Firebird ab-6, page 15
part #6 of Alex Benedict Series
Heaven-bound. The churches were perceived as launching stations. The pictures in the record displayed their favorite symbols: statues of angels collecting children in their arms prior to soaring into the heavens, other angels in full flight. Heaven-bound.
There was a grim irony, of course, that in the end they were destroyed by the cosmic machinery they so much admired.
As we drew closer, Belle locked the scopes on the world, and we looked down on cities and highways and bridges. It was an incredible sight. Had I not known better, I'd have thought we were back approaching Rimway.
We'd known before setting out that Villanueva was remarkably well maintained. Its facilities, directed by AIs, were still operating. They had continued to function after the last human was no more than a distant memory. The AIs replaced crumbling houses, restored port facilities, and maintained parks. Automated vehicles moved through the streets and through the skies.
We went into orbit and slipped over to the nightside, where, even though we knew what was coming, we received a shock. The lights were on. Everywhere. In cities, scattered around the countryside, lining riverbanks. Other lights moved through the streets and the sky. And there was a biological pulse to them. Where it was late, middle of the night, the moving lights dwindled to a few. And the houses were mostly dark, as though the inhabitants were asleep.
“It doesn't seem to need us, does it?” said Alex.
Villanueva's misty moon floated overhead. White clouds drifted serenely in the lunar skies. The moon was big enough that the system could have been described without too much exaggeration as a double planet.
Belle broke the mood. “Incoming transmission, Chase.”
“Put it on.”
“Belle-Marie,” a male voice said, “welcome to Villanueva.” The speaker sounded businesslike, official, pay attention, I don't want to have to repeat myself. “This is Highgate.”
Highgate was the automated monitoring system in orbit around the planet. I'd been expecting to hear from it. Still, it startled me. “Yes, Highgate. What is it?”
“Be advised that you are in a hazardous area. It is highly recommended that you do not attempt to set down.”
Highgate's purpose was simply to keep an eye on things. To warn off idle travelers. To report back any unusual activity. Or any unanticipated technological advances on the world below. I wondered what they were worried about. Maybe that the machines might launch an invasion fleet to take out the Confederacy?
Okay. I'm kidding. But there are people out there who worry, who insist, you can't trust independent AIs, especially ones who've been left to disintegrate, or evolve, or whatever the case may be, on a world no one wanted to think about. Disconnecting the power sats has been an on-again, off-again issue in Rimway elections for centuries. “I was under the impression that an AI loses function after two or three centuries,” I told Alex. “How can they still be working out here after all this time?”
He shrugged. No idea. And he didn't really care about the details.
“I suspect,” said Belle, “that some of the AIs have banded together in a worldwide network. Even though no one remains, they continue to operate by whatever protocols they were assigned. Although those may have evolved somewhat.”
Highgate has been out there for as long as anyone can remember. In some eras, it's carried a team of scientists; at other times, like the present, it's been only an AI. And yes, if we can't trust the AIs on Villanueva, what makes us think we can trust one orbiting their neighborhood? I put that question to Belle. “Matter of faith,” she said.
I switched back to the satellite. “We read you, Highgate. Thanks for the warning.”
“Can I take that as a commitment that you will not attempt a landing?”
“We haven't decided yet.”
“If you do make the effort to go down, be advised that, should you need assistance, none is available. I urge you to forgo any effort along these lines. It is extremely dangerous. Your reasonable course, when you have completed sightseeing from orbit, is to depart immediately.”
“Highgate, what's the nature of the danger?”
“An active mechanical culture exists on Villanueva. All visitors are unwelcome. If you proceed into the atmosphere-note that it is not necessary for you to actually land-you will be perceived by them as a danger, and you may be assured they will take steps against you. If that occurs, you bear all responsibility for the outcome.”
When we filed our flight plan at Skydeck, we'd been forced to sit through a presentation that suggested we go elsewhere, and when we declined, required to sign statements that we'd been warned, and that we absolved the space station, the flight administration, the government, and anyone else in sight, of any liability.
“Highgate,” I said, “do you maintain records of warnings? Can you tell me whether one was issued to the Breakwater in the Rimway year 1383? The pilot would have been Eliot Cermak.”
“Belle-Marie, that information is privileged.”
“It's important. Cermak would have been carrying two passengers, one of whom we think died here. It is imperative that-”
“Are you claiming official authority? Are you a police unit?”
“Yes, we are,” said Alex. “G.B.I. Rimway.”
“Please file appropriate authorization.”
“Authorization should have been presented directly from Skydeck Operations. Did you not receive it?”
“Negative. Please submit as required.”
Well, we got nowhere with that. Highgate issued a warning that we were in violation of something or other, and it would be reported, and we could expect to answer some questions when we got home.
We looked down on the lights. Some were apparently cruising along roadways, drifting through the skies, and even afloat at sea. Every continent appeared occupied. Islands glowed in the night. Only the polar caps were dark. It was a disquieting experience. “If this place is as dangerous as they claim,” I said, “why don't we just shut it down?”
