The Engines of God

by Jack McDevitt

  He had passed the evening with a biography of Evelyn Lister, who was enormously popular in her time, but who was now widely perceived as the architect of the catastrophic conditions which had overtaken and ultimately leveled the old United States. The biography showed no mercy, and it warmed Coldfield to read the attacks. He objected on principle to the powerful. Even when they were dead.

  The Array was listening to OQ 172, a quasar ten billion light years out. Coldfield took his work seriously, and had acquired some rudimentary astronomy. But he did not understand the peculiar significance of quasars, nor could he make much out of the analytical readouts. Still, he knew it had something to do with creation. And he was curious about that. He had grown up in a family of religious skeptics. But, on the back side of the Moon, the supernatural seemed very possible.

  The brief chime of the commlink startled him. He swung away from the windows, stabbed the receiver. “Coldfield.”

  Michael Surina’s image blinked on. “Hello, Alex. How are you doing?” Surina was the project coordinator. He made it a point to call once a day. His concern for the Big Array’s lone inhabitant both warmed and touched its subject.

  “Fine,” Coldfield said.

  “No problems?”

  There was a coupling that needed replacing on No. 17, and the plumbing in one of the bathrooms was backing up. (He had three.) But there was nothing that could be described as a problem. “Negative, Mike. Everything’s quiet.”

  “Okay. We’re changing the program, so don’t be surprised when things start to happen.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “We want to listen to a new target. A series of new targets.”

  “When?”

  “We’ll wrap up the quasar exercise in a little over six hours. At 1922 Zulu. Then we’re going to adjust the entire schedule. The operation will take several days.”

  “Several days! There’ll be hell to pay.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We’ll do it.”

  “What are we going to tell McHale and Abrams and the rest of them? They’ve been waiting a year and a half for their time.”

  “We’re taking care of it. You won’t have to deal with them at all.”

  “Damn right I won’t.” Surina was young, but would probably irritate too many people to move up. Now he sat watching Coldfield, and his expression implied that he understood, but that Alex knew how bureaucracies were. It’s no concern of ours if they screw up, his eyes said. Naturally, on an open link he wouldn’t make those sentiments overt. “This is a hell of a way to run an operation, Mike,” said Coldfield.

  Surina shrugged. “Somebody at the Academy is pulling strings, and favors are owed.”

  Naturally. Surina could say what he liked, but Abrams and the others would bitch at him. “What kind of targets?”

  “Short range. Local stars. You’re going to do a search for patterned radio signals.”

  That was unusual. The Tindle had never, to his knowledge, examined anything closer than the galactic core. “Why?” he said. “What are we looking for?”

  “LGMs.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “LGMs. Little green men.”

  THE WORLD REVIEW

  COMMENTARY

  The European Commonwealth is informally floating a proposal that we announce our presence to the inhabitants of the earthlike world Inakademeri, and begin negotiations with a view to assisting the natives technologically, and to securing territory which would serve as a homeland for populations of undeveloped nations.

  This may be an idea whose time has come. Inakademeri is sparsely populated, wracked by global war, depleted of natural resources. The “Noks” need help. In fact, there are groups among them who claim to know of our presence, who say they have seen our aircraft and shuttles. Whether in fact they have is of no consequence. What is significant is that these unfortunate creatures, who think we may exist, literally pray for our intervention.

  There would be some inconveniences. Settlers would have to become accustomed to an eleven-hour day/night cycle. The climate on the whole tends to be wetter than ours. But it is livable.

  Biosystems on Nok are sufficiently like our own that we could subsist quite well on that world’s food supply. It may well be that we have a second Earth available, that we need not wait decades for Quraqua to develop.

  The World Council should give careful consideration to this proposal. If no more serious objections exist than those already advanced, it should be approved, and action taken within the shortest possible time.

  —“The Observer”

  Wednesday, January 26, 2203

  Carson called her in on her birthday, February 1. “It’s Beta Pacifica,” he said.

