Harbinger (The Janus Harbinger Book 1)

by Olan Thorensen

There was silence. The civilians were not used to being spoken to this way. The military staffers were not shocked but were surprised Sinclair had included the civilians in his diatribe.

  “To make it simple, let us assume that YOU ALL are dumb assholes. I have several solutions to this problem. For the military staff, you can imagine what a general can do if he’s pissed off enough. For the nonmilitary, while I only have limited control over your behavior, I have the authority to penalize your pay for noncompliance with contract details. That means, ‘people,’ that you can lose big chunks of the money you’re supposed to earn for working in this godforsaken paradise. If you don’t believe me, pull out the copies of your contracts and read the fine print.”

  By now, Sinclair had the complete attention of everyone in the room.

  “And, as a final incentive to improve our drill performance, remember that I have the buttons controlling the sirens. If you want as few drills as possible, the ONLY way that will happen is if I am happy about how past drills have gone.” Sinclair paused, his voice lowered but, if anything, even colder. “I am VERY unhappy. So . . . we are going to practice until I am happy again. Obviously, one random drill a month is insufficient, so let’s try one a day.”

  With that, Sinclair stomped out of the room. The initial silence was followed by a cacophony of angry voices from the civilians. The military staff knew better, and many of them were mad at the civilians because most of the military staff had arrived at the assembly no more than a few minutes later than the six-minute goal.

  More than a few choice words were exchanged until Richard Lindskold, the camp manager, got their attention. “While General Sinclair might not have the most genteel manner, he’s right.”

  This stopped even the more vociferous protesters—Lindskold was well-liked both for his friendly manner and for his years of professional experience in running Arctic and Antarctic stations. “It is absolutely essential that in stations like this, everyone follows emergency procedures. Whether you or I agree with all we have in place is irrelevant. They are the established procedures, and they will be followed. If you have problems with these procedures, see me about it, and I’ll talk to Sinclair. But until changes are made, you will follow those procedures.”

  Lindskold walked out of the hall—his softer voice and quiet stroll making as much of an impact as Sinclair’s performance had. After some quieter mumblings, the now mostly chastised staff members wandered back to their rooms or work.

  While the staff dispersed, Zach waited to talk with Willie, when a hand touched his back. He turned to find Jill holding Bobby.

  “Thanks, Marje . . . uh . . . Zach.”

  She looked flustered, and it was the first time she had used his first name.

  “I appreciate the warning. I’d have wondered whether there was a real emergency if I hadn’t known what was coming.”

  “Fire trucks?” asked Bobby.

  Zach smiled. “No fire trucks, Bobby. Just playing a game. Time to go back to sleep with Mommy.”

  He turned again to Jill. “No problem. I just didn’t want you to worry about yourself and Bobby. This time was only a drill, but now you’re aware of the procedure to follow.”

  “Well . . . thanks, again,” she said, shifting Bobby to the other arm. “Uh . . . sorry, I’ve been meaning to apologize for being so rude to you. You’ve been a help with all this.”

  Zach’s face softened to an expression she hadn’t seen before.

  “I understand. I was the instrument to snatch you from your life and get you here. It’s totally understandable for you to hold it against me.”

  Jill’s mouth curled up at the corners, not quite morphing into a grin. “Oh . . . I still hold it against you, just not as much.”

  “That’s progress. I’ll take it.”

  Willie suddenly appeared behind Jill, and she nodded to Zach and left.

  It took three more drills for the staff to make the six-minute target for complete assembly. After a week of daily drills, Sinclair announced he was moderately pleased, if not entirely happy, so the drills were reduced to once a week. After a month, they went back to monthly. Initially, Sinclair was anathema to some of the civilian staff, but other staff members and the military personnel took it in stride. By another month, the episode had moved into the category of site legend.

  A Mellow General

  For days, the emergency drills were the main topic of discussion for Level 1 and Level 2 staff. In contrast, Level 3 focused on rescheduling VR sessions, with Simeon’s approval, to avoid “surprise” drills that would terminate the sessions. The problem was partially solved when Sinclair began leaking the timing of drills to Mueller.

