Robert Reed - Lying to Dogs.pdf - Robert Reed - margozap

*Lying to Dogs*

by Robert Reed

Robert Reed tells us that one inspiration for this story comes from a family legend

his mother swears is true. His second inspiration for this tale, unlike "Oracles"

(_Asimov's,_ January 2002), a story he wrote around the same time that assumed

intelligent life is common and relatively easy to find, comes from the assumption that

intelligent life occurs very rarely in the universe. Mr. Reed's next novel, _Sister Alice, _is

scheduled for publication in May of 2003.

--------

_When I was a boy, my family owned a black Labrador retriever. Our dog lived for

cold autumn mornings and long rides into the country and the intoxicating stink of fear

leaking from the hunted birds. But there were days when dogs weren't welcome. For

instance, there was this river-rat buddy of my father's with a goose blind hiding on an

isolated sandbar. The river was deep and relentless; it was no place to take your animal

swimming. That's why on the first day of goose season, Dad rose before dawn, dressed in

his warmest camouflage, then carried his gun to the car and drove off alone. And the way

my mother tells the story, the poor dog was devastated by this betrayal. He stood at our

front door all day long, howling and sobbing, outraged by what was obviously a horrible,

horrible crime._

_Dad came home happy, but his joy didn't last._

_Mom corralled him in their bedroom, and after a melodramatic replay of her day,

they hatched a simple plan. If my father wanted to hunt on the river, he had to slip his gun

and clothes out to the car the night before, preferably while our dog was busy terrorizing

the squirrels in the backyard. Then in the predawn blackness, he would dress for church:

A good suit, a crisp and conservative tie, and shiny black leather shoes. Dad looked

exceptionally pious as he drove away. And our Labrador, in delicious innocence, would

sleep untroubled at my mother's feet._

_It was a lie, but it was a compassionate and moral lie._

_About that, I haven't the faintest doubt._

--------

Imagine an enormous coincidence.

And now cube it.

By coincidence, Opal is using the entire array, building a comprehensive map of

the Virgo cluster. In the midst of measuring the soft glare of an enormous galaxy, she

notices something decidedly odd. Buried inside that wealth of natural light is a coherent

pulse. A structured glow. A luminous song born millions of years in the past. And because

Opal has a wealth of talents, she quickly teases the song into its assorted notes,

discovering oceans of data waiting to be found -- oceans created by a higher intelligence,

designed to be obvious and decipherable, as well as utterly compelling.

"I could have been looking anywhere else," Opal admits. "We should have missed

the signal. A fantastic amount of energy was utilized, but the signal was propagated in all

directions. 'For every imaginable ear,' they claim."

"Who claims?" asks Aisha.

Opal emits a high-pitched squawk. "It's their name for themselves," she admits.

"From what they tell me, it means the Blessed."

"A pleasant name," Sue remarks.

The rest of us say "The Blessed" aloud, as if it helps us understand our new

neighbors in the cosmos.

Aisha glances at me, but she's speaking to Opal, asking, "So what do the Blessed

look like?"

"Very much like you," Opal responds.

An image blossoms on the main screen: The creature is a biped with arms and

legs and a recognizable head. But the resemblance stops there. The body is squat and

strong and hairless, a thick hide of rhino-like flesh folded neatly at the elbows and

shoulders and knees. Each hand has four long fingers, any one of which might be called

the thumb, while the feet are triple-toed and resemble bald paws. The alien face has a

carp's sucking mouth and no nose that I can find, and what seems to be the single eye is

a flattened ellipse that reaches around the backside of the slick leathery head. Two round

pupils swim inside the eye, both moving down to where the nose should be, crowding

together and staring out at us.

"Hello, there!" Conrad jokes.

Tenwolf points out, "It doesn't look at all human."

"Not to you, perhaps," Opal replies. "But to me, it's practically your twin."

Everyone enjoys a good laugh.

Then our AI continues explaining the image. "The Blessed had DNA genetics and

an oxygen-sugar metabolism. Their homeworld was substantially more massive than the

Earth, with deeper oceans and a thicker atmosphere. But their sun was very much like

ours."

Sue asks, "Is it male or female? Or something else, maybe?"

"Female," Opal says. Then she creates a second, nearly identical image that

stands beside the first alien. "This is the male Blessed. If you notice, he's more heavily

built and his head is a little more tapered."

Five humans stare at the newly discovered aliens. We are not stupid people. We've

proven ourselves to be creative and adaptable individuals, not easily shaken by things

unexpected. But our tongues have been stolen. None of us can whisper even the most

obvious questions.

