Lost Among the Stars

by Paul Di Filippo

  “OK, Prof! Tell me when!” croaked Vespers over Majorana’s headphones.

  “Start-up procedure,” said Majorana into his mic, inspecting his tools laid out on a cloth beside him, like a surgeon’s scalpels. The interior of the plane was chilly and he chafed his hands together for warmth. A hasty drink of hot coffee from a thermos made an interior glow, and for a moment Majorana pictured himself seated under the sun in Catania’s Piazza Duomo, enjoying some real espresso and not this American substitute.

  “Done!” Vespers proclaimed boldly.

  “Neuronal power standby.”

  “Done!”

  “Alpha wave synthesizer on!”

  “One second—got it!”

  “Calibration of the Harmonic Cannon complete.”

  “Okay, boss. Whenever you say the word, I swing for the fences, just like Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio!”

  Ah, Italians! They shone in everything good, even American baseball!

  “Fire!” Hector said, wiping his brow, which was suddenly wet with sweat.

  Majorana swore he could feel the aircraft buck with the pulsed power of the Harmonic Cannon, raised now to a magnitude and breadth never before attempted. His vision doubled, tripled, then settled back to singular focus.

  Surely, the world had just shifted tracks!

  7. Neutron Rhythm

  When the nations of Europe were hit by the massive peacemaking wave of the Harmonic Cannon, radiating much further than even Fermi’s equations had predicted across hundreds and even thousands of square miles, it was as if triple suns suddenly illuminated an alien planet.

  Personal arms were dropped, inert. The big guns went silent. The soldiers on both sides surrendered one by one, a long process that occupied days, weeks, months.

  An Italian poet, Ungaretti, later wrote: “Soldiers came down/From their coigns of hate/Like leaves on trees in the fall.”

  And even among civilians, brawls and domestic violence fell to zero.

  But initially, Ettore “Hector” Majorana tasted none of this success.

  First came his mad, almost fatal flight home, after the irradiating was finished. All the German planes which had been aloft, and hence out of range of the downward-directed pacifying rays, immediately zeroed in on the intruder and gave chase, guns blazing. Majorana and Vespers tossed like peanuts in a can as their craft performed incredible aerobatics that stressed its very fibers nearly to destruction.

  “If we survive this,” said Vespers, “I’m lighting a dozen candles back on Throop Avenue in Our Lady of Victory.”

  “Allow me to accompany you to this holy locale and contribute to that cause,” said Majorana, when the bouncing allowed him to speak.

  Only the great skills of their pilot and copilot allowed them to escape back to safety—although not, Majorana suspected, without permanent consequences for the poor Sicilian scientist’s heart.

  When, after the flight, he found himself at last on the ground, he was supremely happy to feel the hard concrete under his feet.

  And there, along with several (but not all) of his scientist comrades (and the ever-present Agent Succi), stood Iola to greet him! Even in her severe nurse’s uniform, she looked like a Cuban beauty queen.

  Iola’s eyes alighted on his face. The woman looked at him from top to bottom, with a concern that Hector mistook for sentimental attraction. He little knew it was really professional interest, all in the line of duty.

  Iola was in fact recalling Succi’s words: “Majorana is special.”

  Iola took his hand and led the shy Ettore away from the others, after the men had all hugged him and kissed his cheeks and applauded him to their satisfaction.

  Along the runway, the aircraft were coming and going. The noise was deafening. Hector wanted to speak words of love to Iola, and hear her utter similar phrases in return. But in the din, he could only accompany Iola meekly, pondering silently how important this woman was becoming to him.

  When they reached a guarded hangar, Majorana was surprised to see Enrico and Bruno, consulting pages of notes on a clipboard.

  Fermi spoke in a businesslike manner, employing the English version of Majorana’s name. Did this mean, Majorana wondered, that he was now to address Enrico as “Henry?”

  “You feel all right, Hector? Ready to resume work?”

