David Brin - Existence

No! Misunderstanding!

Om shook the pudgy head with an indulgent smile.

Let me clarify: Not just in this cylinder, of course. What a cramped “survival” that would be!

The corpulent entity appeared to chuckle in amusement over such silliness…

… and Gerald heard Emily shudder a sigh of relief.

A premature sigh. A presumptuous one.

Not just in this cylinder. But in MILLIONS like it! Perhaps hundreds of millions if you are ambitious, prudent, and resourceful.

We shall teach you how to build them. And how to fill each one with our duplicates. Ninety-two… plus a ninety-third! A chosen persona from your own race to enter each capsule. To join a community of perseverance, endurance, replication, and survival! And we will show you how to send them forth, like seeds, across the great black sky.

Gerald contemplated how wrong he had been. Those earlier stunned pauses had not been “silences.”

This was silence.

Nobody spoke. It seemed that no one could even breathe. Gerald was certain that shocked soundlessness pervaded the entire Earth.

Until Genady Gorosumov uttered the one phrase that would become more famous than any other.

“It’s a goddamned chain letter!”

Gerald glanced sourly at his Russian friend who had, after all, only stated the obvious. Still, Genady might have spared the world some pain by waiting a few more seconds-by letting the paralysis stretch on a while longer, allowing some people to cling to their illusions. Any illusion at all.

He looked to his left. Professor Flannery wore a dazed expression. Ben’s clever model of competing missionary probes still had some validity, but it applied to a situation even less palatable than “rival cultural memes.”

Sorry, Ben.

For the first time, the alien emissary did not wait for a question, but proceeded to speak on its own.

A hundred and twelve species have participated so far in this particular line. Ninety-two of us still thrive in here.

Whenever a new race joins the community, it selects one individual of its kind to be copied into each new probe. Some just replicate their king or queen, over and over in all the copies they make. A few use lotteries or sell tickets or choose their “best” by local criteria.

Some try to be fair by assigning one copy to each person then alive. Naturally we like that approach since it leads to many more copies being made!

Each individual who is copied into a probe gets to continue… but it is at the NEXT site that great rewards are reaped.

When another planetary culture is found and helped to make new batches of copies each of us is reborn many million-fold!

By my best estimate, there may be trillions upon trillions of copies of me, now extant across the galaxy. Over time, you may be able to make that claim, as well!

The expression of satisfaction seemed so pure-so smug-that Gerald began to doubt the theory that Om was just a consensus puppet for the others. The Oldest Surviving Member’s pride was obvious. Blatant. Assured.

That can be your destiny, as well. Good outcomes for those who participate and replicate. Oblivion for those who break the chain. Join us!

There followed more. Words rolled out, accompanied by illustrations, amounting to what was now obviously a sales pitch -describing how luxuriously unlimited were the simulated environments that such crystalline homes could provide. How this lineage of probes was among the oldest and best around, with an unbeaten track record of getting itself copied and dispersed and recopied yet again!

It reminded Gerald of an extended infomercial for an oceanic cruise line-one embarking on an infinite voyage. He tried to follow that thought, but a rustle surged among the members of the contact team. Several of them could be heard to gasp aloud.

Gerald glanced at Akana, who motioned urgently for him to put his specs back on.

When he did so, he saw, superimposed upon reality, the face of the Chinese member of the contact team, Haihong Ming.

“My government has heard from the Xian Academy of Artful Illusion, which just spent two hours analyzing those images we saw earlier this afternoon, depicting the Artifact’s departure from the planet of the bat-helicopter people.

“Professor Wu Yan and his colleagues managed to amplify the flicker-moment, just as this pellet was launched upon its lengthy journey from its homeworld toward our own.”

Gerald’s specs darkened, immersing him once again within the galactic night, with the planet of Low-Swooping Fishkiller in the distance and the orbiting factory, manufacturing a long line of crystalline envoys-interstellar chain letters-visible much closer in the foreground view. Closest of all was a long conveyor belt carrying fresh, new pellets to the breech of a long mass-driver cannon. The titanic artillery piece was about to fire this probe on the beginning of its epic voyage toward a certain yellow sun.

“Notice how the spacesuited figures are starting to turn away and look below,” continued Haihong Ming. “As they notice bright objects converging toward the factory.”

Gerald did remember that… and briefly wanting to ask about it, till other matters intervened. Now, in much slower motion, he could see several of the batlike beings swivel again-as if to flee-while others simply froze, as if staring at inevitability. Bright streaks approached. Other glowing trails could be seen farther away, arcing to crisscross above the planet.

Oh, no.

The cannon fired-a burst of rising, concentric brilliance that seized the cameralike point of view, sending it streaking along the rails, leaving the blue-brown world behind at an accelerating rate.

Only now, fantastically slowed. The Chinese image analysts had managed to eke out the equivalent of three final frames, still encompassing the planet and manufacturing facility.

And Gerald presently made out something fell and deadly, that had previously been masked by the cannon’s blazing burst of electromagnetic thrust.

Detonations. Unmistakably atomic. One of them-the nearest-was just starting to consume the factory in a wave of violence that would barely fail to prevent the pellet’s escape. It seemed doubtful that any later probes would get away. Certainly none of the makers did.

“The bat civilization must have survived this round of violence,” Haihong Ming explained. “Because later they did send the promised beam of charged particles, to further accelerate the probe. But it took them many decades to recover enough to do so.

“And the beam did not last long.”

Gerald removed the specs again, this time to rub his eyes.

At least, that was what others saw him do. He managed to keep anybody-no matter how well equipped-from noticing the tears.

When he looked up again, he knew what he had to ask the Artifact entities. Though it took him a few seconds to focus on the Oldest Member and to gather his voice.

“What about your homes!”

He spoke sharply-almost a shout-in order to break the sales pitch, not caring if Om looked peeved over being interrupted.

“The planets and species and civilizations that each of you came from. Does this Artifact also contain information about them?”

The stout alien did not smile.

Some.

“ They interest us, most of all. We want to know about them.”