The Relativity Bomb

by Arlene F. Marks

  He activated the encrypter at his end before beginning his response: I’ve figured out what the third page says. It’s transliterated Gally, using the runic alphabet of ancient Earth.

  Ten minutes later, her reply arrived: Then you know what they all say. This is a Rosetta Stone, Nayo. A single text recorded in three different languages. And one of them was also used to create the document I’m currently translating. It was found by an archaeological team on a dig in Indo-Asia. It’s very old, and there are always significant differences between past and present versions of living languages, but I’m almost certain the first sample of text in your file — most likely the original, given its scientific content — is ancient Thryggian. The second one is written in a variation of a language I’ve seen on documents from the Central Archives and the Galactic Great Council. Its first sentence is identical in meaning to the opening sentences of the other two texts.

  If he hadn’t been sitting down, Naguchi would have fallen over. As it was, he had to work for his next breath. The lab report had been written by Thryggians? The same Thryggians who had stepped forward so helpfully when Earth’s colonies were being devastated by the Angel of Death plague? The same Thryggians whom fellow researcher Sylvie Deneuve had publicly praised for aiding the development of a broad-spectrum vaccine against the virus, thus saving potentially millions of Human lives? Those Thryggians? Was it possible that they had visited Earth many centuries earlier? That they had also experimented on Humans, either there or on Stragon?

  If so, it was a truth worth killing to protect. There could be no unlearning something like this, no turning away and pretending never to have realized it. And if a government decided to suppress it, anyone with first-hand knowledge of the original document was in mortal danger.

  For several minutes as his thoughts raced, he couldn’t reply to her message; but eventually he was able to compose himself sufficiently to say: Please confirm that the first language is Thryggian. Was the Earth-found document part of a lab report also?

  She responded quickly: Yes and yes. I still have a long way to go with that translation, but thanks to your wonderful file I am far enough along to say for certain that the Earth document is about some sort of scientific experiment.

  He dreaded asking the question but keyed it in anyway: Any mention in there of a control group?

  This time she made him wait several minutes for the answer: Yes, in the Rosetta Stone file you gave me. Not sure whether to share this. Are you sitting down? Nayo, the Thryggian word for control group is “stragori”.

  — «» —

  “So they’re the real Humans and we’re — what? Mutations?”

  Novak stood in the middle of the clean room, his spine rigid and his voice razor-sharp. Frowning, Naguchi looked for his compupad and found it leaning crookedly against the back of the chair where Novak had hurled it after reading Susan’s messages. The most recent one, less than an hour old, was still on the screen. Naguchi blanked it and tucked the ’pad safely into his pocket.

  “We’re victims, Barry,” he finally said. “Or rather, the descendants of victims. Our distant ancestors were subjected against their will to scientific experimentation by aliens. As a race, we’ve suspected something like this for a very long time. Now we have the proof.”

  “And a fat lot of good it does us,” spat Novak. His expression darkening, he glanced around the room as though looking for something else to throw. For just a second Naguchi debated whether to take cover. Then, as quickly as the storm had blown up, it subsided.

  Exhaling the final gust, Novak sank down onto the nearest chair, gesturing to Naguchi to do the same. “Whichever way we move with this, it’s going to be wrong. Best case scenario, we present the information to the Earth High Council, who decide, like the Stragori, to suppress it and silence everyone who knows about it. Worst case scenario, it goes out over the InfoCommNet, sparking a xenophobic witch hunt the likes of which I don’t even want to imagine. We’re juggling hot potatoes, Nayo,” he added wearily, digging the heel of his hand into his right eye, “and I don’t know how much longer I can keep them all in the air.”

  “It would be easier if we knew what those experiments were about,” Naguchi remarked. “From what I’ve seen so far — and admittedly, it was only a cursory analysis — there’s almost no difference between us and the Stragori, other than their having some extra blood elements and a more advanced level of technology. Unfortunately, blood can only reveal so much. If I’d been thinking straight, I would have obtained some additional specimens from Trager before you sent him off.” He paused for a moment. “Not to sound like a ghoul, but you wouldn’t happen to know where Bruni Patel’s body ended up, would you?”

