Chapter 14 – Dig This

Professor Stanley P. Keeler splashed water from the washbasin onto his arms, making a feeble attempt at cleanliness. This site in Alaska was far from clean, however, and it would take more than a simple splash to make him clean again. He sighed as he looked around the excavation.

So many of the best and brightest students were avoiding archaeology nowadays, preferring to specialize in studies thought to be far more tempting to the Confederacy. Also, it was becoming difficult to get competent grad students to accompany him on these field expeditions. Everyone wanted to be near Confederacy pickup points, and being in an isolated spot like this, deep in the wilderness, was not exactly thought to be a great spot for a pickup. He headed for his tent to start cataloguing the finds of the day. As he did so, he wondered who exactly would be studying this in the future. Was he wasting his time? Would anyone be interested in the Yukon and Alaska gold rushes, at a time when all the goodies you wanted were available from a replicator merely for the asking?

He was understandably startled when he opened the fly of his large tent to find his chair occupied by a rather large individual dressed in grey. The large newcomer regarded him with calm detachment as the other expedition members came running in response to his shout of surprise. “Would you have a moment?” was the only thing the calm, large, grey-clad man said.

“Um, yes,” Stan found himself uttering.

“Very well, then.” The large man stood up, having to crouch down due to the low overhead. Stan had been able to stand erect in the same space.

Outside, Stan found his expedition members regarding several large Confederacy Marines warily. The Marines, armed with imposingly large stun guns, were regarding them just as warily, although a handful armed with much smaller weapons were keeping their eyes pointed the other way. One, bearing a major's rank badges, had the ancient .303 rifle the expedition used to protect itself from grizzlies. The World War II weapon looked not unlike a child's toy in his massive paws.

The large man in grey led Stan to a small outcropping of granite. “Let me introduce myself. I am Tribune William Whitefeather from the Office of Targeted Extractions, of the Confederacy's Directorate of Evacuation and Colonial Operations. And I've been asked to present you with an offer that I'm hoping you cannot refuse.”

“Um, oh?” Stan's brain cells were still not fully functional. They wanted him? “My CAP score is good enough for extraction, it's 6.8, but that's nothing outstanding. Why me?” he asked the obvious leader of the Confederacy forces. At that point, he was sure it wouldn't matter what the offer was, he was so cowed by this impressive Tribune's size he'd agree to anything just to keep this mountain of a man calm.

“Yes. You see, we have a very urgent call for an archaeologist at one of our colonies – it seems there was a previous civilization there that we know nothing about. If you're interested, we can have you on your way to the stars in just a few minutes. Interested?”

Was an archaeologist interested in exploring a previously unknown civilization? Whitefeather might has well have offered Keeler the keys to Fort Knox. “Of course I'm interested.”

“Great. Now, I'm authorized to take any pre-pack you've got.”

“That would be my wife Belinda. I haven't been able to collect a second. I honestly never thought I'd be extracted.” He glanced at his watch and mentally adjusted the time zone back to Florida time. “She should be at work right now. She's a real estate broker in Dade County.”

“Do you volunteer? You'll be a lieutenant in the Fleet Auxiliary.”

“Yes. My wife?”

“She has a cell phone?”

“Yes, let me get on the satellite phone.”

“Here,” Whitefeather offered. “Use mine.”

Undoubtedly, Stan realized, Whitefeather's “phone” had capabilities far beyond that of the standard cell phone. It was ringing even as he accepted it.

“Palmetto Properties,” came the bright voice of his wife.

“Honey, are you busy at the moment?”

As he talked, Whitefeather and Major MacAllistor exchanged a look. Belinda Keeler's cell phone had been triangulated to the Miami suburb of Pinecrest, not six blocks from a Confederacy CAP testing centre. Their four children's Aventura-area schools had also been identified, and the children confirmed as being present according to the Miami-Dade County Public School System's computers. Subvocally, orders went up to the fleet to perform a dependant pickup.

“Yes, I've got a showing at two.”

“Not anymore. Um, are you interested in going to the stars?”

Whitefeather could hear the screech of brakes from the tiny speaker in the PDA. Both he and Stan winced at the harsh sound, imagining the torture the brakes were undergoing. “What?” Belinda demanded. “You're joking.”

“I'm serious. Do you want to be my concubine? Have more kids, like you've always wanted? I can take you.”

“Yes. YES! What do I do? Where do I go? What about the kids?”

Whitefeather extended his massive paw. “May I?”

“Honey, someone's going to talk to you right now. I'll see you shortly.”

“Mrs. Keeler? This is Tribune Whitefeather of the Confederacy. According to your cell phone, you're six blocks from a testing centre. Go there and identify yourself, and we'll extract you. Your kids are being extracted right now. You will be given one last chance to change your mind in the testing centre and if you agree, you'll meet with your kids and your former husband in orbit. Go to the testing centre now, please. Drive carefully!”

He turned to the archaeologist. “Now, you get at least one more, and because this is a targeted extraction, we can grant you a supernumerary.” He looked at the four undergrads. “What have we got here?”

MacAlllistor regarded him sourly. “All concubine level. We couldn't take them all, could we?”