  The following weeks were both frustrating and exciting. The consensus was that Simeon was slowly opening up. The revelation of the apparent recordings of the Object’s surroundings covering millions of years both excited the Level 3 staff and ratcheted up their wanting to proceed faster. Simeon continued not to explain his bursts of cooperation interspersed with extended periods of stonewalling.

  Despite saying the recordings could be viewed again, Simeon displayed the location recordings only twice more, in a brief session with Zach and in a three-hour session with Chunhua that precipitated a hurried gathering of the Level 3 staff with Chunhua asking the questions passed on to her. As before, Simeon was not forthcoming about the reasons for when he was willing to display the recordings, whom he displayed them to, and how long the sessions lasted.

  Jason reported that his and Freddie’s mathematics discussions with Simeon had moved beyond what Jason could follow. He also said that he believed even Freddie was becoming lost, which led Huxler to scale back the mathematics sessions to prevent Freddie from becoming too agitated by his lack of understanding.

  Simeon insisted on more frequent sessions in the VR with Jill, always in the parlor scene and always lasting precisely thirty minutes. After her initial nervousness and reluctance about talking to an alien whatever Simeon was, she looked forward to the sessions. Consistent with his interactions with other staff members, Simeon discussed general issues but also focused on specific topics he didn’t bring up with other users. In her case, Simeon was especially interested in what it was like being a female human. His questions about childbirth led to awkward moments before she relaxed and gave him detailed descriptions.

  When asked about the female perspective of sex acts, she answered only with Huxler’s assurance that the other staff members would not have access to the sessions’ recordings. However, her limit was reached when Simeon asked questions about her personal sexual history. She demurred from answering.

  The tension between Sinclair and the civilian staff eased with the site’s improvement in the drills, Zach’s and Bre’s discussions with individuals about the importance of the drills, and a general recognition that Sinclair was honestly concerned with staff members’ personal safety. Bre also planned a staff party when she believed the general mood had improved enough that a social event that included Sinclair would have maximum effect.

  The event fell on a Saturday night, which was traditionally a noisy affair, what with the clanking of dishes and silverware, table conversations, weekly reminders of safety protocols, activity scheduling, major work assignments for the coming week, and the opportunity for any staff member to have a say on any topic, be it complaints to the community or thanks to other staff members for help or jobs well done. Dinner that Saturday was somewhat more boisterous than usual. Bre had planned an amateur night dedicated to volunteer entertainment, although rumors were that several performers required cajoling. Gossip had also spread that there would be a few surprises.

  The dinner was a hearty pub-style selection by Kathy Ingersoll, based on three different chilis: a spicy vegetarian (although there were no strict vegetarians on staff), a slightly sweet heavy beef version (which Manny Cardoza claimed to be from Spain), and a mixed meat-and-bean recipe from somewhere in Mexico (or so Kathy claimed). Accompanying these were piles of a heav
y cornbread containing onion, chopped green chilis, pimentos, and corn kernels, plus a salad to help cut the spices for sensitive palates. The fresh greens were possible only because a resupply flight had arrived three days earlier, carrying an unusually large load of fresh vegetables, courtesy of General Lionel Sinclair. It was one of the rare extra supply flights. Sinclair had flown back after a quarterly meeting in the White House situation room with President Chesterton and generals Hardesty and Wallens. At Bre’s urging, Sinclair returned with not only extra vegetables, but also with three pallets of beer, a relative luxury because liquids caused weight and volume problems for air transport.

  Thus, beer was abundant for those inclined, which included most of the staff. By 8:00 p.m., the room was full of satiated, mellow sapiens, at least a few of whom were still sweating from the hotter recipes. People cleared their own dishes and took them to the conveyer belt leading to the dishwashing area, and the tables were moved aside to create space near the dining hall’s northern wall. Alfredo Ramos and Bob Tucker had constructed a platform against that wall, so performers were elevated about eighteen inches for better viewing from the audience’s rear seats. Bre climbed onstage and placed the index and pinky fingers of her left hand at the corners of her mouth, then let loose with an ear-splitting whistle.

