Trinity's Legacy

by P A Vasey

  “Think how advanced they must be,” said Stillman in an awed voice. “The abilities and technologies they must have mastered over the millennia. Humanity is just starting out on this journey.”

  I thought about the sheer ‘alien-ness’ of the alien mind, and wondered how they must view humanity. Perhaps as we view ants or other bugs. Certainly not with any respect or concern for our wellbeing.

  “This should never have happened,” I said. “These aliens and humanity should never have met. Our respective civilisations should’ve been simply too far apart for any communication, let alone to make physical contact.”

  Hubert nodded, his fingers re-steepling. “So how does SETI fit in? I mean, how on earth did that message get through to them?”

  I thought about it. “The ‘anomaly’. What if it’s some kind of communication hub?”

  “An interstellar ‘router’ of sorts?” threw in Stillman. “We could use it to talk to them. Think what we could learn from them.”

  I felt a headache beginning. “I didn’t get the feeling they would be interested in a lecture. Why should they? We’re nothing to them. Just apes with brains. To them, we’re pond scum. Bacteria. Dust.”

  “Apes with nuclear weapons,” said Stillman, arching an eyebrow. “We can defend ourselves.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I countered.

  “Whatever Adam is,” Hubert said, “and if he has survived, our priority is to stop him contacting the other aliens.”

  “What if that means we have to kill him?” said Stillman to no one in particular.

  “What if you can’t?” I said softly.

  We landed at a private airstrip and were greeted by a long line of black limousines, US Army vehicles and SWAT trucks. Half an hour later we all pulled up at the main frontage of the SETI Institute on North Bernardo Drive. With precision arrogance, the army rolled their trucks over the lawns and shrubs surrounding the tall glass main entrance. Stillman jumped out of the first truck, a boxy black armoured leviathan, and waved the other vehicles into pre-arranged positions around the grounds. Heavily armed police disembarked and started setting up road blocks and fortified positions behind trees and grassy verges illuminated by red and blue flashes and the orange glow from the Institute’s own soft night lights.

  Our black Lincoln town car snaked around the SWAT trucks, and pulled to a stop by the entrance. We jumped out, Hubert talking on his phone, and were immediately accosted by a man clearly brimming with indignation and anger. He couldn’t be more than sixty or so, but walked with a cane, his right leg dragging after him. I’ve seen eighty-year olds in a rehab ward walk better than him. His face was all pale and sickly, with no prominent bones and no chin to speak of. An equally irate petite brunette in her forties wearing a white lab coat ran over to us. She had porcelain skin that was ashen, almost anaemic, and there was a cold sweat on her forehead and cheeks. Her lab coat was monogrammed with the name Dr Marianne Rogers, Senior Astronomer, SETI. She bounced on her feet and started wagging a finger in Hubert’s direction.

  “There are over one hundred scientists still working inside, many in the middle of very valuable and delicate research projects. They can’t just leave.”

  Hubert pointed to the main entrance. “If your colleagues won’t leave under their own steam, we’ll clear the building ourselves, room by room.”

  She seemed to physically deflate. Her tone changed, and she no longer sounded as belligerent. I also noticed that she had tear-stained cheeks, and her mascara was starting to smear.

  “Dr Holland said that this might be our own fault?”

  Hubert gave a slight smile. “Indirectly, perhaps. It seems that your ‘hello from earth’ signal did reach another galaxy. We just don’t know how.”

  “It was a bad idea in the first place,” I piped up, folding my arms.

  Rogers looked at me and wrinkled her nose. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Dr Morgan, she’s an advisor to the FBI.” Hubert replied, straight-faced. He then turned on his heel and set off at a brisk walk towards the Institute. I dropped in step with him, and Rogers hustled to keep up. Inside, we walked past entrance desks, a gift shop, and a small cafeteria on our way to a bank of elevators next to a glass doorway in front of the Carl Sagan Centre. I stopped and looked in, cupping my eyes on the glass. I could just make out a stage with a lectern and a rising bank of seats set back like an amphitheatre.

  “I understand you were instrumental in setting up ‘Active SETI’, Dr Rogers?” I asked without turning.

