Omega Sol

by Scott Mackay

  ‘‘Dr. Tennant is here to report on the status of her communications effort with Alpha Vehicle,’’ said Pittman. ‘‘Dr. Tennant, go ahead.’’

  Renate got up, tall and skinny, looking debilitated by overwork. She placed her waferscreen on the podium with jittery hands. Her hair looked as if it could use a brushing. She cleared her voice.

  ‘‘The Moon is bombarded daily by various kinds of radiation,’’ she began. ‘‘In fact, radiation has been one of our biggest obstacles in establishing a long-term presence on the Moon. Currently, it’s recommended that no lunar mission go beyond ninety days, as radiation absorption becomes critical at that point. But as it turns out the Builders are using this radiation. Specifically, the stripped galactic radiation that comes from all the stars in the Milky Way. When this stripped radiation hits the Moon’s surface, it fractures into subatomic particles, and it is these fractured subatomic particles that the Builders are utilizing to construct their subgravitational communications packets. By incorporating some of the salvaged Stradivari particle-accelerating equipment, my team and I have now successfully completed some experiments in rebounding subatomic quanta off the surface of the Moon the moment a Builder relay point opens. With this method, we’ve effectively instantaneously sent information twelve million light-years to NGC4945 using the established relay points.’’ She turned to Pittman, and added, ‘‘This means we’re the first research team ever to make something travel faster than the speed of light in any meaningful way outside the laboratory.’’

  ‘‘Your accomplishment has been noted, Dr. Tennant, and the proper superiors will be informed.’’

  She glowed at Pittman’s acknowledgment, then examined her waferscreen notes with fresh verve. ‘‘So far, these subatomic packets have been random constructs, purposely camouflaged as background radiation to hide them from the Builders. But we’ve now devised a way to piggyback structured messages using basic binary code. Evidence suggests the Builders are familiar with binary code. Dr. Conrad wants our first communication to consist of only the first one hundred prime numbers. I believe we have to go further than this. In the first message, I propose sending binary digitized samples of Earth’s seven most common languages—a kind of subgravitational Rosetta stone, if you will. To show the Builders that we understand the concept of prime numbers will do nothing to further our goal of establishing a dialogue with them, and considering the urgency of the situation, we have to accelerate things. We have to provide them with the basic materials of our languages in the hope that they might then reveal to us the critical elements of theirs.’’

  Lesha’s spine straightened. She smelled disaster looming ahead. She got to her feet and interrupted. ‘‘Renate, the whole reason Cam wanted prime numbers in the first place was to avoid the possibility of any dangerous misinterpretation on the part of the Builders. If you send something that tries to explain our various evolved languages, who knows what the Builders are going to make of it? They may take it as a threat, such as Cam has suggested. On the other hand, mathematics can’t be misinterpreted. If in return for a prime-number message we get a positive response, Cam has told me that he wants to send pi rendered to the hundredth decimal. And if that works, the next step would be a kind of pictographic representation of E equals MC squared. If that’s successful, we’ll proceed with a dialogue from there. The last thing he wants is to try talking to them right away through the idiosyncratic languages of Earth. We’re opening a Pandora’s box if we go that route.’’

  Renate’s face stiffened. ‘‘I don’t see any evidence for that.’’

  ‘‘You were the one who wanted to hunker down and play it safe when the Builders first got here. You were the one who advocated caution.’’

  ‘‘As an isolated contingent on the Moon, we were in no position at that time to do anything at all. Now that we have Orbops here, and a clear direction from the Oval Office, I believe it’s essential we establish a meaningful dialogue as soon as possible, especially because of the obvious aggressive gestures the Builders have made toward us recently.’’

  ‘‘Aggressive gestures? What aggressive gestures?’’ Lesha’s frustration mounted. ‘‘So far, only one human being has died, and there’s a fairly convincing argument he was killed inadvertently, simply by being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Other than that, the Builders have been peaceful. I’ll admit, we don’t know why they’re building the Moon towers, and have no idea what the energy cells orbiting Earth are for, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that rather than constructing a weapon, they might be giving us a gift. First contact between different peoples on Earth during the great age of exploration was symbolized by gift giving. Maybe the Builders are trying to establish goodwill. At the same time, misinterpretation, fear, and lack of communication were the greatest dangers during the age of exploration. All Dr. Conrad wants to do is establish a firm foundation before we proceed with more intricate overtures.’’

