Quantum Space: Book One in the Quantum Series

by Douglas Phillips

  “Exactly! It’s bullshit if you ask me.” She nearly rose out of her chair. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I love my work. This is the most amazing program I’ve ever worked on, and this whole team is going to be famous someday. But this classification crap just gets in our way and slows us down.”

  She waved her arms in the air. “I can’t talk to anybody. I have colleagues from Argonne and U Chicago that I’d love to use as sounding boards. But I can’t. I’m not allowed to talk to any of them. It’s all classified.” She stretched out the word, in obvious contempt. “The Fermilab bosses aren’t so bad about it, but Stetler management is … well, let’s just say they take it very seriously.” She looked over her shoulder as if she expected to find someone else in the room.

  “Are there lots of secrets here?” Daniel asked.

  “Secrets?” Her face twisted in mock horror and she leaned in close to Daniel. “We’re masters at keeping secrets. I’m uncovering the fundamental architecture of the universe, but all my mom knows is that I play with fancy magnets.”

  15 Leaders

  Terry Stetler leaned back in a tall leather chair at the narrow end of an office shaped like a thin slice of pie. The long walls of glass gave him views in two directions. If he tired of the prairie grass on one side, he could swivel his chair ever so slightly and look out across the intricate network of buildings of Fermi National Laboratory—the place where, as the glossy brochure in his reception explained, scientists glimpsed the true nature of the universe.

  Stetler was not one of those scientists. He was a businessman who pursued the profitable side of science, otherwise known as technology. He employed many scientists, but did not speak their language or understand their joy in discovery. That’s not to say that he found no joy in their discoveries; he did. As long as there was profit. The revenue didn’t have to come tomorrow or next week. He was a patient man, but he saw no reason to pursue a line of inquiry purely out of curiosity.

  He had learned early in his career to attach himself to the scientists and engineers of the world. They would work practically for free if you gave them a good project and a fast computer. Just turn them loose, reward them when they struck gold, and occasionally thin the ranks by eliminating the B-level people. It was a simple formula that had served him well. Stetler owned patents on technologies that produced millions in annual revenue, without so much as a dime spent on production. Now, that was gold.

  Stetler might have been satisfied with this plan for the rest of his career, but three years ago, he had gotten lucky. Very lucky. With his team already providing testing support to Fermilab, a new program had kicked off. Diastasi. Several of his key staff members were perfect for the job, and he had quickly negotiated a contract extension. Suddenly he was on the inside of cutting-edge science that would spin off many profitable technologies.

  But like all paths to riches, the road had its bumps. At the end of the first year, his scientists were still in basic research, and monetization seemed years away. He’d decided a faster path was prudent. That decision was now two years in the past, and he felt comfortable with the changes he had made, even if the stakes had increased.

  Stetler lowered the shade on one window to block the late-afternoon sun and swiveled to face his chief technical officer, Shawn Yost. Yost squirmed in his chair as Stetler’s gaze fell upon him.

  “You’re worried? About what?” Stetler queried.

  “About everything!” Yost was animated. “The engineers, for one. They know too much. A single person could blow this whole thing sky-high.”

  “Relax, Shawn,” answered Stetler. “Your paranoia controls you. How can you have a serious project without knowledgeable scientists and engineers? Yes, there is risk, but there is also control.” Yost was a good soldier, and like a border collie, his herding instincts were strong. His skills were sufficient to be in charge of a technical team, but his capacity for strategic thinking was limited, more along the lines of a golden retriever.

  Stetler spoke carefully to ensure maximum comprehension. “It’s really quite simple, Shawn. You don’t control engineers by withholding vital project information, you control them by reminding them who’s in charge. And that is you, Shawn.”

  Stetler lifted both eyebrows, hoping to see a light come on. “Let the engineers do their jobs. If anyone becomes uncertain about their objective, simply pull out their employment agreement. Confronted with a nondisclosure and a five-year noncompete clause, people become quite cooperative.”

