From the dawn of the Interstellar Age, human explorers had encountered alien cultures and civilizations of all stripes. They ranged from barely sapient, to burgeoning multisystem polities straining against the light barrier.
Yet, of all the extant cultures cataloged since the first prototype warp drives took humanity to distant stars two universal cycles ago, none had unlocked the secrets of faster-than-light travel.
Like the railroad, telegraph, and their equivalents in many homeworlds’ pasts, the warp drive ushered in a new age of exploration and settlement. But the latest rush was not for land nor gold, for those were beyond a humanity which had risen above the fetters of material scarcity.
Reputation, connections, and novelty were the new currencies of the Interstellar Age, and the exotic worlds on the frontiers of Uncharted Space provided limitless opportunities to acquire all three in spades.
Every first contact set off a fresh scramble for pieces of the newcomers’ distinct heritage, from novel art forms to exotic organisms. The privileged and famous offered increasingly extravagant favors to get their hands on the Next Big Thing. Supplying this insatiable demand for alien cultural artifacts had made the names and fortunes of many explorer captains and their crews. As long as logs were kept and submitted, promises were upheld, and nobody asked too many questions, nobody minded looking the other way.
Of course, The Solar Charter placed strict limits on interactions with uncontacted species and civilizations, to prevent contamination of their cultures. Even if it was only to preserve their novelty, more fodder for an eternal cycle of discovery and appropriation.
Not that The Charter did much to stop the bustling gray market of trafficked alien arts and artifacts, nor the plague of forgeries that followed, like bottom feeders in a trawler’s wake.
Even the protests of the exploited cultures themselves fell on deaf ears. Of course, every civilization was considered equal, and was guaranteed representation in the chambers of the Galactic Community on Olympus Mons. But with only the oldest of contacted civilizations possessing FTL travel of their own (not for lack of trying), everyone knew with whom the reins of power rested.
After all, the Community was mainly funded and staffed by terran species, discussions were conducted in terran languages, and delegations traveled on human starships.
----------------------------------------
But on the fringes of Uncharted Space, enforcement of the Charter’s declarations fell to entities with conflicting interests at best. Frequently, it was either that, or no one whatsoever.
Thus, one truism from a previous age of exploration still held sway:
“Whatever happens, we have got. The Maxim Gun, and they have not.”
Henry Ashton Smythe knew this better than most explorers. Being a recognized expert of Pre-Stellar history who had the rare privilege of studying on Earth itself helped. Specializing in speculative fiction didn’t hurt either.
Building on his scholarly connections and a reputation for meticulousness, Henry had climbed his way to the head of the Solemn Remembrance, colony ship turned survey vessel.
Neither Henry nor the Remembrance were built for blind leaps into the unknown, to go where no human has gone before. They were instead dedicated to the exhaustive documentation of systems and worlds; every planet, asteroid, and culture would be compelled to reveal those secrets hidden from less discerning eyes.
On one such tour, the Solemn Remembrance and its eclectic crew emerged in one of countless unnamed systems in Uncharted Space.
An incandescent flash heralded its arrival, as the vast pressure of decaying exotic matter and trapped interstellar dust freed itself in a dazzling tempest of elementary particles.
They would be in system for at least two days: one to scoop fuel from the local gas giant, however many were needed if something of interest came up, and at least one more day to plot and execute a warp towards the next system on the itinerary.
That last step was normally done much more quickly, aided by telemetry data from navigation beacons broadcasting from the destination system. However, “Uncharted system” and “Has a beacon” were mutually exclusive terms, and Henry always made sure blindly computed warp calculations were more than triple checked.
A single misstep, with the warp bubble decaying at the wrong place, and their next big find would be vaporized by bow shock along with the asteroid it was sitting on.
The captain whose navigational blunder shattered the kaleidoscopic orbital mirrors of Alatyr was very lucky to be merely shamed into exile. Even then, not a day goes by without one of the crew cracking a joke at the poor sod’s expense.
Despite these eccentricities, the crew were some of the most professional and dedicated that Henry could ask for. Even for a simple acceleration burn, a dozen systems experts were present, arranged around arrays of haptic consoles in sections around the Remembrance’s triangular bridge.
Henry stood at the bridge’s center, facing a massive holoprojector showing their current course. There were no controls or instruments around him; even the best haptic interfaces were far clumsier than monitoring the ship's systems at the speed of thought, via his extensive neural implants.
