“Interstellar war is a fantasy. It makes no sense. Economically, for resources, for territory…it’s all crap. Hong Kong doesn’t even make drama games about it anymore.”
“Nonetheless, we must respect the possibility, however remote. My department has developed scenarios we don’t ever reveal to the public,” I confided. “Some of them are…disturbing.”
“I bet they are. But at the end, it’s all human paranoia.”
“Maybe. However, the non-exposure protocol must be enacted if the contact species turns out to be hostile. Will you accept that responsibility? I need to know I can rely on you if I’m incapacitated.”
“Incapacitated!” She took a moment, breathing in deeply as she finally realized what I was asking.
Getting her assigned to the mission on that basis—that thanks to her quirks she was genuinely dedicated and fearless enough to initiate the self-destruct sequence—had been an easy sell to Yuri. He had never questioned my choice.
“All right,” she said. “If it comes to that, I’m prepared to press the big red button.”
“Thank you. Oh, and the other three, they might not appreciate—”
“Yeah. We’ll keep that part to ourselves.”
“Good. Let’s go meet them, then.”
Exosolar Security occupied seven adjacent floors. The departmental conference room was on the seventy-sixth floor. I took Kandara down the big spiral stairwell in the middle of the tower.
Naturally, the conference room occupied a corner of the tower, giving it two glass walls. The oval teak table stretching along the middle of the floor probably cost more than my salary. It had fifteen chairs spaced around it. More chairs lined the non-glass walls for flunkies to sit in. Pure psychology, emphasizing the importance of those invited to sit at the table with the grown-ups.
There were seven people waiting, and none of them using a wall chair. As far as I was concerned, only three of them were relevant, the representatives of true power: Yuri Alster, Callum Hepburn, and Alik Monday.
Yuri was sitting at the far end, with his executive assistant and tech advisor Loi next to him. He’s one of the real old-timers, born back in St. Petersburg in 2030; all broody and sullen like only Russians who emigrate from the Motherland can be. Couple that with his age, and I doubt his mouth was even capable of smiling anymore. He’d got his first telomere extension therapy about a century ago, and then progressed to gene-up to keep himself alive. If you called that living; most people call all the myriad extension therapies the undying, stretching out their existence at any price. I’ve seen people who never got rich until their eighties then go for treatments. It’s not pretty.
All those treatments and procedures had left Yuri’s appearance suspended in his late fifties, with his round face slightly bloated and his thin sandy hair shading lighter as it was infiltrated by gray strands that’d resisted the gene-up. Hooded gray-green eyes completed the image of a man who was suspicious about the whole universe.
But for Yuri an eternal fifty wasn’t so bad. As well as his deferred face there had to be replacement organs, too. For a start, no original liver could survive immersion in that much vodka. His replacement parts would all be high-end bioprinted clone cells. He was too xenophobic (and maybe snobbish) to use Kcells. The alien biotechnology was the main trade item between the Olyix and humans; cells with a biochemistry compatible with a human body, which could be assembled into organs and muscles at a significantly lower cost than gene-up treatments and printed stem cells. They had a reputation (unfounded, in my opinion) of being slightly inferior to human medical technology. But by making advanced medical treatment available to millions of people who had been too poor to receive it before, it had become the biggest boon to social improvement since Connexion Corp started providing universal egalitarian transport through its portal hub network.
I nodded respectfully at him. After all, he was my boss and the author of this whole expedition. Me, I’d seen it for the terrific opportunity it was.
As usual, Loi was wearing an absurdly expensive suit, as if he’d strayed in from Wall Street. Not too far from the truth, given he’s Ainsley’s great-grandson (one of many). Twenty-eight years old, and always keen to tell you about his shiny new quantum physics degree from Harvard—earned, not bought, as he’ll explain. Right now he was desperately validating himself by working his way up through Connexion Corp the way everyone does. Because everyone age twenty-eight pulls an assistant’s job with a department head as soon as they join. Just a regular guy, all smiles, after-work drinks with colleagues, and bitching about The Boss.
