“If you can save me, if there is no technical limitation—you should be saving everyone who dies. Regardless of species. Regardless of merit. Answer the question I asked before: do you save the people who die on Earth? Do you let them walk among you?”
She is confronted with hope like that she had in childhood; and with the threat of losing it all over again.
A long silence gives her answer.
A glowing woman with fairy wings stirs uncomfortably to Daniel’s left, avoids Carol’s gaze. She seems a mockery of the magical creature she resembles, until the tears begin to pour down her fluorescent cheeks.
“No,” Daniel says.
Why is the immortal woman crying? Why does Daniel seem sad, genuinely sad …? Hope flares again, refusing to die.
“Can you save them?” she asks swiftly. “Is there some sort technical problem? Is that why you’re studying me? Please, study away. And if I can help—”
“No,” Daniel cuts her off. “We could save them. It is not beyond our capabilities.”
She stares at him, at a loss.
“You,” he says, “are an astronaut.”
She doesn’t see what that has to do with anything.
“Tested for your ability to work in teams. In close quarters. To resolve conflicts. To put mission before yourself.”
“Yes.”
“And you are—a sociologist.” Daniel tilts his maddeningly, rage-inducingly beautiful head at her. “Your chosen path is to think about people like us.”
“Yes.”
She finds that she does not care, now, whether she has truly realized her life’s goal. The question of whether she stands before true alien intelligence or the hallucination of a dying mind rings hollow. She looks to the weeping fairy, who meets her eyes with wells of great liquid sadness.
Death becomes a fairy tale.
She remembers the sight of the Agena slipping away from her, so near and yet so hopelessly out of reach. Remembers the oxygen rushing from her lungs to fill the hungry void.
Remembers her brother dying back on Earth at the tender age of thirty-four, his liver too cancer-riddled to filter toxins from his blood. The cancer had also infiltrated half a dozen other organs, so that a transplant would have been no cure.
She raises her eyes to Daniel’s again, looking for an answer. “Why?”
“You know about the Drake Equation.”
Yes. She does. The equation for calculating the total number of technological civilizations in the galaxy. It has no known solution, because the value of so many of its component parts are unknown.
In the past century, humans have gained insight into two of the variables: the rate of star formation and the average number of planets per star.
But other essentials are still unknown: the number of planets capable of supporting life, the number of life-bearing planets which become civilized—and Carol’s area of expertise, of study and questioning:
How long do civilizations survive after they develop technology?
The thing that has troubled astronomers since the equation’s development is the number of technological civilizations actually known to exist. Only one has been known to humans: their own. No other radio signals reach the massive, lonely ears in the deserts, the radio telescope arrays built to seek companionship among the stars.
And the number of potentially life-bearing planets is known to be in the trillions.
That has been interpreted by many to mean that one or more of the other variables—the probability of life, the likelihood of civilization, or the lifespan of a technological society—must be vanishingly small.
It would have been Carol’s wish, would have been the best thing her dying brain could give her, to believe she had found a myriad of other civilizations. That the infinite universe is not entirely hostile to life. That civilization is not a flickering anomaly, doomed to wink out and never return.
Absorbed in her thoughts, she studies the aliens in the chamber around her. She no longer has eyes, but perhaps she can still gather useful information.
The images of these people are drawn from her own memory. Are they choosing their masks? Or is it her own mind which perceives some essential quality of each alien and crafts the woman with the shining fairy wings at Daniel’s right and the ponderously long-necked creature at his left?
“What,” she asks quietly “does the Drake Equation have to do with anything?”
“You are interested,” the fairy woman speaks, “in the lifespan of a civilization.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what determines that?”
Carol smiles bitterly. If she did, how many Nobel prizes would she have?
“Violence,” Daniel says simply. “Violence is good for non-technological species. It helps them live long enough to become what they are. But technological development past a certain level—must not be paired with violence. The potential of technological beings to destroy themselves is too great. The lifespan of civilizations that retain violence in their technological age is vanishingly short.”
Carol is still waiting to hear what this has to do with her question.
“Your species is violent. How can we afford to introduce them to the level of technology we possess?”
What he is suggesting seems laughable. And yet …
“Are you saying we could destroy you?”
“Yes. To free your minds would be to open the gates of hell for a thousand species that came before you. We collect specimens—rarely—to see if you have yet outgrown this malady.”
“So you chose me,” she says steadily, “because I have studied human history.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to judge them for you?”
“No. We collected you to study your reactions.”
The truth that’s settling into her bones could be insanity-inducing.
Her people don’t have to die. Ever.
People like her brother don’t have to die—if she can convince these people that they can be trusted with godlike power.
And she can’t.
She cannot even try. Not in good conscience.
The hatred and sense of betrayal that roils in her own heart at Daniel’s actions, at his revelations, bear testament to that.