  Yost’s face tightened like a bulldog’s. “The goddamned employees are just half of it. The worst part is this classification crap. It’s holding us back. Hell, we should have a dozen profitable industries employing ten thousand people by now. But, no, in their infinite wisdom, the goddamned government says we’re not ready. Keep studying, they say. Keep everything strictly classified. Fucking morons.”

  Stetler carefully folded his hands. “Eloquent as always, Shawn. But remember, classification is a two-way street. No other competitor has the slightest idea what is happening here. We’re on the ground floor of a great opportunity, and with the help of our new partner, we’re years ahead of the competition. We’ll be fully monetized before Boeing or Raytheon even figure out what a neutrino is.”

  “Trust me,” replied Yost, “they know what neutrinos are.”

  “Well, they don’t know what to do with them, do they?” Stetler snapped. “For now, classification is to our advantage, and we have support in Washington. Cummings will keep the competition on a leash for at least another year. By then, we’ll have several patents, and the good senator will be comfortably reelected.”

  “You sure about that? What about this government prick?” Yost snarled. “Doctor fucking Rice. Arrogant ass. He walks in like he owns the place. Ordering people around. Asking questions.”

  “Yes.” Stetler paused in thought. “Rice could be a challenge. But every challenge has a solution. The time Rice spent with our employees today was necessary, but well controlled. Thank you, Shawn.”

  Stetler swiveled, gazing out the window to the Fermilab grounds. “Going forward, however, we’ll need a more complete security plan, with both tactical and strategic components. McLellan can fill the tactical role. Tell him to tail Rice and make sure he has no further contact with any employee. McLellan has the full authority of the Department of Energy to enforce security throughout Fermilab.” He turned back to Yost. “Make sure he uses it.”

  “We could do a hell of a lot more than that,” Yost barked. “The man’s a beast and he doesn’t have to play by police rules. When he’s wearing that badge, he’s untouchable.”

  Stetler smiled. “So right. There are advantages of being a full-service contractor. But, Shawn, let’s not get overly dramatic. I think we want to focus on keeping people’s mouths shut. At least for now.”

  Stetler swiveled back to the window. “And then there’s the strategic component—redirecting Dr. Rice. There is the obvious path—new orders from his superiors. The senator may be able to help there. But we need more than just a top-down approach, and the senator will need support.” He touched fingertips to his forehead. “What we need for Dr. Rice is an offering. Something that will be of value to him, something very real, but that takes him in a different direction.”

  16 Influence

  There are more than twelve thousand registered lobbyists in the United States. To register is to publicly pledge to follow the rules as defined by US law. By some estimates there are ten times as many unregistered lobbyists who abide by no rules at all.

  William S. Conrad was an unregistered lobbyist. Conrad had a long history of successfully arguing for his clients, and convincing members of Congress to do exactly as requested. Large donations helped.

  Conrad sat alone at a table in the Senate dining room, a feat no ordinary citizen could have accomplished. His finely tailored suit, Rolex watch and perfect haircut made a clear statement to anyone around that he was a player. Conrad stared intently
at his phone, catching up on messages, but looked up as the elderly man approached the table. He stood quickly. “Senator, it’s great to see you again. You’re looking sharp as ever.” Conrad shook hands with Senator John J. Cummings, the senior senator from Oklahoma, and offered him the open seat at the table.

  As Cummings sat down, a waiter arrived, picked up his napkin and handed it to him. “Good evening, Senator. The usual?”

  “Make sure it’s Old Fitz bourbon, Vincente,” the old man croaked.

  “Twenty-year reserve, yes, sir,” the waiter responded.

  Cummings waved the waiter away and turned his attention to Conrad. “I read about you in the Post the other day.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear in those rags, Senator,” Conrad replied with a smile. “I haven’t killed any kittens or puppies since, oh, at least July.”

