Siding Star

by Christopher Bryan

  It was already gone midnight, British time, but Joseph Stirrup was never early to bed.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I’ll be here. And thanks!”

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” Alan said. “Talk to you later.”

  “Cheers.”

  Joseph replaced the phone, took a sip from his lukewarm coffee, and went back to his computer. He reckoned he could get in a couple more hours before he turned in.

  Half an hour later to the minute his phone rang.

  260

  ChristoPher BryAn

  “Hi, Alan. You’re a man of your word!”

  “I won’t beat about the bush. Of course you know about Carnivore?” Indeed he knew—Carnivore and its predecessors were software programs designed to sniff out invasive techniques and store evidence of them according to criteria set by the FBI. All were very expensive. And all, to a greater or lesser extent, had failed.

  “I know about Carnivore, but I’m not sure it’ll do,” he said. “Not unless…”

  “Unless you could get access to 2.0 or even 3.0?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “We can do better. This is 3.2. It’s top restricted. But for you—well, the boss thinks we still owe you over the Lexis business, so if you could use some time on it we’ll fix it. It’ll get you where you’re trying to go in a tenth of the time. Now, there’s just one problem—at least from your viewpoint. If you use this, it means of course that we’ll be able to access whatever it is you’re handling. Is that a problem for you?”

  “None at all. This isn’t classified material. In one way that’s what makes the whole thing so frustrating. There is—there was—absolutely nothing here we couldn’t show Interpol or the FBI. Or you.”

  “Then you’re on! And believe me, this one’s good. It’s the best they’ve developed yet. Trust me.”

  Joseph laughed. “Enough! I believe you! When can we start?”

  His phone call completed, Joseph sat back in his wheelchair and chortled. Carnivore 3.2! He’d told DI Cavaliere he’d get her intruder if it took him a year.

  Maybe now he’d be able to manage something a little quicker than that.

  sixty-one

  New York. Thursday, November 6.

  The multicolored flags outside the United Nations Headquarters flapped and strained at their halyards. A tug hooted mournfully from the East River. The air above New York City was tense, gray, and gusty, and perhaps something other than fancy led Charlie to see that tension reflected in more than one of the representatives who now emerged from oversized and beflagged limousines to attend a meeting of the United Nations Scientific and Economic Liaison Committee scheduled for 3:00 p.m. He walked slowly, trying to look as if he were as at home with the situation as his companions from the Foreign Office.

  He had visited New York on other occasions—once while on holiday and once for a scientific congress. But this was the first time he’d been so close to the United Nations complex. He paused, craning his neck to take in the thirty-nine-storied slab of the Secretariat Tower, its side a green-tinted mirror reflecting the dull Manhattan sky.

  One of his Foreign Office handlers noticed his gaze. “Mangled Corbusier,” he said. “Not exactly great architecture, but certainly a remarkable experience. Come on. We’ll be late.”

  Still walking slowly, Charlie Brown followed. The United Nations Scientific and Economic Liaison Committee (UNSELC) is one of the less-publicized sections of the UN. It is, to be precise, a confidential subcommittee of the Economic and Social Council, whose function, according to Article 62 of the UN charter, is to make suggestions and submit reports “with respect to international economic, social, health, and related matters.” To such a subcommittee the Secretary General may choose to pass matters of particular delicacy for consideration and non-binding recommendation.

  On this occasion UNSELC had chosen to keep the session closed and confidential.

  “Can this really be kept secret?” Charlie said to one of the Foreign Office men as they went in. “With so many in the know already? Surely there’ll be a leak somewhere?”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Leaks are an instrument of government, Dr. Brown. Governments can keep secrets when they want to. They do it all the time. And this time they want to. It’s in everyone’s interest. No one wants panic on the streets. You watch. There’ll be no leaks. Unless someone like you decides to blab to the media.”

  “And then?”

  The man shrugged. “Then you’d be discredited and disgraced, so no one would believe you. There’d be plenty of ways to do it. In this case it would be especially easy, because of course no one would want to believe you anyway.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  The Foreign Office man laughed. “Not at all! We know who we’re dealing with, Dr. Brown. You’ve signed the Official Secrets Act and you’ve given us your word. And you’re a man

  siding stAr 263

  who takes his word seriously. You’ll keep it. We know that. You wouldn’t be here if we didn’t.”

  “Oh.” The fact was, the man was right. They knew their man. In a way, he was rather impressed.

  On the other hand, it was a threat, however nicely they chose

  to put it. The British delegation was early. A brief meeting to confer over papers—to note that there was nothing new to note—and by general agreement they went to their places. Several delegations were already there, including the French and the Americans.

  The committee gathered quickly and with surprisingly little noise for an assembly so large. Such murmur as there was died rapidly as the group responsible for this afternoon’s presentation filed to the platform.