  Pittman shook his head. ‘‘With the building of the towers, the launch of the energy cells, and Tau Ceti accelerating into its red giant phase, I’m inclined to put a grimmer interpretation on what the Builders are doing. It was the same with the North Chinese. They said their satellites were for peaceful purposes. And we believed them. And look how wrong we were.’’

  Lesha frowned. ‘‘Yes, but if the Builders wanted to destroy us, they would have done so long ago. Even you, as a battle tactician, must realize this. They’ve given away their chief advantage: the element of surprise. Cam’s graduated approach is best.’’

  But she was overruled.

  Pittman made a special point of coming to her afterward. ‘‘I’m sorry we don’t agree, Dr. Weeks, but under the circumstances I think we have to talk to them in a meaningful way as soon as we can. And by the way, Dr. Ochoa tells me there’s something peculiar going on in Dr. Conrad’s brain, now that the Builders have had a go at him.’’

  The sudden worry that came to her was like a knife in her side. Pittman must have seen the change in her face, for his expression became compassionate, and he seemed to understand just what Cam had come to mean to her.

  ‘‘Why wasn’t I told?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘I just found out myself.’’

  ‘‘And what has Dr. Ochoa discovered?’’

  ‘‘That there’s increased electrical activity in a special part of his brain, the sylvan fissure. Dr. Ochoa thinks they’re utilizing his sylvan fissure as a way to communicate with him. I’ll send you the report once I get back to my quarters.’’

  She reviewed the report later.

  She discovered that the sylvan fissure was a unique part of the brain, characterized in at least several recent reports as the mental apparatus for empathy, understanding, and communication. Manipulation of the sylvan fissure might result in a subject’s greater ability to detach more easily from previous norms, understand abstract ideas, and communicate more fluently. In certain cases, a flowering of genius was possible.

  Using the baseline EEGs NASA had performed prior to the Stradivari mission, and comparing them to the new scan Dr. Ochoa had conducted at Johns Hopkins that morning, the Orbops physician suggested that the change had begun during Cam’s initial visit inside Alpha Vehicle, and that his brain had undergone further conditioning at a number of different times since, most notably during the journey to Earth, when another visitation, this one by the energy cells, had taken place.

  Lesha watched Renate’s communication attempt from the screens in the tower. The cameras at Crater Cavalet recorded the historic event. She sat with Johnsie; she was becoming friends with the nurse practitioner.

  On the screen, she saw Alpha Vehicle in the middle of the crater, a big silver eyeball. Dr. Tennant and the other Princeton Team members—Peggy, Maribeth, and Silke—worked in the crater’s base, preparing to rebound a communications packet off the lunar surface into the next relay point.

  ‘‘Any thought on what the Builders are doing to Dr. Conrad?’’ asked Johnsie
.

  Lesha’s eyes narrowed. ‘‘Trying to talk to him, I think.’’ She motioned at the screen. ‘‘Maybe all this is for nothing.’’

  The African features of Johnsie’s face grew still. ‘‘This whole empathy . . . and understanding . . . and the possible flowering of genius. Mind you, I always thought Cam was a genius. To understand all that theoretical physics stuff, you have to have something going for you. Maybe he has the particular kind of intelligence they’re looking for, the only kind they can communicate with.’’ They watched Crater Cavalet for a while. Then Johnsie said, ‘‘Do you think Tau Ceti has anything to do with it?’’

  Lesha considered. ‘‘I’ve got this idea about it, and it won’t leave me alone.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘That we’re being tested.’’

  ‘‘Tested?’’

  ‘‘And that if we don’t pass the test, that’s it, the sun goes red giant. I sometimes think the Builders are being mysterious on purpose to further the goals of this test.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’

  ‘‘If we can’t prove we’re worth saving—and Cam and I talked about this—then we don’t deserve our place in the Milky Way.’’

