Dr. Armand Bisset, Professor of Geophysics at Florida Gulf Coast University, with a degree or three in same from Case Western University, and currently on sabbatical heading up the Department of the Interior's al-Saḥra' Terraforming Inquiry, barked out an impatient, "Hah!", and folded his arms, prepared to fire a blast calculated to teach this young upstart colonel (or so he thought) a lesson about messing about with highly-placed academics.
Problem being, Ariela was immune to that sort of crap. She'd been to university. And held four degrees to his three.
"Dr. Bisset," she continued, sternly, "do not start something you can't finish. You do not have the authority to go either through me or around me. I was assured by General Buford himself that nothing you can say has sufficient weight to crack open that compartment. I was also told by the President, and I quote, 'What General Buford said.' We were all sitting in the same meeting, along with SecDef and SecInt, as well as Lieutenant General Wolff and Major General von Barronov – who both happen to be read into the compartment – all of whom agreed quite vociferously." And profanely, in the case of Dad and Uncle Chris. "So I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but you're out of luck unless you think you can get the President to bust that sucker open."
Which he won't. He's not read in, either, but it wasn't difficult to convince him why he shouldn't be. Nobody wants to know about the Darkness at this early stage. And sadly, along with the Mesh, come the Darkness and the Abyss.
Bisset, whom she'd caught completely off guard, was waggling a forefinger in the air while standing there, mouth hanging open, completely inarticulate.
"By the way," she added, conversationally, "I knew academics spent a lot of time in their ivory towers, but I'm surprised you don't seem to know who I am. As it happens, I'm not as young as I look. I'm a hundred and thirty-four years old, and when I'm not acting as the battalion CO of the 1/1 USSF Marines – which has been my job these past twenty years – I'm also known as the Lion of God." She gave him her saintly smile. "Perhaps you've heard of me."
Strangely enough, he sounded a lot like the mullah when he replied. "Don't try that BS witchcraft on me, little girl. I'm immune to it."
Ariela sighed.
And pulled the first layer of Mesh out from under him. It was just like yanking a rug. Arms flailing, he dropped to the floor, hard. The other professors and students around him helped him to his feet.
"Are you all right, Doctor?" asked one of the older academics, solicitously, while industriously brushing Bisset's clothes off and attempting and nearly failing to hide a huge grin. "Slipped on some spilled water, or perhaps a banana peel, did you? Students, you know what we said about keeping this place clean."
Bisset, restored to a standing position, scowled at Ariela as the rest of his people tittered.
I could have made a big hole for you to fall into. But perhaps just making you fall on your arse is sufficient to let you know I'm not fooling around. If you can figure out what just happened, that is.
"I am Ariela bat Aviva Chayah, and I am the Lion of God, in the flesh and tired of the bullshit. You've heard of the patience of a saint?" She grinned, suddenly; ferociously. "I think you're about to find this saint's patience has just about run out."
"Dr. Bisset," one of the students said, "I think you'd better listen to her."
Bisset rounded on him. "And why would you say so, Mr. Feuerstein?"
Feuerstein held his ground. "Because I was present several years ago when this woman gave her blessing to a group she'd spoken with on campus." He gestured at her. "This is definitely the same woman; I'd know her a mile away." He looked embarrassed, then continued, "She has an, um, an aura, Dr. Bisset. Those she's blessed are particularly sensitive to it."
Ariela thought for a moment, and recalled that she had, indeed, spoken to a group at FGCU a few years back. They'd invited her to talk about . . . metaphysics? Something like that. And the graduate student, Feuerstein, yeah, he'd been an undergrad who'd arranged the meeting for his religious studies club.
"Is it so difficult, Dr. Bisset," she asked, "to believe that the Lion of God can also be a battalion commander in the US Space Force Marines? Though I must admit, I began as the mascot of the 1/1, not as one of its Marines. And then the diplomatic mission to the Shizzle happened, and suddenly I was one."
