-----------------------------------
Analog SFF, September 2011
by Dell Magazine Authors
-----------------------------------

Science Fiction

Dell Magazines
www.dellmagazines.com

Copyright ©2011 by Dell Magazines

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

Cover Art by NASA and Lynn Barranger

Cover design by Victoria Green

CONTENTS

Reader's Department: EDITORIAL: FALSE ALARMS AND INVISIBLE TRIUMPHS by Stanley Schmidt

Novelette: THERAPEUTIC MATHEMATICS AND THE PHYSICS OF CURVE BALLS by Gray Rineheart

Science Fact: SHAKE, RATTLE, AND ROLL: IS MISSOURI AMERICA'S MOST DANGEROUS EARTHQUAKE ZONE? by Richard A. Lovett

Short Story: HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT by Emily Mah

Short Story: THE CHAPLAIN'S ASSISTANT by Brad R. Torgersen

Short Story: ASTEROID MONTE by Craig DeLancy

Department: THE ALTERNATE VIEW: PLANET NARNIA by Jeffery D. Kooistra

Novelette: HELIX OF FRIENDS by Carl Frederick

Novella: ENERGIZED: PART III OF IV by Edward M. Lerner

Reader's Department: BRAD R. TORGERSEN by Richard A. Lovett

Reader's Department: THE REFERENCE LIBRARY by Don Sakers

Reader's Department: BRASS TACKS

Reader's Department: IN TIMES TO COME

Reader's Department: UPCOMING EVENTS by Anthony Lewis

* * * *

Vol. CXXXI No. 9 September 2011

Stanley Schmidt, Editor

Trevor Quachri, Managing Editor

Peter Kanter: Publisher

Christine Begley: Vice President, Editorial and Product Development

Susan Mangan: Vice President, Design and Production

Stanley Schmidt: Editor

Trevor Quachri: Managing Editor

Mary Grant: Editorial Assistant

Emily Hockaday: Editorial Admin Assistant

Jayne Keiser: Typesetting Director

Suzanne Lemke: Assistant Typesetting Manager

Kevin Doris: Senior Typesetter

Victoria Green: Senior Art Director

Cindy Tiberi: Production Artist

Laura Tulley: Senior Production Manager

Jennifer Cone: Production Associate

Abigail Browning: Manager, Subsidiary Rights and Marketing

Bruce W. Sherbow: VP, Sales, Marketing, and IT

Sandy Marlowe: Circulation Services

Advertising Representative: Robin DiMeglio, Advertising Sales Manager, Tel:(203) 866-6688 n Fax:(203) 854-5962 (Display and Classified Advertising)

Editorial Correspondence Only: analog@dellmagazines.com

Published since 1930

First issue of Astounding January 1930 (c)

* * * *

We welcome your letters, which should be sent to Analog, 267 Broadway, 4th Floor, New York, NY 10007, or e-mail to analog@dellmagazines.com. Space and time make it impossible to print or answer all letters, but please include your mailing address even if you use e-mail. If you don't want your address printed, put it only in the heading of your letter; if you do want it printed, please put your address under your signature. We reserve the right to shorten and copy-edit letters. The email address is for editorial correspondence only—please direct all subscription inquiries to: 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855.

Reader's Department: EDITORIAL: FALSE ALARMS AND INVISIBLE TRIUMPHS
by Stanley Schmidt

Like most people, I depend for much of what I know on the conglomeration of sources known collectively as “the media": things like newspapers, magazines, radio, television, and now the internet. Unfortunately, sometimes a news story in one of those sources deals with people and events of which I have direct knowledge—and all too often, when that happens, it seems to me that the writer was more interested in journalistic cuteness than in factual accuracy.

Consider, for example, an essay by Michael Elliott in the December 6, 2010 issue of Time. Titled “Was It Really So Bad?,” its subject was the decade 2001-2010, and it included this tantalizing statement: “The period started in the shadow of the Y2K hype, when billions were burned fixing nonexistent problems with computer programs that were supposed to blow up when the new millennium began.”

Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? The trouble is, it has more ring than substance. I'll give Mr. Elliott credit for meaning “blow up” figuratively rather than literally, but those “nonexistent” problems were far from nonexistent. I knew too many of the people who worked overtime to fix them to believe that. The problems were quite real consequences of shortsighted programming (or programming management): People using computer programs for all manner of things wrote software using two-digit rather than four-digit designations for years. A charitable observer might find some cause for forgiveness in the fact that memory was much more expensive then than it is now, so the cost savings effected by doing that were not as trivial as they now seem. But that isn't really an excuse. Those making the decisions should have anticipated that at least some of those records would still need to be accessible after the calendar rolled over to 2000, and that the ambiguity of two-digit year numbers would then cause serious problems. So as that date approached, programmers and managers had to scramble to go into a great many programs and files and do surgery to eliminate the ambiguity. They succeeded, so 2000 came and went smoothly, at least as far as computers keeping track of dates were concerned.

But that's because the problems were solved, not because they never existed. What Mr. Elliott cleverly but wrongly shrugs off as a false alarm was instead an invisible victory—a big job whose main effect, as perceived by an outside observer, was that “nothing happened.” In his cavalier dismissal of that possibility, he falls right into the trap I warned against in my January 2000 editorial, when I wrote, “If we're lucky, the problems occurring on or after January 1 will be minimal; but even if they're negligible, nobody can reasonably claim [as Mr. Elliott does] that two-digit software dates caused no trouble. If we get off easy on New Year's Day, it will not be because there was never any problem, but because vast numbers of dollars and person-hours were already spent trying to solve it before the deadline.”

The whole thing is a good example of a kind of problem I suspect we're going to be facing more and more: How can ordinary people appreciate, and give appropriate credit for, important work whose main effect, if it's successful, is a nonoccurrence? Or, conversely, how can we be sure that people claiming to have done such work have really done so, and aren't just making the claim in order to collect undeserved compensation, or to justify other actions that may not really be justified?

For most people, I suspect, the question is little more than academic in the case of the “Y2K bug.” As long as it didn't wreak havoc on 1/1/2000, and they're not being directly billed for the work that was done to prevent it, most of them probably don't really care whether that work was done or not. In many cases, they could probably find out, if they were determined enough. “Before” and “after” records presumably exist, though most of them would be incomprehensible and/or dull as dishwater to most non-programmers—and, of course, many would be off-limits because they contain proprietary or classified information.

But what about other cases in which everybody is footing the bill and/or feeling direct consequences? We are, for example, told similar things about the lack of serious terrorist incidents in this country since 9/11: They haven't happened because the increasingly stringent security measures adopted by the Department of Homeland Security are working—so we should accept even more of those measures.

This may be true; I certainly hope so. But we have only their word for it—by the nature of the beast, the people aren't allowed to see the documentation. Which poses a fundamental and serious dilemma: How do we know that the incidents that haven't happened were concrete threats that were actively thwarted by government actions, and not just vague hypothetical possibilities that never would have happened anyway? If that's true, then we should certainly be grateful for having been protected from tragedy, and we have to recognize that intelligence and security activities often do have to be carried out secretly to be effective.

But I hope none of us are too comfortable with getting into a habit of saying, “Thanks for protecting me from the Bad Thing that was going to happen, even though you can't tell me what it was.” Especially when the tools and methods used for protection could just as easily be used for oppression . . .

It's an important question, and I don't have any easy answers to it. In the world as it now is, we really do need measures to protect against a wide range of threats; and many of those measures, by the nature of the threats, have to be pursued out of the public eye. But we also need accountability: Governments, corporations, and any other entities doing things that affect other people, sooner or later have to be able to justify themselves. When important work is only visible if and when it fails, how can we know that it was really necessary and done successfully?

The best suggestion I've been able to come up with so far is that the answer probably involves the Freedom of Information Act or something similar. If we grant that some kinds of work must be done secretly because releasing information about them while they're in progress would jeopardize their success, it seems reasonable to suggest that there should eventually come a time when they have succeeded and the details—or at least some of them*—can be laid out for public examination. An entity that can demonstrate a concrete record of past successes will earn credibility and increased support for its methods. One that can't must expect questions and perhaps calls for change.

There's a monolog segment in which Mark Twain told of his doctor trying to persuade him to change his bad habits. It went something like this:

“He [the doctor] said, ‘You drink a whiskey every night before you go to bed, don't you?'

“'Why, yes, I do, doctor. But I only do it as a preventative of the toothache.'

“I've never had the toothache.

“And I don't ever intend to have it.”

It makes good humor. It may not always make good policy.

—

* I realize that some details may still have to remain classified because they involve details of methodology that derive some of their power from their proprietary nature and may still be needed for future use.

—

Copyright © 2011 Stanley Schmidt

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: THERAPEUTIC MATHEMATICS AND THE PHYSICS OF CURVE BALLS
by Gray Rineheart

Those who don't fit standard pigeonholes must make their own...

Joey sat in his glass display case, wearing his overlarge uniform, doing statistical analysis in his head to keep from invading the spectators’ thoughts. With the show currently in south Arkansas, he wore a hand-me-down St. Louis Cardinals jersey and pinstripe pants that reached almost to his cheap cleats. The woolen sleeves itched his arms, and his eyes watered at the acrid residue of whatever they had used to wash the shirt.

Dust kicked up from the crowd's feet clouded the view through the sawdust-strewn tent. On the thigh-high stage at the far end, Hector juggled some knives to warm up for his act. Around the periphery, the other freaks sat in their own glassed-in cages: Big Barbara in her enormous booth, Mabel and Perry in their booths the same size as Joey's.

At this distance, under the tinted lights, Mabel's beard looked almost as full and thick as the sideshow handbill pictures. Joey cringed a little at the thought of how prickly her whiskers felt whenever she kissed him on the cheek.

Lights, dust, and distance didn't make Perry look all that much like a dog, but then Joey knew Perry up close. The crowd, influenced by the crude caricatures that exaggerated Perry's protruding jaw into a snout, would think his whiskers looked real enough. It was a good illusion, the add-ons Fineas had installed through Perry's cheeks; better in some ways than the stitches around the lump on Joey's head. A better illusion, anyway: Joey listened to Perry cry himself to sleep most nights because his face hurt so bad.

Each booth had a fancy hand-lettered sign on an easel in front of it. Joey's was turned away from him, of course, but he knew what it said.

“The Baseball Boy.”

Joey resisted the urge to scratch at the tight little knots on his head. The stitches simulated baseball seams around the bony extrusion of skull that was his claim to freakish fame. Sometimes when he messed with them the stitches bled, which gave the lie to the whole illusion; but it was worse when they came out. Then Fineas re-stitched him and it always hurt.

Almost as bad as the thinking.

He'd been part of the sideshow about two and a half years, and had grown to realize that the customers’ thoughts were much the same no matter where the show went. He always found a mix of pity and revulsion aimed at him, sometimes more and sometimes less than what they thought about the other freaks, and even when their thoughts turned to normal things like home or business or farming it wasn't worth enduring the agony to listen to them. So Joey retreated into numbers and formulas, the defense mechanism he'd learned growing up.

Today he was examining a nonlinear model of the stock market. He had developed the model over the last six months, and was revising it based on the latest Lend-Lease projections he'd read about. But he couldn't concentrate as much as he would've liked: Fineas was barking, and the sideshow's owner always distracted Joey more than when Olivia called out to the customers.

“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen!” Fineas barked, waving his silver-tipped cane for emphasis. “Observe a sad accident preserved by a medical miracle! Young Joseph Carter had dreams of a Major League career, and might have grown into as fine an example of skill and courage as the dearly departed Mr. Gehrig. But this young boy's dreams were tragically dashed when an errant fastball lodged itself in his skull. Unlike Ray Chapman, killed these many years ago by a pitch from that Yankee Carl Mays, young Mr. Carter survived the impact. However, doctors judged the projectile too dangerous to remove, and there it remains to this day! Ladies and gentlemen, the Baseball Boy!”

Fineas waved a flourish that left Joey wishing for Olivia's understated delivery. Fineas expected animation from his freaks; Olivia was satisfied that the sideshow members put up with the shtick.

The booth was too small for Joey to swing the Louisville Slugger that rested on his shoulder. The glass walls were set wide enough to keep people from getting too close, so they wouldn't pick out irregularities in the fake seams or see how the white-dyed “ball” was actually Joey's own skin. He wished he had enough room to swing the bat, but just lifted it in a mock salute.

He turned to his right and then back to face center, so the light could play over his head. He rotated slowly as a windup doll, so his longish hair wouldn't move and disturb the effect.

Fineas ushered the people along to the next exhibit. He'd want to get as many people through the show as possible so tonight the troupe could pack up and be on their way the next day. The weather was already turning colder here in the hinterlands, and the whole show was anxious to get through the upper Mississippi swing and into Louisiana so they could settle in for the winter in Boudreaux.

Joey started tinkering with a variable in his stock market model when he noticed a boy about his own age—or maybe only ten—standing, arms crossed, not moving with the crowd. Boys were usually fascinated by the freak show, but this one wasn't. His lower lip stuck out and he scuffed the sawdust with the toe of one boot, and when a woman reached toward him, he pulled away. Joey's curiosity got the better of him, and as fast as a trout jumping for a fly, he touched the boy's mind. The pain began behind Joey's left ear as he crept in. The boy had seen the freaks the day before . . . he didn't see why he had to come just because his cousins came to town for the fair . . . other things were more important—

—simple pain became torment that ricocheted off the inside of Joey's skull, shredding his brain. His vision wavered—

—the boy's thoughts were hours in the future, where he was already tasting apples and sweets, smashing pumpkins, and running about in gaudy costume—

—torment escalated into torture, and Joey went blind.

* * * *

The doctor saw the tumor on the side of Joey's head as Joey was born. It was May of 1930, the year—as Joey's father always said—Hack Wilson scored a record 191 runs batted in and Bill Terry hit .401 for the season.

The bulge on the left side of Joey's skull, behind and a little higher than his ear, was actually a bit larger than a regulation baseball, but on a baby's head it looked massive. While Joey was making his escape from the womb, as his misshapen head forced its way out between his mother's legs, the midwife gasped and the doctor blasphemed; after he had done all he could to repair the damage, the man told Molly Carter that she would never bear another child. Molly held Joey close and washed his face with her tears. The doctor muttered as he left, but Molly heard him clearly, that at first he thought her son was some two-headed monster.

Molly told the story to Paul when they let him in the recovery room. On his deathbed, Paul told it to his eight-year-old son.

By then Joey already knew the story from seeing it in his parent's own minds. Hearing it from his father like that was a shock, the most unkind thing Joey's father ever said to him.

Joey's earliest memories were a disturbing montage of visions and emotions that only now was he coming to understand, layered on top of waves of pain and episodes of temporary blindness. He might have gone mad had he not learned to focus on the cool precision of the logic puzzles and number games his father loved. Through the agonizing slowness of early childhood, Joey learned to distract himself from the chaotic thought patterns around him by concentrating on ever more abstract mathematics that he first pulled from his father's thoughts and then explored in the man's books. As long as he held fast to a computational problem or even a table of logarithms, he could push the other minds away and stave off the pain and blindness.

Perhaps, though, he had gone mad. His primary pleasure was avoidance of pain using higher order equations. Math in all its forms was his therapy and his salvation, and a cage more effective than any glass booth. The elegance of proofs, the complexities of formulas and calculations, the beauty of numbers kept his mind occupied and kept him out of other people's thoughts.

The doctors had examined him, of course: they x-rayed and fluoroscoped him at the university and mapped the bony and fleshy fingers that spread downward from the asymmetry of his skull into the soft contours of his brain. Later he learned the words, though they were difficult for him: vision center, occipital lobe, temporal lobe; surgery risky, prognosis poor, intellectual impact unknown. But despite his appearance and infirmity, his mother and father loved him and taught him; and to their amazement, and everyone else's, he learned. Though only he knew the secret that quieted his probing mind and kept the darkness at bay.

As much as he had concentrated on the orderly, formulaic thoughts of his father, he hadn't ignored his mother's thoughts. But since he did not find in them the comfort of calculation, he didn't investigate them as deeply. She had died too early for him to have explored her mind in conversation: by the time he began to understand what he knew of her, she had been dead for almost two years. For a while after that he'd read some of her books—literature both exciting and banal—to feel closer to her and how she thought. But the stories were too much like touching the minds of real people, so they never captivated him the way mathematics did.

And then his father died, coughing flecks of crimson blood even as he smiled up at Joey. When the funeral was over Joey's Uncle David pulled him away from the graveside, his sense of familial duty a thin veneer over the loathing that struck Joey like a physical blow. David took Joey to his tiny home in Tullahoma, where Joey's cousins called him a monster and his mathematical fortress crumbled more often than it held. Joey spent his ninth birthday in blind agony, curled up in the corner of the back stoop and ignored by the whole household. A few weeks later, as May slipped into June of 1939, David sold Joey to Fineas Ferguson's Fabulous Freakshow as it passed on its northward march.

* * * *

“Wake up, Joey,” Fineas called through the glass. He rapped on it hard, twice, with his cane—that affectation to status, a symbol of his sovereignty over his tiny traveling kingdom. Fineas Ferguson's real name was Horace MacInnerny, and when they met Joey had called him “Mr. MacInnerny.” Fineas waited until his Uncle David was gone, then hit Joey in the stomach and beat him across the back until Joey thought the stiff old cane might break. It didn't.

Joey opened his eyes, but the light was vague and diffuse like the deep gray mists that crept over the bayou. He rubbed his eyes and stood up, grateful that he'd stumbled into the chair at the back of his cage after his foray into the boy's mind. Joey's head felt as if Big Barbara had stepped on it, putting all of her bulk behind her tiny instep to produce the highest possible pressure. He was already disabled and disoriented, and another excursion would do little more harm, so he let his mind touch the man's on the other side of the glass. Thankfully, to Fineas Joey just appeared tired. Fineas didn't notice much difference between this episode and any of a hundred others since Joey had joined the freak show. Weak constitution, Fineas always said.

Joey nodded to him, and Fineas turned away to bring in the next group of customers. Joey leaned on the bat—it made a passable cane—and retreated into the relaxing exercise of finding large prime numbers while he waited for his head to clear and his vision to return.

His memory of that boy in the last group intruded with irritating persistence, and it took Joey a long time—two more parades of gawkers—to figure out why. The boy had been the sort of normal boy Joey always wished he could be. But Joey felt no jealousy toward him. On the contrary, he felt gratitude: that boy had given him the clue he needed to escape from the freak show and seize a little normalcy of his own.

Joey shifted his mind away from the pure numbers into the applied mathematics of probabilities, and laid his plans.

* * * *

It was too late for trick-or-treating when the last customers went through the freaks’ tent, but Joey didn't care. He stepped away from the carnies heading to the meal tent for late supper, slipped back to his cot, tore the sheet from the thin mattress, and made his way to the park entrance. He reached out as he went, carefully, touching minds and retreating almost immediately, just enough to know where they were going and how he might avoid them. Even with such caution, he was sick with vertigo by the time he got to the edge of the fairgrounds.

He stopped at the perimeter. His pulse beat in his temple, and he automatically counted it out as he cut eyeholes in the sheet. His hands shook, and the dull penknife tore the holes as much as it cut them.

The nearest neighborhood to the fairgrounds was poor, with few lights burning and fewer people still out and about. Joey draped the sheet over himself and walked the hard-packed dirt road, not even bothering to approach the houses to ask for handouts. The cool air smelled of wet grass and decaying leaves. In the distance two dogs barked at each other; a block away a couple argued, their words indistinct but their tones strident. Joey had not been so free since he had walked around Clinton, Tennessee, holding his father's hand.

The memory of his father—the feel of his hand, of being so open and relaxed with someone who looked on him with love instead of curiosity or loathing—hit him like a fastball and shattered the shield around his mind. The thoughts of the nearest group of people crept in behind the memory, widening the breach and taking more of his attention. Envy, pride, bitterness, ecstasy flew at him like Hector's throwing knives, and drove deep into his cerebral cortex.

The dirt road collided with Joey's knees. He swayed for a second, then landed on his side and chuffed out a gust of air at the impact.

He tried to move, tried to count the seconds as they passed, to grasp any number or symbol that might mask the pain. He failed.

Some time later, perhaps a minute, perhaps ten, hands shook him. “You sick, kid?” someone asked. Concern, opportunity, greed, cruelty slipped from their minds into his.

Joey reached up as if he were a mental boxer guarding his head from psychic blows, but the pain got through his defenses just ahead of the blindness. He felt someone pulling at the sheet, and he thrashed on the ground and held it close around his head—but his hands betrayed him and the fabric slipped through his fingers and fell away.

It took only a second before one of the others recognized him. Unconsciousness strangled Joey as footsteps ran into the distance.

* * * *

The first time Joey had walked away from the freak show was a month after his uncle sold him to Fineas. Somewhere up in Ohio or West Virginia, with fairgrounds near a river, Joey wanted to go fishing like he'd done with his dad back in Clinton. He put on a pork pie hat that a customer had left behind in the show tent, but he didn't make it even a hundred yards before one of the teamsters found him and brought him back. Fineas broke a cane on Joey's back that day, then got a new one and beat him more.

Now, over two years later, the strokes of the little man's cane seemed less painful. Joey wondered whether that was because he was bigger—even at eleven, he was quite tall for his age—or because Fineas was older. The blows gave him something to concentrate on so he could stay out of Fineas's mind, but he doubted the mental benefit was worth the price of the bruises.

Fineas may have grown weaker, but he had the endurance of a man who had worked hard every day of his life. He beat Joey for a long time, but didn't break his silver-tipped cane.

“You let them see you up close, you idiot,” Fineas said. “Good thing it was dark, so they couldn't get a good look at your head.” Fineas railed at him between blows and during most of them. He questioned Joey's parentage; extolled his own virtue and charity in taking Joey in and giving him a life of relative ease, travel, and luxury; and used all manner of scatological, vulgar, and profane references that Joey's dad had told him were the marks of inferior thinking. Joey used the pain to keep from examining Fineas's thinking; it was enough to know that his choice of words was the product of barely controlled rage.

The blows shifted from Joey's back to his thighs and upper arms and back again, and gradually they came less frequently and then stopped altogether.

Fineas backed away, breathing hard. “Make no mistake, little Joey. You make me money, I take care of you—that's why I don't ever hit you in your precious ugly head. But I won't put up with this. So if you ever pull a stunt like this again, I won't hurt you any more. Instead, I'll find new and exciting ways to hurt everyone you care about—Perry, maybe, or Mabel or Olivia.”

Fineas smacked him one last time on the sole of his foot, and left Joey with bruises on bruises. He must have slept—it was the only time his brain contented itself inside the confines of his lopsided skull—but it seemed like a bare instant before he felt a cool cloth being daubed on his welts.

“I wish I could help you,” Olivia said.

You always have, Joey wanted to say. You are.

Olivia had accepted him more than anyone when Joey first came to the freak show. She'd helped him learn the routines of carnival life: the fetching and carrying and cleaning that broke up the monotony of the booth and the customers. She had mothered him when he'd been without his own mother for years.

“I just want to be a normal kid, a regular kid,” Joey said.

“You can't be regular, because you're special.”

It was what his mom and dad had told him, too, but he knew better. “That's what you say to make someone feel better for being a freak.”

Olivia didn't disagree. Her slick, dark hair half-obscured her deep brown eyes, but didn't hide the light of understanding in them.

“My dad let me be regular, sometimes,” Joey said. “Did I tell you that he used to play ball with me? I can't throw hard, or catch very well, but we laughed and had fun.”

The cloth soothed most of the hurt away, and instead of math, Joey clung to memory, of his dad on the green under the big oaks, patiently pitching and catching with his weird, wounded son. He tried to be a big boy, not to cry as he thought of afternoons at the ball park where the local team played. How his dad loved the game. He would've been amazed at Joe DiMaggio's 56-game hitting streak this year, and Ted Williams hitting .406 for the season. If his dad were still alive they would've argued over the probabilities, and it would have been joyous.

“He took me to ball games sometimes,” Joey said. “We used to calculate stats on all the players, and we tried to figure the fractions of seconds to see how fast the pitcher threw or how fast a runner got to first base. If I figured it out before he did, he'd buy me ice cream or cotton candy or whatever I wanted.”

Olivia stopped dabbing his bruises. She pulled back on her hair and looked him in the eye, and the corners of her eyes crinkled. “I've never heard of such a thing,” she said.

Joey shrugged. It hurt, but it was only physical pain. He grinned at the thought of it, because it was so much more pleasant than the lightning-hot pains he endured in his mind. He said, “My dad taught physics at the University of Tennessee, at Knoxville. He taught me calculus and statistics when I was little. It was,” he almost choked on the word, “normal for me.”

Olivia tipped her head, as if she was listening to another voice. Joey concentrated on the bruise over his right kidney in order to leave her to her private thoughts. “I've never heard of such a thing,” she repeated, and her voice carried the recognition—or the revelation—that there were different kinds of freaks, and it didn't matter to her what kind of freak Joey was.

Olivia pressed the cloth into Joey's hand, pointed to the basin of water, and left him to treat himself. He lay back on the cot and put the cool cloth over the bulbous lump on the side of his head. He thought of his dad, and warm summer days, and calculated the rate of spin on Dizzy Dean's curve ball.

* * * *

The freak show wintered in southern Louisiana as usual, and when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor there was some talk of canceling the ‘42 carnival season. But Fineas said there would always be people with nickels they wanted to spend, and why shouldn't the carnival get them? Even right after the big stock market crash, back around the time Joey was born, people still went to ball games—they went to forget their troubles, and sometimes the hot dog they got at the park was the only meal they ate that day.

So the troupe packed up and pressed on that spring, crisscrossing east and west and moving gradually north with the frost line despite the tense mood in the country.

Joey's stock market model had been unable to match the changes in the economy brought on by wartime rationing, and he couldn't get numbers on war production to make up new models, so he'd gone back to compiling and comparing sports statistics out of every newspaper he came across. Thanks to FDR's January letter to the commissioner, the baseball season had started as usual and promised to be a good one. It was still hard to believe that Ted Williams had set a new hitting record the previous year, and even harder to believe the rumors that some ballplayers were going to enlist in the Army.

The calendar turned over into May and the show struggled into St. Louis, hoping that the big city would bring a little more money than the Podunk places they usually went. On their first afternoon in town, it seemed as if that hope might be realized.

A close-packed crowd of over a dozen people entered the tent, six or eight of them pressed close to a towering man in the center to get his autograph or shake his hand. The other fans orbited nearby like a squad of mosquitoes on a hot summer night, looking for an opening so they could swoop in. A murmur moved through the tent like a wave as his name was whispered along: Irv Morgan, “Freight Train.”

Joey knew the name from the papers: number 25 on the Cardinals’ roster, another of the hot new players who came up late in the ‘41 season, 14 runs batted in on a .312 average in only a few games. He'd earned his nickname after he bowled over the Boston Braves’ catcher in his first game. For a moment Joey froze, stunned to be on the other side of the glass from a major leaguer; then he backed up half a step, suddenly self-conscious in his dingy Cardinals uniform. At least he filled it out better than last season: the pants ended at his mid-calf now.

Joey put the numerals together that had come so easily to him—25, 1941, 14,312—and tried to multiply them in his mind to keep from invading Morgan's, but his concentration slipped and temptation overpowered his rational thought. He closed his eyes, steadied himself with the bat in front of him, and prepared for agony.

He slipped into Morgan's thoughts, looking for the sensations of doing all the things he would never do, like hitting a fastball or running down a pop fly or sliding into home plate. He found all those, and more: the satisfaction of last night's one-run win over the Braves, the determination to win again and more decisively tonight, and the special anticipation of tomorrow's doubleheader against the Brooklyn Dodgers. The thrill of it dulled the knives stabbing Joey's brain, and as he felt in his gut the tension of facing a wicked curve ball with two men on and two outs, he knew exactly what he wanted to do for his twelfth birthday.

The problem would be figuring out how to do it.

Joey didn't mind so much when the blindness crept in on him, though he almost missed the most surprising thing in Morgan's thoughts: not the usual shock and pity of the freak show spectator, but simply doubt. The ballplayer knew Joey's freakdom was faked somehow; the sheer impossibility of it hung suspended in the man's mind like the noon sun on opening day.

Joey swayed, found mental footing at last in estimating the distance from the fairgrounds to the stadium, and retreated from Morgan's mind before he succumbed to total darkness, before the pain finally knocked him down. As he withdrew, he heard a simple thought: Poor kid.

* * * *

Joey's vision was still a little fuzzy at the edges as he pushed beans around on his plate, puzzling over his encounter with the young baseball player. For the ballplayer, each day's game was a show, like the freaks facing the day's customers, but it was active and strategic and the outcome was uncertain, as opposed to sitting behind glass to be ogled and pointed at. But the game was more forgiving: wins and losses added up over time, yes, but every game was a new opportunity, a new chance to win; for the freaks, every day was the same rotating crowd of new faces to pity and revile them.

Joey thought about new opportunities, chances to do daring things never done or mundane things better than before. He wanted to be daring, and had in the last hour dared more than ever, but he was afraid of what Fineas would do if he left the show again. Joey could take risks when they were his alone, but he wondered if he could go through with risking more than himself. He wouldn't want to see Mabel get hurt; she was sweet even if her whiskers tickled. Perry had borne enough pain, the stoic little boy. And Olivia had been so good to him: the thought of her bruised by Fineas's cane made him want to pull back like a frightened snail. How could he even consider taking a chance on that?

His bench jiggled and creaked as someone sat down next to him. Joey knew at a mental glance that it was Olivia, and started arranging his beans in a pattern to keep his mind occupied.

“Happy birthday,” Olivia said.

“That's tomorrow.”

“I know, but I may not see you then. I'm doing the fortune telling tomorrow for Hassid, if I can get enough padding into his stupid suit. And get the mustache to stay on. And get the accent right.”

Joey wished he had more beans, so he could produce a more dynamic pattern.

Olivia said, “You're plotting something, aren't you?”

“No,” he said.

“Yes, you are. I can see it.” She came close enough to Hassid's accent that Joey looked up at her.

She looked ridiculous, wearing Hassid's turban.

“I saw how you looked at that lady in the last group tonight, and how she put some money in the sawdust at the corner of your booth.”

Joey nearly dropped his fork. He hadn't been sure he could make the suggestion work—it was far more complex than simply showing his father a mathematical symbol at the right time and place to give him a long-sought solution. He couldn't explain it to Olivia, and only half understood it himself. It was as if something a person wanted to do was a marble sitting at the top of a slide, and Joey could push it a little and get it rolling to help them make a decision or take an action. It took more effort and caused more pain than any other mental contact, and it had to be their own idea; he'd never been able to change anyone's mind, no matter how much agony he put himself through. He'd tried with his uncle, to stay in his house; he'd tried with Fineas, to stop the beatings; but contradicting a person's desires was like moving a mental mountain. Joey had never come close to overturning another person's deep-seated tendency.

Joey thought he had a good reason for trying the suggestion: By the time the lady's group had come in, he had planned a way to go to the first game of the Cardinals’ doubleheader tomorrow as a birthday present to himself. The woman was the first person in a long time who, in her pity, had wished she could do something for the boy in the booth—and who actually had enough money that she could. He was just helping her do what she wanted to do, right? To get to the game, he needed money for cab fare and a ticket. His head still hurt from helping her make her decision.

Now he wasn't sure about going to the game at all.

Olivia made the accent even heavier. “You can hide nothing from me,” she said, and leaned forward with her eyes open wide. She tapped her temple just below the folded mass of the turban.

Now Joey did drop his fork. It clattered against the tin plate and he felt a speck of sauce land on the back of his hand. He noted it casually, already deep into calculating probabilities. This was a new factor, and he wanted to kick himself for not seeing the possibility before. He would still have to be careful, of course, but now his chance of success had to be much higher.

“I don't know what you told that lady,” Olivia said, thankfully dropping the accent, “but you are plotting something. I can tell.”

“Okay, maybe I am,” Joey said. “But I can't tell you. It's a surprise. For my birthday.”

Olivia nodded, turned to her plate of food, and took a bite. After two more bites, she said, “That's fine. If you don't tell me what you're planning, I don't have to lie when Fineas asks me. But what can I do to help?”

* * * *

A few rough, high clouds took on the color of ripe oranges the next morning, as the sun rose on Joey's birthday. He dismissed Perry's “red sun in morning” prediction of doom, and decided that, in this light, Perry did resemble something like a little canine.

Joey feigned a stomachache, but none of the freaks and workers took notice—they were used to his complaints, his tears and screams when the pain was too much, and his occasional fainting spells. Even when he made himself throw up his breakfast into the dust outside the tent flap, no one seemed to care. Joey asked Perry to fetch Fineas and crawled back onto his cot.

Fineas came in about a quarter hour later, with Olivia in tow. The little man frowned like a monkey, his lower lip bulging like it was packed with snuff. He stood at the end of Joey's cot and turned his cane in his hands.

Olivia bent over Joey and felt his head. “He may have a little fever,” she said.

Before Fineas could harangue him, Joey croaked, “I'll be okay by tonight. I'm sure I will. Just let me rest for now.”

Fineas grumbled about Joey's weak constitution. Joey set himself to computing twelve to the twelfth power—it was his twelfth birthday, after all—in order not to look in Fineas's mind. He needed to avoid the mental pain as long as possible; it would dull his concentration, and he couldn't risk the blindness at this stage of his plan. He guessed that Fineas might be suspicious, it was in his nature, but he knew the man well enough to know that what drove him most was greed. Fineas was likely doing math of his own, calculating how much he might lose if any early customers were disappointed at not seeing the Baseball Boy.

Fineas looked at Olivia, but she only shrugged.

Fineas said, and his tone brooked no argument, “You better be upright, in uniform, and in place by six.” He snapped the cane into his open palm and stormed out, Olivia trailing close behind.

Joey finished calculating—eight trillion, nine hundred sixteen billion, one hundred million, four hundred forty-eight thousand, two hundred fifty-six—before he dared get up. He reached out with his mind and found no others nearby: they were all busy sweeping, laying out new straw and sawdust, or moving concessions about, just as he would be doing on any regular day. But not today.

Joey dressed quickly in the best suit he had. It was an old one that the little cook, Archibald, gave him when he first joined the freak show: the legs were the right length now, but the jacket had grown a trifle short. Joey pulled his shirtsleeves down, and they stuck out from the jacket sleeves almost the length of the shirt cuffs. But he didn't care: he didn't expect anyone to look closely at his suit.

From the depths of his trunk Joey pulled one of Hassid's turban cloths that Olivia had passed him last night. He wrapped it around his own head, and satisfied himself that he could pass for a student or young businessman from some exotic clime. He put the customer woman's money in his pocket and reached out to find the nearby minds.

He touched the others just enough to know where they were going and then retreated to vector calculations so he could plot an unimpeded course out of the fairgrounds. Each touch cost him a pinprick in his brain, and they added up to a significant headache by the time he got to the gate. Just like last fall, the constant shifting left him nauseous, which meant that throwing up his breakfast turned out to be more integral to his plan than he first thought. He fought the involuntary contractions of his gut while he walked away from the fairgrounds and the freak show.

It took longer than he anticipated to find a cab, and he counted the transit time as carefully as possible to know when he would have to leave the ballpark to get back without getting in trouble—and without forcing Fineas's wrath on anyone else. Now he sat midway up the bleachers, behind first base, with the Cardinals in the field and the first of the Brooklyn Dodgers coming up to bat.

Dust and grass and cigar smoke blew on a light breeze. To keep out of the spectators’ minds Joey had estimated the crowd size, the box office take, and the concessions revenue, and planned to revise those estimates as the game continued. He closed his eyes and let the sun's warmth and light soak into his face, variously squeezing and relaxing his eyelids and trying to calculate the changes in transmissivity.

The umpire bellowed, “Play ball!” and Joey felt an upward swell in his body. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes, and when he opened them his vision was crystal clear.

Play proceeded, and Joey reveled in the mathematics of the game: the parabolic flight of the ball, wind and gravity and spin, men solving partial differential equations unconsciously as they judged trajectories and angles to make their catches. He sat amazed by the easy grace of Irv Morgan at bat, and stood and cheered with the crowd when Morgan drove the Cardinals into the lead.

Shadows lengthened with each inning, and when the sun crossed the meridian Joey had chosen as his marker, he didn't want to leave. He should be able to get a cab easier here at the stadium; he revised his time estimate and sat back to watch the next inning.

He couldn't immediately think of a math problem, and the thoughts around him began to intrude on his mind. Flavors, daydreams, anger over a blown call two innings ago, impinged on him like hammer blows on the anvil of his skull. He tried to shut them out, but they were too many, and he skipped from mind to mind, the pain building as he sought escape until—

—he found a mind considering a new mathematics, a vector calculus he had never encountered before. It was elegant and immensely complex, and Joey barely acknowledged the temptation before he dove into the mind of a man who seemed so like his father on his best day. He accepted the pain, nearly came to enjoy the feeling of his eyes desiccating inside their sockets. Joey marveled at the beauty of the mathematics, the puzzle this physicist was trying to solve, derived from a model of dynamic interactions at the atomic level. It was an urgent problem in the man's mind, pressed on him by the government looking for help with a project in Manhattan.

The equations gradually dampened the pain Joey felt, and let him concentrate harder on the incredible, convoluted problem. He closed his eyes and let himself run through a Wonderland of esoteric formulas. He barely registered the progress of the game, the crowd's reaction to a stolen base, Irv Morgan coming to bat again.

The error he found was a small thing, hidden in a derivation of terms, overlooked by the man two rows up from Joey. The mistake was as ugly as a blemish on the cheek of an otherwise gorgeous starlet, one that nobody with any aesthetic sense could ever call a beauty mark.

Joey pulled back for a second, his exit from the man's mind made easier by the math itself. The stadium, the crowd, and the players materialized around him like something out of The Arabian Nights: hazy mirages seen from afar. Morgan arrowed a foul ball into the stands; it clattered around the nearly-empty section next to Joey's, and he automatically analyzed the trajectory and the inelastic collisions. He grinned, elated by the joy of an elegant solution to a difficult problem, and dove back into the physicist's mind.

Like the time he helped his father, Joey reached out with the right symbols in the right places, and put the final form in the man's mind so cleanly that he never knew he didn't think of it himself. The contact required, the depth of immersion, was much more intimate than just observing the thought process, and the correction was so clean that it didn't shield him as before. It felt as if the center of Joey's brain exploded. The man's elation came across as a soothing breeze even as agony and blindness overtook Joey.

Pain washed away into satisfaction as the crowd roared at Morgan's hit and the physicist roared at the success in his mind. Joey smiled, still seated, sweat cooling his back.

The crowd sat back down, quiet, but the physicist gathered his hat and coat to leave. He brushed by Joey on his way down the steps. Joey remembered that he needed to leave, too.

He tarried until his vision returned enough for him to navigate the bleachers. He was a little unsteady, but he made it to the street and started flagging down cabs, calculating the probability that he would be back to the fairgrounds in time to avoid Fineas's wrath. He came up short.

A cab finally pulled up and Joey opened the door. He looked back one last time at the stadium, thrilled to have come this far, amazed that he had done more on this birthday than he ever dreamed or could ever explain to anyone.

The physicist walked out of the gate.

He carried a bitten hotdog in his left hand and motioned with his right as if he were writing equations in the air. Joey grinned. He watched the man turn and head up the street, and a new temptation seized him: to follow this man wherever he went, to show him what he knew of mathematics and beg to be allowed into the university, where he could immerse himself in equations and the ephemera of the universe.

The choice opened before him, and Joey explored the lines of probability. If he didn't get back to the freakshow in time, how likely was it that Fineas would take it out on Olivia, or Perry, or someone else? A near certainty, but on this day when he had already accomplished so much, Joey felt sure that he would stand up for them and insist on taking all the punishment. He would stand in front of his friends and defend them; he would let Fineas break as many canes on his body as the little man could.

But what if he didn't go back at all? Fineas would threaten them all, but not even Olivia knew where Joey had gone. Would he bother to hurt the others if Joey wasn't there to witness it? If Joey left the freak show behind, would that be the best way to keep his friends out of danger? But what was the chance that anyone at a university or laboratory or government office would accept him the way the other freaks had?

The man walked away quickly, and with clear purpose; he was still writing in the air. He would understand, because Joey could speak his esoteric language, but could he look beyond Joey's deformity? Would anyone, who wasn't something of a freak themselves?

Joey gripped the door frame, the exhaust from the idling engine thick in the air around him, and considered a new possibility: that, if they could understand each other, the physicist might be as much of a freak as he was. The maths Joey hid behind might, to some people, be more freakish than the cranial bulge hidden under his borrowed turban. Joey thought of his father, and the receding stranger who seemed to think like he had, and wondered if he himself was even more of a freak than he thought. Or it might be that he was less of a freak, or that there were more kinds of freaks than he had ever imagined.

Joey considered trading the traveling freak show for a stationary one bounded by ivy-covered brick walls, a carnival permeated with symbolic logic instead of sawdust. He compared the ruthlessness of how Fineas had treated him, and the fury he would have to endure if the little man found him, against the unknown of whether he could make a new life with this physicist and his colleagues. He thought of Olivia, who accepted him as he was without fully realizing who he was, and wondered if anyone in the wider world would ever treat him the same. He thought of Irv Morgan, and new opportunities.

“Hey, buddy, what'll it be?” the cabbie asked. “We goin’ somewhere today?”

The crowd roared and Joey looked back at the stadium, then at the physicist already far down the block.

“Yes,” he said, and closed the cab door.

Copyright © 2011 Gray Rinehart

[Back to Table of Contents]

Science Fact: SHAKE, RATTLE, AND ROLL: IS MISSOURI AMERICA'S MOST DANGEROUS EARTHQUAKE ZONE?
by Richard A. Lovett

At 2:15 am, on December 16, 1811, residents of what is now the northeast corner of Arkansas were shaken from their beds by a large earthquake: powerful enough to knock even today's houses out of plumb and shift them off their foundations. In the next two months there were three other big jolts and countless smaller ones, spreading damage across pieces of what are now five states (Arkansas, Missouri, Tennessee, Kentucky, and Illinois).