  The main presentation was brief. Indeed there was, in one sense, little to say. All knew why they were assembled. On November first an Anglo-Australian team of astronomers using the Schmidt telescope at the Siding Spring Observatory on Mount Stromlo in New South Wales had photographed what was at first taken for a supernova. Subsequent observation led to the conclusion that it was in fact an early manifestation (from the earth’s point of view) of an explosion at the nucleus of the Milky Way. The instrument had, as it happened, been trained on that segment of sky for some time, and so, by a comparison of photographic plates taken throughout the period, the astronomers were able to mark the appearance of the phenomenon to within six hours. Siding Star (so someone had named it, and the name stuck) had appeared between 01:20 and 07:20 UT (GMT) on 1 November. Other observatories had later confirmed both the observations and their interpretation.

  The trouble appeared to have begun 27,000 years ago, with an explosion at the heart of our galaxy. In the universe as a whole, such explosions are, of course, not uncommon. The center of the explosion being 27,000 light years distant from our planetary system, its results were just now beginning to show up and would escalate over a period of months. First (the speed of light vastly exceeding anything else) we should see the star: indeed, instruments powerful enough could see it already. The light would become brighter. After a while it would be visible to the naked eye that looked for it. Later still, it would be visible to anyone who looked at the sky.

  Behind it were likely to come other, dangerous phenomena: a hail of high-energy particles and electromagnetic radiation whose effect on our planet could not be calculated. There were no precedents—and too many unknowns. At one extreme some theorists expected the earth’s atmosphere to be torn away and all life to be extinguished. At the other, many claimed that interstellar gas along the path of the advancing wave would act as a shield, minimalizing the effects of the radiation particles. Needless to say, there were various positions in between. A view expressed by some was that the best chances for survival would be the northern part of the northern hemisphere—the theory being that since the southern hemisphere was directly facing the explosion, it would receive the full impact, whereas the northern would be relatively shielded. Charlie conceded the possibility but wondered what sort of planet, even in the north
, would greet any who managed to survive.

  There remained the matter of breaking this news to the world. When? A point would come, if the astronomers’ predictions were correct, when the world could hardly fail to notice. Charlie’s first calculations at Siding Spring, had led him to expect this to happen in no more than a few days. Consultation with colleagues had led to a revision of these figures. On the best evidence now available it looked as though for about a hundred days there would be no way for the world—other than the world of major telescopes—to know what threatened it. Then, about mid-February, the light would brighten. It would begin to look like a planet. By late February it would begin to look like Mars—Mars in the wrong segment of sky. By then every amateur with a passing interest would be able to see it and, surely, question it. By mid-March it would begin to illuminate the night sky: a pinpoint of light (technically) but as bright as the moon. Then, within two or three days, the particles would come.

  So. What was to be done?

  There were, as the chair pointed out, no precedents. Charlie sighed. No, there weren’t. At least, not in the records

  of the UN.

  Ragnarok, perhaps?

  Götterdämmerung?

  The Book of Revelation?

  Maybe it was time the diplomats turned to the seers. Or the prophets.

  It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.

  He shook his head and turned his attention back to what was

  happening.

  Various delegates went to the rostrum. There were questions.

  Reactions. Suggestions. Most of the presentations were low in

  key. They represented various conflicting interests and ideolo-

  gies—developed and developing, Asian, Islamic, and Third

  World. The rhetoric varied. But it seemed to Charlie, as he listened, that the burden was constant. And the Foreign Office

  man obviously knew what he was talking about. From those

  who declared that the whole thing was a western-Zionist-antiIslamic plot to those who called it a cover for Islamist terror,

  every speaker was basically invested in the same thing. Panic

  must be avoided. It was too soon to terrify the world. If the

  interstellar gas theory were correct, very little would happen

  anyway, save an opportunity when it came to view some

  unusual night skies. It would be best, for the moment, simply

  to monitor the situation.

  But later? If the environment did begin to disintegrate? If

  a moment came when the world began to see for itself? The possibility was raised, only to be dismissed. Here again there was virtual unanimity. This situation, several different speak

  ers declared, was for the moment hypothetical.

  Charlie found himself no longer surprised they all remained

  calm. What they chose to contemplate was relatively trivial.

  What was not trivial, they chose not to contemplate. Humankind

  cannot bear very much reality. He sighed and shifted in his seat. Mercifully, the session ended a few moments later.

  Afterward, inevitably, there was another meeting with the other members of the British delegation. All solemnly agreed there was no more information to be shared and therefore nothing, for the moment, to be done.

  Charlie was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the easy assumption, as it seemed to him, that secrecy must be maintained. He raised the issue.

  “For myself, I’ve always been clear that if a doctor knows I’m likely to die soon, I expect to be told. There are things I’d like to do. Reconciliations I’d like to try for. That’s the only way death can be a human act. So what if the chances are the human race is likely to die? Is no one going to consider giving its members a chance to prepare? To think? To repent?”

  Apparently not.

  “Dr. Brown,” one member of the delegation said to him, “I think we all respect your concern. Speaking for myself, I certainly do. But let us be frank: you scientists as a group don’t agree as to what’s going to happen, do you? So let’s say we do release this information now, and then the ‘interstellar gas’ theory proves correct. What will we have done? We’ll have created an international panic—indeed this news will create chaos—and it will all have been for nothing. Dr. Brown, can even you look me in the eye and declare categorically that the ‘interstellar gas’ theory will turn out to be wrong?”