The cybernetics had a striking effect on Henry’s appearance, which he exploited to his own ends. A shaved head, framed by slivers of bare metal, conveyed an air of pragmatism and reliability. A stark contrast to the stereotypical image of aesthetic obsession and snobbery associated with the cultural elites of the Core Worlds, explorer captains included.
The crews were alert as the Remembrance’s bulbous form dipped into the hazy clouds. Sensor masts extended alongside intake ports to scan the roiling depths below for unusual signatures.
After all, explorers don’t make it big by leaving stones unturned.
This time, A sharp radar return was picked up, skirting the edge between atmosphere and open space. One far too small to be a rogue metallic asteroid.
From a dedicated wing of the Remembrance’s bridge, Cornelia Van Shackleton worked her magic as the ship’s premier sensors expert, wavy red hair dancing around her as she collated the vast array of readings into something comprehensible.
Here, “something comprehensible” translated into a wireframe model of a primitive space probe. It resembled the earliest of humanity’s own, and promised either greatness or disappointment.
Henry was expecting the latter: Stray probes could be found all over the galaxy, offshoots of automated self-replicating exploration missions from both living and extinct civilizations. Trade convoys and scavengers picked up enough of them every year to fill up a hab spire, but there were always more around to let hopeful explorers down.
Still, it was worth more than nothing. There were always groups looking to expand their collection of unmanned spacecraft. Worst comes to worse, the probe could always be traded for better docking priorities or potential leads during the next maintenance stop.
----------------------------------------
When Henry stepped into the port cargo bay to examine their latest acquisition, he was immediately struck by an overwhelming sense of familiarity.
The probe’s design was recognizable to any human not living under a rock: Four spars radiated out from a central body covered by an oversized white antenna dish. One of these arms was draped in boxy protrusions, presumably different types of instruments.
Despite the monumental journey between stars, the spacecraft looked like it was freshly assembled by the groups of crew members currently surrounding its base.
Henry was pleasantly unsurprised to find Matteo Zheng, an old friend and fellow explorer, amongst the crowd. Not that he was easy to miss, despite wearing the same uniform as everyone else. Henry just had to look for a shock of white hair, and the iridescent Pilgrim’s Stone amulet shimmering around his neck.
The same could be said for Henry as well, and Matteo quickly turned to usher him through the crowd.
“Afternoon Cap’n, I suppose you were right to expect disappointment.”
Henry knew his friend felt the same. This was the man who journeyed for two years across the steaming archipelagos of Archaea, and documented the aging process which transformed their sacred Pilgrim’s Stone from dull whites to vivid patchworks of all imaginable colors.
Before Contact, Pilgrim’s Stone statues heralded caravans and watched over the holy sites of Archaea’s indigenous cultures. Now, trinkets and baubles of the holy mineral were aged by the hundreds to feed the insatiable craving of the Core Worlds.
Those soulless knockoffs were to the jewel on Matteo’s necklace what the probe in front of them was to Pioneer and Voyager: visually indistinguishable, but made with neither passion nor greater purpose.
Thus, it was extremely difficult for Henry not to dismiss the object in front of them out of hand. He had no time for yet another shoddy attempt to leech off some out of touch socialite. Especially with a forgery this brazen, almost the spitting image of one of the first human objects in interstellar space and claimed by dozens of museums and collectors to be in their possession.
Matteo turned to point at one of the examination tables. “Thing’s even got a golden record in it. You’ll want to see it for yourself.”
When Henry approached the indicated examination table to get a closer look, he suddenly found everything else about this ordeal downright pleasant compared to what he beheld. The nude figures that waved back at him looked like they had been dredged up from the turgid depths of the First Internet.
Thankfully, the other diagrams were much less garish; some even approached a kind of otherworldly elegance. Even Henry begrudgingly commended the ease with which the diagrams and instructions etched on the disk’s cover could be interpreted.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
This had to be the magnum opus of a trickster seeking to fool their way into the history books, or back into the good graces of society.
Or this was a commissioned fake, merely one branch in the nest of falsehoods woven by the counterfeiter’s patron to steal the center of attention.
Henry felt a wave of instinctual revulsion washed over him as he considered that last possibility.
Judging from the expression of sympathy on Matteo’s face, he didn’t hide it very well.
Such acts epitomized the worst excesses of the Core Worlds, a mere fraction of the ever more convoluted status games played out on countless paradise worlds and megastructures.
Though it didn’t need repeating, Henry made his opinion known in no uncertain terms.