In 1811-12, the region was so sparsely populated that damage was relatively light, and it's likely the death toll was zero. There were no seismometers to measure the exact size of the earthquakes. Time passed, and memories faded. Cities were built with no thought that they might be sitting on a seismic time bomb. Earthquakes, everyone knew, happened in California, not Missouri.

Then, in the latter half of the twentieth century, scientists and historians rediscovered the disaster and realized that these quakes—collectively known as the New Madrid quakes for the town of New Madrid, Missouri (pronounced MAD-rid)—were among the strongest ever recorded in the Lower 48 states—at least as strong as the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake, which knocked down freeway spans in the San Francisco Bay Area, killed 63 people, and injured 3,700 more. Meanwhile, geologists were finding evidence that they hadn't been unique. For at least 2,000 years, the New Madrid Fault Zone had popped loose big ones about every half-millennium. New Madrid is only 200 kilometers south of St. Louis. Suddenly, the Gateway City wasn't looking like the safest place to have built a tall, freestanding arch.

The first formal estimates of the earthquakes’ magnitude came in 1973, from the late Otto Nuttli of St. Louis University, who looked at historical descriptions and concluded that all four must have had magnitudes between about 7.0 and 7.5.[1] By way of comparison, the official U.S. Geological Survey estimate of the magnitude of the 1906 San Francisco Earthquake is 7.9.

In 1985, Arch Johnston of the University of Memphis upped the magnitude estimate to 8.0 or larger, based in part on reports that the quake reversed the flow of the Mississippi River and rang church bells as far away as Boston, Massachusetts.[2] The New Madrid quakes were now the largest ever recorded in the contiguous U.S.

Johnston's wasn't the biggest estimate. A video called “Hidden Fury,” produced for use in geology classes, describes the New Madrid earthquakes as the “most powerful series of earthquakes ever known on earth."[3]

“[The earthquakes] grew in the telling,” says Seth Stein, a geophysicist at Northwestern University whose book about New Madrid, Disaster Deferred, was published in September 2010. “This was a good-sized earthquake, but we've had lots of bigger ones."[4]

In 2000, Susan Hough, a seismologist at the U.S. Geological Survey's Pasadena, California office, took a new look at the historical records.

“You have an account that says people were frightened and ran outside and chimneys came down,” she says. “It's all breathless, but the bottom line may be that it was just a couple of chimneys. The older the accounts and the more fragmentary, the easier it is to exaggerate.”

She and a collaborator also discovered that there were no contemporaneous newspaper references to Boston church bells ringing in response to the earthquake. Perhaps the newspapers didn't bother to mention it, she says, “but that makes no sense. The newspapers did mention that the quake was felt in other places.”

She thinks the story may have arisen from confusion between Charleston, South Carolina—300 miles closer to the epicenter—and the Charlestown section of Boston. Once established, however, it became a major part of New Madrid lore: in Hough's words, “a myth that refused to die.”

Other claims are more controversial. Reports of the Mississippi flowing backward, for example, may simply have involved a seiche (sloshing) caused when banks caved in.

But they could also be accurate, even if the quake wasn't anywhere close to magnitude 8. “I'm not so sure the river ‘flowing backwards’ should be discounted,” says Stein. “The reporters were experienced boatsmen.” One account, collected by the Historical Society of Missouri, reads:

The current of the Mississippi was driven back upon its source with the greatest velocity for several hours in consequence of the elevation of its bed. But this noble river was not to be stayed in its course. Its accumulated waters came booming on, and over topping the barrier thus suddenly raised, carried everything before them with resistless power.

This doesn't sound like a seiche. But did the earthquake really elevate the entire riverbed, forcing the water to run upstream, or was that merely the author's attempt to interpret what he saw? Stein thinks it might have been simply a big eddy created by short-lived dams formed by vertical slippage along the Reelfoot Fault (one of the faults involved in the earthquakes), which crosses the Mississippi three times.

When powerful currents spill over such dams, the water plunges deep, with the majority of the current hugging the river bottom. This, in turn, creates suction—well known to river rafters—at the base of the dam. The suction is strong enough to cause the surface water to flow backward, giving the appearance that the river as a whole is running upstream. I myself grew up along a sizable river in Illinois, and at high water, the backward-flowing surface current created by our town's six-foot-tall dam could extend a quarter-mile downstream. On a river the size of the Mississippi, the effect could be much larger, lasting until the dam eroded away.

In a 2000 paper in the Journal of Geophysical Research,[5] Hough concluded that the earthquakes hadn't been anywhere close to 8.0. Rather, she decided, Nuttli's original estimates had been right, with the strongest jolts weighing in somewhere around magnitude 7.5.

A lot of other scientists were pleased. “I've always felt the early estimates were dramatically over-estimated,” says Andrew Newman, a geophysicist at Georgia Institute of Technology. One problem, he says, is that the New Madrid Fault Zone is relatively small, only about 150 miles long—and big earthquakes are produced only when large chunks of the Earth's crust slip. “There is no way you really can fit a magnitude 8 earthquake in such a small seismic zone,” he says. “Even a 7.5 could have a bit of trouble.”

Another problem comes from GPS measurements of long-term deformation of the rocks on opposite sides of the fault.

In standard tectonic theory, the forces that act on the crust to produce earthquakes are continuous. But earthquakes themselves occur in sudden jolts, when faults stick, then slip, releasing accumulated strain.

Between earthquakes, the crust bows, as pressure mounts.

The rate at which this occurs is a measure of how rapidly the fault is picking up strain, and the best GPS instruments allow it to be measured with remarkable precision. Rocks on each side of California's San Andreas Fault, for example, are bowing north/south at the rate of about 35 millimeters per year. That's enough to produce a 4-meter slip—enough for a magnitude 8 earthquake—roughly every 100 years.

Thus, if New Madrid is popping loose a magnitude 8 every 500 years or so, you'd expect it to be accumulating strain at about half the rate of the San Andreas. But that's not the case. Instead, says Eric Calais, a geophysicist at Purdue University, the rocks on each side of the fault are barely moving: building up strain at a rate of no more than 0.2 millimeters per year (less than an inch per century). And, he adds, that's an upper bound. “The actual number could be zero.”

Unless there's something odd about the New Madrid Fault Zone, this may mean the fault has mysteriously shut off. Stein thinks that's indeed what has happened. In a 2009 paper in Nature, he and Mian Liu, a geophysicist at the University of Missouri, Columbia, argued that even though the New Madrid seismic zone continues to generate earthquakes, they are simply aftershocks of the 1811-1812 earthquakes.[6] In the big, rapidly shifting fault zones of Chile, California, or Indonesia, he says, aftershocks generally tail off within a matter of weeks or months. But in mid-continent, everything occurs much more slowly. “In the middle of a continent, aftershocks can go on for hundreds of years.”

Alternatively the earthquakes were a lot smaller than magnitude 8; smaller, even, than 7.5. In 2010, Hough reduced her estimates yet again, presenting them at a meeting of the Seismological Society of America, in Portland, Oregon.Rather than relying solely on her own expertise, this time she asked experts in four earthquake-prone countries—Canada, Italy, India, and the United States—to review the historical accounts. “This was all embarrassingly simple,” she says, although she adds that the process is tedious. “It's not the kind of thing you could just grab someone off the street to do. There are 300, maybe 400, accounts that had to be gone through carefully.”

Helping with the interpretation were data from the U.S. Geological Survey's “Did You Feel It?” web page, which invites people to submit reports of earthquake experiences. Comparing these to seismometer reports helps experts calibrate anecdotal descriptions to actual earthquake magnitudes, allowing better estimates of earthquakes for which no instrumental data is available.

Her conclusion: the New Madrid earthquakes were “right around” magnitude [7]. “Possibly a bit below, possibly a bit above. But not as big as 7.5.”

Even magnitude 7 is nothing to be sneered at. “Haiti was a magnitude 7,” she notes.

Her new estimates are within the realm of possibility for fault zones of New Madrid's size. But they still don't jibe with the GPS data. If mid-continent faults behave like plate boundary faults—a big “if,” Calais is quick to point out—0.2 mm of strain accumulation per year isn't enough to produce even magnitude 7.0s at 500-year intervals. Rather, he says, the largest earthquakes that can be produced that frequently by this rate of strain accumulation are on the order of magnitude 6.7 “If the type of earthquake that tends to repeat on the New Madrid Fault were a 7.0, then at 0.2 mm per year we would get one every 5,000 years,” he says.

One prospect, of course, is that Hough's estimates are still too high, that the earthquakes were magnitude 6, not magnitude 7.[8] But before we arbitrarily downgrade them yet another notch, let's look at the underlying tectonics.

* * * *

Cracking the Heartland

The big question is why there are any earthquakes in the New Madrid area at all. New Madrid is smack-dab in the middle of a continental plate, and traditional theory says earthquakes occur at continental margins, where plates are bashing together, pulling apart, or grinding sideways against each other. The heartland of a continent is supposed to be stable.

The short answer is that nobody knows for sure. But continents aren't monolithic blocks. They've been sutured together over the eons as plates stick together, then break apart again.

Liu, the geophysicist from the University of Missouri, adds that the New Madrid Fault Zone dates back about 700 million years, to the breakup of an ancient supercontinent called Rodinia (from the Russian, for “motherland"). He calls the area a scar in the Earth's crust. “The general notion is that these rift zones are weak places that tend to cause stress concentration,” he says. Though he adds, “We know that is not all of the story, because we have many of these ancient rifts. Some are seismic, such as the one in New Madrid, but others are aseismic—they have no earthquakes at all.”

So, what makes New Madrid special? One prospect is that it's simply the weakest spot in the mid-continent—a place where stresses will naturally focus. But there's no geophysical evidence that this is the case, says Stein. If it were a weak spot, he says, the underlying rocks would be warmer than the rest of the continent, because heat is a factor in bedrock's strength. “But we can't find a thermal difference.”

Furthermore, there is geological evidence that New Madrid isn't the only sometimes-active seismic zone in the Midwest. Instead, there appear to be several, with earthquake activity periodically shifting from one to another. In Southern Indiana, for example, the Wabash Valley Fault Zone appears to have popped off a few big earthquakes 6,000 years ago. A thousand years ago, there was earthquake activity in Oklahoma. (As recently as January 15, 2010, in fact, the Sooner State was startled by a temblor of magnitude 4.0, 17 miles east-northeast of Oklahoma City.) There's also an old fault zone in Mississippi. New Madrid itself only became active a few thousand years ago. Before that, it was quiescent for millions of years.[9] “These things switch on and off with time,” Stein says.

In part, this transfer of stress may be facilitated by the simple fact that tectonic forces in the mid-continent are lower than at plate margins. That gives the crust more time to make subtle adjustments between earthquakes. But it also means that there's more opportunity for local factors to play a role. For example, Stein says at New Madrid some of the trigger may have been changes in the Mississippi River shifting sediments from one location to another. This would have altered the weight distribution of the sediments, possibly helping to unlock the fault zone. Meanwhile, changes elsewhere might have made other faults less likely to slip. “It's a complicated system of interacting things,” Stein says. “It really is like the butterfly that flaps its wings in Brazil and causes a tornado in Texas.”

* * * *

Could We Do It To Ourselves?

It might even be possible for humans to trigger the Midwest's next big quake.

Think it's impossible? Think again. On December 28, 1989, the Australian town of Newcastle, New South Wales, was struck by a magnitude 5.6 temblor—not huge, but a complete shock in a continent where big earthquakes are rare. Buildings hadn't been designed for it, and thirteen people died. Another 160 were injured. Damage hit $US3.5 billion, making it the most destructive earthquake in Australia's history.

The cause, Christian D. Klose of Columbia University's Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory argued at the 2006 fall meeting of the American Geophysical Union, was a change in underground stresses created by 200 years of coal mining.

Partly, these stresses came from the removal of coal, but more significant was the pumping needed to keep the mines from flooding. “For each ton of coal produced, 4.3 times more water was extracted,” Klose said. Oil and gas extraction can do the same thing. Between 1976 and 1984, Uzbekistan's Gazli natural gas field was rocked by three big temblors, with magnitudes ranging from 6.8 to 7.3. In total, Klose has identified more than 200 human-caused temblors, mostly relatively recent. “They were rare before World War II,” he says. Most were caused by mining, but nearly one-third came from reservoir construction.

Of particular interest is the role that efforts to reduce global warming might play in triggering earthquakes. One proposal for removing carbon dioxide from the atmosphere involves injecting it into geologic formations deep underground. As a way of keeping carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere, this makes sense. But if taking natural gas out of rocks can shift forces enough to trigger earthquakes, injecting a different gas into them might also do it.

* * * *

Thousands of Feet of Ice

All of this, however, begs the question of where the stress originates.

Hough thinks it's glacial rebound. The idea is simple: during the Ice Age, much of the northern part of the continent was covered by thousands of feet of ice. The weight depressed the crust, causing it to sag into the squishier rocks of the mantle. Then the ice melted and the crust started rising back to its pre-glacial elevation.

In places, the rebound has been dramatic. Beach terraces in Manitoba show nearly 1,000 feet of rise in the past 8,000 years.[10] Even today, the Hudson Bay shore is rising at about half an inch per year. Farther south, the crust behaves like a teeter-totter pivoting on a “hinge line” at about the latitude of the Great Lakes: north of the hinge line it is rising, and south of it, it is sinking—although if you go far enough south, the effect vanishes.

This up-and-down pivot produces stresses. In the north, there's little doubt that they've triggered some big quakes. A map assembled by Natural Resources Canada[11] shows many in a line across southern Ontario and Quebec, and on into the Maritime Provinces and Labrador. The biggest, magnitude 7.2, struck offshore from Newfoundland in 1929, producing a tsunami that killed twenty-eight people.

In the New Madrid Fault Zone, the evidence is less clear. On the pro side is the fact that something switched the fault on not long after the ice sheets melted. “The timing is good,” says Georgia Tech's Newman, “but we don't really have a smoking gun.”

On the con side, New Madrid (and Canada) aren't the only places to have had geologically recent earthquakes. In 1886, Charleston, South Carolina, saw a magnitude 7.3—roughly the size of Hough's re-estimated magnitudes for the New Madrid temblors. In 2006, the Gulf of Mexico was hit by a 6.0. Both are too far from the one-time glaciers for rebound to be a likely cause.

Not that all quakes have to result from the same forces. But Stein doesn't believe glacial rebound is occurring at New Madrid, either. “The GPS data that show glacial rebound beautifully to the north don't show anything happening at New Madrid,” he says.

Newman thinks that overall, the type of motion seen in Charleston, New Madrid, the Gulf, and the hundreds of smaller quakes that hit the East and Midwest each year show a different story, making it look as though the U.S. is being squeezed from the east and west. There's even an obvious source of pressure. On the east, it's the spreading of the ocean along the mid-Atlantic Ridge, a force that drives Europe eastward and North America to the west. On the other side of the continent, it's the crumpling that's created the Rocky Mountains.

There's a tendency to think of continents as rigid sheets, but nothing that big is perfectly rigid. Squeeze it hard enough, and it will crack.

Under this explanation, it's possible that the reason there's no significant buildup of strain across the New Madrid Fault Zone is that Stein is right, and the fault has shut off. But that would mean the strain must be accumulating somewhere else.

Geophysicists are currently looking for exactly this, via a couple of thousand GPS stations scattered across other Midwestern and Eastern fault zones. But so far they've seen nothing, says Calais, although that may simply indicate that even more monitoring stations are needed. At present, Calais estimates, only about half of the region is adequately monitored, and many of these stations are designed for use by surveyors, without the precision needed for monitoring slow-moving tectonic processes.

But, although the debate between glacial rebound and shifting continent-wide tectonic stresses may still be unresolved, at least we have two viable theories for the production of large, mid-continent earthquakes without the rapid buildup of GPS-measurable strain. In fact, says Calais, the strain might be so delocalized that it will be difficult to detect even with the best GPS instruments. “I think that's an idea worth exploring,” he says. “Very few people have looked at that.”

Meanwhile, the folks in the Midwest have to live with the uncertainty.

* * * *

More Dangerous Than California?

When I was growing up in the Midwest, about a four-hour drive from St. Louis, I'd never heard of the New Madrid Fault Zone. Then, one summer we got a small earthquake—too small to do damage, but enough to rattle dishes and set the entire town abuzz in a manner usually reserved for near misses by tornadoes. By the time I graduated from college, I'd heard of New Madrid, heard the story about Boston church bells, and “knew” I'd grown up near the “most dangerous earthquake zone” in the country.

And so in fact, it officially remains. “Right now, on the books, ‘hazard’ for New Madrid is higher than California,” says Zhenming Wang, a seismologist and geotechnical engineer with the Kentucky Geological Survey. “Clearly, compared to the science, [this] doesn't make sense.”

There are a number of reasons why the hazard was overrated, he says, ranging from technical to quasi-political. From the technical perspective, for example, Wang says that the current hazard maps use a very conservative parameter for the rate of attenuation of ground shaking with distance from the epicenter, substantially widening the distance at which severe damage might occur. In the quasi-political realm, hazard managers have chosen to base estimates on a 2,500-year time horizon, rather than the 500-year time horizon used in other areas. There's no right or wrong in this choice, but the longer the time horizon, the bigger the disaster you have to guard against.

Add to this the increasing evidence that the largest historic earthquakes were actually magnitude 7 rather than magnitude 8, and the whole thing snowballs into building codes that might be excessively restrictive. “That is very unfortunate,” says Wang, who notes that people in Paducah, Kentucky, can't build two-story houses. Not all of the New Madrid area is so strongly affected, he adds. For example, he says, Memphis, Tennessee, has chosen not to base its building codes on the super-high-hazard maps. “But in Paducah, they are in a terrible situation.”

At the same time, hazard elsewhere might be underestimated. Newman thinks the findings about shifting seismicity and continent-wide “squeezing” mean that faults hundreds of miles from New Madrid might someday cut loose with big temblors. “I thinks the hazard is much more distributed than what we've previously shown,” he says.

Still, it should be remembered that a large earthquake in St. Louis, Memphis, or anywhere in the vicinity would be a big deal. “A magnitude 7 is still pretty dangerous,” says Newman. “It's just not the same level of danger as a magnitude 8 or a magnitude 7.5.”

Copyright © 2011 Richard A. Lovett

* * * *

1 Nuttli, O. W., “The Mississippi Valley Earthquakes of 1811 and 1812: Intensities, Ground Motion, and Magnitudes,” Bulletin of the Seismological Society of America, Vol. 63, No. 1, pp. 227-248, February 1973.

2 Johnston, A. C.; and Nava, S. J., “Recurrence Rates and Probability Estimates for the New Madrid Seismic Zone,” Journal of Geophysical Research, Vol. 90, No. 88, pp. 6737-6753 (1985).

3 www.bullfrogfilms.com/catalog/hid.html.

4 The biggest recorded earthquake was a 1960 temblor offshore from Chile, measured at magnitude 9.5.

5 Susan E. Hough, et al., “On the Modified Mercalli Intensities and Magnitudes of the 1811-1812 New Madrid Earthquakes,” Journal of Geophysical Research, Vol. 105, No. B10, pp. 23,839-23,864 (2000).

6 Seth Stein and Mian Liu, “Long Aftershock Sequences Within Continents and Implications for Earthquake Hazard Assessment,” Nature, 462, 87-89, 5 November 2009. For a news account, see Tom Charlier, “Earthquake Study Says New Madrid Might Have Fizzled,” The Commercial Appeal

7 This calculation, which he did in a telephone conversation with me, is based on a chart in a paper of his and Stein's: Eric Calais and Seth Stein, “Time-Variable Deformation in the New Madrid Seismic Zone,” Science, Vol. 323, No. 5920, p. 1442, 13 March 2009.

8 The magnitude scale for earthquakes is logarithmic, so a magnitude 6 is only one-tenth as strong as a magnitude 7.

9 One indicator that none of these faults has been continuously active is that long-active faults tend to build mountains, and there are no mountains in New Madrid, the Wabash Valley, or other similar fault zones.

10 John P. Bluemle, “Glacial Rebound, Warped Beaches and the Thickness of the Glaciers in North Dakota,” www.dmr.nd.gov/ndgs/ndnotes/Rebound/Glacial Rebound.htm.

11 See: atlas.nrcan.gc.ca/site/english/maps/environment/naturalhazards/earthquakes/majorearthquakes.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Short Story: HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT
by Emily Mah

An Environment can be hostile in a wide range of ways...

* * * *

Illustrated by Mark Evans

* * * *

Mala finished checking the seals on her spacesuit and turned to help her brother Jasraj. They were in the locker room, with its blinding white ceiling and sinister, dark gray lockers that stretched from ceiling to floor. Her breathing was loud in her ears, amplified by the dome of her helmet.

Jason Hernandez walked in, wearing his coveralls and toting his palmtop computer in one hand. Mala paused and Jasraj, his figure obscured by the thick fabric of his suit, went very still.

“I just wanted to come and remind you that Mars is a hostile environment,” said Jason. “No goofing off on this mission.” He deepened his voice to sound like his father, the base commander.

Mala rolled her eyes. “Let's go,” she said over the radio to her brother.

“I'm guessing five minutes before you do something stupid.” Jason called after them as they headed for the airlocks.

* * * *

“No way,” said Jasraj ten minutes later. “This thing's too heavy to take air.”

Mala gave him her best withering look, not that he could see it. Her face, like his, was hidden behind the mirrored surface of a spacesuit faceplate. “Get off,” she said. “I'll show you.”

They were riding on the base's smallest class of transport unit, an ATV with four wire mesh wheels and two seats that the riders straddled. The base itself was a little white dot in the distance, surrounded by the vast, rust red landscape that was Mars.

“Nuh-uh,” he replied. “There's no way. I bet you dinner that you can't.”

“You have to get off, Jasraj,” she told him. Even though he wasn't listening to her, she swung the vehicle around and aimed it at the low rise they'd been arguing about. “Prepare to eat mashed potatoes, and get off already.”

She shoved her brother roughly and he tumbled off, his fall slowed by the low gravity. She gunned the vehicle forward, pretending not to hear his curses and threats. Instead, she laughed as the vehicle sped faster and faster toward the rise and the pink sky beyond. The lack of atmosphere meant it was all silent, save for the slight vibration that transmitted itself through the air inside her suit, so she had to imagine the engine revving. In an instant, she was back in Mumbai, watching street urchins racing their gasoline-powered dirt bikes down the street after the monsoon. She'd often wished that she could join them in their dangerous, high speed antics.

The rise was coming up fast. Mala stood up and shifted her weight forward. The vehicle zipped uphill, then took off. “Wooo-hooo!" she whooped. The low gravity meant the vehicle's fall was slow, slow enough that she could turn and flash her brother a rude gesture before shifting her weight again so that the ATV landed on its back wheels, raising an enormous cloud of dust. The ground shifted and slid. Mala stood with her arms extended over her head as the vehicle rode the small landslide, plumes of dust shooting up around her. She let out another whoop.

“My turn,” Jasraj shouted, loud enough to hurt Mala's ears.

“No way,” she said. The ground was settling. She turned the ATV around, only to find Jasraj nearly on top of her. That was the problem with talking over the radio. She couldn't predict his location. Before she could protest, he'd thrown himself at her, hitting her square in the chest and knocking her off the ATV.

“Hey!” she yelled as she rolled, then got back to her feet. Jasraj was on the ATV now, and he tried to speed off, spraying her with Martian dust. The vehicle didn't do fast starts, though, so she caught up to him in a few strides, jumped onto the back of the ATV, and gave her brother a shove.

“Stop!” he said, fighting her with one arm. He kept driving the vehicle up the rise.

“You stop!” she yelled. “You don't know what you're doing.”

“And you do?” He stopped shoving her and turned around, both hands gripping the steering bars.

“Jas, you're crazy,” she said, but the last word was broken up with laughter. The ATV was really speeding now, and the rise was squarely ahead of them once more. She grabbed her brother around the waist as they shot up the hill and into the air.

“Oooh,” said her brother, “you're right. This is sooo hard.”

Mala swatted the back of his helmet, loud enough to make it ring, she hoped. The ground was rushing up, so she stood and angled her body forward. Jasraj did the same. The ATV's back tires hit, and then they were flying again.

“Hey—” she said, but it was immediately obvious that Jasraj hadn't done anything. He'd been thrown clear. Mala clung to the ATV as it arced high above the ground, a growing cloud of Mars dust underneath.

Mala's mind flashed an image of an explosion, rocks and dust flying everywhere. She only had a split second to wonder how Jason had pranked them before she hit the ground, hard, and blacked out.

“—lucky their suits didn't rupture!” was the first thing she heard when she came to. She was out of her suit and lying on a flimsy cot. The beep and whir of instruments all around let her know that she was in sickbay, with its grungy, moisture spotted walls and narrow, hard cots. Her head ached something awful.

“I'm sure there's an explanation for what happened.” That was her father. Mala felt a twinge of guilt. The other voice belonged to Dr. Hernandez, the base commander, and Jason's father.

“Of course there is,” said Dr. Hernandez. “They thought it'd be funny to blow up the weather station!”

“What?” cried Mala. She sat up, and regretted it at once. The whole room reeled and she felt like she'd topple right off the cot.

“Lie down, Mala,” said her father.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” said Dr. Hernandez.

“The weather station blew up?” Mala shut her eyes and pressed the heels of her hands to her temples to try to steady herself. She was aware of half a dozen electrodes stuck to the skin of her arms, neck, and chest. Her coveralls were still unbuttoned in the back and her brother was laid out on the cot next to her. There was no sign of the doctor, but then again, the sickbay was small. There wasn't really room for the doctor and the base commander to both yell and wave their arms.

“Oh-ho!” said Dr. Hernandez. “Things went a little farther than you intended?”

“I didn't blow anything up.” She wondered if Jason had, and if he had, how.

“Riiight, just like you didn't destroy the sewage system—”

“I didn't . . . know that—”

“Flushing ignited thermite down the toilet would do that?”

“Yeah,” said Mala. Her tone was weak, though. The truth of the matter was, it had been Jason's idea to do that. The base commander's fifteen-year-old son had gotten the aluminum powder out of the requisition cabinet and told Mala and Jasraj to mix it with Mars dust and set it on fire. When the thing had flared up, Mala had kicked it into the commode and flushed, hoping to put it out. That didn't happen. The thermite had burned white hot and destroyed the waste management system before dropping into the storage basement and melting all of their service robots to slag.

She hadn't dreamed that such a simple combination of easy-to-find materials could do that. Jason had laughed until his face turned blue, but he'd also run off first, so he didn't get blamed. Mala and Jasraj had had to watch safety training videos of thermite burning through concrete and steel I-beams for five hours straight. She'd had nightmares for months; she was lucky the stuff hadn't melted her shoe.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, the international courts had had a field day for months, until the incident was ruled an accident.

“Just like you didn't turn everyone's computer console displays to Cyrillic letters?” said Dr. Hernandez.

Mala kept her mouth shut. Jasraj had done that, and had only meant for it to affect her console. Switching the entire computer system had been an accident, and in Mala's opinion, it was stupid that he, without administrative access, could even do that.

“Or how about the time you fed habanero peppers to Jason?”

“Yeah, I did do that,” she confessed. And she didn't regret it either. The base commander's son was a stuck-up git. He'd bragged that his Tex-Mex food was spicier than her curries, so she'd cooked him a curry and spiked it with pure capsicum. “But that doesn't mean—”

“Quiet, Mala,” said her father. He turned back to his boss. “Look—”

Dr. Hernandez ignored him, though, and pulled out his palmtop instead. “How we coming with the video reconstruction?” he said into it.

“Commander, yes,” came a male voice in reply. “We should have it within the hour.”

“And I'd like to send a team out to explore the blast site. Figure out exactly how this happened so that we can write Earth a detailed report.”

“Sir.”

“And contact the resupply shuttle. The terrain's been . . . rearranged, shall we say? Scout out another place to land.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Over by the hematite formations? Where my wife was scouting last week, lots of good flat space there.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

Mala's heart sank. The resupply shuttle was one of the few things she looked forward to. It would bring, aside from base supplies, little packages of sweets sent by her grandmother. Only a bite's worth, and that thanks to the monthly pool set up by relatives who put every spare rupee away to pay the shipping. With her in the doghouse, she knew there'd be no enjoying sweets this time around.

Dr. Hernandez nodded with satisfaction and turned to leave. As the door slid aside for him, Mala saw Jason standing out in the hall, a bottle of root beer in his hand. He raised it to her, as if to toast, then took a nice long pull, ending with an exaggerated sigh of contentment.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

Dr. Hernandez clapped him on the shoulder and the door whooshed shut.

"Mala," said her father, his tone making it clear it wasn't the first time he'd said her name.

“I didn't—”

“I don't want to hear it.”

“We didn't blow it up.”

Her father shook his head, his sagging jowls wobbling. He ran his fingers through his shaggy gray hair and started to pace. “You are sixteen years old, and you behave like a child half your age.”

“Huh? Eight year olds don't drive.”

“You push this crew too far,” he said.

“Oh, what are they going to do? Pool together the eleventy billion Euros it would cost to send us home?”

“Mala—”

“Or, here's an idea. How about they banish us some place on Mars where the only thing we're allowed to do is schoolwork and gardening?”

"Listen to me,” her father thundered. He checked himself and then leaned in, his gaze pinning her in place. “Your little prank with the waste management system nearly tore a hole in the base. No one's forgotten that.”

“That was an accident, and I swear, we didn't do anything to the weather station.”

“Well, you certainly didn't fit it with a new vane, as you were instructed.”

“The place blew up!”

“I'm tired of fighting with you! You'd best start composing a long apology and an explanation,” he said. “Tears might be appropriate.”

“But—”

“And if it really wasn't your doing, that video better show the two of you diligently going about your business.” He turned on his heel and left.

Mala stared after him. A rustling sound from her brother's cot caused her to turn her attention there. He had an eye open and his lips were pursed in, what Mala knew, was an attempt to hold off tears. She hopped off her bed and went over to him, the electrodes tugging at her skin.

“It's okay,” she said. “It'll be okay. You didn't happen to do anything—”

He shook his head and a tear dripped out of his eye and was absorbed into the thin bedsheet. “What happened?”

“I don't know. But we have to find out, or else we're in serious trouble.”

“I wish they would send us home.”

Mala considered that. Home was Mumbai, with its stinking, smog-filled streets and trash fires burning day and night. It was where she and her brother were confined to their upper story flat with their grandmother, who rapped them sharply across the knuckles with a rod whenever they spoke out of turn. It was walking to school with an escort and, once at school, having to sit perfectly still on a hard wooden bench as the teachers lectured on and on. “Me too,” she whispered.

The door swished open again and Mala looked up, expecting to see the doctor, but it was Jason who strode in, still holding his root beer. He held the bottle under his nose and inhaled deeply. “Good stuff,” he said.

“I thought you were off the yeast ration,” snapped Mala.

“This is from root beer mix. Just add water and dry ice and . . .” He swigged from the bottle again. “Mom got clean dry ice from her last surface mission. Big old chunk of it, barely any dust.”

“Vile stuff,” said Mala.

“Uh-huh, sure it is.”

“Go away, all right?” she said.

“How'd you do it?”

“We didn't do anything,” she snapped.

“Right. Sure you didn't.”

Jasraj's breathing had become shaky. He was about to cry in earnest. “Leave!” she ordered Jason. Picking on her was one thing, but picking on her twelve-year-old brother was something entirely different.

“Video's reconstructed,” said Jason. “I was sent here to tell you that you will be in Conference Room A to watch it in ten minutes.”

“Fine. Get on with you.”

“Should be a good show.”

Mala ignored him and helped her brother to sit up, surreptitiously dabbing the tears from his eyes in the process.

* * * *

“Wooo-hooo!” blared from the speakers. Mala sank a little lower in her chair as the assembled group, which included Dr. Hernandez and the entire atmospheric physics team, watched her jump the ATV. As luck would have it, the weather station's camera was angled perfectly to see everything, and the sound was synced from the radio log.

The ATV landed, raising a great cloud of dust, then there was the scuffle, and it felt like all eyes had turned from the video to her. She tried to shrug it off, but the scientists were clearly not happy.

On the video screen, the ATV with both of them on it sped up the hill and then sailed, slowly due to the low gravity, down and down until it landed in another giant cloud of dust. As soon as it touched down, the ground erupted. Dust spewed everywhere and a wave, like an ocean wave but of solid ground, rolled toward the weather station. The recording ended in static.

Mala suppressed a shudder. That was some explosion. She and Jasraj were lucky to be alive.

Now everyone was staring at her.

“Nice form,” said one of the atmospheric physicists. “But you should lean forward sooner.” There was no mirth in his tone and no one was laughing.

“I don't know what happened,” said Mala. Next to her, Jasraj studied his fingernails. Their father had his eyes shut, his forehead resting on the heels of his hands.

“Of course you don't,” said Dr. Hernandez. He flipped open his palmtop. “Come on in.”

The door slid open and Dr. Greenaway came in. She was one of the base's chemists.

“What did you find?” Dr. Hernandez asked.

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“Just what I said. There's no residue of any kind of explosive, just a giant crater. We're looking at the blast pattern and sampling fallout from farther away, but I can't guarantee that we'll find anything more.”

“But there's got to be something there.” Dr. Hernandez glared over at Mala and her brother. “You can't tell me you've been outwitted by a couple of teens.”

“You can't just assume this was us,” Mala said. “You've got to look at all the data.”

“What data?” said Dr. Hernandez. “I see two kids screwing around with expensive government equipment, a big bang, and then a giant hole in the ground where the weather station used to be.”

“But we'd never—”

“Search their lockers, their rooms, wherever they might have stashed things,” said Dr. Hernandez.

Mala blinked in surprise. “You're doing what?”

“And you two, we're separating you. You've got a lot of questions to answer.”

Jasraj's mouth turned down at the corners, though Mala saw how he tried to hide his fear. “No,” she said.

"Yes," said Dr. Hernandez. “I'm not asking.”

Mala glanced at her brother. He was staring at her, clearly wishing she could say something, anything to get them out of this mess.

Mala thought fast. “Are there aluminium components on the ATVs?” she asked.

“Pardon?” said Dr. Hernandez.

“Aluminium—”

“Aluminum,” corrected one of the atmospheric physicists.

Mala ignored him. “You combine it with iron oxide and a spark and you get burning thermite. Maybe the friction from the ATV landing—”

“Don't be ridiculous,” snapped Dr. Greenaway. “The soft rock out there wouldn't abrade aluminum to powder. And even if that could, somehow, create burning thermite, that would have yielded a white flame and melted your suits and the ATV to slag. As it is, your suits held up and the ATV's just dented. It'll need some expensive repairs.”

“But it wouldn't leave a chemical trace, would it?” Mala pressed on.

“It'd leave slag,” said Dr. Hernandez. “The sooner you stop protesting and start trying to work with us, the better for everyone involved.”

Mala sat back in her seat. “Working with everyone” meant groveling and being willing to lick their shoes for the foreseeable future. She felt sick.

“What were you trying to do?” Dr. Al-Alawi asked Mala while he searched her room. Next door, Dr. Jenkins was searching Jasraj's.

Mala watched as the junior chemist dumped her meager belongings out of their cupboards and onto the floor. “Nothing,” she said.

Dr. Al-Alawi paused and gave her a long-suffering look. “I know that what happened wasn't what you planned. I know you're afraid of getting in trouble, but you already are in trouble. Now's the time to come clean.” He began stripping the bedclothes off her bed.

“I really don't know,” she said. “You can keep asking, but you'll get the same answer.”

“Mala, please. Just . . . tell me you aren't going to accidentally blow up the base as well? We've got to know what you did.”

“I jumped the ATV a couple of times. That's all.”

“And you're lucky you didn't start a landslide in the direction of the weather station, I'd like to point out. You kids need to stop being so careless.” He climbed up onto her bed and began unscrewing the grille over the vent.

Mala blinked in disbelief. People actually thought she might stash things there?

The grille came loose and the chemist shone a flashlight inside. After staring for what seemed like several minutes, he jumped back down, leaving the filthy grille on her bed. “Locker room,” he said, gesturing for her to lead the way.

Mala stepped out into the hallway at the same time as Jasraj, escorted by Dr. Jenkins. Her brother's eyes were red from crying, and she immediately put a hand on his arm. “It's all right,” she told him.

Jason stepped out of one of the doorways ahead of them and held up his root beer.

Mala rolled her eyes.

Jasraj dove for him. “This is your fault!” he shouted.

“Don't!” Mala shouted. The two escorts both grabbed for her brother and missed. He plowed into Jason, knocking him down. The root beer rolled away.

Mala grabbed her brother by the back of his coveralls and hauled him to his feet. “Stop it,” she ordered him.

“Hey,” Dr. Al-Alawi shouted. “This isn't the time to horse around.”

Dr. Jenkins turned to Mala. “What is it with you kids? Don't you get that attacking the base commander's son is a bad idea?”

“He's the one who got us in trouble for the thermite!” said Jasraj.

“Nobody cares,” said Mala. “Just stop it.”

The root beer rolled to a stop, fizzing like crazy. Mala watched it, hoping it would leak Jason's precious beverage all over the floor. In that moment of distraction, she let go of Jasraj and he lunged at Jason again.

Jason dodged, grabbed his root beer, and loosened the cap. The liquid inside frothed up as the excess pressure escaped with a hiss.

Dr. Jenkins grabbed Jasraj by the scruff of the neck. He and Dr. Al-Alawi resumed marching them in the direction of the locker room. Jason smirked as they went past.

Two hours later, after the locker searches had yielded nothing, the two siblings were confined to some empty crew quarters. Dr. Al-Alawi was so frustrated that he was tearing at his dark hair. “This isn't a joke,” he stormed at them. He and Dr. Jenkins sat on one of the room's beds. The siblings sat on the other.

“I know,” Mala shot back. “I'm not joking. I honestly can't answer your questions.”

“You were the only people there,” he said. “What is it with you two? What do you hope to gain by holding out? Is this a blackmail thing? You want more privileges? What?”

“Okay,” said Dr. Jenkins, “we've gone over that site with a fine-tooth comb and there is nothing but a blast crater. There are no pieces of an explosive, no chemical residue, no evidence of—of volcanic activity. Just an enormous hole.”

There was a soft knock on the door. Everyone looked up as Dr. Hernandez stuck his head in. “No luck?” he said.

The two chemists shook their heads. “I really don't think they know,” said Dr. Al-Alawi.

Dr. Hernandez looked skeptical, but said, “Fine. Earth is going to task a satellite to take some images, and we're going to see if we can get spectrometer readings of the blast. Come to the lab, and I'll escort these two home.”

* * * *

Fifteen minutes later, Mala was sitting on her stripped mattress, the contents of her cabinets strewn all over the floor. On the other side of the wall, Dr. Hernandez was reaming out her father.

“They have no sense of accountability,” he said.

“I'm sorry for all the trouble they've caused.”

“This is serious. When we bring children to space, that's an incredible responsibility.”

“Yes, sir. I know that.”

“Do you? Never mind. They need me in my office.”

Mala heard the door to their quarters slide open and shut. Jasraj was in his own room, on the other side of the opposite wall. There was no way to communicate with him without using the intercom, and that wasn't the best idea just then. Her palmtop computer had been confiscated and using the wall unit would no doubt net a nasty message from the communications officer on duty.

She pulled her knees up to her chin and frowned. As hard as it was for her to relate to her father, she felt for him. Dr. Hernandez made much of the fact that his Jason was a little angel, although that wasn't exactly the truth. Jason just knew better than to get caught and had been lucky a few times. He also loved getting Mala and her brother in trouble, and Mala knew that was because he feared his own father more than she did. She didn't care much about the base commander's opinion. He seemed ready enough to despise her no matter what she did.

Besides that, Jason was a real pratt. Him and his stupid bottles of root beer. Mala remembered the satisfying image of Jasraj knocking Jason down and causing his root beer bottle to roll away. Jason had looked so indignant as he opened the bottle just enough to let the extra pressure out.

Mala blinked and sat up straighter. It was all too obvious.

She wanted to talk to someone, Jasraj preferably, but there was no way to do that without getting past her father first. She went to open her door a crack and peer out.

Her father was just sitting at the table, his forehead in his hands. His posture bespoke defeat. Mala didn't care what Dr. Hernandez thought, but clearly her father did. She felt a wave of sympathy. She'd never seen him after one of his arguments with the base commander. He usually shut himself in the lab afterward.

“Dad?” said Mala.

She expected him to yell, to order her back into her room. Instead, all he did was look up.

She pushed her door open a little wider and leaned against the frame, unsure of what to say next.

He was silent as well, anger written in the lines of his face.

“I'm sorry,” she said. The words were out of her mouth before she finished forming them in her mind. But now that she had said them, she realized they were true. “Really sorry. I didn't mean to get you in trouble with the base commander.”

Her father's expression softened and he nodded. “I know.”

That reply came as a shock. “You do?”

“Of course I do. You're not bad kids. Just spirited. You were only having fun.”

Mala ventured one step out the door, then another. She forced herself to keep walking and take a seat at the table. “We damaged that ATV pretty bad.”

“Yes, you did.” He shrugged and shook his head. “I can't blame you, though. It's a terribly boring place for people your age.”

“You think so?”

He snorted. “I know so. Who knows what I would have gotten up to at your age. The thermite incident was . . . unfortunate.”

“Yeah.”

“But not the disaster it could have been. You were lucky.”

She nodded.

He stared at the wall, his expression betraying nothing.

“Um . . . can I ask something?”

He nodded, still not looking at her.

“Are you sorry you sent for us?” Great emotion welled up as she spoke the words. Tears she was afraid to cry flooded her eyes and tightened her throat.

He turned to look at her sharply. When he didn't say anything, she really did cry. She covered her face with her hands, ashamed.

“I didn't send for you.” His voice was so soft that Mala barely heard it over her own choked back sobs.

Those words brought her up short. She pulled her hands away from her face. “You didn't?”