  NEWSDESK

  BAHRAINIS SHELL BORDER TOWNS

  Council Threatens Military Action

  CORE CASES INCREASE IN AFRICA, MIDDLE EAST

  Bone Loss Syndrome May Worsen

  Fear Spreads to West

  Foxworth Assures Nation: “No Need to Panic”

  SIX DIE IN BLAST IN MANHATTAN BAR

  El Corazon Admits Responsibility

  Demands Repeal of Immigration Ban

  EGYPTIAN FERRY CAPSIZES

  110 Dead; 300 Missing

  FOXWORTH PROMISES TAX EQUITY FOR MULTIPLE-CHILD FAMILIES

  CHINA MAY BE BUILDING NUCLEAR WEAPON

  Hiao Denies USE Charge

  Will Resist Inspection “by Force of Arms”

  INDIAN FAMINE MAY HAVE KILLED MILLIONS

  World Council Pledges Aid;

  Demands Cessation of Hostilities

  PRICES CONTINUE TO CLIMB

  CPI Hits Annual Rate of 11%

  Sloan: “Foxworth Neglects Economy”

  POPE VISITS BRAZIL

  Decries “Modern Life Styles”

  BEWARE CHRISTMAS CON ARTISTS

  Elderly at Risk

  “Real” Trees, Gift Subscription Funds Lead List of Scams

  ATLANTIC CLUB PREDICTS GRIM FUTURE

  “Great Famine May Have Been Only Prelude”

  NEW E-SAT GOES ON-LINE

  Network Near Completion

  Will Provide Near-Unlimited Clean

  Energy for Africa, Middle East

  LEGION TRADES BOOM-BOOM FOR 4 PLAYERS, 5 DRAFT CHOICES

  Chicago. Sunday, February 6; 2100 hours.

  “You owe it to yourself.”

  From his balcony on the thirty-fourth floor of the Tiara Marriott, Henry Jacobi looked out across a breathtaking view of Chicago and the lakefront. The crosstown glidetrain moved through the sea of light. “I don’t think so,” he said, without turning.

  Carson had thought he knew the older man. Consequently he had come with full confidence that when presented with the facts, and the possibilities, Henry would relent, would cast his personal demons overboard. Would accept his responsibility to take command of what might become the epochal mission.

  “No,” Jacobi said into the silence that drew out between them. “You’ll have to do this one without me.”

  “Why, Henry?”

  “My God, Carson, don’t you know what’s been going on at the Academy? You put my name on this mission and it’s dead.” He turned, came away from the railing. “I appreciate your coming. And God knows I appreciate the offer. But not this time. The Institute has a good job for me here. I’ll be doing what I like, and it’s low profile.”

  The air off the lake was cool. Carson lifted his glass. The ice cubes clinked. “Good Scotch,” he said.

  Henry sat down, grunting with the effort. “It’s not what you think. I can live with the events. But I want to see you succeed. That at least will give the events at the Temple some meaning.” His eyes were dark. “Have you picked your crew yet?”

  “Yes,” said Carson. “I’d like to run it by you.”

  “No.” He pulled his sweater tight. “It’s your call. You’ll have to live with it. How many are you taking?”

  “We’ll have five. Counting me.”

  “
And Ed has approved it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. He needs something spectacular, or he’s going to be out here, in the adjoining lecture hall.” The broad, friendly-mutt features lit up. “Good luck, Frank. Give ’em hell.”

  Arlington. Monday, February 7; 1000 hours.

  “I was hoping you’d ask.”

  “How could you think we might not, Hutch?”

  “I wasn’t really sure you’d want me.” She managed her game smile. “Thanks.”

  Beta Pacifica was two hundred twenty-five light-years from Earth. Again, on the edge of the Void. Fifty-five light-years from Quraqua. “What’s the radio signal like?” she asked. They had been very secretive. Had in fact sworn her to say nothing of the pending mission.

  “Continuous repetitive patterns. Every few seconds, sometimes. No long segment ever completely repeats, but there are patterns that seem to be variations of each other. Coming from a single transmitter.”