  “Okay, folks, it’s Talent Night at the North Pole!” Her announcement was greeted with claps, foot-stamps, and shouts from the audience.

  “Settle down, settle down. For our first act, Harold Nieze plays a mean violin.”

  Harold stepped onto the platform, accompanied by applause and cheers. Most staffers had heard him play in the past. Without speaking to the audience, he held the violin in position and froze, waiting for silence. Then he started playing Tchaikovsky’s “None but the Lonely Heart.” The beautiful and haunting notes gripped the listeners. By the time he finished, there were more than a few damp eyes, and some of the women and a few men had unconsciously reached to lightly touch a neighbor. Five or six seconds passed before clapping and “Bravos” broke out. Harold smiled, nodded, and then let loose with an Irish jig. Within seconds, people were tapping their feet, clapping their hands in time, or providing vocal accompaniment. The response at the end was even more enthusiastic.

  Calls for encores were quashed by Bre. “Thanks, Harold, but we’ve got more amazing acts, and we’ll be here into next week if we don’t move along. Next, we have intergalactic banjo players! They call themselves the Arctic Pluckers.”

  Bre motioned to the side door, which opened and in tromped Richard Lindskold dressed as a Starfleet officer and Whitey Kolzlowski in a generous-size bikini and a green hairpiece, with his skin colored light green. Both men wore snowshoes.

  “If you want to know where the bikini came from or how it is that Whitey is green, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him,” said Bre, laughing.

  “As for me,” said the site manager, “if you wonder how I came to play the banjo. Let me tell you, it helps to have spent time wintering over in Antarctica and a few places in the Arctic.”

  “Sort of similar for me,” said Sinclair’s aide. “I have plenty of time on my hands working for someone who doesn’t do much.”

  A second of silence and more than a few surreptitious looks at Sinclair were assuaged by the general’s laughter, followed by everyone joining in. The joke was another of Bre’s ploys, planted to ease tension between the site commander and the staff.

  After the raucous cheers died down, the two men broke into a credible version of “Foggy Mountain Breakdown,” only to be followed by even louder crowd approval as they finished the piece with a series of flourishes. It was a close match between the sound produced by the banjos and the audience’s laughter and jeers.

  To speed up getting to the next act, Bre had Lindskold and Whitey remove their snowshoes before leaving the platform.

  “Now we have something completely different,” announced Bre. “Maggie, come on up.” The Canadian communications technician rose from her seat and joined Bre on the platform. The two women stood turned slightly toward each other, Bre in a light gray dress and Maggie in all black.

  “This is the Letter Duet, also known as ‘Canzonetta sull’aria’ from Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro.” Bre waved to someone in the back of the room, and music swelled from the speakers.

  Both women had fine voices, and the audience sat silent and appreciative, in contrast to the claps and calls during the Arctic Pluckers’ performance. Bre had an ulterior motive for featuring the music, as she’d confided in Kathy and Jill earlier that day.

  “I overheard Andrew say it was his favorite piece of music. I haven’t had much success getting his attention until now, so let’s see if this works.”

  She had arranged with Lieutenant Montero to be sure Andrew would be sitting close to the platform. She was also careful to meet his eyes several times while singing and just happened to smile and give open hand gestures at the same time.

  “Why don’t you just drag him into your room?” Kathy teased later.

  “Maybe I’ll just do that if this doesn’t work,” said Bre.

  When the duet finished, and the applause and the bravos died away, Maggie returned to her seat and Bre moved on to the next performances, which included a harmonica solo, a Scott Joplin medley on an electronic keyboard, a decent comedy set by Wilbur Huxler, and several other performances of lesser quality that were still received with appreciative applause.

  “Okay, folks,” Bre called out. “Just two more performances. First, a guitar duet by Houdini and Chris. Let’s give them a good welcome.”