Alex appeared as overwhelmed by it all as I was. “How would you go about doing that, Chase?”
“It's easy. I'd cut off the power.” Two collectors in geosynchronous orbit used lasers to relay solar energy to an array of power sats, which then sent it on to ground stations. The Villanueva AIs had lost the capability to maintain them thousands of years ago. But Earth had taken over, and later the Alliance. As political realities evolved and changed, the responsibility was passed on. The Confederacy is doing it today. It was a thread that bound the human race to its very beginnings. One of the power sats floated in the middle of the display. There'd been power sats from the beginning, but they'd been replaced many times.
“There are ethical considerations,” Alex said.
“How do you mean?”
“For one thing, nobody's positive the place is really empty.”
“I can't see that there'd be any problem with getting on the radio and asking if there's anyone down there.”
“Maybe there are people who don't have access to a radio. Who wouldn't know one if they did. Even if there aren't any people, how do you feel about killing off AIs?”
“We do it all the time.” And yes, I knew Belle was listening, but I reminded myself she's a data-storage system. She's not really alive, though sometimes it seemed that way.
“A lot of people don't go along with that, Chase. Killing off a world full of AIs that are doing no damage would create some political problems.”
“I guess. We certainly don't want political problems.”
We crossed the terminator and moved back into sunlight.
Belle put up more pictures, some taken recently by Highgate, others so old the dates had been lost. Most of the onetime population centers were especially well maintained. The few that weren't had been overtaken by desert, jungle, or forest. The appearance of the cities had changed with the passage of time, but not in the sense that they were decaying. Towers grew wider and acquired a more sculpted look, then became taller and sleeker, discarding ornamentation, then devolved into what appeared to me, anyhow, as bulbous horrors. The cities themselves sometimes expanded in concise geometric patterns, and sometimes spread out with uninhibited energy. Even walkways seemed to shift patterns, moving with geometric uniformity through the downtown areas of one age, gracefully arcing around buildings and natural obstacles in another, and still later using tunnels and bridges to arrow through everything that stood in the way. Even though the parks and roads and city streets and beaches, most of all the beaches, were empty, it was impossible to believe that a living civilization did not exist on that world.
“I'm not excited about going down there,” I said. I'd promised myself that I wouldn't raise any more objections. In fact, it was part of the deal. But it slipped out.
“I agree,” said Alex. “We'll be careful.” It was delivered as a promise but one we both knew he wouldn't be able to keep. It wasn't hard to imagine Chris Robin saying much the same thing to Bill Winter.
He was studying the displays. Belle was focusing on the churches. “When we get on the ground, I think it would be a good idea if you stay in the lander. No matter what.”
Oh God. Here we go again. “Alex,” I said, “you know damned well that isn't going to happen.”
His face hardened. “Then you'll wait in the ship.”
“While you take the lander down?”
“That's what AIs are for. I don't need a pilot.”
“You will if there's a problem. If a storm blows up, or you get hit by lightning, it'll be all over, baby.”
“There's not much chance of that. We'll go down in broad daylight under clear skies.”
“Alex-”
“Look, Chase. We've been all over this. Whatever else happens, we don't want both of us disappearing into this godforsaken place.”
The scopes had picked up a small country road, winding through open fields and patches of forest. An open-top car moved along at a leisurely pace. The seats were empty, but I could see a steering wheel turning gently.
The entire world was haunted.
Alex was standing behind me, watching the same image. “I'm sorry I got you into this, Chase.”
“It's not a problem. I'll just wait in the lander while some local giant bat has you for dinner.”
EIGHTEEN
A valley that offers true solitude can provide an exhilarating experience for the soul. Just don't go in there alone.
— Marik Kloestner, Diaries, 1388
If the number of churches, mosques, synagogues, and other places of worship visible along the streets and in the countryside signified anything, Villanueva had been, as advertised, a bastion of faith. The churches were of a multiplicity of types, from giant cathedrals anchored in the centers of large cities to small country chapels out on the plains. Sometimes the architecture was ornate, in the old Gothic style that has characterized Christianity almost since its inception eleven thousand years ago; sometimes it was eclectic; sometimes it was unaffected and modest.
We spent the first two days taking pictures and hoping to find something through the scopes that would, somehow, imply a connection with Chris Robin. That approach produced nothing. If there was something down there, we were not likely to see it because the sheer number of churches was overwhelming. We knew there'd be tens of thousands of them, of course, but that wasn't quite the same as actually seeing them.
We had no idea how to categorize what we were looking at. Big churches, little churches, isolated churches, churches with cemeteries, churches with angels out front. What possible connection could there be with Winter's list of sightings?
“Maybe it started here,” said Alex. “Maybe this was where the first sighting occurred. Maybe someone knew what caused it.”
“But how could something like that be connected with a church?”
“Not a church, Chase. The churches. Lisle used the plural.”
“Which means what?”
“That it's not a record. At least not in the sense of a formal document. It's something else.”