“You’d think people would know better by now, but the galaxy always finds some way to disappoint us.”
Matteo crossed his arms in front of him, slowly rubbing his pendant with one hand, as if Henry’s quip had inspired something.
“What if the culture which built that probe didn’t know any better?”
The suggestion violently derailed Henry’s train of thought; he’d never considered the possibility that the fascimile’s creator might have been unaware of humanity.
If true, then this probe was the product of an incredible (in every sense) degree of convergent technological evolution. With how many different cultures had been discovered, some coincidences were to be expected. With the sheer number of design similarities, the probe’s builders must have been remarkably similar to Pre-Stellar humanity.
“If you’re right Matteo, the Core Worlds are going to have a field day.”
And as the one who made contact, Henry would rocket into the spotlight.
By Occam’s Razor, this probe was a mere replica, and not worth all this time and effort. Even so, the part of Henry’s mind which still marveled at the galaxy’s wonders did not lose hope.
What if this was more than just another fake?
They would all find out in due time.
----------------------------------------
The detailed analysis conducted by the various science teams reported nothing but good news for the rest of the day.
Further analysis of the disk revealed a finely nanotextured surface, with far greater information density than the Voyagers’ Golden Records. Merely extracting and interpreting the stored data was going to be a time consuming affair, but promised a wealth of information.
Fortunately, the probe’s home star was far less difficult to find, thanks to the characteristic lines and circles of a pulsar map stamped right on the disk’s surface. They pointed towards a nearby star, far too dim and uninteresting to have attracted any interest from past explorers. No mention of that system could be found in the Remembrance’s extensive archives.
Spirits among the crew were still high by the evening watch rotation. With how far trailblazers have pushed the edge of known space, setting foot in an uncharted system for the first time was a rare occasion, even for dedicated explorers.
Even Henry couldn’t help but lift his brow and show a faint smile as he retired for the night.
When he awoke the next morning, something had doused the cheerful mood of the crew.
The cause appeared to be related to the preliminary translation of data fragments pulled from the probe’s record by the ship’s dedicated xenolinguistics expert system.
“All of this sounds like good news…” Henry thought to himself, while nibbling on a scone served by one of the many automated cafes scattered throughout the Remembrance, one of the holdouts from its days as a colony ship.
It didn’t take an expert linguist to tell that the quasi AI’s translation was utter nonsense of the worst kind: The grammar and syntax were perfect, but the content was anything but. Why did someone or something named “Dave” keep showing up?
A mental query to the science teams was answered by Matteo’s voice projected into Henry’s mind. The transmission’s slight electronic distortions failed to mask his friend’s frustration.
It’s as bad as it looks Cap’n. We’ve troubleshot the expert system from top to bottom and we’re still getting the same output. This is either some sort of elaborate cosmic joke, or they really are singing the praises of some divine being named Dave.
On one hand, this was one more strike against the character of this forgery’s creator.
On the other limb, enough time had passed since the dawn of the Interstellar Age for many species to have advanced from primitive (and impressionable) cultures to full-fledged spacefaring civilizations. If the Neoth Incident was anything to go by, the probe’s contents demonstrated the exact kind of cultural contamination caused by thrill seekers playing Ancient Astronaut.
As he made his way out of the biodome turned common area towards the bridge, it was clear to Henry that taking action couldn’t wait until the deliberations at the next weekly crew meeting. Tuning his implants to the common channel, the captain mentally addressed his crew.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. As you all know from recent events, an anomaly was detected in the orbit of a local gas giant approximately eighteen hours ago.”
“The anomaly, an early interstellar probe, contained a pulsar map pinpointing the location of a previously unknown system. I would like to deviate from the planned course to investigate further. Please inform us of your decision within the next 24 hours.”
By the time he finished the announcement, Henry was already in his customary spot at the center of the bridge. He watched the votes pour in while exchanging pleasantries with the crew on station.
As expected, the unexpected diversion proved quite popular.
However, he would need to wait at least another day for everyone’s opinion before he could act, even if half the votes were in by the time Cornelia briefed him on their current situation.
“Morning Captain, nothing of note in system, as usual.” But the redhead’s report didn’t end there.
“So, what’s your plan if this does turn out to be an elaborate fake?”
Henry’s only reply was a mirthless smirk.
----------------------------------------
Four days later, the Solemn Remembrance emerged in a dim, lifeless place. The emergence of the white dwarf at its center had utterly erased whatever wonders there were. The few objects that remained clung to existence at the system’s outermost reaches, amongst the tattered rings of a solitary ice giant.