"She's an MD/PhD, too, Dr. Bisset," piped up one of the female graduate students. "And a former Ambassador."
"Still am, to the Shizzle," Ariela corrected, "but as I haven't had anything to do in that department for a while, it's understandable one might think 'former'." She rounded on Bisset, suddenly tired of the game-playing. "Dr. Bisset. Do you want to go back out to the research site with your gang, here, and continue to work, or do you want to be rotated back to Earth? I assure you I have the power to make either happen." She folded her arms, and stared at him.
"Armand," said the fellow who'd helped Bisset up from the floor, "maybe we should listen to the lady – Colonel," he corrected himself, but mostly for Bisset's sake than to cover any mistake in terminology he might have made.
Since, after all, he'd said it that way on purpose. He winked privately at Ariela, who nearly busted a gut trying not to laugh.
Bisset still looked angry, but more at the injury to his amour-propre than anything else. "I suppose, George," he said. He met Ariela's eyes. "But, Colonel Wolff, there will be a reckoning, eventually. You can't keep that process from us and expect rapid terraforming; I still want to know how a borehole that size and that deep simply 'happened'. Consider the billions, if not trillions, of dollars' worth of infrastructure we'd have to build to drill such holes conventionally. If you'd had a frigate or a destroyer drill that hole from orbit using their plasma weapons, we'd have seen the plasma beam, and I don't think you'd be falling back on a national security compartment, either. It's clear you have new technology you're holding close to the vest that could revolutionize this sort of drilling. And I think eventually you and the Space Force will have to bring it into the open."
Ariela considered, inspecting her well-manicured fingernails while she did. (She didn't often paint her nails, preferring natural, if nano-strengthened, "French" style nails.) "I suspect not, Dr. Bisset," she replied at length. "My best guess is Space Force will drill the holes and commercial borehole experts will then line them and install valves and suchlike. What you saw – or think you saw – in the desert was an uncontrolled demonstration. I assure you, by the time we really start to use it, it will be fully under control." She smiled. "And you will like the results, I think. But you still need to tell us where to drill."
Not that I don't know already . . . but I didn't want this moron here in the first place.
"Hrmf. Well." Bisset stuck his thumbs in his braces and puffed up, self-importantly, at that. "Clean up that water or whatever was on the floor," he pompously instructed one of the students, "and the rest of us will resume our work."
"Yes, Dr. Bisset." The students and other academics – save the one named "George" – turned and busied themselves with various and sundry tasks; Bisset himself turned on his heel and went into his temporary office space, shutting the door firmly behind him.
"George" walked over to Ariela and stuck out a hand. "George Smith," he introduced himself, and they shook. He had a firm grip, Ariela noted. "I'm the second in command of this mess – actually the department head, but Armand has most of the published papers on extra-Terrestrial terraforming at FGCU, or anywhere else for that matter, so he's the one they handed the grant to." He grinned.
"Very nice to meet you, sir," replied Ariela, with a delicately raised eyebrow asking the unasked question of why it was important to meet him at this time.
Smith snorted. "I saw what you did," he confided.
Ariela barely managed to stifle her shocked face. "Did?" she asked, innocently.
"Don't kid the old kidder. I saw you slide that grid right out from under him, like it was a tablecloth in one of those restaurant stunts where they yank the cloth out from und
er the crystal and china." Smith now looked somewhat embarrassed. "I've been able to see . . . something . . . like that, underlaying physical surfaces, as long as I can remember," he admitted. "But I've never been able to manipulate it. How did you do that? And did it have anything to do with what happened out at the site?"
Shit.
"Dr. Smith," Ariela said, hesitantly, "it's all very complicated and tied up in a code-word compartment, like I said. And I don't know if you want to know what's inside that compartment. I do, and it gives me nightmares, still, after over a century." She came to a decision. "But let me make some calls and send some emails. You think about it for a couple of weeks. If you still really want in, well, I'll find a way to bring you in."
Now it was Smith's turn to arch an eyebrow. "Just like that."