  “The discovery of extra-terrestrial civilisations is the crux of our mission, of course,” she replied, looking downcast and quite miserable. “That’s what every scientist here is dedicated to. Active SETI was an initiative to send out a peaceful message, a way of announcing to the galactic community ‘we’re here’.”

  I turned and raised my eyebrows. “The galactic community? Sounds like you’ve been watching too many Star Trek episodes. Perhaps you should’ve kept quiet until humanity was ready?”

  She folded her arms and gave me a challenging stare. “When would we have been judged ‘ready’, Dr Morgan? And by whom?”

  Hubert leaned in. “Kate is correct, and now the survival of our species may be on the line.”

  Roger’s face dropped. Hubert grasped her arm and led her down the corridor. “Doctor, I’m aware that you can control the radio signalling from the control room in the basement. You need to take us there and shut it down, permanently.”

  She looked dismayed. “Permanently?”

  Hubert nodded. “It’s the only way. Yes, or no?”

  Rogers took a deep breath. “The transmission is sent via the Allen Telescope Array at Hat Creek, just North of here,” she said. “It’s taken fifteen years to fine tune and design the interface and matrix to ready that message for transmission.”

  We rode the car down two floors and arrived at a large windowless room containing the most sophisticated computers and electronica that I’d ever seen. Rogers gestured towards a piece of freestanding equipment sitting unattended but festooned with lights and plasma displays. Around it were a number of mobile chairs and wireless keypads on wheeled tables.

  “That’s the controller of the ATA,” she said. “It links to all the data readers and diagnostic equipment in this room.”

  “How long to shut it down?” asked Hubert. “Not fifteen years, I hope.”

  She sighed. “A couple of hours, maybe less if I’m left alone.”

  “Excellent, then I suggest you get started.”

  We turned to leave. There was a ‘ping’ and the elevator doors opened revealing half a dozen or more SWAT officers, carrying large leather bags and suitcases. The leading officer nodded at Hubert who nodded back, a silent look passing between them.

  Rogers caught the look, and turned to him. “What are these police officers doing here?”

  Hubert gave her a sober look. “‘Plan B’. You’ve two hours, doctor. Make it work.”

  As the officers filed past, Hubert put a hand out to stop the doors from closing and beckoned me to join him in the elevator. I squeezed in and he pressed the button.

  “What’re we doing now?” I said.

  “We’re not staying,” said Hubert. “I’ve a feeling we’re going to need some leverage with Adam. You and I are going to Las Vegas.

  “What’s in Vegas?” I said.

  “Adam Benedict’s daughter.”

  “What? You found Amy?”

  “Yes. She’s been located. The local sheriff and Professor Connor are en route. We’ll meet them there.”

  DAY 4

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Wynn Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada

  The flight to Vegas took less than forty minutes. The sky was a velvet black and the Nevada desert underneath us completely invisible, but as we approached the city, colours exploded onto my retina. Blues, greens and yellows were inlaid onto the obsidian canvas, so resembling a huge illuminated computer chip that I was expecting to s
ee an Intel logo somewhere. Then what looked like an electric monopoly board with hotels and pyramids and an Eiffel Tower came into view, and as we descended these became towering works of bad-taste art. I could make out thousands of people meandering up the main strip, bisected by wall-to-wall headlights and taillights.

  We glided into McCarran at around 1am, where another motorcade awaited us. After an LVPD-escorted fifteen-minute drive, our black Crown Vic screeched around the 180-degree entrance into the drop-off zone of the Wynn Hotel and pulled up in front of a set of gaudy gilt-edged doors. A lanky concierge dressed in a military style outfit and a top hat approached and opened the near passenger door. He was abruptly waved off by a couple of FBI agents who had disembarked from a second car that had tailgated in behind us. Hubert and I jumped out and we were hustled through the lobby behind an arrowhead of agents parting the crowds like Moses at the Red Sea. The fine marble floor shone like polished glass and every step echoed dramatically. A chandelier hung from the ornately decorated ceiling, casting rainbow lighting effects around the walls. Hotel guests stared at us as we moved swiftly past the long granite-topped check-in desks towards the bank of elevators on the far wall. Agents stood in flanking positions as we waited for the elevator car to arrive, politely prohibiting other guests from accompanying us. Even at this late hour, the lobby was teeming with high rollers, hangers-on, tourists and locals streaming in and out of the basement level casino via other similarly gaudy escalators at the end of the lobby.

