Genesis Earth Read online

  Genesis Earth

  by Joe Vasicek

  Copyright © 2011 Joseph Vasicek. All rights reserved.

  Editing by Josh Leavitt.

  Cover art by Lorenz Hideyoshi Ruwwe.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, organizations, or events is purely coincidental.

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Table of Contents

  The Wormhole

  The Mission

  Terra

  Cryothaw

  The Ghost Ship

  Trust and Deception

  Betrayal and Discovery

  Arrival

  First Contact

  Call and Answer

  Earth

  Rescue

  Emotion and Reason

  Planetfall

  The Natives

  Origin and Destiny

  A New Genesis

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note | Acknowledgments

  THE ULTIMATE VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY ENDS WHEN YOU LEARN THE TRUTH ABOUT YOURSELF.

  Michael Anderson never thought he would set foot on a world like Earth. Born and raised in a colony of scientists on the farthest edge of the solar system, he only studied planets from afar. But when his parents build mankind's first wormhole and discover a world emitting a mysterious artificial signal, Michael is the only qualified planetologist young enough to travel to the alien star.

  He is not alone on this voyage of discovery. Terra, his sole mission partner, is no more an adult than he is. Soon after their arrival, however, she begins acting strangely—as if she's keeping secrets from him. And her darkest secret is one that Michael already knows.

  Twenty light-years from the nearest human being, they must learn to work together if they're ever going to survive. And what they discover on the alien planet forces them to re-examine their deepest, most unquestioned beliefs about the universe—and about what it means to be human.

  The Wormhole

  Earth was a ghost that haunted me. She was the single greatest thing that set us space-born apart from the older generation, the five hundred members of the original mission team. Though Heinlein Station was the only home I had ever known, I soon learned that Earth, a world I had never seen except in pictures and videos, was where I was truly from.

  My parents used to set the decorative screens in their bedroom to cycle through pictures of Earth. While they were busy working in the lab, I would often sneak inside and stare at those images for hours. The landscapes and skyscapes they depicted were always so strange and alien. The unbroken blue expanse called ‘sky’ overhead, instead of the grayish space rock of our asteroid. That line between floor and sky known as the ‘horizon.’ Solid ground underfoot, instead of the milky starfield shining up through transparent floors. Trees, plants, and shrubbery growing freely without the aid of hydroponics. Hundreds of human beings walking down wide open-air corridors called ‘roads’—more people than I’d ever known in my young life.

  When I was a child, I used to ask my mother to bring out her photo album—the one with actual, physical pictures from the old world. I would sit on her lap and stare wide-eyed as she explained them to me. That was my uncle, that was my grandmother, those were my cousins: faces from an unreachable world nearly half a light-year away and getting further every moment.

  One day, when I was about five years old, I glanced up from the album and saw tears in her eyes. That was the first time I had ever seen my mother cry. It made me feel frightened and vulnerable, even in her arms.

  I never asked her to show me the pictures of Earth again.

  Perhaps you’ve found, as I have, that the things that frighten you incite more fascination than the things you love. I trace the beginning of my career as a planetologist to that childhood incident. Years later, when I began my graduate-level education, there was never a question in my mind what I would study. I had already chosen.

  To me, planetology was never about physics, geology, or chemistry. Those were only the details. It wasn’t even about making a lasting contribution to the science—at least, not when I started. I studied alien worlds simply to turn the lights on—to dispel the ever-present ghost of Earth that had haunted me since my childhood.

  Did it work? Not really. But as I grew, my fascination with Earth grew with me.

  Fourteen might seem like a young age to enter one’s chosen field, but you must realize that half the people on Heinlein Station were highly trained physicists and engineers. With so many scientists on board, there was no shortage of teachers for those of us who grew up on the station. My parents personally tutored me, and they were two of the most brilliant physicists Earth had ever produced. They were, in fact, the station’s chief scientists.

  The Mission was the closest thing to religion that I ever got growing up. If religious devotion is measured by sacrifices incurred on the basis of unproven belief, I suppose that everyone on the station qualified for sainthood. We had set out from Earth to create mankind’s first wormhole, or prove that it could not be done. For this, my parents had given up everything: family, friends, their homes. Everything. The only safe place for such an experiment was two light-years from Earth, and so we spent my entire childhood and youth in transit, not knowing whether the Mission would succeed or fail.

  My study of planetology won me a great deal of admiration from the old timers, much to my surprise. Grown-ups who had chastised me only a few years ago for playing hide-and-go-seek in the labs now treated me like someone important. They treated me as if I had run some sort of gauntlet or passed a test of tremendous faith. I was one of them, united in the hope of a successful Mission outcome—or, stranger still, a role model: someone with the faith they struggled so much to keep.