“Probably yes, but we'll class the extras as belonging to Thule as unassigned.”

“In that case – ladies, sir, you have a choice: stay and be Swarm chow, or go and be chattel. If you're going, let's see some skin.”

All four quickly doffed their duds and, as the mosquitoes moved in to feast on the newly-exposed flesh, moved quickly through the nexus.

Within four hours, Fleet Auxiliary Lieutenant Stanley Keeler and his harem were aboard the CSS Vasco da Gama, travelling at hyperspeed to Hesperus.

Carruthers glanced across the Officers' Mess, looking for one officer in particular. The mess, an Art-Deco masterpiece of streamlined architecture gleaming with black and white, was notably below normal occupancy today.

Thule always seemed loneliest every six weeks. One third of the fleet and one third of the Marines were on their way to Hesperus to relieve the garrison and fleet there. By the end of the week Thule would be back up to normal strength. The Marines took the six-week deployment harder than the Navy, as they had no concubines with them. As a result, when they got back they tended to party hard.

Ah, there she was. Carruthers noted the figure dressed in Full Dress grey, being served a mocktail by a scantily clad concubine waitress.

“Decurion Redburn,” he acknowledged as he sat down opposite her. “I understand you have a special request for me.”

“A small one,” Samantha admitted as she sipped her Beach Blanket Bingo.

“Harvey Wallbanger,” he advised the waitress, who hustled off to fill his order. “What kind of favour?”

“There's a new concubine coming in about three days. She and her four kids need a pod. Can you set one up near the other scientists' concubines in Base Scott?”

Base Scott was the naval base; Camp Shackleton was the home of the Marines.

“I don't see why not. I've got a couple of extra pods in that corridor.”

“Good. You may need them both. Apparently they've got four archaeology students who are all concubines, in addition to the sponsor of the concubine who is coming here. Unfortunately with the archaeologist's scores, he can only take two with a supernumerary which leaves two unassigned, unless you can figure out a solution.”

“Supernumeraries of the other scientists?” Carruthers suggested.

“Rules say only one per. And that rule makes sense. Any more and the guy likely doesn't have the skill set to handle them. We'll have at least two unassigned.”

“Crew of the research ship?”

“No guarantee that they'll be permanently assigned to the Clarke. We don't need archaeologists everywhere she goes.”

“Temporary supernumeraries of the Science crews? Their families are here. We can detach the extras later if necessary.”

Samantha made a face. “I really don't like doing that. You want permanent families, because it's better for the kids, as well as the concubines. But I think it'll work to get us through this crisis, so I'll do it. It's only two – hopefully.”

Newly enlisted Fleet Auxiliary Lieutenant Stanley Keeler stood in the centre of an immense dome located far beneath the Greater Sand Sea on Hesperus, looking in astonishment at the remains in front of his eyes. Beside him, a squad of Marines and the archaeology students extracted with him stood similarly awe-struck.

The dome above their heads was an immense version of the standard containment field used for extractions on Earth. Instead of holding back the crowds it would have on Earth, here it held back tons and tons of sand. Here and there they could see nanites continuing to move sand particles to a number of transport nexuses for disposal at various nearby sand tips. The site had been excavated with far more care and far less damage than anything that traditional human archaeologists could ever hope to accomplish.

Around the site, a number of cylindrical buildings, squat and mounted about four feet off of concrete-like pads by massive legs, sat with varying types of damage and decay, looking like scattered tanker cars from some giant child's train set.

Lieutenant Payne pointed out to discoveries that had already been made. “It was a high-tech society, similar in many ways to the level of development we achieved by the 1970's. These are all apparently submarine structures, similar to Tektite I. The entrances are all on the bottom of these tank-like buildings.”

“What do we know of the people who were occupying them? And are they the builders?”

“We found skeletal remains in some of them, about a dozen so far. The nanites will begin clearing out the rest of the structures later. We know from the skeletons that they were bipedal land creatures with opposable thumbs, and our biologist says she thinks we're dealin' with a land-based species, not a swimming one. The structures were at least built for them, and we assume by them. The proportions of the controls, what appear to be sleeping quarters and furnishings would fit them comfortably. They weren't human, but they were quite similar.”

One craft looked not unlike a mechanical crab. “You can see this is intended to operate in an aquatic environment,” Payne pointed out. “It's usin' propeller-type thrusters similar to those on ALVIN and Cousteau's divin' saucer.” He then added soberly, “There were three occupants. Their skeletons show signs of carbonization. It appears that they were cooked in this thang.”

A number of the onlookers winced at the implication. These beings had likely died an agonizing death, just metres from apparent but illusory safety.

In the past few days, the scientists of the Clarke had done a tremendous amount of work, getting the site cleared as far as they had and analyzing the results. Keeler was literally inundated with data. It was now up to someone with training in the field of archaeology to take the data and convert it into information.

“How long have I got?” Stan asked, still awe-struck.

“A week, maybe a week and a half to find out everythin' you can about this site. Then we launch the ice age, and these field generators, even backed up by fusion reactors, might not be enough to hold back the weight of the ice sheets.”

