Odyssey

by Jack McDevitt

  “The media have gone berserk.”

  “The media always go berserk. A kid falls off a bike in Montana, they’re all over it. Until something else happens. This time, though, the fears may be real.”

  “Michael,” she said, “don’t you think this is all a bit over the top?”

  “Who knows?” His expression seemed frozen. “Whatever the moonriders are, they’re obviously not friendly. If we get attacked, what do we fight with? We’d be helpless.”

  “If they have the capability to divert anything as massive as the Galactic asteroid, and aim it dead on at the hotel, we’re going to be helpless no matter what.”

  Asquith smiled. “I can just see the Congress saying something like that to the voters.”

  “I’m not concerned about the voters. I’m not a politician.”

  “You better be concerned, Hutch. The voters pay your salary.”

  “That’s not significant at the moment. I was trying to make a point.”

  “As was I. If it gets around that we can’t compete with these lunatics after all the money that’s been put into the program over more than sixty years, longer than that really, then when this is over, you and I will be out on the street. And deservedly so.”

  It was a beautiful spring day. A bit on the warm side, maybe. Bright sun in a cloudless sky. “What are you going to tell the committee, Michael?”

  “I’ll ask that they increase our funding so we can beef up the surveillance program we’ve just initiated. Track these things down. Find out what they are. What they want.”

  “We’ll need ships. New ones.”

  “Right. That’s what I’m going to request. And I’m going to ask for some armament. We have to confront the problem head-on.” He actually looked pained. “We need to get the Council on board. If they’re not willing, then the NAU should go it alone with our allies. Whatever it takes. It’s what they want to hear. So they’ll buy into it.”

  “Okay.”

  “We need to think about what kind of armament should be placed on Academy ships. I’ll want a proposal on my desk in the morning.”

  “Michael, I don’t know anything about weaponry.”

  “Ask somebody. Particle beams, lasers, and nukes. That’s what we’ll want. And anything else you can think of.”

  NEWS DESK

  ATTACK IMMINENT FROM OUTER SPACE?

  Amid Laughter, World Council to Debate Options

  LANBERG TAKES AMERICUS

  Black Hole Physics Wins for Winnipeg Native

  CHILD ABDUCTIONS UP ACROSS COUNTRY

  Experts Advocate Tracking Devices

  CAVALIER NEARS SURVEYOR MUSEUM

  Galactic Engineers to Start Home Tomorrow

  Orion Will Rebuild “Won’t Be Scared

  Off by Crazies,” Says CEO

  SUPERLUMINALS TO DIVERT TERRANOVA ROCK

  Corporate Giants Cooperate to Save First Living World

  Kosmik, MicroTech, Orion, Monogram Combine Resources

  HURRICANE SEASON: MORE STORMS, MORE INTENSE

  Population Decline in Hurricane Alley Continues

  Dakotas, Saskatchewan, Manitoba Booming

  CONGRESS: TERM LIMITS WILL NOT GET OUT OF COMMITTEE

  PROPOSAL TO BAN SMOKING IN HOMES WHEN CHILDREN PRESENT

  Iowa Bill Promises Major Clash

  What Are the Limits of Government?

  TREATMENT OF LIVESTOCK BECOMES ISSUE IN WYOMING

  Do Steers Have Rights?

  BLACKOUT IN PHOENIX

  Energy Relay Collapses

  City in Dark for Six Hours

  LOOKING BACK: LAST NUCLEAR PLANT CLOSED 100 YEARS AGO TODAY

  HELLFIRE TRIAL TO GET NATIONAL COVERAGE

  Starts Thursday

  chapter 33

  Truth, beaten down, may well rise again. But there’s a reason it gets beaten down. Usually, we don’t like it very much.

  —Gregory MacAllister, “Why We All Love Sweden”

  When the Salvator docked at Union, officials, journalists, and well-wishers were waiting. Valya and her passengers strode out of the exit tube and were greeted by shouts and applause. Amy spotted her father in the crowd. With Hutch beside him. He waved and pushed through. “Good to see you, Hon,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. Everybody was taking pictures. “Glad you’re home. I was worried.”