Interestingly, Callum Hepburn had chosen to sit next to Yuri. He’d arrived twenty minutes ago from the Delta Pavonis system, where the Utopial culture was based. These days he was one of their senior troubleshooters, possessing a craggy face that gene-up had failed to soften with age. His thick crop of hair was the bold silver-white that all redheads turn, rather than the insipid gray that lies in wait for most humans.
I could sense a great deal of unhappiness behind those blue-gray eyes of his. From my briefing with Ainsley I gathered Callum hadn’t exactly volunteered for the expedition. Allegedly, the Utopials with their perfect democracy can’t be ordered to do anything, no matter what level of citizenship you’ve attained (and he’s grade two). So that must be one hell of a favor domino Ainsley Zangari had knocked into Emilja Jurich—given Emilja was the closest thing the Utopials had to a leader, and therefore the only one who could pressure Callum into coming back to Earth.
And I don’t suppose having Yuri along on the expedition was helping his temperament. The two of them haven’t talked since Callum left Connexion in what I can only describe as intriguing circumstances a century ago, after he officially died.
Actually, it was 112 years ago. Whatever. That’s an impressive amount of time to hold a grudge. But then he’s Scottish, and in my experience they’re just as stubborn and dour as Russians. It says something about the artifact we’d found that those two were prepared to put personal issues aside and cooperate—however nominally. Having them together in the bus was really going to make this a full-out fun-time trip.
Callum had brought two assistants with him from Delta Pavonis. Eldlund was obviously from Akitha—the Utopial’s main world, orbiting Delta Pavonis. Like all people born into the Utopial movement today, sie was omnia: genetically modified to be both male and female, spending hir adult life in a thousand-day cycle between genders. That baseline genome alteration to every person born into the Utopial culture—enabling and enhancing their core philosophy of equality at a fundamental level—had been hugely controversial when it first began, back in 2119, condemned as extremist by some religions and old-school moralists. There had been plenty of discrimination and even violence against the omnias to begin with, by the usual suspects—the ignorant and prejudiced and fearful. But, as always, what was once exceptional decayed to mundane over time. Today, Eldlund could probably walk down most streets on Earth without any trouble. Sie would be noticed, mind you, but that was down to hir height; all the omnias were tall. And Eldlund was an easy fifteen centimeters higher than anyone else in the room, and also marathon-runner thin with it. Normally I’d call that willowy, but there was nothing fragile-looking about hir—although sie had a very pretty face with sharp cheekbones highlighted by an artfully trimmed beard.
And I could tell just how much confrontational attitude was coiled up in that rigid pose. Utopials from Akitha are always the most evangelical about their way of life; I hoped that wasn’t going to be a problem. Sandjay’s data splash listed hir as a Turing specialist.
Callum’s other companion was Jessika Mye, the greatest political flip-flopper of us all. A Hong Kong native who at twenty went all radical and aligned herself with the Utopial ethic so she could train as an exobiologist on Akitha, only to flip back politically, enabling her to earn those dirty capitalist big bucks available in the U
niversal culture. I knew she was seventy-four; my altme was spraying the data up as my glance swept across her. She didn’t look it. Interesting fact: She worked for Connexion security back in the day, which is where she got the money for telomere therapy in her early thirties. Then, after one volatile case, she upped and moved back to Akitha where her experience dropped her right into their Olyix Alien Observation Bureau. Five years ago she was promoted to Callum’s senior assistant—an appointment that clearly gave her plenty of time off to work out in the gym. If I was the cynical sort, I’d say Callum appreciated that.