She cannot even tell them that she can be trusted with power that could be used to destroy these people. She cannot save her own life. Not now. Not knowing what they have refused to do in order to preserve themselves.
And what would become too much for another human who they preserved? What would it take to turn them—or her—to deadly force?
Not much, apparently. Not enough.
Carol feels her heart begin to sink. Surely, her observers can see this. The violence in her own heart. That, in her own mind, humanity has already failed a crucial test. The question of what will happen to her is supplanted by the enormity of another question:
How long until they test again?
A century? A millennium? More?
Daniel’s mind wraps around hers, gentle, warm, nurturing.
You’ve done the right thing, he tells her. You have been honest.
And she sees through his mind, as he sees through hers—that her honesty, her refusal to endanger his people to save hers, is itself a sign of progress.
A small comfort. A comfort woefully inadequate for the woman who has seen what might have been, what may yet be, and what is.
Whatever these people have planned for her, at least she is certain that they will not make her suffer.
As to the larger question:
In a millennium or three, we may be ready.
Acquisition
written by
Jake Marley
illustrated by
Ryan Richmond
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
&
nbsp; Jake Marley has been driving the night roads of Southern California for the past twenty years, listening to audio books and dreaming up worlds of his own. His characters carpool with him, but only come to life when they’re finally on the page.
Jake lives in Orange County, California with his wife, his daughter, his mom’s golden retriever, and two suspicious chickens.
After years of learning and honing his craft, this story marks Jake’s first publication.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Ryan Richmond was born in 1993 in Franklin, Indiana. Always one to draw whenever he got the chance, Ryan quickly found a passion for art.
This fervor can be traced back through his mom, his grandmother, and even as far as back as his great-grandmother. With many artistically inclined family members, he received unwavering support and was gifted his first digital tablet at the age of 16, which he still uses to this day.
After a few years of self-teaching, Ryan enrolled at Herron School of Art and Design, where he received his BFA in drawing and illustration. Throughout his studies, which were primarily focused on the traditional way of doing things, he was forced to adapt and combine outside resources with his schooling. What seemed to be a flaw at first turned out to be a blessing. He was able to build a strong, fundamental foundation and apply that to the entertainment design field, which is where his sights were set.
Currently working as a freelance concept artist and illustrator on a wide array of projects, Ryan continues to hone his craft as he aims for greater opportunities within the film and video game industries to create and collaborate with amazing artists.
Acquisition
Just after midnight and Barlow was on that long stretch of I-15 between Baker and Vegas when he felt the pull of the dead. It spiked his adrenaline and he scanned the other cars and the endless desert, searching for his prey. His mouth went dry and tacky. He chewed nervously on the side of his tongue and tasted blood.
A young woman ran into the road, lit up in the headlights of the Jeep like a wild animal. He caught a glimpse of a pink T-shirt, denim cutoffs, blonde pixie hair sticking out in disarray, before he slammed on his brakes, kicking up dust as he jerked the wheel, just missing her. There was a raging air horn from a passing semi, too close, and then his tires thump-bumped off the soft shoulder and the Jeep rocked to a stop.
In the rearview he saw the girl, red in his taillights, coming toward him in a limping rush of panic and gratitude.
He zeroed out the odometer.
Deep breath.
“Here we go.”
He reached across the seat and threw open the passenger door.
She scrambled inside and shouted, “Go-please-go-please-go-go-go,” her words running together. As she yanked the door shut between herself and the desert those words devolved into a violent crying jag.
Barlow clicked the electronic door locks and hit the gas.
He heard his wife in his head. Karen. Patience, she said.
Barlow let the girl cry. Gave her a minute. Someone her age should’ve been in college, or having her first legal drink, not stranded out here in the dark. He swallowed a few times, trying to rid himself of the taste of blood—a taste he always associated with anticipation. Metal, earth, and life. It made him edgy. Another semi passed around them and the Jeep shook in its wake.
“I was out there for s-s-so long, trying to flag someone down.” She was shaking. “They wuh-wouldn’t stop for m-m-me.”
He kept glancing away from the road, fascinated by her.
She pulled her smooth, tanned legs up onto the seat and hugged her knees. She was barefoot, with neon-green nail polish on her toenails, but there were no scrapes on the soles of her feet. No sign at all that she’d been standing on the gravel shoulder of the interstate.
Calm, Karen said. Be kind.
His mind wandered, a whirlwind of thoughts, of fears, and when he glanced at the odometer he was shocked to see that nearly two miles had clicked by. He was running out of time.
“I’m Barlow.”
The girl didn’t answer. Just sniffed. She used the back of her hand to brush tears from her wide blue eyes, to wipe at the rounded tip of her delicate nose.
He’d seen her face before.
“Wow, must’ve been some accident, huh?” Barlow was going for sympathetic, but came off as too cheerful. He imagined his wife smiling sadly at him, shaking her head. He was doing it all wrong. He unbuttoned the collar of his charcoal shirt, trying to get some air. Trying to get comfortable. “How’d you get all the way out here? Did you have a car, or—”
“Can you just drop me at the next exit, please?”