  Majorana had hoped for a more congratulatory and emotional welcome from this man who was like his father. But he chided himself for expecting too much. After all, Fermi had the ultimate weight of all their projects on his shoulders alone.

  “Yes, I’m fine—Henry. Are those the data from the deployment of the Cannon?”

  “We irradiated the whole continent!” exclaimed Bruno triumphantly.

  “Then the war is over!” said Hector. He bowed his head and began gently to weep.

  Weeping, he did not notice that his words prompted the eyes of Iola and Henry to meet.

  They knew Majorana’s statement was not true.

  The war was not over, but had simply taken a different direction.

  * * *

  “I categorically refuse to do this!” Majorana said.

  In the small windowless room were closeted Hector, Henry, Iola, and Succi, their knees almost touching in a circle of chairs. A little farther off sat a man with a big brimmed hat and a big Cuban cigar in his mouth.

  The stranger spoke with solemn yet somewhat ludicrous tones. “Dear Professor Majorana, you would not be here if your colleague, Professor Fermi, did not consider you essential to our efforts, which are all aimed at securing global peace and security.”

  Majorana threw his arms up in frustration. “Why go to war across the whole innocent world, now that we have just won the peace?”

  “Why, my friend, we offer a broader peace. And the world is far from innocent. Pacified Europe, now a realm of sheep, will be easy prey for the Communists. America and her allies cannot allow this to happen.”

  “Why don’t we just use the Harmonic Cannon everywhere, but only if aggressed against first?” pressed Majorana.

  “Because while a definitive cold peace was useful with the Nazis, a ‘warm peace,’ one that simmers perpetually with tension, will be most useful with the Communists.”

  “Henry,” Hector turned to Fermi, “I’m not here for such a program. This is not the life of pure science of which you and I dreamed! Please remember the spirit of the Via Panisperna!”

  Henry lowered his gaze, but said nothing.

  So Majorana looked to Iola. He found, to his dismay, that she could not regard him with anything like an honest expression. Then he realized why she was here at all, during such a high-level meeting.

  “I believe that you are also part of the plan to make me conform, right?”

  Iola nodded with chagrin.

  “Hector, I think …” Enrico stammered.

  “Please do not talk.”

  “Oh, let’s all be adults,” said the important stranger, speaking around his cigar. “Agent Succi found you the perfect woman, Hector. Just your type. So what if she doesn’t love you? She’s still all yours! It’s part of your employment deal.”

  “What a fool I’ve been!” cried Hector, jumping to his feet. “Why not just use the Cannon on me, to make me as compliant as you please?”

  “You know it doesn’t have that effect,” Enrico replied, embarrassed. “You still would have free will. And besides, we can’t take the slightest chance that you would lose your intellectual ability along with your spirit. Your brains are what we need,”

  “I see. My options are very limited. But there is always one last path. You could simply kill me.”

  Iola looked at Fermi, and Succi looked at his boss.

  Majorana saw only a cloud of smoke coming out from under the big brimmed hat.

  8. Via Panisperna Boys Harmony

  Where his prison was, he did not know. He had been brought here from Princeton blindfolded, and at night, first by car, then by plane, then again by car. The limited duration of the travel hi
nted at somewhere on the East Coast of the USA, but that was a big territory.

  He never saw any of his guards in order to ask them questions. Not that they would necessarily have answered, but he could have tried. Instead, three meals per day were delivered through a slot in the door. He suspected that the final meal each day was drugged with sleeping powders, because he always dozed dreamlessly, like a baby, and in the morning all his dirty dishes were gone, and any fresh supplies such as toothpaste and linens and underwear had been delivered, all without his knowing it. But what could he do? Refuse to eat? The cooking was quite delightful here, featuring some authentic Italian cuisine. Even the beloved Sicilian arancini!

  There was no attempt at interrogation, reeducation, or coercement. Certainly nothing as crude as physical torture. Majorana felt like a pawn who had simply been removed from the board. No one trifled with such an object, it was merely put back into the toybox, in preparation for another game—whenever that might be.