“Your grandmother sent you. When she heard that there were slots for children on that shuttle you came out on, she wanted you on it and wouldn't let anyone rest until you were. She thought that this base was a safer environment than Mumbai.” He snorted a laugh.

“Ummm, right.”

“She's never been here, but she's been worrying herself to bits in Mumbai for seventy years. Thinks the whole place will catch fire or blow up or make all of the children join street gangs.” He rubbed his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger.

“So you never wanted us here?” Misery deeper than tears could express opened a chasm in her heart.

Her father gave her a small, sad smile. “Of course I wanted you here. I'm the one who made sure all the paperwork cleared. I called in every favor I could. I missed you two; you were so little when I left. I just knew it was selfish of me. You're all cooped up here, and who knows when you'll be able to get home again. I pay the price for that selfishness every day.”

“When we misbehave?”

“When you try to keep yourself entertained, by jumping ATVs and such.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Reminded me of dirtbike racing in Mumbai.”

Mala blinked. “You know about that?” She felt foolish at once. Her father wasn't blind. He'd no doubt seen the kids horsing around.

“I was one of those kids, once.”

Mala stared at her father in open astonishment.

“What?” he said. “You don't honestly think I was always like this? I was young once, too, and poor. Much poorer than you two were growing up. Why do you think your grandmother is so afraid for you?” He smiled. “I guess she thinks I grew up—she hasn't seen me in a long time.”

“I'm glad we're here,” said Mala.

“Kind of you to lie, but—”

“I'm not lying. I have my own room and food to eat and all the schooling I want.”

Her father reached over and patted her arm. “Yes. You do have those things.”

“And we get to be with you.”

At that her father shut his eyes and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Mala wanted to hug him, but that seemed too bold. “Um . . . I have a guess about what happened to the weather station.”

“Oh?” He opened one eye.

“But . . . it's kind of silly. I can't believe no one else thought of it.”

“What is it?”

“I think that . . . well, what if there was a big dry ice deposit near that hill? We shifted a lot of dirt around, and if we moved enough of it that the Sun could warm the dry ice . . . and if the dry ice was under some pressure—”

“The heat from the Sun turned the dry ice to gas and it blew.” He nodded. “Interesting.”

“That wouldn't leave any kind of residue or anything.”

“It wouldn't. I'll compose a message to the chemists.”

“You don't think it's a stupid idea?”

“No.”

“It's not too obvious?”

“Well—” her father shrugged “—just because something's simple doesn't mean it's obvious. People miss simple things all the time, like leaving aluminium powder in the general access stores. We've only been in this region of Mars for five years, and we've been very slow about building things here. We could easily have missed this. I don't know how much the geologists look under the ground when we select a site.”

Mala nodded. “So, something else?”

“Yes?”

“What if . . . if the shuttle lands on another deposit? I heard they were moving the landing site to somewhere out by Dr. Hernandez—the female one—where she was doing some scouting. That's where she got the dry ice for Jason's stupid root beer.”

Her father sat back. “The shuttle uses its engines to slow its descent.”

“Right, so if it heated up some dry ice—”

“I'll get that message composed. It's worth asking about.”

“Okay.” Mala shifted in her chair. “So what do Jasraj and I need to do?”

“About this? Nothing.”

“No, about . . . about being in trouble?”

Her father waved that away. “Look chastened, especially in front of our Commander.”

“But—”

“I know Jason was the one who got the aluminium powder out of the requisition stores. It's quite easy for anyone to see. The fact that Dr. Hernandez punished you and not him . . .” He shook his head and tapped a fist lightly against the table, his anger carefully controlled.

“You knew?”

“Of course I knew! The man accused my children.”

“So how come you didn't say anything?”

“I don't have much sway, Mala. I had to call in a lot of favors to get you two out here. I don't have any goodwill left. I'm sorry.”

“No, that's okay,” she said. “As long as you know, Jas and I are fine.”

“I keep hoping that you two will find a way to corner that Jason. . . .”

Mala laughed, and much to her surprise, her father joined her. He reached over and grasped her forearm, giving her a warm smile.

* * * *

An hour later, the general channel posted a bulletin that the shuttle would be landing that evening, rather than the next day. “The site selection process for a new landing area went more rapidly than we planned,” the bulletin explained.

Mala and Jasraj were both sitting at the table, doing homework.

“What did they say about my theory, Dad?” Mala asked.

Their father shook his head. “No one's replied to my message.”

“What?”

“I don't think it's been read yet.”

“Wait,” said Jasraj, “how can they just ignore it?”

Mala held out a hand for her father's palmtop, unsure of whether that crossed the line. He handed it over to her without batting an eye. She called up the message.

“Dear sirs,” it began, “I respectfully request that you consider the following theoretical scenario.”

“Dad,” she said, “you take four lines to even say that this has anything to do with the weather station.”

“That's no reason for it to be ignored. I don't just send messages willy nilly.”

“But if people are in a hurry . . .”

He shrugged. “You have a better idea?”

Mala put her head to one side. “Well . . . yeah.”

“And what is that?”

She glanced sidelong at Jasraj. “Where does Jason make his root beer?”

Her father shook his head, “Mala . . .”

“In the chem lab, which is locked right now.”

Mala considered that a moment, then got up and headed for her room.

Her father looked hesitant, but he didn't tell her no. Nor did he call her back.

Once inside, she shut the door and called Jason.

“What?” he answered. His image popped up on the screen, but he didn't look at her. He was sitting in his room, staring off to one side.

“I need something from you.”

“What's that?”

“Your lab key.”

“No way.”

“You have a key?”

Jason glanced at her. “Of course I don't.”

“You use your father's?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, there's an idea . . . does one lab key work on them all? Could I get into the wet lab and the chem lab and—”

Jason spun around and glared right at her. “Which lab do you want to get into?”

“Never mind.” She ended the call and went back out to the living room.

“What did you just do?” her father asked.

“Called Jason. He'll open the chem lab for us in a couple of minutes. You coming, Jas?”

“He doesn't have a key,” said their father.

“He shouldn't, should he?” said Mala. “Could you do me a favor and call Dr. Hernandez? The base commander one?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Oh, it doesn't matter. Just call in about five minutes and let him yell at you for ten.”

Their father shook his head as she and her brother left the quarters.

* * * *

The lab wing was always semi-dark after hours. It was easy enough for her and Jasraj to hide around the corner from the chem lab door. Jasraj had a hard time not giggling, but he pushed his fist into his mouth and just let his shoulders shake.

The sound of jogging footsteps echoed down the hall. Mala peered around the corner and saw Jason run up to the door, press a palmtop against it, and go in.

“'Kay, now,” said Mala. She and Jasraj crawled out of their hiding place and padded quickly through the door. This was another stupid feature of the base, in Mala's opinion. The special access doors stayed open a second too long, plenty of time for her and her brother to sneak in. They'd left their shoes behind in the hall, so they made no noise against the rubbery floor.

Once inside, they ducked behind one of the tall lab counters and curled up. Jasraj's face was dark plum in the dim light and he bit his fist hard. Mala looked away. If he set her off laughing, they'd be in real trouble.

Jason made some clanking and clattering noises at the far end of the room. Mala peered out and watched him grab his bottles of root beer that were still brewing, and take them two at a time out of the lab. During his second trip, Jasraj, who could move like a shadow, slipped out after him. Mala waited until the third and final trip, and only went far enough to peer down the hall to see which room he was stashing them in.

She'd known it would be another lab, in this case the dry lab. The three of them had figured out how to pick the locks on the doors to private quarters. A magnet was all a person needed. If any of them had anything valuable, they knew to stash it elsewhere. The locker room was at the far end of the base, too far to be convenient for Jason.

She ducked back inside the chem lab as Jason exited the dry lab. In the ringing silence, she counted to ten, then slipped out of the chem lab. That was another thing about the locks. They only worked one way, so no one could get trapped inside.

She stepped out into the hall and waited. A few seconds later, Jasraj slipped out of the dry lab and gave her a thumbs up.

* * * *

Dr. Hernandez was still yelling at their father when they got home. “I just think hiding the aluminium requisition record from Earth was unethical,” their father was saying. “No need to get all heated about it, I'm trying to be reasonable.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Your children have done major property—”

Mala wanted to steal around behind her father to see the look on the base commander's face, but she didn't dare. She'd laugh aloud and give it all away.

Dr. Hernandez went silent. Their father didn't have to fake his look of confusion. “Sir?” he said.

“Excuse me.”

Their father waited a moment, then turned to Mala and Jasraj. “What was that, may I ask?”

“He's gotten a message that there's been an explosion in the dry lab,” said Jasraj.

“Six bottles of root beer that had the caps screwed on too tight during the carbonation process,” said Mala. “And the records will show that Dr. Hernandez's palmtop was used to unlock the doors, while Dr. Hernandez was talking to you from his wall intercom.”

Their father shut his eyes, shook his head, then laughed aloud. “How much damage?”

“Oh, plenty. He put the root beer in a cabinet with a bunch of lab equipment,” said Jasraj.

“You know, it's a shame that the security cameras got vandalized,” said Mala. “But Jason really did do that. He sets them up to play a video loop before he goes back there.”

“Using his father's access keys,” said their father.

“Yeah, well, you said you wanted us to trap Jason,” said Mala. “Why didn't you just say so sooner? The security cameras have already sent their data to Earth, so no cover-up this time.”

“Deepak!” Dr. Hernandez's voice erupted from the intercom speakers.

“Sir?” said their father. “Could you hold on a moment? Mala, Jasraj, no, you may not leave your rooms. I told you the whole evening and I meant it. Ah, wait, I'm getting a report . . . My my, the lab damaged by exploding root beer?” Their father turned back to the intercom. “I sent an e-mail out earlier that pertains to this phenomenon. It was Mala's idea. Has anyone read it?”

“An e-mail about root beer? So you knew about—”

“About dry ice under pressure exposed to heat. That shuttle that is about to land has had its landing area screened for dry ice deposits, I assume?”

“Wha—oh . . .” From her father's blinking, Mala surmised that Dr. Hernandez had ended the call.

Her father turned to her and Jasraj and opened his mouth, only to be interrupted by the navigation officer's voice. “Shuttle landing delayed twelve hours,” came the announcement. “Landing area to undergo further screening.”

“Deepak,” came a woman's voice from the intercom. It was Jason's mother. “We know for a fact there's dry ice in the area. Two large deposits near the shuttle landing site. I can't believe we missed that. Thank you.”

“Thank Mala,” said their father.

“Right . . . Of course. Thank her for me.” The woman sounded more scornful than grateful.

Their father waited a moment longer, then turned away from the intercom and got to his feet. All mirth had faded from his expression. Mala's heart sank.

“Now Mala, Jasraj, there is something else we should discuss.”

Mala looked sidelong at Jasraj. Well, it made sense they'd still be in trouble. They'd bent and broken a lot of rules that evening.

“It's quite clear to me that neither of you have jumped an ATV before. Let's talk about form.”

Jasraj looked stunned. Mala laughed and for the first time in a long time, went to hug her father.

Copyright © 2011 Emily Mah

[Back to Table of Contents]

Short Story: THE CHAPLAIN'S ASSISTANT
by Brad R. Torgersen

* * * *

Illustrated by Beryl Bush

* * * *

If the gulf between species is deep enough, might that very fact provoke the impetus to bridge it?

I was putting fresh oil into clay lamps at the altar when the mantis glided into my foyer. The creature stopped for a moment, his antennae dancing in the air, sensing the few parishioners who sat on my roughly hewn stone pews. I hadn't seen a mantis in a long time—the aliens didn't bother with humans much, now that we were shut safely behind their Wall. Like all the rest of his kind, this mantis's lower thorax was submerged into the biomechanical “saddle” of his floating mobility disc. Only this one's disc didn't appear to have any apertures for weapons—a true rarity on Purgatory.

Every human head in the building turned towards the visitor, each set of human eyes smoldering with a familiar, tired hate.

“I would speak to the holy man,” said the mantis through the speaker box on its disc. Its fearsome, segmented beak had not moved. The disc and all the machines within it were controlled directly by the alien's brain.

When nobody got up to leave, the mantis began floating up my chapel's central aisle, the mantis's disc making a gentle humming sound. “Alone,” said the visitor, his vocoded voice approximating a commanding human tone.

Heads and eyes turned to me. I looked at the mantis, considered my options, then bowed to my flock, who reluctantly began to leave—each worshipper collecting handfuls of beads, crosses, stars, serviceman's bibles, and various other religious items. They exited without saying a word. What else could they do? The mantes ruled Purgatory as surely as Lucifer ruled Hell.

I waited at the altar.

“You are the religious officer?” asked the mantis.

“The chaplain is dead. I am—was—his assistant.”

“We must speak, you and I.”

Again, I noted the mantis's lack of armament.

“What can I do for you?” I said.

“I wish to understand this entity you call God.”

I stared at the alien, not quite sure if I should take him seriously.

“To understand God,” I said slowly, “is a skill that requires ongoing mastery.”

“Which is why the other humans come here, to this structure. To learn from you.”

I blushed slightly. In the year since I'd built the chapel—some two years after our failed invasion and subsequent capture—I'd not given so much as a single sermon. Preaching wasn't my thing. I built the chapel because the chaplain told me to before he died, and because it seemed obvious that many humans on Purgatory—men and women who had landed here, fought, been stranded and eventually imprisoned—needed it. With the fleets from Sol departed, and our homes many thousands of light-years away, there wasn't much left for some of us to turn to—except Him.

“I don't teach,” I said, measuring my words against the quiet fear in my heart, “but I do provide a space for those who come to listen.”

“You are being deliberately cryptic,” the mantis accused.

“I mean no offense,” I continued, hating the servile tinge in my own voice as I spoke to the beast, “it's just that I was never trained as an instructor of worship. Like I said when you asked, I am only the assistant.”

“Then what do the humans here listen to, precisely?”

“The spirit,” I said.

The mantis's beak yawned wide, its serrated tractor teeth vibrating with visible annoyance. I stared into that mouth of death—remembering how many troops had been slaughtered in jaws like those—and felt myself go cold. The Chaplain had often called the mantes soulless. At the time—before the landing—I'd thought he was speaking metaphorically. But looking at the monster in front of me I remembered the Chaplain's declaration, and found it apt.

“Spirit,” said the mantis. “Twice before has my kind encountered this perplexing concept.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Two other sapients, one of them avian and the other amphibian.”

Other aliens . . . besides the mantes? “And what could they tell you about God?”

“Gods,” my visitor corrected me. “We destroyed both species before we could collect much data on their beliefs.”

“Destroyed,” I said, hoping the alien's ears couldn't detect the shaking dread in my voice.

“Yes. Hundreds of your years ago, during the Great Nest's Third Expansion into the galaxy. We thought ourselves alone, then. We had no experience with alternative intelligence. The homeworld of the avians and the homeworld of the amphibians were pleasing to the Patriarchal Quorum, so those worlds were annexed, cleansed of competitive life forms, and have since become major population centers for my people.”

I took in this information as best as I could, unsure if any human ears had ever heard anything like it. I thought of the Military Intelligence guys—all dead—who would have given their years’ pay to gain the kind of information I had just gained, standing here in the drafty, ramshackle confines of my makeshift church.

I experienced a sudden leap of intuition.

“You're not a soldier,” I said.

The mantis's beak snapped shut.

“Certainly not.”

“What are you then, a scientist?”

The mantis seemed to contemplate this word—however it had translated for the alien's mind—and he waved a spiked forelimb in my direction.

“The best human term is professor. I research and I teach.”

“I see,” I said, suddenly fascinated to be meeting the first mantis I'd ever seen who was not, explicitly, trained to kill. “So you're here to research human religion.”

“Not just human religion,” said the mantis, hovering closer. “I want to know about this . . . this spirit that you speak of. Is it God?”

“I guess so, but also kind of not. The spirit is . . . what you feel inside you when you know God is paying attention.”

It was a clumsy explanation, one the chaplain would have—no doubt—chastised me for. I'd never been much good at putting these kinds of concepts into words that helped me understand, much less helped other people understand too. And trying to explain God and the spirit to this insect felt a lot like explaining the beauty of orchestral music to a lawnmower.

The professor's two serrated forelimbs stroked the front of his disc thoughtfully.

“What do the mantes believe?” I asked.

The professor's forelimbs froze. “Nothing,” he said.

“Nothing?”

“We detect neither a spirit nor a God,” said the professor, who made a second jaw-gaped show of annoyance. “The avians and the amphibians, they each built palaces to their Gods. Whole continents and oceans mobilized in warfare to determine which God was superior. Before we came and wiped them all out, down to the last chick and tadpole. Now, their flying Gods and their swimming Gods are recorded in the Quorum Archive, and I am left to wander here—to this desert of a planet—to quiz you, who are not even trained to give me the answers I seek.”

The professor's body language showed that his annoyance verged on anger, and I felt myself pressing my calves and the backs of my thighs into the altar, ready for the lightning blow that would sever a carotid or split my stomach open. I'd seen so many die that way, their attackers reveling in the carnage. However technologically advanced the mantes were, they still retained a degree of predatory-hindbrain joy while engaged in combat.

Noticing my alarm, the professor floated backwards half a meter.

“Forgive me,” said the alien. “I came here today seeking answers from what I had hoped would be a somewhat reliable source. It is not your fault that the eldest of the Quorum destroy things before they can learn from them. My time with you is finite, and I am impatient to learn as much as possible before the end.”

“You have to leave . . . ?” I said, half questioning.

The professor didn't say anything for several seconds, letting the silence speak for him. My shoulders and back caved, if only a little.

“How many of the rest of us will die?” I asked, swallowing hard.

“All,” said the professor.

“All?” I said, at once sure of the answer, but still needing to ask again anyway.

“Yes, all,” said the professor. “When I got word that the Quorum had ordered this colony cleansed of competitive life forms—prior to the dispatching of the Fourth Expansion toward your other worlds—I knew that I had a very narrow window. I must study this faith that inhabits you humans. Before it is too late.”

“We're no threat to you now,” I heard myself say with hollow shock, “all of us on Purgatory, we've all been disarmed, and you've made it plain that we can't hurt you. The Wall sees to that.”

“I will return tomorrow, to study your other visitors in their worship,” said the alien as his disc spun on its vertical axis, and he began to hover toward the exit.

“We're not a threat—!”

But my shouting was for naught. The professor was gone.

* * * *

I didn't sleep at all that night. I kept thinking about what would happen. There were approximately six thousand of us left from the invasion, mostly men, but some women too—and now, here and there, children. All of us confined to a single, semi-arid mountain valley by what we'd come to think of as the Wall—a slightly opaque curtain of energy that ringed us on all sides, with an indefinite height that faded into the sky. Rain, wind, snow, and air fell into and through the Wall, but every man or woman who had approached and touched it had been reduced to ashes.

“Selective nuclear suppression field,” I'd heard one of the parishioners tell me one day—a man who'd been a pilot. “It's the same thing they mask their ships in orbit with. Our missiles couldn't ever get through. Nor the shells from the chain guns. We were smoked before we knew it.”

Now, it seemed, the mantes were going to finish the job.

When morning came, there was a stiff wind coming down off the peaks from the north, and the irregularly shaped shutters of the chapel stuttered and flapped. Such was common. Purgatory had small oceans and large deserts, with most of the livable country up in alpine territory. Why the mantes had seen it worth defending—or why we'd seen it worth invading—was a question I often asked myself.

Only a few people wandered in after breakfast. I had the oil lamps going to light the altar, and tried to offer my flock a smile, though I am afraid I must have looked a wreck.

The professor showed up before lunch, getting the same kind of stabbing glares he'd gotten the day before. He hovered right up to the altar, turned, and looked at the parishioners as they looked at him, some of them glancing at me, as if to silently say, What kind of goddamned sacrilege is this?

Those in prayer ceased. One or two got up immediately and left.

“What is wrong?” the professor asked me as I nibbled at some root bread and a small bowl of stew, made from native Purgatory vegetables and varmint meat—both of which we'd learned to farm. Purgatory's native fauna was on the diminutive side, and unfortunately for us, did not taste like chicken. You got used to it, after hunger for protein drove you to desperation. Thank heaven Purgatory wasn't short on salt.

I looked at the mantis, and pointed to the door that lead to the room where I slept. He followed me back, and I closed the door behind us, light leaking around the corners of the room's shuttered, rattling window. His disc buzzed softly.

“You really don't understand religion, do you?”

“You state the obvious,” he said.

“When people come here, they want to get away from you mantes. They want to get away from the anger and the rage and the despair.”

The professor just stared at me.

I sighed and rubbed my hands over my eyes, trying to figure out a way to penetrate his cold sensibilities.

“God is about warmth, and hope, and being able to see the future free of pain. Your coming here today is reminding everyone in the chapel of their pain, and they hate you for it. This is the one place where they think they can have a moment—just a moment, in the whole miserable world—of true peace. You're denying them that.”

“I have not interfered with their activities at all,” said the professor.

“Worship is not something you do so much as it's something you feel. Your being here . . . it's driving out the feeling. The spirit is gone.”

Gaping maw, vibrating saw-toothed horror.

“It doesn't help,” I said, “that you told me yesterday we were going to die. I haven't said anything about it to anyone else—it would just upset them, and we clearly can't do anything about it even if we wanted to—but the people who have been here today, they know I'm bothered. Makes me wonder why you mantes let any of us live at all, when you had the invasion beaten so surely.”

“Some of us were curious,” the professor said. “Humans are only the third sapient species we have found, after searching and colonizing thousands of star systems. Like I told you before, we annihilated the first two species without thinking more deeply about it. This time, we were determined to not make that same mistake.”

“So we're good to you alive,” I said, “only as long as we're of research interest.”

“Do not forget, human, that it was you who initiated hostilities.”

“Bull,” I said. “The planets Marvelous and New America were uninhabited when our colonists got there. They didn't know about the mantes until your people showed up and blew the colonial fleets out of orbit. Sol would have been totally in the dark, except for the two picket ships that got away. Bad mistake, that. We came back hard. Showed you what we were made of.”

The vestigial wings on the professor's back opened and fluttered—a sign of extreme amusement.

“What's so funny?” I said.

“Do you know what happened to the six colonies—mantis colonies—that your Sol fleets attacked, in so-called reprisal?”

“We kicked your butts,” I said, my voice rising.

“No, assistant-to-the-chaplain. We wiped you out. Those worlds remain in our hands, as do many others you once thought of as yours.”

“Liar,” I said, feeling hot in the face.

“If you've been told that your attacks against us on other worlds have been successful, then it is not I who have been lying to you. Think of your own fate, here on this planet. How successful was your fleet this time? Why would it have been any different anywhere else?”

I longed for a weapon. Any weapon.

“Our science is far advanced beyond your own. Discovery of the jump system is an easy, first step toward becoming truly technological. It in no way prepared you to deal with us at our level, and fortunately we have been able to deflect your violence and will now extinguish it from the Universe.”

The professor stopped, as if noticing my posture for the first time.

“You also hate me,” he said.

“Yes,” I told him.

“I can smell it on you. You would kill me, if you could.”

“Yes,” I said. Why lie now?

The professor and his disc hovered lower, his disturbingly alien eyes looking directly into my own.

“Listen to me, assistant-to-the-chaplain. It is not I and my colleagues who orchestrate your species’ destruction. The elders of the Quorum see you as animals. A pestilence. Having become aware of you, they consider you only in as much as they wish to eradicate your existence. But a few of us—in the schools—think differently. We suspect there is more to you than the elders believe. We suspect you have . . . perceptions, beyond our own.”

“I don't understand,” I said, still wishing for a weapon.

“This place,"—the mantis spread both forelimbs and wings wide—"is an utterly absurd concept to us. A house for your God. Where you come to hear Him speak to you without words. It is madness. Yet, we remember the avians and the amphibians. We remember their cultures. It is a profound scientific deficit, that we destroyed them as quickly as we did, without first penetrating their otherness, such that we understood their passions.”

“Our belief frightens you,” I said, feeling a small surge of pride.

“Yes,” said the professor.

“Good.”

“You would antagonize me?”

“What have I got to lose?” I said.

The professor was silent for well over a minute, then rotated his disc and opened the door with a forelimb, before gliding out of my room and back out of the chapel, which at that point was completely empty.

* * * *

A week passed, and the professor did not return. I kept his news of our impending doom to myself, still believing that if word of it leaked out, there would be more harm done than good. We still couldn't penetrate the Wall. We had no machines anymore with which to fly over it. Better, I thought, if the human population of Purgatory went on about its business, so that when the end did come, it came as a swift, merciful shock.

A few of the former officers came into the chapel, to quiz me about what the mantis had wanted. Most of us had stopped caring about our former rank and position, but not all. There were some stalwarts—each of them insistent that a liberation fleet was on its way, and that all we had to do was be disciplined and patient. Thankfully there weren't enough of those types to keep us under their martial thumbs, so I told the men what I could—keeping it deliberately monosyllabic—and let them leave thinking not much important had happened.

That night I was awakened by the sound of voices—two human, and one familiarly mechanical. I slowly got up out of my cot and stepped quietly to the doorway, where I peered out. The professor was there and seemed to be conversing by lamplight with a man and a woman, neither of whom I recognized.

“And what does immersion accomplish?” said the mantis.

“It takes away the sin,” said the woman.

“And what is sin?”

“Bad choices,” said the man. “When you screw up.”

“Mistakes,” said the professor.

“Yes,” said the woman. “All of us make mistakes. All of God's children. Which is why we all need His forgiveness.”

“And that's what the immersion in the water accomplishes?” said the professor.

“Yes,” said the man. “It's a clean start. Once a person becomes a member.”

The mantis rotated his disc suddenly. He looked at the doorway.

“Assistant-to-the-chaplain, do come out and join us.”

I stepped into the light, feeling stiff and frigid and wondering what time it was.

The man and woman smiled at me, then returned to talking to the mantis.

“So you see,” she said, “nobody is cut off from His love. Not even you.”

The professor's antennae made an ironic display.

“Your human God claims to love me?”

“He's not just the human God,” said the man. “He's the God of all things. Ours, yours, everyone's.”

“I'm sorry, but the chapel is closed at night,” I said gently.

“We know,” said the woman. “We'd have kept the professor over at our branch house, except he practically dragged us here to talk to you.”

“Why did you not tell me, assistant-to-the-chaplain, that your human God comes in different flavors?”

“Flavors?” I said, yawning.

“Yes. And shapes. One deity, many forms. These two humans, their God is made of gold and holds a trumpet to his lips.”

“That's not Heavenly Father,” the woman reminded. “That's the Angel Moroni.”

Ah. I understood now. The professor had ferreted out the Latter-Day Saints.

“Is that where you've been all week,” I asked him, “over with the LDS?”

“I have visited every religious structure in the valley,” said the professor. “Each one seems to serve a different flavor of spirit. Tonight I visited the Mormons. You do not like the Mormons?”

“I don't not like the Mormons, let's put it that way,” I said. The Chaplain had been a fierce Baptist. Didn't think much of the whole Joseph Smith thing, or so he'd told me a few times in confidence. Loved the people, near as I could tell, but the so-called Prophet . . . hogwash. My dealings with the Mormons were few. They had their church, I had mine, and we operated at opposite ends of the valley. Seemed like a good fit. So what was the professor doing bringing Mormons here?

“We'd better go,” said the man, sensing my vibe.

I showed them out and returned to the lamp-lit altar.

“I have learned much,” said the professor. He pointed at the altar. “Here I see multiple symbols for your flavors. The star is for Jews. The cross is used by many different subdivisions of Christianity. The smaller star with the eclipsed disc is for Muslims. The fat human who laughs is the God of the Buddhists.”

“Buddhists don't really have a God like Christians or Muslims or Jews.”

“But in the confines of this structure, you act as official for all of these, yes?”

“The chaplain did,” I said. “I just keep the building clean and make sure everyone knows that they can come in here during daylight. It's what's called multidenominational.”

“The Mormons do not come here?”

“Not usually.”

“Do you compete with them? For followers?”

“What?”

“The avians and amphibians, it was a major part of their society, to compete for and hold adherents to a particular flavor of belief.”

I thought of the internecine religious struggles that plagued Earth, right up to the present. I wondered if the mantes hadn't already “cleansed” humanity's homeworld in the same manner as had been done previously.

“Some places that happens,” I said. “But not here. There aren't enough of us that it's worth fighting.”

“The Muslims, at their mosque, told me I was the devil.”

I smiled a little bit. “Some Muslims are like that. They think everyone who isn't Muslim is evil. Even, sometimes, other Muslims.”

“Then why do you have their symbol on your religious furniture?”

“Not all Muslims go to the mosque. Some of them—the open ones—they come here sometimes.”

“But never Mormons.”

“Look, I don't really know what the beliefs are of the people who come to the chapel. I don't put a sign out advertising for specific faiths. Once someone keeps coming for a while I usually talk to them and figure out what they believe, but sometimes people don't say anything at all. They come in, they sit, and whatever else they do inside their hearts and heads, well, it's not my business.”

“Then how does one join your church?”

“I don't have a church to join. The building . . . it's separate from belief. My chapel just happens to service multiple religions. The others—the mosque, the synagogue—are for one ‘flavor’ only.”

“Fascinating,” said the professor.

“What's so urgent,” I said, “that you needed to drag a couple of Mormons across the valley to talk to me in the middle of the night?”

“Tomorrow I am bringing my students. I already have permission from the Mormons for my students to attend their church. The Buddhists as well. Since the mosque is closed to us, I ask that my students be allowed to come to you to learn Islam. And Judaism. And any other flavor you can show to them.”

“What about Hinduism?” I said.

“There was no building for this Hinduism.”

“They're around, though not many.”

“Then yes, that too.”

Dammit, where was the chaplain when I needed him? He'd have loved an opportunity like this. A chance to illuminate the enemy—to preach the gospel among the alien heathen. But the chaplain was dead, and I was stuck in his place. I knew just enough about the major Earth religions to get by, but that was all. I felt it was a serious mistake to attempt to teach any of the mantes about religions that I myself didn't understand beyond their basic precepts.

But first, I needed an answer of my own.

“Why should I do this for you, when your people plan to destroy my people?”

The professor considered.

“That is a fair question, assistant-to-the-chaplain.”

“Well?”

“The logical answer is, you should not.”

“What if I tell you that I won't cooperate at all, unless you promise me that you're going to go to the mantes—to this Quorum you talked about—and convince them to spare the valley. In fact, convince them to hold off on the Fourth Expansion, period.”

The professor's forelimbs made an expression of being taken aback.

“I am a scholar, not a politician,” he said. “You ask me for things which I cannot promise, and may not even be able to attempt.”

“You told me that enough mantes wanted to avoid the ‘mistake’ of killing humans before you understood us. What if you talked to and convinced them? How much influence does that body have?”

“Again, you ask for that which I cannot deliver.”

“But you and your schoolmates obviously have enough leverage to at least get the Quorum to think twice?”

The professor's forelimbs rattled on his dish—agitation.

“No, assistant-to-the-chaplain, I cannot do it.”

“Then I won't help you. In fact, I will go to the other churches and I will tell all of them what I know—about the genocide that is to come—and we will all promise together to not reveal even a single additional piece of information.”

“This is the second time you have pretended to antagonize me,” he said.

“And this is the second time I have had to remind you that I've got nothing to lose. Can you say the same?”

The mantis stared at me, his beak opening ever so slightly. A flush of blue along the semi-soft portions of his carapace told me that I'd flustered him badly. He'd not expected me to bargain, only to obey.

“It will take time, human,” he said.

“Take all the time you want. Just stop your people from killing us.”

The professor stared at me, then turned his head and stared long and hard at the altar, gleaming slightly in the wane light from the dimming oil lamps.

“The difficulty is great,” he said hesitantly. “If I return with my students, you will know your answer.”

“And if you don't return at all?” I said.

“Then that too will be an answer.”

He left as the last lamp flickered out, leaving me in cold darkness.

* * * *

Another week passed. Then a month. Purgatory's axial tilt wasn't as pronounced as Earth's, so the seasons weren't so well defined. There was no spring, summer, winter, or fall, just a warmer season and a colder season, with reflective growth and decay of alpine vegetation in the valley.

The former officers came and quizzed me again, as did some self-designated representatives from a couple of the other faiths, all of whom wanted to know what the professor had talked to me about. I told them what I could—omitting the one, big piece of information I dared not reveal—and life went on.

Two months. Three months. My dread of the inevitable began to deepen. The professor had never specified when the end might come, so I had no way of knowing if this was a delay in the course of events or merely the running out of the proverbial sand into the bottom of the proverbial hourglass. Since he'd not come back, I suspected that any hope I might kindle—and this happened more than once—was a false hope. So I stuffed it down and tried to be resigned to whatever happened.

If nothing else, the professor's visits got the word out among the valley's inhabitants, and my flock grew substantially. I wasn't sure what to think about that, other than being grateful for the increased donations of goods at my drop box by the front door. I still didn't preach—would not have had the foggiest idea what to say to any of them—but I kept the chapel clean, I made sure the altar and all the objects on it were tidy and arranged according to pattern, and I welcomed in everyone who felt the need to come.

When an entire Purgatorial year passed—perhaps one and a half Earth standard—I began to wonder if the professor had been an eccentric. A nutball. Such people existed among humans, why not the mantes? He had been chasing religion, after all, and I had nothing to corroborate what he'd said. Perhaps he'd been a millennial—someone attracted to and fascinated by ‘end times’ myth. Enough to spin me a story?

The first sign of the inevitable came when the hill farmers reported that the Wall was beginning to close in. Slowly, at first. A few centimeters a day. But then the rate of shrinkage got to the point where you could literally watch it happen. I went up to the valley rim myself and saw the curtain slowly drifting across the ground, noiseless and lethal as it'd always been.

The mood in the valley promptly shifted to panic.

My mood became eerily serene. The others didn't know what I knew, but somehow I felt better at least getting a solid answer. Whether he'd been legit or not, the professor had been unable to change the minds of the other mantes, and now I would witness the end of human life on this dried-up world at the edge of the known galaxy.

Attendance in the chapel went through the roof.

I was forced to allow people to begin spending the night.

Who was I to keep banker's hours, at a time like this? As long as people didn't leave a mess—excremental or otherwise—I let them stay as long as they wanted.

By the time the Wall was in the valley floor, and closing at well over a meter per day, I had more people in the chapel than could possibly fit. I began to think that the combination of fear and crowding might cause a riot. But my flock was like me, for the most part—calm and resigned, maybe attempting to make some sort of final peace with the Universe before ultimate doom came upon them. Perhaps, also, we were each of us eager for escape. It had been years since we'd walked freely on a human world, masters of our own universe. Life in the valley, controlled utterly by the mantes, had been like a living coffin. But now, it would end.

* * * *

When the Wall was visible from the doorway of the chapel, people were giving themselves up to it on a regular basis. My parishioners, others from around the valley, anybody who'd just gotten tired of the waiting and decided to end it. I began to be able to tell who those people were. The pews would be packed, and someone would just stand up and slowly walk out, a look of remarkable calm on his or her face. They'd keep going like that—calm, quiet, no running, right up and into the Wall. Flash. One moment, a human being. The next, a cloud of carbon, decaying to submolecular nothingness.

I heard that the other churches began railing against this practice. Suicide was sin, and for those who walked into the Wall, it was said, there would be damnation.

I wasn't so sure about that. I couldn't believe in any God that would curse a soul who picked freedom from this place, especially since we were all going to die anyway. I even considered it a few times myself, just getting up and walking out and ending it. The only thing that stopped me was my flock. They needed the chapel, and the chapel needed me, so I stayed where I was and watched the wall creep toward us, and dreamt odd dreams at night of flying away from Purgatory on a gust of warm ether, floating to another world far, far from anywhere I'd ever been before.

* * * *

I was out of bed early, getting ready to light the altar lamps in the pre-dawn darkness, when I heard the shriek at the foyer. Jumping over a few people who had curled up asleep in the central aisle, I found a woman leaning against the doorway and pointing into the distance. I peered out and saw nothing. Just the black shapes of the mountains, and the almost imperceptible lightening of the sky in the east.

Then, like a physical thunderclap, it hit me.

I was seeing nothing but mountains!

Other shouts, from inside the church, had roused my flock to their feet.

I stumbled out onto the packed earth in front of the chapel and looked to the scattering of other nearby buildings where others had also come out to see.

The Wall. It was . . . gone.

* * * *

The professor and his students showed up later that day. Eighty young mantes, each riding an unarmored and unarmed disc, their carapaces green whereas the professor's was a dingier brown. Very young. And eager. They congregated at the chapel, observing the mass of hundreds of people who had come to crowd the inside and the outside of my church, giving thanks to various versions of the Lord for their salvation. I squeezed my way out of the building and went out to greet the professor, waving my arms and smiling genuinely for probably the first time in almost two years.

“You were successful,” I said matter-of-factly.

“For the moment,” said the professor, wings fluttering slightly. “It took a great deal of argument and debate through the university system, but together we pressed the Quorum, and they agreed to stay your communal execution.”

“What of the Fourth Expansion?”

“That too has been stayed, until my students and I can complete our research here. We are to observe and learn all we can about humans: religion, culture, all of it in as natural an environment as possible.”

“Is that why the Wall is gone?” I asked.

“Yes. I had to fight hardest to get that done, but my colleagues and I believe it is impossible to conduct accurate research so long as humans are trapped in a test tube. You're free to travel as far as you wish, though I would warn you that not all the mantes in this hemisphere will take kindly to seeing humans roaming free through land that they still consider theirs. I would advise caution.”

“And when your research is complete?”

“That will be many of your years from now, assistant-to-the-chaplain. Many things can happen in that time. Many minds can be changed.”

“Mantis minds?” I said.

“Perhaps human too,” said the professor.

His wings fluttered again. And that's when I felt it start to bubble out of me. Laughter. Clean, peeling, exuberant laughter. So much that I had to bend over and drop to all fours, gasping. I finally recovered and, wiping my eyes, got back to my feet.

“Come on,” I told him. “You kept your part of the bargain. I have to keep mine. You should come watch this.”

I led the professor back toward my chapel, and my flock.

Copyright © 2011 Brad R. Torgersen

[Back to Table of Contents]

Short Story: ASTEROID MONTE
by Craig DeLancy

Some effects of evolution are obvious; others, a good deal subtler....

“You don't look like an omnivore.”

I was supposed to spend the next several years working side-by-side with this bear monster thing from an unpronounceable planet, and the first words she speaks to me are these.

“Excuse me?”

“Your teeth are flat,” she hissed. “Like a herbivore's.”

I had been waiting in the tiered square outside the Hall of Harmony, main office of the Galactic police force officially called the Harmonizers, but which everyone really called the Predators. Neelee-ornor is one of those planets that makes me a believer. Cities crowd right into forests as thick as the Amazon, and both somehow thrive with riotous abandon. It proves the Galactic creed really means something. Something worth fighting for. Something that could get me to take this thankless job.

So I waited to meet my partner, as I sat on a cool stone bench under a huge branch dripping green saprophytes. The air was damp but smelled, strangely, like California after the rain, when I would leave Caltech and hike into the hills. I almost didn't want her to show, so I could sit and enjoy it.

I really knew only three things about her. She had about two e-years under her belt as a Predator. She was a Sussuratian, a race of fierce bearlike carnivores evolved from predatory pack animals, only a century ahead of humanity in entering Galactic Culture. And she was named Briaathursiasaliantiormethessess.

God help me.

I rose awkwardly every time a Sussuratian passed, only to sit again after it walked on. Finally I gave up, and then a moment later a Sussuratian bounded out of the passing crowds, and addressed me with this comment about my eating habits.

I sprung off the bench and bowed slightly. “I am Tarkos.” We were talking Galactic. But my Galactic is pretty good, really. Better than hers, I was betting. Her name, however, was a Sussuratian name, and in that language a human larynx was hopeless. Well, here goes. “I am honored to meet you, Briaathursiasaliantiormethessess.”

She was about six feet long, with short dark fur that had black and green and gold patterns in it reminiscent of a boa. She was a quadruped, and walked on all fours, her claws clicking. Now she sat back on her haunches and put her front hands together, threading the seven claws on one hand through the seven on the other. The effect was a Kodiak holding a bouquet of knives. Her four eyes—two large green ones set below two small black ones—fixed on me.

“I am called Briaathursiasaliantiormethessess,” she said.

I bowed slightly again. “Yes. I apologize for my pronunciation.” I took a deep breath and tried again. “Briaathursiasaliantiormethessess.”

“No,” she said, speaking now very slowly. “It's Briaathursiasaliantiormethessess.”

For the life of me her pronunciation sounded exactly like mine. Except with a bunch of hissing involved in all the S's. “May I just call you Bria?”

Her small black eyes closed. I knew that expressed something—impatience? Disgust? Chagrin? I couldn't remember. It's hard to learn emotional expressions from a crash video course.

“This assignment is of great importance and could be perilous,” she said. “I told them I didn't want to work with a human.”

“Well, thanks for your honesty.”

She ran her long, dark-red tongue over fangs longer than my fingers. Maybe she understood human sarcasm, because this three-hundred-kilo carnivore then offered an explanation: “You're dangerous. I fear you.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I hear that a lot.”

* * * *

I didn't ask for the job.

Almost an e-year before, I sat in a Kirt station, in the long, low room that passed for a bar on the orbiting platform. As I nursed a water and waited to hitch a ship back to Earth, where I was scheduled to be court-martialed, a human in a gray suit walked over to my table.

“Amir Tarkos?”

I almost cringed. I knew this couldn't be good. I'd just returned from a very messy assignment on Purgatorio, a hellish gas giant in the ass end of nowhere, and then an assignment on Verrt, a different gas giant on the other cheek of nowhere. The crew on my ship had managed to become notorious three times over in the space of a fourteen-month assignment. And I was responsible for two of those incidents.

“I'm Conor McDonough,” he said. And he did indeed have a good solid Irish brogue. “May I sit?”

“If you can find something that a human can sit on.”

He punched at his PDA and a chair rose out of the floor. “You recognize my uniform?” he asked me.

