* * *
Jo strolled in, tossed aside her jacket and keys, and said flatly, “This had better be worth it. I was in the middle of something.”
The woman at the far end of the room turned, a picture of grace in her well-chosen, middle-aged attire, and raised an eyebrow. “Another gun show, Agent Osborne?”
Jo gave the woman a sour smile.
“He was cute,” said the older woman dryly, “but you can do better.”
“Not if you have anything to say about it, Zee,” Jo replied. “So what’s so urgent you couldn’t explain over the line?”
The older woman pulled out a chair for her colleague and sat in her own place. The name plate on her desk read Director Zellweiger, but to Jo she’d always be ‘Director Zee’, or just plain Zee if they were alone. Zee swiveled around and activated a wall display, causing the mural behind the desk to slide aside. Jo took the seat and stared up, crossing her legs and rotating in a lazy stretch.
The monitor sprang to life, projecting a three-dimensional map which was—almost imperceptibly—in motion. Weather systems on the move and just the tiniest flashes of grey indicating aircraft and boats far below. The picture zoomed down rapidly, bringing the display in close on a patch of ocean which at first appeared nondescript. Then the zoom continued, and in a shocking maneuver that proved the technology was more drone than satellite, it dipped down beneath the waves. At first it was difficult to make anything out, though the under-hulls of ships were still visible at the top of the picture. As the resolution cleared, however, it revealed a construction project that dwarfed the vessels floating above.
“It’s already happening, then?” Jo’s voice betrayed just a hint of awe, the first real emotion she’d allowed herself since arriving.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Director Zee said. “And they’ve already started bringing in the braintrust.”
“They’re not even going to attempt containment then?” Jo asked.
“Not if they think they can make a weapon out of it,” Zee answered. “I need you go get down there yourself and see how far they’ve gone,”—the Director adjusted her her chair to better take in the view—“I can’t very well go to the president with alternatives until I know what he’s up to down there.”
She made an adjustment to the map, and a large swath of the eastern seaboard sprang into view.
“As you can see,” she continued, “our enemies have already taken steps to respond.”
Jo felt her breathing speed up and turn ragged. The Russians weren’t sitting still for this, and the Chinese wouldn’t either, particularly with a hothead like Morrison in the oval. Of all the times to have hell break loose.
Jo couldn’t believe how fast this was happening. The influx of experts was already underway, judging from the number of heat signatures and submersible craft she’d seen on the previous map-scape. She’d known this day was coming, but it was always something distant. Like a dreaded relative come to visit, or an age-related medical concern—you never expect it until it hits you.
“And by the way,” Director Zee continued, “something else has come up that needs your attention. You’ll need to see to it before you move on to the main assignment.”
“Oh?” What could possibly be more important? she wondered.
“An outsider. Seems he just stumbled onto it, but he’s definitely on the right track. We’ve got a copy of his data, and others will be looking for his soon enough. He’ll need to be brought in.”
“Stumbled onto it without a baseline knowledge?”
The idea was insane. The only people on Earth aware of the upcoming events were experts, fully briefed by government agencies devoted to secrecy, with facts and figures at their disposal not available anywhere else on the planet. For someone to learn it on their own? Either the man was a genius, or else some people weren’t doing their jobs. Either notion was disturbing in its own way.
“Shocking, isn’t it? You’ll be bringing him in directly—he’s running late as you can see. Get down there as soon as you have him in custody.”
“And if he doesn’t come willingly?”
The old woman handed Jo a data pad. “Use this as bait. Once he gets a look at it, he’ll comply.”
Jo nodded. There was no need for questions. This was what she’d been training for since she was knee-high. She didn’t need to ask about how best to adjust to the new timeline, either. The methods had been burned into her consciousness since she’d first stepped foot into the agency.
The only question, then, was what to do with this outsider. They’d accounted for almost everything, but this was a black swan hitch. Some poor idiot who got himself mixed up in this mess, and she was the one who had to deal with him.
No dates next fall, either, she realized with a sense of finality. Not until the work was taken care of, and her now extremely full plate had been cleared.
4.
The NSA spacecraft slid into its adjusted trajectory and flipped over in weightless grace, turning away from the planet to begin tracking its new objective. With coordinated efficiency, a cluster of interlinked ships and satellites mirrored the same path. Huge numbers of spaceborne assets were being repurposed—all but the essential ones, and the ones keeping the population below preoccupied and semi-informed. Those remained on-task as always. The rest took to the new directive in concert; feeding mountains of data to way stations below—sharing information at an unprecedented level. The military commands of a dozen nations were now involved in tracking the threat, and many more were in negotiations to join up.