  I was clutching a bag with ‘FBI MEDIC’ stencilled on the side, and had been officially co-opted into the federal government during the descent into McCarran. Having had to do the raised right hand thing and solemnly swear the oath in front of Hubert and Stillman, I questioned whether this made me a ‘Special Agent’. Hubert had given me one of those looks that suggested ‘nice try’.

  A real Special Agent spoke into his cuff microphone and turned to Hubert, saying, “Room 1890, sir. Sheriff Woods will meet us outside.”

  Hubert nodded, and the car arrived. We squeezed in and an agent pressed the 18th floor button. Seventies disco music piped through at a volume just loud enough to be intrusive, and the car lurched slightly before accelerating upwards smoothly and silently. My ears popped after a few seconds, and I swallowed to clear them. Hubert appeared to be checking his phone messages, so I tapped him on the arm.

  “I thought we’d be meeting at a police station?”

  He looked up, and shook his head. “Woods called and said to meet here. Some … problem.”

  The elevator slowed to a standstill and the doors whooshed open in a way that reminded me of Star Trek. The irony didn’t escape me. We got out into a long, dark, red corridor, which made me think of that scene in The Shining when the elevator opened and an ocean of blood poured out. Nothing about this gave me good vibes. Halfway down were two police officers flanking one of the suites. As we approached, one of them leaned back and knocked softly, and the door opened almost immediately. Woods and Connor emerged, and Woods gestured for us all to move down the corridor a few yards. The agents took up positions at both sides of the room, all sunglasses and gun-shaped bulges in their identical black jackets.

  Connor furtively glanced at me and gave me a small smile. “Hello Kate, nice to see you again.”

  I wasn’t sure how to reply with Woods standing right there, but Hubert let me know he understood. “Kate, Professor Connor has seen fit to come clean with law enforcement and FBI, isn’t that right, Gabriel?”

  Connor coughed nervously into his hand, and nodded.

  “Alright,” said Hubert. “We’re all up to speed then. Is she inside?”

  Woods moved closer and spoke, almost sotto voce. “She is, but she’s not in a particularly good state.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” said Hubert, a pinched look to his face.

  Woods looked grim. “Meaning, she’s drunk. And probably stoned.”

  “Is she able to hold a conversation?” I asked.

  “She was able to hold a conversation with the undercover vice cop who busted her for trying to pick him up in the casino.”

  “I don’t think I’m liking what I’m hearing,” said Hubert, in an ominous tone.

  Connor gave a nonchalant shrug. “I think she’ll be okay. As I told Sheriff Woods on the way over, she knows me. I know her. Let me see what I can get out of her?”

  I asked, “How well do you really know her?”

  Connor smiled. “I’ve known her since she was a little girl. Remember, Adam Benedict and I were close friends after college. I knew her mother too, Francesca Banks.”

  Hubert had earlier given me the rest of the bio. Francesca Banks and Adam had met at college, and were together for a couple of years. They split up, but not before Francesca fell pregnant with Amy. Adam hooked up with Cora much later.

  I frowned. “Was Adam close to Amy?”

  Connor grimaced. “Francesca was a complete bitch to Adam when she found out about him and Cora. Tried to poison Amy towards him. Still tried to get lots of financial support, mind. She found that Cora came from money, and so of course she tried to screw Adam for more child support. But then Francesca herself got married to some rich real estate broker who became Amy’s legal guardian.”

  “How often did Adam get to see Amy after this happened?” I asked.

  “Hardly at all.”

  Hubert sighed heavily. “I’m not sure this is going to help us.”

  Connor held up a hand. “It might, hear me out. Francesca died from cancer when Amy was about sixteen and so Amy had gotten back in touch with him. Adam told me that she’d been in trouble - alcohol, drugs, that sort of thing - and he’d tried to help her. That was years ago, however.”