I nodded. It was the first time I'd seen it on a human, but the gray of the cloth, and the three-triangle insignia on the front of the suit, were known to everyone. “You're a Predator. I mean, a Harmonizer.”

“One of only eighteen humans in the corp.”

“Look,” I said. “I know I'm in a world of trouble. I know I'm facing a court-martial. I know I'm an embarrassment and so on and so forth. But I also know I did not commit any lifecode violations.”

He fixed me with disconcerting blue eyes. “Aye. That you did not. I'm not here to arrest you. This is a social call.”

“A social call?”

“I'm a recruiter. I'm here to ask if you would try out for the Predators.”

I thought about that a long time. I considered telling him this wasn't funny. I considered asking what the catch was. I considered backing up slowly. I considered backing up quickly. And all the while, my mouth worked away, as if trying to remember how to form words. Finally, I managed, “Do you know who I am?”

“Amir Tarkos. Born in the West Bank—”

“Born in Palestine,” I said.

He nodded. “So it is. Fair enough. Born in Palestine. Moved to Turkey when you were five. Studied engineering at Caltech on a scholarship. Joined the—”

“I mean, do you know what just happened to me? On Verrt?”

“You took some liberties with the Kirtpau ship that you commanded.”

I liked that. “Liberties?”

“Yes. Liberties. And I know that you've had some . . . troubles back on Earth.”

“And you're talking to me because . . . ?”

He sighed. “On Verrt, now, you did things that are enough to get you kicked out of the military. But our concerns are different.” He turned in his seat and pointed around the room. “Tell me, Amir, what do you see here?”

Two Kirt stood by a feeding bar piled with some kind of salad, like two crabs before seaweed on a beach. One Kirt had an exoskeleton venerably dark with age, and the other was a red adolescent that reached out one of its ten legs and tapped rhythmically on its elder's carapace: a sign of care and love. In the other corner, two Neelee, six-legged deerlike creatures, huddled with a brood of birdlike aliens I did not recognize. One held a globe that emitted beautiful light and faint, rarefied music. Near them, by the observation windows, a shimmering gaggle of Brights floated and glowed.

“Galactics,” I said. “Civilized, advanced, successful Galactics.”

He smiled and nodded.

“Just so, now. And, tell me, what do you think a beloved Kirt diplomat, or a Neelee artist, or a Bright philosopher would up and do if it saw a lifecode violation happenin'?”

“Report it.”

“Aye, might. But these creatures live in cities so civilized, so peaceful and calm, that if they spot a crime, they're more likely to think they misunderstood. They're likely to reckon they can't trust their eyes. And if they do reason they saw a crime, they're as likely to assume someone else is taking care of it as they are to call it out. A crime would seem so outrageous to them, they'd consider it plain to the whole Universe. And you know what? Most times they'd be right.”

I suddenly didn't like where this was going. “You're saying it takes a thief to catch a thief.”

“Oh, no, lad. Don't be an eejit. I am saying there's an advantage to having been exposed to crime. To wickedness. It means you know better than to assume the best is already being done.” He nodded and watched the Brights shimmer for a moment. They were beautiful, shining but translucent. You could see the stars right through them. “But I'm saying something more than that, I am. To hunt crime in a Galaxy as good and grand as this here Galaxy, you have to be willing to take liberties. You have to be the kind of lad who knows there isn't going to be help at his back, nor a fix to the problem unless you fix it yerself, quick and dirty and on the fly. And that's what you did on Verrt.”

“Tell my commanding officer that.”

“You join the Predators, and I will.”

I had to smile at that. “Tell me something. Is it true the Predators are all recruited from the new races?”

“Mostly,” he said.

“Because we're thought to be expendable?”

He shook his head slowly. “No, lad. No. It's because we're closer to the sheet. We're just closer to all the bad that happened in our ugly, hard pasts. And so we understand.”

I looked back over at the Brights, twinkling before the window of stars. What this Conor McDonough said sounded right. In Heaven, what angel would take it upon himself to stare at Hell?

McDonough leaned forward. “But, now, there is one other thing.” He couldn't resist a smirk. “We're scary, lad. It scares the hell out of a Galactic to see a savage human, terror of the disaster planet, in a gray suit walking straight on at it. They expects you to beat ‘em to death with a club and then eat ‘em raw.”

I laughed. In that moment, I was sold.

* * * *

Bria and I hitched a ride on a Neelee ship. I couldn't walk ten meters down its shining glass corridors without getting lost. I kept direction protocol software running all the time. The Neelee bowed but did not talk to me. Bria hid in her room. Because I was the new Predator—a mere cub—I didn't get the briefing before we left. And Bria wouldn't tell me anything until the Neelee ship dropped back into space; shot us, nestled in our cruiser, out into the vacuum with a puff of wasted air; and then accelerated away.

A distant sun shone, not much more than a bright prick of green light. Fifteen AU out. Our cruiser was a gorgeous ship, shaped and colored like a shark. Sitting in our snug cabin, in two very different chairs mounted side-by-side before the viewer, I reviewed the nav data. What I saw made me catch my breath in awe.

“We're at the Green Disk.”

“You know it?” Bria hissed.

“Everyone knows it.” The Green Disk was one of the greatest mysteries of known space. The star was a tad more massive and bright than Sol. From here, it looked green because great clouds of black and green matter lay between us and its flaming surface. The system had about the mass of our solar system, but there were no planets. Instead, a disk of asteroids stretched from near orbit of the star out to a good twenty AU, with 90 percent of the mass in the sweet spot, between 0.8 and 1.8 AUs.

Bria tapped at the controls, setting a plot for downsystem and turning on one of the twin inertial suppressors.

“What's our mission?” I asked, fighting the weird nausea the inertia-suppression fields caused as they started up.

“You are aware of the importance of this system?”

“Sure,” I told her. “The Green Disk is home to the Symbionts, the only known self-reproducing non-intelligent machine-organic hybridization.”

“This is a great treasure, but also a danger. No one knows what would happen if the Symbionts were seeded in a different system.”

I could see that. There was significant evidence for the theory that the Green Disk had been made, that planets had been busted up to create this special ecosystem. The Symbionts seemed mindless, some kind of remnant of a civilization hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, of years lost—but you didn't want to mess with that kind of power when we understood them so little. It would be ugly if the mindless Symbionts themselves turned out to be capable of planet-busting, and they were seeded in other solar systems and then set about doing it.

“Any reason to think that's going to happen?”

“Yes.” Bria tapped the console, and we screamed off at three gees.

* * * *

A Galactic base perched on a big asteroid about 1.1 AU out from the star. We slingshot-braked around the Sun and then, as we decelerated at one gee to dock with the base, Bria gave me the briefing.

“A Galactic agent on the Fringe found this.” A noisy hologram of a barrel-shaped asteroid stuttered in the air above us. The view zoomed in, and on its dark metal surface gray and green shapes like strange fungi stood. Their peaks thrust up out of a shimmering, translucent surface, like plastic sheeting stretched over the rock. Small machines moved beneath the membrane, purposefully hurrying about at some task.

“Those are Green Disk Symbionts?” I asked.

“This has been confirmed,” Bria said.

“Who took them?”

“This group appears to be Rineret.” The Fringe was a collection of species that didn't want to join Galactic civilization, along with millions of dropouts from the species that had. The Rineret were in the former group, centipede-like beings that had for centuries been resentful of the Galactic civilization's rules. Bria added with disgust, “Rineret are herbivores.”

“Okay,” I said, watching the video loop now. “I see the problem. These things might be dangerous. But this isn't lifecrime. The sample they've taken is too small, by the looks of it, to threaten any of the genotypes of the Green Disk. And it appears they're experimenting far from any ecosystem. You haven't shown me anything that's an imminent threat to another ecosystem or species. Executive should handle this.”

“They asked us to help.”

That surprised me. Executive, the general police and warfare force of Galactic Civilization, was very defensive of its purview. They resented the prestige afforded Predators. “Why?”

“The Green Disk is a big asteroid belt to go searching. The Rineret are stealing seeds.”

The Symbionts launched seeds between the asteroids. “The Executive discovered that?”

“Yes. Executive ships followed new seed launches, but many seeds were gone by the time they caught up with them.”

Now I understood why we were here, and why the Executive had asked the Predators onto their turf, and why we were all stretching the rules a little bit. “So the Rineret have some kind of very fast, very quiet ship out here. But a Predator Cruiser, with twin inertial suppression, accelerates faster than anything in the known Galaxy.”

Bria opened her mouth wide and drew her lips over white teeth, exposing a slick, dark red tongue. A Sussuratian smile, predatory and sly. “Yessss. This ship is fast.”

* * * *

The plan was simple. The seed launches were uncommon, and the Galactic station here had probes all over the system to identify when they happened. We would move around and chase each seed that launched in our vicinity, relying upon station data to plot the trajectory. The goal was to surprise a ship as it matched vector with, and grabbed, a seed.

We didn't have to wait long. We nearly matched orbit with the Galactic base when they transmitted that a seed had just launched, and within range: fifty thousand klicks. Bria turned on the twin inertial suppressors. The point of having two was so you could tune an inner field to greater damping, but use the outer field to only slightly dampen the outer hull's inertia. This was necessary to keep our heat signature low. We took off at five gees, feeling only about one and a half inside.

We pinged the seed with focused radar when we were just a few thousand klicks out. The Symbiont seeds have a carbon-metal shell, between one and three meters in diameter, containing a dense package of organics and self-replicating nanotech. This was something unique in the known galaxy: an ecosystem seed, not just a phenotype but a whole collection of very loosely related organisms cooperating for reproduction. There had been an intellectual fashion to think this might be the next step in evolution: portions of ecosystems, instead of organisms, as the unit of selection. But we were in the only known ecosystem that had such a reproduction system.

“It's about to pass behind that asteroid,” I told Bria.

The Sussurtian only blinked. She was not trying to match the trajectory of the seed directly, but rather to keep us in radar contact with it as much as possible. But, eventually, it passed behind the asteroid, relative to our approach. The radar ping came suddenly loud: We were picking up the now-intervening asteroid, a big spindle-shaped iron rock. Bria took us over it, so that its pitted black and gray surface shot by below in a blink, and then we were past it, flipping over to decelerate and turn into the seed's vector.

“I lost it.”

“Scan!” Bria demanded.

The ship's AI began a wide radar scan of the whole area. We got nothing but the nearby iron rock, and then the ping of more distant asteroids. Nothing else. Nothing the size or mass of the seed.

Bria matched the last trajectory of the seed and we coasted. “It can't be that there is a ship out here faster than us,” I said. “We would have seen it.”

We scanned the area, did deep radar scans of the asteroid, and found no other object within a thousand klicks, and not a thing a degree Kelvin above the background radiation.

“How?” I asked. “How in the hell did they do that?”

* * * *

The Galactic Station crouched like a spider on a boulder: a dome of pale colors standing on bent legs on one end of a big nickel-iron rock. This asteroid was pitted all over with deep circular indentations, not like craters so much as like broken bubbles. Like a lava rock. Some of these were covered over with the membranes that formed the Symbiont covers, faded now to white with neglect and age.

In the station's narrow reception hall, Bria talked with the dark-furred Neelee in charge, and they bounced off together to review radar logs. I made excuses and headed in the opposite direction. The station roster listed one human aboard. Not many humans were out in the galaxy, and common courtesy meant making an introduction, but I also wanted to learn more about the Symbionts from someone I could skip the ever-so-slow Galactic courtesies with.

Crossing the station proved frustrating. The weak gravity made little appreciable difference in my motion. I pushed off the floor and immediately found myself pushing off the ceiling. I have spent a lot of time in microgravity, but here the halls were narrow, smoothly bereft of handholds, and crowded with neelee.

I followed directions right down one leg of the station to the terminus: a lab with a window looking out into one of the covered pits we'd viewed on our descent. Dr. Prima Rajiv proved to be an Indian woman with a heavy Australian accent. An ecologist, she had big eyes and a ready smile, but a calculating squint when she considered a question. She stopped and stared when she saw me—a human in Predator uniform.

“Now I've seen everything,” she said.

“Oh, not till you've seen me standing next to my partner, you haven't.”

I introduced myself, we bantered and discovered we'd shared a university teacher who had moved from Caltech to Melbourne, and then we bemoaned the galaxy's lack of chips—or French fries, as I called them.

“I'm sorry to change the course of conversation abruptly,” I told her. “But I need some help.”

“I assumed you did. We've been told, you know, about the thefts.”

“Yeah. So what can you tell me about these seeds?”

“What do you know already?”

“Next to nothing. The Symbionts thrive through a tight bond between self-reproducing machines and a diversity of small organisms. The machines created small encapsulated environments on the asteroids for the organisms, and transport the organisms between asteroids. The organisms provide the machines with proteins that they use for all of their non-metallic parts.”

“Close enough,” she said. “Okay. So, the symbionts are, by our count, actually about five thousand organic species, most of them under a centimeter in size. There are instead only a few hundred kinds of self-replicating machines there. Most are dedicated to building the webbing, like this.” She pointed out the window. “A translucent protein sheath that allows them to create a small pocket of atmosphere underneath. On active asteroids, the sheath is pale green with photosynthesizers clinging to the underside, and it covers the rock, leaving about two or three centimeters of space below. It makes a thin little atmosphere for the Symbionts to work in. Some other machines build the cannons, those big poles you see out there.” They were like the stalks of mushrooms, rising straight up out of the low webbing.

“Those fire seeds. An asteroid like this one can be home to the Symbionts for a few hundred thousand years. Then the organisms start to be overwhelmed by their chemical wastes. The machines create seeds—pocket systems where the organisms can dwell. They load them into the cannons and fire them, pretty much at random. A few make it to other asteroids and start new colonies.”

“The machines stay behind?” I asked. “After an asteroid goes fallow?”

“Those that aren't launched in seeds do, yes. They actually keep making seeds, but they're duds, and they rarely launch. That's what we're studying here. This is a fallow asteroid. You can tell because the sheathing is white, not green. And because it's smooth, and has lots of holes in it. But, in the next few hundred thousand years, a seed should land here, and start a new symbiont colony. Some of the machines will merge with the ones still working here.”

“Any reason why someone would steal a seed instead of landing and taking a sample?”

She shrugged. “Sure. A seed is like a ready-made sample. A representative cross-section of the whole ecosystem, all you need to start a viable Symbiont colony. It'd save a lot of work to steal one of those.”

“I see.” I went closer to the window. In the crater beyond, some Neelee were moving about in suits among the seed cannons. One prodded at one of the cannons, and it suddenly spasmed.

“What's that?” I asked, pointing.

“What?”

“That Neelee, it touched the cannon, and it looked like . . . it contracted.”

“It tried to fire. We're studying the cannons right now. They are, like I said, on autopilot. The canons naturally build up pressure inside, and then when it reaches a threshold they fire and shoot a seed. But, if you press on them and compress the gas inside, you sometimes make them fire prematurely by squeezing the internal pressure higher. And some do contain sterile seeds. That would have launched one if we hadn't been prodding it all week.”

“What's in a sterile seed?”

“Nothing. It's just the machines, no organics. It's like a metallic foam. Mostly empty space.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Sure. Come see me again if you have any questions.”

“I will.” I smiled at her. “I don't mean to be abrupt. It's just . . . you've given me an idea. There are logs somewhere, of the seed launches?”

She gave me instructions on how to find the files. I thanked her, we made plans for dinner—I was looking forward to showing off Bria to my fellow human—and then I went to do a little data mining.

* * * *

But I didn't have enough time to consider what I'd learned. Bria called me while I was pacing the hall, thinking through the puzzle of the disappearing seed.

“Another seed has launched. Come.”

We suited and got into the ship fast—it was a thing we had trained to do. Within a few minutes we were kicking off the asteroid. Then Bria set course as I got a radar fix on the seed pod.

“Wait. Wait, Bria. Listen to me. I think . . .”

But Bria was on the hunt. She leaned over the console, not listening.

“I think we should head in the opposite direction. We should follow the trajectory of the seed back to the asteroid it launched from.”

She finally looked at me. “Why? The last seed was intercepted.”

“No, no, I don't think it was.”

She closed her black eyes. That expression again.

The trajectory we were on was eerily similar to the last one; the seed was heading for a near miss on the other side of a big asteroid. In less than a minute it would be out of view behind the rock, for at least a few seconds.

I didn't have time to explain. I punched into the virtual controls, locked sights on the seed—"Human, what are you doing?” Bria started to ask—and I hit it with our laser.

It faded from radar.

Bria looked at me, all four eyes wide. “What is this behavior, human?” she howled in a rush.

“Look!” I said. I punched at the controls and called up a spectrograph. If I wasn't right about my hunch, I was going to be really, really sorry.

Bria growled. “We do not destroy organisms in order to prevent their accumulation. The Rineret ship we seek will be retreating in flight now. I will report that you are not suitable for weapons access. Not suitable for pursuit. I will request that you—”

“Look!” I said again. I pointed at the data, and to my relief my hunch had been right. “Look at the spectrograph. There are no organics in the debris. Only vaporized iron and nickel. And trace metals.”

Bria blinked. “The seed was sterile,” she said. “You knew that?”

“I thought it was, but that's not the point, really. We're being . . .” And I couldn't think of a Galactic word for duped. I sighed. If I couldn't use the term, I could tell a story. “Look, please. Just listen to me. Listen. On my world, there's a game. A gambling game. When I was a very young child, in Palestine, walking to school, every day I would pass a man playing it.” Most days I never made it to school, but rather waited in an interminable line at a checkpoint until it was time to walk home. But every day I walked past the three-card monte. I envied the older boys who had some money to play and bet on the game. “The man had three . . . cards. Like this.”

I pulled three data tabs from the console. They were roughly the size and shape of playing cards. “See, the challenge was, you pick one of the cards, and then this man would mix it with the others, and you had to try to determine which one it was after he shuffled. Say, this card.” I held up one memory tab, showing her the symbol on its underside. Then, on the narrow platform between our seats, I did a very poor three-card-monte shuffle in the half-gee acceleration we were holding.

“You are a confused child,” Bria said. “I am reporting you to our superiors.”

“Just tell me which tablet it is.”

“It is the second tablet,” Bria said, disgusted.

“Have you checked the monitor?”

Bria looked at the console. I shuffled. She turned back quickly.

“Which card is it?” I asked again.

“You have cheated. You distracted me and moved the cards while I looked away.”

“Indeed I have.”

Bria blinked each eye in turn, moving counterclockwise. I remembered this expression from my Meet The Sussuratian! training vids: It meant surprise and realization.

“They have distracted us,” she whispered.

“Yes. They get us to look away, and then they shuffle the cards. Somehow they're launching the sterile seeds, but aimed on a trajectory that will get them behind an asteroid from the perspective of the base. They burn the seed when it's out of sight. We assume it was picked up, and look all around in the wrong place. Most likely, they've got a ship on the other side of the sun, slipping out of system right now. They probably do a fake seed launch every time it does a maneuver that might be noticeable, in order to distract us. Tightbeam the Execs.”

Bria leaned over the console intently, eager now to be on the hunt. She sent the message via laser to the Executives waiting high over the pole of the sun. The message would take an hour to get to them, but if there was a ship on the other side of the system it would likely need more time than that to get up speed for a jump point.

Bria hit the console with a fist, slamming both inertial suppression engines on. “We must enter full coolrunning. We must track the false seed to its origin.”

I fought the nausea and strapped in.

* * * *

Bria slipped past the asteroid where the seed had launched. I judged it to be recently fallow; no green on its surface, but the low membranes that so resembled spider webs in the sunlight covered huge unbroken swathes of the black surface. Seed cannons rose up out of these fields like thorns. Bria dove within a klick of the asteroid, and then rotated us so that our nose faced the center of it as we passed. She blasted the engines hard after we skipped a few klicks beyond it, decelerating without showing engine signature. The result was a very tenuous orbit.

We upped the magnification on the screens and stabilized the image.

“There,” Bria said. She extended a single claw and touched part of the image. “A ship.” We zoomed in. It was a spidery framework of black foil walls and thin tubular beams. It would have likely been invisible but for the white background of symbiont membrane setting it out in sharp relief.

“An ultralight ship,” she added. “Good for moving stealthily short distances, since little thrust is needed.”

“I don't see any Rineret, or any other suited figures.”

“It could be robotic. Or else the Rineret are all in the ship.”

Bria nudged us forward.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“We will land and tag their ship with spy probes. This way we can trace them back to their system command centers. We need to capture their interstellar ship.”

“That's crazy,” I said.

“A ship is most vulnerable when set down.”

“And we'll be set down too!”

“We are the predators, they the prey.”

* * * *

Walking in the station had been bad, but walking on an asteroid is a nightmare, let me tell you. It isn't walking, really. It's leaping about as cautiously as you can. No ceiling above to push against if you step too hard. None of that nice bouncing ease you get on, say, Earth's moon. Get too enthusiastic here and you would jump right off the rock and into low orbit.

We parked the cruiser, grappled it down, suited up, and walked out onto the surface. There was no atmosphere under the dead Symbiont webbing, so it didn't feel spongy, but it did feel slippery under our hard boots. A trickle of ambient light fell from some nearby big asteroids with high albedo. It would have been pitch dark to my eyes, but the suit could compensate. Our suits set up a short-range microwave network so we could talk without broadcasting too much noise.

“Magnetize your boots,” Bria said. I did it and felt myself get a slightly better grip on the asteroid. There was just enough iron in the rock to pull at the field in the suit's soles.

We had two kilometers to cross. We tried to do it in measured leaps. We picked a “mountain” on the horizon that we knew was just this side of the ultralight ship's landing field. I was relieved that Bria quickly became as tired as me: Her breath, like mine, started to come in deep gasps by the time we had bounded near our target feature.

The stone peak proved to be not a mountain but an irregular edge of a crater. We scaled to its edge, and then looked down on the uneven field beyond, a large flat-bottomed bowl prickly with Symbiont cannons.

The ship was not in sight.

“What now?” I asked Bria.

She pointed at a cluster of rocks in the center of the bowl. “It must be behind those rocks.”

I nodded, a useless gesture in my helmet. I didn't want to call the ship to get the data to check, but I did recall the Rineret ultralight had been parked next to an outcropping of dark stone.

It took us only a few minutes to stalk up behind the stones. Peeking around them, we discovered only another expanse of Symbiont membrane, encircled by a thick field of seed cannons.

“The ship is gone,” Bria said.

I looked up, suddenly afraid. I couldn't see anything; we were facing away from the sun. But then, a line of stars winked out in the periphery of my vision. I turned to face it. It took me only a moment to realize that a square of black was cut out of the stars.

“They're right above us!” I shouted. The black outline of the ship loomed hugely. It must still be low.

“Move!” Bria shouted. She dove toward the seed cannons. I turned off my boot magnets and did the same.

Wisps of white rose up around me. I realized with cold fear that lasers cut at the ground behind us. The Symbiont membranes shredded into sheets that twisted and turned into the space around us like some kind of drifting, bleached kelp.

I dove for a seed cannon and then changed trajectory by pushing off it when I arrived, hoping to set an unpredictable course. But I had no control. I was very likely to leap off the asteroid if I got moving any faster, and adrift in near orbit I would be the easiest target imaginable. The seed cannon I bounced off popped open behind me like a silent balloon explosion, lased just after I passed.

Then it struck me.

“Bria!” I called. “Bria, hit the base of the seed cannons!”

We had light thrusters on our suits and I turned mine on full blast and aimed myself at the nearest seed cannon, fists out, flying Superman style. I hit the base and the whole thing convulsed in a coughing motion as I bounced off of it.

It shot a seed up, so fast I saw only a blur over of the rim of its barrel. I looked up but couldn't follow the trajectory. So I dove for the next cannon. And the next. Bria followed my lead, several times sailing by me, feet extended, like a polar bear diving feet first. In a few seconds we had launched a dozen sterile seeds.

A flash lit up the landscape, casting sharp shadows of seed cannons. I looked up, squinting. Light leaked from a gash in the ship, revealing shreds of foil that flapped in escaping gas. A direct hit. The seeds, launched at high speeds, had easily penetrated the ultralight hull.

Bria bounded past and rammed another cannon. It fired. I stared at the ship, mesmerized. After a second, it jerked and started to spin. A direct hit. The ship tumbled away, venting now from two long breaches. As we watched, it cracked, nearly breaking in two. Long wormlike figures twisted in the gap: suited Rineret, attempting desperate repairs.

“Back to the cruiser,” Bria called.

* * * *

We radioed the Executive fleet, then followed the Rineret ship at a respectful distance until an Exec Enforcer ship matched trajectory with us, opened the great maw on its bay, and swallowed the damaged craft whole. The Executives had not found the larger ship that we predicted was on the other side of the system, but the Green Disk is large, and this capture would be a good lead to help them find it.

Since we had discovered that the Rineret were not using a superfast ship to hunt seeds, there was no need for two Predators with a cruiser to stay in system. I sent a message of regrets to Dr. Rajiv, and we set course for another Exec ship waiting outside the belt, to hitch a ride out of the system.

“Bria, tell me something.” I looked over at her. Tiny reflections of the drive control displays were echoed, four times, in her dark eyes. “What is this thing you have about herbivores?”

“You do not know the hunter theory?” I shook my head, then realized the gesture might signify nothing to her. So I added, “No, what's that?”

“Eleven fourteenths of the species in the Galactic Civilization are pack carnivores. Three fourteenths are omnivores, like the Neelee or the Kirt.”

“Or me,” I said.

“Or humans. But few are like the Treven, herbivores.”

“So?”

“Carnivores evolved with weapons—their teeth and claws. So they evolved the ability to hold back their power, they evolved awareness of how to show mercy and relent.”

I had seen how wolves lay on their back, if they were willing to submit during a fight, exposing their throats to the alpha male. The alpha male would immediately break off attack at the sight. I nodded. “I see.”

“Herbivores have no such heritage,” Bria continued, “so they do not know how to relent. They are dangerous, and foolish, given weapons. And merciless.”

I thought of the Rineret shooting at us on the asteroid surface. Really, I'd be hard pressed to imagine what they thought they could gain from killing us: It was downright spiteful, and our suits would transmit all our data if we died, so our ships would report and then the Rineret biopirates would have had a very angry Predator force hunting them in retaliation.

“Well,” I said, “I'll try to reach down and commune with my inner predator.”

“Good.”

The console chimed. Bria looked over at a hologram rising in the air above the ship controls. “New orders. An illegal colonization, on Kirtpauan Nine, fallow planet four. Refugees.”

“I know something about refugees,” I told her.

“I continue to be the leader of this pack unit.”

“Sure, Bria. Whatever you say.”

She punched the engines.

Copyright © 2011 Craig DeLangey

[Back to Table of Contents]

Department: THE ALTERNATE VIEW: PLANET NARNIA
by Jeffery D. Kooistra

In a column I wrote 12 years ago ("For C. S. Lewis on His 101st,” Analog, November 1999) I mentioned, among several things, how much I like the works of both C. S. Lewis and Robert A. Heinlein, and how those two make up the entire set of My Favorite Authors. In those 12 years I haven't changed my opinion—they are still the only two authors whose books I know I will return to again and again until the day I die.

It's true that other writers have produced works that are certain to get a thorough rereading from me. I know I will not make it through the rest of my fifties without reading Tolkien's Lord of the Rings again, and the same goes for J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter canon. But in both cases those books constitute one long story. I don't know if I'll ever seek out anything else by either of them in the years ahead, whereas returning to Lewis and Heinlein will always be only one whim away from happening over and over again.

In my earlier Lewis column I discussed two essays he'd written, one of which was “On the Reading of Old Books.” In that essay I felt that Lewis had said some important things, about one of which I said this: “Lewis decried the idea common in his, and our, time, that to, say, study Plato, one might best go to a book about what Plato said, rather than to take a good translation of Plato off the shelf and see what the man had to say on his own, unfiltered by others. Lewis makes the point that Plato, by nature of having such a fine mind, is usually much easier to understand than almost any of the people who write the books about what Plato said.”

This very point applies to Lewis. Why read a book about C. S. Lewis or his work when one could read the man himself? It is unlikely that anyone writing about Lewis will be able to write as well as Lewis, let alone display his uncanny wit and clarity of thought. But suppose someone uncovers a secret about C. S. Lewis and his works that Lewis never disclosed, and writes a book (actually, two books) about it? In my case, I risked disappointment and bought them (in Kindle editions).

I'm glad I did. The two books are Planet Narnia: The Seven Heavens in the Imagination of C. S. Lewis (ISBN-10: 0195313879) and The Narnia Code: C. S. Lewis and the Secret of the Seven Heavens ( ISBN-10: 1414339658) by Michael Ward. Ward writes very well, and explains the “secret” behind the Narnia tales that he has uncovered both thoroughly and eloquently. Indeed, while reading the books I found myself transported into Narnia, inhaling the atmosphere of the stories and living in them, the same way I do when I revisit the tales themselves.

So what is the secret? Why, it is the answer to the question, as I like to put it: “What is Santa Claus doing in Narnia?”

In that earlier column I pointed this out about the Narnia stories: “This series is often wrongly called an allegory of the Christian gospels. It is not. It is an alternate world fantasy in which Lewis described a redemption story as it might have occurred in a fantasy world called Narnia (and then only in the first volume).” Although Ward's books discuss the entire “Narniad” (as he calls it), it is the matter of Father Christmas appearing in The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe (LWW) that the ordinary reader of the stories is most likely to think is a gaffe. So I'll discuss that apparent problem in detail.

Early in LWW, Narnia is a land in which it is “always winter and never Christmas,” locked into that condition by the evil White Witch. Midway through the tale, Peter, Susan, and Lucy, along with Mr. and Mrs. Beaver, are on their way to the Stone Table to meet the Great Lion Aslan, and on this journey they wake one morning to find Father Christmas greeting them. He gives each of them gifts (which figure prominently later in the story and in several of the other tales) and tells them that Aslan has made it possible for him to finally get into Narnia again. The White Witch's power is broken.

But, ummm, Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Jesus in our world. When exactly was it that Jesus was born in Narnia? If Aslan is the Christ figure, shouldn't there be a celebration of the birth of Aslan? But nowhere in any of the stories is there any mention of Jesus being incarnated. There is a sacrifice and resurrection scene in LWW that is evocative of the Easter story, but that involves Aslan. So it seems that, although Narnia had long had winter without Christmas, it does have Christmas (with St. Nick even) without Christ. (Come to think of it, that's what Christmas is like for most people in our world.)

Narnia is a rather strange fantasy world, as such worlds go. Tolkien found LWW largely unreadable, a hodgepodge of disparate elements all thrown together for no apparent reason other than the author's whim. Narnia is a world filled with talking animals, creatures from Earthly mythology, werewolves, dragons, stars that manifest as beings, and even assorted gods and goddesses. Narnia itself isn't even a round world, but a flat one. Even Lewis's good friend Roger Lancelyn Green (who wrote the wonderful Myths of the Norsemen), who liked the stories very much, thought Father Christmas was best left out and advised Lewis to do so.

Yet, despite having had the problem pointed out, Lewis insisted on keeping Father Christmas in. Despite the stories being (according to Tolkien and others) a hastily written mishmash, they have become classics of children's literature, read and reread and beloved by millions the world over for more than half a century. How can this be? Adding to the mystery is how Lewis—who according to those who knew him, had a brilliant and highly organized mind, and a passion for logical consistency abundantly evident in his professional and apologetic writings—could have produced an inconsistent mishmash in the first place and been satisfied with it?

Fans have argued that Lewis would have done no such thing, so there must be a plan he had in mind with each of the seven tales. The obvious place to look first is along the Christian allegory angle, but it falls apart in that, at best and with some straining, only three of the stories fit. You can sort of see Easter in LWW, Genesis in The Magician's Nephew, and Revelation in The Last Battle. But then what are we to make of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader? Some have thought Lewis had no plan other than to put in things both kids and adults liked, that being faeryland elements from faery stories. So even if Father Christmas makes no sense for a Narnia with no Christmas event, the children reading the story exist in our world and they darn well have certain feelings when it comes to Father Christmas and they know what it means when he appears. Still others tried to link the stories to the seven deadly sins or even more far-fetched ideas, but no one ever put forth a convincing “explanation” that was generally accepted.

But Michael Ward thinks he has, at long last, discovered the plan for Narnia and I believe him. The “seven heavens” in the titles of both books are none other than the seven planets of the medieval worldview, and each story evokes the “influence” or “sense” or “atmosphere” of each planet, not as a Twenty-first Century man would understand them, but as a Medieval man would.

One thing that makes me deeply appreciate Ward and his books becomes apparent in the description he gives of how he arrived at his eureka moment and what he did afterward. The version of the account he gives in chapter three of The Narnia Code is the more suited to the general reader.

Ward was not in a bath like Archimedes, but in his bed near midnight. At a time in his life when he was already deeply steeped in Narnia and all things C. S. Lewis, he happened to be reading from a long poem Lewis wrote in 1935, 15 years before he began writing the Narniad. The poem was “The Planets,” which Ward says “is all about how the planets were understood in medieval times, when it was believed there were only seven planets and that they exerted influences over the Earth, affecting people, events, and even the metals in the Earth's crust.” Ward did a double take while reading a section about Jupiter (or Jove). “Jupiter, according to the poem, influenced the Earth by bringing about:

. . . winter passed

And guilt forgiven.

Those five words leaped off the page at me. I rubbed my eyes. “Winter passed and guilt forgiven?” Ward realized he'd come across those together as two of the main events in LWW. Indeed, the passing of winter is signified by the arrival of Father Christmas.

Looking more closely at the poem, “A suspiciously large amount of the imagery in the poem seemed to link up with the things in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. It mentioned kings and the lionhearted and royal robes and rulers who were ‘just and gentle’ (like King Edmund the Just and Queen Susan the Gentle). Could I possibly, after all these years, have stumbled upon Lewis's secret code?”

He sure did.

Immediately thereafter Ward looked at the rest of the poem and saw how each medieval planet section matched up with the rest of the Narnia stories, “. . . one Chronicle for each planet.” After walking around in a daze for two weeks, he set everything else aside, reread everything Lewis had ever written, wanting to “check and double-check and triple-check this theory,” then spent four years writing the Planet Narnia book (The Narnia Code is just a shorter version more suited to nonscholars).

Those of us who appreciate thorough scholarship are richly rewarded, for by the time Ward is finished there is simply no room left to doubt that LWW represents Jupiter; The Horse and His Boy, Mercury; The Silver Chair (my favorite), the Moon. Ward dives deeply into Lewis's poetry, non-Narniad fiction, personal history, and academic works to prove his case, and by the end we are reminded not of Archimedes, but Pythagoras, for this is how proving a hypothesis is supposed to be done. Ward makes his case so thoroughly and with such exquisite attention to detail that I will, henceforth, never believe any other explanation than this one.

* * * *

Lewis loved the medieval worldview, and as he constructed “Planet Narnia” he wanted his readers to breathe in the atmosphere, to be enveloped inside the influence of each of the medieval planets. Thus, we experience the Joviality of a Christmas morning in Wardrobe and Saturnine sadness at the end of Narnia in Last Battle. Michael Ward's books put us under the influence of Lewis's eighth medieval planet, Narnia itself. Because of that, his books are the only ones about C. S. Lewis that I can guarantee I'll read again.

Copyright © 2011 Jeffery D. Kooistra

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: HELIX OF FRIENDS
by Carl Frederick

Some things can be used without fully understanding them—but there are drawbacks to that....

Waiting for Gary, his best friend, to arrive back on campus after a month sabbatical, Professor Mark Smith gazed idly through the window onto the early dew-bright green of Gormell University. The first of October, and still it's green. From his eighth-floor office in the Mind Sciences Building, he could see pines and oaks, and even a third species of tree—the rare Belgian elm. Marveling at that astonishing variety of nature, he raised his gaze to the distant towers of the Gorge Bridge that connected University Island to the rest of New York State.

At length, he saw two figures emerge from a car and walk toward Mind Sciences. They looked like Gary and his young adopted son, Adrian.

Mark attempted to mind-link. But even though Mark's ability was unnaturally powerful and Gary Van Dorn was his link-friend, the inverse square law could not be compromised. Mark could not link. Instead, he followed the pair with his gaze until they disappeared under the concrete canopy of the building. It'll be good talking to Gary again. Mark smiled. Even with his heightened abilities, talking took a lot less energy and concentration than did mind-linking. Wonder why I didn't think to phone him from time to time.

They had gone to high school together, had gone to the same college and also grad school, where Mark had taken a doctorate in trans-neuronics while Gary got his in quantum natural philosophy. Now they taught at the same university, were members of the same clubs, and even had the same GP. Mark felt his lips tighten. He and Gary did not however have the same GPT. But he and Adrian did. Mark smiled as he recalled his first meeting with Gwen, his General Practitioner Therapist.

“I'm mainly a child psychiatrist,” Gwen had said.

“Does that include transneuronic scientists?”

She'd laughed. “Perhaps. How do you feel about that?”

“I don't really like the idea of even having a therapist.”

“Why? Just about everyone has one these days.”

“I know.”

She chuckled. “Well, then. You can be my virtual patient.”

Mark had laughed as well. On impulse then, he suspended his long-held aversion to therapy, took her as his GPT, and then confided his problems. Mark suppressed a shiver. Gwen had listened and then tried to get him to consult a specialist, but he'd declined. I'd rather continue living without my childhood memories than go through that.

His thoughts turned to Adrian. Mark remembered him as something of a brat. But Mark could excuse that. Before Gary and Felice adopted him, that kid had it pretty rough. Mark gave an all but imperceptible nod. The problem seemed mainly an abysmal gulf between father and son. And now Gwen was about to attempt to bridge that gulf using a new technique—the Helix of Friends—and had recruited Mark to be a participant. Mark sighed, regretting that it was only possible to mind-link between people of the same gender who are very close in age, and with a lot of training. If I could link to Adrian, I'd save Gwen a lot of effort

Mark raised his gaze to look out over the jumble of worm-train tubes and vacuum stations entangling the region around the campus. Gary had arrived last night by express worm and later this morning Adrian, age eight (or is he nine, now?), would be sitting at the bottom end of a Helix of Friends. And I'll be one seat in from the top end.

Mark felt a tug on his mind and at the same time heard a knock at the door, and then Gary walked in.

Mark inhaled the familiar tang of Gary's new car-scented jacket. “Hey, Gary.” Then seeing no one else at the door, Mark added, “Where's Adrian?”

“Gwen's prepping him.”

“Ah.” Mark was glad to hear it. He'd always felt uneasy when Adrian was around.

By unspoken agreement, they left Mark's office and went down to the snack bar for coffee.

* * * *

“So Gwen's going to use this helix thing,” said Mark, his hands warming around a coffee cup, “to get you and Adrian to communicate better.”

Gary blew out a breath. “I wish that were the only problem.”

“Oh?”

“The main problem,” said Gary, hitting a fist softly to the table, “is Eric.”

“Who?”

“Adrian's imaginary playmate.”

Mark gave a gentle laugh. “I thought it was relatively normal for a kid to have an imaginary playmate.”

“Not at age nine, it isn't.” Gary paused. “And,” he continued softly, “Adrian doesn't like this imaginary playmate of his, and doesn't even accept that he's imaginary.”

Mark gave a mental “hmm” to show he was listening.

“Adrian said Eric threatened him,” Gary went on. “He said Eric was going to hurt him.”

“I'm sorry,” said Mark. “I didn't know any of this.”

Gary tapped the edge of his cup and stared down at the ripples in the coffee. “Adrian doesn't like Eric because Eric takes him into the world of nightmares.”

“Then Eric also comes to Adrian in his dreams?”

Gary nodded. “I think so. But mainly it's mind-linking.”

“Kid-to-kid mind-linking?” said Mark, feeling his eyebrows rise. Mind-linking was not all that uncommon, but it was unheard of between children. More developed brains—adult brains—had to initiate the linking.

“Yeah, I know,” said Gary. “I can't believe it either.” He let out a heavy breath. “Adrian says Eric goes to the world of nightmares, as he calls it, and he doesn't want to go alone. He calls it a funhouse, whatever that means.” Gary rubbed a hand across his eyes. “I'm beginning to feel as if Eric is real, as if he's part of the family.” He gave a mirthless smile. “I wish to hell I knew if Adrian really believes it. Or is he just making the whole thing up to—I don't know—to get back at me for something?”

“You can't believe that,” said Mark. “You and Felice have been fabulous parents.”

“Maybe, in some perverted way, he blames me for what happened.”

Mark didn't need it spelled out. Adrian had spent his earliest years in an orphanage, and not a very nice one. It had since been taken over by the state and many of its former employees were jailed for their brutality. Mark sympathized. He himself had been in a similar facility. Except Adrian remembers his ill treatment. I wonder if it would be better if he didn't.

Gary downed the dregs of his coffee. “I'd give a lot to be able to get into Adrian's mind—to see if he fully believes in Eric.” He looked at Mark with clear envy. “Too bad it only works between people near the same age—when it works at all. I'd almost kill to be able to mind-link with my boy.”

Mark had a sudden, renegade thought. “Are you sure?” he said tentatively. “Are you sure Eric doesn't exist?”

“What?” said Gary in a tone of bemused astonishment.

“I mean,” said Mark not knowing if he meant it or not, “maybe Adrian's mind quantum-tunnels to another point on Earth where Eric lives.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I read your article in Science America, ‘Quantum Tunneling, Measurements, and Parallel Worlds.'”

Gary laughed. “So now you're a quantum theorist.”

“Well.” Mark spread his hands. “Since my specialty is not quantum mechanics, I'm free to speculate as wildly as I want.”

“It's wild, all right.”

“You said nature abhors a vacuum.”

“So?”

“So,” said Mark, “I'd imagine that if quantum phenomena, like tunneling, are real, then they probably manifest also in some neural processes. Maybe tunneling is what makes mind-linking possible. It's probably behind most of transneuronics.”

“You're saying that Eric might actually exist, then. Somewhere on the planet.” Gary seemed his old self now—deep in discussion of his specialty.

“And for that matter,” Mark went on, “Eric might even be in another universe.”