Far from the machinations of politics, coordinated by communications stations and space agencies, the decisions on where to train the lenses occupied the minds of the world’s top thinkers. Each decision carefully considered, ever mindful of the limited time and an endless sky. The lenses were chiefly positioned relative to the plane of the galaxy, straight on to dead center. They scoured the darkness for clues as to the origin of the threat, but no signs of significance had yet been found. Scientists were split on when to expect anything; some said weeks, others expected it to take years, though the consensus was a hopeful ‘sooner rather than later’.
In the Los Alamos laboratory, a team of scientists was repositioning a wayward platform that hadn’t linked up with its assigned group. At first they suspected mechanical failure, but followup reports indicated something stranger. So early on, it seemed unlikely in the extreme, but the information checked out. The platform had found something.
The platform was reset to cardinal programming, remaining fixed in place. From there the device continued it’s work, gathering data which would become highly valuable in short order. The realization of what they’d stumbled upon, after double-checks and independent verifications, resulted in an eruption of enthusiasm throughout the community. The anomaly they were searching for was found, not by careful calculations and a unified plan, but by a machine that just happened to be looking in the right place at the right time.
With the anomaly identified, the real work began. Number crunchers and code experts the world over were brought in to analyze for commonalities, the results fed into supercomputers for further analysis. These results would determine the appropriate planetary response. In a very real sense, the fate of the world lay in their hands.
* * *
Dean Eckert had been working a triple shift when the event occurred. Any lack of enthusiasm, or even outright indifference, could be easily forgiven, taking into consideration his exhausted state. Had he been less dedicated, he might have given in to his fatigue, accepting the results at face value. But Eckert was a driven man, even in a clinical sense, and prone to superhuman bouts of productivity. So he performed his own extensive cross-checks and re-verifications, even as the data was supposed to be going out to the world. Time was short, and the pressure was on, but he refused to compromise.
When the data didn’t cross properly, he committed himself to the quadruple shift, getting to work checking every detail on
e more time. When it still didn’t add up, he assigned an assistant to keep working while he slept for two hours, then he was right back to it. He hated leaving stones unturned, and what’s more, he hated results that didn’t add up.
Following a series of marathon sessions, it still seemed that his own calculations were spot on. Given the fact that they didn’t agree with the findings beamed down from space, this was puzzling. He’d expected the issue to revolve around whosoever’s figures were at fault, somewhere among his colleagues. Or it may have been he himself who was at fault. It was certainly possible, if somewhat unlikely. Harder to imagine still was the possibility the orbital computer could be the one in error, though that potentiality was becoming more apparent with each cross-confirmation.
Mistaken was a wrong-minded way of viewing the problem, though. Malfunctioning, more to the point. Computers didn’t make errors per se. They worked as programmed, or else they were broken. This one appeared to be broken. The information it gathered from peering out at the stars seemed to be, at first glance at least, a lie. But computers didn’t lie, either, so this had to be a failure of some sort. Unprecedented for such an advanced machine, but there was a first time for everything.
So Dean Eckert turned his attention to figuring out what part of the computer had broken down. This took more marathon work sessions, and everyone around him was feeling the strain. Several of his colleagues suggested writing it up and farming it off, but Dean’s policy was clear on that front—never stick it to the next guy. Not without a working solution, at least. Thus far he had none. ‘It’s broken’ wouldn’t cut it.
He went so far as to bring in duplicate machines. They began by stripping one of them to expose the physical components to space-like conditions, in case the issue might be mechanical. They tested another for software anomalies, bringing it up to speed and then taking it through the exact sequence it’s orbiting sister had completed prior to the odd readings. Nothing out of the ordinary was found. Hardware and software on the duplicates checked out perfectly, except that their math lined up with Eckert’s, while the orbiting counterpart did not.
It became apparent there were elements missing. After cross-checking machines and math, Eckert traveled farther afield in search of a workable solution. When normal physics broke down, he turned to particle physics, then to quantum, and finally quantum biological. There, at last, he found his answer.
“Look at the discrepancy from the standpoint of someone standing here on earth,” he told his team, “and imagine that it’s not a matter of locating an incoming anomaly at all.”
“What else would it be?” one of them asked.