  Majorana received writing materials, but no reading materials. So he spent most of each day composing letters to his mother or friends, trying to figure out why he deserved such punishment. Occasionally he wrote an amateur poem. But all his verses centered on the Hispanic beauty of women who were, in all but name, the perfidious Iola. So he ceased such frustrating artistic endeavors.

  After about six months had passed, Majorana felt he would surely go insane if he did not speak to someone. Was this how they intended to make him cooperate? Simple isolation? Alternatively, if they were “putting his brain on ice” for later use, then this was a highly counterproductive regimen. He would write a letter to the authorities, outlining these thoughts in a helpful fashion, and leave it prominently displayed on his food tray. Hopefully, he would not need to add a postage stamp.

  With that thought, he began to laugh crazily, and knew he had not much sanity left.

  Soon after, one “evening” (it could really have been any time of the day in that windowless cell, but it was the usual hour when Majorana began to feel sleepy, upon finishing his third meal since waking), Majorana felt a keener than usual sense of some big, imminent change. And when he lay down on his narrow cot, he managed to keep his eyes open even after automatic lights-out. Had they forgotten to add the drugs to his gnocchi?

  Hours after lights-out, he heard the door to his cell being unlocked and opened. The door closed. Majorana remained still.

  A flashlight clicked on, causing Majorana to squint.

  But there was no one present! The flashlight appeared to hover in midair, its butt partially invisible.

  What was that slight mosquito whine?

  The noise abruptly ceased.

  And Captain Hemiola “Iola” Jones, Army Nurse Corps, appeared as if by magic.

  She was wearing civilian clothes, the first time Majorana had ever seen her dressed thus, and she looked more beautiful than ever.

  Strapped to her back with a buckled harness was a bulky mechanism.

  Iola put one finger to her lips, cautioning Majorana not to speak. He complied, but got to his feet.

  Iola was shrugging out of the pack. She indicated silently that Majorana should take the gadget and don it. And so he did.

  She put her delicate lips deliciously right against Majorana’s ear and whispered, “Cloak of invisibility. Your pals made it. Here’s the power button. On off, that’s all. Now, go!”

  “But you—”

  “Quiet! I’m not valuable enough to punish. That’s why I was chosen. Plus owing you a big debt. I’ll be fine. Go, cat, go!”

  Iola pressed a set of keys into his hand. Majorana kissed her, blinked away some tears, then stepped toward freedom.

  * * *

  He lived in a small house by the sea. Compact, primitively furnished, but with just enough comforts—and even a small room to serve as a natural laboratory: no experiments in high-energy physics here, just a simple optical microscope and some local insect specimens; a mineral collection and a few test tubes and retorts, as well as a small rack of common chemicals.

  Several times a day, as now, he would leave his cabin and descend to the beach, where he could stroll and contemplate his lot in life. Lonely, but content. Slightly expectant and fraught, yet no good reason to anticipate anything special.

  Rearing from the water just offshore were large stones, the Faraglioni. The legend said that these stacks had been formed from the stones hurled by Polyphemus against Ulysses.

  Simple, pastoral sounds filled his ears at that moment, just as they filled his peaceful, uneventful days on end. The cries of seabirds, the lapping of waves, the fishermen on the lava beach hollering, “Fresh fish!” Hope sprang eternal among the fishermen that they would find buyers for their catch, and so earn enough to live happily for another day with their families. For many centuries, they had not been proven wrong.

  Ettore breathed the sea breeze. It was fresh and fragrant. He turned away from the sea, climbed the three steps that led him home.

  He began to hear a sound. Electric piano! Then another sound. Mutant guitar. Cloud-Chamber Bowls. Steam-powered harmonica. Then a melody, improvised, novel yet of a familiar essence: Partch polytonality! Undeniably the players were just noodling around, though, before the real hot swinging began.

