Jack McDevitt - POLARIS

There was no serious effort to save the facility. Apparently some private homes along the western rim of the valley had been in danger, and the firefighters went there first. By the time anyone got near the laboratory it was too late. Judging from what we learned of the blaze, it wouldn’t have mattered in any case. There’d been a long drought, and the trees went up like tinder.

Flash was gone, too. The AI, not the dog. The core material for Dunninger’s work on life extension, which he called, simply, the Project, had not yet been submitted for peer review. It was gone as well. Up in smoke, you might say. Had he maintained a duplicate data bank elsewhere? Probably. But no one knew where it might be, or how it might be accessed.

There were no fatalities during the incident, and most of the homes on the western perimeter were saved. The rescue services congratulated themselves, and the media reported how fortunate everyone was, how it could easily have been a disaster.

Alex wanted to hear how Dunninger had responded when he heard the news, but his reaction never made the public nets. We dug around and discovered that his response to the damage was listed in the Environmental Service archives. But to get into those we’d have to make application and provide an explanation for the request.

“We should take a run out there tomorrow,” he said. “Get a look at the records.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Afterward we can go to lunch.” Alex enjoyed his lunches.

The Environmental Services Department is located along the perimeter of a preserve named Cobbler Green, about ten kilometers southwest of Andiquar. It’s a quiet area favored in the daytime by young mothers and in the evening by lovers. Sable trees, flowering bushes, sculpted brooks, curving walkways, traditional and virtual statuary.

The building itself is, in the spirit of the neighborhood, an unadorned two-story structure covered with vines.

We walked into the main lobby, which was manned by an autoprocessor. “Good morning,” it said in a gender-neutral voice. “How may I help you?”

Alex explained that we wanted to see the Polaris record that would detail Thomas Dunninger’s response to the news that his laboratory had been destroyed.

“Thirteen sixty-five,” he added.

“Very good,” it said. “There is a corresponding archive. The application forms are displayed. Please use the designated headbands.”

We sat down at a table, put on the headbands, and the applications appeared. We each completed one, citing antiquity background (whatever that might mean) as the purpose. A few minutes later, we were directed to an inner cubicle. A bored-looking middle-aged man in a Forestry Service uniform appeared and introduced himself as Chagal, or Chackal, or something like that. He directed us to a screen, told us to call him if we needed help, turned, and left. An access board powered up, and the screen turned on.

We got some numbers and a tag identifying the date and time of the desired communication. Fourth day of the flight, 1365, audio only. We listened to a station comm officer inform the Polaris, attention Dr. Dunninger, that a forest fire had destroyed the Epstein laboratory. “At this time,” the officer said, “reports indicate complete destruction of the facility. Nothing of value is believed to have survived other than the buildings, and they are damaged. This includes, unfortunately, the AI.”

A reply came back two days later. It was Madeleine’s voice: “Skydeck, the news of the fire has been passed as you requested. If there’s anything additional, please let us know.” Then she signed off.

“That’s it?” I asked.

Alex exhaled. “Damn.”

“I thought he’d get on the circuit and demand details. How it happened. Whether there was anything at all left. Stuff like that.”

“Apparently not. Of course, complete destruction pretty much says it.” We got up and started for the door.

“So what now?” I asked.

“How far’s Epstein?”

The Epstein Retreat had been located in West Chibong, in the north country. We booked a flight, left that evening, and got into Wahiri Central shortly after midnight.

Not good planning. We checked into a hotel and set out the following morning in a taxi.

West Chibong is exactly what it sounds like: isolated, remote, one of those places where, once you get beyond the town limits, there’s nothing for a hundred kilometers in any direction except mountains and forest. The Big River runs through the area, providing good fishing, according to the locals, and, of course, it features the Wainwright Falls.

Alex told the taxi to pass over the Epstein site. It didn’t have any idea what he was talking about so he sighed and directed it instead to take us to Special Services, which housed Air Rescue, Forest, and Environment.

It was headquartered in a big, grungy, domed building downtown. Not exactly ramshackle, but close. The interior was impersonal, drab, damp, not a place where you’d want to work. I’d expected to find pictures of the rescue services in action, skimmers dropping chemicals on blazing trees, emergency technicians tending to victims, patrols chasing a runaway boat through rapids. But the walls were undecorated, save for a few dusty portraits of elderly men and women you probably wouldn’t have wanted to have over for dinner. There’d been a time when I’d thought briefly about doing something like this for a living. The rescue services especially had always seemed glamorous. And it would have been nice to dedicate my life to helping people in trouble. But I either grew out of it or found out the pay wasn’t very good.

“Yes, folks,” said an AI. “What can I do for you?” Sexy voice. This was going to be a unit made up primarily of young males.

“My name’s Benedict,” Alex said. “My associate and I are doing research. I wonder if I could speak with someone for a few minutes? I won’t take much time.”

“May I ask the subject of your research, Mr. Benedict?”

“The forest fire in 1365.”

“That’s a long time ago, sir. Just a moment, please. I’ll see if the duty officer is available.”

The duty officer, despite my expectations, was a woman. She was a tiny creature, early thirties, brown eyes, brown hair. She wore the standard forest green uniform and looked happy to have visitors. “Come on back, people,” she said, leading us down a passageway and into an office. “I understand you want to talk about one of the 1365 fires.”

Uh-oh. “You had more than one?”

She introduced herself as Ranger Jamieson. There was something irrepressible about her. I never saw her again after that interview, but to this day I remember Ranger Jamieson. And I’ve promised myself I’ll find a reason to go back again one day and say hello.

She brought numbers up on her monitor. “Looks like seventeen. Of course, that depends on how you define the term.”

“You had seventeen fires that year?”

She nodded. “It’s about average for this region. We only cover a narrow area, but we get droughts on a regular basis. It has to do with the winds. And we have lots of campers, some of them not too bright. We also get a fair number of lightning strikes. In summer or fall, it doesn’t take much to start a blaze.”

“The one I’m looking for took out the Epstein Retreat.”

She looked blank. “I beg your pardon?”

Well, there you are. We were assuming everybody on the planet knew about the Epstein lab, but as a matter of fact, a few weeks earlier I hadn’t heard of it myself.

Alex explained what it did, who’d worked there, what might have been lost. Its connection with the Polaris incident.

“How about that?” she said when he’d finished. “I know about the Polaris.