  Polite applause followed as the two men carried their guitars and took seats on the stage. Normally, it was Houdini’s rotation to be the lead cook that evening, but Sally and Kathy had covered so Houdini could practice for the performance. Houdini’s guitar skills were established, but Chris Ellard was an unknown. Unsuspected by the staff, the American nuclear engineer had been raised in a musical West Virginia family. The two men had been heard practicing in a large storage closet the last week, although no one could make out what they were practicing.

  Once they were seated, Houdini called for attention with a raised right hand. “This is a guitar duet version of the adagio from Concierto de Aranjuez by Joaquin Rodrigo.”

  The two men were opposites in appearance, as Houdini’s dark beard and shoulder-length hair contrasted with Ellard’s bald head, graying hair at the temples, and neatly trimmed short beard. But when they began to play, they mirrored each other’s soulful concentration. The piece started slow and quiet as the two guitars intertwined and supported each other, and the rapt audience never twitched.

  When the guitar players finished, Willie leaned over to Zach. “Well, Houdini may be an asshole, but he does play a mean guitar. We served together once in Columbia. He told me he learned to play when he was a teenager because he liked the sound and figured it helped him with the girls.”

  Bre waited until the approving claps and cheers died away, then thanked the two guitarists and made the final introduction.

  “To close out, we have Julio Juarez and his accordion playing a couple of what he calls norteño ballads typical of northern Mexico.” She smiled. “Obviously, it’s leaked across the border since Julio is from San Antonio.”

  The Level 1 electronics technician waved acknowledgment to Bre and to the audience greetings and broke into a soulful tune. Halfway through, he added a vocal accompaniment.

  While he played, Bre glanced around the room. Sinclair was sitting next to Astrid Brandstrom, the Level 1 astrophysicist.

  You know, thought Bre, I think I’ve seen them sitting near each other quite a few times. She’s nice looking, quiet, and about the right age for the general, but I don’t see him doing any hanky-panky as long as he’s the guy in charge. Too much of a straight arrow, goes by the rules.

  She let her gaze move along. Ralph was sitting next to Samantha Buford.

  Everybody knows he has a thing for her. Problem is, she seem
s to favor Eddie Wilcox. Speaking of pairs, I wonder how long it’s going to take for Jill and Zach, one or both, to realize there’s some chemistry between them, whether or not they want to admit it . . . especially Jill. Doesn’t she notice that he walks on eggshells around her? At the same time, he’s friends with Bobby and goes out of his way to help them.

  She briefly considered talking to Jill about it but decided her friend was too oblivious to her own feelings. She might even make more of an effort to keep Zach at arm’s length if I say anything.

  Bre sensed the music selection was coming to an end. Her eyes fell on another pair, in this case with an empty chair between them. Bre liked Sandra Chu but didn’t get her attraction to Houdini. Bre pursed her lips. She disapproved of the cook, though she had to grant he was honest, even if that didn’t score many counterbalancing points for his cavalier attitude toward women in general.

  Well, she thought, Sandra’s a grown woman. If she has a thing for Houdini, neither I nor anyone else has any business butting in, unless it starts to get out of hand.

  A Worried General

  Sinclair enjoyed the evening, the laughter, the momentary camaraderie, the surprisingly good performances, and even those who weren’t so professional but were honest in their sincerity. He needed the respite, but it lasted only until the evening broke up and memories returned about his concerns from the meeting in Washington.

  President Chesterton had pressed hard, wanting to know when there would be more good stories to tell the public about the Object when it all came out. Sinclair sympathized. The president had to be concerned with the entire nation and the response of the rest of the world, while he, General Lionel Sinclair, was only responsible for just under one hundred people at the top of the world.

  “God dammit,” said Chesterton, “I may not know a hell of a lot about physics, computers, and aliens from space, but I do know a hell of a lot about politics. Every instinct is telling me that our time is running out. Three days ago, I got back from a visit to Ottawa and a meeting with Prime Minister Harper. The Canadians are getting more suspicious about Site 23. The spy they have up there, you know, the one we’re not supposed to know about? Sinclair, it’s one of those conundrums. The problem is that our successfully keeping him completely shut out just makes the Canadians even more suspicious.