  “I’m fine, Dad,” she said. “It was a good flight.” That sounded dumb, but she didn’t know what else to say.

  People began tossing questions at her. There was confusion; some of them thought she’d been with Valya during the rescue at the Galactic. When they discovered she’d stayed behind in the museum, they went elsewhere.

  Eventually Hutch worked her way to her side. “Hey, Champ,” she said, “welcome home. You guys had quite a time out there.”

  She moved to embrace the girl, but Amy stiffened. Allowed it to happen but didn’t respond. Hutch was too much like the woman on the bridge.

  Hutch got the message and let go. “Anything wrong, Amy?”

  Amy needed to talk to her alone, but that would be difficult to manage. She wondered whether the others had told her what had happened. Kid’s gone funny in the head. Talking to people who aren’t there. Talking to you, Hutch.

  “I’m fine.” She knew. Amy could tell.

  The event morphed into a press conference. How had MacAllister felt when he saw the asteroid hit the hotel? Had he been worried the moonriders might go after him? Would he be likely to support—?

  MacAllister cut the last question short. He’d grown quickly impatient with the questions, and pointed everybody at Valya. “Here’s the young lady who did the rescue,” he said. “She’s the one you want to talk to.” And Amy caught his whispered aside to the pilot: “Good luck.”

  Valya answered a few questions and quickly turned the proceedings over to Eric, who was experienced at these things. Who was nearly delirious at being the center of attention.

  Was it true moonriders were detected near the museum? Had they seen them? (Disappointment that no one had.) “Did you at any time feel your life was in danger?”

  “No,” Eric said. “We kept the doors locked.” He expected the comment to get a laugh. But none came. “I don’t think any of us ever felt directly threatened.” He looked around for confirmation, and got it from MacAllister and Valya. It wasn’t what the media wanted to hear.

  A short, bearded man, dressed as if he represented the underground press, asked whether they thought we should arm the ships.

  “Yes,” said Eric. “Absolutely.” They’d seen the people trooping in from the Galactic, especially that last bunch, the ones who’d been thrown into space for several hours. “Whatever these things are, they have no regard for human life.”

  Jessica Dailey from the Black Cat wanted to know whether Eric spoke for everybody.

  “He does for me,” said Valya.

  “What about you, Mr. MacAllister?”

  “I guess so,” MacAllister said grudgingly. He looked uncertain.

  Nobody asked Amy.

  THE JOURNALISTS FOLLOWED them onto the shuttle, where there were more questions and more pictures. Amy finally got her turn in the spotlight. How would it feel going back to school now that she was a national celebrity? That surprised her so thoroughly that she could only smile and ask when she’d become a celebrity.

  More people were waiting in the terminal at Reagan. A beautiful chestnut-haired woman threw herself into MacAllister’s arms. (Amy saw a strange look in Valya’s eyes, but it passed quickly, and the pilot turned away.) One of the journalists drew her father aside, and she saw her chance. Hutch was standing only a few feet away, talking with Eric.

  The conversation broke off when she approached. Hutch offered to give her a hand with her bag.

  “It’s okay,” Amy said. “I need to talk to you.” Eric discovered he had something else to do and left them.

  A news team was headed their way. Hutch nodded. “I know. But this is not a good time. Call m
e tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “And, Amy—?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whatever it’s about, we’ll take care of it.”

  AMY WAS NOT close to her father, even though he always tried to do the right thing. When she performed in the school theater, he was there. He came faithfully to watch her play softball. He talked to her about homework and her future and did everything he could to replace the mother who’d abandoned them both so many years before. But he’d never learned to listen. Their conversations were always one-way. So when she came home from the Surveyor museum with a story no one would believe, she did not sit down with him and tell him what had happened.

  Other than Hutch, there was no one to whom she could turn. She had a couple of indifferent boyfriends, but neither would be able to understand what she was talking about. They’d both think she’d taken something. And there was a math teacher who was reasonable and sympathetic, but who was far too rational to believe a story like hers.