There were no new living species to be found, at least of the kind depicted on the probe that had led them here. If they were gone, no monumental testament to their existence remained, like those etched into the planetoid-sized Pillars that stood vigil over the five worlds of Meru.
The crew reacted with a mixture of surprise, confusion, and despondence. All three made themselves heard as Henry listened to the hushed chatter that bounced around the bridge.
“Maybe they digitized themselves to outlive their star…” one of the bridge crew speculated.
That appeared to have struck one of Cornelia’s many nerves, judging from the emphatic sigh heard from the sensor section.
“If so, they didn’t leave any big dumb objects or obvious emissions to make it easy on us.”
She snapped in exasperation. “It’s like the Grand Tau Ceti Scavenger Tour all over again….”
A ping from one of the readout panels is matched by a glint in her eyes, “Neutrino detector’s picking up an emission source. Looks like they’re not as good at hiding as we thought.”
A faint green glow joined the star map on the holoprojector, an emerald corona enveloping a lone asteroid on the system’s edge.
“Full burn towards the point of interest. Science and comms sections, prepare to deliver the first contact package.”
Though it was the system’s denizens that were the first to reach out. As with most first contacts, nobody knew what to expect.
Whatever it was, it certainly hadn’t been to see a digital representation of another human speaking to them in perfect English.
“Greetings travelers, I am the one known as Dave. Since you’ve taken all of that effort to find me, there must be something I can do for you.”
A second, much more familiar voice called out to Henry through his cybernetics.
If you’re thinking what we’re thinking: no, we’re not translating this.
“Greetings Dave, this is Captain Henry Ashton Smythe of the Solemn Remembrance. We found your people through an abandoned space probe in a nearby star system.”
A deep, hearty laugh boomed from the audio feed, accompanied by a grotesque distortion of Dave’s digital expression into a warped grin.
“I see you’ve stumbled upon one of my earlier works. Bet you were expecting to see some new alien species, didn’t you? Hah!”
Though wholly unnecessary, Dave lowered his voice to barely a whisper.
“Sorry for fooling you, though if you want to do that to someone else, you know who to ask…”
So the probe they found was not the prelude to discovering a new culture, and not even a forgery.
It was an advertisement, an utterly shameless one at that.
Even Matteo, ever the idealist, wouldn’t object to what Henry now planned to do.
But he had to keep up appearances for now.
“Was there anything you’ve found that could be of potential interest in this system?”
Henry raised a hand to his chin, and appeared as if he expected to hear the most interesting thing in the galaxy.
“Just some old servers and fabricators,-”
Ms. Shackleton, is the asteroid making any other transmissions?
“Someone else must’ve once had the same idea I did. I’ll tell you more, if you’re willing to throw in a good word for my next project.”
Nope, he’s just talking to us.
“You’ll know it when you see it.”
Good.
Decision made, Henry waved towards the bridge’s engineering section. One crew member entered a cascade of haptic commands with grim resolve, overriding strobing safety warnings in the process.
Plumes of vented hydrogen began to stream from the Solemn Remembrance’s bow.
“Very well, you leave me no choice. By the power granted to me to uphold the Solar Charter, I charge you with gross and unlawful interference with an uncontacted culture. You are hereby ordered to submit to, and subsequently comply with the judgment of your peers.”
Dave’s smug tone shifted to anger, the first genuine display of emotion from either side of the conversation.
“What culture? You’re really going to browbeat the arbitration committee into hearing an accusation that flimsy, just to soothe your bruised ego?”
“The one described on your probe. Not like the committee will have anyone else to ask. They are extinct, after all.”
Translation: In space, no one will hear you scream, especially when it’s a disgraceful pariah doing the screaming.
Dave must have understood, judging by the shock on his virtual face. Shock turned to panic, then desperate pleading, but the charlatan’s fate was already sealed.
Unarmed does not translate to defenseless, and Henry was very familiar with the Kzinti Lesson.
He leaned back into his rarely-used seat, and allowed himself to enjoy a moment of satisfaction.
Spacetime itself was pinched into membranes of impossible geometries. The cosmos faded to a smear of blues and whites.
An instant later, The Solemn Remembrance re-emerged, as close to the offending asteroid as a snap calculated trajectory would allow.
When the bow shock’s incandescent fury faded, the asteroid was no more. Dave and his hideout now naught but dust in the cosmic winds.