  Novak tried on a smile. “Sorry, Nayo. We had it for less than a day before it was stolen, probably by agents of the Stragori government. If there were some foolproof way to recognize a Stragori on sight, I might consider sending DeWitt and Croft to ‘borrow’ one of them so you could take a few more samples. However, there isn’t,” he concluded with a helpless shrug.

  “I appreciate the thought,” Naguchi reassured him. “You know, I always wondered, when I saw the vidclips of that first contact with the Stragori on Mars, what were the odds of an alien race in this arm of the galaxy evolving to look just like us? Someone should have been suspicious from the start.”

  “A lot of someones were suspicious, but they were even more fearful. That’s why each observer comes with protection, and why we have fringe groups ranting on the InfoCommNet about the alien spies among us. And to be honest, with no one on either side taking steps to allay those fears, I don’t see the situation getting better any time soon. By the way, Nayo, would you tell me please, what the hell is a rumple-whatever?”

  Naguchi swallowed his next comment. Novak was so skilled, confident, and obviously intelligent that it was easy to forget he’d acquired most of his education on the streets.

  “Rumpelstiltskin is a character from a very old European folk tale. In the story, a woman is locked in a tower and ordered on pain of death to spin straw into gold. Rumpelstiltskin magically appears before her and makes it possible for her to complete her task. That’s what I’ve done for Susan. Our Stragori file is exactly what she needs to finish translating the ancient document she’s been working on for the Earth High Council.”

  “Great! Another hot potato,” Novak grumped. “A Thryggian lab report, found on Earth and in government hands. If it says what we suspect it will, you and I both know what’s going to happen when she turns over her translation to the Council. They’ll bury it and then bury her. Does she have any family on Earth?”

  “No, just — just off-world.” Just me, he’d been about to say, before remembering how their relationship had ended. “Are you thinking of extracting her?”

  His expression pained, Novak replied, “I wish we could, but it would only make the situation worse. She’s in mid-translation, working from one of who knows how many copies of that document, and the High Council is well aware of it. Her files are probably being uploaded to a secure server at the end of each day. And I’ll bet you anything that she’s not the only translator they’ve got on this assignment.”

  “She’s barely started,” Naguchi corrected him quietly. “Barry, she’s the foremost xenolinguist on the planet, and she was getting nowhere until I gave her that datawafer. Now she’s the only one who’ll actually be able to complete the translation, and I’m wishing I hadn’t done it.”

  “She’s barely started?” Novak echoed. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Then maybe something can be done.”

  Naguchi stared a question at him.

  “Send her a message ordering her to hide the datawafer and not look at it again. She’ll also need to completely destroy any notes she’s made relating even marginally to the contents of the Stragori file.”

  “And that accomplishes what, exactly?” Naguchi wanted to know.
“Susan has already made her breakthrough, and she has an excellent visual memory.”

  “I know. But since your visit to her a couple of weeks ago immediately preceded that breakthrough, questions are bound to come up. It’s not the High Council I’m concerned about — it’s Madame Vargas. We need to give ourselves and Susan deniability and ensure that nothing can be traced back to me or forward to Trager or Daisy Hub.

  “Next — and for someone like her this is probably the hardest part — as she continues to work on the rest of the document, Dr. Rosenberg is going to have to make some errors. Nothing blatant or embarrassing, just a minor mistranslation here and there. She needs to blunt or obscure the meaning of the most dangerous parts of the text. Do you think she can do that?”

  “She’s brilliant — I know she can. But how will she know which parts to alter?”

