We also need you to collect and run analyses of food samples. Forward any information you can get. What do they eat? Fruit, pizza, whatever. Any other data that might help us get them through this.
Time is of the essence. In view of the lag between Lookout and your other points of contact, you are free to use discretion.
— P. M. Hutchins
Director, Operations
March 6, 2234
chapter 7
Arlington.
Friday, March 7.
HUTCH FOUND A note on her desk, requesting she report to the commissioner’s office immediately on arrival. She found him packing. “Heading for Geneva,” he said. “Right after the memorial service.”
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“Political stuff. But they want me there. You’ll be acting the rest of the week.”
“Okay.”
He looked at her. “That’s it,” he said.
“No special instructions?”
“No. Just use your best judgment.”
SHE’D BEEN HIT hard by the loss of Jane Collins and Terry Drafts. Hutch had known both, had partied with Jane and risked her neck with Terry. Standing on the lawn by the Morning Pool, listening to the tributes, she couldn’t get the notion out of her head that both would show up, walk into the middle of things, and announce it was all a mistake. Maybe if they had found the bodies, it would have been easier.
The commissioner conducted the event with his usual charm and aplomb. Their friends and colleagues recalled fond memories of one or the other, and there was a fair amount of laughter. Hutch glanced up at the south wall, on which were engraved the names of all who had lost their lives over the years in the service of the Academy. Or, as she’d have preferred to put it, in the service of humanity. The list was getting long.
When her turn to speak came, she filled up. Tom Callan handed her a glass of water but she stood there, shaking her head impatiently. Poor way for a leader to behave. She began by saying that Jane and Terry were good people, and her friends. “They were bright, and they went to a place that was dark and deadly and nobody knew. Now we know.
“I’m proud they were my colleagues.”
THE HEDGEHOG AND the cloud had been on the same course, moving at the same velocity. The cloud was programmed to attack objects with perpendiculars, or even sharp edges. The hedgehog had been all perpendiculars. If Terry’s surmise that someone else was monitoring the cloud was correct, why do it with a package designed in that particular way? Why not just throw an ordinary set of sensors out there?
What was going on?
The two objects had been separated by sixty thousand kilometers. Why put a surveillance package in front instead of alongside? And why so far away?
She made some calls. Everybody she could think of who’d been involved with the omegas. She put the same question to each: Was it possible that there’d been other hedgehogs accompanying other clouds? And that they hadn’t been observed?
The answers: It was certainly possible. And at sixty thousand klicks, it was unlikely they’d have been noticed. The research vessels had been intent on the omegas. It had not been part of the routine to do long-range sweeps of the area.
By midafternoon she was satisfied it was worth an investigation. “Barbara,” she said, “record transmissions for Serenity and Broadside.”
“Ready, Ms. Hutchins.”
She looked into the imager. “Audrey, Vadim: Let’s find out if some of the other clouds have a hedgehog. Assign whoever’s available to take a look. Just nearby stuff. A few samples. Tell them if they find one, or anything remotely like it, to stay away from it. We don’t want to lose anybody else. Let me know results ASAP.”
THE VARIOUS WEATHERMAN packages had sighted several more tewks, for a total of ten. They were concentrated in two widely separated areas, three near the Golden Crescent, four near the Cowbell.
The Golden Crescent, home to millions of aging stars, floated over her couch. Great smoky walls fell away to infinity. A class-G dominated the foreground, close enough to illuminate the clock. A luminous river of gas and dust ran across the back of the room.
She activated the program, and three bright objects appeared, one at a time, inward from the Crescent. One up here, one over there, one down center.
Then the image rotated, the Golden Crescent sank, the vast clouds moved around the walls, and the three stars lined up.
She had just watched the same process happen with the four tewks at the Cowbell. Except that there only three of the four had lined up. But it was enough.
It was almost choreographed. And it chilled her.
They were no closer to figuring out what was happening than they’d been when the first sightings came in a few weeks earlier. She suspected that, with Weatherman packages becoming operational on a regular basis, they were going to see more of these things.
She checked the time and shut the program down. Leave it to Harold to figure out. As acting commissioner she had more pressing matters to attend to.
Asquith had taken her aside after the memorial. It was her first experience as the Academy’s chief decision maker, and he had apparently thought better of his intention to pass along no special instructions. “Don’t make any decisions,” he’d told her, “other than those directly in line with Academy policy. Anything that requires judgment, defer it, and I’ll take care of it when I get back.” He’d looked at her, realized what he’d said, and added, “No offense.”
None taken. Asquith was too shallow for her to take his opinion of her capabilities seriously. The problem, of course, was that he wrote her evaluation.
She pushed it aside, called Rheal Fabrics, and told them to assemble the kite. They gave her the dimensions it would have while stored, which she added to the space requirements Marge’s weathermaking gear would need.