Ariela shook her head. "It's not what it sounds like. You need to be absolutely positive you want to know more than you already do. Because it's going to hang over your head the rest of your life, you won't be able to talk about it to anyone who's not read in . . . and it's not good."
"I see. I suppose I shall stop asking questions now, and consider what you've told me."
"It's the best and only course of action I can recommend," agreed Ariela.
"Very well." Smith sighed.
"I'll see you back out at the research station," said Ariela. "We'll probably be a few days to a week sorting out some other problems, so we won't be there as soon as you will. But I will have some sort of an answer for you soon, if not when we arrive, then shortly thereafter."
"Good enough. See you then."
"Au revoir, Doctor."
Chapter 2
Compartmentalized Visions
"Sir, I really think we need to open up the compartment to this guy," said Ariela, impatiently.
Space Force Commandant General John Buford peered over his reading glasses at her. "Uh huh." He looked back down at the sheaf of papers he was reading, which just happened to be her report on everything that had happened between the mysterious geyser at what was now being called First Water, through the meeting with Mullah al-Mubarak, and ending with the meeting with the university people where she'd met George Smith – "this guy".
The paper reports and files were both a vanity and a necessity. He liked paper. He could set a page aside and come back to it instantly without thumbing commands into his holotab. And there was something about actually holding paper in his hands that supplied a sense of immediacy to what he was reading. Besides all that, an awfully lot of forms were still filed in triplicate or quadruplicate, at least in part because of the ancient maxim probably first propounded in the West by some Greek clerk in Alexander's army, "if it ain't on paper, it don't exist," but also because it gave junior officers and clerical staff something to do over which they could be insufferable and officious. At least in Buford's considered opinion.
Paradoxically, therefore, in an age of paperless offices, the Pentagon offices of Space Force were filled with paper. And so were quite a few Pentagon offices of the other service branches.
"Why do you wear those glasses, anyway?" asked Fox, who'd accompanied her back to Earth on Tumtum. "Your vision is perfect."
Buford looked up again. "Because they indicate to most people with a brain that I'm reading and shouldn't be disturbed," he replied, mildly.
Fox spread his hands, grinned, and shut up.
The general finally completed his perusal of the report, and looked up. "Remembering I do not know what is in the compartment myself, try to sum up for me why this academic needs the information, Colonel."
Ariela sighed. "He can see what I can see, at a very basic and untrained level. He's at the point where General von Barronov was, back when we had our first tete-a-tete with the Shizzle. Of course, General von Barronov is now trained up to the same level as my father; it took about ten years to get him to that point. So I figure it would take about the same amount of time to get Dr. Smith to a similar level."
Buford nodded. "Okay. I have no idea what you can see, and I don't think I want to know, but I agree that at some point you need to expand the number of people who can do what you can do – and that's whether they're military or not."
"Yes, sir. That's what Beam told us. We need a corps of these people. Not a military corps," she added hastily, "just a large body of them. And the innate, basic level of ability demonstrated by Dr. Smith is not common, even though Beam said anyone could be taught to see."
"Yes. Freemasons somehow became the preferred candidates."
"It has to do with the sacred geometry they're taught in their lodges. It can make their minds more receptive to what we have to teach." Ariela sighed again. "General, we're getting to the point where if I keep talking, we may as well open up the compartment for you whether you like it or not."
"Hrmf. Tell me again who knows the contents."
"If I may, sir," began Fox.
Buford inclined his head. "Smaj."
"The compartment's stakeholders are Colonel Wolff, General Wolff, General von Barronov, the Shizzle Yuz8!rfk and Ejr3@lt, Major Delaney Fox, and finally, completely by accident, myself. Of course the Guardian Beam is aware of the contents."
Which is simpler than saying "the sentient Great Simulation knows", because we really don't want to say that at all, thought Ariela.
"Is Dr. Smith a Freemason?"