Stan nodded. He wore Fleet Auxiliary blue daily dress and kepi, his concubine archaeologists one-piece concubine grey coveralls with the legs bloused over standard Marine issue work boots. He drew a data pad and stylus from a pouch on his belt and began making notes.

“Marta? Kelley? Can you take a closer look at that tube over there? Take a Marine with you.”

Obediently, the two archaeologist concubines started off to check out the tube indicated. Sergeant Viletti pointed to one Marine, who silently nodded and joined the pair of former post-graduate students. Nobody felt the need to break the silence, somehow feeling like they were opening a tomb.

“Now here's the interestin' part over here,” Payne advised Keeler, pointing to a series of pits off to the side. A wall made of some sort of large brick separated the pits from the living quarters.

“And this isn't?” asked an incredulous Keeler.

“Jes' you wait.” Payne led the way over to the “interesting” part of the site, some distance away and on the far side of an obviously artificial berm wall. Twenty-four concrete-lined tubes formed a grid that marched across the former seabed.

Most of the pits were shattered and blackened, as if by some immense force. Three, however, still held their contents, protected by immense concrete-like lids. Enough lids sat on the sea floor beside the launch tubes to cover the other twenty-one. Despite being set in the ground at various angles as if hurled by some titanic toddler in the middle of a temper tantrum, these other lids were as intact as the three still in place and guarding their contents.

“Missile launch tubes?” Keeler guessed, turning to Payne.

“Yep, missile launch tubes. Least, that's what it looks like. And that's not all.” He pointed to one particular still-covered tube. “We've got a readin' from what looks like a nuclear-tipped missile inside those three. We've got a mass of radioactive material, and we've been able to make some educated guesses. Based on the proportion of uranium-235 and plutonium-239, usin' the half-life of plutonium-239 of 24,200 years and assumin' that the warhead was 100% plutonium-239 to start with, you get an age of about 75,000 years, give or take a bit, and an original warhead of about twenty kilotons of yield. It looks to me like this was an underwater military base caught in a nuclear exchange, don't it?”

“Yes,” Keeler concurred soberly. He reflected on the events of so many centuries ago for a moment. Gathering himself, he then began issuing orders to the other two concubines, his attention completely devoted to exploring the site.

As Keeler sent his concubines and the platoon of Marine assistants scrambling all over the excavation deep at the bottom of the sea of sand, Payne found himself standing on top of the berm that bisected the site, contemplating what they'd learnt so far. Apparently the previous occupants of this sandpile had made war on themselves, rendering their entire species extinct.

The AI aboard the ships at Hesperus had been sending out message drones to various locations that normally didn't want to talk to the Human contingent, questioning their counterparts throughout the Confederacy. Aside from the post-Swarm era looks, the last time a probe had been by was some hundreds of thousands of years ago. It was probable that the skeletal creatures found here hadn't even evolved yet.

So far nobody had found any knowledge of whoever these bipeds were. They had arisen, developed a culture, climbed the heights of technology, and annihilated themselves long before anyone had had the chance to record their presence. Lost were all their discoveries, their works of art, their alphabet, their writings, their language, their avocations, their beliefs, the essence of who they were. All that was left was a few well-cooked bones of a bare handful of individual specimens and a handful of markings that defied translation.

There wasn't a soul alive on any planet anywhere in the galaxy, much less in the Hesperusat system, who had any clue what the parties to this ancient conflict considered so disputatious as to justify destroying every form of life on their home world.

Every other species on the planet, and there had to be millions if not billions, had unwillingly followed the so-called “civilized” creatures over the cliff to oblivion. Some of these reluctant kamikaze participants might even have had the first glimmer of self-awareness. The last examples of these innocent species would have been terrified and possibly feeling incredible pain as the nuclear warheads fell and obliterated them. Now, it was unlikely any other intelligent being in the universe would ever see an example of any of them.

Payne mourned for the unknown occupants of this planet, wiped out and now their very existence unknown and unknowable. Who knew? Maybe he could have sat down with the so-called intelligent lifeforms of Hesperus and shared several tankards of mead with them, resolving their differences and helping them to avoid their fate.

In the meantime, there was another project to complete, one that would accomplish much the same thing, except with ice rather than fire. As with the former civilization of Hesperus, there would be no chance of getting the two sides together over tankards of mead and resolving their differences. When you had no methods of communication in common, when the other side didn't even recognize you as being smarter than a common garden slug and only saw you as a food resource, no such civilized method of dispute resolution existed. Many of his people, if they were still alive at the time, would be sacrificed for the greater good of the galaxy.

Payne stared at his hands for a long, hard moment. With these hands, he was trying to accomplish exactly what they'd succeeded in doing: rendering his home world uninhabited, killing all life on board. Did they hope, as he and the members of his team did, to re-seed it afterwards? Was he any better than these unfortunate creatures? Were these hands of his any cleaner than their manipulatory appendages?

Sighing, Payne turned to the nearest nexus. Time to return to the sterile comfort of the laboratories of the Arthur C. Clarke. His hands did not feel cleaner. He'd have to wash them carefully when he reached orbit.