  “A single transmitter?”

  “Yes. As far as we can tell, the sender never gets a response.”

  “That seems odd. Maybe we just can’t hear it.”

  “Probably. Ed thinks it’s a beacon. Incidentally, the source of the transmission is probably not on a planetary surface.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “It’s several AUs from the star, and it’s in a polar orbit. A polar orbit, Hutch.”

  They hugged. “It was put there,” she said, squeezing hard.

  Langley Park, Maryland. Monday, February 7; 1930 hours.

  The entry bell sounded, the display blinked on, and Maggie looked at Frank Carson. He knew, of course, that he was on camera, but he still could not entirely conceal his impatience. Carson never changed: he liked things to happen according to schedule, disliked even the slightest delay. He wore a yellow wool pullover and cuffed dark-blue skims. She thought of him as a good detail man, somebody who ensured that equipment was maintained and supplies arrived on time. But the price of that kind of talent seemed to be a kind of overwhelming grayness. Carson was impossibly dull. He was well-meaning, even indispensable. But he was dreary company. She keyed the downstairs lock.

  “Door’s open, Frank,” she said. She pushed back from her notepads and sketches, blanked the monitor, which resumed its wall-panel appearance. She’d lost track of time. It was too late to do a cleanup now, but the room was cluttered rather than dusty. She could live with that. Maggie had no idea why Carson had asked to see her. It couldn’t be social, and it wouldn’t be connected with the Oz inscription; she had already solved that for them. What was left?

  Possibly, they were planning some sort of formal expression of appreciation for her. If that were so, she’d be happy to accept. And they might have sent Carson to arrange it, try to get her to show up at the appropriate place without giving away the game.

  Maggie was still luxuriating in the afterglow of having deciphered the horgon lines. (That she had found the final elements of the solution among texts already present in the data banks, that the last-minute material sent up by Henry and Richard had helped, but might not have been necessary, she had told no one. The fact tarnished her achievement slightly, and left her vaguely resentful, but against whom or what she was not entirely certain.) She had been working on her notebooks since their return, and was now in the process of deciding what she would do next. Academy policy was to rotate field and home assignments, and she had offers from Oxford, Harvard, CIT, and the Institute for Advanced Studies.

  The door opened to reveal Carson. “Hello, Maggie,” he said.

  She extended her hand. “Hi, Frank. Good to see you.”

  Conversation had always been difficult between them, and she felt the thickness in the air already. Carson was a master of the inconsequential; she had no use for small talk.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home.”

  “It’s okay.” There was an odd sense of worlds coming together. Carson belonged light-years away. She indicated a chair, and sat beside him. “Frank, what can I get you?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Nice apartment.”

  “Thank you.” She was proud of it. Tasteful furniture, walls lined with technical texts and novels, framed ideographs and poetry from the Knothic Hours, in the original.

  “D.C. changed while we were away.” He went on for some minutes in a superficial vein, commenting on the unseasonal warmth; the likelihood of rain; the local outbreak of CORE, the African virus that induced a kind of super rickets.

  Maggie sighed and waited. When she saw her chance, she asked what was happening. Translation: Why are you here?

  His gaze intensified. “Maggie,” he said, “we’re going out again.”

  That surprised her. “Who is?” she asked. “Out where?”

  “The inscription points to Beta Pacifica. It’s in the same area, along the edge of the Arm.”

  Maggie had not really believed they would pin down a candidate. At least not so quickly. She’d expected the effort would take years. “Why not let a survey ship take a look at it?”

  “Because we think they’re still there.” He paused for effect. “Maggie, we’ve picked up radio transmissions.” His eyes were big and round and very full. Maggie Tufu had never been given to emotional demonstrations. Particularly not with Frank Carson. But now she jabbed a fist in the air. “Magnificent,” she said. “Am I invited?”

  The Academy. Wednesday, February 16; 1345 hours.