  They could not have been more wrong. I didn’t want to explore new planets or set foot on an alien world. The closest I ever came to those frightening places was through the eyepiece of a telescope, and that was the way I wanted it. My studies were purely academic.

  When I turned seventeen, we arrived at ground zero. The station became a flurry of nervous energy as we maneuvered into position and set up the hundred trillion kilowatt NOVA generators and focusing mirrors for the graviton beams. With everything spread out across hundreds of cubic kilometers of space, it took us nearly two months before we were ready.

  On June 24th, 2143 C.E., twenty two years after embarking from Earth, the day of the experiment finally arrived. That day forever changed the course of my life.

  At the moment of truth, I lay sprawled out on the transparent floor in my room, watching the stars turn beneath me. Large crowds had gathered in other places across the station to watch, but I preferred to be by myself. My father’s voice came over the station-wide radio, giving his moment-by-moment report. Though I was alone, the excitement was so thick I could almost taste it.

  I hear that it’s common for people on Earth to dream about falling from a great height. I’d never had that dream—the concept of vertigo simply didn’t compute with my experience. I think I got a taste of it, though, as I watched the wormhole take shape.

  The starfield began to spread away from a single dark point, the way a film of oil on water separates when it touches a drop of soap. The hole grew surprisingly fast, forming a circle of warped, diffused starlight around its edge. I gasped in fright; the center was pure black, the color of an abyss. As it grew larger, I felt as if it were sucking me in.

  Soon, however, the wormhole stabilized. As the station rotated, I discovered that it had warped the
starfield beyond all recognition. I tried to find the constellations I’d known so well, but could only pick out one or two. It felt bittersweet knowing I’d never see any of them again.

  The scientists didn’t take much time off to celebrate, but when they did, they went completely wild. Alcohol was everywhere in abundance, from numerous stores and hoards that had been kept for this very occasion. A spirit of happy, universal friendship swept over the station. People let down their guards, took off their masks, and momentarily forgot any hard feelings. It was a glorious time—the end of history.

  Eventually, though, the celebration lost steam, the hangovers came and went, and we woke up to face the inevitable future. Our robotic probes explored the wormhole and made some basic observations of the other side.

  Their findings were frightening enough to sober us all.

  Graviton theory told us how to create an artificial wormhole, but it gave us no way to predict where it would open up. We could expect one of three possible outcomes: first, that the wormhole opened to a different location in our present universe; second, that it opened to a different location and different time in our present universe; or third, that it opened to an entirely different universe than our own. In every meaningful way, however, we were shooting blind.

  The first observations from the other side showed a universe very much like our own, with stars, galaxies, and nebulae. Just twenty light-years away, orbiting a yellow-white main sequence dwarf, the probes discovered a handful of exoplanets. One of them, a terrestrial world, orbited within the star’s habitable zone. An initial spectroscopic survey revealed that the atmosphere of the planet was rich in oxygen and nitrogen—just like Earth.

  That was when we detected the anomaly.

  The last probe to return picked up an unnatural high frequency radiation burst, originating from the system with the planet. It lasted only half an hour before dissipating, but was powerful enough for the probe to detect from halfway through the wormhole. No naturally occurring object emitted that kind of signal. The only possible analog was the radio emissions from a standard NOVA engine—but even then, the signal was more than a hundred times more powerful than anything our technology could produce.

  In other words, something strange was out there—something we couldn’t explain. The only way to find out more was to send out a mission to explore the alien star.

  As the only qualified planetologist young enough to survive cryofreeze, I was an obvious pick for the mission from the very start. Though I never wanted to go, I couldn’t refuse; if I had, I would never have been able to look my parents in the eye again. This, they believed, was our moment in history—our moment to make a truly historic contribution to science and humanity. Why wouldn’t I jump at such an opportunity?

  I didn’t become a planetologist to set foot on alien worlds. That was the last thing I had ever wanted. After we opened the wormhole, however, what I wanted no longer mattered.

  Or so I thought.

  The Mission

  “Do you have any questions?” Thomas Weingaard asked me from behind his antique mahogany desk. He folded his wrinkled hands neatly in front of him and smiled at me the way he did when I was young. The gestured did little to calm my growing anxiety.

  “Yes,” I answered. “Just one.”

  “Shoot.”

  I’d already read the mission briefing at least a dozen times: procedures, parameters, contingencies, even the footnotes. My question wasn’t about anything I’d read, though—it was about the one thing I couldn’t find mentioned anywhere.

  “This planetary system, EB-175—some of the astronomers are speculating about intelligent life out there, much more technologically advanced than us. Do you think there’s any truth to those rumors?”

  “Good question,” said Tom. He leaned back in his seat and stretched out his arms. “All we know about the anomaly is that it isn’t similar to anything natural we’ve observed before. Any speculation about the signal’s origins at this point is premature; we don’t have enough data right now to come to any conclusion.”