And finally we had Alik Monday. Access “corrupt” in the dictionary, and it’ll likely give you his name. A genuine made-in-America bastard. Occupation: FBI Senior Special Detective, operating out of DC. Believe it or not, when I tried a data mine, his age was classified. He’s a walking, talking federal secret, all personal data restricted. Connexion’s Security G8Turing could have hacked his profile easily enough, but cracking an FBI core would be a huge deal, and not just for the feds. I’d have pattern sniffers all over my ass, and Yuri would be asking questions I could do without. I needed him to keep thinking this was his mission. Some things you just have to let go.
Anyway, I guessed Alik at about 110; he wasn’t so much an undying as a reanimated corpse. Easy tells. That plastic smooth skin comes from so many therapies you’d have to use electric shocks to get his facial muscles to express an emotion. I suspected the color was gened-up, too. Most African Americans are a light brown, but Alik was black like he’d been sunbathing on the equator for a decade; you can’t get any darker. Full bodywork, too. Take his shirt off, and you’ll see the physique of a twenty-year-old Olympian, with every replacement muscle designed and bioprinted in a top San Francisco clinic. I’d give good odds there are some aggressive peripherals lurking in among all those perfect tendons and muscle bands, too.
But…all that time and money, wasted. Anyone looking at him knew he was old, and terribly calculating.
He was connected to the globalPACs operating out of DC, the rich old men who really run Earth, who make sure Universalism, the established democratic capitalist society, stays in place and doesn’t get seduced away from its oh-so-holy guiding principles by shiny new concepts like Utopialism. Just like everyone, the PACs wanted to get a jump on the implications from the artifact. And Alik was their eyes on the prize, with a loyalty that only serious quantities of dollars can buy.
I sat with my back to Central Park and smiled graciously. “Thank you all for coming, and the people you represent for agreeing to this.”
Alik frowned at me. “You’re in charge? I thought I was requested because Alpha Defense was running this.”
“Technically they are,” I said. “We’re running this investigation under their authority. But it is Mr. Alster’s expedition. I’m basically just admin.”
“Keep ’em in their place, huh, Yuri?” Alik grinned.
Yuri’s impassive gaze looked down on Alik from some immeasurable height. “Every time.”
I caught Alik mouthing “Smartass.”
“What’s the schedule?” Callum asked.
“We’ll go from here directly to Nkya in the Beta Eridani system. Our transport is ready. Journey time from the base camp to the artifact should take about forty-eight hours, maybe a bit longer.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Alik grunted. “Why so long?”
“Quarantine,” Yuri said tersely. “We need to keep it completely isolated. Physically and digitally. So there’s no portal opening to it; we’re going the old-fashioned way, by ground vehicle.”
“Digitally isolated?” Alik’s stiff face registered nothing. It didn’t have to; his tone revealed all. “Please tell me you have access to solnet onsite?”
“No access,” Yuri said. “It’s the Alpha Defense contact protocol. We can’t take the risk. I’m sure DC appreciates that.”
Callum smirked.
“There’s a science team already onsite,” I told them, and gestured at the three assistants. “And we welcome the additions you’re bringing.”
“The additions,” Jessika said. “Makes us sound like a band.” She and Eldlund shared a smile. Loi ignored them, staring directly at me.
“You’ll be given total access to the science team’s data,” I continued. “And if there are any further aspects of the artifact you want to examine, we’ll prioritize them for you. In effect, you’ll be determining the direction of the investigation.”
“How long will we be there for?” Callum asked. I could still hear an Aberdeen burr in his voice, even though the file said he hadn’t been back there for over a century.
“Our investigation has two priorities,” Yuri pronounced. “First priority is to assess the artifact’s threat potential. Is it hostile, and if so, to what extent? Secondly, based on that, we’re required to formulate a response recommendation. So that’s going to take as long as it takes. Good enough?”
Alik wasn’t happy, but he nodded.
“If there’s nothing else?” I queried. Nobody seemed to have a question. “Excellent. Please follow me.”
