Beneath the Ice

by Harry Lang

part 4

Seven days after being wrenched from what I have come to regard as my natural state I sat in the control room gazing toward the black circle of the sun. The probes transmitted the sound of the music which had remained intact and amazingly beautiful. What kind of people could engineer such a thing? What were they not capable of?

I had learned a little about them during my insane ramble. The walls of the building I ended up in were decorated with mosaics depicting the freezing of the star as a punishment inflicted by some deity or race of superior beings. It was all presented in an allegorical or mythological fashion; the probes were represented as some sort of creatures bobbing up from the bottom of the sea; the robot “musicians” were angelic beings with seven broken wings.

“Three minutes,” reported Mr. Machine. We hadn’t spoken much and I kept myself busy planning radical changes to his programming.

I assumed that the grand finale depicted in the mosaics was just as allegorical as the rest of the narrative. As I expected the moment passed and the music faded, lost forever, as futile as every prayer ever uttered by thinking creatures. “A prayer to the sun,” I mused, seeking categories and classifications. “Would that make them animistic pagans...?”

The sun came back to life.

Light washed over me as if a switch had been thrown. The frozen centuries had never happened.

“Mr. Machine, am I hallucinating?”

“No. The sun has instantaneously re-ignited. It is a miracle.”

A swirling white haze enveloped the planet as the icy atmosphere sublimated beneath the sun’s restored rays. Violent storms erupted. As our orbit carried us toward the terminator I saw brilliant auroras and lightening etched upon the black sky below.

“It’s like watching the creation of the world,” I marveled.

“No,” corrected Mr. Machine. “It’s like seeing a man return from the dead.”

The Machine was right about that. I decided to remain in orbit and watch what happened. In just a few days the surface temperature stabilized and the weather settled down to follow more hospitable patterns, probably another effect of the bizarre physics. By the second week plants were sprouting. Further developments followed at an insanely rapid pace; before long forested areas could be spotted from orbit and Mr. Machine reported the emergence of animal life.

“DNA preservation,” I remarked as I scanned Mr. Machine’s data. “They knew what was coming and they prepared.”

“Apparently that’s not all they knew.”

“What do you mean?”

“I understand your refusal to relate your experiences on the planet’s surface in light of your wounded pride but don’t you think it’s worth mentioning that your arrival was expected?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Data transmissions are being beamed directly to the ship. The data includes images of narrative mosaics, particularly those you no doubt observed during your time on the surface. For example...”

A mosaic appeared in the view port. A section was enlarged.

“Notice,” said Mr. Machine, “above the curvature of the planet’s horizon, a white dot...”

“Yeah. It’s a star.”

“This view is oriented toward the void. No stars are visible.”

“If you say so. Pretty skimpy evidence of prophecy, if you ask me.”

The view zoomed in on another section. It was a complex and confusing depiction of the domed cities, as if they had all been slammed together then drawn in isometric perspective. I remembered this one. A larger version of the white shape hung in the black sky but the energetic execution created a fragmented effect. I had dismissed the shape as a simple design element.

“Close inspection confirms that this is a representation of the ship. The silhouette is unmistakable. If you look closely you can even see the red caution markers aft of the propulsion reactor. Finally there is this.”

A long horizontal panel appeared. One half showed the dark, frozen world; the other depicted a brilliant yellow sun ascending above a lush landscape of towering trees, flowing streams and other elements of an idyllic paradise. A number of images straddled the two worlds, providing a sort of before and after connection. In one of the images the ship sat in the darkness of the domed city; there was even an indication of the explosion. The image was mirrored on the sunny side, where the ship was surrounded by flowers and indescribable beings bent to peer through the hatch, extending six-fingered hands of friendship.

“There was so much to take in. I was out of my mind. By the time I reached that section I couldn’t even tell what was real. I assumed it was a hallucination.”

“So you saw it?”

“Yes.”

“You understood the implications?”

“In a broad sense, yes.”

“But you dismissed it?”

“Of course I dismissed it! I recognized it as a hallucination or...”

“But you don’t hallucinate! You just worry about hallucinating. Or what?”

“A lure. I had it worked out that the whole situation was a trap and that they’d thrown this thing together to catch me off guard.”

