Harbinger (The Janus Harbinger Book 1)

by Olan Thorensen

  “I can’t say I’m happy with the idea,” said Hardesty, “but I recognize it has to happen eventually. My advice is to hold off at least a few more months to see if we can get anything out of the Object that can be used to help buffer the exposure’s consequences.”

  Chesterton shrugged. “It’d be nice if I could give a press conference and say something like, ‘Yes, we hid this for decades and broke a dozen laws, but we got the knowledge to extend human life expectancy a hundred years.’”

  “Uh . . . yeah, I wouldn’t plan on that,” said Hardesty.

  “I didn’t think so, but I can still hope. Generals, I haven’t settled on anything like a timeline for this,” said Chesterton, “but I don’t see holding it up more than another six months. Do your best to get me something that will look so good, it will swamp the complaints and outrage.”

  “We’ll convey this to Sinclair,” said Wallens, “but he won’t be able to promise anything either.”

  2:15 p.m.

  Chris Eller snatched off the Minnesota Viking cap and ran the other hand over his nearly bald head. He wasn’t sure whether Luc Moulard was insufferably obnoxious French or annoyingly smug Canadian. Maybe both, he often thought.

  The two nuclear engineers had a poor interpersonal relationship but worked well together professionally . . . most of the time. This wasn’t one of those times.

  “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Moulard, sneering. “I told you the readings were right. But N . . . O . . . O . . . you had to say I was an idiot, rather than check it for yourself.”

  “I did check, you asshole!” answered Eller. “I checked three times and found no problem.”

  Dave Sinjem and Nick Papathemis stood to one side, alternately looking at each other and the two nuclear engineers. It had taken the technicians from 7:00 a.m. that morning to check most of the wiring. Finally, Gerry Hindman had gone to find Zach, after the three became fed up with the two engineers issuing conflicting orders and when tracing the wiring turned up nothing.

  Moulard had just taken two deep breaths in preparation for another verbal assault when Zach walked into the reactor building, Hindman close on his heels wearing a smug expression. He knew Zach was mad at having to deal with the engineers and missing a scheduled VR session. The safety officer had let loose an impressive string of curses when apprised of the latest of far too many arguments between the two engineers.

  “All right,” Zach said, “what the fuck is the problem this time?”

  Moulard stepped forward, waving his arms. He was cut off before he could speak.

  “Stuff it, Moulard. Last time you had first say. Today it’s Eller’s turn.” Zach looked at the other engineer, who suddenly seemed to be losing interest in the argument.

  “WELL!” ordered Zach.

  Eller cleared his throat. “Uh . . . it’s like this. Moulard claims he witnessed a fluctuation in the primary coolant pump of the reactor. I may have expressed my skepticism a little too strongly, but after he exploded in French and stomped out of the control room, I ran diagnostics three times without seeing a problem.”

  Zach turned to the other engineer. “Moulard, your turn.”

  “I did see the fluctuation, no matter what Eller says he found out. I . . . uh . . . maybe I did get excited and said he didn’t know how to run the diagnostics, but he’s always questioning my work as if he knows more about nuclear plants just because he worked on naval reactors while I only worked on major utility reactors in France.”

  Zach turned to Hindman, the most senior of the three technicians. “I suppose you three were called in to check the physical plant?”

  “Spent six, seven hours, and didn’t find anything. This is the third time this month with the same result. The reason we’re called in changes, but the outcome is the same.”

  “All right,” said Zach, “I think I have all the understanding I need and have run out of patience with you two idiots. Here’s what’s going to happen. Gerry, this’ll fall to you, but it won’t take much time and will save you all from doing this again. Every day at exactly noon, you’re to come here so both Moulard and Eller can tell you everything is fine with no problems. If you doubt them or sense anything off, you’re to come find me.”

  “What!” exclaimed Moulard. “We don’t report to you. Lindskold is our boss.”

  “And I’m in charge of site safety, which overrides everyone else if I see a threat to the site. If you two jokers can’t act professional, I’ll decree you a threat and insist to Lindskold and Sinclair that you be replaced, sent back south, and forfeit all accumulated and future salary and bonuses. You’ll also be placed on a list with the National Security Agency as unreliable, which means you’ll never work on a government project again, and you’ll be on a security watch list for the rest of your lives.”

  Zach didn’t wait for a response, only turned and stomped out, followed by the three technicians. When they were twenty feet from the reactor building, Hindman whispered so the other two technicians trailing couldn’t hear.

  “Do you really have the authority to do what you threatened?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. Important thing is that they believe it. However, I’m serious about you checking on them. If things quiet down, we’ll let the checking slide after a couple of weeks.”

  Hindman smiled. “I’ll probably suggest to change it to a few times a week, doing it at random. Wouldn’t hurt for you to simply stop by the building occasionally. I don’t think you have to say anything. Just pop in, pretend you’re reading the gauges, maybe shuffle through any papers or clipboards in sight, then growl or grunt and leave.”

  “I like your thinking,” said Zach. “You have the makings of a supervisor.”

  3:00 p.m.

  “Wilbur, I have a question,” said Simeon.

