Elizabeth Bear - Future Visions - Original Science Fiction Inspired by Microsoft

“No,” said Hannah, “I’m not. You can’t prove a negative; you can’t prove hostile aliens don’t exist. But, thanks to you and your team, we now know for sure that peaceful ones do exist.”

The closing arguments went pretty much as Emily expected them to. Hannah Plaxton extolled the virtues of altruistically sharing our art and culture, our science and our spiritual writings, not just with the people of 47 Ursae Majoris, who, after all, had already reached out to us, but also with as many other likely star systems as possible.

And Piotr Sudeyko reiterated his belief that no such actions should be taken without a broad international consensus—even though, as a historian, he doubtless knew that such a thing likely would be impossible to attain.

Judge Weisman gave instructions to the jurors and sent them off to deliberate; their verdict, whatever it might be, would further fuel debate. In that sense, by bringing the matter to wider attention, Sudeyko and the moratorium crowd had already won.

People filed out of the courtroom, but Emily stayed behind. The staff had shut off the giant monitor standing next to the witness dock, but Emily touched the control that turned it back on and Ursula appeared on the screen. Emily regarded the avatar, and the avatar regarded her. At last, Ursula said, “May I be of assistance?”

“Perhaps,” said Emily. “Suppose instead of us composing a reply, suppose we were to ask you to do it. If we gave you access to a powerful radio telescope or messaging laser, what message would you send back to your people about us?”

Ursula’s limbs moved precisely as Emily’s team had programmed them to, mimicking what the neural nets had divined to be gestures of thoughtful reflection. And then the little round mouth irised opened and closed. “I’d tell them we made a mistake.”

Emily was surprised by how sad that made her feel. “You wouldn’t have sent the Reticulum, if you had it to do over?”

Ursula’s inside arm twirled. “No, no, no. That’s not the mistake. The mistake was not realizing that travel between worlds is possible. I would propose to my people that some of them should come here in person.”

“And do you think they would actually do that? Come here? Come to visit humanity?”

“I have no idea,” Ursula said. And then she raised all three arms. “But I know how I’d vote.”

Robert J. Sawyer is one of only eight writers ever to have won all three of the world’s top awards for best science fiction novel of the year: the Hugo (for Hominids ), the Nebula (for The Terminal Experiment ), and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award (for Mindscan ). According to the Locus Index to Science Fiction Awards , he has won more awards for his novels than any other author in the history of the science fiction and fantasy genres. Rob—who holds two honorary doctorates—has published in both of the world’s top scientific journals, Science (guest editorial) and Nature (fiction). The ABC television series FlashForward was based on his Aurora Award–winning novel of the same name, and he was one of the scriptwriters for that program. In 2013 he received the Queen Elizabeth II Diamond Jubilee Medal from the governor general of Canada, and in 2014 he was one of the initial nine inductees into the Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy Hall of Fame.

You can read much of the human saga—a stark history of extravagant hopes and stunning defeats—on the face of any gambler…

…the same story told by Judean hills, where towns and villages gradually piled atop one another, layer after layer, each stratum spelling yet another tale of confidence and ambition that inevitably failed. Till someone else arrived to build upon that dust. An upward sedimentary process, mounting ever higher. Generations, separated by the babble of language and culture and centuries, but united by one aim—to reach Heaven by dint of hard work, hope, and pain .

“Here, we have trenched through an augury, ” our guide explained, while leading us along plank bridges that crisscrossed over the Tel Ain Makor dig. “An important ceremonial center, it apparently remained in use across the Hellenistic period till it was burned and abandoned under the Hasmoneans, then restored during the Roman era.”

She gestured toward a broad, shallow excavation where ancient ashes and debris had been removed—slowly and painstakingly—by archaeology students from all over the world. One cluster of young folks crouched at the north end, murmuring to each other, alternately in English and in Hebrew.

“Here, priests would come to apply the arts of prophecy, divining future events from haruspication —studying animal entrails. Or else by reading auspices— interpreting the flight and behavior of passing birds. From inscriptions on tribute medallions, it appears that people came from all over the region—even dignitaries from Caesarea and Jerusalem—to have horoscopes read or to learn what the gods intended.”

Another group of students, closer to us, argued in Arabic over which tool to use on an obstinate outcrop. I didn’t understand a word, but from their expressions I could easily tell the debate was just theater, for us visitors. Or for the guide. And it worked. A twitch of a smile showed she was pleased with their industriousness.

I don’t delve time. I dig faces.

“You mentioned horoscopes. So they also did astrology here?”

That was Ludmilla Kilonova. Of course that would interest her. Stars and such. Especially those on the verge of exploding.

“Good question. I don’t believe there was an observatory here. At least, we’ve seen no traces so far.” Our Ministry of Antiquities guide gestured at the extent of the dig, almost twenty meters long by thirty, under a tent canopy that flapped slightly in an inadequate breeze, staving off the harsh Levantine sun. Beyond, surveyor stakes pocked the dun-colored hilltop with laser-pinned accuracy, proposing sites for further excavation.

“Tel Ain Makor may seem vast when you are crawling so close to the ground. But in fact, it was a minor municipality, more a pilgrimage shrine than a large, urban center. I would wager that they acquired their star charts from Alexandria. Or maybe Babylon.”

Babylon. I perked up at the mention. My home.

At least that’s what they call Vegas, sometimes: New Babylon.

The parallels ran deep. Both sin capitals featured hellish desert heat. Though we’re clever enough to use air conditioning. Take that, Hammurabi.

Both nursed the same delusion. That our gaudy works will stand up to time.

And an identical, all-too-human ambition. To peer forward. To catch a warning glimpse of what’s ahead.

Was that my real reason for coming halfway around the world? To traipse through dust amid proof that humans always fool themselves?

As if further evidence were needed.

“You are needed,” Sophia Van Took said, almost two years earlier, cornering me after my second Saturday show. Bigger stars get helpers and dressers and private quarters. I shared a backstage alcove with Teresa, my “beautiful associate” (I could no longer say “assistant”), whose makeup table and privacy screen left little room for the headliner—me. Well, well. It still beat working for a living.