  “Come on, Tom,” I said. “This isn’t academic—in a few hours, I’ll be going there. What’s your opinion?”

  “My opinion?” He leaned forward again, placing his hands on the desk. “My professional opinion, of course, is that it’s too soon to tell.”

  “Of course—but what do you really think? Off the record.”

  He glanced in either direction, then looked me in the eye. The smile on his face was gone.

  “Off the record, I’m almost certain that the anomaly was artificial. There’s no other logical way to explain it. I can’t tell you who or what caused it, or whether or not you’ll find intelligent life on that planet, or how advanced their technology is, but I think the chances are very high that your mission will include a first contact event.”

  My already fluttery stomach dropped through the floor at his words. I forced myself to nod, blood draining from my face.

  “I’m glad you asked though,” said Tom. “The committee didn’t want me to bring it up.”

  “Why not?” The bright light from the halogen bulb in the ceiling shone uncomfortably bright in my face.

  “The vote was split,” said Tom, “but there were enough contrary opinions that we chose not to include this information in your briefing. The other committee members are worried that you’re too young to handle the added stress. They’re afraid that giving you too much information will negatively impact your performance.”

  “Why?”

  “To be blunt, because you and Terra are barely adults.”

  I nodded, speechless.

  “What they don’t realize,” Tom continued, “is that you are both far more competent than anyone your age back on Earth. You’ve grown up with the best education that this community can offer, and are two of the most capable, proficient scientists among your peers. I have every confidence in you both.”

  I wanted to believe him—I desperately wanted to believe him—but something about his words sounded too rehearsed.

  “So what does this mean for the mission?” I asked. If we made first contact with an advanced alien race, it would be the most important, world-changing moment in human history. To put it lightly, I didn’t want to screw it up.

  “That’s the point,” said Tom, letting out a troubled sigh. “We don’t know. You’ll just have to adjust your mission objectives and improvise based on what you learn when you get there. Do you feel you can do that?”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “Good.” He leaned forward and pointed at my chest, looking at me with unyielding eyes. “I can tell you one thing, however. You must not, under any circumstances, jeopardize the safety of your ship. Whatever happens out there, it is absolutely critical that you return with your data and reports. If that data doesn’t make it back, we’ll be as blind as if we’d never sent you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” I couldn’t help but notice, though, that Tom was more concerned about our data than about us.

  “Good.”

  He stood up and walked to the front of his desk. I rose from my chair and shook his hand.

  “Good luck, my boy. We’ve got a lot riding on you two, but I’m sure you’ll do a fine job.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  He clapped his hand on my shoulder as we walked to the door. Before I could step out his office, though, he gently stopped me.

  “There is one more thing,” he said. “Off the record, of course.”

  “Okay,” I said, giving him a puzzled look.

  “Your partner, Terra Beck, is a fine scientist. One of the most dedicated astronomers on this station.”

  I nodded. Terra and I had grown up together, but she’d always kept to herself and her work. I knew her, but not very well.

  “Still,” Tom continued, “there’s something you should know about her—not something to worry about, just something to be aware of. Your personality types are compatible, and of course she’s emotio
nally stable, but some of her psychology tests showed a high tendency towards schizoid and paranoid personality disorders—”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry; it’s nothing to be concerned about. There is a chance, however, that some mild symptoms might arise, if—”

  “Tom, what are you saying? Is she crazy?”

  “No,” he said quickly, “she’s stable—perfectly stable. We have the highest degree of confidence in her capabilities.”

  I didn’t feel that Tom was telling me the whole truth. I could see it in his eyes.

  “Why did you wait until now to tell me this?”

  “The committee was in some disagreement about how much to share with you. We all agree, however, that both of you are fully capable of working together.”

  “But—Tom, if there’s any question at all about our abilities, why are you sending us out right now? Why can’t we wait until we hear back from Earth?”

  Tom glanced down his watch, then back at me. He let out a long breath and looked me square in the eyes.

  “Because we may not get another chance to send a purely scientific mission.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “The people on Earth aren’t like the people on Heinlein Station, Michael. Here, we’re all scientists; the prospect of discovering intelligent life excites us. On Earth, however, the discovery would cause widespread panic—and where there’s panic, there are people in high places who know how to leverage it.”

  “What?” Now I was just confused.

  “You’ve lived a sheltered life. The people in power back on Earth don’t have humanity’s long-term interests in mind—only their own. They will undoubtedly see this Earth-like planet as a resource to exploit—a potential gold mine. They’ll cultivate widespread fear and hysteria to justify sending a full scale military expedition there. In the name of ‘security,’ they’ll push us scientists onto the sidelines and make an interstellar land grab.”