  Of course he could not. There were very few things about Siding Star he could declare categorically, and that certainly wasn’t one of them.

  Eventually they emerged. Then to his surprise—just when he wasn’t thinking about her at all—there was Natalie Lawrence at the far corner of the hall. She was standing with Boris and Erich and several others. But why should he be surprised? She’d told him she worked here. She was wearing a dark suit and looked serious. She was what fashion magazines would describe, he supposed, as petite. And even in the cold light of morning—which, alas, does not always replicate the warm glow of evening—she was still gorgeous.

  And since he didn’t see how it would affect the end of the world one way or the other, he might as well go and talk to her. Excusing himself briefly to his companions, he crossed the hall.

  “Hello,” he said.

  She looked up, surprised—then smiled.

  “Well, hi! So your ‘project’ for the British government is in

  these dark and dangerous corridors! And you’re a mysterious diplomat as well as a great astronomer!” He grinned. “Out of all that, I think I can safely say I’m an astronomer.”

  She laughed.

  “Come and meet my colleagues. Hey guys, this is Charlie. He’s a friend of mine.”

  sixty-two

  Exeter. The same day.

  Joseph Stirrup took a sharp intake of breath and whistled softly. He’d been through it three times now, and there was no mistake. Carnivore 3.2 had done everything Alan said it would, and more. Then, relieving himself of Carnivore (the Americans were good friends and he was grateful to them, but there was no need for them to know all his little secrets just at present, and in any case he’d reached a point where perhaps there was something a foreign government shouldn’t know) he’d done a further bit of rather smart intuiting on his own account and now —

  He picked up his phone and stabbed a number.

  “Verity, do you have a moment to join the boffins down here in their underground kingdom? I think I’ve got something that’ll interest you.”

  “On my way!”

  She was beside him a few minutes later, bending over his shoulder and peering at the monitor.

  “Look here!” He went through a succession of moves. “This is where we start. This is where we go. And this is where we end up.” She lacked his sheer genius for computers, but he’d taught her a lot over the last month or so.

  270

  ChristoPher BryAn “Good grief! No wonder we had trouble tracing it!” “Exactly.”

  “Can you go any further?”

  “I already have.” He reached for a scratch pad, tore off a

  page, scribbled on it and passed it to her.

  She read it. “Fantastic! You’ve nailed the blighter!” “That I have.” He took the paper from her and carefully

  tore it into tiny pieces before confining it to the wastebasket. “There’s just one problem. It’s classified. That’s why I didn’t go in there again to show you that part. No sense in leaving my own footprints all over the place.”

  “Oh.” A pause. “But someone has to tell DI Cavaliere. It simply isn’t fair not to. I mean, I realize in one sense it’s all water under the bridge, but she really should know.”

  “I agree. And I promised her myself. She’s away at that thing in Middlemoor, isn’t she?”

  “She’s due back Tuesday.”

  “I’ll figure out something. Meanwhile, even on the basis of what’s notclassified, there’s no reason I shouldn’t send the super a discreetly word
ed memo. It’s time he stopped making snide cracks in his memos about secretarial inefficiency. The fact is, there’s absolutely nothing the people in secretarial could have done about this, Verity. Nothing.”

  “What I don’t see though, is how you managed to do it so quickly. You said it would take months. I thought that’s why you were getting frustrated.”

  “I did, and I was,” he said. “But, well… I get by with a little help from my friends.”

  sixty-three

  New York. The same day.

  F

  or the next few hours there was, it appeared, nothing for either Natalie or Charlie to do. So they drank quantities of Starbucks coffee and talked. She was working with a group discussing climate change. She evidently found listening to and translating the debates almost as frustrating as he found his own group, mostly because of her embarrassment over the positions taken by her own delegation.

  Then came his moment of embarrassment: he, of course, was not at liberty to tell her what he was involved in.

  “Don’t worry,” she said when he started to apologize, “around here we’re involved all the time in stuff we’re not allowed to talk about. As it happens, climate change isn’t one of them, since everyone knows what’s going on, and even the press is allowed in. But that’s today. Tomorrow I might be the one involved in something I can’t talk about.”

  Actually, and rather to his surprise, not being able to talk about it was a relief. He was sick to death of Siding Star and sick to death of what the diplomats were doing or not doing about it. So he was happy to have it not exist while he was with Natalie. She almost made that possible.

  ***

  Diplomacy, he decided over the ensuing weekend, seemed to consist of a great deal of sitting around. He wasn’t sure Natalie Lawrence fancied him half as much as he fancied her, but she seemed happy to talk to him, so they talked. She’d been born and raised in Charleston, South Carolina, but they talked mostly about Paris, which he had only visited but where she had studied for four years, beginning her postgraduate work at the Sorbonne immediately after graduating from the University of the South; and about Oxford, where they had both studied, she for a year following the Sorbonne, he for the whole of his undergraduate work. They talked about politics, in which sphere they shared a mildly pinkish cynicism. She was cautiously optimistic about the new American PresidentElect, who had won the election by a landslide on the previous Tuesday but was evidently about to inherit a mess.