  “No, Conrad, I’m quite sure that animals are not your thing. But alone in an Arlington restaurant with the wife of one of your clients? I doubt our friend at Sig Sauer would approve. I’m sure she’s a fine piece of ass, wouldn’t mind poking around there myself.”

  “I can assure you, Senator, it was just business. The reality is I work too hard.” Conrad’s smile was as genuine as he could make it.

  “Yeah, I can guess what type of business,” the senator chuckled. “But I like you, son. You’ve done well for yourself, you show a lot of enthusiasm, and your clients have been loyal contributors to my reelection campaign. Very loyal, and I appreciate that. All we got to do is just keep the ball rolling and we’ll be able to continue our fine work for the people of Oklahoma.”

  “Glad to hear we’ve been useful, Senator. Just doing my part. I can assure you that my clients also appreciate your hard work on the Hill on their behalf. Just last night I got a call from one of them, the Stetler Corporation?”

  “Stetler? That bastard from Alabama? He just wants everything nice and quiet so he can F his competition.” Cummings lowered his voice for the single letter. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Stetler’s on my list, and don’t worry, it’s the good one. He’s lucky he’s Crimson Tide, I can just barely tolerate that excrement. If he was a Longhorn, why I’d probably have to take him out and shove a shotgun up his ass.”

  Conrad smiled. “Senator, I do enjoy our conversations precisely because you lay things out so clearly.”

  The waiter set a cocktail glass next to the senator, who made no motion of acknowledgment. “So, what does he want from me today?”

  “Mr. Stetler is a very satisfied client. He simply wants to confirm your continued support for their work. And he believes it’s in everyone’s best interest that the Diastasi program remains classified. I’m sure you’ll agree. He also asked me to let you know that he is making an additional donation to your reelection fund. I believe your treasurer will see the funds deposited today.”

  “That’s excellent. Very good. Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll make sure the committee gives him room to work. God bless free enterprise.”

  “Oh, and, Senator, there was one other thing. Apparently, the White House has sent someone out to Stetler’s offices. A science investigator. Junior-level person, but he’s causing a disruption. Some crazy idea that their program caused that Soyuz capsule to crash.”

  The senator took a long drink from his glass. “The hell you say?”

  17 Analysis

  Marie set her glasses on the table and rubbed her tired eyes. She took another sip of water and looked at her watch. Nearly 9 p.m. here, and an hour later back on the East Coast. It had been a long day that had started at the White House and never let up. A private jet, a particle physics lab, a peek into the bizarre world of string dimensions, and an investigation that was still unresolved. She felt the stress building in her body.

  Her associates, her friends, were still missing. She quickly calculated in her head—twenty hours since separation from the service module and its life support system. They’re still okay, she told herself. The emergency oxygen bottles will keep them going another twenty. There were many variables in oxygen consumption, and she could list each one of them. In the end, it was only an estimate.

  More troubling was the wide gulf between what they’d learned so far and where they needed to be. She couldn’t yet visualize how this ended happily, but having Daniel as a partner gave her hope.

  He sat across the table, his dinner plate pushed to one side and his laptop open. The tight lips, the creases in his forehead and the intensity in his eyes were the outward signs she’d seen in him all day. His focus seemed absolute; his determination was unshakable. She had watched him at the lab demonstration and at Stetler. He noticed details and he asked the right questions. She was thankful for those qualities. There was hope.

  She took a deep breath and turned her attention to their work. She picked up her phone, flipped open a plastic stand and set the phone upright on the table. She pulled a small black plastic tube from her accessory case and unrolled it on the table, creating a paper-thin rectangle with a keyboard drawn on its surface. A small blue light near the top indicated the keyboard had connected.

  “Your news or mine?” she asked.

  Daniel looked up from his laptop, Stone Age by comparison. “Let’s review yours first,” he answered.