  I looked at the door to the room, guarded by the police. “What are we going to tell Amy about her father now?”

  Connor pursed his lips. “We can’t tell her the truth. She won’t believe us for a start.”

  Hubert digested this. “Okay, let me do the talking. Let’s go see her.”

  Connor nodded, reluctantly it seemed, and Hubert gestured for the policeman to open the door. We entered into a big, brash suite containing a kitchenette, bathroom and shower area that led into a main living area. There, a huge king bed dominated, all pure-white, Egyptian cotton sheets, facing a large plasma TV and a desk/chair combo in front of bay windows which were closed with blackout blinds. A sprawling leather sofa occupied the other wall, covered with gaudy striped cushions. The TV was on but muted, a CNN reporter talking animatedly to the camera in front of what looked like a bombed-out Middle Eastern village. Lying face down on the bed, snoring peacefully, was a young blonde woman dressed in fishnet tights, a miniskirt and a lacy bra. There were bruises along her arms, which were thin and wiry, and I could see the top of a tattooed dragon on her left hip. A police officer was perched on the edge of the bed next to her, holding her hand. Hubert knelt down by her side and pulled one of her eyelids back, revealing a pinpoint pupil in bloodshot eyes. She stirred but didn’t wake up.

  Hubert looked up at me, eyebrows raised.

  “Narcotised,” I said. “She’s recently had a hit.”

  He moved back and let me sit on the side of the bed. I opened my Medikit and turned the girl’s arm over while feeling for a vein in the antecubital fossa. Finding one, I got a cannula set out of the bag and put a butterfly into the vein, fixing it in place with steristrips. I rummaged through the bag and pulled out a small brown vial, which I tapped with my finger a couple of times before breaking the seal and drawing its contents into a thin syringe. I removed the needle, screwed the syringe to the cannula and slowly injected the full amount into the girl’s arm. Even before the syringe had fully deposited its load into the circulation, she took a massive raggedy breath and her eyes opened, pupils now super-sized. She started flailing around but I’d already grabbed her by the shoulders and waved the police officer to help me hold her down.

  “You used adrenaline?” asked a fascinated Hubert.
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  I shook my head. “Naloxone. It’s an opiate antagonist. Blocks the effect of the heroin and actually reverses it’s effect. It acts very quickly, as you can see. It can be dangerous, but I figured she was young enough to handle it.”

  Amy was now staring around the room and giving a good impression of a deer caught in headlights. I released one hand from her shoulder, brushed the hair out of her eyes, and gently caressed her forehead. “It’s okay Amy, there’s nothing to worry about. My name’s Kate. I’m a doctor. You’re safe.”

  The girl closed her eyes for a second and licked her lips. The hint of a tongue piercing glistened in the darkness of a mouth framed with black-smeared lipstick. She took in the other occupants of the room - the police officer standing by the bed, the uniformed Sheriff by the TV, Hubert, and Connor.

  “Gabe? Is that you?” she slurred, the words coming out as if through treacle. “What the fuck you doing here?”

  Connor was about to speak but Hubert waved him off before he could reply. He stepped in front of Connor and fixed her with a piercing stare.

  “Amy, my name is William Hubert and I’m with the FBI. We need to ask you some questions.” He flashed his badge in front of her face.

  She screwed up her eyes and made a show of not reading it. “I’m not stupid, this is Vegas. Check out the next room, you’ll see the same thing happening.”

  Connor leaned in. “Amy, this is about your father. He’s in trouble.”

  Hubert looked up sharply, and Amy caught the stare between them. Her eyes narrowed and she turned to Hubert. “What sort of trouble?”

  “The sort that involves national security,” said Hubert, glaring at Connor.

  “What’s in it for me?” said Amy.

  Hubert sighed and shook his head. “Well, you won’t go to prison, for a start.”

  Amy wriggled further up the bed so she was sitting facing everyone. She straightened her bra/top and pushed her hair back from her eyes, where it had flopped down. I noticed the high cheekbones and the aquiline nose. Her slender body was like a Victoria Secret model, her eyes, blue like the sea, were rimmed with thick mascara. She was quite beautiful, and had Adam’s DNA written all over her.