  “You’re going to tell her. Make a list of words and phrases that mustn’t appear in the finished translation and send them to her. If you’re right and none of the other translators have been making any progress at all, then Dr. Rosenberg’s work will be accepted as authoritative, the High Council and Madame Vargas will remain in the dark, and you and I will be in the clear. If not, your lady friend can always say she was suffering from mental fatigue. After all, she’s been spinning their straw for months now, right?”

  Novak’s wristcomm buzzed, startling both men. DeWitt was on the other end of the call. “She’s lookin’ for you, boss. Wants to have a meeting this afternoon at three sharp.”

  “She” could only be one person. Naguchi felt the blood leave his face. “How did she find out?” he whispered urgently.

  “She didn’t,” said Novak. “This has to be something else.”

  — «» —

  Following the reported death of Dennis Forrand in 2387 C.E., his protégée Juno Vargas had ended up with many of his worldly goods. Chief among them was the mansion in Millbrook Enclave, a collection of exclusive properties owned — not rented — by influential Eligibles on the west side of the canal. Novak was quite familiar with the neighborhood, having attended regular meetings with Forrand in the clean room installed in the Supreme Adjudicator’s basement.

  This afternoon, as his PV rolled to a stop before the broad veranda, the mansion’s front entrance was opened by a smiling dark-haired woman in a blue and white maid’s uniform. She watched him climb out of his car, then stepped aside to admit him into the foyer.

  “Mister Novak, welcome,” she said. “Madame Vargas is expecting you.”

  “Thanks, Estrella, I know the way,” he told her, and headed directly for the basement door.

  The front rooms of the Forrand — now Vargas — home were like a museum: spacious, richly furnished, and full of polished surfaces, sparkling chandeliers, and original paintings, tastefully arranged. In the great room, the dining room, the drawing room, the library, and the foyer were all the trappings of wealth that one would expect to find in the living quarters of a powerful individual.

  To Novak they were nothing more than familiar scenery lining the path to his destination. In truth, it had been decades since anyone had actually lived in these rooms. Dennis Forrand had dutifully preserved them out of respect for his late father; but he had personally preferred to occupy the more modestly appointed three-bedroom apartment at the back of the house, where he and his sisters had grown up. Juno Vargas had chosen to continue the practice, presumably out of respect for the late Supreme Adjudicator himself. Just off the hallway leading to the “children’s quarters” was the plain-looking door that opened onto a flight of carpeted wooden stairs going down to the basement.

  This was where Novak found the recently promoted Madame Chief Adjudicator — in the clean room, presiding over a silver tea tray holding a pot of jasmine blend (her favorite) and two delicate porcelain cups. She had replaced Forrand’s desk and swivel office chairs with a pair of midnight blue loveseats, three lighter blue padded armchairs, and a glass-topped wrought iron coffee table. As he sat down across from her, they acknowledged each other with identical perfunctory nods.

  “Juno.”

  “Barry. So glad you could come. The tea is ready. Shall I pour?”

  “Please do.”

  The mask never slipped. As she busied herself with the teapot, he marveled at the sculpted perfection of her hair, the careful arrangement of her features, even the precise efficiency of her movements. Juno Vargas was more than a persona — it was a suit of armor, flawlessly constructed. But what about the flesh and blood woman it was meant to protect? Was there any Olivia Townsend left in there at all?

  She slid the tray closer to him, inviting him with a gesture to pick up his cup. “I have some good news for you, Barry. Nestor Quan has been apprehended.”

  Novak had spent most of his life concealing his emotions. Today those years of practice paid off. The tea in his cup barely swayed as he brought its rim to his lips and took a thoughtful sip.

  “Really? Who caught him? One of ours?”

  “No. It was Space Installation Security, four days ago. He was seen waiting to board a transport on Shakespeare Hub, and the local Ranger detachment served the arrest warrant — with prejudice. I’ve exercised some influence to ensure that he is brought back here to be tried. That should keep him alive long enough for you to interrogate him.”

  “Someone tried to kill him? What a shame.”