Opal decides to repeat herself. "I could have missed their signal. Any other day,

and I wouldn't have noticed it. And since this is the only facility sensitive enough to find

and decipher their message, we can assume that nobody else knows about the Blessed."

"Speaking of which," says Conrad. "How soon can we talk to Nearside?"

"Our main link is still inoperative," Opal reports. "And our secondary system won't

be repaired for another seventy-four hours."

This is a second, decidedly smaller fluke. Our problematic com-satellite has gone

on one of its little vacations, while our land-based system -- three thousand kilometers of

naked glass cable -- was severed by a careless construction robot somewhere near

Hadley.

Aisha asks, "What's our tertiary system?"

"A solar observation satellite," says Opal.

"Good," Conrad exclaims.

"But this is a flare season, and it's making some delicate, highest-priority

measurements. It won't be available for another three hours."

"So we've got the story of the millennium," Conrad grumbles, "and we have to wait

to deliver our news."

Again, everyone laughs.

Except for Opal. Normally the most joyful member of our team, she is

conspicuously quiet for what must feel like an eternity to her. Then she repeats what she

has already told us. What her less-perceptive colleagues haven't noticed. "I am using the

past tense when I speak about the Blessed," she warns. "They are dead now. They have

been extinct for nearly fifty million years."

"How do we know?" asks Tenwolf.

Another eternal pause. Then Opal admits, "It took phenomenal power to generate

their signal. They generated that power when their sun and half a hundred of the nearest

suns exploded in sequence."

"Shit," I mutter.

"But why?" Aisha inquires.

"I'm trying to learn that now," Opal promises.

A sudden anguish takes hold, and everyone turns to stare at the person who they

always seek out whenever they feel less than wonderful.

They look at the base counselor.

At me.

* * *

Exactly five people live on the back side of the moon. None of us are scientists, but

each carries a solid layman's understanding of astronomy and high-physics. We were

hired as technicians, trained in a rush and put up here to baby the Feynman Observatory

-- many billions of dollars' worth of mirrors and radio dishes and hardened electronics that

mesh the mess together into a single vast eye.

Humans weren't part of the original plan. This giant facility was designed to be

unmanned and self-reliant. But AIs and robots still have limits. Some expensive and

embarrassing breakdowns happened during the first eighteen months of operation.

Kicking and screaming, NASA found the money and boosters to bring us here. But the

human presence has always been minimal on the moon, which makes our mission all the

more difficult. And dangerous. And isolated, too. That's why some panel of dusty experts

decided that a professional counselor was essential to the mission. And that's why they

could include a man like me -- someone with less than sterling talents in the arts of optical

feeds and vacuum motors.

What I am is an ordained minister in the Church of Darwin. Raised in a traditional

Methodist home, I have two pretentious degrees, in theology and in psychology.

According to my resume, I should be perfectly suited to help my four compatriots deal with

the isolation of this place, as well as the treacheries that come when too few people are

placed too near one another.

I believe in God. Regardless of what skeptics believe, my church and faith call for a

caring and wise Lord of All. I believe in goodness and in truth, and most important, I want

to do what is right and moral. But despite my credentials and outward bearing, I have a

rather slippery hold on those things that should matter most to me.

Aisha likes to tell me so.

She says it after we make love. She has a smart strong voice and lustful

almond-shaped eyes, and she always pretends to be delighted with herself and

disappointed with me. "I just screwed a minister," she laughs, pulling out from under me.

Then she looks up at the ceiling of my tiny cabin, quietly boasting, "I'm ruining you. A man

of the collar."

"I don't wear a collar," I'll tell her.

"You know what I mean."

"My church doesn't want celibacy. Not in functioning, normal adults." I will put a

finger on her mouth, adding, "Our species is a social ape. Living any other way would be a

lie and sacrilege."

But Aisha prefers a more traditional image of faith. Her God is a father figure, and

my beliefs are never as important as her desire to be wicked. That's why she will look

through me, reminding me, "You're here as a therapist. What kind of therapist fucks his

patients?"

"Only one of my patients," I offer.

"Oh, I forgot. That makes it all right."

I love the woman. I can watch her for hours, never growing bored. She has black

hair and a delicious Middle Eastern color, with full breasts and wide hips screaming to my

genes, "I will make good babies."

But there can't be any children. Each of us has been surgically sterilized, left free

of life's gravest and most joyful responsibility.

"But I do love wicked men," Aisha will tell me. Eventually. Then she will push her

mouth against the flat of my belly, running her wide tongue downward as she says my

name with a fiendish delight.

"Xavier," she will whisper.

I will close my eyes.

"Xavier," she will groan.

Then I will cradle the back of her head, making knots with her hair, softly saying,

"Aisha," as my ancient biology begins to stir again.