  “What is it?” asked Huxler, sitting in front of the monitor and not looking up from his notes. Despite the attention given to the virtual-reality system, most interaction with Simeon was still via audio and monitor for the rest of the Level 3 staff.

  “Why do humans play?”

  The sudden shift in topics caused Huxler to silently explore how the question related to their current session discussing Freud’s theory of the id, the ego, and the superego. Such topics and shifts had become a trademark of most sessions after Simeon was given access to a digital copy of the Encyclopedia Britannica.

  “Play? If I could ask, Simeon, what prompted the question?”

  “There are a number of articles about sports—their history, famous participants, and their relationship to different civilizations. There are other articles on examples of what are termed ‘play,’ and I surmise from the references to ‘playing’ sports, board games, video games, and perhaps gambling, that the concept of ‘play’ is important in understanding humans.”

  Huxler put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. His personal antennae were on full receptor mode. Simeon usually engaged in fairly mundane interactions, inexplicably interspersed with leaps that suggested complex probes from the Object. When this happened, sometimes the Level 3 staff proposed theories about what Simeon was after. Other times, the question’s origin and purpose were as mysterious as the Object itself. Once, Huxler spent an hour being probed by Simeon on how humans would respond if given the option to have an extra pair of arms.

  “That’s an interesting and complex topic, Simeon. As with many cases involving humans, there is no universally agreed-on concept of what constitutes ‘play.’ One of our historians believes that the activity has to be voluntary to be classified as play. Something that’s done out of necessity, obligation, or through coercion would not qualify.

  “Although I personally believe the theorizing can go too far, it’s also generally thought that the activity is internally motivated. That is to say, play has no obvious material reward. Most humans would also say that play has to be fun. This is where we get into theories that play has some evolutionary function. If this is true, then the areas of the human brain involved i
n motivation and pleasure should be activated.”

  “And have humans conducted experiments to confirm this?” asked Simeon. “I believe human technology is advanced enough to observe changing patterns of brain activity.”

  “There are limitations on which experiments can be performed on humans,” said Huxler, “so some of the better work has been done using animals. Some studies looked at animals engaging in activity that has no material reward, such as obtaining food, water, or sex. When they’re engaged in such activities, portions of the brain are activated that are associated with reward and motivation. This implies that games may be an ancient part of mammalian evolution.”

  “Interesting,” said Simeon. “Are there theories why humans consider certain types of activity ‘play’ and not others?”

  Huxler almost choked. Jesus, there he goes again! Why would he categorize human play as only a subset of possible activities unless he has knowledge of how it could be done differently? Can I infer that Simeon knows of other sentient races, some of which play differently than humans and others that possibly don’t play? Why does he drop these bombs on us out of nowhere, or, as Zach phrased it, “Pulling them out of his ass”?

  “There is theorizing on the possible functions of play,” Huxler said, “especially since animals seem to do it. It may involve learning cooperation with other members of one’s species, such as predators that hunt in packs or herd animals coordinating their warnings of predators. In some mammals, it may be a prelude to mating behavior, such as when males practice sparring or displays. Depending on the species, there may be ingrained rules for group interaction and mating behavior where apparent play serves to hone the organism’s skill.

  “Still another line of theories proposes that play is a method of relaxation from what otherwise might be perceived as stresses in life. This approach may have some validity when we consider that human childhood is conceived of as a time of relative freedom, compared to adulthood. Personally, I have my doubts about this because childhood has its own stresses.

  “On the other hand, I have a feeling there’s something to that approach if we consider that games allow us to compete and potentially achieve in a safe environment. There, it’s possible to become immersed in the experience and an environment different from real life. In fact, some psychologists believe games are a way to help solve the cognitive dissonance that the person may experience in everyday life.”

  Simeon’s face on the monitor displayed exaggerated raised eyebrows. The staff had noted his increased attempts to mimic human facial expressions.

  “Once again, interesting,” said Simeon, “that humans do not understand why they play and yet still do so much of it. Does it bother you?”

  “It’s not something we worry about. That doesn’t mean we don’t try to understand it.”

  “I wonder if it is a characteristic of humans to tolerate ambiguity to a degree. We will have to continue a discussion into the term you used before . . . cognitive dissonance.”

  “So, Simeon, are the human play modes similar to those of other sentient species?” Huxler was hoping to glean more hints about alien civilizations, a topic Simeon wasn’t forthcoming about, except for dropping the occasional bomb.

  “Tell me more about cognitive dissonance,” said Simeon.

  Huxler sighed. It was Simeon’s standard diversion. From experience, Huxler knew the futility of pursuing anything Simeon had moved on from. No matter how many hours the staff had discussed why Simeon did this, there was still no consensus.

  4:51 p.m.

  Second Lieutenant Ramon Montaro chafed with impatience to end his six-month tour at Site 23 and return to the Special Forces center at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. He had been elated to be told he was slated to bump up to first lieutenant six months earlier than he’d expected, but only after serving these months at a clandestine site he would be unable to speak about to anyone . . . ever. The assignment was well past the time when it had seemed exotic. He believed he and the four enlisted men under his command had trekked every square foot of the terrain within fifteen miles of the site, excepting those square feet not physically accessible. That belief had been supported the previous week by Marko Harris, looking for a place to take a bowel dump and almost stepping in a pile of dried turds he recognized from another sojourn two months previous.