  “I found some documentation for Diastasi that indicates their phase two work may already be underway, despite what Park told us. And I talked to a few of the Diastasi people in Wilson Hall about it. One guy had a whiteboard full of design sketches. When I tried to pin him down, he said that no one builds anything until design is complete. That matches their project documents—they have a formal signoff procedure to move from design to construction. It seems doubtful they have anything running, beyond what we saw in the lab.”

  She touched the screen. “I also got two emails from Augustin Ibarra. One says there’s a theory, maybe just a conspiracy theory, that the Russians are lying and they faked the technical evidence. Apparently, this is all over the news right now. There are some media personalities promoting this idea, blaming the president for complicity. I think Ibarra is just keeping us informed. I wouldn’t worry too much about that one.”

  “Speculation is easy,” Daniel said. “It’s harder when evidence is required. I agree, I think we can ignore conspiracies.”

  Marie continued, “The second email is the one to review. You have a copy too. It’s a text transcript of the audio from Soyuz. They pieced it together from several repeated transmissions.”

  Daniel found the email from Ibarra on his laptop and read out loud.

  “…tried correcting for descent anomaly without success. All thrusters are working, but altitude is no longer…

  “…our orbital height above the disc varies between seventy and one hundred forty kilometers. The disc is hard to describe, but shows land and ocean without any…

  “…position data sent via S-band message, please review and respond on 922.763 …

  “We will continue to transmit with ten minute breaks. So far, we are unable to receive your transmissions. We have checked our equipment…

  “…but we make this assumption because we see the fire, has Earth been destroyed?”

  He looked up into empty space over the table. “A disc, with land and ocean. And he can measure their height above this disc. He doesn’t seem to be describing Earth. But then he says there’s a fire and asks specifically if Earth has been destroyed. So, he must believe he’s orbiting Earth. It’s confusing.”

  Marie thought again of her friends wedged into the small Soyuz capsule. “Sergei Koslov is a highly-experienced cosmonaut. I can assure you he is reporting precisely what he sees.”

  Daniel nodded in agreement. “The rest of the communication is perfectly reasonable, so he’s still got his wits about him. It’s not like he’s suffering from hypoxia or hallucinating. I agree, I think we have to assume it’s an accurate description of what’s outside the window.”

  Daniel paused in thought and Marie didn’t interrupt. She could tell h
e was searching for meaning in the confusing transmission. He was methodical in his approach, collecting and studying before saying anything.

  After a minute, his thoughts became words. “Let’s assume… that Soyuz is in the same position the web camera was in earlier today. It’s offset into another direction, a kata direction. The astronauts’ eyes would have the same view as the web camera. They would be looking back at our three-dimensional space, from a fourth dimension. What would they see? Wouldn’t they be able to see inside three-dimensional objects like the Earth, just as the web camera could see inside our bodies?”

  Marie nodded. “Yeah, I see what you mean. From their space, they would see the land and the oceans, but also the underlying rocks… and Earth’s molten interior.” She shook her head in disbelief even as she convinced herself of the truth.

  “Exactly.” Daniel was confident. “That’s the fire that he described. Sergei sees the glowing magma inside the Earth and he thinks the planet is on fire.”

  It felt like a piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. “It makes sense,” she whispered. “Hard to believe, but then we both saw the same thing today with our own eyes.”

  Daniel shrugged. “But it doesn’t explain the disc. If you’re looking at Earth, why describe it as a disc? He said it twice, it seemed intentional.”

  Marie had to admit that no astronaut would describe the Earth in this way. “We should show this transcript to Park. He might shed some light. And it might put a crack in his steadfast refusal that his program had anything to do with the Soyuz disappearance.”

  “Agreed, the sooner the better.”

  Daniel picked up his phone and dialed. There was no answer, and Daniel left a message to call back as soon as possible. “Maybe the Fermilab main number?” He dialed again and looked up at Marie. “Recording. Of course, the office staff has left for the day.”