* * *

The gloomy news about the Blessed shakes Conrad. He looks at his surroundings --

the tiny cafeteria with its five chairs and grimy food dispensers and the viewing screen that

covers the longest wall. Knowing him like I do, I'm guessing that he'll quickly slip from

surprise into a pissy rage. Sure enough, he says, "Bullshit." He sits up again, then asks

Opal, "How do you know that they're extinct? How can you be sure?"

"That's what the Blessed are telling me," our AI explains.

"Is that so?" he barks.

Opal's voice is feminine and youthful. "I'm sorry, Conrad. But they're emphatic

about their own demise. That's how they begin their message, and it is repeated

throughout this very long text."

Sue straightens in her chair and aims for diplomacy. "It's been fifty million years.

Isn't that right? How many species exist for even half as long?" She smiles at Conrad,

adding, "It's only natural to refer to yourself as being gone -- "

"No, Sue," Opal interrupts. "The Blessed destroyed their homeworld, and they

destroyed their colony worlds, too."

Nobody speaks.

"One hundred and fifty billion died in the cataclysm."

Sue slumps forward. She is a large woman, and plain, and she is the simultaneous

lover to both Conrad and Tenwolf. That's the kind of diplomat she can be. "Was it some

kind of natural catastrophe?" she sputters, plainly disgusted by the implications. "Or

maybe some terrible accident?"

Opal says, "No, and no."

Again, people glance at me.

I am the counselor, their minister and confidant. I clear my throat. "Opal," I say, "we

need more details. More of an explanation."

"I'm sorting and translating the message now," she explains. Then she offers a

measure of the data, using a crisp exponential number that makes her audience blink and

shiver. How many thousands of years would it take humans to digest such a volume of

knowledge?

I glance at my Aisha, staring into her narrowed eyes.

"The Blessed willingly destroyed themselves," Opal maintains. "The process began

with their home sun, and as the shockwave reached each successive sun, it too was

demolished by the same means."

The screen goes to white, and then an image appears. At first glance, I'm sure

that Opal is generating the scene, but then I notice odd marks in the center and along the

curved edges. This is a portion of the aliens' message. The Blessed have thoughtfully

supplied us with captions; their language resembles a slanted line wearing intricate bumps

and knots that Opal can already read at a glance. Where it matters, she supplies

translations. Where it is vital, she focuses on tiny portions of the image, letting us watch as

fleets of silvery vessels plunge into a red dwarf and then a fat yellow-white sun and finally

a fierce blue-white giant, each star exploding with the smooth ease of a Fourth of July

firecracker.

Impressed, Tenwolf asks, "How did they do this godawful thing?"

"I haven't found any schematics," Opal admits. "What I wanted you to see is this.

Here."

The shockwave cools as it expands, but only to a point. It remains bright and

fierce, swelling with the smooth inevitability of an inflating balloon. Even a scientific novice

like myself can tell that these aren't ordinary novas and supernovas. Each blast is

asymmetric, and nothing visible remains of the dead suns. Are they black holes, or has all

their matter been consumed? I nearly ask. But then the shockwave washes up against an

unseen barrier, and a blinding flash erupts, leaving everyone in the tiny room blinking and

wiping at their wounded eyes.

Opal stops the image and runs it backward, enlarging a pinprick of the brilliance.

"The wave front was a sphere a little more than twenty light-years across," she reports. "A

membrane of some kind had been set in its path. The membrane had an intricate design

and minimal mass. It absorbed the wave's energies and retransmitted them as coherent

light. In effect, the Blessed built an infrared laser that pointed in every direction at once."

Again, Tenwolf asks, "How can that be done?"

"It can't be," is Conrad's opinion. But I can see the doubt swimming in his face,

and I hear a desperate hope in his otherwise solid voice.

"What kind of output are we talking about?" Aisha asks.

Opal offers another extraordinary number, in joules. Then after the briefest pause,

she adds, "This was a signal meant for faraway eyes."

The twenty light-year sphere recedes. The galaxy in Virgo fills the screen, and just

as suddenly it begins to shrink away. A giant whirlpool of stars and gas perhaps a hundred

times more massive than our wispy little Milky Way, but its majesty vanishes with the same

smooth ease, becoming a pale smear barely visible against hundreds of smears of

nameless, same-looking light.

The alien message is a flicker, silent and quick.

But it is noticeable, yes. Provided that one happens to be looking at the right place

with the proper kinds of eyes, it is obvious.

Opal gives her slow companions a moment to wrestle with the distances and

energies and this vision of endless Creation. Then with a flat, careful voice, she remarks,

Robert Reed - Lying to Dogs.pdf

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