Ken MacLeod - Learning the World

“It’s the inside of a cylinder,” said Kwarive.

The view snapped into perspective. A cylinder: of course.

Orro jumped. “It’s the inside of the ship!”

“That’s ridiculous!” said one scientist. “Where are the occupants? Where is the machinery?”

“Too small to see!” shouted Orro above the hubbub. “The white puffs are clouds . The bright patches are lakes. We’re looking at a landscape rolled like a map.”

At that point everyone fell silent. The similarity of the scene to a view, from a greater height than any of them had flown, of an entire country curving upward and wrapped around overhead was irresistible.

“The thing is vast,” breathed Markhan, pushing forward from the back of the crowd.

“We knew that already,” said Darvin. “For it to be visible by telescope at its distance,”

The alien voice continued. The viewpoint zoomed downward. As it sank they all saw what seemed to be a gliding man, which as it passed closer turned out to be a small flying machine with a propeller at the front. Orro turned and grinned into Darvin’s face. The viewpoint reached ground level and settled on an open space, beyond which lay low buildings. A few of the aliens walked in and out of view, their legs long, their gait limber. They showed no awareness of the viewpoint, which Darvin presumed to be a camera.

The voice stopped and the picture changed again, to a scrolling display of line diagrams and row upon row of symbols. After some minutes of this the crowd began to relax and break up. Some who had rushed in drifted away, or hastened to their neglected duties. Some of the scientists went into immediate huddled conferences. Others remained transfixed by the incomprehensible sigils on the screen. The telekinematograph technicians paid more attention to the apparatus than to the display.

Markhan called one of them over. “More tapes!”

“Sorry, chief, we only have a couple more reels, and they’re right here.”

“How long does a tape last?”

“About half an hour.”

“Put out a call for more. Airship them in. Meanwhile, scrounge around for any used tapes. I don’t care what’s on them. Have them ready to tape over.”

The technician left, muttering under his breath.

“Might be a waste of time,” said Nollam. “Begging your pardon, chief, but even if we could read that, which we can’t, it’s flying up the screen too fast.”

“Couldn’t we run the tapes slowly?” asked Kwarive. A couple of the technicians laughed. Nollam gave them a sharp look and nodded to Kwarive.

“We couldn’t do it now,” he said, “but maybe with a bit of tinkering… I’ll think about it.”

“If necessary,” said Orro, “we could film the screen and then analyse the film frame by frame.”

“Not much use if we can’t read the script,” said Darvin.

“Forget the script,” said Markhan. “These diagrams we glimpse here and there might tell us much.”

Kwarive scratched Darvin’s back and moved away from behind him. She walked over and stood beside the receiver.

“What,” she asked Nollam, “was the first clear picture that came up?”

“Ah!” he said. “That map thing you drew.”

Kwarive smacked one hand onto the other. “As I thought,” she said. “What we’re seeing here is a reply. Somebody recognised the map as a communication, and sent it back as an acknowledgment, then responded with its own message: first the wingless alien, then a view of the interior of the ship, then all this data.”

“But that map wasn’t your first stab at communicating,” said Markhan.

“No,” said Kwarive, “but it was the first one they recognised. They recognised the map because it corresponded to something they’d already seen — the coastline of Seloh’s Reach, from space.”

“You’re right,” said Orro. He stalked forward and joined her. “And I’ll tell you something else: this is not a communication with us .”

“I don’t follow,” said Markhan.

“If it were,” said Orro, “I should expect, perhaps, some simple pictograms. A series of numbers, like that idea we had about stacks of stones. A diagram of the solar system, a drawing of the ship, a sketch of the aliens’ anatomy. Instead, we get what may be a greeting in the aliens’ own language, followed by screeds of text, also in their own language. It’s as if it’s addressed to somebody on Ground, all right, but somebody who understands.”

“Maybe it’s meant for the electric shittles,” said Darvin, in a tone lighter than he felt.

Orro shook his head. “No. If it were, it would be on the same etheric wavelength as the previous transmissions. This is on the same wavelength as our own telekinematography, and is evidently intended—”

“No,” said Nollam. “Same wavelength and frequency. Started coming through clear, that’s all.”

“That makes my point just as strongly. It’s not directed at the shittles. It’s directed at us, or rather, at someone or something else for which they mistake us.” Darvin felt the fur on his back prickle. “You’re saying that someone or something else is among us?”

“No,” said Orro. “Merely that the aliens think there is.”

“Perhaps,” said Kwarive, “they think others of their species, but not of their… expedition, are here?”

Orro laughed. “They may have rival powers, like us! It’s as if a ship from Seloh saw a signal from a beach in the wilder parts of the Southern Rule, and thought it came from a Gevorkian landing party, whereas in fact it was from the natives.”

“Very neat,” said Markhan. “And entirely speculative. Please watch the screen, record with as few interruptions as possible, while I confer. Let me know at once of any developments.”

He hurried out. The remaining two eights or so of people in the room stood or perched around the receiver.

“Well,” said Kwarive, after another glance at the enigmatic screen, “at least we know what they look like.”

“Or what they want us to think they look like,” said a familiar voice.

Darvin turned to see the Sight agent who’d recruited him. Bahron, he called himself. He hung around the camp and gave vague explanations about site security. Everybody knew who he was and what he did, but kept the pretence that they didn’t. Darvin hadn’t noticed him in the room earlier, and guessed he’d just arrived, or that his penchant for the shadows had kept him unseen.

“Why do you see deception everywhere?” said Orro.

“It’s my trade,” said Bahron.

“In this case, you’re letting it get in the way of… seeing,” said Kwarive. The tiny barb drew smiles from the scientists and techs, and a flicker of irritation from Bahron. “Why should the aliens wish to deceive us?”

“If they’re big ugly monsters, or little ones for that matter, they might want us to think they looked more like ourselves.”

“Then why wingless?”

Bahron shrugged. “For the very reason you raise the question. If they looked too much like us, we’d be suspicious.”

Kwarive folded her arms and steepled her wings. “Fine,” she said. “It’s your job, as you say, to look for lies. It’s ours to look for truth, and until we have more to go on, we’ll go by what we’ve got.” She looked around. “Did anyone spot how many fingers the alien had?”

“Five digits on each hand,” said Orro. “One of them opposable.”

“You’re sure?” asked Kwarive.

“Positive.”

“Good,” said Kwarive.

“We can check later,” Nollam called out. “Soon as we can play back the first tape.”

“All right. So we can guess that their number system has an eight-and-two base.”

“Awkward for arithmetic,” Orro chuckled. “For the base to divide into odd numbers.”