“All right. I have another question.”
“I'm listening.”
“Assume you're right. Say it's some sort of historical place. Maybe the church members got together and set up some memorials. Or something. How would Robin and Winter have known to come here?”
“I doubt Robin was here previously. And we can be reasonably sure that Winter was never here. That means they saw something in the history of the place.”
“Whatever it might have been, I didn't see it.”
“We may not have recognized it if we did. That's what's so frustrating, Chase. I've been hunting through everything I can find on Villanueva and its churches. There has to be something. It's probably best for us to stop theorizing and just keep our eyes open.”
Eventually, Alex picked out a small church standing on the edge of a town in a prairie. There were no trees, the vegetation was sparse, and the ground was, aside from some low hills in the east, absolutely flat. Which was why he'd selected it. We'd have good visibility all around, so nothing could come up on us unseen. There was, he admitted, no other reason. “Let's just go down and look,” he said.
We climbed into the lander and launched. On the way down, we got another warning from Highgate. You are directed to cease and desist. Reports are being filed. Legal action may be taken. If you survive. And finally, “You are on your own.”
We rode down through pleasant, quiet skies, and descended into a field just east of the church, where we had a good view of the front doors. The grass was out of control, and there was a wooden fence that could have used some paint. Otherwise, the place appeared in remarkably good condition.
Gravity and oxygen content were ideal. It was a beautiful day, early afternoon. I'd just shut off the engines when a movement caught my eye, and we both turned to watch a four-legged creature with a long snout and wrinkled skin scramble off into the grass.
Alex released his harness and opened the door. Birds were making a lot of noise. “Okay,” he said. “Sit tight. I'll be back in a few minutes.”
I looked at the church and the green fields and listened to the wind. If I tried to get out with him, I knew that it would just provoke another argument. In the end he'd say no, no way, you're going to keep your word, and he'd stand there refusing to move until I promised him again, for real this time, that I would do what I was told. There was no need to go through all that. So I stayed in my seat and asked him to be careful.
He climbed out, dropped to the ground, checked to be sure he had the pulser he'd brought along. Then he started toward the church, walking through thick grass. When he got to the front, he paused, looked around, and climbed three wooden steps onto the deck.
The church was constructed of white plastene boards. It had a few big stained-glass windows and two large, carved doors. There was no steeple, but a white cross had been mounted on the roof immediately above the front entrance. A dozen or so headstones occupied a small tract of land off to one side. They were worn down by the weather.
A sign stood in front with several lines of unfamiliar symbols. It was leaning toward the skimmer and looked ready to collapse. I asked Gabe, the lander AI, if he could read it.
“It's Kabotai,” he said, over the link. “It was one of the terrestrial languages seven thousand years ago. Do you wish to know what it says?”
“Yes, Gabe, if you will.”
“One moment, please.”
Alex paused in front of the doors and turned to survey the town. It consisted of about sixty buildings, most of which would have been private homes. A three-story structure rose over the rest, a public hall of some sort. The church faced out on a park. Again, the grass was unkempt, but the benches were in good shape, as well as an overhang that would have protected visitors from the sun. Behind the overhang was a small white building that had probably provided washrooms.
“Chase,” said Gabe, “it says what time the Sunday service is. And also: 'Enter here. A special friend awaits you inside.' Friend is capitalized, suggesting it is a reference to the Deity.”
It sent a chill through me.
The sun was directly overhead. Except for the grass, and the fact that the only sound we could hear was the wind, the town looked occupied. It was as if we'd simply arrived when everyone was off visiting somewhere. I kept waiting for a door to open. For a dog to bark. Even Alex, who is usually pretty composed in tense situations, looked uneasy. “St. Monica's,” I said, over the link.
“Pardon?”
“St. Monica's. It should have a name.” I climbed out of the lander.
He looked sternly at me. “Chase.”
“I can't just sit in there, Alex. Let's try being reasonable.”
“Okay. Do what you want. But don't get yourself killed.” He reached for the doorknob. Turned it. Looked back at me. “Was that where you went to church?”
“No. But Monica suggests congeniality. Warmth.”
“This place could use some.”
“Couldn't we all?”
He pulled on the door. Something clicked, and it opened. He slipped inside.
I followed immediately behind. In the entryway, a light came on.
The interior had a high ceiling. The sun shone lazily through a series of arched windows. They were narrow but reached from about knee-high well up into the overhead. They were brightly painted, with images of prophets, angels, and saints.
Holy-water fonts stood just inside the doors, and I was shocked to discover they held water. Benches were arranged on either side of a central aisle, and an altar dominated the front, with a pulpit placed off to one side. Directly above us was a gallery for the choir. Statues of Jesus and Mary, of St. Joseph, an angel, and three or four figures with halos, were distributed around the interior. One of them, a young woman, had clasped her hands in prayer. “St. Monica,” I said.
“Probably Mary Magdalene,” said Alex. “I've never seen anything like this. How can this place be thousands of years old?”
