Winter World (The Long Winter #1)(103)

The ship status window prints a status update in white text on the black background:

Drones confirm.





Estimated time to planetary impact: 8:57





These will be the longest nine minutes of my life.

My vision is still spotty, but I get my first glimpse of the aftermath of the battle of Ceres. The orbital space is a debris field. A mix of the remains of the Spartan fleet and the kinetic bombardments that destroyed it. Nothing is under power. Everything is adrift. There are sporadic flashes, no doubt as compartments decompress and atmosphere is ejected, or perhaps as electrical systems short out or unused ordnance goes off.

My vision is clear by the time I pan to the surface of Ceres.

The spider-like harvester is completely dismembered. Every one of the radial arms is severed. Some lie like twisted shards of aluminum foil, mangled and crushed. Others are shredded completely, like silver pieces of confetti scattered across the rocky surface. In the center, the main module sits unmoving. Its surface is a black dome, unreflective, like a crystal ball holding our future, betraying no hints. This thing, whatever it is, tried to destroy my people. We haven’t killed it yet, but we’ve hurt it. Badly. And it’s hurt us too.

The countdown on the screen reads:

8:42





The screen lights up with a blue alert box:

Incoming message.





One of the other ships has survived. Or at least, one of the modules. Maybe one of the other bridges.

My hope evaporates immediately. Confusion takes its place.

There is no ship designation on the message that appears. There is no designation at all. The transmission is coming from a source Leo doesn’t recognize.

I realize then where the broadcast is coming from.

It’s coming from the only other thing left alive out here.

The message is simple.

Hello





Chapter 53





Emma





I turn to James. He is a statue.

Another line of text appears on the screen:

You have my attention. Let’s talk.





Instantly, a dialog pops up.

Incoming comm handshake. Audio only. Accept?





The harvester is trying to communicate with us. In audio. In English.

“How is this possible?” I whisper to James.

“Unknown.” His voice is soft and distant. “The harvester must have studied us at some point before.”

He reaches down and taps the accept button on the tablet tethered to his suit.

I glance at the countdown clock for the attack drones. Less than eight minutes.

The voice on the line, to my surprise, is neutral and placid, almost somber. It sounds like a human voice, but not like any human I’ve ever heard. It’s not like a computer voice either, but there’s definitely something manufactured about it. It’s as if the harvester has formulated the voice through a complex algorithmic decision, arriving at a tone and volume it believes will engender trust.

“Thank you for accepting my call.”

My eyes are wide as I stare at James. Did it just make a joke?

James’s voice is gruff. “What do you want?”

The moment is surreal. This is the first true, genuine first contact—intelligent communication between humanity and an alien entity.

“I believe that is obvious at this point. The output from your sun.”

“What’s obvious is that you want to kill us. You didn’t take the radiation from the far side of the sun, opposite Earth’s orbit. You put your array in the line of sight of Earth first. You froze our world.”

“It wasn’t personal. An operational requisite for the efficiency of establishing this node.”

“Node?”

“James, you’ve no doubt discerned the full truth of what is going on here.”

It knows his name. How?

“Let’s take a step back,” James says, his voice neutral. “You know my name. I don’t know yours. And I’d like to know how you learned my name.”

“I’ll show you.”

A dialog appears on the screen:

Incoming comm handshake. Audio and Video. Accept?





James taps accept.

An image appears of a man sitting in a leather club chair. It’s tufted and worn, as if the man has spent endless hours in the room reading books, acquiring knowledge, developing wisdom. And he looks wise: his hair is gray and thin, he wears a white beard that reminds me of a well-kempt Santa Claus. The room is lined with bookcases, filled to the brim with old books. A window beside him looks out onto a front yard covered with snow, a yellow street lamp illuminating the narrow, cobbled street beyond.

I glance at James skeptically just before realizing that this thing can see us—the video link is bi-directional.

“Emma, I apologize if my display annoys you. I selected it because it seemed apt.”

It knows my name too.

“Let’s get on with it,” James says.

“Of course. First, names. I know yours. You’d like to know mine, but that presents a problem. I have no name. Only a designation.”

“What is it?”