  ‘‘Wow. That’s biblical.’’

  ‘‘And to tell you the truth, I think Colonel Pittman’s going to make matters worse. If the Builders are preparing to talk to Cam—and I really think that they are—and Pittman starts throwing missiles at them before Cam gets the chance, then that’s it, we fail the test. The timing of Cam’s evac to Earth makes me climb the walls.’’ She motioned at the screen. ‘‘And now Dr. Tennant is trying this risky communications attempt, in direct contradiction to what Cam has advised. It might aggravate the hell out of them.’’

  It was fully another hour before Dr. Tennant reported the opening of a relay point. A dark green swirl became dimly visible above the silver sphere. Colonel Pittman, who had been pacing at the other side of the tower, looked at the screen, his jaw stiffening. Silence enveloped the tower as everyone waited.

  Various other screens flipped to the Moonstone emplacements surrounding Alpha Vehicle. On one screen, Lesha saw a soldier in fully pressurized armor on bended knee next to a field cannon. The futility of the military preparations struck her afresh.

  She turned to Dr. Tennant’s screen. Renate intoned into the microphone, ‘‘We’re charging the accelerator now. The countdown has begun.’’ The amorphous green net, like a bruise in the sky above Alpha Vehicle, widened as if to receive any messages Renate decided to bounce across the universe.

  Lesha didn’t expect the Builder reaction to come so swiftly.

  Greenhow, two or three minutes after Renate’s ‘‘send,’’ preempted the various emergency screens and showed fluxing images of the energy cells surrounding Earth. Twenty-three out of the ninety-two—in other words, 25 percent—had broken free of the existing ring and headed toward Earth, on apparent collision courses.

  Pittman immediately barked a coded language into the headset. Something with a lot of Greek letters in it.

  It was apparently directed at Greenhow command, for a few seconds later Greenhow extrapolated more detailed graphics that showed one of the alien energy cells heading first toward New Delhi, then another to London, then others to Hong Kong, Tokyo, Paris, New York, and Mexico City. Minutes later, it confirmed hits on another sixteen cities, accounting for the entire twenty-three energy cells.

  Then, outside on the lunar surface, an aquamarine dawn came. Moments later, over the dark edge of Bunker Hill, she saw a blue and nebulous man-o’-war that could only be another energy cell. This energy cell splashed over Gettysburg like an electric turquoise tide, and seconds later, all the lights went out. The computer screens flickered with a whirling motion.

  Bruxner tapped at the main terminal with increasing apprehension, but all he got was a shifting pattern of light so intense and strobelike, Lesha turned away.

  ‘‘Firebase Alpha, do you read?’’ cried Pittman, trying to get in contact with his Crater Cavalet Moonstone vehicles. He got no response.

  Lesha rose. Johnsie got up as well, her brown face bathed in the blue glow coming in through the windows. Lesha walked to another of the interfaces and tried to establish control.

  Bruxner, next to her, attempted a complete reboot. He was speaking into his shoulder unit. ‘‘Laborde, get to the server, repeat, get to the server,’’ but all that came over the comlink was strange music—taut, austere, with high tones weaving in and out of lower ones, two long and one short, in the most eerie counterpoint she had ever heard. Singing? Was it a language?

  ‘‘Firebase Alpha, interdict the enemy immediately.’’ She tore herself away from the terminal and toggled Pittman’s communications dead.

  Pittman gripped her wrist as if with an iron claw and yanked her away.

  ‘‘Dr. Weeks, you’re to be confined to your quarters. This has become a military matter now.’’

  ‘‘And I’m asking you to stop, Colonel Pittman. This is ridiculous. There’s been no attack.’’

  ‘‘They’ve launched. Can’t you see that?’’

  ‘‘We’re still alive, aren’t we?’’

  Pittman glanced at Haydn and Newlove, and they took a few threatening steps toward her.

  She raised her hands. ‘‘Listen to that . . . that singing. Does that sound like the music of war to you? Have they blown us up yet? Are we dead yet? That music sounds like angels to me.’’