  She had shed whatever doubts she might have had about the reality of the experience. The image of the ultratall Hutch walking out of the darkness, issuing that deadly warning, was simply too vivid. It had happened.

  Damn moonriders.

  Why had they picked on her in the first place? They had the Academy’s public information officer available, and the editor of The National. But the blockheads came to her. What was she supposed to do? Pass it on to the principal?

  She rode home alone. Her father claimed important Senate business and put her in a taxi. Fifteen minutes later she was in her Georgetown town house replaying the experience over and over.

  She became gradually aware of the silence, accented somehow by voices outside. And a barking dog.

  She switched on the VR. Brought up Tangle, her favorite show. Find your way through the maze. Don’t get distracted by boys, clothing displays, misnomers, false trails. But she couldn’t keep her mind on it, and finally realized she might be on the news. She switched over and saw trouble in Central Africa. A serial killer loose in Oregon, imitating the murders done in Relentless, a popular vid from the year before. There seemed to be no end to homicidal kooks. A Senate committee was conducting hearings on whether to support the creation of an armed interstellar fleet. It would be the world’s first space navy. Then, yes! There she was. Standing off to one side at Union while Eric answered questions.

  Well, tonight she’d talk to Hutch and pass the whole thing over to her. She was the big hero. Let her worry about it.

  ERIC WAS HAPPY to be home. And pleased with himself. During the taxi ride from Reagan, he’d also watched himself on the news shows and decided he’d looked pretty good. Self-effacing, heroic, and always ready with a punch line. The real Eric Samuels had arrived at last.

  One of his neighbors, Cleo Fitzpatrick, had been walking past as he unloaded the cab. She’d smiled brightly, told him she’d missed him, said how she’d been reading about him. Cleo was a physician. She was also a knockout who had never before paid any more than minimal attention to him. “It’s good to have you back, Eric,” she’d said, with an inviting smile.

  It was good to be back. Once inside, he dropped his luggage and said hello to his AI. She whispered a throaty greeting. “It’s nice to see you again, Big Boy.” He wondered what it said for his life that the thing he had most missed was his AI. He eased down into a chair, closed his eyes, and savored the moment.

  He had achieved what he set out for. He’d been part of something significant. Beyond his wildest dreams. They’d confirmed the existence of the moonriders and rescued the personnel from the Galactic. Not bad for a guy whose biggest exploit until now had been winning a commendation for perfect attendance in the fifth grade.

  But he couldn’t get his mind off Amy.

  Kids are flexible, though. She’d get over it. He was suddenly, unaccountably, tired. It was so good to be home. Lounging on a comfortable sofa again. Stretched out in a private place, with the shades drawn against the midday sun.

  It was a good life.

  MACALLISTER HAD SEEN the look on Valya’s face when Tara Nesbitt showed up at Reagan. Tara was an occasional friend and sometimes a bit more. Perfect for inciting a little jealousy.

  He directed Tilly to call Valya and felt his pulse pick up a notch when she appeared in the room. “Hello, Mac,” she said. She’d gotten rid of the jumpsuit and the work clothes, exchanging them for shorts and a University of Kansas pullover. The woman always looked good. Didn’t matter what she wore.

  “Hello, Valentina. I just wanted to be sure you’d gotten home okay.”

  “Yes, I’m fine, thank you.” The Greek lilt in her voice was somehow more pronounced than it had been on shipboard.

  They went on in that vein for a few minutes. She was seated on a sofa, crosshatched by sunlight. Her red hair glistened, and she looked genuinely pleased to see him. The chemistry was running both ways. Not necessarily good, he thought. He had avoided emotional attachments all his life. Except once. And he’d paid a substantial price for that. “How long are you going to be home?”

  “I haven’t received my next assignment yet. They have more pilots than ships at the moment, so I expect I’ll be unemployed for a while.” She leaned back against a cushion. “Might have to find a job over at Broadbent’s.” Broadbent’s was a furniture chain.