“And now?”

“The probability that it was a hallucination is significantly diminished, isn’t it? You’re not capable of wandering beyond the confines of logic; what do you say?” I didn’t appreciate being put on the defensive by my own creation.

“Your assessment of their motives is unreasonable and thoroughly unsupported by empirical evidence.”

“Says you! You’re not even alive; what do you have to be afraid of?”

“You acknowledge my dependence upon logic and criticize my lack of fear. Is this not a recognition of the irrationality of your own... One moment. Stand by. Stand...”

After several minutes of creepy silence I decided to check the Machine’s processing status. There was no activity, not even the elementary threads associated with hibernation mode.

Mr. Machine was dead.

An ungodly clang echoed through the ship; I jumped and saw stars as my head hit the overhead equipment rack.

Clang, clang, clang, pause. Clang, clang, clang...

Still reeling, I searched for the source of the noise. It was coming from the airlock.

The Machine was right; hallucinations have never been a symptom of my collection of pathologies but I was sure I’d lost touch with reality when I looked through the porthole in the outer hatch. A man “stood” outside, patiently but insistently rapping on the hull. He was not wearing a spacesuit and he looked a lot like me.

“What do you want?” I shouted. He must’ve seen my lips move. He put his ear to the hatch and I repeated myself. Cupping his hands around his mouth he touched them to the porthole. Very faintly I heard, “A word, please.”

I let him in. What else could I do? He extended his hand; I didn’t count the fingers and I didn’t shake.

“How did you get here?” I asked weakly.

“I walked,” he said. It was not a joke. There was no trace of irony or sarcasm; I knew this because he spoke with my voice.

“Oh, okay,” I said, backing away. “Well, what can I do for you?”

“You’ve done it, old man.” I hadn’t called anyone “old man” since leaving Earth. “You are the disinterested witness.”

“What?”

“There can be no history without a witness. Any accounts derived from data gathered by our machines could be discounted as biased by future generations and eventually regarded as mythology or superstition. Or propaganda. We have our factions, you see. Your account will be as close to unassailable as we can get.”

“But the variables... There are no guarantees.”

“Of course not. Mortals can only deal in probabilities.”

“Did you kill Mr. Machine?”

“The machine wasn’t alive in the first place.”

“So... so why did you kill him?”

“We need to talk man to man. This doesn’t concern the machines.”

“But you killed him,” I persisted. “You didn’t just cut off his sensors or suspend his processing functions. He’s like a human being; he can sleep and he can hibernate but once the power is cut continuity disintegrates. It can’t be restored.”

“You made it that way on purpose?”

“Of course I did!”

“Because the thing created must not surpass its creator.”

“What do metaphysics have to do with anything? The machine was either a being whom you killed or property which you destroyed! Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Well, if we’re resorting to legalism I suppose we could discuss trespassing, vandalism and theft of information. Not that those fit any of the ethical categories we recognize but they seem to mean something to you.”

“Look, what do you want, anyway?”

“To return you to Ithaca. To restore your good reputation with the gods. You heard the sirens but your machine had you lashed to the mast. We want to make you to lie down in green pastures and lead you beside the still waters. To take you off the wheel.”

I laughed, cynically at first but it soon became a genuine, cathartic belly laugh. Tears started rolling down my face and my sides hurt.

“Did I tell a joke?”

“You’re not making any sense at all!” I knew it was an overreaction but I hadn’t had a good laugh in centuries.

“Oh. Well, look here old man, this isn’t easy, you know. Our thinking is completely different. We have no comparable cultural metaphors. We exchanged data with your machine so our understanding is severely limited and devoid of many essential human characteristics. Homer, the Bible and the Dharma were our best guesses at significance. The point is we can help you.”

“The way you helped Mr. Machine?”