Gary raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” Mark went on, “the multi-world theory of quantum mechanics you theorists keep talking about.”

Gary laughed. “Yeah, we talk about it, but I'm not sure any of us really believe it.” He grew serious. “But I agree with you. The secrets of the mind can't be revealed without comprehending the secrets of quantum mechanics.” Again, he smiled. “Unfortunately quantum mechanics jealously guards her deepest secrets—from me, at any rate.” Gary's gaze grew distant. “Oh, I wish I could use mind-linking to connect with Adrian,” he said softly, as if to himself.

Mark didn't respond and the two sat in silence. They were alone in the snack bar and the only sound was the soft hiss of the aroma jets.

“I want to know if Adrian is telling the truth about Eric—as he believes it,” said Gary, suddenly. He looked up into Mark's eyes. “I have to know for sure if Eric is real to him. I can't even begin to help him until I know.”

“Real to him?” said Mark. “How ‘bout just real?”

“Look,” said Gary, showing a touch of impatience. “If I can't measure it, it's not science—and not real.”

“Is it a measurement if we don't believe the measurer?”

“What?”

“You don't believe Adrian, do you?” Mark went on.

“What are you trying to say?”

Mark smiled, realizing what he was about to say was insane. “I mean it might be that Eric exists as long as you don't believe Adrian. And when you start believing what he says, you cause Eric not to exist.”

“Oh, great. All I have to do to get Eric to go away is to believe he exists.” Gary laughed. “So, belief is like a measurement. It forces existence or non-existence. That's hard to believe.” He looked suddenly distant. “But Gelfand's law might allow it. If the measurement isn't reported, it isn't a measurement. And if a measurement isn't reported until much after the fact, it's still not a measurement; it's history.”

Mark, feeling foolish, tried to move his mind back to rationality. “Gwen tells me that kids who've had it rough tend to spend a lot of time in worlds of their own making.”

“Imaginary worlds,” said Gary, his lips tight, “not parallel worlds.”

“I wonder,” said Mark softly.

* * * *

In a small office adjoining the main Cognitive Sciences conference room, Gwen and Adrian sat and talked. Soon they'd be going across to the conference room where Adrian would sit at the bottom end of the Helix of Friends. The helix was a new technique that Gwen had observed, but hadn't herself employed. She hoped it would help—that it might enable Adrian and his father to communicate.

“You'll be sitting at a round table,” said Gwen, studying her patient while inhaling the smell of his new sneaker-scented hair tonic.

“Like Knights of the Round table?”

“Sort of,” said Gwen with a smile. “You're the bottom anchor. A friend of yours, just a couple of months older, will be next to you. And next to him will be one of his friends who's just a few months older than he is. And next to him, one of his friends who's just a couple of months older. And sitting next—”

“Okay, I get it.”

“And at the top of the helix,” Gwen went on, “there's your dad's friend, Mark Smith, and at the very top, your father.”

At the mention of his father, Adrian cast his eyes down.

“The idea,” said Gwen, “is that you can talk easily with your friend, and he can talk to his friend. Everyone'll be comfortable talking to the people on either side of them. Once you get used to the idea, it should eventually make it easy for you to talk to anyone in the helix—even your dad.”

“It's a dumb idea.” Adrian sat resolute. “I'm only doing it for the chess.”

“Don't you want to be able to talk to your dad?”

Adrian looked up. His eyes were moist. “Dad never believes me.”

“Your dad loves you very much. And"—Gwen tried to keep any hint of an accusatory tone out of her voice—"it hurts him when you say things that are hard for him to believe.”

“You mean about Eric.” Adrian balled his fists.

“Perhaps.” Gwen didn't want to engage on the imaginary playmate issue. Today, her mission was parent-child communication. “The helix should be fun. I think you'll—”

“Eric plays chess too,” Adrian declared. “Not many people play chess where he lives. But he plays it on a smaller board so I can't play with him.”

“Really?” said Gwen ritually.

“Is this about mind-linking?” said Adrian tremulously.

“What?” said Gwen, struggling to keep up with the scattered thoughts of her nine-year-old patient. “The helix? No. Absolutely not.” Gwen knew that Adrian was frightened of the concept of mind-links. He didn't want anyone wandering around in his mind. But he believed that his imaginary playmate was doing just that.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“I really don't know much about mind-linking,” said Adrian at a whisper, as if revealing a dread secret.

“Well, I can't do it,” said Gwen. “Only a few people can.”

“Like some people can wiggle their ears?”

Gwen laughed. “Yes. Exactly.” In fact, Gwen didn't know much about mind-linking either. She knew that linked identical twins did it best, whatever “best” meant. She always thought it like a sudden sound in a room when two people both instinctively turn toward the noise and their eyes meet. For a fleeting instant, the two seem to be mind-linked.

“Mind-linking's probably how Eric and I talk.”

Gwen looked at him with compassion. The boy had survived a rough time, and had reacted by creating a long-lasting imaginary playmate. She thought of her other patient who'd had a similarly rough childhood. But he, Mark, had reacted by burying all of his memories before age six. He'd been adopted at about Adrian's age by academics, but he was keenly aware of his abandonment—and the illogic of it. Because of his missing memories, he'd become interested in the processes of the mind, and had gone on to study the new specialty of transneural physics. Gwen hoped her GPT skill would help them both.

She became aware of sounds of activity from the conference room. The helix participants were arriving.

* * * *

Mark and Gary walked into the conference room and took their seats—Gary at the top of the helix and Mark the next seat in. Mark, seeing that his good friend Victor was in the next seat over, greeted him and introduced Gary.

“Hey,” said Victor after returning the greeting and introducing the friend next to him, “what do you guys think of this theory of evolution that's going around?”

They discussed the theory while at the same time, Mark mind-linked to Gary. Gwen's coming in with Adrian, now.

Gary, still engaged with the evolution discussion, waved at his son, whom Gwen was seating at the bottom of the helix.

Adrian gave a perfunctory return wave.

Mark, still mind-linked to Gary, gave an involuntary gasp as he realized that not only was he linked to Gary, but he could also sense Victor's mind, and even Victor's friend's mind. Mark could see why Gwen thought he'd be interested in the helix technique. He was seized with the notion that, with a little practice, he might be able to float around the table, mind-linking as he went and using the links to propel him to the next mind. He might even be able to link all the way to Adrian at the bottom. Mark was about to tell Gary his idea, but Gary had just initiated his own mind-stream.

I've been thinking about what you said, Gary projected. An area where the mind might well reflect quantum mechanics is the phenomenon of parallel worlds.

Mark settled into his chair, idly watching as people came into the room and took seats. So you're beginning to believe Eric might be real.

No. Not at all. Just speculating. Let's call our world the O-World, the original world.

Mark used Gary's projected thoughts almost as elevator music. He listened, but not intently.

I'll call the parallel worlds P-Worlds, Gary went on.

Where do you put these worlds? Mark projected lightly.

With another dimension, we could just stack them. Since we'd have to go through one of them to reach the next, the adjacent worlds would be very similar to each other. Gary gesticulated for emphasis, the action looking strange since no words were coming from his mouth. But with two free dimensions, you don't have that constraint. I'll call those worlds Q-Worlds. He smiled. Those Q-Worlds could be very different indeed.

Mark watched as Gwen left Adrian, walked to the front of the room, and waved for quiet.

Do you really believe all this? Mark's thoughts sounded loud to himself in the now silent room.

I don't. But it might be true whether I believe it or not.

Very funny.

Maurice Gilman's law—Gary's projection was intense, his expression serious—says that if something is not absolutely forbidden by natural philosophy, it must happen.

Gwen described the helix technique and explained that this helix was to foster communication between Dr. Van Dorn and his son, Adrian. Mark noticed that both Adrian and Gary looked embarrassed. Gwen went on to ask that for the half-hour duration of the helix, the participants discuss recent movies that they'd seen—a topic that should appeal to the entire range of ages in the helix. She then reminded the participants of the second helix after lunch. At that helix, everyone would be playing chess—Adrian's main hobby. “Which is why the questionnaire asked if you play.” She threw a quick glance to Adrian. “Most of you will play two games at the same time,” she went on, “with the people seated to the left and right of you.” Gwen walked back to sit beside Adrian.

The room erupted into a mass of multiple conversations.

“I rather liked ‘The Spacemice Incident,'” said Victor tentatively.

“Oh?” Mark was preoccupied. He'd decided that in the afternoon helix, he would try to mind-link with Adrian. “I . . . I didn't see it. But the same director gave us ‘Universe Beneath our Feet.’ I thought it was pretty good.” He turned to Gary. “Did you see ‘Universe?'” Then, he added via mind-link, By the way, Gary. I have an idea.

About Q-Worlds? “No. I haven't seen it.”

About Adrian. “Good movie.”

* * * *

After lunch, Mark walked into the conference room for the second helix session. He was excited—eager to try mind-linking to Adrian. He took his seat and glanced at the chessboard he'd use with Gary. Whoever had set up the pieces must have been in a great hurry. A bishop and a plowman had been interchanged. Mark un-interchanged the pieces and then noticed Adrian and Gary come into the room. The two had eaten lunch together.

Are you really going through with it? Gary projected.

There's a chance I'll be able to use the helix to surf across minds to Adrian's, Mark shot back. Normally, the age jolt would make that impossible, but I think with the helix, it'll just be a series of hopefully gentle nudges.

Gary nodded as he settled Adrian in at his seat and then came to the top of the helix and sat beside Mark. I've been thinking about it. I think your mind indeed can be held in the quantum vacuum, but not for very long—not even using the helix.

“Your move,” said Victor.

Mark made his move, then, with elbows on the table, cupped his head in his hands and stared at the other board, waiting for Gary to move. You know. It might be that some phenomena, like ghosts, the things that startle dogs, and imaginary playmates, are reflections of your parallel world model.

Not my model. Gary sighed. I've been thinking about it. I find I don't believe it. He paused. If you do manage to enter Adrian's mind, how do you think he'll react?

He'll probably think of me as another imaginary playmate. Mark looked around the table and let his gaze settle on Adrian. All right. I'm going to try it now.

You're sure about this?

Mark projected a single-syllable nervous laugh. I think I'm sure.

Well . . . Good luck!

Thanks. Mark disconnected from Gary and projected his mind toward Victor. But he didn't go in. He tried to surf, to bounce off this mind that was only a few months younger than his own. He bounced to the next person in the nexus and was amazed and delighted that he'd succeeded. He jumped to the next mind, gathering speed as he went. He felt a vertigo of centrifugal force as he surfed around the table, and a jolt as he slammed into the bottommost mind in the helix—Adrian's.

He entered that mind and a pang of fear shot through him. He was actually in a mind, and not just talking to it from outside. Abruptly, his point of vision changed. In front of him, was the round table, a familiar object viewed from an unfamiliar angle.

And on the far side he saw himself but with an unfamiliar aspect. He perceived his face, not as if in a mirror, but reversed as others would see him. Struggling against disorientation, he watched as his elbows slid apart. His head slid between his hands and dropped heavily to the table, scattering chess pieces across the board.

His vision went dark, but only for a moment. Then he saw a green blur and felt a presence in his mind.

Trying to regain control, he projected, Adrian. Don't be frightened. I just want to talk.

I'm not Adrian, a mind-voice shot back. My name is Eric.

* * * *

In the hospital waiting room, along with Gary and his son, Gwen replayed the horrible event. Mark had simply gone limp and fallen onto the chessboard, sending the forty pieces all over the table. She'd run to him, tried to revive him, and then shouted for someone to call for an ambulance. And now she paced the waiting room, waiting for someone to tell her what had happened. She noticed that Adrian displayed a knowing expression. She stopped in front of him. “You know something I don't,” she said. “What's going on?”

“Dr. Smith is with Eric.”

“What?”

“Eric told me Dr. Smith mind-surfed through me to him.” Adrian looked smug. “He wasn't very good at it, was he? I bet I could probably mind-surf better than Dr. Smith. I bet I could super-surf if I really wanted to.”

“Adrian!” said Gary.

Just then, a physician came into the room. He looked noncommitally grim as he explained that Mark was in a coma. Then he asked for details of what had happened.

Gwen described the Helix of Friends. “It's a . . . a method of studying subtle relationships among people who are very close to equal in age.” She explained more fully, after which the physician asked some more questions, said everyone should go home, and then left the room with a promise to contact Gwen in the morning.

When the door had closed behind the physician, Adrian turned on Gwen. “You lied,” he shouted.

“Adrian!” said Gary. “That's enough.”

“But she lied. The helix was really so Dr. Smith could get into my mind—so he could get to Eric.”

Gwen made lowering motions with her hands, trying to calm things down—but to no avail.

Gary pounded a fist against a wall. “Adrian. I've had it. You are lying. Eric doesn't exist. And the sooner you acknowledge that fact the better.”

“I don't lie,” said Adrian in a low, even voice.

* * * *

Eric? said Mark wordlessly and in astonishment.

Who else would I be? said Eric with a laugh. Wait a minute. You're not Adrian.

No. I'm . . . Mark's vision returned and he saw that he, or rather Eric, was on a bicycle peddling through what seemed to be a dream version of Gormell University. Then he saw a sign engraved on an ornamental wall:

Welcome to Cornell University

Behind the wall was a profusion of vegetation of unimaginable variety.

Who are you? Eric's projection showed fear.

Mark receded to the background and remained silent. He needed time to observe and orient himself. A flood of elation overwhelmed his sense of disorientation and dulled his perceived need to think. He had done it. He'd actually succeeded in mind-linking to a child! He basked in the glow of accomplishment until, with a gasp, he saw an animal in the sky. It was actually flying—not like the path of a leaf dropping from a tree, but clearly with purpose and direction. Impossible! he thought to himself. He worried that he'd projected the word to Eric, but the boy didn't seem to notice.

Slowly came the chilling realization that not only was Eric real, but he was real in a parallel world.

Did Adrian send you? Eric's thought cut through Mark's introspection.

What? Yes. Sort of.

How did he learn to do that?

Mark's self-confidence returned. Yes, it was an alien experience, but he could handle it. Why do you mind-talk to Adrian? Mark tried to project in a tone of authority.

Because he doesn't like it. After a pause, Eric added. And anyway, Adrian started it.

I don't care who started it. I think you should stop visiting Adrian.

I want to stop, but now it's Adrian who visits, not me.

Mark started to raise a hand to his forehead and then realized he had neither. But why does Adrian talk to you if he doesn't like it?

I don't know. He just does.

Mark nodded a virtual head. He knew then that he had to work on Adrian, not Eric. He really wanted to know how Eric had come by his ability to mind-link, but that could wait. And he didn't at all like the idea of being in a mind so far from home.

I think you should go home.

Mark started. Yeah. He tried to back out of Eric's mind—but couldn't. He fought down a phantom shiver. Seized with the sudden dread fear that he was dead, panic engulfed him. When he'd keeled over onto the chessboard, he must have died. I'm a ghost!

Don't be silly. Mark hadn't meant to project the thought. Adrian told me that in your world, lots of people believe in ghosts. In my world, only dumb people believe in them. That's what my dad says.

That shocked Mark back to rationality. He needed data. Eric. Could you contact Adrian and ask him what's happened?

Can't. I have to wait till Adrian calls me. Eric paused. Leave me alone.

Look, Eric. I'm trapped here. Maybe I can mind-link to someone in your world who can help me get home.

Nobody mind-links in my world—except me. So go away.

I told you. I'm—

Go away!

Mark, painfully aware that he was now totally dependent on a kid, once more receded to the background and kept quiet. Mark had always felt awkward around kids, and now here he was trapped in the mind of one.

Eric cycled on to a street of houses and then to the back of one of them—into a horrid thicket of vegetation: a nightmare of high grasses, vines, trees of all descriptions, all seemingly competing for life. Mark began to appreciate the new theory of evolution. He even began to believe it. For a moment he regretted abandoning his boyhood ambition of becoming a botanist.

The vegetation had a collective fetid odor. He was glad that he still had use of his nose—or of Eric's nose at any rate. However, he didn't seem to share in Eric's sense of touch.

I know you're still here. I can feel you in my head. Eric swung off his bicycle and headed for the house.

Mark, still dazzled by the vegetation, said, What is all this?

All this what?

These . . . these plants.

Our garden.

Just then, a large animal jumped out of the vegetation and brushed against Eric.

Mark tried to burrow farther back into Eric's mind. What . . . what is that?

Just a cat. Haven't you ever seen a cat before?

No.

Eric bent to pat the creature, then scrambled up a low flight of stone steps and went inside.

“Hi there.” A woman met Eric in the kitchen. “How was school?”

“Fine.”

“Well, better go up and wash before dinner.”

“Okay.” Eric trotted upstairs to a bathroom. This stinks. This really stinks. You'll see me when I'm in the bathroom and when I'm sleeping.

I'm sorry.

Go away. Just go away!

I wish I could.

Eric washed and then stormed off to another room, clearly his bedroom. On the bed lay a profusion of stuffed animals, most of which Mark couldn't identify. The carpet was cluttered with toys. And what seemed to be a robot version of the flying animal Mark had seen was suspended by a string from the ceiling.

Eric threw himself on the bed and moped.

A few minutes later, Eric's mother's voice wafted up the stairs, calling him to dinner.

“All right. All right,” Eric called back. “I'm coming.”

You'd better tell your parents about me. They might be able to help.

No way I'll tell them. Eric rolled to his feet. I don't want them to think I'm a nut case.

Haven't you told them about Adrian?

No. Eric, stepping gingerly over his toys, went into the hall.

How about your GPT?

My what?

Your therapist.

Therapist. Yuch. Eric padded downstairs. I don't have a therapist. Only old ladies with yap-yap dogs have therapists.

At dinner, Mark saw what looked like a perfectly standard family: mother, father, Eric, and his older sister. The food though, was different. Although meat is meat and Mark didn't care to speculate on what species the meat came from, two of the three vegetables on the plate were unidentifiable. And he marveled that there could indeed be three different vegetables in a normal household dinner.

“Yuch,” said Eric's sister, scrunching her nose. “Lima beans.”

“Yeah, yuch,” said Eric.

Looking at them, Mark concurred. He hoped he wouldn't share Eric's sense of taste.

In the middle of dinner, Mark suddenly felt exhausted. He fought against drowsiness. But then gave in to it and let his virtual eyes ease closed. He prayed it portended sleep and not death.

* * * *

At first, Mark thought he'd awoken to another dream, for he found himself on a bus with a lot of kids. Then the reality of the situation hit him. He wondered that it didn't hit him particularly hard. Fighting the idea that he might be living his new normal, he observed the other kids. What do I mean, the other kids? I am not a kid. They looked to be about Adrian's age—which meant Eric must be about eight or nine as well. This must be a school bus. Mark could never remember liking school and he was sure he wouldn't like it this time either.

It's a school bus, all right. There was resignation in Eric's virtual voice.

Mark started. He'd have to be much more careful with his thoughts.

Hey. This might not be all bad. Eric projected cheerful enthusiasm. You can help me on tests.

Tests? Mark observed Eric's reflection in the bus's window. He was blond, with intense hazel eyes. He looked just like Adrian. He could have been Adrian's twin. You're in . . . in fifth grade?

Yeah.

Then I could probably manage those tests—in math or science, anyway. Mark felt himself smile. Yesterday Eric seemed to be a distant small boy. But today he seemed a little less distant—as if they'd become a few seats closer to each other in the Helix of Friends.

Eric gazed out the bus window and Mark couldn't help noticing the difference in clothing between his and Eric's world. He puzzled at the pieces of colored cloth tied around some men's necks and dangling down in front of their shirts. He thought they might be perhaps a sign of rank, or maybe it was simply to conceal the buttons.

As the bus drew close to what was obviously a school, Eric, staring out of the window, took a long breath. Mark noticed that the window didn't seem to have a porosity control so he couldn't breathe in the outside air or smell it either.

The bus stopped and the kids piled out onto the pavement. Mark looked out at his new world through Eric's eyes—which meant mainly looking up at tall grown-ups. Gazing at the familiar scene from a long-forgotten angle, Mark began to perceive shadows of memories from his childhood: memories of memories, sounds, smells—nasty smells. Torn between fear and desire, Mark hesitated. Even if he could retrieve the underlying memories, he wasn't sure he was ready for them—not in his present emotionally fragile condition.

Are you Adrian's dad?

What? Mark snapped to the present. No. I'm Adrian's dad's best friend.

That's silly. Only kids have best friends.

Really?

Yeah. Eric's voice didn't seem unfriendly, and Mark realized that the child seemed to have adapted to having him hanging around.

Mark realized he'd adapted also—but perhaps too well. Now, he'd begun to think of Eric as in the next seat over in the helix. Mark worried about regression.

Hearing a roar from above, he tried to jerk his head upward. Obligingly, Eric raised his eyes to the sky.

What is that? Mark projected in astonishment.

Just an airplane.

A what?

Haven't you ever heard of an airplane?

No!

Eric described a mechanical contrivance like leaf-spinners. But they flew straight and they actually carried people.

I don't believe it. Mark felt virtual fists form. You ever go up in one?

Well . . . no.

Didn't think so. They're impossible.

They're real.

No, they're not.

Are too.

Are not.

With a feeling of detachment, Mark understood that while he'd kept his adult intellect, he was behaving like a child. Then the detachment turned to horror as he considered that his mind might be actually merging with Eric's. He dwelled on going through school again, the inevitable bruises and broken limbs, the eternity of others making all of his decisions for him, the indignities of being sent to his room without dinner. The idea terrified him. He had to get out of there fast.

Eric, look. I really have to figure out a way to—

Wait a minute. Adrian's talking to me.

Hey, great! Ask him if—

Hold on! Eric's virtual voice grew distant. I can't talk to both of you at the same time.

Mark waited, impatiently. And as he did so, a desperate idea took shape. He figured that in this world, a copy of him should exist, an alter ego. Since it would be a version of himself, he should be easily able to mind-link with him. If he had to spend all his days here in someone else's mind, at least it should be his mind. And maybe this alternate Mark would have his childhood memories intact. And maybe they'd even be memories relevant to me. And if they're not, maybe I could just appropriate them as my own. Mark gave a motionless nod. In a sense, they are my own. But if he did that, he'd be trapped in his alter ego forever. No, he had to find a way to get back. But still, he did want to meet his alter ego. He'd have to enlist Eric's help to find him.

Eric broke in on his thoughts. Adrian says you're in a hospital in a coma.

Hey. Terrific. Then I'm not dead.

Eric chuckled. I was dead once. No big deal.

What?

Eric explained that his mom told him he'd had only a fifty-fifty chance of being born alive. And he was delivered, dead. But the doctors had managed to revive him.

Mark understood it all then. It was like the Schrodinger's Dog paradox Gary always talked about—the dog alive in one universe, dead in another. Adrian and Eric were quantum twins, but where the quantum decision of life or death was confused by the dead side being brought back to life. Yet the two universes are still interfering with each other. Mark realized he didn't quite understand it all—particularly why the two universes were otherwise so different. And he wondered why the twins had different names. He mentally slapped himself for wasting precious time while his home universe was in contact. Anyway, Gary would understand it. He'd ask Gary—if he ever managed to get home.

What's a coma?

It's a sleep they can't wake you from, Mark projected rapidly. Okay. Look. Tell Adrian to tell his dad that—

Too late. Adrian's stopped talking.

Damn!

My dad would punish me if he heard me say that.

Mark thought hard. Look, Eric. The next time you talk to Adrian, ask him to tell his father that I'm all right—sort of. And then . . . stay on the line so I can—

His father won't believe him.

I'll have to make him, said Mark distantly. He got an idea. He'd have Adrian tell his dad something that Adrian couldn't possibly know. But what? After a few seconds, Mark projected, Tell Adrian to remind his dad about the time we got drunk at a fraternity pledge party and ran naked through the campus.

What's a fraternity pledge party?

Doesn't matter. Just tell him, please.

'Kay. Eric giggled audibly. You ran around the campus naked?

I'm afraid I did. Mark smiled at the recollection. Oh. His mind returned to the present. I have an idea. A copy of me should be in this world—and he's probably a professor at Gor . . . Cornell. Help me find him, and I think I'll be able to surf to his mind.

And you'll go away?

Yes. Mark felt a touch guilty for lying.

Good. I'll help. There was a touch of anger in Eric's projection.

* * * *

Gary gazed at his son in deep shock. “How . . .” He rose from the armchair in their apartment. “How could you possibly know that?”

Adrian stood looking up at his father. “Dr. Smith told Eric for me to tell you that. So you'd believe me.” He giggled. “Naked?”

“It was a long time ago.” It began to sink in—Adrian wasn't making it all up. Eric, in some sense, must exist. He dropped back down in the chair. “Eric is . . . he's real”

“Duh!”

Gary let the insolence slide. He'd deserved it. “Adrian. I'm sorry. I'm really very sorry I disbelieved you.”

Adrian looked down at his shoes and fidgeted. Clearly, the apology made him uneasy and he didn't know how to handle it.

Gary didn't know how to handle it either. He wished he could consult his GPT. “What else does Eric say about Dr. Smith?”

“He said Dr. Smith is stuck. He can't get back.”

By Adrian's body language, Gary could tell that their relationship had become a lot less frosty. He was amazed how fast it had happened. “Would you ask Eric to tell Dr. Smith that—”

“I'm not talking to Eric now. Talking to Eric is hard.”

Gary tried for a casual smile. “I guess I understand now what it means to be hard to talk to.”

Adrian threw himself down on a straight-backed chair. “I mean exhausting hard.”

“Do you think you could sometime talk to Eric and tell him we'll be in contact a couple of times a day until we figure out how to get Mark—Dr. Smith—out?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Gary stood again. “Okay. What do you say we kidnap your mother from the kitchen and then go and pig out at a fast-food trough?”

“Yeah, all right,” said Adrian warily. With sluggish movements suggesting he wasn't entirely ready to forgive, he slouched to his feet. Then he flashed a fleeting smile, suggesting that maybe he was ready to. “Oh, I forgot. Eric said he's mad at Dr. Smith. And he's going to take him to a place of nightmares.”

* * * *

Under Mark's guidance, Eric had searched the Cornell faculty directory and had found a Professor Marc Smith in the botany department. The accompanying photo clinched the identification. And now Eric stood in front of the door of the department office.

Go on in, Mark projected impatiently. Nobody's going to eat you. Mark could hardly contain his eager excitement. He was about to meet himself.

After some more prodding, Eric opened the door and went to the secretary's desk. “Please. I'd like to see Professor Smith.”

The secretary looked at first startled, and then her expression turned to one of compassionate worry. “Do . . . did you know Professor Smith?”

Eric shook his head.

“I'm sorry to have to tell you this,” said the secretary, “but he is . . . has died.”

Eric stared at her dumbly. Mark was too shaken to give the boy further directions.

After a few awkward seconds, the secretary added. “It happened yesterday. Some kind of an experiment that went wrong.”

“Thank you,” said Eric awkwardly. He turned and left the office. I thought you were going to tell me what to say.

He's . . . he's dead.

Yeah. So?

Mark shivered with the notion that by his coming to this world, he might have caused the death. Or worse, maybe the death presaged his own. And maybe he was even already dead in his world. I know that here, people don't believe in such things, but I can't help thinking I'm now a ghost. Mark was dimly aware that he no longer spoke to Eric as an adult to a child, but instead as equals.

Ghosts, said Eric scornfully. He laughed. Since you brought up ghosts, I'm going to take you someplace . . . interesting.

Eric bicycled down to the park where, in the middle of a great field, there stood a large carnival tent. It had clearly at one time been white, but against the clear blue sky and green grass: it looked a dirty gray and more than a little tawdry. A sign in front proclaimed:

Halloween House of Nightmares

What is this place? Mark asked warily. He wondered what a halloween was.

You'll see. Eric gave the man at the entrance two quarters and walked in. He turned a corner and everything went black.

Squinting through Eric's eyes, Mark could see nothing. Then from nowhere, a gauzy, glowing white apparition sprang out at him. Mark shrieked.

You sound just like Adrian did, said Eric with a laugh.

The ghostly shape flew upward and disappeared, leaving Mark again in darkness. Eric had said that people in his world didn't believe in ghosts, yet here they were. What . . . what was that?

Eric didn't answer.

Eric. Let's get out of here.

Still, Eric didn't answer.

Eric?

Two fiery skeletons appeared from around a corner. They held big, evil-looking scythes and they cackled.

Eric!

The skeletons sank into two beckoning black coffins.

Please, Eric. Talk to me. Mark tried to roll up into a ball in Eric's mind.

Glowing gray rats scampered underfoot, squeaking as they went.

Mark tried to close his eyes—Eric's eyes, but they remained open. He heard himself whimper. He tried to tell himself that he was a Ph.D. in neuronics but, in his gut, he didn't believe it.

Mark saw a red beaded curtain ahead. Then he saw it was a curtain of dripping blood. Horrified, he tried to breathe in short, sharp gulps but couldn't as Eric was breathing normally. Mark stared fearfully at the droplets. But the dripping stopped just as he passed under the curtain. Mark's gasp of relief was cut short as he now saw beyond the curtain. A woman, hanging by the neck, swung back and forth, her neck clearly snapped. The rope squeaked in cadence to her swinging.

Mark cried freely, but there was no one there to comfort him. “Mommy!”

Again, Mark heard voices, this time from within, and a fuzzy vision slowly became clear.

From his hiding place in a closet, he looks out and up at a policeman and a neighbor, a woman much older than his mother. They're talking about his mother.

"She was a single mother,” says the neighbor, looking up at the hanging woman. “She used to tell me she was tormented by dreams of strange worlds."

"A lot of psychotics running around these days,” says the policeman softly. “I guess the dreams drove her to suicide."

"I hope little Mark didn't see this.” The neighbor sighs. “Where is he now, by the way?"

"Mark?” The policeman looks worried.

"Her son. He's about three."

Mark scrunches to the back of the closet and the floor squeaks.

"Oh, my god,” says the policeman.

“Oh, rats,” came the voice of an older kid. Adrian's calling me.

Mark seized on that voice for comfort and company. “Wait!” The kid's voice was familiar. “Eric?” He then remembered where and who he was. As he felt his age ratcheting up a few years, his fright came under control. But still he trembled, for his dream and long-suppressed memories stayed with him. And he experienced a sense of freedom, of empowerment—and an ability to think clearly. Then Eric's words registered. Again, Adrian had connected the two worlds.

“All right,” said Eric. “I guess we've had enough of this.” Mark could hear Eric's footfalls as the kid padded quickly forward.

I have an idea, Mark projected. Tell it to Adrian. As Eric walked, Mark told his idea. A few seconds later, Eric said he'd relayed it to Adrian.

Soon the blackness gave way to dark shadows and then they were again out in the sunlight.

Eric threw a glance back at the carnival tent. “Boy,” said Eric aloud, “you were pretty whacked-out back there.”

Chagrinned by his loss of control, Mark went on the offensive. Why didn't you answer me when I called?

“It's really only scary when you're alone.”

* * * *

Gwen transferred her gaze from Mark to Adrian, both of them her patients. Adrian had insisted they visit Mark. Adrian's father had no objection, so Gwen put Adrian's therapy on hold and the three of them drove to the hospital. Now they were sitting on chairs facing Mark's bed.

“I thought I'd be able to make contact,” said Adrian, his eyes on the comatose Mark, “if I could get up close to him.” Gwen observed the boy clinically. “I think I feel his presence,” Adrian went on, “but I can't connect.”

Hands clasped tightly between his knees and eyes narrowed, Adrian was a study in frustration. Then, as Gwen watched, Adrian's hands relaxed, his features softened, and his eyes grew wide, and then became vacant. She glanced quickly at Mark and observed the same vacant look. For an irrational instant, she believed that Mark had taken over Adrian and they were in the same inaccessible place.

Gwen stood and took a step toward Adrian, but the noise of her chair scraping the tile floor seemed to bring the boy out of his trance.

“Mark thinks he might be able to get back here,” said Adrian, looking up at Gwen, “if you set up a Helix of Friends back in the . . . I mean here.”

As Gwen threw a confused glance at Mark, Gary said, “Are you . . . talking to Eric now?”

“Yeah.”

Gwen transferred her confused stare to Adrian. This time, she didn't exactly disbelieve him. Gary had convinced her that the boy wasn't delusional. Gwen, though, thought that maybe Gary was.

“Eric says that Mark said that when the helix is ready"—Adrian spoke quickly—"I should connect with Eric and we should mind-link shout at each other at the same time. Mark thinks the shouting should let him surf back to our world and then glide up the helix to his own body.”

“Reassemble the helix here?” Gwen didn't know if she should take the request seriously, and she shuddered at the logistics it would entail.

Adrian nodded emphatically. “Mark says we have to do it soon. He thinks he's beginning to meld with Eric. Eric says he's beginning to feel it too.” Adrian wrinkled his nose. “Hospitals smell horrible.”

* * * *

That evening, Gwen assembled another Helix of Friends, this time in the hospital's conference room. Compared to the Mind Sciences conference room, the place smelled sterile and serious. Mark was at the top of the helix—strapped to a gurney and monitored by a couple of physicians. She wasn't sure if she was doing the right thing. For while she was convinced Adrian was telling the truth, it was merely the truth as he perceived it. And that might be a far cry from objective truth—if there even is such a thing. She'd felt she had to actually do something, and not just be a passive observer. She didn't exactly believe another helix would bring Mark back, but it was doing something. Furthermore, she couldn't even reconstruct the full helix; a few members were out of town. More like a chain of friends than a helix—a chain with a few missing links.

At length, the conference room became silent and all eyes save Mark's locked on her. She nodded, then gave a mental sigh before looking down to the bottom of the helix. “All right, Adrian. Contact Eric and start shouting.”

* * * *

After dinner, Eric went straight to his room and killed time playing video games. Mark watched, impatiently. He could do little else.

Eric froze, thereby letting a video alien take one of his lives. Adrian says the helix is ready.

Okay, good. Fine. Mark spoke with some trepidation for, in truth, he didn't know how to initiate his departure. He'd have to concentrate. He visualized himself in flight—like one of the birds in Eric's world. Good-bye, Eric—I hope.

Good-bye. Mark thought he could detect a little sadness in Eric's projection. Mark tried to work himself into motion.

“Go!” shouted Eric, using his lung-driven voice. He thwacked himself savagely on the wrist and Mark felt a physical pain out of all proportion—and was jolted into flight.

Mark lost contact with Eric's mind and senses. All was dark and silent, but Mark felt a pull he hoped was from the right place.

Then, Mark sensed Adrian. It was as if the child were pulling him back into his world. Mark surfed to Adrian, and then up and around the helix. But there were speed bumps—clearly there were missing elements, defects in the helix. He slowed but pressed onward—or perhaps was pushed forward.

As he progressed, he felt himself age, growing up from Eric's nine years to become the ages of the helix members as he mind-skimmed by them. For about half the trip, he felt Adrian surfing along with him, growing weaker as the helix grew older. Finally, Mark sensed him falling back to his own body and his own age.

As if in a whirlpool then, Mark was swept into his flesh-and-blood self.

“Hey,” came someone's voice. “He's moving.”

Back at the reins of his body, Mark felt at first like a puppeteer, but then, with people rushing to the gurney, he settled in and his movements felt natural to him. He tried to sit, but saw he'd been strapped down. “Please take these off,” he said, thrilled at the sound of his own voice.

It was wonderful breathing the scents of his own world. And he felt great. Abruptly, memories from the funhouse, memories from his early childhood, intruded, but he pushed them away. Yes, most of them were horrible, but they were part of him and, in the light of day, he knew he could handle them—but not just yet. He speculated that his mother had committed suicide because of her connecting with parallel worlds. Gary's P-worlds, or maybe even the Q-worlds. He smiled. He'd always assumed he'd gone into neuronics because he was interested in the mind—particularly his own. But now he wondered if he'd inherited the proclivity from his mother. He liked that notion. It gave him a bond with her.

As a physician leaned in to unbuckle him, Mark looked away at Gwen. She and Adrian were in deep conversation. And the kid looks great as well—poised and confident. Mark let his gaze go farther, to the conference room door near which Gary stood watching. Since he was a little older than Mark, he hadn't been a member of the helix.

The physician undid the restraints and Mark sat up. A few in the helix applauded while Gwen, Adrian, and Gary came up to the gurney.

At the same time as Gary mind-linked a greeting, Gwen spoke up. “Adrian said he pulled you back into our world.” She spoke in a lighthearted voice suggesting no great weight be given to the statement. “And then he pushed you around the helix.”

By the way, Gary projected, thanks.

“I dreamed the helix,” said Adrian.

You're welcome. For what, by the way?

Mark looked back at Gwen while lightly tousling Adrian's hair. “If he can do that"—he glanced at Adrian,—"and indeed he can"—he returned his gaze to Gwen—"his mind surfing abilities are, or will be, way in advance of mine.” Again, he regarded Adrian. “You're a super-surfer.”

Adrian and I are getting on very well, now.

I'm glad.

Gwen opened her mouth as if to say something but didn't.

Mark gave an expectant look.

“Nothing,” said Gwen thoughtfully. “Just thinking of something Adrian said.” She paused. “He said he thinks he might possibly have some mind-surfing ability.”

Adrian favored her with a bemused look and then said, “I tried to contact Eric and tell him what happened. But I can't.”

“Maybe,” said Gary, “now that adults in this world believe in Eric, he's now ceased to exist—in this world, that is.”

“So,” said Mark to Adrian. “I guess Eric is now, at last, only an imaginary playmate.”

“I guess.”

“Theoreticians,” said Gwen in a tone of amused condescension. “To a stapler, every thing looks like paper.”

“I assume you have another explanation,” said Mark lightly.

“Actually, I do.” She put a hand on Adrian's shoulder. “I'd say that Adrian, now that he's believed, doesn't need Eric anymore. And as for Eric, after having you cohabiting his mind, he probably wants nothing more to do with our world.”

“Because of me?” said Mark in mock hurt. He exchanged a mind-glance with Gary. “A therapy explanation. What fun is that?”

“So you believe in him now?” Gary asked.

Gwen chuckled. “What choice do I have?” She returned her attention to Mark. “I'd say we're going to have a lot to catch up on in your next therapy session.”

Mark pursed his lips. He didn't want to relive the pain of his restored memories. “You know,” he said with a forced smile, “I sort of like it that in Eric's world, people don't live their lives with training wheels.”

“Oh?”

“I mean, I think I'll go without routine therapy for now on.” Mark expected an argument, but Gwen just gave a gentle laugh.

“You're the second patient I've lost today then.”

“The other being Adrian?”

Gwen nodded.

Mark exchanged a glance with Adrian and realized that never again would he feel awkward around kids—not when he'd so recently been one himself. He looked away, out of the conference room window. It was good to be back in the real world of oval, field-effect windows, and of fern geysers, blue sidewalks, hum-diving, and the shifting smells of weather. And now Eric can have a normal life in his world—strange though that world might be.

Copyright © 2011 Carl Frederick

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novella: ENERGIZED: PART III OF IV
by Edward M. Lerner

* * * *

llustrated by Vincent Di Fate

* * * *

The trouble with any powerful tool is that it can do great good or harm—and everyone will want to use it for his own purposes.

Parts I & II Synopsis

Earth's newly captured second moon, Phoebe—a dangerously aimed rock-and-ice mass that had come hurtling out of the Asteroid Belt—is a treacherous rubble pile. Robots surveying Phoebe's surface regularly get stuck. When that happens, astronauts must find and free the trapped bot.

THADDEUS Stankiewicz, intent on a clandestine project in the Phoebe Base machine shop, is startled by fellow explorer GABE CAMPBELL. Once again a bot needs rescue, and the two men are on call. Thad hurriedly sweeps up his mess of pipes, metal rods, and wire coils, and the men suit up. As they cross Phoebe on their way to the trapped bot, Gabe shows too much interest in what Thad had been making. Thad kills Gabe and makes the death appear to be suicide.

Three years pass. . . .

The year is 2023, and the Great Stagflation grips the world. Nine years earlier, a geopolitical miscalculation had sufficed to taint several Middle Eastern oil fields with radioactivity and plunge the region into chaos. The oil that remains usable is more prized than ever. But the Crudetastrophe had not touched Russia's vast oil and gas reserves. Russia emerged from the crisis as a petro-superpower, controlling unprecedented wealth, snapping up American treasury bonds at fire-sale prices and vying for global economic hegemony.

Solar-power satellites beaming power (as microwaves) to the ground offer America its last best chance to avoid servitude and economic ruin. And so, NASA's interest in Phoebe is less scientific than practical: Phoebe is a vast reservoir of oxygen, water, and raw materials already in orbit. As though constructing miles-across structures in space isn't a sufficient challenge, special interests—everyone from technophobes to eco-extremists to radio astronomers—want to stop the project. The “Reset” movement opposes new energy infrastructure, however eco-friendly, as only repeating past environmental insults.

NASA contractor MARCUS JUDSON supports the Powersat One (PS-1) demonstration project. He finds it harder and harder not to despair at opposition he finds so misguided. His cynicism takes a hit when ELLEN TANAKA (program manager for PS-1 and Marcus's boss) sends him to the National Radio Astronomy Observatory in Green Bank, West Virginia. The astronomers make a strong case that microwave transmitters on PS-1 (and the many powersats perhaps to follow) can disrupt their research.

Marcus starts dating radio astronomer VALERIE CLAYBURN. They live hours apart and end up seeing more of one another online—often remotely controlling rental bots in a tourist preserve on Phoebe—than in person. On one visit, Marcus meets Valerie's friend and coworker PATRICK BURKHALTER, disgraced former principal investigator of the Jules Verne asteroid probe. Patrick trains visiting astronomers to use the observatory's telescopes, and his coworkers are certain he uses class exercises as a way to hunt for the lost-in-space probe. Patrick claims interest in SETI (search for extraterrestrial intelligence), but everyone presumes the high-powered transmitter he has built for retrofitting into the Green Bank telescope is just in case—against all odds—he ever does locate the missing probe.