“What if we’re seeing a reflection here?” Dean explained. “Interacting with a point in space, yes, but terminating in both places at once. A gravitational link, interacting both ways, only the satellite isn’t seeing the origin down here. It’s only sending back the reflection it sees.”
The others took to laptops and scratch pads to re-figure the math. Within a few minutes, their work was beginning to match up with Eckert’s, though it still wasn’t perfect, nor did it line up with the orbital figures.
“What are we missing?” he prompted. Receiving only blank stares, he turned back to his own calculations and pointed to a base assumption they’d not yet factored in. The biological component. He waited for them to catch on, but they still looked confused.
“What’s happening down here on a quantum level isn’t just gravitational, it’s morphing. Growing. You have to account for that.”
“So what, are you saying it’s alive?”
Dean shook his head. “I wouldn’t go that far. It’s more like chemistry. But it is interacting with biological forces down here. That’s why the numbers don’t add up with the ones we’re getting back. It’s sterile up there.”
The fact that this inorganic effect behaved like a living organism was nothing short of revolutionary, but Eckert had no time to ponder the significance. He was on to something, and now he was going to work it out, finalize it for presentation. Then, maybe, he could finally get some sleep.
* * *
Eckert stared at his bricked device, mouth agape, struggling to comprehend the magnitude of what had just happened. At first stunned, then quick to anger, he slammed it down in disgust. Still, he was yet to the moment of panic he’d be experiencing in short order. Racing back to his office, he grabbed the mouse and ran it back and forth, trying to get his machine to wake. A blank screen shone back on him, mocking his efforts. Power failure? It couldn’t be. They had redundant systems. He began to sweat.
He took a deep, calming breath. Everything was backed up. If not here, on the servers, then in the cloud. Plus all his research should’ve shown up on colleagues’ machines in real time. Okay, there’s no need to lose it, he told himself, but the sick feeling was creeping in faster still. Something seemed extremely off. The timing. Of all times for things to go to hell, it just seemed…intentional? Impossible, he thought. But how else could he explain it.
One by one, he checked the alternative backups. First the servers, which should’ve contained an identical copy of everything. Not only was that not the case, the entire bank had been fried. The pit of unease grew in his stomach.
Turning to the cloud, he went through the rigamarole of requests and forms necessary to retrieve his research, demanding the contents of far-flung backup servers wherever they might exist. The apologetic notes he got in reply were personalized, obviously sent from management at whatever companies his institution hired to safeguard vital information. They had not done so, and felt just awful about it. Dean was beginning to feel pretty awful himself, but he still held out hope that his colleagues would save the day. Surely some of them would have the missing data.
When replies began filtering in, some expressing regret and others surprise, but none of them producing even a scrap of the relevant information, at that point his reaction became visceral. Departing the realm of annoyance and approaching horrified, he began to wonder if this were all some sort of a plot against him. He even wondered if he were perhaps losing his grip, but a quick re-check of all the confirming information assured him that this was all too real.
All sources now checked—every one of them either deleted, wrecked, or otherwise unsalvageable. It was clearly intentional. But how could a saboteur be so thorough, in such little time, without missing a beat? Even Dean himself didn’t know how many sources he might have to check on. He thought through all the people he’d sent partial information to, then realized whoever was out to get him must’ve known each and every one of them as well. How else could everything be so thoroughly cleansed?
It was all well and good to worry about who might be behind it, but that was a matter for the police to handle, and later. For now, he needed to figure out what to do about it. That was the question that ran through his mind. Without the math to back it up, his assumptions were easily dismissed. And even if he were able start back from square one, it would take too much time. He might as well consider it a lost cause, fall in line behind the other researchers and make the best of it. The very thought of such humiliation made him want to puke, but what else could he do?
5.
Expansion. The subject of intense speculation and research, and still no unified explanation. So vague even the terminology is nebulous. Dark matter, dark energy. A dynamic version known as quintessence. More recently dark fluid, an attempt to unify the unknowns into just one. All of it extremely speculative, and impossible to quantify.
Dean Eckert leafed through his notes on ‘expansion’, finding himself nervous and bored in equal parts. The nerves, he’d been expecting. He was never much for public speaking, and he loathed dealing with strangers. Particularly large numbers of them. As for the boredom, that had less to do with the act of speaking, and more to the subject matter he was speaking on. He found the topic dry and banal, but he was professional enough to deliver what they were asking for without complaint. If you can’t dazzle them with
brilliance, as they say. Smoke and mirrors. Performance art.
Dark Alignment Page 3