with machinery. Chryse

recognized the central bulge of a mass converter and the familiar shape of an electromagnetic nozzle

among the unfamiliar bits and pieces of alien machinery.

“Big, isn’t it?” she muttered aloud.

“Null program. Please repeat,” the computer responded.

“Cancel,” Chryse said absentmindedly. Her eyes were suddenly drawn to a bright, starlike point inside

the cube. “Center on Coordinates X-3, Y-5, Z-2. Expand view one hundred times.”

“Acknowledged.”

The view moved to one side and expanded to resolve the spark of light into a spacecraft whose hull

reflected sunlight directly into the camera’s lens. The ship was an antique model that had not been seen in

the solar system in nearly three centuries.

“Now, let’s see where we’re going. Show me our destination in real time.”

“Acknowledged.”

At first, the view seemed to be the same as before, with the exception that the speck of light was gone

and the viewing angle caused the probe to be considerably foreshortened. The daycruiser was

approaching at a thirty-degree angle to the probe’s major axis, with the control sphere closer than the

drive sphere. Chryse called for a close up view.

The awesome machine, that she had viewed in its splendor just seconds earlier, was no longer hale or

whole. As every schoolchild learned before they were ten, the probe had fallen victim to the most

celebrated incident of treachery in the history of the human race. Chryse gazed at the wreck in the

holocube and felt a tug of remorse at what her people had done.

The evidence of the catastrophe was everywhere and unmistakable. The perfect sphere of the control

section had been caved in on one side, as though smashed by a giant fist. Opposite the blow, the sphere

bulged noticeably outward, stretched nearly to the bursting point by an irresistible force. Large sections

of interior structure had been vaporized in a titanic explosion and a twisted forest of support beams -

transformed into odd shapes by the force of the blast - gave the play of sunlight and shadow inside the

probe a surrealistic quality.

Chryse gulped. “I had no idea,” she said. It was only then that she realized she had been holding her

breath.

Not everyone, it seemed, had been happy with the discovery of the alien spacecraft on the edge of the

solar system. Most objections had come from the newly industrialized nations of the Southern

Hemisphere, each of which saw the probe and its cargo of knowledge as a threat to their hard-earned

equality. It was felt that the older, longer industrialized nations of the north would be better equipped to

use the advanced knowledge that the probe carried. The nation that emerged as leader of the opposition

was the Pan-African Federation.

The struggle had been wholly political at first. A resolution welcoming the probe into the system was

introduced into the General Assembly of the old United Nations. The Pan-Africans and their allies fought

skillfully against it, but when it came time to vote, the southerners found themselves on the losing side of

the tally. By the narrowest of margins, the resolution passed. Five months later, the probe took up a

parking orbit around the Sun.

Negotiations between the probe and the UN began immediately. The complexities involved in arranging

for both the probe’s overhaul and the exchange of scientific knowledge were considerable. Before any

agreements could be reached, there was much to learn on both sides. To speed the negotiations, the

probe had split off a portion of its circuits to form a separate personality. This new entity, which the

probe dubbed SURROGATE, was intended to act as translator between the probe and its hosts.

Shortly after the probe’s arrival in the solar system, six Pan African spacecraft attacked humanity’s first

visitor from the stars. Two outgunned UN defenders and the probe itself met them. All six attackers were

destroyed in a hard fought battle, but not before they were able to unleash an irresistible weapon against

their target.

In the twenty-first century as in the twenty-fourth, ships of deep space were powered by tiny antimatter

black holes known as I-masses. Human civilization was built on the limitless energy they provided. They

lit man’s cities, smelted his ores, and drove his spacecraft. When the Pan-African warships attacked the

probe, they were used for the first time as deadly weapons.

Each marauding warship took great care with its approach to the scene of battle, placing itself on a

precise trajectory for the probe. Even though each attacker was eventually destroyed before it could

reach the target, the probe found itself the focal point of six converging I-masses.

Two reached their mark.

The primary probe personality was destroyed, but SURROGATE - housed at the end of one of the long

sensor booms - survived. Even so, the age-old dream of the Makers seemed at an end. Damaged as it

was, SURROGATE had no hope of reaching the FTL civilization around Procyon. Worse, the impact of

the I-masses had destroyed all record of the Makers. The surviving probe personality possessed no

single iota of knowledge concerning its creators, their history, their language, or the location of their star

in space.

Out of this situation had come a bargain born of desperation. Since SURROGATE needed to secure the

secret of FTL for the Makers, and humanity needed the Maker knowledge that had survived the attack,

each party agreed to help the other. For its part, the UN agreed to build a slower-than-light starship and

man it with a crew of ten thousand. When the ship was completed, the circuits that housed

SURROGATE was placed aboard, and the ship headed out on the century long trip to Procyon. In

exchange, SURROGATE agreed to share its vast library of knowledge.

The Procyon mission was launched outbound early in 2096. Allotting a century for the journey, and an

additional decade for the crew to bargain for the secret of FTL with whatever native race they

discovered, the expedition was expected to return to the solar system (by FTL starship) no later than

2205.

They were now 183 years overdue.

CHAPTER 2

If the probe seemed large from the daycruiser control room, it was gigantic from the vantage point of the

outer framework of the damaged control sphere. Chryse Haller grasped a crossbeam as she carefully

snaked a safety line around a jutting side beam. She glanced across the rounded plain and shivered at the

suddenly realization of just how alone she felt.

“Status check,” the daycruiser computer said into her earphones. Its voice contained metallic overtones

of unease. The computer had been quite vocal in its opposition to her leaving the safety of the ship and

going out alone to explore the probe.

“I want to see it with my own eyes,” she had explained in announcing her intentions.”

“You are seeing it with your own eyes,” the daycruiser responded, referring to the holocube projection

that hung in midair before Chryse’s couch.

“No, I mean outside. I want to touch it, to feel its solidity, to make it real!”

“It is far too dangerous. You could be injured.”

She shrugged, and then remembered that the machine only responded to voice inputs. “You’ll be

monitoring my vital signs. If I get into trouble, you can fly my suit back by remote control.”

“I still recommend against this unnecessary risk.”

“Life is an unnecessary risk,” Chryse had said as she unbuckled from the pilot’s couch and aligned her

axis with the daycruiser’s small central passageway. “I’m going.”

She had suited up and let the computer do complete telemetry readout on her before entering the airlock.

Michael McCollum - Maker 2 - Procyion Promise

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