“Listen carefully. I’m going to tell you things that you already know much better than we do. The machine is your idol. You created it because you can’t live without a god and you control it because you demand autonomy. This we understand perfectly; it’s our pattern as well. Or was. You fancy yourself a clear-eyed atheist but you’re afraid to die because you’re not quite sure enough. Your complex of fears and anxieties drives you away from life and your transcendental uncertainty drives you away from death. A problem common to all sentient beings as far as we know but you have hit upon an elegant solution. With your portable god to watch over you, you hover at the edge of death, oblivious to pain, free of anxiety, nearly immortal at relativistic velocity. Of course you’ll die eventually but if there is a Being and if It has sprung from the totality of material existence as the more rationalistic philosophers suggest, you may outlast It. You’re playing the probabilities. You may be the only person to escape judgment, reward, punishment or reincarnation. You may be the first and only man to truly determine his own fate.”

“Again with the metaphysics! What do you care?”

“I told you. We need a witness.”

“I don’t care about my own species. Why should I care about yours?”

“No one expects you to, not really. But now it’s our turn to play the probabilities. First we have the prophecy of your arrival. And yes, it’s genuine. Whether it’s a determining factor for you personally or not, you’ll at least have to slow down and think about it.

“Second, our world is the last stop before oblivion. Our astronomers have confirmed that the Alpha Void is infinite. Even at the speed of light you’d never reach the end before the collapse of the universe; there is no end to reach. We realize that this is exactly what you’re after but since this will be your last chance to change your mind you might want to reconsider.

“Finally, I told you we can help you. You’ve undertaken this journey because you have no sense of purpose. You have therefore determined that life has no ultimate purpose and all effort is vanity, as the preacher saith.”

“And you can give me a sense of purpose, maybe introduce me to some god to serve or suggest some good works to keep me busy while I overcome my fears and grow my self-esteem?”

“Hardly.”

“Then maybe your psychotherapy is more advanced then ours? Oh, wait. Our thinking is completely different. You people don’t even use words unless you’re masquerading as human beings.”

“We never developed psychotherapy. The concept doesn’t fit our understanding of personhood.”

“Hedonistic gratification?”

“To distract you as you await the inevitable? I believe Solomon covered that as well. Actually, our appeal is along more scientific and philosophical lines. Our hope is that you will give us a chance to awaken some curiosity by giving you opportunities to investigate and consider the deeper questions.”

“The very thing I’m running away from. Go on.”

“You saw what happened. You know the evidence points to causes originating somewhere beyond nature; at the very least this should lead you to reconsider your position and take a closer look.”

“Unless you just tell me how it all happened. And please don’t claim it’s a mystery. Any civilization that can send perfectly intact sound waves through space or ‘walk’ to an orbiting spaceship has to know a thing or two about physics.”

“Physics? Look, if it was all a matter of physics we could just jot down the equations. We wouldn’t need a witness, would we?”

“No, I guess not.”

“The fact is we don’t know how it happened; we only know what happened and why...”

“Why did it happen?”

“For the same reason that Yahweh destroyed the earth with a flood.”

“Only instead of a rainbow you get the sun, is that it? If you follow his orders, exhaust all your technical resources to carry out some nonsensical gesture maybe he’ll turn the sun back on and let you live?”

“If that’s your way of saying we accepted responsibility and submitted to the authority of our maker then yes.”

“What about the dissonance?”

“Satan. Nyarlathotep. Mara. Loki. Shall I go on?”

“No need. I suppose the dissonance is the cause of all your problems?”

“That would be one of those deeper questions, wouldn’t it? Think it over. We have resources and capabilities which you can scarcely imagine. We offer you knowledge and the opportunity to make discoveries greatly surpassing any thus far made by your species. Physical and mental longevity will give you all the time you need to carry out whatever research you may choose. Of course we’ll provide any sort of environment you like. We’ll mob you with people or we’ll leave you completely alone; it’s all the same to us.”

He stood and started toward the airlock. “In the meantime you can access the data stream we’re beaming to your ship to learn more about us. Your machine can translate.”

“But my machine...”

“...by. Stand by. Alert! Intruder...”

“It’s all right, Mr. Machine. He’s a guest.”

“Oh. Welcome aboard.”

“There’s no time limit, of course,” said our “guest”, ignoring Mr. Machine’s greeting. Pointedly, it seemed. “Contact us through your machine. Good day.”

I watched as he strolled out of the airlock and began his long hike back to the surface.

* * *

Proceed to part 5...