  Today’s excursion had been spiced up with the live fire of a hundred rounds per man. They had brought their own ammunition with them when they came to Site 23, and Montaro rationed what they had to two hundred rounds a month, with two thousand rounds reserved in the highly improbable case they were needed in defending the base—to the routine amusement of the four enlisted men.

  “Hey, Lieutenant,” asked Sergeant First Class Monty Shalton, once the five men began cleaning their weapons, “are you sure we have enough ammo to fight off the musk ox? I heard one of the civvies say there’s supposed to be seven or eight hundred of them around here.”

  “Musk ox, hell,” said Sergeant Brian Shipley, “they tell me the rats can turn into a real plague some summer seasons.”

  “Not rats, Ship, you ignorant redneck,” said Shalton. “They’re lemmings and voles.”

  “Same thing,” Shipley shot back. “There’s got to be a million of the little suckers in this place. We don’t have near enough ammo if they lay siege to us here.”

  “The way you four shot today, I can only despair at the thought of you having to hit something smaller than a musk ox, no matter how much ammo we have,” said Montaro to raucous laughter and a continued barbed exchange.

  Just then, Major Jefferson walked into the dorm room currently being used during cleaning. Sergeant Schmidt saw the major first, jumped to his feet, and opened his mouth to yell out, “Attention!”

  “At ease,” called Andrew. “Keep doing what you’re doing. Lieutenant, if I could have a word with you.”

  Montaro nodded and followed Andrew to an adjoining dorm room, then closed the door behind him.

  “If I remember the schedule correctly for this week, you intend to do a hike to the northwest.”

  “Yes, sir. I thought we’d cross the pass that runs through that series of low peaks into the next valley, then circle south, and come back here by dinner time.”

  “I’ve looked at a map of that area. How about changing the route so that you follow the main ridgeline up to the overlook about two miles farther north from the top of the pass? After that, take the scree slope down to the valley you planned to get to and continue on a circle back here, like you planned. It’ll only add a few miles.”

  Montaro groaned to himself, but a major’s suggestion to a lieutenant was always an excellent idea.

  “Great plan, sir. Will do the men good to get a workout.”

  “I’ll be coming along,” said Andrew. “I’ve been sitting on my butt too much the last couple of weeks. I need to push myself to see if I’m getting too out of shape.

  “Oh, and Zach Marjek, the site safety officer, will be joining us. He asked to come along on one of your hikes to stretch his legs.”

  Montaro sharply eyed his superior officer. He wasn’t sure he was reading the major correctly, but he suspected Jefferson wanted to give Marjek a workout.

  “Uh . . . is Marjek going to keep up with us, or should we accommodate his pace?”

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t want you to go easy on your men. In fact, let’s see how he does when you push it.”

  Left unspoken was that Major Jefferson assumed he wouldn’t have any problems nor would a certain Lieutenant Montaro.

  I wonder if the major has it in for Marjek? thought Montaro. Or if he just wants to see what Marjek’s limits are?

  7:17 p.m.

  When Jeff Rotham entered the dining hall, he was among the last, as usual. He steadfastly refused to fully accede to the Americans’ ridiculously early hour for the evening meal. However, he was judicious in not being so late as to find limited options for dinner companions or to annoy the cooks. Technically, staff me
mbers could get something to eat at any time, but the cooks and the day helpers wanted to finish up. It was never a good idea to piss off the cook—he had learned that lesson growing up with a stern but loving Catholic mother in Northern Ireland.

  He enjoyed eating with others. Not that he couldn’t eat alone, but he looked forward to conversing. Precisely who with or about what could vary with his mood. Yet the table needed to have at least one empty setting.

  He perused the room for an interesting group to join. He quickly passed over a table with Ralph, Zooty, and two others he knew were video gamesters. He’d sat with the same group a month previous, and their obsessive talk of video game strategies made him vow to skip the group in the future.

  There were a couple of tables with members of the maintenance crew. One might have thought he would look down on them, but he often found their down-to-earthiness and general good cheer refreshing. However, not necessarily tonight. No to the table with the computer geeks—the conversation was often too intensive about one topic. Tatiana Krinofsky was eating alone tonight, something she did perhaps too often. While she could be entertaining, he didn’t want to chance her being in a typically Russian dour mood. Although she was born in Brooklyn of Russian emigrants, much of the Slavic moodiness had persisted in the environment she had grown up in. There was also the chance she would take his sitting with her as a hint he was looking for an evening’s bed partner, a convenient tryst if they were both in the mood, as had happened a few times, but not tonight.

  Ah . . . there, he thought. To the left was a table of three women: Elizabeth Wilkens, Rachel Munoz, and Carolyn Graham. All were Level 3 staff, and Jeff liked all three—to varying degrees.

  He walked over to their table and stood behind the empty chair, then leaned forward with his hands on the chair back. “Excuse me, ladies, but would you mind if I joined you?”