The seventy-sixth floor had a portal door direct to Connexion’s Exosolar division in Houston. Alik Monday was 188 centimeters high, so he walked straight through after me, but Eldlund had to duck slightly. Connexion Corp portal doors are a standard two-meters-fifteen-centimeters high. Maybe sie didn’t really need to duck, but no denying it, sie was tall.
We came out into a circular hub, with fourteen other portal doors around the edge. Bright morning sunlight shone in through the glass cupola above. Air-conditioning thrummed loudly as it battled Texas heat and humidity. Our trollez were all waiting for us in a cluster at the center of the hub: meter-high pearl-white cylinders with very flexible wheels, carrying all our personal luggage. Sandjay pinged mine, and it locked on. Of course, Loi had two trollez. All those designer shirts need careful packing.
I walked clockwise around the wall, trying not to peer through the portal doors. Some led into neat department lobbies while a couple opened directly into big assembly halls that looked empty.
The door to Connexion’s Exoscience and Exploration Department was the fifth one along. I stopped in front of it and waited until all the trollez had caught up with us before going through.
Given that interstellar travel is the most glamorous activity the human race has ever undertaken, the building housing E & E is surprisingly ordinary. Concrete, carbon, and glass, just like the thousand other corporate blocks scattered across Houston’s technology zone. The entrance lobby had four portal doors opening into it, all of them with a picket of security barriers—slim silver bars spaced close enough to prevent physical access. That was the visible obstacle. There were other, more discreet, and lethal, security measures (the company got quite jumpy after the incident 112 years ago that caused Callum to switch from being a good and loyal Connexion Corp employee to a full-on Utopial). The G8Turing that managed building security interrogated Sandjay and scanned us all. Then the bars slid down into the floor.
Geovanni, the Beta Eridani mission director, was waiting for us just beyond. He bobbed about uneasily as so many alpha visitors stepped into his domain. He introduced himself, shook hands tentatively, and finally said: “This way, please.”
He led us down a long corridor, with pictures of various star fields and cheerless exoplanet landscapes on the walls. Our trollez trundled along quietly behind us. The few Connexion personnel we passed gave us curious glances; most of them recognized Yuri. Amazing how many people suddenly look guilty when they’re face-to-face with that level of authority.
“What’s the planet like?” Kandara asked.
“Nkya? Fairly typical, if you can say that about exoplanets,” Geovanni said. “Let’s see: ten thousand three hundred kilometers in diameter, which gives us a gravity of point nine Earth. Thirty-seven-hour days; so not good for our diurnal rhy
thms. Atmospheric pressure is two thousand pascals, which makes it two percent Earth sea level pressure; that’s made up mainly of CO-two, with traces of argon, nitrogen, and sulfur dioxide. It’s orbiting five and a half AUs out from Beta Eridani, so cold, cold, cold. Minimal tectonic activity, meaning no volcanoes. No moons, either. Nobody’s going to be terraforming this baby.”
“So no indigenous life?”
Geovanni turned around and grinned at her. “Not a chance.”
“Does Beta Eridani have any other planets, save Nkya?”
“Three. Two small solids, both in close orbits to Beta Eridani, as hot as Mercury and tidal-locked so you could melt bricks on their light side. One gas-mini, fifteen AUs out; makes Nkya look tropical.”
At the end of the corridor, a pair of solid doors swung open for us, taking us through into a nondescript anteroom. Then Geovanni practically rushed through an identical set of doors on the opposite wall. The Nkya egress chamber looked remarkably like an industrial warehouse. Smooth polished concrete floor, high blue-gray composite panel walls, black composite roof obscured by bright lighting strips hanging down over the aisles. Metal racks ran almost the length of the chamber, three times Eldlund’s height, stacked with white plastic pods and bulky metal cases. Commercial cargo trollez rolled along, either collecting supplies from a couple of portal doors that led away to distribution centers and slotting them in the correct place on the racks or picking equipment from the racks and taking it down to the portal at the far end.
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