Алан Дин Фостер - Relic

“Hey, whatever-wherever you are! What do we do now?”

That a response was forthcoming was gratifying. That it was no more than a repetition of what had gone before was more than disappointing.

“Install pattern number one?”

They had no idea what that meant nor to what the unseen AI might be referring, but by now there was no stopping the irrepressible Cherpa. Before Ruslan could caution her further, she had already replied, energetically and authoritatively.

“Yes!”

No verbal response was forthcoming—but the pulsating aurora that surrounded them underwent an immediate and perceptible shift in hue. New colors appeared, while old ones faded away. Configurations changed, roiled, darted through the walls. Cherpa did not have to point at their focus: Ruslan saw it, too.

The capsule containing the static human form had become enveloped in a refulgence so intense they had to squint in order to be able to look directly at it. Searching for change, Ruslan thought he could see the clothed chest within starting to rise and fall, but he couldn’t be certain. Nor was he sure he saw the closed eyelids fluttering.

Further speculation was rendered moot when the top half of the capsule abruptly opened to one side and the figure within sat up. As soon as it stepped out and away from the transparency, the lid reclosed and a new shape slid into the vacated space. The replacement was female, as were four of the nine figures that now occupied the remaining and heretofore empty cylinders. They reposed face up, fully clothed and unmoving.

The intense illumination in which the first capsule had been bathed rapidly subsided to its previous state. As an awestruck Ruslan and Cherpa looked on, the individual who had emerged slowly turned a complete circle. Apparently satisfied with his surroundings, he finally focused his attention on the other occupants of the chamber. The unaltered voice of the AI echoed softly through the underground.

“Install patterns numbers two through eleven?”

Ruslan was having a difficult time dividing his attention between the revived man and the female shape that now occupied the nearest of the ten capsules. She looked to be about his age, perhaps slightly younger. Long-buried yearnings began to flicker within him. Would she, could she, be revived as rapidly and apparently as successfully as her male predecessor? If so, how might she respond to him? How might he respond to her? Save for Cherpa, his whole life had been bereft of female companionship. For an entirely selfish moment the future of his species seemed incidental to long-suppressed personal considerations.

The resurrected man spoke. His accent was thick and difficult but ultimately comprehensible. It unsettled Ruslan, but not in a bad way. It was as if his insides had momentarily turned to jelly. The man was speaking in the tones, in the highs and lows, of old Earth. Like him, the speech he was employing was an artifact… an artifact brought back to life.

Something bumped Ruslan’s left side. Wide-eyed, Cherpa had moved to stand next to him. Together they listened raptly to the upright relic.

“My name is Nashrudden Megas Chin.” Prolongation of the ensuing silence jolted Ruslan into realizing he was expected to respond to this introduction.

“I’m called Ruslan. I’ve forgotten my other names. When you’re the last of your kind, you tend to shed extraneous information pretty quickly.” He nodded to his left. “This is Cherpa.”

“Mated?” the revivee asked politely.

Ruslan wondered if he was blushing. Somehow, when another human voiced it, the query came out sounding entirely different than when it was propounded by a Myssari.

“No, no. A friend.”

“A very good friend.” Reaching up, Cherpa put a hand on Ruslan’s shoulder. “He saved me. Saved my life and my mind.”

“Others?” the man asked. It struck Ruslan that Nashrudden was no more voluble than the AI that had revived him.

“Some children,” Ruslan told him. “Our offspring, produced through artificial insemination. Our Myssari friends are looking after them.”

“Myssari?”

“A nonhuman species.” Ruslan did his best to explain. “One of the alien intelligences humankind always believed were out there. They exist, and there are many of them. They arrived in our area of the galaxy just as the Aura Malignance was killing off the last of us.” Curiosity was turning to empathy. “I’m guessing you have been contained in this place for at least a couple of hundred years.”

“But not you.” The more the man talked, Ruslan reflected, the easier he became to understand.

“No.” Once again Ruslan nodded toward Cherpa. “There may be others, but as far as I know I’m the only one on my homeworld, Seraboth, who was born with a natural immunity to the plague. Likewise Cherpa and—one other—on her world, Daribb.”

The newly resurrected man nodded understandingly. “You also cannot be carriers. If that were the case or if any vestige of the Aura Malignance remained on Earth, the Preservation Project system would not have allowed me to be revived. I know: I helped to design it and oversaw much of the final construction and installation. It is because of my knowledge of the system that I am first to be revived. It means that this world, at least, is clean. It may be hoped that the same is true of all others. Without humans in which to propagate, the Malignance should have long since died out. As we again move off-world we will be cautious, just in case. A repeat of the cataclysm cannot be allowed to happen.”

“The Myssari will help,” Ruslan said encouragingly. “They have an entire scientific branch devoted to the study of our species and its culture. So do the Vrizan, and probably some of the other intelligences as well.”

“Other intelligences.” Nashrudden shook his head in disbelief. “A difficult concept for one of my time to grasp. I wonder if their scientists could have found a way to halt the plague. Something else we will never know.” His expression brightened. “But my revivification proves the Earth is free of the Malignance. We will not repeat the mistakes of the past. This world and the others our species settled will once again resound to a multiplicity of human voices and the full range of human activity!”

Ruslan and Cherpa exchanged a glance before he replied. “Concerning that, there are good things to say. But there are also some… complications.”

With her help he proceeded as best he could to fill in the scientist on two hundred years of missing history—and the current sociopolitical reality in this human-blighted corner of the cosmos.

No one knew how much time had passed since their disquisition had begun. No one much cared. Nashrudden Megas Chin was both fascinated and much pleased.

“Instruments were set in place to unobtrusively record everything that might transpire since the Project was initiated. The results of that effort will eventually be scrutinized. But they cannot, they could not, record for posterity the events of elsewhere. I am indebted for your input on the state, however sad, of the colonized worlds.”

“I’m sorry I can’t remember more, or in greater detail.” Ruslan was apologetic. “I’m—I was—a mid-level administrator, not a historian.” He glanced at the young woman next to him and smiled. “Cherpa was too young and put-upon to be anything except a survivor.” He turned back to the scientist. “What happens now?”

“Continuance.” Raising his voice conspicuously, he addressed the unseen but omnipresent AI. “Install patterns two through eleven.” With a smile that was almost shy, he added, to his new companions, “My coworkers. Once they are revived, the Project can resume in earnest.”