Venture capitalist DILLON RUSSO backs innovative alternate-energy start-ups—to subtly sabotage them. Among his investments is Jorgenson Power Systems, which operates a prototype OTEC (ocean thermal energy conversion) power plant on an idle oil platform in the Santa Barbara Channel. Besides gullible investors cowed by his reputation, Dillon counts among his backers a Russian diplomat.

The State Department knows Yakov Nikolayevich Brodsky as the Deputy Trade Representative. (His longtime assistant, Irina Ivanovna Chesnokova, is an expert programmer. Irina was born deaf and has cochlear implants.) But trade rep is only diplomatic cover for Yakov's true role: spy and agent provocateur for the Federal Security Service.

No one at the State Department suspects that Yakov made it possible for the Restored Caliphate to obtain old Soviet atomic bombs. Or that he planted the suggestion that the bombs be lowered deep into desert oil reservoirs to deter aggression by the Caliphate's enemies. Or that Yakov's ally, the Russian hacker PSYCHO CYBORG, had rendered the bomb controls subtly unstable. Not even Yakov's neighbor, CIA analyst TYLER POPE, suspects Yakov is the mastermind behind the Crudetastrophe.

At Yakov's connivance, Dillon sneaks three saboteurs onto the OTEC platform in the middle of the night. The facility delivers its power by beaming microwaves, and the saboteurs redirect a beam at a pleasure boat at anchor off Santa Cruz Island. Two people die horribly. Resetters use the incident to discredit PS-1, which will transmit far more powerful microwave beams.

To save the PS-1 program, NASA orders an independent safety inspection of the power satellite. Ellen assigns Marcus as her liaison to the inspection team. He trains for space at the Cosmic Adventures facility that was once the Johnson Space Center, with inspectors Savannah Morgan (an Air Force civilian cyber-security specialist), Olivia FINCH (a quality-assurance expert from Caltech), and Reuben Swenson (a power-systems engineer from the DOE).

Since a religious experience on a desert retreat, Dillon knows himself as a servant of Gaia and sees resisting affronts to the Earth as his calling. But to slaughter innocents, like the young girl and her grandfather on his boat? That, too, was an affront to Gaia. Dillon angrily tells Yakov that their marriage of convenience is over—and Yakov shows otherwise. Yakov has a video of Dillon letting the saboteurs onto the OTEC platform. To avoid exposure for his role in the Santa Cruz Island deaths, Dillon must keep helping Yakov. In the guise of a company bonus, Dillon will travel with Yakov's saboteurs to the orbital playground of plutocrats, The Space Place. Their first step: the Cosmic Adventures training facility, where Dillon and Marcus briefly meet.

Still working on Phoebe, Thad lives with the secret shame of being a murderer. His little sister's sordid past, should it become known, would destroy her and her family. As the price of Yakov's silence, Thad does Yakov's bidding. Yakov sends a coded message: Men are coming for the devices Thad once killed to hide. Success of the mission is paramount, but Thad is ordered not to reveal himself unnecessarily.

Under very different circumstances, on separate commercial flights, two teams leave Earth mere days apart. Marcus and three inspectors go to Phoebe. Dillon and the men posing as his employees go to The Space Place. Everyone ends up scarcely a few hundred miles apart: PS-1 and The Space Place co-orbit with Phoebe, both facilities tapping the moonlet for supplies. Dillon—having gotten Jonas Walker (software engineer), Lincoln Roberts (electrical engineer), and Felipe Torres (communications engineer) aboard The Space Place—believes his work for Yakov is done.

Thad, Marcus, and the inspectors are at work aboard PS-1 when a solar coronal mass ejection (CME) is detected—almost upon Earth. The radiation will be deadly, and the construction crew hastily evacuates to Phoebe. So do the tourists and staff of The Space Place, where the electromagnetic shield has failed (or, as Dillon infers, been sabotaged).

Thad surreptitiously destroys the base radio and gives his long-hidden homemade devices—electromagnetic coil guns—to the newly arrived saboteurs. Jonas shoots station chief IRV WEINGART, ending resistance to the base takeover. With the CME arrival imminent, Jonas, Felipe, Lincoln, and Dillon leave everyone else huddling in Phoebe Base's overcrowded underground radiation shelter.

"Who's in charge?” Marcus demands.

"With Irv out of commission?” Thad says. “The sad truth is, I'm in charge."

* * * *

CONFLAGRATION (2033)

* * * *

Thursday, September 28

* * * *

“You know what we know,” said the man at the Space Weather Prediction Center.

Valerie heard exasperation in his voice, but suspected that she was projecting. She had been monitoring the news—for anything and everything about spaceflight—since sending off Marcus. It seemed impossible that it had been only three days since his launch, and only three hours since the break-off of comm from orbital facilities. Her gut insisted something was wrong.

“Then you don't know when this CME will be past?” she said.

“Nor how long the magnetosphere will take to settle back down after the CME has left us. That's what I'm telling you.” And what he kept telling her, no matter how many ways she rephrased her questions. “Unless there is something else?”

“You've been very kind,” she told him. If not very helpful. “Thank you.”

He hung up before she could reconsider.

Valerie clicked through the CME alert warning on the weather center's home page to pore over the latest data in their public databases. The instrument readouts she found all suggested that the ion flux had yet to peak. She went back to the home page to subscribe to any updates. This once she wished she could have news texted straight to a cell phone.

She tipped back in her chair, searching her office for inspiration. And found none. She rechecked NASA's space-weather alert. It had not changed in two hours. She surfed, promising herself she would work Real Soon Now. She found no inspiration on the net, either.

She had tried and failed at a hurried breakfast to explain CMEs to her parents. But however esoteric solar outbursts were to Mom and Dad, CMEs were part of her job—in the way hecklers were part of a comedian's job. When the eruption of plasma that was a CME barreled into the solar wind, the interaction could blast out radio noise.

Interference. Disrupted observations. PS-1 and Phoebe. Marcus. Damn!

She stomped down the hall to Aaron Friedman's office. He was a solar radio astronomer. Maybe he could offer a useful forecast on the CME passing.

“Did you hear this CME coming?”

“Good day to you, too. No, I didn't.” Aaron shrugged. “They aren't all noisy.”

Because if you could hear them all, it would be too easy. Nor could you see them all. Not, anyway, the ones you would most want to see: those racing straight at the Earth. The Sun's glare washed out their faint glow until, all too close, oncoming CMEs appeared as dim haloes around the solar disk. To spot an onrushing CME was especially hard now, at the peak of the sunspot cycle, while the solar disk was pocked with sunspots and coronal holes, while it teemed with prominences and filaments.

So it was not too surprising that this CME had gone undetected until its leading edge of ions washed over the early-warning spacecraft stationed a million miles sunward from Earth. It was not the first CME to almost reach Earth before it was detected, nor would it be the last.

Then why—besides fear for Marcus, besides something to distract her until communications could be reestablished—did this CME bug her? The sheer bad timing?

“Is that all you wanted?” Aaron asked, channeling the young man at the Space Weather Prediction Center. Or, at least, his exasperation.

She wanted Marcus, safe on the ground. Safe in her arms.

“How bad is this CME?” she asked.

“It's a whopper, but not bad. Not so far, anyway. I haven't heard of outages that don't have other, more mundane explanations.”

Nor had she, in her recent surfing, seen any incidents to blame on a CME. That was odd. So what, other than mess with anything electrical, might a CME do?

She vented at Patrick in his office for ten minutes before having a constructive idea. “Do me a favor? Find me an aurora webcam.”

He tapped away, and a holo popped up over his desk. “Here's a feed from Norway.”

Leaning one way, then the other, she studied the streaming video: a handful of flickering, glowing green tendrils in the sky. Pretty, but she had seen far more impressive specimens of the northern lights. “Okay, try somewhere else.”

A second vid opened. “Alaska,” he said.

She saw only blue sky in this image. Daylight sometimes washed out the northern lights, but still . . .

Unasked, he offered her a third view. “From the bottom of the world, McMurdo.”

“Is it just me?”

“I don't get it, either. The CME should be whipping up huge auroras, even if it isn't messing with electrical systems on the ground.” He tapped his desk with a pencil. “So where are the spectacular auroras?”

“That's the question,” she said.

The young man still on duty at the Space Weather Prediction Center—for all that he clearly wished Valerie would stop phoning—had no explanation, either.

* * * *

Everyone looked to Thad for guidance, and he had none to offer. He had to struggle to manage monosyllabic grunts. He watched as others dispensed food and water.

I'm going into shock, he thought. Or could someone with the presence of mind to diagnose shock be in shock?

Irv Weingart lay stretched out on the floor, his leg bandaged and the bleeding stopped, loopy with painkillers but breathing easily. The remainder of the shelter was standing room only.

At least, Thad thought, they could stand forever without tiring. On Phoebe's surface the bulkiest person among them might weigh a pound. Here, deep within the tiny world, everything and everyone weighed even less than on the surface.

You could not hang someone in Phoebe's feeble gravity. Almost, he laughed. Almost, he cried.

As time passed, the mood within the shelter grew angrier and angrier.

“We've got to get this man to the infirmary,” the hotel doctor said. “Will the CME have passed yet?”

“Not necessarily,” someone answered. “The infirmary isn't as far belowground as the shelter, but it's still underground. Maybe it would be safe there.”

Thad roused himself. “And when you poke your nose out the door and they shoot you? How safe is that?”

“Whatever they meant to do, by now they've done it,” Marcus Judson said.

“Uh-huh.” Thad gestured at the hatch. “You certain enough to go first?”

The doctor and Marcus exchanged glances. Neither moved for the door.

Thad breathed a sigh of relief. “That's showing good sense.”

Maybe, just maybe, if he could keep everyone inside the shelter long enough, the radiation would kill Yakov's people before one of them found a reason to expose him.

And if, in the meanwhile, Irv died?

Irv for Robin, Thad told himself. As, once, it had been Gabe Campbell for Robin. Even as Thad bargained with himself, he wondered what Jonas and gang were up to.

And how many more would die.

* * * *

Clasping a hopper by one front and one rear handhold, Dillon lifted. With excessive force: the hopper sailed over his head. As his arms reached their full extension, the hopper jerked his elbows and lifted him bodily off the garage floor. Just above the garage floor, his tethers brought him to a safe halt—and the hopper delivered a painful yank to his arms.

Felipe, standing nearby with another hopper in hand, guffawed.

The utility craft weighed only about as much as Dillon did: call it three quarters of a pound. But while an object's weight varied with gravity, its mass did not. He had to handle massive objects with care to avoid injuring himself.

Gravity and the tension on the tether slowly returned him to the floor. He set the hopper back down and, with practice, mastered moving it about. Only then, with an extra forty feet of tether unreeled, did he tote the hopper out the garage door. Depositing the hopper on Phoebe's dark surface, he turned around for another load. Phoebe's garage was filled with the hoppers flown over from The Space Place. He had many trips ahead of him.

“How are you guys coming?” Jonas radioed on a private channel. He and Lincoln had hoppered to the infrared observatory to scavenge parts, and Dillon had no idea why.

“Fine,” Felipe said.

“Coming along,” Dillon said. “But why are we doing this?”

“Because the rodents might come out of their burrows.”

So that no one could pursue them to PS-1, Dillon interpreted that. Until a shuttle came up from Earth, the four of them would be free to wreak havoc on the accursed powersat. He would have spent their limited time dismembering Phoebe's factories, to keep more powersats from being built, but perhaps Yakov was right. Destroying PS-1 itself would be more dramatic.

Yakov's mysterious orders—secret, anyway, from Dillon—did not involve drastic action against the prisoners themselves. Thank Gaia for small favors. Eve Moynihan and her grandfather already burdened Dillon's conscience.

And his own death? “No CME?” he prompted Jonas.

“Again, I told you. There is no CME. Never was. If you don't trust me, just think about it. A real CME would be playing havoc with our helmet-to-helmet chatter. That's why I broke the particle monitor. So the rodents won't find out.”

Wonderful, if somehow true. By every account, radiation sickness was a horrible way to go. But what if Jonas lied? To judge from the casual way he had shot the station chief, Jonas would not scruple to speak convenient fictions.

And so, Dillon labored on, fearful at every crackle, hiss, and pop of his helmet speakers that he was a dead man walking.

Yet a part of him could not help but marvel at events. Like secret agents on 3-V shows, they had codes: the encryption software Jonas had uploaded, as soon as they left Phoebe's shelter, into everyone's helmet comm. And exotic weapons. Recalling TSA's near strip-search, Dillon could not imagine how Jonas had gotten the guns.

With many laps yet to go, Dillon tried to tune in audio from a DirecTV downlink of today's Indians/Tigers game. He got only static. Duh: comsats were offline. Proactively, because of the fiction of a CME, he told himself, desperate to believe.

Passing Felipe outbound, Dillon returned to the garage for yet another hopper. They each had another two utility craft to move. Dillon radioed, “When do we head over?”

“Shouldn't be long,” Jonas said. “We're almost done here.”

Jonas and Lincoln had each taken a hopper. Dillon and Felipe would each take another.

With a gleeful hoot, Felipe flung the first of the extra hoppers into space.

* * * *

The shelter was packed.

The inmates—their floor space limited, virtually without gravity—more crept than paced. Lines formed and circled for food, water, and the two toilets. Fans roared and air scrubbers labored to handle so many people in the small space. Lost to sight within the crowd, someone sobbed.

Marcus paced as unsuccessfully as everyone else. He worried about the base commander, who the doctors said had lost a great deal of blood. He worried about Valerie, who would be frantic with worry about him. He worried about Thad, who seemed overwhelmed. He eavesdropped on wild speculations about what the terrorists could want enough to die horribly for, and how the damage they were surely wreaking could best be undone.

As the hours passed, as he could do nothing, it was all Marcus could do not to scream.

The particle monitor on Phoebe's surface was not reporting; it or the comm link to the shelter must have been knocked out by the radiation. The particle monitor in the shelter, though its counts bounced around, never detected any significant influx. As reassuring as he found those readings, it meant their inside monitor would be useless for telling them when the storm had passed.

After ten hours, Marcus had had enough. “It's been plenty long. Everything I know about CMEs tells me it's safe to come out.”

“What do you know about suicidal fanatics?” one of the hotel evacuees snapped back.

Savvy said, “Suppose they are dead. What's our signal to leave the shelter? When we run out of food or water or oh-two?”

Alongside Irv, the hotel doctor cleared his throat. “The bullet has to come out. It's deep in the leg; I'd rather not go after it with only a first-aid kit. It would be much better for the patient if we can get him to the base infirmary.”

Marcus bellowed at the hatch, “We need to bring this man to the infirmary!”

“Pipe down,” Thad yelled back. The din in the shelter quieted a bit. More softly, he said, “I'm in charge here, remember?”

“So what's the plan?” Marcus countered.

“We wait for rescue. People will wonder when they don't hear from us.”

“How long will that take?” Savvy asked. “NASA is apt to assume at first that the CME damaged our comm. They'll wait a bit for us to bring it back online. And when people do come, why would they come armed?”

“We wait,” Thad repeated.

The hell with that, Marcus thought. “Dillon Russo! Dillon's colleagues! Two of us will be bringing out the man you wounded. We need to get him to the infirmary.”

From beyond the hatch: silence.

“Do not do this,” Thad warned.

“Don't shoot!” Marcus shouted. He grabbed the hatch latch, but it did not budge. He yanked harder. Nothing. He braced a foot against the jamb and, putting his whole body into the effort, heaved.

In shock and dismay, Marcus said, “We're trapped in here.”

* * * *

Descending a docking post, Dillon tried, and failed, to take in the immensity that was PS-1. The powersat's straight lines and foreboding blackness could not have stood in starker contrast to the achingly beautiful orb that hung overhead.

The hubris to build this monstrosity left him speechless, almost in tears.

When he regained his composure, he would help his colleagues to destroy this evil.

* * * *

From his perch beside a docking post, Dillon turned, trying to take in everything.

Jonas floated in arm's reach of a gaping access panel about halfway from the center of PS-1. Felipe flew back and forth across the powersat's vast surface as though plowing a field, his hopper puffing gas all the while. For all Dillon knew, the man was joyriding. As for Lincoln, the only evidence was the tether that snaked through the gap opened where he had removed solar panels and whatever structure lay beneath.

Here, there, everywhere: little octopoid bots. The little automatons had come tumbling out of shelters, dispersing to do . . . whatever it was they did, when Jonas canceled the CME shutdown. Maybe they would be tasked to help with the disassembly.

Dillon radioed, “I'm ready. Where should I begin?”

“What do you mean?” Jonas asked back.

“This thing is huge. As fulfilling as it would be to rampage and smash, I can see that's not realistic. We have to concentrate our efforts on what's most important, what will be hardest to repair, before NASA sends up a ship. If we're to destroy this abomination while we have it to ourselves, we have to work smart.”

“I'm not following,” Jonas said.

“About how to destroy it?”

“No,” Jonas said. “About why you think that's our purpose. That's not at all what Yakov intends us to do.”

Yakov sat in his study, the rain drumming against the windows. The night sky, were he to step outside, would be a uniform, ominous slate gray. As much as he wished to see the signal with his own eyes, that was impossible. His night-vision binoculars would stay in their case.

Trusted men and women were in place, waiting, around the world. It would suffice for them to forward their observations. He would know soon enough.

Sipping hot tea, he waited for the phone.

At last, it rang. After idle pleasantries, Arkady Vasilyev said, “You will never guess what I spotted on my last hike. A rose-breasted grosbeak! We hardly ever see them in California.”

Above Los Angeles, unlike Washington, the sky was clear tonight.

“You are sure of what you saw?” Yakov asked.

“I am positive.”

“Then I envy you. I would like to have seen it.”

“I understand, my friend.”

They discussed other rare birds they had seen, or heard, or wished to—and it was all lies. What Arkady Vasilyev—not his real name—had seen with his night-vision binoculars was far more remarkable than any bird sighting: a slightly cooled stripe across the sun-warmed surface of PS-1. Someone from Jonas's team was cooling the area with gas sprayed from a utility craft.

And so, without any radio transmission from the powersat to attract American notice, he knew his team was in place.

After several minutes of such prattle, Yakov excused himself. With Psycho Cyborg's expert assistance, he, too, had secret messages to deliver.

* * * *

Blades spun lazily in the stiff breeze over the Pacific. The windmills were enormous: their blades spanning 250 feet, their pedestals rising 200 feet above the ocean. When the wind blew fast enough, each windmill generated almost two megawatts of power. A hundred windmills stood spaced across a few square miles.

One by one, in a hundred electrical generators, copper coils fused and melted. Power output sagged and surged on the high-voltage transmission lines that ran to the coast. Distribution substations ashore overloaded.

In cascading power failures, Yokohama, Tokyo, and Osaka ground to a halt.

* * * *

Venezuela's greatest triumph ringed the harbor and sprawled along the coast. A jumble of storage tanks brimming with petroleum, diesel fuel, gasoline, and liquefied natural gas. The modern refinery with its 300,000-barrel-per-day capacity. Pumping stations. A cat's cradle of pipeline, moving vast quantities of fluids about the complex. More pipeline, snaking out to the oil fields. Lighters shuttling fuel to supertankers too huge to enter the harbor.

Much of the rambling facility was just coming back online after a preemptive shutdown in the face of the coronal mass ejection. Everything was checking out fine—

Until explosions ripped through the night. The fires soon raged out of control.

Fortunately, when disaster struck, it was on the third shift. The dead and unaccounted for remained, just barely, below four hundred.

* * * *

Like colossi, mighty pylons bestrode the desolate plain.

High-capacity, high-voltage, superconducting cables swooped from one pylon to the next, to the next, to the next . . . across thousands of miles. And so, vast solar farms in the Outback fed their gigawatts into the power lines that spanned a continent—

Until, deep within the desert, stretches of the cable flashed white-hot before exploding in a spray of metallic vapor. More slowly, nearby metal towers melted like candles in the sun.

And a continent away, Melbourne went dark.

* * * *

Dillon had taken his turn at the console, obliterating a few of the grotesque, counterproductive, hubristic constructions of “civilization.” And proudly, even giddily, so: every target they destroyed with the powersat's microwave beam had been an outrage against Gaia.

But the adrenaline rush had passed. Beyond some point—and how could they not already have passed that point?—the destruction they inflicted was equally an affront to Mother Earth.

“I think we have everyone's attention,” Dillon said, desperately.

Except for the smudge of black smoke off the Venezuelan coast, the effects of their activities could not be seen from this altitude, even with visors set to full magnification. The rest he had fleshed out from Jonas's matter-of-fact descriptions and his own—ever more appalled—imagination.

So much death and destruction!

“I imagine so,” Jonas admitted.

“Then use it.” Dillon gestured at the nearby radio antenna. The transceiver meant for routine operation of the powersat was in no way constrained to that purpose. “Send them our"—Yakov's!—"demands, so that this slaughter can stop."

“Demands,” Jonas echoed. “We have demands?”

* * * *

Friday morning, September 29

Valerie sat up with a start.

She remembered reluctantly turning off the 3-V, because her folks would not go to bed until she did. Not that staying up past two had accomplished anything, because the only news from Phoebe was: no news. Formless dread had kept her tossing and turning until—the latest she remembered checking the bedside clock—after four.

Her bedside clock read 9:12. Maybe now there would be information. But turning on the bedroom 3-V, she found she had awakened into a new nightmare.

There was a knock on her door. Without waiting for a response, Mom came in wearing a nightgown, robe, and slippers. “Go back to bed, hon. Everything is closed today. I'll wake you if there's any word about the people on Phoebe.”

“Everything is closed.” Valerie gestured at the 3-V, in which a refinery blazed, while the crawl scrolled a litany of other disasters. The headline: Terrorists strike worldwide! “Because of this? What is this?” She threw off the blanket. “Did you get Simon to school?”

Mom shook her head. “Simon is in the yard, tiring out your father. Hon, everything but essential services is closed. The president declared a national state of emergency.”

“I've got to get to work.”

“It's closed."

“Regardless, Mom, I have to get to the observatory.”

When Valerie pulled into the parking lot, twenty minutes later, she saw bikes and cars. She wasn't the only staffer unable to just sit home.

Patrick found her in the break room as she paced, waiting for coffee to brew. He took one look at her and gave her a hug. “Any word from Marcus?”

She shook her head.

“If you insist on being here, I'm working from your office. You shouldn't be alone.”

“Thanks.” The pot finished brewing and she filled their mugs. “I was thinking. Suppose the CME fried Phoebe's main base transmitter. Could happen, right? They'd still have low-power stuff. Like spacesuit helmet radios.”

Remember when we met, Marcus? I said I can eavesdrop on a cell phone on Titan.

“And we have a big receiver. Good thinking.”

“Now if I could only find a bit of free time on the big dish. . . .”

“You know? I seem to recall an anomalous reading the last time I ran diagnostics. I'll be taking the big dish offline real soon, now.”

This time, she hugged him. But as long as they tracked Phoebe, they heard—nothing.

* * * *

Footsteps in the Jansky Lab corridor were nothing unusual. These footsteps were. Too fast. Too soft. Like people sneaking up . . .

Valerie twitched as someone shouted, “Clear!”

Turning, she saw two men wearing camo, flak jackets, and helmets. Carrying guns! Shuffling noises in the corridor suggested others.

Nodding to the soldiers, a tall, ruddy-faced man in a rumpled blue suit walked into her office. He had thinning, close-cropped brown hair and a bristly mustache gone gray. He could have been the father, maybe even the grandfather, of any of the soldiers.

But the sight of a grandfather did not ordinarily send a chill down her spine.

“Dr. Clayburn?” the older man asked.

Patrick stood. “Someone's serious about giving us the day off.”

She knew he was pissed. Trapped in her office by soldiers, she knew just how he felt.

Ignoring the jibe, the man in the suit offered his ID. A holo logo shimmered above it. “Valerie Clayburn. May I have a minute?”

“That's me,” she said, although he seemed already to know that. “And what the hell is this about?”

“My name is Tyler Pope, and I'm with the CIA. You placed an interesting call yesterday to the Space Weather Prediction Center.”

“I'm an astronomer, Mr. Pope. We're interested in space.”

“Don't talk to him,” Patrick said. “Not without a lawyer.”

“Thank you for your opinion, Dr. Burkhalter. Don't look so surprised. I told you I'm CIA. You're still in the room because you were also on that call.”

“And why is the CIA interested in space weather?” Patrick asked.

Pope said, “Dr. Clayburn, you're in no more trouble than the rest of the country, but unfortunately, that's a great deal. Lawyers can't help us. So will one of you please explain that call?”

“My friend is on Phoebe.” She shivered. “I hope he's on Phoebe. The last contact I had, a short email, he was at work on the NASA powersat. But because of adverse space weather, a radiation hazard, he would have been evacuated to Phoebe. The problem is, there's been no communication from Phoebe since just after the weather alert.”

“And your call to the space-weather people?”

Patrick gestured at the muted 3-V. “Don't you have a crisis to attend to?”

“Who says I'm not?” Pope turned back to Valerie. “Your call?”

She had made three calls, the first two routine. “You mean when I said that yesterday's CME—sorry, that's coronal mass ejection—wasn't acting like a CME. No auroras. They couldn't explain it.”

“But your question stuck with them,” Pope said. “Here's the thing, Valerie. May I call you Valerie? The thing is, there was no CME yesterday.”

“I reviewed their data, and I'm qualified to make sense of it.”

“I'm sure you are, given accurate data.”

“I hardly think you're trained to—”

Pope cut her off. “Because of your questions—for which, thank you—a staffer at the Space Weather Prediction Center took the initiative to double-check their records. I'm told data from the early-warning spacecraft downloads through NASA's Deep Space Network. So this young man went back to the DSN, and in the buffer DSN keeps to diagnose any problems in recent communications they found . . .”

“No trace of a CME,” Valerie completed. “So what did I see in the weather center's database?”

“Except for timestamps, the supposed readings for yesterday's event turn out to duplicate a CME from 2019. When the security folks at the weather center reinstalled their intrusion-detection software, they found they had been hacked by experts. That's when they called the DOD Cyber Command.”

“But how . . . ?” She trailed off in thought. Suppose one wanted—never mind why—to fake a CME. Could it even be done? “People interested in flares and CMEs go to the official repository, and that's the Space Weather Prediction Center. When an alert goes out to subscribers, the hundreds of satellites that a CME might clobber get put immediately into standby mode. When satellites reawaken undamaged, people just think how fortunate they were. Any independent scientist trying to measure the CME's ground-level effects, when she doesn't detect any, is apt to run diagnostics, check calibrations and the like, before questioning the official alert.”

Pope nodded. “You're very sharp, Valerie.”

“Still,” Patrick said, “those ground-based measurements will eventually check out. It can't be a matter of more than days.”

Hiding a CME to destroy satellites might appeal to the sorts of fanatics who blow stuff up, Valerie supposed. Why do the opposite? Why fake a CME? And why bother if questions were sure to be raised after a day or two?

Then an even stranger question struck her. “The Russians have a space weather system, with independent data sources, run by their Space Research Institute. That weather center also shows a CME. Were they hacked, too?”

“Or,” Pope said, “are the Russians showing bad data on purpose? Do you begin to see why the CIA is interested?”

* * * *

All very intriguing and bizarre, Patrick thought. But relevant, how? “What does this have to do with Valerie, or our armed guards?”

“Look outside,” Pope suggested.

Opening the window blinds, looking down into the parking lot, Patrick saw a Pocahontas County Sheriff's cruiser.

“I asked the local police to keep an eye on you until I got here,” Pope said. “The people I'm investigating have bigger ambitions than hacking the Space Weather Prediction Center. I found out you were asking perceptive questions. Someone else might.”

“I'm in danger?” Valerie asked, incredulous. “If I am, what about my family?”

“I don't think anyone is, but I won't take chances.” Pope gestured at the troops. “I'm leaving these men behind. Your family will be well protected.”

"They will. Where will I be?”

“With me, I hope. You spotted something important before anyone else. A government crisis team is gathering, and we need your kind of insight.”

“I need to be here, where my friend can reach me.”

“We're working to reestablish communications with Phoebe, too. Trust me, we have resources you cannot begin to imagine.”

With Marcus unaccounted for, she was so vulnerable. Patrick could see her wavering. “Do you want to do this? And would you like me to come along?”

“I don't recall inviting you,” Pope said, glowering.

Patrick refused to react. Of course Mr. CIA had seen his government files, and judged Patrick unworthy of trust. Bastard.

“Will you keep an eye on Simon and my parents?” she asked.

“Of course.” Patrick hesitated. “So you're going? You're sure.”

“I have to,” she said.

Because if the CME was imaginary, then why had Phoebe base gone silent? And how could any of this, as Pope had hinted, relate to this morning's terrorist attacks? By joining this task force, Valerie might find out—and about Marcus, too.

“I understand,” Patrick told her. “Do what you have to do.”

“I'm glad that's settled,” Pope said. “If we can be going, Valerie, time is of the essence. We have a chopper waiting.”

* * * *

Wooded, rolling countryside vanished behind the helicopter. Overwhelmed by events, Valerie had scarcely noticed when they took off from Green Bank's tiny and seldom-used airstrip, but from the chopper's shadow their course was east-northeast. Except for the pilot, she and Tyler Pope had the aircraft to themselves.

“Are you all right?” Pope asked her.

“Truthfully? I'm too numb to know.”

“Sorry to whisk you away like this. It is urgent. And there are things I couldn't share around your friend.”

“He's a good man!” she protested.

Pope shrugged. “I don't doubt that. Good and well-suited to a crisis are very different.”

Such as losing the Verne probe by acting in haste. Taking Pope's point did nothing to assuage her pangs of guilt.

“Valerie.”

She turned to look at him.

“Contrary to what you've seen on the Internet and 3-V, the attacks aren't bombings. Governments are sitting on the real story for a little while, so the bad guys don't know we know.”

“Who are the bad guys?”

“Unclear.” He sighed. “But I have my suspicions.”

“The Russians, you intimated. Their space-weather center could have been hacked, too.”

“Maybe. Russians involvement doesn't mean all Russians.”

“If their space weather center isn't complicit,” she said, “then how does any of this involve the Russians?”

“Consider the targets. Most are alternate-energy-based power generation and distribution facilities. The one petro facility to be hit is the main export hub in Venezuela. The Russians haven't been happy with Petroleos de Venezuela shipping way over its cartel-approved quota.

“Did you happen to check the price of oil futures today?”

The Crudetastrophe had taken away Keith. Now another oil-related crisis? She could not bear to think about losing Marcus.

“Valerie. Valerie, stay with me.”

“What?” she said, woodenly.

“The non-bombings. The attacks come from space, using a microwave beam from PS-1. That is why everyone is suppressing the true nature of the threat. Until the news gets out, no one will question NASA and Cosmic Adventures sending a relief shuttle to Phoebe, to repair whatever has gone wrong with their comm and to bring back anyone needing evacuation.” Pope glanced at his wrist. “They should be taking off right about now.”

Maybe Marcus wasn't doomed! “A rescue mission!”

“Indirectly,” Pope said. “The shuttle will carry a squad of special-ops folks, trained for combat in space. At the last minute they'll veer to retake control of PS-1.”

* * * *

Patrick accompanied the soldiers to Valerie's house. Mr. and Mrs. Yarborough had not struck him as the kind to take well to the military descending on them. Then again, who did?

He settled into Valerie's home office, ready to intervene for her parents if the need should arise. A 3-V droned in the living room. Whenever they cranked up the volume, it meant another terrorist attack.

His impression was of attacks all over the place, and he did not see the logic. He hunted around until he found an Ethernet cable with which to net his datasheet. After plotting the attacks on a globe, he still saw no pattern.

Maybe another of the day's mysteries would somehow shed light on the situation. A fine idea—except that he had no idea how to plot a counterfeit CME.

There was yet another mystery, the one that had Valerie frantic. Why was there no news from Phoebe? Patrick expanded his plot, draping his holo globe of Earth in a broad sinusoidal band. Little pennants stood here and there within the band.

Every one of the terrorist attacks had happened in view of Phoebe and PS-1. And every attack had taken place while PS-1, if not always the target, had been in sunlight.

“What have I done?” he whispered.

* * * *

Big Momma lumbered down the Cape Canaveral runway. The plane lurched—its engines laboring, as always, under the weight of a fully fueled orbital shuttle—off the tarmac into a cloudless blue sky. Glowing gases, 2,700 degrees (Fahrenheit) hot, streamed from the turbofan exhausts.

High overhead, a sensor once a part of the Phoebe infrared observatory homed in on the heat source. Powersat controls designed to maintain focus on a surface location—despite the powersat's own motion and the Earth's rotation—maintained a lock on the target.

At the appointed time and altitude, Big Momma released its cargo. Lighting its main engine, spewing 6,000-degree exhaust, the shuttle shot skyward. The sensor redirected its attention to the brightest infrared source in its field of vision—

And an intense beam of microwaves lashed out.

Shuttle electronics shut down, overloaded, and arced. Liquid oxygen and hydrogen in the shuttle's fuel tanks flashed into vapor—and vapor pressure burst the tanks.

In an instant, the shuttle became the heart of a fireball.

For a time, the fireball was the hottest thing in sight; microwaves continued to pour down on it. But the fireball burned out. The debris dispersed and cooled.

And the distant sensor redirected the ravening microwave beam onto the blazing exhausts of the fleeing aircraft, Big Momma.

* * * *

Friday afternoon, September 29

By the West Virginia standards to which Valerie had grown accustomed, Mount Weather was not much of a mountain. Not that she had gotten much of a look: the chopper had swooped in low to the ground, skirting the little town Tyler Pope had identified as Berryville, Virginia. Hustled from the helipad into a sprawling underground tunnel complex, she had been left waiting, all alone, in a small, sparsely furnished meeting room.

Her mind clung to irrelevancies because she could not bear to think about the worldwide terror, or the disastrous rescue attempt, or Marcus's uncertain fate. She was supposed to help the CIA? The idea was ludicrous. She couldn't help herself.

Other than a table and six chairs, the room offered only a 3-V and some rolled-up datasheets. Cans of tepid soda, forlorn, waited on the table. The institutional gray walls were windowless and bare.

She searched in vain for an Ethernet cable, then laughed at herself. She was beyond the quiet zone. This shelter must have wireless service.

For a while she watched the news, much of it dealing with aircraft worldwide diverting to the nearest airfield lest they, too, be swatted from the sky. But since the destruction of the shuttle and its mother ship, the terrorists had returned their attention to stationary targets. She turned off the 3-V when coverage cut to the Philippines. Something about a geothermal power plant being reduced to slag. . . .

By shoving chairs against the table, she made space to circle the room. What kind of people would do such terrible things? Had killed . . . how many? By now, perhaps thousands. What would such people care for the lives of a few score civilians in orbit?

She did not notice the door opening.

“Excuse me,” a woman said, closing the door behind herself. She was tall, clearly Asian, maybe Japanese, and wore thick, round glasses.

“Yes?”

“I'm told we're the red team.” The woman laughed nervously. “Let me back up. My name is Ellen Tanaka. I'm with NASA, from the powersat project.”

Marcus's boss! “Valerie Clayburn. I'm a radio astronomer. I questioned the CME alert, and for that lapse in judgment the CIA brought me here.”

Ellen cleared her throat. “Shall we acknowledge the obvious? You're seeing Marcus, and I'm the one who sent him up. I hope you don't hate me for that.”

Did she? Valerie thought of the last time she had seen Marcus, so eager to begin his adventure. “Had you sent anyone else, he would have been disappointed. And if you don't know it, he likes and respects you. A lot. So, no, I don't hate you. I don't blame you, either.”

Ellen pulled out a chair and sat heavily. “I wish I could say the same.”

Valerie did not want to dwell on Marcus going away. “What's a red team?”

“Surrogate bad guys. We're to try to think as the people controlling PS-1 would, with luck anticipating what they'll do before they do it. I think the term comes from Cold War war games, when red teams stood in for the Russians.”

“And still do?” Valerie asked.

“So I'm told. Right or wrong about who, though, PS-1 is the problem. Where shall we start? With how the bad guys are doing what they're doing?” Ellen popped the tab on one of the warm sodas. “Mind you, the person we really need is Bethany Taylor, the contractor's chief engineer. She was in the air, though, and her flight got diverted to Fargo. So far no one's been able to set her up with a secure enough connection to link into this facility. Bethany knows way more about the powersat than, well, anyone.”

“If also something of a bitch on wheels.”

Ellen grinned and the mood lightened. “I can guess where that comes from.”

Not that Ellen had disagreed, Valerie noted. She grabbed a datasheet and handed Ellen another. “Okay. Let's get to it.”

* * * *

They worked.

Ellen, despite her modest disclaimer, knew a great deal about PS-1. Valerie had retained more than she would have thought possible from Marcus's enthusiastic descriptions.

An orderly delivered food and coffee. They must have eaten, because sandwiches disappeared and the carafe went dry, but Valerie could not have said how or when it happened.

Checking email, she found nothing from Patrick. Adages be damned: no news meant only no news. She hoped. She sent a note, asking him to hug Simon for her, how Mom and Dad were coping, and would he keep listening in on Phoebe?

Ellen kept trying to access security cameras on PS-1. The subsystem rejected her reactivation requests: unauthorized command. “I should be able to do this,” Ellen muttered. “Viewing is not a sysadmin function. Not supposed to be, anyway.”

“Can you contact a sysadmin to do it for you?” Valerie asked.

“Any I can reach, the ones on rotation to the ground, can't help. As a matter of security, sysadmin functions can only be executed from hardwired terminals on PS-1 itself.”

“What access do you still have?”

“None.” Ellen sighed. “Someone up there must have changed authorizations to require sysadmin access to do anything."

The more attacks, the better their chance of spotting patterns. They turned on the 3-V for any breaking stories that might be instructive.

Instead they got the Russian president, in full-throated, lectern-thumping rage. In translation he condemned the U.S. for building a powersat. “This so-called power satellite must always have been intended as a weapon of mass destruction. Or are we to believe that within hours an innocent electrical power plant can be converted into a terrible weapon? The world is not so naive. Nor do we fail to notice that the facility that all were told would hang stationary in the skies over the Americas instead threatens our entire planet four times each day. And to compound its earlier deceptions, America now claims to have ‘lost control’ of its illegal weapons platform to Resetter fanatics. It is a matter of criminal negligence at best, a matter of—”

Ellen hit mute and set down the remote. “This isn't helping us.”

“Why blame Resetters?” Valerie asked. “Have the terrorists identified themselves?”

“From the selection of targets, I would guess. Most are alternate-energy projects, the sort the most extreme Resetters oppose.”

“Only it took Russian connivance to get them, Resetters or not, where they are.”

Faster than they could react to a quick double knock, the door swung open. “How's it coming in here?” Tyler Pope asked.

“I don't get the point of these attacks,” Ellen said.

“Me either,” Valerie admitted. “Or why whoever controls PS-1 hasn't—apart from the shuttle—touched the U.S.”

“Was that a question?” Tyler waggled the coffee carafe, deemed it empty, and set it back down. “Oh, the U.S. has been hit, and it's insidiously clever. The anger from around the world comes right back at us. Powersats are fast becoming more untenable than the alternate-energy systems being so openly targeted.”

“The Russians took over PS-1!” Valerie shouted. “That's what you said.”

“I believe that more than ever,” Pope said. “NSA wizards have looked over the computers at the Space Weather Prediction Center. I'm told that the break-in and the code left behind have all the earmarks of a Russian pro hacker who goes by Psycho Cyborg. Still, the evidence for Russian government involvement is entirely circumstantial.

NSA? “No Such Agency,” Keith used to translate that, mockingly. As though a huge federal agency with vast resources could hide in plain sight. Such as the big complex at the north end of the quiet zone: she knew no one who believed the Navy's claim of ownership. Not a lot of call for naval facilities in the middle of a landlocked state. Or any obvious reason for the navy to operate antennas to rival Green Bank's.

Valerie had met parents at Little League games who did not work at the observatory but asked damned perceptive questions about the telescopes. National Security Agency, surely. It stood to reason the country's premier eavesdroppers would also have computer whizzes on staff.

“Which leaves us where?” Valerie asked.

“It leaves us, as far as world opinion is concerned, with an American weapons platform constructed in space in violation of international treaty. Worse, a weapon the control of which we carelessly lost to terrorists. Or, according to a fair chunk of the blogosphere, the pretense of lost control, there being no proof whatever that the U.S. does not still control PS-1.”

"Are there terrorists? And are they Resetters?” Ellen asked.

“Hell yes, there are terrorists,” Pope said. “But as for who they are, that's a tougher question.

“A lot of intel work is looking for patterns. The past few hours, legions at the CIA have been digging into the background of anyone who could have been involved.

“So here's a pattern for you. Remember the microwave incident early last month in the Santa Barbara Channel? The company whose beamed power killed that little girl and her grandfather?”

“All too well,” Ellen said. “The accident generated tons of bad press about beamed power and PS-1.”

And if that accident had never happened? Marcus would still be on the ground. Valerie couldn't help thinking that, but kept it to herself. If only wishes helped nobody.

“The company was a start-up,” Pope said. “Its lead investor was Russo Venture Capital Partners. Reviewing passenger manifests from Cosmic Adventures, guess who showed up? Dillon Russo. Also three of his employees, all engineers. All on The Space Place when it had to evacuate to Phoebe.”

“Quite the coincidence,” Ellen said.

“No coincidence,” Pope said. “I just can't prove it yet. Regardless, people who vacation in space are rich and well-connected. Names are already coming out. I won't be the only one to make the Dillon Russo connection.

“So what's your choice, ladies? American terrorists or American agents pretending to be Resetter terrorists? In either scenario, the U.S. becomes competitively stronger as power plants and energy resources go boom in other countries. Of course while all this happens, everyone is being weakened in absolute terms.” Pope grimaced. “Everyone, that is, except the Russians.”

The Universe was subtle, but it was never devious. The Universe didn't know how to lie. Not only did Valerie have no answers, she did not even know the questions. Except one. “What about everyone else from Phoebe and The Space Place? How do the conspiracy theorists explain that no one can contact them?”