“Sure, sure.” He swallowed hard, as if something was caught in his throat. He undid another button and said, “Hey, want to see something neat?”
“If you show me your dick, I’ll rip it off,” she warned.
“No, no,” Barlow said, forcing a chuckle. “Nothing like that.” He wore a talisman around his neck, a rawhide strap looped around a thin bone. There were carvings along the length of the bone. Tiny, meticulous symbols. He held it up for her to see. Pulled it over his head. Held it out to her.
The girl hardly glanced at it.
“Metacarpal,” he said, turning it between his long fingers. “A near-perfect example of such a little bone. So delicate, but you need it to support the structure of the hand. It’s critical. We all have them.” Barlow swallowed again. “I used to stare at this bone and wonder what else we all had in common. What else was so necessary, hiding under our skin like that?”
Three miles, and none of the usual signs. Barlow cleared his throat.
“This is my favorite piece. A gift from my wife. It’s unique, and—”
“Please,” the girl said. She turned to the window. She had started crying again. “Can you just drop me off?”
Barlow frowned. “I was going to say, this is how I did it. How I knew you’d be out here. How I could find you. It pulls me along, and I just follow it, the way a lost man follows the needle of a compass. It’s special. People who know about these things, other collectors, they’ve offered me fortunes for it. You wouldn’t believe how much.”
Sniffing, she said, “My p-parents have money. Davis Asher, he’s my father. I’m Alyssa Asher. I’m … we’re … I’m wealthy. I can get you money, if you can just get me home.”
Barlow’s mouth felt flooded with the metallic tang of blood. He could smell it, too. On his breath, leaking from his pores, filling the cabin of the Jeep. The anticipation was palpable. He ran his fingertips over the cracked vinyl steering wheel. He let the traffic flow around them. Hardly glanced at it anymore. He tapped his fingers softly, ever so softly.
Alyssa tensed, staring out the window. Hoping. Then she crumbled into herself and let out a whimper as he drove past an exit. “Please?”
The odometer clicked another tenth of a mile. She trembled, a tree with her leaves stripped bare, trying to hold herself together as a hurricane ripped her apart.
He heard Karen, again. Good. Almost time, now.
“You’ve come so far, little one,” Barlow said. He looped the talisman back over his neck and tucked it in his shirt. “I wonder … how far can you go before you break?”
Quaking, with tears running freely down her cheekbones, Alyssa finally turned her haunted eyes to him. Her voice was a frightened whisper. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Barlow rubbed the rawhide strap of the talisman, weighing his options. “There are buyers in Las Vegas. Those collectors I mentioned? True connoisseurs. Men who’ll appreciate you and see you as the jewel you are. On the other hand … I’m a collector myself.”
Karen made a dismissive noise.
It made him smile. “It’s something I’ll have to consider.”
Alyssa panicked and reached for the door handle, fingers fumbling. When she yanked on it,
it didn’t open. Barlow let out a delighted giggle when it moved a little, though. The odometer was at six miles.
“Absolutely remarkable. And so far from your anchor! You must have incredible willpower.”
Then—he couldn’t help himself any longer—Barlow reached over and touched her bare thigh. Ice cold, but still tangible. Alyssa shuddered violently and recoiled, pressing herself against the passenger door even as she became translucent and began to fade.
In a final gasp, she said, “Let me out of the car right now!” It was like someone turning down the sound on a stereo, softer and softer and softer. She reached for the door handle again and her fingers passed right into it. She screamed, but there was no sound, only anguish, and Barlow could see right through her, through her window, into the outer dark.
And then she was gone.
The first pieces of Barlow’s collection were sad, folksy things, left hanging in trees or laying upon tombstones. A string of teeth. A floating rib. An ulna. The markings on those forgotten bones were rough and inexpertly done—superstitious trinkets, abandoned by their creators.
Still, they served a purpose.
Barlow had held them in his fingers and around him the dead manifested as flickering echoes of what they had once been. They were confused and dejected, lost and aimless and filled with sorrow. He spoke to them, hoping for insight, wanting to understand the hidden secrets of the universe. But there was only misery and helplessness.
Their stories differed, but to Barlow the ghosts were all the same.
The wonder of an afterlife faded quickly. When Barlow tired of them, he sold his pieces to real collectors. Men and women who already had everything else—a pet soul was worth whatever price he asked.
He’d met Karen through the collectors. She was an artist, and understood the archaic rituals of binding. She made beautiful pieces—each one polished and precious. Each a work of art. She was as fascinated with his ability to stumble upon bound souls as he was with her obvious talent for such an unnatural sense of expression.
She was an artist, but also a hunter. She uncovered the stories of the dead and tried to reflect the beauty of their lives in the pieces she created.