  She gave him a reproachful look. “Do you think I’m not aware of your shoot-first order? I know why you issued it, and, believe me, I sympathize. Nobody should get away with the attempted murder of one of our operatives. But I need Quan interrogated first.”

  “To find out what, exactly?”

  “I want to know who he’s really working for, because it’s not EuroGenics. I made a commcall to their current CEO. Other than admitting that Quan was the one who offered to sell them his and Naguchi’s patents years ago, she denies the existence of any connection between her company and Nestor Quan.”

  “He got caught so they’re disavowing all knowledge of his mission. This surprises you?”

  “He boarded Zulu carrying fake identification and beat its commanding officer nearly to death to prevent his cover from being blown,” she reminded him. “I want to know why Quan was there and who sent him. So humor me, Barry. Put your most persuasive interrogator on this assignment and use whatever methods you have to, but get me names. After that, you can do whatever you want with Nestor Quan. Just make sure I have deniability, and don’t leave a mess.”

  — «» —

  Two weeks later, an unmarked Security transport vehicle disappeared from the traffic grid while carrying an arrestee from O’Hare Airfield in New Chicago to the Dearborn Detention Center. A massive search was launched, but it was already too late. In the below-ground parking area of the Warrior Kings’ headquarters in the Zone, four armed men had taken up positions around the rear doors of a black and gray van, their trigger fingers itching.

  Zane DeWitt stepped forward and swung the doors wide, uttering a syllable of surprise when he realized what he was looking at.

  Somebody had gone to great lengths to make this passenger as uncomfortable as possible. DeWitt had never seen anyone so thoroughly shackled. Nestor Quan sat on the hard floor of the van, embroiled in sturdy metal chains and struggling to raise a hand high enough to shield his eyes from the sudden light. His face bore the marks of several savage beatings, one quite recent. It was hard to believe that this pathetic-looking little scrag had nearly killed Steve Bonelli with his bare hands. But appearances could be deceiving, as DeWitt well knew.

  “Take no chances with this man,” he instructed the other three Kings. “I want eyes and weapons on him at all times.”

  “I assure you, I’ll be no problem,” said Quan.

  “Damn straight, you won’t.” DeWitt signaled to one of the men, who immediately climbed inside the van and began examining th
e prisoner’s chains.

  “He’s tethered to a bolt in the floor,” the chain checker called out. “Throw me those cutters.”

  Quan cleared his throat and pointed out, “It will be much easier for you to move me if I can walk. If you’ll just remove the leg restraints as well?”

  A smile crept onto DeWitt’s face. “Nope. Once you’re out of there, we plan to roll you along the ground. More fun that way.”

  “And can I assume because you’re letting me see your faces that you also plan to kill me?”

  DeWitt pretended to think about it. “I would call that a reasonable assumption,” he replied.

  “Oh, dear,” said Quan. “I seem to have made a lot of people extremely angry.”

  DeWitt signaled once more and the man in the van pulled a hypodermic injector out of his pocket. There was a brief hiss, a soft gasp, and a flat metallic chord as “the ninja” slumped in his chains.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Barry Novak! You’re just the person I was hoping to speak with.”

  Hearing these hearty words emerge from Nestor Quan’s bruised mouth sent a chill through Novak’s entire body. Reminding himself to breathe, he resumed walking into the interrogation room and settled into the chair across from the one to which Quan was now securely fastened.

  Stripped of his bulky chains, the prisoner sat upright with his arms and legs immobilized against the bent-pipe frame by thick leather cuffs with sturdy buckle closures. A matching leather collar prevented his head from moving more than a couple of centimeters away from the padded steel headrest. There was no way he could release himself from these bonds. They were designed to tighten if he struggled against them. Quan was helpless. He was also disconcertingly relaxed, and smiling.

  Novak’s gut rarely steered him wrong. Right now it was warning him not to take his eyes off this man.

  “Tell me, Quan,” he inquired softly, “how exactly do you know my name?”