The Lookout mission would require two ships. One would carry Collingdale and his team. The other would have to be a freighter, which meant she’d have to charter it. Oddly, the Collingdale ship was the problem. She needed something that could transport upward of twenty people, and the only thing available was the al-Jahani, currently undergoing a refitting. She’d have to hurry it along.
She’d briefed Asquith on what she intended to do. “Maybe even worse than the direct attack by the omega,” she told him, “is the aftermath. We don’t know what it’ll do to the atmosphere. Might be years before things will grow. That means a possibility of starvation for the natives. We’re going to need to send out relief supplies.”
He’d sighed. “Not our job, Hutch.”
But it would become theirs, and they both knew it. When the pictures started coming back of starving and dying Goompahs, the public would get upset, and the politicians would turn to the Academy. “When it happens,” she’d told him, “we better be ready.”
Next day he’d announced his Geneva trip. It hardly seemed a coincidence.
The al-Jahani was supposed to leave Friday. The logistics were set, and Collingdale and his people were en route. But Jerry Hoskins, the Academy’s chief engineer, had been dubious. Not enough time. The ship was due for a major overhaul, and Hutch wanted to send her on a two-year mission? But he’d see what he could do. So when Barbara informed her that Jerry was on the circuit, she got a bad feeling. “Hutch,” he said, “we can’t really get her ready in a few days.”
“How much time do you need, Jerry?”
“If we drop everything else—?”
“Yes.”
“Three weeks.”
“Three weeks?”
“Maybe two. But that’s the best we can do.”
“That won’t work. They wouldn’t get there in time. Might as well not go.” She had nothing else available. Damned stuff was all out in the boondocks. “What’s the worst that can happen if we go through with the launch?”
“You mean Friday?”
“Yes.”
“It might blow up.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Of course. But I wouldn’t guarantee it’ll get where it’s going.”
“Okay. No guarantee. Other than that, what are my chances?”
“It’ll probably do fine.”
“Any safety concerns?”
“We’ll do an inspection. Make sure. No, they’ll be okay. They might get stranded. But otherwise—”
“—No guarantees.”
“—Right.”
“Okay. Jerry, I’m going to send a record of this conversation to Dave Collingdale. You inform the captain.”
Collingdale hadn’t come in yet, so she left a message, describing the chief engineer’s concerns. She told him reluctantly that it should add some spice to the flight. Then she sighed and headed for the commissioner’s office to assume her new duties.
HER FIRST APPOINTMENT was with Melanie Toll of Thrillseekers, Inc.
Despite the capabilities of existing technology to create images that could not be distinguished from the originals, allowing virtual face-to-face conversations between people thousands of kilometers apart, people with business propositions still found the personal touch indispensable. Making the effort to cross some geography at personal inconvenience sent a message about how serious one was.
Serious. And here came Ms. Toll of Thrillseekers.
Hutch gazed at her over the vast expanse of Asquith’s desk. (The commissioner insisted she use his office when exercising his function.) She was young, attractive, tall, quite sure of herself. She wore a gold necklace and a matching bracelet, both of which acquired additional sparkle in the sheen of her auburn hair.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Hutchins,” she said.
“You’re giving me more credit than I deserve.” Hutch shook her hand, listened to the light tinkle of the gold, and led her to a seat by the coffee table.
They talked briefly about weather, traffic, and how lovely the Academy grounds were. Then Hutch asked what she could do for her visitor.
Toll leaned forward, took a projector from her purse, and activated it. An image appeared of a young couple happily climbing the side of a mountain. Below them, the cliff fell away five hundred meters. Hutch could see a river sparkling in the sunlight.
Thrillseekers, Inc., took people on actual and virtual tours around the world and let them indulge their fantasies. Aside from dangling from cliffs, they rode golly balls along treacherous rivers, rescued beautiful women (or attractive men) from alligators, mounted horses and fought mock battles with bandits in the Sahara.
The projector displayed all this in enhanced colors, accompanied by an enthusiastic score, and over-charged titles. Danger for the Connoisseur. The Ultimate Thrill-Ride. The latter was a wild chase in a damaged flyer pursued by a man-eating cloud.
Moments later Hutch was racing down a ski slope, approaching a jump that seemed to have no bottom. “Hold on to Your Socks!” read the streamer. She couldn’t help pushing back into her chair and gripping the arms.
“Well,” said Toll, snapping off the image just before Hutch would have soared out into space, “that’s what we do. Although, of course, you knew that.”
She smirked at Hutch, who, despite herself, was breathing hard. “Of course, Ms. Toll.” Steady yourself. “That’s quite a show.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you liked it.”
“How can I help you?”
“We’re interested in Lookout. The place where the Goompahs are.”
“Really. In what way?”
“We’d like to put it on our inventory.” She crossed one leg over the other. The woman oozed sex. Even with no male in the room.
Marla, the commissioner’s secretary, came in with a coffee service and pastries. She glanced at Hutch to see if she could proceed. Hutch nodded, and the woman filled two fine china cups and asked if there was anything else. There wasn’t, so she withdrew. (Asquith didn’t use an AI for secretarial duties because having a human signified his elite status within the organization. Very few people other than CEOs and heads of state had them. But there was no question that Marla added to the ambience.)