Ariela and Fox exchanged glances. "No idea, sir," admitted Ariela. "He said he was like me, could simply . . . er, see from an early age."
Buford sighed, pulled off his readers, dropped them on the desk, and looked at her. "I think you're going to have to open the compartment to me. This is insane. I can't even make a proper determination because I don't know what I'm being asked to determine."
Ariela pulled out her comm. "I have to call Dad."
Buford waved irritably at her.
She punched in a code and held the comm to her ear. "This is Ariela Wolff. Is General Wolff in the office today?" She listened. "Thanks, I'll hold."
"It's a crazy world when the people in charge have no idea what's going on," complained Buford.
Fox shrugged. "Imagine my life, General."
Buford rolled his eyes.
"Yes, thank you. Hello? Dad? It's Ariela. Got a problem." She explained the situation, then listened again. "Okay. Five minutes. See you then." Lowering the comm, she turned it off, and looked at Buford, an eyebrow raised. "He says he'll meet us in the secure records room down the hall in five minutes."
"Damn it," groused Buford. "He's using the portal again." Rising, and beckoning to them, he led them out of the room, through his confidential secretary's office, and down the hall about fifty feet to a large vault door with two armed Marine guards, one standing in front of it on either side. "All right, boys, stand down," he said, gruffly. "I'm going in and Colonel Wolff and Sergeant-Major Fox are cleared."
"Aye, aye, sir," said the senior Marine. The two stepped to either side to clear the way. Buford grabbed the handle and pulled the vault door open. It swung easily, despite its weight. "Really good hinge bearings," he explained.
"It's unlocked?" said Fox, surprised.
"Sure. During the day. Why d'you think we have armed Marines in front of it?" asked Buford, grinning slightly. "You would not believe what I have to do to unlock it, of a morning."
They trooped in behind him, and saw a plain wooden door at the back of the vault. Buford opened the door, behind which there was a small open space.
In which stood Lt. Gen. John C. Wolff, USSFM, and his sidekick Maj. Gen. Christopher L. von Barronov, USSFM.
"Thought you'd never get the door open," groused Wolff.
"When did you put this one in?" asked Ariela.
Wolff thought about it, then looked at von Barronov. "Five, six years ago?"
"Seems about right," replied the other man. "After we got all the top-ranking executive departments covered. Not that most of them will know about them unless they're needed."
"So basically," said Wolff, abruptl
y changing subjects to the matter at hand, "you want to open the compartment to General Buford, correct?"
"Yes, sir, at his request," confirmed Ariela.
Wolff sighed. "John, stay here," he requested. "Ariela, Fred, clear out, and swing the vault door to behind you," he ordered.
"Aye, aye, sir," they chorused.
Wolff waited until the two were outside and the door swung shut. "John, this compartment is a clusterfuck of the highest order. I don't sleep well at night thinking about it. And it's not something someone at our level can just ignore, once we know about it."
Buford looked at him. "John, you guys have been warning me off this compartment for close-on seventy-five years. What's inside? The end of the world?"
He was joking, but noticed neither Wolff nor von Barronov cracked a smile. They looked, if possible, even more serious.
"Yeah," said Wolff.
"In a time frame of tens of thousands of years, but yes," agreed von Barronov.
"Wait a minute," protested Buford. "The universe has another, what, ten-fifteen billion years to go? The sun, another five billion or so? And you're saying the world ends in a tiny fraction of that. I call bullshit."
Wolff shrugged. "Call bullshit all you want, sometime in the next hundred thousand years, we're going to have a big problem."
"And the problem is inside the compartment."
"Yep."
"Stuff of nightmares," confirmed von Barronov.
"Something to do with the Simulation?"
"Yes and no. Look, either I have to open the fucking compartment or I have to stop talking about it. Dealer's choice. You want the really bad news, or you want me to shut up and go back to Canaveral?" Wolff scowled at Buford. "I thought we were going to keep this away from you and the President, for plausible deniability, and you agreed."
The Lion in Paradise Page 3