  Still, it was unmistakably some of that grand old Via Panisperna Boys Harmony!

  He began to run down the gravel path.

  A familiar female voice began to scat-sing with wild jubilance.

  Majorana knew his friends were waiting for him to jam with them.

  Invited to contribute something to a Rhode Island-based alternative weekly paper, The College Hill Independent, I decided to apply my speculative abilities to my current home, the city of Providence. This was a fun exercise in the fictional equivalent of “buying local.” Working with the young kids who run the paper was also a blast. There is not enough cross-generational interaction in our current culture, and one can fossilize without fresh perspectives.

  Providence 2034

  The Indy is proud to present the transcript of a yet-to-be-filmed documentary, an episode of Brazil’s Globo Repórter news show first uploaded to the common pool internets on August 12, 2034. We have interpolated links at various points in the transcript which we hope will help the reader understand the origins of many of the topics and developments discussed by the journalist Livia Carvalho.

  CROWDSOURCE-TRANSLATED TRANSCRIPT OF

  “Providence and São Vicente: Into the Future Together”

  December 25, 2013. The city government chooses Alta Bike Share, an Oregon based company, to operate a bicycle share program linking college campuses with downtown and Federal Hill.

  —Providence Journal

  Bom dia, viewers! My name is Lidia Carvalho, international correspondent for Globo Repórter, and I am standing on the lawn of the State House in Providence, Rhode Island, in the United States of America. This year of 2034 marks the tenth anniversary of the twinning of Providence with Brazil’s own São Vicente in a sister-city relationship. Today we’re going to take an all-too-brief tour of the American city to see exactly what innovations Providence has derived from São Vicente, and what it can offer in return.

  We’ll be traveling about the city by ebike, a hybrid electric and muscle power vehicle. You can see here that the racks and racks of communally shared ebikes around the capitol building, resting on their lovely SuperTurf lawn—an organic product developed by São Paulo’s own FAPESP group—have supplanted what was once ugly blacktop filled with polluting vehicles. Just let me use my phone to register and unlock one of these streamlined and lightweight bikes. There! I’ll certainly appreciate having the motor assist, since Providence is built on seven hills, just like ancient Rome!

  As we set off down this lane of PaveGen tiles, we’re actually generating electricity through the forces exerted by our tires. That will help us later as we want to recharge at the many ebike stations around the city.

  Let’s go!

  * * *


  November 2, 2013. Brown University’s administration plans to further expand into Providence’s Jewelry District. Expansion, online education, and new partnerships with other area colleges, local government, and nonprofit and for-profit institutions portend a geographic decentralization of the institution.

  —Providence Journal

  As you can see, having coasted down Smith Hill, I’m pedaling now through a vibrant scene. Once a wasteland of asphalt dedicated to exhaust-spewing busses, it’s Providence’s Greater Kennedy Plaza, a lush “village green” dedicated to cafés, live performances, food trucks and a variety of urban sports.

  Leaving “Downcity” behind. We transition easily through the newest part of the city, a thriving neighborhood built on the real estate footprint once occupied by an interstate highway. I wish you could enjoy all the great restaurant smells! Doughboys—which are a rough counterpart to our malasadas—calamari, and kettle corn!

  Our ultimate destination is not far off: the bayside campus of Bechtel-Odebrecht Institute of Geoengineering. My viewers back home will note the São Paulo roots in the latter half of that name. Higher education here in Providence, both theoretical and technical, is no longer concentrated in the old core districts and campuses. Learning has become a communal activity across many platforms, happening not just in classrooms but at hundreds of venues around the city. Private schools, businesses, NGOs, charities, and public schools engage together to train and enlighten citizens of all ages.

  * * *

  February 10, 2014. Members of the General Assembly, executive agency heads, and municipal officials gather in Providence to discuss state policy towards the Narragansett Bay. Jonathan Stone, Executive Director of Save The Bay, asks those gathered to make water quality a government priority—but elected officials have an economy to worry about.