“Hostages. Co-conspirators. Irrelevant. Take your pick.” Pope rubbed his eyes, looking exhausted. “We have experts out the wazoo to analyze the politics, but not for PS-1 itself. So back to work, you two. We don't have much time to find the powersat's weak point.”

* * * *

The air inside the shelter was stuffy and dank, reeking of sweat, urine, and fear. People milled about, murmuring, shivering.

A fortunate few slept. Thad wondered how they did it. He tried to rouse himself to remember it would not be only himself dying.

No one could ever have anticipated spending more than a few hours in the shelter, especially not crammed in like commuters on a Tokyo subway. Their air scrubbers were failing under the load. And it was cold; to conserve fuel cells, he had dialed down the thermostat to fifty degrees. For all the densely packed humanity, Phoebe sucked out the heat through the insulated walls. They would asphyxiate or freeze to death before food or water became an issue.

Thad tried the hatch. Again.

Still jammed. Whatever Yakov's team had done to the door, it was stuck but good.

Marcus pushed through the crowd to make yet another protest. “We have to get word out,” he insisted. “Or else we're going to die in here.” And in a whisper. “We've been out of touch for close to two days. NASA may already think we're dead.”

“I'm open to new ideas,” Thad said.

“All I have is the old idea we have yet to try. Look, we're stuck inside a Faraday cage. So we cut a hole in the wall. Shove through a radio sending an SOS. Patch the hole.”

The idea was not only old, but useless. Of course no one but Thad knew the main base radio was fried. It would never relay anything. “It's wishful thinking that the base radio and computers will have come back up on their own. And a datasheet has a range of what? A couple hundred feet?”

“I've refined the plan a bit. We pull the radio from someone's helmet. Helmet radios are good for miles, right? I mean we could talk with a helmet radio between PS-1 and Phoebe.”

“Relayed through big antennas on Phoebe and PS-1,” Thad said.

“Be realistic! What do we have to lose?”

“Air! Heat!”

“For how much longer?” Marcus shook his head. “Here's something you have no reason to know. The woman I'm seeing is an astronomer. A radio astronomer. Val once said she could hear a cell phone on Titan. So maybe she'll hear a helmet radio from a few thousand miles.”

The plan was still daydreams and moonbeams. “The wall panels aren't made of tin foil. How do you expect to cut through one? And do it leaving a clean cut you can seal over.”

“I've been working on that, too. Savvy still has her toolkit from our PS-1 outing. We'll start by scraping with the blade of a screwdriver. If that wears out, then other tools, then belt buckles. We'll make it work.”

“And to seal the hole once the radio is outside the wall?”

Marcus rapped on a supply cabinet. “We undo the hinges if possible, break them if not. The door is a flat piece of rigid plastic. We'll make our hole somewhere the wall is flat. Set the door over the hole, and suction alone assures us a decent seal with the wall. The hotel people are all still in counterpressure suits, so we'll have plenty of leak patches to tape the edge of the cabinet door. From a datasheet in the shelter, we'll be able to network through the plastic cabinet door with the radio on the outside. So if it connects to anything . . .”

Such misplaced optimism. Thad tried, and failed, to remember the nature of hope. “Suppose you get your scavenged radio outside without killing us all. We're still beneath the base. Your signal will be absorbed by tons of metal. No one will hear squat.”

“Phoebe is whipping around the Earth,” Marcus persisted. “Sometimes the signal path will be through the dirt. It won't always be upward through the base.”

Thad permitted himself to believe. “Okay, Judson, we'll give it a try.”

* * * *

“But how can the beam be so dangerous?" Ellen burst out. “Marcus and I traveled the country swearing up and down the system was safe. That the beam just isn't that intense.”

But the powersat dealt with immense power, Valerie thought. A gigawatt of power, more than enough to do enormous harm. How you beamed that power made all the difference. Perhaps abducting a radio astronomer had not been such a bad idea. Especially a radio astronomer who had spent weeks debating the system end-to-end with Marcus.

Whoever controlled PS-1 had changed the beaming optimization. Defocused the beam? Refocused it? She would have to commit serious math to figure the best way to intensify localized hotspots. But could she wring out hotter—much hotter—hotspots, by constructive interference among the thousands of transmitters? Absolutely.

Valerie said, “PS-1 isn't dangerous, not as you built it. The story changes if someone doesn't care about efficiency or beam uniformity or power dribbling out in side lobes. Then parts of the beam can be made very intense.”

“Lethally intense?”

“It'll take me some time to run the numbers, but yeah.” Setting aside that hundreds, maybe thousands, were dead already gave them the answer.

Tyler Pope stuck his head into the room. “Ready to dazzle?”

“Give us ten more minutes?” Valerie asked, fingers skimming the datasheet's virtual keyboard.

“That was a rhetorical question. Your presence is required in the war room.”

* * * *

Valerie did not know what to expect of a war room. Giant wall screens. Lots of men and women, many uniformed, seated around an enormous conference table. Flags. Was that all too Dr. Strangelove?

Not really.

Perhaps the resemblance should not have surprised her. On the flight in, Tyler Pope had told her Mount Weather was opened in the depths of the Cold War.

She and Ellen were introduced to forty or so people, about half in the room and the rest netted in because planes remained grounded. Valerie did not try to retain names, struggling just to catch the organizations. In uniform: lots of military, mostly Air Force and NSA. In dark suits: CIA, FBI, Homeland Security, the State Department, and White House aides.

And here she was wearing blue jeans and a Hard Rock Café T -shirt.

One of the White House aides asked, “What does our brain trust have to suggest?”

Ellen said, “PS-1 is meant to beam power. Directing a beam takes only three things. A beacon on the ground target. Lat/long values aboard PS-1 that match the beacon's coordinates. A correctly formatted ‘go’ signal from the ground. Someone on PS-1 can update the permissible target list and input the ‘go’ code locally. I think the dependency on beacons is the weak link.”

“We've sensed beacons at some of the targets,” a woman in an Air Force uniform said. (A colonel, Valerie was almost certain. Keith had often had her quiz him on rank insignia before weekend call-ups.) “Elint picked up some signals just before attacks. Where we didn't detect a beacon for an attack, it may be because we didn't have a bird in position.”

“Elint?” Valerie asked.

“Electronic intelligence. Non-voice eavesdropping. A spy satellite, to keep it simple.”

Ellen nibbled on her lower lip, thinking. “We built PS-1 to stop beaming if the beacon went off center. This new, intensified beam must fry the beacon entirely. Does the beam keep going after the beacon stops?”

“It does,” the colonel said. “The elint birds see ongoing backscatter from the ground.”

Ellen squirmed in her chair. “More software bypassed, just like reshaping the beam to make it more intense. Another bypass for which the bad guys would have to be on PS-1.”

Someone asked, “But the beacons still serve as initial aiming points. Can we use that?”

The colonel shook her head. “Energy infrastructure is big and distributed and often in the middle of nowhere. Our best guess is that the terrorists remotely activate beacons by cell phone or radio when it's time for a strike. Bottom line: it's not safe to go in after spotting the signal. Two special-ops teams sent to suppress newly spotted beacons got . . . caught in the down links.”

Cooked, the colonel meant.

Ellen shrank into herself. “It wasn't supposed to be a weapon,” she whispered.

“Placing beacons.” Valerie hesitated, the question not yet clear in her mind. “Is that why attacks come only every hour or two? Not enough agents on the ground to place beacons?”

“Unknown.” Pope turned to a CIA colleague, a petite African-American woman. “Any luck getting patrols to catch the people setting beacons?”

“Every ambassador has been tasked to put out the word. That'll take time. So will deploying patrols.”

“And we could be dealing with offshore wind farms or thousands of miles of pipelines and power cables,” the Air Force colonel reminded them. “It's impossible to guard everything.”

“Or they could change targets,” a White House aide said glumly, “to damn near anything. What if they aim at cities?”

“They?” someone else challenged. “Is anyone still up there?”

“Someone is,” an NSA guy answered. “We pick up their helmet chatter, although we have yet to break the encryption. Statistical analysis suggests they're speaking English. If so, another statistical analysis says they're using Russian intel-grade encryption. Which we have never broken.”

“Let's get back to basics.” Pope turned to Valerie and Ellen. “The shuttle and mother ship were moving targets. No fixed lat/long values to target. What does that tell you about how the bad guys compromised the lat/long matching function aboard PS-1? And if we're certain a plane or spaceship is free of beacons, does that make it safe to fly?”

The CIA hadn't been crazy to bring in an astronomer. “The warmer the telescope, the more thermal noise it generates. To do infrared astronomy, you want your instrument kept cold. Hence, there's an observatory on Phoebe.”

“Meaning?” Pope asked.

“Meaning any bad guys on Phoebe had access to very good infrared sensors.”

Pope said, “Whoever the bad guys are, they were on Phoebe. That faked CME brought together everyone in the neighborhood.”

“That tears it,” a two-star general said. “That's how they got the shuttle this morning. Infrared tracking. And if they can track a shuttle launch, they can track an inbound missile, too.”

“You would destroy PS-1?” Ellen said. “We have to save it. We have to use it as it was intended. If not, then I've spent years building a horrible weapon . . .”

Suddenly Ellen was on her feet, ashen, lurching from the room. Pope whispered to his colleague and she followed.

Smash the damn thing to splinters! Valerie thought. Then we can send help to Phoebe.

Someone (Valerie did not notice who) suggested, “What about launching from out of sight, sometime when PS-1 is over Asia?”

“Just a great time to be lobbing a missile in the direction of Russia and China,” a man from Homeland Security said, fidgeting with his necktie.

The general stared down the civilian. “Russian early-warning satellites will spot any launch, and if Pope is correct, I imagine they'll relay the information to PS-1. There's no way we can know. And unless the payload loiters in orbit for a long while, making the intercept that much harder, I suspect it will retain enough heat for this astronomical sensor to lock onto against the cold background of space.”

“For much of every orbit, the sun will warm your payload,” Valerie said.

“I have a question,” a man from the State Department said. “Why did we send up that shuttle in broad daylight? A solar-power satellite can't be much of a threat at night.”

“It's not that simple,” Valerie answered. “Earth's shadow narrows with distance. I can't do precise trigonometry in my head, but PS-1 is in full shadow less than one hour out of every six-hour orbit. Can you get a warhead to that altitude in less than an hour?”

Glowers and murmurs gave Valerie her answer.

“Then what's left?” a White House aide demanded. “Waiting like so many fish in a barrel, while the terrorists render us more dependent by the hour on Russian oil?”

The general shook his head. “If we can blind the IR sensor with ground-based lasers, a missile might get through. If the powersat hasn't already been networked into the Russian early-warning system. If that's the case, our only option may be launching so many missiles we overwhelm it.”

That evoked lots of esoteric discussion about what and how and when to launch, about different payload options whose code names meant nothing to Valerie. Get on with it, she thought. Why the hell have missiles, if not for our own defense?

Looking a bit less pale, Ellen returned. She listened, frowning, shaking her head.

“What's the matter, Ellen?” Valerie asked.

“A missile will punch through PS-1 like a bullet through a wet tissue. Aside from the small hole, the structure is going to remain intact. Probably operational.”

Several junior officers spoke at once about explosives, and momentum transfer during a collision, and multiple warheads, and—

Suddenly red in the face, Ellen shouted them down. “Do you not get how big PS-1 is? Two million pounds. A wafer-thin square, two miles on a side. Every essential component is fault-tolerant, and then many-times replicated. Most everything is highly distributed. The powersat is designed to keep on working past failures, even to repair itself.

“To stop PS-1 you must obliterate it. Using lots of missiles or, God help us, a nuke.”

For long seconds after Ellen's outburst, no one spoke.

“Christ,” one of the White House people said. “That's been someone's effing brilliant plan all along. Let America waste years gearing up to mass-produce powersats. Let us commit to powersats as our way out of the post-Crudetastrophe box. Then convince the world we built an illegal WMD. Leave us no choice but to blow PS-1 to bits to stop the mayhem. Two million pounds of shrapnel: it'll be decades, maybe centuries, before anyone uses that region of space or the resources of Phoebe.”

“What about the people on Phoebe?” Valerie asked. “If our missiles blast the powersat to space junk, how will we rescue them?”

No one would meet Valerie's eyes. Not even Ellen.

* * * *

Friday evening, September 29

At not quite eight a.m., the day was already steamy. New Orleans, at least in the French Quarter, remained mostly asleep. Sitting in the shade of an awning, sipping an iced coffee and nibbling still-sizzling beignets, Dillon was at peace. Apart from indigents and hung-over revelers sprawled out on park benches, Jackson Square was deserted. Seagulls and clanging channel buoys made the only sounds.

Crystal sat across the little wrought-iron table, sipping her own iced coffee, looking as content as he felt. They had the café almost to themselves. The breeze over the levee kept toying with her hair. After each gust she tossed her head, just so, to settle her bangs back in place. The maneuver never worked; somehow that made it even more adorable.

Setting down his cup, he reached over to pat her hand. “I could stay here all day.”

Only somehow she was out of reach. Far away. Slipping away. Fading. A speck glimpsed through a reversed telescope. On another world.

He lunged—

Heart thudding in his chest. Dillon snapped awake. His knuckles, although he wore gloves, smarted where he had cracked them against the closed door of the little shelter. He was on another world.

He unstrapped his helmet from the side of the shelter. The interior of the helmet glowed, but to read the time from the HUD, he had to slip it over his head. Fifteen minutes before he had to stand his next watch. No point in trying to return to sleep. He used the primitive sanitary facilities, ate an energy bar—wallpaper paste would beat the slop from the helmet nipples—before sealing suit and helmet.

He vented oh-two from the shelter so that the hatch would open, and carefully swung himself outside. The splendor that was Earth brought a tear to his eye. Then a black, inchoate blot on that beautiful orb really made him want to cry. In his HUD's digital zoom, dark smoke from the refinery in Venezuela blended with smoke billowing from the bigger-than-ever oceanic burn-off. Burst tanks must still spew petroleum into the azure Caribbean.

“Enjoy your nap?” Felipe asked, only there was a ragged hint of strain under the surface cheerfulness. He waved from the open door of a nearby oh-two depot.

“All things considered, I'd rather be in The Space Place,” Dillon said. “What's been happening?” Not that he thought he would like the answer.

“The usual, boss,” Jonas answered. “An ethanol distillery here. A tidal generator there.”

But where was Jonas? Dillon did a slow turn. He spotted the team's true leader at the open hatch to one of the powersat's main computer complexes. Taking aim now at what?

In the heat of the moment, awash in adrenaline, Dillon had struck his share of blows. But overnight—did night apply? In any event, as he had slept fitfully—the enormity of their actions had overwhelmed him. How many more lives must now weigh on his conscience?

“When does it stop?" Dillon asked.

Jonas shrugged. “Not up to me. Nor you, either.”

“But it is," Dillon insisted. “By now, we must have made whatever point Yakov wanted made. If we agree among ourselves that something prevents us from continuing—say, that we've run out of oh-two reserves—who is to know otherwise?”

“What do you suggest?” Felipe asked.

“We take hoppers back to Phoebe or The Space Place. Take escape pods . . .” Dillon trailed off, wondering where they could go. Not home, ever again. Not anywhere with extradition. “I know we can't steer the pods. Time our departure to land in Russia.” And then? Witness protection, maybe, or secret identities. He had begun to appreciate the vast scale of this operation. Yakov must have great influence in Russia to have pulled it all together.

Maybe, someday, through a trusted third party, contact could be made with Crystal. Maybe she could be convinced to join him.

“You were right, chief,” Felipe said. “Insufficiently committed.”

“Then as we discussed,” Jonas said.

Dillon looked wildly around. The hoppers were docked across the powersat. Between him and escape were two men with drawn coil guns.

“Back into your cubbyhole,” Jonas ordered. “I won't ask twice.”

“Why don't you just shoot me?” Dillon screamed. “What's one more death?”

“Whatever you believe, I don't enjoy killing. Especially up close. So don't make me.”

Dillon made his way to the nearest shelter. The tiny door shook with finality as someone slammed and latched it from outside.

* * * *

Ambassador Anatoly Vladimirovich Sokolov had furnished his private retreat at the Washington embassy more like a dacha than as an office. A dacha fit for a tsar, to be sure, but still a dacha. Sofas and chairs were all made for relaxation. Hot and cold dishes lined the long buffet table. The disguised freezer offered only vodka bottles.

Behind the ambassador, the room's true windows overlooked the embassy's central courtyard. Floor-to-ceiling displays on the other walls could show anything. When the ambassador worked, Yakov supposed, these walls would seem book-lined or darkly paneled. Today the holos offered deserted Black Sea beaches. Comfortable on a leather sofa, Yakov approved of—everything.

Dmitrii Federovich Aminov, FSB station chief and Yakov's nominal superior, sat at ease on a great leather wingchair. He was the ambassador's only other guest.

“To our success,” the ambassador said. They were several rounds past long-winded toasts. He raised his glass.

They downed their shots and the ambassador poured refills. Everyone nibbled from the buffet, one zakuska or another to buffer some of the free-flowing alcohol.

In address, as in setting, formalities had been waived. They were here to celebrate. “Thank you, Anatoly Vladimirovich,” Yakov said. “The operation indeed goes well.”

“You are too modest.” Sokolov smiled. “The president himself asked me to extend his congratulations.”

President Khristenko, clearly. Not the hapless, clueless occupant of the White House.

Yakov nodded. “I am honored.” And I trust that soon I will receive such thanks in person, in Moscow.

“A thing of beauty,” Dmitrii Federovich said. “Alternatives to petroleum set back for years. Greedy partners unwilling to limit their exports will now do well even to meet their production quotas—with no one to blame but the Americans.” He raised his glass. “To the Americans. Our customers for as long as the oil lasts.”

They drained their shots, and Dmitrii poured the next round.

“If I might,” Yakov began.

“Naturally, Yakov Nikolayevich,” the ambassador beamed. He picked up his glass for the expected toast.

“A suggestion,” Yakov said. “The American authorities are trying to blame everything on some cabal from The Space Place. Hoping to shift the blame.”

Because the FBI, at least after the fact, was not entirely inept, and investigators had seized Dillon's condo and business. Had they not made the association, Yakov would have arranged the anonymous release of video of Dillon bringing saboteurs onto the OTEC platform.

“Anatoly Vladimirovich, when you next speak to the press, perhaps you might remind them that every flight to The Space Place originates from the United States. That every item of cargo delivered to the hotel or to Phoebe is both X-rayed and hand-searched. That every passenger, too, was X-rayed. So unless the Americans wish to implicate their own TSA . . .”

“As either fellow terrorists or criminally careless.” The ambassador roared with laughter. “Excellent.”

Yakov raised his glass. “To the TSA.”

* * * *

Saturday, predawn, September 30

Exhausted, her brain now mush, Valerie reluctantly checked out the quarters assigned to her. Tyler Pope had spirited her away only that morning—but it already seemed a lifetime ago. Mount Weather was like another world from Green Bank.

The room looked comfortable enough, but despite the late hour she knew she could not sleep. She checked email with the datasheet she had been using. A short note from Patrick: Simon and her parents coping okay; no signal detected from Phoebe. Telemetry had resumed from The Space Place, he supposed from a normal automatic reboot. No other comm detectable from the hotel; guests and staff presumed still absent.

Military satellites had reported the same reboot, with analysts making the same inference about The Space Place.

She sent Patrick a thank-you email. She sent a short, “Be good, and Mommy misses you,” note to Simon. She switched on the 3-V but lasted only a couple of minutes: every channel showed news and the news remained appalling. She checked out toiletries in the bathroom and clothing in an array of sizes in the closet and dresser. Apparently anyone staying beneath Mount Weather was expected to have arrived on a moment's notice. A faded scribble on the bottom of a dresser drawer declared: Dick Cheney slept here. She tried to remember who that was.

She went to bed, only to toss and turn.

Several times that day, she had asked about plans for a rescue. Haranguing or cajoling, bargaining or pleading, the method made no difference. “We'll discuss that later,” devolved into stony silence.

Giving up on sleep, she prowled her room some more. One drawer had a “guest services” booklet, as though this place were a hotel. She began flipping through. The tunnel complex, called Area B, comprised almost fourteen acres! Rather than a hotel, it was a small town.

She located a twenty-four-hour dining room on the Area B map. She navigated through deserted halls to the eatery, got coffee and a stale scone, and carried her snack to an empty table.

Ten minutes later an Air Force major exited the cafeteria line. He saw Valerie, hesitated, then came her way. She thought she recognized him from one of the brainstorming sessions. To save her life, she could not have said which meeting. Garcia, she thought his name was.

“Dr. Clayburn, right?” he asked. “May I join you?”

“Sure, Major.”

“It's Walt.” He sat. “How are you holding up?”

“Swell. Oh, and call me Valerie.” She broke tiny pieces off her scone.

“Waiting is hard.” Walt glanced around the room. To see who might be listening? “No one asked, but I'm going to be the voice of unpleasant reality. Because facts are facts.

“Since the attacks from space began, PS-1, Phoebe, and the hotel have all been monitored. From Earth. With space assets. There's encrypted radio chatter on PS-1. No one has overheard a peep from Phoebe. No one has seen anyone stir.” And very reluctantly, “Not a single escape pod has been used.”

Because if anyone could, doubtless someone would have bailed from Phoebe by now. That no one has—you naive woman—means they are all dead. So no one sees any reason to risk lives on another rescue mission.

She would be damned if she would accept that logic. “So what's the big plan, Walt? To conclude from an absence of evidence that they're all dead? That no one need waste a thought on them?”

“I don't know,” he said. “Honest. But a lot of smart people are working on it.”

Not a single escape pod has been used.

“I'm not ready to give up on them.” On Marcus.

Walt would not meet her eyes.

“I'm not!"

* * * *

Marcus looked around. Maybe two-thirds of the people wore helmets and counterpressure suits. The rest, those without suits in the shelter, had collected across the room. Of course putting on vacuum gear was only a precaution.

Famous last words?

Taking turns, Marcus, Savvy, and Dino Agnelli had scraped a more-or-less round hole through a wall panel's inner layer of aluminum. The insulating foam beneath had scooped right out. Savvy had just finished scribing a circle in the outer layer. The way the aluminum flexed, whatever lay beyond was less than rigid. Good: it would be faster to excavate.

The hole-in-progress sucked heat from the shelter.

Dino studied the ragged gap. “We're getting there,” he declared.

Agnelli was a Kendricks employee, an electrical engineer, and one of the Phoebe old hands. He had the sort of open, honest face that people instinctively trusted. Marcus knew him from PS-1 telecons, had always liked the guy, and was glad finally to have met him.

Not so happy about the circumstances.

“Agreed,” Marcus said. “Everyone ready?”

“Go for it,” Thad said.

In a crouch, Marcus reached into the opening. Savvy knelt beside him, ready to do her part. From above, Dino shone a flashlight into the gap.

The screwdriver in Marcus's hand, the one with which they had started, had worn down to more of an ice pick. He stabbed.

Air whistled as he pushed and pried, then pulled back to bend up a tongue of aluminum sheet. “Go!” he shouted to Savvy.

People had, in theory, secured loose papers, food wrappers, and the like. Plenty still swirled about, pelting Marcus and getting sucked onto the little hole. His suit heater kicked on as Phoebe sucked more heat from the room.

Savvy brushed aside detritus to grip the metal tongue with insulated pliers. She tugged, cursing as the pliers slipped free.

“Slow and steady,” Marcus said.

She grabbed again and, more slowly, peeled back a strip of metal. The whistling swelled. In the shelter, a couple of people moaned. “Back to you,” Savvy said.

Marcus hacked with the screwdriver at the ice and grit behind the panel. Chunks broke off and shattered. He had to scoop the space clear, because the outrushing air tried to hold the debris in place.

“Looks big enough!” Savvy called.

Hands reached over Marcus's shoulder. He grabbed the scavenged helmet radio with its improvised antenna and maneuvered the equipment into the hole. Damn! It was not yet deep enough. He handed back the radio and, in a frenzy of overhand stabs, made a deep puncture into the frozen dirt for the antenna.

The whistling had ominously softened.

“Try again,” Marcus said. With the antenna nestled into its deeper hole, the radio fit. Scavenged fiber-optic cable trailed from the radio back into the shelter. “Cover!” he shouted, kicking away from the wall. Savvy kicked away at the same time.

Two women whose names Marcus had forgotten lowered the cabinet door—till suction ripped it from their hands. It slammed into the wall. As best Marcus could hear through his helmet, the hole was plugged, but people kept slapping pressure patches around the edge of the door. A bit of paper he held pinched between his gloved fingers wavered, but that might be only from people moving around.

“I'm releasing some oh-two,” Thad called out.

“Shall we try?” Savvy asked. She had a datasheet under her arm and had taken off her helmet.

“Do it,” Dino said.

Savvy jacked the dangling end of the cable into her datasheet, then tapped away on the virtual keypad. “I'm connected to the outside radio,” she announced to cheers.

“What's it connected to?” Dino asked.

“Nothing yet,” she said.

Welcoming her optimism, Marcus could not help but wonder how long—especially after the oh-two that had just gushed out—they had left.

“It's going to work,” Marcus told everyone. Himself included.

* * * *

Boulders and dirt patches. Gravel fields, glints of ice, and twisty crevasses. The stark landscape undulating in the familiarly peculiar perambulation of a Phoebe tourist bot. Only Valerie felt nothing familiar in this trek, and not merely for exploring without Marcus.

The bot corral had returned to service, just as The Space Place and other satellites by the hundreds had roused themselves from standby mode or awakened to commands radioed from Earth. And why wouldn't they have returned to operations? The supposed CME had not been real.

Making the ongoing silence from Phoebe base all the scarier.

"Faster," she snarled at the dark holo that hung over her datasheet. Her words, like her frustrated hand motions, did nothing. Once she had mastered the keyboard commands with which she had to make do without a game controller, she had pushed the bot to its fastest pace.

And that was a crawl.

On the other hand, her quixotic search could not hurt. Then why not attempt it? She squirmed in her chair, then fidgeted, then (succumbing to the habit she would have thought broken decades ago) chewed her nails. Gradually the scenery changed. A long, taut cable came into sight.

She typed a new order to the bot, setting it on a course parallel to the cable.

Toward Phoebe base.

* * * *

Huddled together beneath blankets, most people in the shelter slept, or at least they tried. To move took more energy—hence, more oxygen—than to remain still. To sleep used the least oxygen of all. To sleep took some of the load off the overtaxed air scrubbers.

Thad kept turning down the heat to save energy for the scrubbers. Marcus guessed the shelter's temperature was somewhere in the thirties, because his breath hung in a white cloud. He told himself he should try to sleep.

Instead, obsessively, he watched Savvy's datasheet for some sign—any sign—of life.

* * * *

More gravel, boulders, and dirt.

Snatches of conversation penetrated walls and came through ventilation ducts. Did Mount Weather ever sleep? Valerie guessed not. Though it was three in the morning, she kept expecting a knock on her door from someone demanding her expert opinion.

The gaping pit of an ice mine. A nexus of pipes. Lots more dirt.

Finally, bright “lights": an array of corner-cube reflectors. The optical devices sent any incident light back in the exact direction from which it had come. These exploited the ever-scanning (and eye-safe) ultraviolet laser beam of her bot's lidar to mark the border. Beyond this point be intensive mining operations and the NASA base. Trespass and risk revocation of rental privileges.

Walking between markers, she kept going.

The top of an ice distillery peeking over the horizon was her first glimpse of Phoebe base. She cursed at her bot to speed up, even though that would drain its battery faster. Then, as the bot stumbled to a halt, as the imagery stuttered, she cursed herself for a sleep-deprived fool.

She had had her pick of bots in the corral, to which all must have been recalled for safety during the “CME.” The rental company had only one broadcast facility on the little moon; the radio-controlled bots, spread out across the tourist zone, relayed messages among themselves in an ad hoc network. Only with all bots but her one still inside the corral, there was no network.

She needed bots to daisy-chain a connection from the corral to the NASA base. She rented six—every bot with fully charged batteries—and sent them scampering toward the base. An ad hoc network opened and her forward scout resumed its many-legged scuttle.

The leading bot reached a packed-dirt plain scuffed with boot treads. She paused to look around. Nothing about the area seemed noteworthy. She resumed “her” progress toward the base and, coming over a low rise, saw a deep cave.

Only its surfaces were all planes. Every intersection was at right angles. The opening was manmade, not a cavern.

Scuttling closer, she saw coiled hoses and metal canisters along the walls. She could neither discern canister colors nor, if she were to sidle closer—not unless the labels had been written in ultraviolet-sensitive ink—read the descriptions. As natural as the grayscale holo appeared, it was all computer-graphic wizardry: the bot “saw” with lidar. The process of reconstructing images from reflections of a scanning beam was like the radar maps she so often worked with—as from-a-whole-past-life as mapping Titan now felt.

But color-blindness did not matter, any more than did the mechanics of bot “vision” with which she was obsessing. Only physics was easier to contemplate than what did matter: that she had found the base's hopper garage—and it was empty.

Where could everyone have gone?

Almost, Valerie abandoned her search. She was at a dead end. The hoppers gone meant the people had gone. Doubtless she should tell someone what she had discovered. Tyler Pope, maybe?

And then what?

Maybe she couldn't bear to accept that Marcus and the rest had set out. If they had, all too likely their intent was—somehow—to retake PS-1 from the terrorists. If they had, there was nothing more she could do.

Maybe she couldn't bear the thought of more waiting.

Or maybe, she had a choice to make. She could take action, or she could defer to the debating society and hope they did something. She felt sudden empathy for poor Patrick, so many years ago. And she knew how Marcus felt about committees.

With her pathetic squad of tourist bots, she continued her search.

* * * *

Valerie pounded on the flimsy wooden door. It rattled in its frame, and the knocking should have awakened Lazarus.

“I'm coming!” came the cross reply from inside. The door opened inward and Ellen Tanaka, bleary-eyed, peered out. She was dressed (for the day, or, like Valerie, never went to bed? Valerie guessed the latter.) “What is it?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe Marcus and the others. Grab a datasheet, let's find an unoccupied office or meeting room somewhere where we can spread out, and I'll explain.”

At the end of an isolated corridor they found an empty room with a long table. Valerie plugged in her datasheet, pulling up a holo of Phoebe base's surface structures. She said, “Watch closely.”

“I don't see—”

“There,” Valerie said. “Did you catch that stutter in the image?”

“Ye-es. Wait a minute. How are we seeing this?”

“From a tourist bot I marched across Phoebe. The rental center has an independent uplink to comsats, I imagine so sightseeing doesn't compete for bandwidth with NASA business. The bot company's link rebooted after the faux CME. Now keep watching.”

Several more hiccoughs happened.

Valerie said, “Now I'm switching to another bot.” The hiccoughs continued. “Another.” More hiccoughs.

“Interference?” Ellen asked.

“I think so. And when a bot backs away not very far, the interference is no longer noticeable. It's got to be a weak signal from inside the base.”

Marcus had a pounding headache. He was exhausted, short of breath, and a little sick to his stomach.

He was succumbing to hypoxia.

A month's supply of oxygen waited in storage tanks outside the shelter's sturdy metal hatch. Ice to electrolyze into yet more oxygen lay beneath the floor and behind every wall of the shelter.

Breathing as shallowly as he could, Marcus hated the irony.

* * * *

Saturday morning, September 30

Patrick rapped on the sturdy door of the Green Bank Observatory control room. He could hear music from inside. Half a minute passed without response, and he knocked harder. Still nothing.

He resisted admitting himself with the access code he was not supposed to know. Revealing he knew the door code was no way to put off his guard whoever was on duty inside.

The observatory remained officially closed for the emergency, and Patrick had his choice of nearby empty offices to call from.

“Control room,” a man answered. Over the phone, the music was recognizable. Jazz, with wailing sax.

Patrick recognized the voice. If it had been anyone else, maybe he could have talked his way into what he needed. Not with Ian Wakefield. No matter how long they knew each other, Ian would never get past Patrick's reputation.

“Hey, Ian, it's Patrick. You drew the short straw?”

“Taking my turn.”

Because the big dish was too precious to go unused. Someone had to baby-sit the controls and monitor the readouts, even though observation requests could be submitted over the net. This emergency was being treated like the average blizzard.

“Would you let me in, please? Some status messages from the big dish look odd to me. I came in to review the system logs.”

“Okay.” Click.

Patrick returned to the locked door. The music had stopped; this time Ian heard the knock. One of the control room's many computers streamed 3-V and showed a talking head. Audio was muted, but the crawl said plenty.

“New attack?” Patrick asked.

“Attacks. Tidal generator in Scotland. Several ethanol distilleries in Brazil.”

“Bastards.”

“Yeah.”

Patrick waved at the curved console. “Where do you want me?”

“Station six. Which system log?”

Patrick named it.

Ian frowned. “That's nothing privileged. I would've mailed a softcopy to you. You don't need to be in the control room.”

“The world is going to hell. I feel like company today, if that's all right.”

“Sure. Sorry.” A burst of typing. “Okay, you should have your log now.”

Someone needed to take action. Patrick had once flattered himself that he was a man of action. And by the actions he had taken, made everything so much worse.

He had to fix things. He had to.

A real man of action could have intimidated or coerced or just convinced Ian to provide the sysadmin password. But overweight, out-of-shape, middle-aged him? No way. He could not intimidate anyone.

But he could be devious.

After scrolling through the log file for a while, Patrick printed off a page—only what he printed came from a file he had tweaked on his office computer. He handed Ian the sheet, saying, “Something's screwy here.”

“The dish appears to be acting fine.”

“Maybe so, but the telemetry and this log don't agree.” Patrick slipped his hand into his pocket to activate the homemade device inside. It emitted a short clatter like jangling keys: auditory camouflage. He rolled his chair next to Ian's. “You see?”

Ian scratched his head. “Odd. Any idea what might cause the mismatch?”

“I once saw something like this with the forty-five-foot dish. It turned out that the diagnostic server was missing an operating-system patch.”

“Which data are correct? The telemetry or the detailed logs?”

Patrick shrugged. “I need to see the executables to see what patches are installed. Log me in?”

Ian turned back to his keyboard and pecked away. “There you go.”

Patrick spent ten minutes scrolling through binary files, making an occasional hmm for effect. “Everything looks fine, patch-wise. I'm going home to cogitate. Log me off?”

“Sure.”

Back in his office, Patrick took the recorder from his pocket. It collected the faint RF emissions of keyboard electronics scanning for keystrokes. It was sensitive enough to pick up keystrokes from twenty feet away—only not through the control room's shielded walls. The keystrokes immediately after Patrick had activated it were what Ian had typed to log in Patrick.

He had Ian's sysadmin-privileged user ID and password.

* * * *

“So are you ready to be a good little terrorist?” Jonas radioed.

Dillon was ready to be damn near anything, if it would release him from the claustrophobic shelter. “I won't interfere,” he answered cautiously.

“Good. Make sure you're sealed up, and I'll let you out.”

Dillon double-checked his suit. “Confirmed.” The hatch opened, and he stepped outside. “Where are Lincoln and Felipe?” Dillon asked.

“In shelters, taking a break.”

Overhead, Earth was at about half phase. They were over central Asia. With his visor set to magnify, ominous black clouds dotted the Middle East. New petroleum fires?

“Our doing?” Dillon asked.

“Excellent choice of pronoun. We're in this together. And yes. Plus assorted other strikes that do not declare themselves so visually. A special today on ethanol distilleries and wind farms.”

No matter that Dillon had resisted many such projects, seeing them destroyed was worse. The world was a funny place. “Explain something to me. How much longer can this go on?”

“That's the big question, isn't it?” Jonas laughed mirthlessly. “While we can. Till someone loses patience and blows apart our home away from home.”

“You make this sound like a suicide mission.”

“You should work on your reading-between-the-line skills. If only you had the time.”

Dillon shivered. “Why would you agree to such a thing? I certainly didn't.”

“Have you ever said no to Yakov and made it stick?” Pause. “I didn't think so.”

“Look,” Dillon said hastily, “don't get me wrong. I hate big engineering projects like, like . . . what we're standing on. Over the years, in my own way, I've held back lots of so-called progress. But resistance is one thing and"—he gestured overhead—"that is quite something else.”

“Missing your luxury suite already, boss?” Jonas's hand rested on the coil gun that hung from his tool belt.

Dillon edged away. “You don't want to die. I can feel it. We can all run and . . .”

“Right. Have Yakov sic the Russian intelligence apparatus on us.”

“We're dead if we stay. You said it yourself.”

“If the Russians don't nab us, the CIA will. It's not like either side's radars could fail to notice escape pods setting off or reentering the atmosphere. If we aren't quietly executed, or with a tad more formality sentenced to the chair, then what? Guantanamoed for life? After what we've done, how long would that be?”

“We have nothing to lose by trying,” Dillon protested.

"We don't. Our families do. If we don't follow Yakov's script, how do you think the world will treat our loved ones? They'll be associated forever with what we did. Disgraced. Ostracized. Hounded by reporters, the curious, and revenge seekers. And by the way, our wives will be left penniless after our victims’ families sue.

“Accept it, boss. There is no way out. We keep attacking until PS-1 is blown apart. Then people can suspect whatever they choose. No one will be able to prove who was responsible.”

Hope of a sort, if only for Crystal. Dillon sought comfort in that, but a new implication shook him. Everyone on Phoebe had seen them. “So the people in the shelter on Phoebe . . . ?”

“Collateral damage.” Jonas said. “Once the missiles come down our throats, no one will be up here for a long time. Debris will make it too dangerous.”

“And if no one blows us up?”

“Oh, you innocent fool.” Jonas turned away. “There are oil-shale mines across Canada. Why don't we see if a bit more vigor will put us out of our misery a bit sooner?”

* * * *

“We have no choice but to destroy PS-1,” a White House advisor insisted. She had teleconned into Mount Weather from the District.

Tyler Pope could not retrieve the woman's name. He found these political geeks as interchangeable as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Frick and Frack, the Olsen twins, Eng and Chang, Shemp and Curly Joe—

Stop that, Tyler ordered himself. It was not only that he thought the woman was flat-out wrong. Which she was: as essential as it was to stop the attacks, it had to be done another way. A way that would not plunge the country back into its Day After the Crudetastrophe hopelessness. And, damn it, he did not care how launching missiles played with focus groups in Peoria.

He was not the only one struggling. At the front of the conference room General Rodgers had pressed her lips so thin, the wonder was she hadn't cut someone with them. It was no secret she wanted to take out PS-1 with an overwhelming salvo of missiles.

After frantic efforts in a dozen missile silos, finally they could launch. ICBM guidance systems had been reprogrammed. Nuclear payloads too heavy to lob up to PS-1's orbit had been swapped out for muscular post-boost vehicles fitted with lighter high-explosive warheads.

Had throwing nukes at PS-1 been doable, they still would not want to. Nukes in space would violate the Outer Space Treaty—as if America was not already living a public-relations disaster. And nukes released electromagnetic pulses. Unlike the recent, imaginary CME, an EMP in space would fry satellites.

But the missiles would not launch until President Gibson ordered a launch. And the president had requested another review of his options, because, “We need to be sensitive to world opinion.”

Was world opinion so difficult to read? Death and destruction rained from the skies! If it came to using strategic missiles to end the slaughter, what rational person could object?

But for as long as they debated they were not launching a slit-their-own-throat assault on PS-1. A stupid reprieve remained a reprieve.

As the discussion dragged on—and as new reports of attacks from PS-1 kept trickling in—even Tyler began to waver. Because no one, least of all him, had had an alternative to offer. He was among the most senior analysts in the Agency's Russian section, and his failure stung.

At some point waiting for a new option to turn up became the stupid plan. At some point they would have to cut their losses, even at the cost of destroying the powersat and losing access to Phoebe. And they had to act before another government shot down PS-1, making the U. S. look impotent and paralyzed.

“To continue,” Rodgers said. Without raising her voice, some trick of voice quality compelled obedience and the White House aide then posturing trailed off. “Presume the decision is made to send missiles against the powersat. Our analysts have assembled several attack scenarios.” Rodgers pulled up a PowerHolo chart that summarized a number of options. “In overview first, our launch options include . . .”

None of the civilians—Pope included—were qualified to make a choice.

A few friendly governments claimed to accept American protestations of innocence in the attacks. No one doubted PS-1 was the instrument of destruction. Everyone blamed America for building the powersat, and blamed her again for not ending the attacks. While Russia sat back and gloated . . .

Major Garcia leaned over and whispered, “Where is your brain trust this morning?”

“I let them sleep in,” Tyler whispered back. Because, really: what benefit could have come of them sitting through this bombast?

“Good call,” Garcia said.

* * * *

A quick walkthrough suggested Patrick and Ian were the only people in Jansky Lab. The control room was on the second floor, so Patrick picked a random office on the first. Before touching anything, he put on latex gloves. It would not do for the authorities to find his fingerprints here. The authorities would be here soon, looking.

The workstation came up, as it was meant to, with a log-on screen. He rebooted, this time interrupting the start-up sequence with the keyboard combination that forced the computer to run from a flash drive. He installed a telephony application that would, at the appointed hour, phone out for him.

As of that moment, the clock was ticking.

He opened the window, the better to locate this office from outside. When he found the open window, he trampled the grass beneath it. Then he tossed a rock through the glass. Whoever investigated the bomb-threat call would think a stranger had reached through the broken glass to unlatch the window.

Patrick backed his pickup truck to the testing shed where he had long stored his “SETI” transmitter. The transmitter, a toolbox, a spool of heavy-duty power cable, and a two-wheeled hand truck were on the truck's flatbed, tied and padded for their short trip, by the time his robodialed call went out.

At least he hoped the call had gone out. If he had screwed up that, he had already failed.

“I have placed a bomb in the Jansky Lab,” the computer-synth voice would have told the Green Bank 911 operator. “You need to evacuate the building at once.”