  “You don’t seriously think they’d cut back, do you?”

  “They’ve already done it. Hard to see what else they could have done the way things are going. But”—she shrugged—“there’s always work for people like me.”

  “I was wondering,” he said, “if you’d care to have dinner with me. We promised ourselves an evening at the Seahawk.”

  “Wish I could, Mac. But I’m wiped out. I’m going in and collapse for the rest of the day.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “I’ve got relatives in tomorrow. How about Thursday?”

  “Sure,” he said. “That sounds pretty good.”

  AMY CALLED PROMPTLY at seven.

  “I understand something happened at the museum,” said Hutch.

  “Yes, ma’am. I think I talked with one of them.” Amy was in her bedroom. Pictures of Academy ships hung on the walls.

  “With one of the moonriders?”

  “I had no way to know for sure. But something that wasn’t human.”

  “You say you think this happened.”

  “It happened, Hutch,”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Describe it for me. Tell me everything. What you saw. What you heard. Don’t leave anything out.”

  “All right.”

  “I’m going to record it.”

  Hutch had heard that the apparition had more or less taken her form. Now she listened intently while Amy told her story. How she’d been unable to sleep. Sitting on the bridge. How the figure wrapped in darkness had come down the passageway.

  How it had been Priscilla Hutchins. But a taller version.

  And its message. Blueprint. The Origins Project.

  “We are going to destroy it.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “No. When I asked why she just said for me to get everybody off. That they wouldn’t wait forever. Or words to that effect.”

  “Okay. Let’s go back a minute. What’s ‘blueprint’ all about?”

  “It’s an old term for a building plan.”

  “No. I’m aware of that. I’m just wondering what it means in this context.”

  “I don’t know. I asked her what she wanted, and she said ‘blueprint.’”

  “Was there anything else?”

  “No. Yes. She denied they’d attacked anyone.”

  WHAT WAS BLUEPRINT?

  “George.” The household AI.

  “Yes, Hutch.”

  “Do a search on ‘blueprint.’ I want to know—”

  “Yes—?”

  What was she looking for? “If there’s any connection with un
known aerial or space phenomena?”

  There were several action vids by Blueprint Entertainment that pitted various heroes against outer space monsters.

  And a 250-year-old blueprint of a moonrider—they called them UFOs then—obtained originally by a married couple who claimed to have been riding all over the solar system in the vehicle.

  And Blueprint for Armageddon, published in the twenty-first century, a book predicting an attack by aliens. It even had pictures of the creatures, but none of them looked anything like Hutch.

  There was also the Madison, Wisconsin, urban legend about a thing running loose that left monstrous footprints and bled blue. The whole affair was supposedly hushed up by the authorities. For reasons not given.

  And an oil painting, Cosmic Blueprint, by somebody she had never heard of, depicting two ships, one obviously alien, watching each other in the foreground of a ringed planet.

  She gazed thoughtfully at the alien vessel and realized she’d missed the obvious. “George.”

  “Yes, Hutch.”

  “Let’s try it again. Make it ‘blueprint’ and the ‘Origins Project.’” She rubbed her eyes. It had been a long day, and she was tired.

  “I have more than seventeen thousand hits,” said the AI. “Do you wish to narrow it down?”

  Bingo. “Yes. Eliminate all that have to do with the design of the facility itself. How many are left?”

  “Four thousand three hundred seven.”

  “Pick one at random. Let me see what they’re talking about.”

  “The vast majority are simply technical documents.”

  “Pick one.”

  George put up a title page: Blueprint, credited to two names with which she was unfamiliar, and filled with text and equations that meant nothing to her, references to hybrid tangles and monolith reversals.

  She looked at a few more documents, all similar, all incomprehensible, and called Amy back. “Answer a question for me, Love.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What do you know about Origins?”

  “Just what I learned on the flight. Why?”

  “Were you aware of any of the initiatives they’re involved in? Any of the things they’re doing?”

  “I know they bounce particles off one another. That’s all.”