“How do you mean,” Hutch asked, “put it on your ‘inventory’?”
“We’d like to make the experience available to our customers. We’d like them to be on the ground when the cloud comes in, watch the assault, feel what it’s like.”
“Ms. Toll, Lookout is three thousand light-years away. Your customers would be gone for almost two years. Maybe gone permanently.”
“No, no, no. We don’t mean we’d literally ship them out. What we’d like to do is send a couple of our technicians to Lookout to record the attack, get the sense of what really happens. Then we’d construct an artificial experience.” She tried the coffee and nodded. It met with her approval. “We think an omega program would do quite nicely.”
“And you’d like permission from me?” She wondered about that detail. Any world shown to have sentient life automatically came under the purview of the World Council, but its agent in such matters was the Academy.
“Permission and transportation,” said Toll.
Her instincts pushed her to say no, but she couldn’t see a reason to refuse. “Thrillseekers would have to pay their share of expenses.”
“Of course.”
“You’d have to agree not to make contact with the natives. But that shouldn’t be a problem. We’d simply set you down on the other side of the globe.”
She shook her head. “No, Ms. Hutchins. I don’t think you understand. The natives and their cities are the critical part of the equation. We’ll want to record them up close. But I can promise we’ll stay out of the way. They won’t see us.”
Representatives from two of the major news organizations had appointments with her during the afternoon, and she suddenly realized why they were there. There was going to be more of this. Let’s get good shots of the Goompahs running for their lives.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Toll, but I don’t think we can do it.”
Her pretty brow furrowed and Hutch saw that she had a vindictive streak. “Why not?” she asked, carefully keeping her voice level.
Common decency, you blockhead. “It puts the Protocol at risk.”
“I beg your pardon.” She tried to look baffled. “They won’t see us.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
She tried to debate the point. “We’ll keep out of the way. No way they’ll know we’re there. Our people will be in the woods.”
“There’s also a liability problem,” Hutch said. “I assume you expect these people to stay during the bombardment.”
“Well, of course. They’d have to stay.”
“That makes us liable for their safety.”
“We’ll give you a release.”
“Releases have limited value in this kind of case. One of your people doesn’t come back, his family sues you, and then sues us. The piece of paper isn’t worth a damn in court if it can be shown we willingly transported him into an obviously dangerous situation.”
“Ms. Hutchins, I would be grateful if you could be reasonable.”
“I’m trying to be.”
Toll quibbled a bit longer, decided maybe she needed to talk with the commissioner, the real commissioner. Then she shook her head at Hutch’s perversity, shook hands politely, and left.
SHE HAD A brief conversation with maintenance over contracts with suppliers, then went down to the conference room for the commissioner’s weekly meeting. That was usually a scattershot affair, attended by the six department heads. Asquith was neither a good planner nor a good listener. There was never an agenda, although he’d left one for her this time. It was all pretty routine stuff, though, and she got through it in twenty minutes.
It didn’t mention the Goompahs. “Before I let you go,” she concluded, “you all know what the situation is at Lookout.”
“The Goompahs?” said the director of personnel, struggling to keep a straight face.
She didn’t see the humor. “Frank,” she said, “in December, a lot of the
m are going to die. Maybe their civilization with them. If anybody has an idea how we might prevent that, I’d like to hear it.”
“If we had a little more time,” said Life Sciences, Lydia Wu-Chen, “we could set up a base on their moon. Evacuate them. At least get some of them out of harm’s way.”
Hutch nodded. “It’s too far. We need nine months just to get there.”
“I don’t think it’s possible,” said Physics, Wendell McSorley.
“Did you see the pictures from Moonlight?” asked Frank, looking around at his colleagues. “You have to find a way to stop the cloud. Otherwise, it’s bye-bye baby.”
“There’s nothing we can do about the cloud,” said Wendell.
“No magic bullet?” asked Lydia. “Nothing at all?”
“No.”
Hutch described Tom Callan’s idea. Wendell thought there was a possibility it might work. “It would have helped if we’d been out there with it a couple of years ago, though. We’ve waited until the thing has seen the Goompahs.”
“The same thing,” said Hutch, “could happen somewhere else next month. We need a weapon.”
“Then we need money,” said Wendell. “Somebody has to get serious about the program.” He looked dead at her.
AND THAT BROUGHT her back to the issue of food and blankets for survivors. She’d like to send medical supplies, too, but saw no quick way to find out what would be useful. So forget the medical stuff. The food would have to be synthesized, after they’d discovered what the natives would eat. But who would do it?
She had Marla put in a call to Dr. Alva. Very busy, they told her. Not available. Who is Priscilla Hutchins again? But ten minutes later Marla informed her that Dr. Alva was on the circuit. She looked impressed. “And by the way,” she added, “your three o’clock is waiting.”
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