There was no bomb, of course, but Patrick needed the control room empty so no one could follow what he was doing. He needed a few hours unsupervised—and searching every nook and cranny of Jansky Lab would take hours. Computer gear, souvenir gadgets, electronics memorabilia, and esoteric paraphernalia littered every office, storeroom, closet, and lab. Boxes and crates lined the hallways, old stuff due to be carted away and new stuff yet to be unpacked.

At the first faint wail of a siren, Patrick sped toward the big dish. When he came to the interior gate he circled around it off-road rather than use his access card. A mile down the road, he backed his truck up to the Green Bank Telescope's ground-level elevator.

The sirens were much louder now.

Ironically, he had never intended, nor expected, his transmitter to be used. But to make the interminable make-believe credible—to convince everyone that he had no idea where the Verne probe had gone—he had had to work on the transmitter doggedly and diligently. He'd had to convince really smart Ph.D. physicists and radio astronomers that he thought his transmitter would work.

It would work.

And that was damned fortunate. He saw no other way to mitigate what he had done.

Patrick stacked everything on his hand truck and rolled it to the elevator. The dish was tipped, tracking . . . whatever. Leaving the hand truck by the elevator, he let himself into the nearby trailer. With the purloined sysadmin password, he took local control of the GBT. Ian would have evacuated the control room by now.

With the local controls Patrick suspended the observation schedule and ordered the dish into its maintenance mode: stationary, the dish in its bird-bath position, one end of the L shaped instrument arm pointing straight up. He walked back to the GBT itself and rolled his gear into the elevator car.

The car doors opened about two hundred feet above the ground. The wind whistled through his hair. Grateful for the handrails, trying not to look down, he rolled his gear along the walkway in the instrument arm's presently horizontal segment. Another elevator took him straight up the instrument arm's now-vertical segment to the receiver room.

Only when his work was done, receiver room would be a misnomer.

The turret on the room's roof could house up to eight modular receivers. Any receiver could be rotated into position at the dish's secondary focus. The modular bays in the turret implemented a common interface, to which all receivers were designed and built. Standardization made it easy to plug in units designed to receive at new wavelengths.

Standardization had let Patrick design a transmitter to mate with a bay in the turret.

Climbing a step ladder Patrick poked his head through an access panel on the receiver-room ceiling—almost five hundred feet above the ground. A mile away, vehicles surrounded the Jansky Lab. Emergency lights pulsed red on the fire trucks, blue on the Pocahontas County Sheriff's cruisers.

So far, so good.

He climbed down and started unplugging and removing a receiver module. By the time he had installed his transmitter module and rotated it into focus, he shook from exhaustion and dripped with sweat.

He had to rest before continuing. He unfolded the datasheet in his pocket and used a fiber-optic cable to tap the receiver room's network access. He found the bastards on PS-1 still at it; on their current pass over North America, they were destroying Canadian oil-shale facilities.

There was no time to rest.

The turret's modular bays, for all their general-purpose flexibility, were limited in one respect: they were meant to accommodate receivers. They provided a correspondingly modest amount of electrical power.

He needed to transmit, and with lots and lots of power. For that he had to drop power cable down the instrument arm to the telescope's 600-kilowatt, diesel-powered backup generator.

There was no time to rest.

At last he finished. He rode down to the ground and retreated to the ground-level trailer, in the shadow of the big dish.

Marcus had been as good as his word: PS-1's orbital parameters and real-time position as determined by GPS were both available online. Trying not to think about Marcus, Patrick input the data into one of the observatory's smaller dishes.

The powersat was unmistakable. Harmonics, or side lobes of the power beam, or individual transmitters out of tolerance? Patrick wasn't sure and didn't care. Valerie would know. He tried not to think about her, either.

Only Patrick couldn't not think about Marcus and Valerie. Not when Valerie was Patrick's best friend, when sometimes she seemed like his only friend. While the big dish slewed into position, Patrick dashed off a mea culpa to Valerie. Just in case . . .

When the dish settled into position and began to track PS-1, Patrick initiated transmission.

An intense microwave beam, focused by the world's largest fully steerable antenna, blasted skyward.

* * * *

Saturday, midday, September 30

“The beam shut off!” Felipe shouted, from where he sat tethered by a main computer complex.

Dillon twitched. “How can that be?”

“Haven't a clue. Go wake Jonas.”

“I'm awake,” Jonas radioed from one of the tiny shelters. “I'll be out in a minute. And I'll wake Lincoln. The problem could be electrical.”

Earth was at full phase, meaning PS-1 was between Earth and Sun. The four of them—the four terrorists—were on the solar-cell side of the satellite, in direct sunlight. Dillon could only see a bit of Earth, glimpsed between his boots through a small view port. Palls of smoke stained western Canada, from the attacks on oil-shale mines.

Only Dillon could not bear to think of himself as a terrorist. Saboteur seemed a nobler way to resist “progress.” The powersat's beam had failed? Great!

Jonas emerged from his shelter and sped hand over hand by guide cable to join Felipe. Studying the console, he muttered under his breath.

“What's the problem?” Dillon asked.

“The controls say damn near every transmitter on the platform went out of tolerance. Some safety system cut the beam.”

“This is a test bed,” Dillon said. “I guess it failed the test.” We've done what we can, so let's get out of here!

"That's interesting.” Jonas did not sound as though he was responding to Dillon. “This bears looking into.”

“What's interesting?” Felipe asked.

Jonas pointed at the console. “The uplink monitor. Someone is beaming at us."

Dillon winced. “Is it our turn to be cooked?” He had resigned himself to death, or so he had told himself—but not to dying that way. Poetic justice be damned.

“That's the funny thing,” Jonas said. “This new beam carries only a tiny fraction of the power that PS-1 emits. Could emit. Still, from the timing, this new beam must have something to do with our beam cutting out.”

“The incoming beam drowns out any beacons?” Dillon guessed. Because if so, maybe they were done up here.

“That's not it,” Jonas said. “Well, okay, an incoming beam might prevent us from hearing ground beacons. But the targeting beacon is the first thing to go up in smoke. I had tweaked the beam-control code first thing to capture the exact lat/long of the beacon before we open fire. After the beacon's gone, we keep aiming at the associated lat/long.

“When our beam stopped a few minutes ago, the target beacon was already gone. It'll be trivial, just not quite as accurate, to work entirely by entering target lat/longs up here.”

Lincoln had finally emerged from his shelter. He must have been listening to the conversation. “That's a lot about what's not our problem. So what is?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Jonas answered. “Yet.”

* * * *

In a cacophony of beeps and ring tones, and a dozen aides bursting into teleconference rooms across the country, the presidentially ordered strategy review shuddered to a halt. Because:

—The NSA's primary East Coast telecomm eavesdropping station—euphemistically the Navy Information Operations Command—had gone deaf. Or, rather, someone had begun shouting too loud for NIOC to hear anything else. The prelude to an attack? An attack by PS-1?

—Because PS-1's latest assault, on a Saskatchewan oil-shale mine, had stopped abruptly before inflicting any significant damage.

—Elint satellites reported that PS-1 had cut off its power beam! Another, far weaker, power beam appeared to be scattering off and penetrating through the powersat itself. From a hasty analysis of the scattered microwaves, probable beam strength: a half megawatt. Probable origin: West Virginia.

“Where is NIOC?” Tyler Pope demanded. He had to shout to make himself heard.

“Sugar Grove,” an NSA guy called back.

“And where the hell is that?”

“West Virginia. Middle of the National Radio Quiet Zone.”

In other words, not far from Green Bank. Pope called Valerie's room. No one answered. He called Ellen's room, and no one answered there, either.

His chair crashed as he leapt to his feet. On his way out of the room he caught General Rodger's arm. “Make sure the Pentagon and White House know the attacks have halted. Tell them someone found a way to suppress the beam from PS-1.” Who the hell is someone? “Make sure they know we can delay a decision on a missile attack.”

“Understood, she said. “Where are you going?”

“To find an astronomer.”

* * * *

For long minutes, Dillon basked in the inactivity. Maybe PS-1 had been disabled. Maybe the worst of the horror was past. Maybe—

“Aha!” Jonas said. “PS-1 has sensors to pinpoint out-of-tolerance transmitters. The beam from the ground is saturating the sensors, which misread the situation as lots of our transmitters crapping out. That's why software cut our beam. Once we're over the horizon from the transmitter, we should be able to restart.”

“Three hours later, we'll be back in line of sight of whoever figured out how to jam us. And for all we know, another transmitter waits just over the horizon, ready to keep us neutered. What then?” Felipe asked.

“Still reading code,” Jonas said. “I can't answer yet, but this looks useful. The shut-off code is in a recent overlay to the control program, not very integrated. If I can bypass it . . .”

“We'll be back online, even on this side of the world,” Felipe said. “So then do we ignore this beam from the ground?”

Jonas said, “In the long run, soaking up these microwaves can't be good for us or PS-1.”

Because it's healthier to take a missile down the throat? Dillon thought hysterically. “With no beacon to aim at wherever this signal comes from, I don't see that we have any choice.” Other than taking the hoppers back to Phoebe and grabbing escape pods.

“Oh, we'll have a choice,” Jonas said, “as soon as I tweak some other code. The beam will be our beacon.”

* * * *

Thad stared at a piece of safety apparatus that had always terrified him. The chemical oxygen generator would run 600 degrees hot, releasing oxygen for as long as it burned. Unless the candle had the least bit of contamination, in which case it was as apt to explode as to burn.

But his head was pounding, and he was exhausted.

So: light the candle, or in a few minutes they would all be slipping into comas from the lack of oxygen.

Gritting his teeth, Thad struck the firing pin in the igniter module.

Blessed heat and oxygen began to flow.

They would live a little while longer. . . .

“What in the world?” Ellen muttered from across the room.

Valerie looked up. Ellen's bot's-eye view showed a stretch of dark plain dotted with light-shaded . . . Valerie could not guess what she saw. In the image reconstructed from lidar scans, light shades denoted surfaces that were comparatively reflective of UV light. Scattered patches of exposed ice?

“Move closer to one of the things,” Valerie suggested.

The bot sidled closer, and the blobby shape in the foreground became, maddeningly, almost recognizable. Other objects came clearer, too, and she recognized a clipboard and, yards away, a pen.

“This looks like a wad of cloth,” Ellen said.

Laid flat, the object was a T- shirt.

“A blowout!” Ellen said. “This is bad.”

Terrified of what she would find, Valerie sent two bots racing toward the base's main airlock—

Where inner and outer hatches gaped, exposing Phoebe base to vacuum.

* * * *

Through bots’ eyes, Valerie stared in dismay.

With Ellen's guidance, Valerie had—somehow—maneuvered two bots into the depths of the base. Rather than figure out how bots could—if they could—descend a ladder, she had run them into an open shaft, sending them into slow-motion falls. After a second tumble, she had two bots on the shaft floor outside the radiation-shelter entrance.

Another two bots, one at the top of the shelter's access shaft and the second in the main corridor, daisy-chained toward the ad hoc network that reached across Phoebe back to the bot corral and its high-powered, comsat-linked, radio transceiver. Two more bots waited at the airlock, one inside, one out. The moment the hatches closed, Valerie would lose her tenuous connection.

The bots outside the radiation shelter stared up at a latch jammed with a pry bar. The pry bar did not look heavy, or difficult to remove. Only a bot could not reach the latch. . . .

One bot standing on another still could not reach the latch. Could the bots find stuff to drag here, with which to improvise a ramp or staircase? Conceivably—if, first, they did not have to somehow climb the human-scaled ladder to find the stuff. And if the bots’ batteries were not almost out of juice. Nor were there more bots to send: she and Ellen had dispatched every bot with any significant charge in its batteries.

In desperation, Valerie jumped a bot. It had no jump mode, but by contorting its tentacles and then twitching them, she got a sort of leap that lifted the bot a few inches above the floor. As it floated like a dandelion puff in Phoebe's insignificant gravity, she wanted to scream. Instead, while the first bot drifted down, she fine-tuned her technique with the second. It leapt perhaps a foot into the air. The first bot landed and she jumped it again—

And landed it on the latch!

“Are you ready to close the airlock?” Valerie asked Ellen.

“Just say when.”

Valerie edged the bot into position. Four limbs coiled around the latch itself. Three grabbed the pry bar. The remaining tentacle pressed against the jamb beside the hatch, for alignment. She heaved.

Nothing.

Loosening her grip she wiggled the bot into another position. The pry bar shifted! She changed her grip and pulled again. And again.

* * * *

There was nothing left to try.

Here and there, people sipped dregs of oh-two from counterpressure-suit tanks by taking turns with the helmets. Most people hunched over paper or datasheets, recording their last thoughts, wishes, and wills.

Marcus had written notes to his parents and brother. He had written to Ellen, assuring her he had come to Phoebe by his own choice, and thanking her for her many kindnesses. He had written Lindsey, wishing her well, because life really was too short to carry a grudge. And because he really needed the closure, the better to say good-bye to someone truly special.

If Valerie felt as he did—and he thought she did—their brief time together was about to morph into trauma. He was about to become another man who made promises he could not keep and then did not come home.

Marcus shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Was there a noise beyond the pounding in his head? A grating, rasping sound?

He edged through the crowd, toward the noise. Toward the hatch. He was so short of breath, he could hardly walk.

The bot teetered on its perch on the latch, the pry bar removed and still in its grasp.

How could she get the attention of the people inside? On Earth, dropping the pry bar to the floor would raise a clamor. Here? As the tool gently landed, it would scarcely make a sound.

Valerie swung the pry bar against the closed hatch. From the bot's precarious perch on the hatch, she could pull back only a couple inches. How much noise could it even make inside?

She swung it again. Again. Again. Again. . . .

* * * *

Patrick knew the instant his luck turned: the lesser telescope with which he kept watch on the powersat had just gone blind.

PS-1 had resumed beaming. At Green Bank, it would seem.

He had failed—again.

The safest place for him was in this control trailer. The quarter inch of steel plate all around that shielded the big telescope from the trailer's electronics would shield him. But like a metal spoon in a microwave oven, the steel plate could absorb only so much energy without melting or arcing.

He told himself the telescope itself, sixteen million pounds of metal, would absorb most of the beam. He reminded himself that the telescope absorbed lightning strikes several times a year. He told himself that, before long, orbital motion would drop PS-1 behind the horizon.

He might yet survive his latest failure.

Creaking came from the direction of the big dish. He imagined metal softening. Warping. Bending. Sagging.

Then: piercing squeals. The tortured shrieks of Brobdingnagian motors, gears, and bearings seizing up.

He jumped at a tremendous bang! Diesel fuel vaporized, the tank exploding? With a crackle and a shower of sparks, power in the trailer died. In utter darkness, he felt . . . hot. He told himself the sensation was only his imagination.

Renewed creaks and groans, louder and more ominous. Tearing sounds.

Then a rumble like the end of the world. Only it got louder and louder and louder and . . .

* * * *

The rasping stopped—or, more likely, had never existed in the first place. Marcus pondered staying where he was. But then, faintly, he heard tapping. He resumed walking. He was gasping by the time he reached the hatch. Definite tapping.

“Hello?” he called.

A few people looked up at him, puzzled. Most did not stir. No one answered, inside the shelter or out.

“Hello?” he called again, louder.

Not quite rhythmic: continued tapping. Like someone torturing a nail.

Everyone was about to die in here. Someone was out there. Although the hatch had never budged since Dillon and his people left, Marcus tugged on the inner latch.

The hatch blasted open.

And all the dank and fetid air in the shelter spewed out after it.

To be concluded. . . .

Copyright © 2011 Edward M. Lerner

[Back to Table of Contents]

Reader's Department: BRAD R. TORGERSEN
by Richard A. Lovett

* * * *

* * * *

Brad Torgersen first thought seriously about a professional career in science fiction as a teenager, growing up in northern Utah.

It was about the time he graduated from high school, when two strands of his life came together in a not-truly-coincidence that would set the stage for entry into Analog nearly two decades later. The first was his discovery of Larry Niven. Before that Torgersen had been into science fiction, but mostly in the form of Star Trek reruns, Star Wars, and—his first science fictional memory—the original Battlestar Galactica. Niven, with his focus on hard science fiction and classical storytelling, was something completely new. “I had never read anything like that before,” Torgersen says.

That much is common to a lot of Analog writers—whether their early influence was Niven, Asimov, Heinlein, Clarke, or any of a number of others.

But at the same time that Torgersen was discovering literary science fiction, he was also listening to a locally produced radio drama called “Searcher and Stallion,” (which recently underwent an online revival) whose title characters scour the galaxy in search of clues to who and what they are.

It was the brainchild of Scott Howard, who hosted a weekly music show on community radio station KCRL. But it was growing beyond Howard's ability to write all of the scripts. Figuring he had nothing to lose, Torgersen showed Howard some Star Trek fan fiction he'd written shortly after graduating from high school . . . and landed a gig writing a dozen episodes. “It was no-pay,” he says, “but it was fun. [And] that's what started the whole idea in my mind of trying to go pro.”

His next breakthrough was nearly two decades in the making, and came in 2009 when he won the Writers of the Future contest. Two months later, he made his first sale to Analog ("Outbound,” November 2010), with additional sales following hard on its heels.

In the interim, Torgersen had been doing computer tech support for the healthcare industry and served as a warrant officer in the Army Reserve. (His second Analog story, “The Chaplain's Assistant", in this issue, draws on his military background, as do two stories in upcoming anthologies, both written in collaboration with Mike Resnick.)

One of the things he's learned is that it takes more than a nifty idea to make a good story. “It's got to be scientifically grounded,” he says, “[but] the good ones also have a character or an emotional situation you can care about.”

Also, he wants his stories to be uplifting. “I'm fatigued by the moral ambiguousness of a lot of the things produced lately,” he says, “where you're never sure who the ‘good guy’ and ‘bad guy’ are. I might put characters through hell, but I want there to be an emotional and—dare I say?—spiritual underpinning. I'm not a fan of downer stories, what-did-that-mean stories, or stories that leave you with a bad taste on your tongue.”

Copyright © 2011 Richard A. Lovett

[Back to Table of Contents]

Reader's Department: THE REFERENCE LIBRARY
by Don Sakers

One of the biggest current buzzwords in SF is “transhumanism.” Transhumanism is a set of ideas that began in science fiction and were then appropriated by the futurist community; like steampunk, transhumanism has also become something of a pop culture movement.

The concept is a familiar one to science fiction readers. Technological advances, particularly in nanotechnology and genetics, will soon make it possible for us to remake our bodies and minds, enhance our abilities, and conquer death—leading to a radical redefinition of what it means to be human. Modern transhumanism is tied up with Vernor Vinge's notion of the technological singularity; a period when the pace of technological advance becomes so fast that it overwhelms human society and psychology, representing a quantum leap into a future that's literally incomprehensible.

Of course, the idea of a new and improved human race was around in science fiction long before the transhumanism movement came along.

This is the point at which I usually go back to the ancient Greeks, or at least the 1600s, to trace the development of a notion in SF. But transhumanism is something different; the concept doesn't seem to have existed prior to the mid-1800s, and science fiction is arguably the only route through which it could be explored in popular culture.

Here's the story.

Throughout the history of literature, there had always been races superior to humanity: gods, angels, and all manner of supernatural entities. But humanity was humanity, and the notion that it could evolve into something better was nonexistent. To be sure, individuals could, through heroic feats, achieve apotheosis and join the ranks of the advanced beings—think of Imhotep, Hercules, Elijah, or the Hindu hero-king Yudhisthira. That was fine for the occasional hero; as for the race as a whole, if there was any change at all, it was a devolution from the Golden Age of the distant past.

Before Darwin spread the idea that species (including humans) could evolve, there was no intellectual framework for imagining that the future of humanity would be any different from its past. And it wasn't until the end of the Nineteenth Century that philosopher Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche introduced his idea of the Ubermensch, a new breed of superior humans.

Nietzsche's ideas would probably have languished in the realms of philosophy and racist politics (where the evolution idea got dropped and various groups proclaimed themselves as the Ubermensch), had it not been for the science fiction writers.

About the same time, The Time Machine by H.G. Wells at last depicted a far future in which the human race became something different—although Wells’ Morlocks and Eloi were both clearly devolutions. In 1930 Olaf Stapledon published Last and First Men, a brilliant work that chronicled the development (positive and negative) of the human race into the far future.

Then, out of biology there came a new metaphor for the advancement of humanity: the mutant. Olaf Stapledon's Odd John (1935) set the fashion: a mutant or group of mutants with superior abilities (usually mental in nature), persecuted and hunted by the society of normal humans. It was a theme that resonated with the SF readers of the period, and with the coming of the Campbell Age, stories of mental and psionic supermen were everywhere. A.E. van Vogt's Slan (1940) and Theodore Sturgeon's More Than Human (1953) were among the best and most influential of these.

A slightly different strain of SF, exemplified by E.E. “Doc” Smith's Children of the Lens (1947) and Arthur C. Clarke's Childhood's End (1953), portrayed the arrival of mental superfolk as a natural step toward the next stage in human evolution.

As all this mental evolution was going on, another strain of SF grew up investigating the possibilities of physical enhancements to the human form. Frederik Pohl's Man Plus (1976) and Martin Caidin's Cyborg (1972; the basis of the popular TV show The Six Million Dollar Man) dealt with bionic enhancements, and soon cyborgs were all the rage.

Recently, with the growth of nanotechnology, neurology, and genetics, speculation about transhumanism moved in those directions, led by Marc Stiegler's classic short story “The Gentle Seduction” (Analog, April 1989). Other authors who've explored this territory include Greg Egan, Linda Nagata, Rudy Rucker, Bruce Sterling, Charles Stross, and David Zindell. A 2008 anthology (Transhuman, edited by Mark L. Van Name & T.K.F. Weisskopf) simultaneously demonstrated and capitalized on transhumanism's growing popularity.

All of which brings me to:

* * * *

Pink Noise

Leonid Korogodski

Silverberry Press, 190 pages, $25.95 (hardcover)

iBooks: $11.99, Kindle: $9.39, Nook: $9.59 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-0-9843608-2-6

Genre: Transhuman

* * * *

Pink Noise is surely the most stylish book I've received this year. It's printed on glossy paper in black and red, and fancifully illustrated by an artist called Guddah. There are over 60 pages of notes and references—including a map, glossary, pronunciation guide, three essays, and a bibliography. There's even a fancy pink ribbon sewn into the binding for use as a bookmark.

At this point you might expect a triumph of style over substance (I certainly did). After all, when you boil away all the pretty trappings, what's left is a 130-page novella. Yet substance is there—it's a good novella.

Five hundred years ago, Nathi became transhuman; that is, he uploaded his consciousness into cyberspace. Since then, the transhumans have been conquered and enslaved by entities calling themselves the Wizard Orders. With a computer virus known as The Wish, the Wizard Orders keep transhumans (as well as ordinary humans) under their control.

On Mars, Nathi is summoned to help heal a comatose human girl (called The Girl). Her brain is badly damaged, but Nathi maps portions of his own mind onto hers in order to bring her to consciousness.

Well, wouldn't you know it, The Girl is a secret host for The Wish Fairy, which is a sapient being with the power to destroy The Wish. Before you can say “singularity,” Nathi and The Girl (joined in symbiosis) escape their prison and dash out across treacherous Martian polar terrain. The Wizard Orders are right on their heels (both in cyberspace and in the physical world). All they really have on their side is the unpredictability of the physical brain—the “pink noise” of the title.

Blending fairy tale with hard SF, and written in an easy yet lyrical style, Pink Noise is a surprisingly good story. Although it seems to be aimed toward non-SF readers, the book and its language are sophisticated enough to satisfy any Analog reader.

Whether it's worth the price of admission depends on how much you value a beautiful physical book. Perhaps this would be a good one to put on your holiday shopping list as a gift to one of your transhumanist friends . . . assuming the Singularity holds off until then.

* * * *

Grail

Elizabeth Bear

Spectra, 352 pages, $7.99 (paperback)

iBooks, Kindle, Nook: $7.99 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-0-553-59109-5

Series: Jacob's Ladder 3

Genre: Far Future/Clarke's Law,

Generation Ships, Transhuman

* * * *

Take a generation ship, a large vessel that is a self-contained world carrying the descendants of an original crew across interstellar gulfs at sublight speed. Stir in transhumanism, seasoned with intelligent but slightly mad artificial intelligences and a big dollop of nanotechnology. Add a generous helping of Arthurian mythology and more than a dash of Roger Zelazny. Let cook for several generations. Strain the result through Elizabeth Bear's fertile imagination and consummate writing skill.

The result is the Jacob's Ladder trilogy, of which Grail is the concluding volume (the two previous books were Dust and Chill). The generation ship Jacob's Ladder left a devastated Earth, and during its voyage the inhabitants have made the leap to transhuman status—they've spent the last two books becoming demigods in response to a variety of threats.

Now the ship's long journey is over: these transhumans are approaching their destination, a planet they call Grail. There's just one problem: Grail is already inhabited. Worse, it was settled by regular humans, who call the planet Fortune and aren't exactly in the mood to share it with a shipful of newcomers who might as well be aliens.

Like the first two books, Grail is a mythic story full of wonder and detailed worldbuilding, told through the eyes of sympathetic characters. If you want to spend some time in not one, but two fully-realized worlds, this is the book for you.

* * * *

The Gravity Pilot

M.M. Buckner

Tor, 329 pages, $25.99 (hardcover)

Kindle, Nook: $12.99 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-0-7653-2286-9

Genre: Cyberpunk,

Ecological/Environmental SF

* * * *

It's good to know, in this age of genetically-enhanced and nano-reconstructed transhumans, that there's still a place in SF for a character who excels by sheer physical ability. Orr Sitka is just such a character. In a dystopian near-future world, Orr has found happiness in two ways: his lover (named Dyce), and skydiving over the Alaska wilderness. One day, quite by accident, Orr makes (and survives) a jump from a record altitude—and his happy life is never the same. Suddenly he's a media darling, with ever-more-daring jumps turned into virtual reality simulations to feed the entertainment appetites of a jaded population.

The media attention is too much for Dyce; she leaves Orr to become a librarian working in the bowels of a decadent Seattle. While the media are ruining Orr, Dyce becomes addicted to seamy virtual reality. Separately but in parallel, the two of them descend into their own private hells.

Then Orr learns of Dyce's fate, and sets off to rescue her.

The book is billed as a retelling of the Orpheus myth (Orr-pheus trying to rescue Euri-Dyce from Hell, get it?), but don't let that put you off. It's a rollicking good cyberpunk adventure as well as a nice love story, with a fine overlay of psychological and social commentary.

M.M. Buckner won the 2005 Philip K. Dick Award for best original paperback in SF, and she's been making a name for herself with well-crafted SF adventures. The Gravity Pilot is her fifth book; she's definitely a name to watch in the future.

* * * *

This Shared Dream

Kathleen Ann Goonan

Tor, 400 pages, $25.99 (hardcover)

Kindle: $17.15 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-0-7653-1354-6

Series: Dance Family 2

Genre: Alternate History, Parallel Worlds, Time Travel

* * * *

What do you do after you've created utopia?

In her Campbell Award winning novel In War Times (2007), Kathleen Ann Goonan introduced Sam and Bette Dance, a couple of time travelers who went back to World War II in an attempt to make our present world a better one. They succeeded, and a long period of peace replaced the Cold War.

This Shared Dream takes up the story of the present-day children that Sam and Bette left behind. Jill, Brian, and Megan Dance are all bothered by shadowy memories of the world as it was, as well as the mystery of their parents’ disappearance. Jill even seems to remember that her mother departed to prevent the assassination of John F. Kennedy . . . an event that never occurred in the current timeline.

As they grow, the Dance children develop strong desires, almost compulsions, to improve the world. At first their means are politics, music, and science. Then comes the fly in the ointment: in creating this new alternate world, the Dance parents caused the erasure from history of a good many powerful and malicious people. But it turns out that previous timelines don't cease to exist; instead, there's a multiverse of alternate histories.

And what Sam and Bette did once, others can un-do. Soon enough, the Dance kids find their utopian timeline threatened with destruction. All they have is their own abilities, their drive for improvement . . . and the power of jazz music.

Goonan's previous work (The Nanotech Quartet) was more cyberpunk in nature; in the Dance Family books, there's nary a nanobot to be seen. She masterfully relates this story mainly from the separate viewpoints of the three Dance children, and it works beautifully. The details of her alternate world are fascinating and fun to uncover; the personality of this utopian timeline is almost a fourth main character in the book.

A great adventure story, an engaging alternate history, characters the reader can really care about, and jazz. What more can you ask?

* * * *

To the Galactic Rim

A. Bertram Chandler

Baen, 553 pages, $12.00 (trade paperback)

Baen Webscriptions: $6.00 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-1-4391-3421-4

Series: John Grimes 1-4

Genre: Military SF

* * * *

Before Honor Harrington, Daniel Leary, or even Miles Vorkosigan, there was John Grimes. Long out of print, now the Federation Survey officer is back. And there is great rejoicing.

The name of A. Bertram Chandler is a familiar one to longtime readers of this magazine. During the Astounding years he was a frequent contributor of short fiction, but first he moved into novels and then in 1984 he passed away, so those who have been reading Analog for less than 25 years might not have heard of him.

Grimes isn't, technically, a military man. Rather, he's an explorer—although like Poul Anderson's Nicholas Van Rijn and David Falkayn or Keith Laumer's Retief, he's really a problem-solver on a grand scale. Across 22 books from the late 1960s until Chandler's death, Grimes works his way around the Galaxy. In the typical Grimes novel, Grimes and his crew encounter a new planet, realize that there's a problem, and succeed in solving it. The planets are exotic and full of wonders; the problems are extremely unusual; and Grimes’ solutions are brilliantly outrageous.

Chandler was another of those Aussies who pop up in SF every once in a while, bringing their own unique viewpoint to the field. The Grimes books are filled with humor and some fine detail about the experience of space exploration.

This volume collects the first four Grimes books in chronological order: The Road to the Rim, To Prime the Pump, The Hard Way Up, and The Broken Cycle. It begins with Grimes’ graduation from the Academy and takes him through a series of adventures with a planetful of frustrated women, an alien god, and various other dubious situations. In either print or e-book, this volume is a bargain not to be missed.

* * * *

Don Sakers is the author of Dance for the Ivory Madonna and A Voice in Every Wind. For more information, visit www.scatteredworlds.com.

Copyright © 2011 Don Sakers

[Back to Table of Contents]

Reader's Department: BRASS TACKS

Mr. Schmidt,

I always enjoy reading Analog, and this issue was particularly entertaining. “Balm of Hurt Minds” by Thomas R. Dulski [April 2011] has to be one of the best stories I've read. It actually prompted me to write a letter to the editor! Please pass my regards to the author.

Sincerely,

Heidi Baine

* * * *

Dear Dr. Schmidt,

Your editorial of May 2011 ["Too Easy?"] implicitly assumes the value of privacy. For the sake of discussion I'd like to take that on.

It seems to me that privacy is not an absolute value. Rather, it stands as a bulwark against bad government, so its value seems to be relative to the nature of the particular government. I've read that the Nazi Holocaust against the Jewish people could not have been implemented without the IBM Hollerith card. It's not that the information gathering and managing technology is corrupting, in the Lord Acton sense ("Power tends to corrupt . . ."), but rather that it enables those who are already corrupt.

In The Transparent Society: Will Technology Force Us to Choose Between Privacy and Freedom? David Brin makes an argument which I encapsulate: On the one hand, technology is making the creation of WMDs—nuclear, chemical, and especially biological—progressively easier, tending to an ultimate point where an intelligent sociopath could provide an existential threat to his society or even the world. On the other hand, technology is also creating ever more effective and cheap surveillance and biometric tools and the computers to handle torrents of data quickly and cheaply. As instances of terrorism awaken people's imagination to these threats, the demand for security will trump concerns for privacy. This creates a danger, but we can counter it with radical transparency where surveillance is two-way and the watched become the watchers of the watchers. (In this regard what was troubling for me about the George W. Bush administration was that it combined increased surveillance with a throttling of transparency.)

Consider the technology of DNA identification and its future potential. As it becomes faster and cheaper, the time will come in the not too distant future where a comprehensive national database of personal DNA might be set up. The positive consequences are obvious and important. The swift and dependable identification of the perpetrators of crimes would provide a powerful deterrent against its occurring. False imprisonment because of judicial error would be minimized. If our society were the only consideration I think the pluses outweigh the minuses. But there is the matter of technology transfer. I would not like to see this technology being used by autocratic regimes like China or Iran to suppress dissidents.

So we're back to the nature of the government, and this brings a thought to mind. If Ray Kurzweil's vision of the future—humans merging with their machines and growing more intelligent at an exponential rate—should turn out to be accurate, what would be the political consequences? I think it would usher in direct democracy, and any remaining executive, legislative, and judicial structures would become ceremonial, like the British monarchy. The same would apply to political boundaries on the map. Liken the society of transhumans to a human brain and each of its members to a nerve cell in that brain. The fundamental difference is that each of the super-intelligent “cells” of this “borg” would be profoundly libertarian and would together create the on-going (libertarian) consensus—which would be the government-in-whole.

In this circumstance, what is the value of privacy? In game theory players who engage in positive sum games have the potential to be better off. The fly in the ointment is the potential for defection. Privacy is the right to be other than one appears to be—maintaining the capability of deception, and defection. Would we value this right? I don't think so. Why would we?

Of course, the uncovering of past deceptions and defections would entail many acts of reconciliation. And in the end, it might ruin fiction writing. Can you imagine storytelling in the context where deception as a plot element is disallowed?

Sincerely,

Don Klemencic

* * * *

You raise interesting questions, but it seems to me that you ignore an important distinction and gloss over some alternative possibilities. For instance, privacy is not just about government; it's also about people wanting—justifiably and reasonably, I think—to have some parts of their lives that are not conducted in full view of everybody else. While the “intelligent sociopath” threat you mention is all too real (I wrote about it myself in my editorial “The Fermi Plague” [October 1998]), the problem of what to do about it is too complex and far-reaching to yield easily to the temptations of simple fixes. And your assumption that the “cells of the borg” would be profoundly libertarian strikes me as simplistic and more optimistic than realistic. It's what you'd like to believe, but I'm not at all sure it would fit the facts.

* * * *

Dear Stan,

My opinion [re: the May 2011 editorial] is based on who is doing it. I actually like that companies like Amazon track my interests; they can direct me to things I am likely to want but not think to look for. On the other hand, I wouldn't want the government doing it, even if they were able. Basically, leave me alone. I would rather see a criminal go free than have an innocent man subject to police intrusion.

Bob Peirce

Venetia, PA

* * * *

Me, too—on first thought. But what if the criminal has the capability to make a continent uninhabitable—which no longer seems nearly as farfetched as it once did?

* * * *

Dear Stan,

I'm curious: hard science fiction stories, mostly set in the future. And almost all using imperial measures—inches and such.

It seems jarring, out of place, though being Canadian perhaps has something to do with it. But even so, the US and Burma are the only places of any size (apologies to the Carib islands) left on Earth that aren't metric or in the process of getting there.

A simple search and replace on each story would go far towards correcting the impression that your otherwise fine mag has a steampunk editorial policy.

Derek Blackadder

Cobourg, ON

Canada

* * * *

I agree that the U.S. attitude toward metric measurements is embarrassingly and awkwardly stubborn, but the fact is that a large majority of our readers live here, so for the most part we publish in their language. This does not imply that we believe everybody in the future will use English measures—but then, they're not likely to speak English, either.

* * * *

Jeffery Kooistra,

I well recall the “great missile mystery.” ["The Alternate View,” June 2011] However, one look at the newspaper photo told me that it was an aircraft contrail, not a missile plume.

In 45 years as a launch engineer at Cape Canaveral Air Station, and resident of Cocoa Beach, I have seen enough rocket launches with my own eyes to know what they look like, and that photo did not make the grade.

The give-away was that the newspaper photo showed the exhaust trail as a straight line. When rockets intended for orbital injection ascend through the atmosphere, they follow a “no lift” trajectory, i.e., a curved path, one that minimizes both the time spent in dense atmosphere and the bending stresses on the stack of rocket stages.

In fact, the Titan family of space launch vehicles I worked on as a launch engineer for many years had to have their trajectories tweaked on launch day, to minimize the effect of day to day changes in upper air winds.

As to Michiu Kaku's observation that the mystery object did not seem to be accelerating (while valid in that case) is often true when observing a rocket that actually is accelerating. Depending on the observer's viewpoint, the rate of change of azimuth can stay near constant as the increase in range away from the observer compensates for the increase in speed. From my house in Cocoa Beach, with a launch down-range, i.e., at 120 degrees azimuth, the vehicle actually seems to slow down to a halt shortly before burnout!

Donald M. Seib

Cocoa Beach, FL

* * * *

The author replies:

Too bad none of the networks interviewed Mr. Seib about it!

[Back to Table of Contents]

Reader's Department: IN TIMES TO COME

We didn't set out to create a “seasonal” package for our October issue, but we just happened to have a couple of pieces on hand that felt as if they wanted to be there. One of them is our lead novelette, “Of Night,” by newcomer Janet C. Johnston. It looks, at least at first glance, like a ghost story; but the farther into it you get, the more it looks like good, solid, imaginative science fiction. Could it be both? Similarly, Carl Frederick's “The Lycanthropic Principle” seems to have feet solidly planted in two camps—though, as you'd expect from Carl, it isn't quite what you might guess.

Nor did we set out to establish a pattern of authors turning in stories and fact articles that complement each other, but Edward M. Lerner has done it again. Next month we offer the dramatic conclusion of his serial Energized, along with a fact article called “Lost In Space? Follow the Money,” taking a practical look at some of the technological and economic considerations that drive the story—and are very immediately relevant to the world we're about to live in.

Rounding out the issue we have stories by Jerry Oltion, a long-time Analog favorite and arguably its most prolific contributor ever; Brad R. Torgersen, who made a big splash with his very first story; and Eric James Stone, with a Probability Zero that puts a fiendishly delicious new spin on a familiar-sounding title.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Reader's Department: UPCOMING EVENTS
by Anthony Lewis

30 September—2 October 2011

ARCON 35 (St. Louis area SF conference) at Doubletree and Gateway Center, Collinsville, MO. Guest of Honor: Spider Robinson; Artist Guest of Honor: Brad W. Foster; TM: Rusty Hevelin; Fan Guest of Honor: Steve Lopata; Masquerade MC: Vic Milan. Membership: Adult $60 until 15 September 2011, $65 thereafter and at the door; Young Adults (11-16) $20; Kids (6-10) $8. Children through age 12 must be accompanied by an adult. Info: www.archonstl.org/35/; inforequest@ archonstl.org; P.O. Box 4191, Ballwin MO 63022.

30 September—2 October 2011

VCON 36 (British Columbia SF conference) at Sheraton Vancouver Airport, Vancouver, BC, Canada. Author Guest of Honor: Dr. Gregory Benford; Artist Guest of Honor: Jean-Pierre Normand; Media Guest of Honor: Lisa Lassek. Membership [Canadian dollars]: until 15 August 2011—adult $50, student/senior/gamer $37.50, youth (7-12) $25; until 15 September 2011—adult $55, student/senior/gamer $41.25, youth (7-12) $27.50; at the door—adult $60, student/senior/gamer $45, youth $30. Day memberships available at the door. Info: www.vcon.ca/index.htm; Box 78069, Grandview RPO, Vancouver, BC V5N 5W1 Canada

14—16 October 2011

CAPCLAVE 2011 (Washington DC area SF conference) at Hilton Washington DC/North, Gaithersburg, MD. Guests of Honor: Carrie Vaughn, Catherynne Valente. Membership: $55 until 30 September 2011, $60 thereafter; Students, Active Military, and Active Military dependents: All day Saturday $20; Whole weekend $25—ID required—mail or in person only. Online registration closes 9 October 2011. Info: www.capclave.org/capclave/capclave11/; www.capclave. org/blog/; Mail registration: Capclave 2011, c/o Barry Newton, PO Box 53, Ashton, MD 20861. NOTE: new hotel and date.

21—23 October 2011

MILEHICON 43 (Denver area SF conference) at Hyatt Regency Tech Center, Denver, CO. Guests of Honor: Vernor Vinge, Glen Cook, Gardner Dozois; TM: Mario Acevedo. Membership: Until 7 October 2011: $42; at the door $45 (children 6-12 half price, under 6 free). Info: www.milehicon.org/

20—23 October 2011

ALBACON 2011 (Albany NY area SF conference) at Best Western Sovereign Hotel, Albany, NY. Guest of Honor: Jackie Kessler; Artist Guest of Honor: Steve Hickman; Media Guest of Honor: Keith DeCandido; Special Guest: Jan Howard Finder. Membership: $40 until 20 September 2011, $50 thereafter and at the door; Student and Active Military 50% off. Info: /www.albacon.org/; P.O. Box 2085, Albany, NY 12220-0085.

27—30 October 2011

WORLD FANTASY CONVENTION at Town and Country Resort Hotel, San Diego, CA. Guests of Honor: Jo Fletcher, Neil Gaiman, Parke Godwin, Shawna McCarthy; TM: Connie Willis. NOTE: The convention has reached the attendee cap and started a wait list. If you wish to be put on the list, please complete the Wait list request form at www.wfc2011.org/members/waitlistrequestform.html

[Back to Table of Contents]

Analog Science Fiction and Fact (Astounding), Vol. CXXXI, No. 9, September 2011. ISSN 1059-2113, USPS 488-910, GST#123054108. Published monthly except for combined January/February and July/August double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. One-year subscription $55.90 in the United States and possessions, in all other countries $65.90 (GST included in Canada), payable in advance in U.S. funds. First copy of new subscription will be mailed within eight weeks of receipt of order. When reporting change of address allow 6 to 8 weeks and give new address as well as the old address as it appears on the last label. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. (c) 2011 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. Protection secured under the Universal Copyright Convention. Reproduction or use of editorial or pictorial content in any manner without express permission is prohibited. All stories in this magazine are fiction. No actual persons are designated by name or character. Any similarity is coincidental. All submissions must be accompanied by a stamped self-addressed envelope, the publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork.

Visit www.dellmagazines.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.