  They all listened, and the music sweetened, was sad and joyful at the same time. Looking at Pittman, she saw he was fighting with himself, that ordinarily he wasn’t a man predisposed to emotion; yet his face now twitched with small spasms, as if in fact he had been affected by the music in some small way as well.

  He at last nodded. ‘‘All right. And by the way, when I say interdict, it doesn’t mean destroy.’’ He issued a command into his shoulder mike. ‘‘Firebase Alpha, stand down. Remain on high alert. Do not fire unless fired upon. Repeat. Do not fire.’’ He clicked off his mike. ‘‘But let me reiterate, Dr. Weeks. This is a military matter now. And while I might need a direct order from my superiors to outright destroy our enemy, they’ve given me a free hand in defending Gettysburg any way I must.’’

  Then the slow and steady hiss of the oxygen vent went silent, and a warning tone dinged over the serene music that was coming from the small speakers.

  Pittman’s shoulders sank. He turned to Lesha. His face was like granite. ‘‘Life support just went off-line.’’ He glanced at a monitor. ‘‘And I see the heating is gone too. And communications as well. It’s like they’re trying to degrade our infrastructure before a full-scale attack.’’

  Her brow hardened. ‘‘You’re looking for any excuse, aren’t you? Just like Cam said you would.’’

  His upper lip stiffened under his silver mustache. ‘‘In the interests of restraint, I will allow Newlove and Haydn to further assess the current systems malfunctions before we go ahead with any offensive operations.’’ He turned to Bruxner. ‘‘Engage the emergency oxygen supply, Mr. Bruxner. Also the heating, but use it sparingly, a few degrees above zero, nothing warmer. Newlove, see if you can raise Orbops command. Find out what they want us to do about this.’’ He glanced around the room. ‘‘Looks like we’re going to have to hunker down, everybody. At least until we figure this out. I would request that you all return to your quarters immediately. We should keep physical activity to a minimum. Gettysburg is now under round-the-clock curfew to conserve oxygen. No scientific staff members come or go from their quarters without my say-so.’’ He focused on Lesha. ‘‘And that goes for you in particular, Dr. Weeks.’’ He turned to his adjunct. ‘‘Lieutenant Haydn, escort Dr. Weeks to her quarters.’’

  12

  Cam was in his hospital bed in his special set aside wing at Johns Hopkins when through closed eyelids he detected a change in the light coming from outside. Momentarily confused, and still half asleep, he believed the light flickering through h
is eyelids might be fireworks—he had a rough notion it was July Fourth. He kept his eyes closed because in the quivering light beyond the few millimeters of his pink lids he sensed an uncanny peace, and felt as if the crossed wires of his brain were quietly untangling themselves in the beneficent glow of this mysterious light.

  He then heard hospital personnel walking quickly up and down the corridor and knew something wasn’t right. His window began to rattle. He opened his eyes. He looked at the television in its T-brace. No picture, just a cascade of shifting color. He peered outside. He’d never seen a sky like that before; it was not blue, but turquoise.

  He pushed himself up, found he could do so easily—his recovery was proceeding faster than expected, even as the sense of his own receptivity to the Builders had increased. He shifted his feet out of bed, grabbed his cane, and moved to the window. The glass shook harder, and he heard a jet roar. Close. Too close. And too low. Only where was it? He clutched the windowsill.

  Downtown Baltimore stretched to the south. Patterson Park’s leafy canopy shifted in the wind across the street. Immediately around the hospital he saw a number of medical buildings. The jet was getting so loud that the window blinds started to vibrate. Down on Jefferson Street, several cars had stalled, with the drivers getting out and opening hoods; he thought it odd that so many cars had stalled at once, and all along this same stretch of Jefferson. Car alarms had gone off, and the neighborhood resounded with their racket. Was that sylvan fissure thing Dr. Ochoa had told him about confusing him again? Because none of this made any sense. Especially the sound of that jet getting louder and louder. Was he on the verge of having another attack? He hoped not because he was recovering so nicely.

  He peered at Patterson Park, with its few acres of trees. How odd those trees looked in the turquoise light. Even without his nearly confirmed connection to the Builders, he knew this had to be their doing.