  Ed Horner looked up as Carson entered. “Good to see you, Frank,” he said. “Is everything ready?”

  Carson nodded. “Yes. We’re all set.”

  “Very good.” He rose, came around the edge of the desk. He looked hard at Carson, as if he were trying to see past him, to calculate odds. “Since there is a signal, we are going to find something. But I want to impress on you that your task is limited to establishing whether there is anything there that warrants a full mission. If they actually exist, I do not want details. Do you understand? I want you to make the determination and come back with a recommendation. If they’re there, keep in mind we know nothing about them. Don’t stop to chitchat. Don’t let them see you. Get in and get out—”

  “We will,” said Carson.

  “Incidentally, your departure time has been moved up. You’ve got forty-eight hours.”

  Carson opened his mouth to protest.

  “You’ll need to let your people know,” the commissioner continued. “I know this puts you on a short schedule, but we’re under pressure. Hard questions are being asked in high places. I’m not sure how long we can hold the lid on this operation.”

  Carson’s mouth clamped firmly on whatever it was he was going to say. “Thank you,” he said, finally.

  “Don’t bother.” Horner held out his hand. “Just come back to us.”

  Hutch and Carson left Atlanta Launch at sunset. The shuttle was filled with passengers, mostly wealthy sightseers who would be outward bound tomorrow on the Estrata. Interstellar tourism was developing into a growth industry. Those wealthy enough to pay for the privilege could sail past neutron stars; watch from short range the deadly dance between Delta Aquilae and its massive companion; cruise past the Great Maelstrom on Beta Carinis IV; navigate the smoking marble flatlands of Lesser Culhagne, the Cold Star. And end the voyage with dinner in the shadow of Holtzmyer’s Rock on Pinnacle.

  They were mostly couples, middle-aged and older, well-dressed, excited by the views of Earth and Moon. There were a few children, some station personnel, and two men who turned out to be theoretical physicists working on artificial gravity.

  One was a tall, garrulous black with a gray beard and knife-sharp features. His colleague was a taciturn Japanese who watched Hutch with eyes that were full of suggestion. The black man’s name was Laconda, and he reminded Hutch of her old high-school algebra teacher.

  She commented that she’d always understood that artificial gravity was impossi
ble, and Laconda responded with talk about high-energy particles, guide paths controlled by magnetic fields, and local space warps. Hutch got lost quickly, but she understood enough to ask whether the method, if it worked, could not also be used to produce anti-gravity?

  Laconda smiled, pleased by the aptness of his student. “Yes,” he said. “That should follow. And the critical point is that very little energy would be needed.”

  “Cheap anti-gravity?” Carson’s eyebrows rose. “Makes you wonder where it will all end.”

  The physicist glowed with satisfaction. “The future is coming very quickly,” he said, glancing toward Hutch to gauge her reaction, “and we need to be prepared for it.” He oiled through the phrase with smooth precision.

  Hutch was still considering the possibilities when they began their approach to the Wheel. True anti-gravity. Not the parlor magic stuff of superconductivity, but a real low-cost system that would negate mass and resistance. The power needs of the world would plummet. “You could,” she told Carson, “move a sofa with the flick of a wrist. Sail over New York without an aircraft. We’d no longer be tied to the ground, and our individual strength would go to infinite.” She grew thoughtful. “It would be a new kind of life.”

  “It’s science fiction,” said Carson. “It’ll never happen.”

  The Japanese looked up from his computer, glanced around to assure himself that Laconda was out of earshot, and said quietly: “Your friend is right, young lady. It’s a crock. The thing’s a government grant, it’ll never work, and Laconda knows it.”

  Hutch was glad to see the Winckelmann again. She strode down the access tunnel, entered the main port, which was at the top of the ship, crossed the bridge (a technician was running queries on the navigation systems), dumped her bags on the deck, and began an inspection tour. She was not so pressed for time that she could not have gone to her station quarters, but she enjoyed the sense of security and comfort within the familiar bulkheads.