by Patrick Lee
Somehow that notion affected Travis more deeply than anything they'd spoken of yet. Real contact with whoever-with whatever-was on the other end.
He saw recognition in Paige's eyes, like it was obvious what he was thinking. Maybe it was. Maybe that idea struck everyone the same way, the first time they heard it.
"It's not likely to work," she said. "Even Fagan accepts that. If you could get past the initial barrier, the math would still be stacked against you. It gets into really strange stuff-Einstein, general relativity, time dilation-things we can calculate but not actually understand. Anyway, it all points to the same conclusion: whatever you sent through the Breach would just come back before it reached the far end. It might return months or years later, or-and this is more of a guess-it could actually come back before you sent it. Maybe long before."
She watched Travis's expression, then added, "Like I said, lots of maybes in Border Town."
Travis nodded, then stared out at the country falling farther and farther below. A freeway crept by, running east to west, all but devoid of traffic.
"So, what exactly is at Seven Theaterstrasse?" he said at last.
Paige was quiet a moment before replying. "It's not so much what's there, as what the building itself is."
"Which is?"
Another silence. Then: "A weapon."
He turned from the window and looked at her. Waited for her to go on.
"Seven Theaterstrasse is where it's all going to be decided," she said. "It's the choke point at the center of everything our enemy is planning. If we win there, everyone wins. And if we lose there-" She cut herself off, unwilling to say the rest, or maybe even think it.
After a moment she said, "None of this will make sense unless I start with the beginning. The essentials, at least."
She thought about how best to get into it, and then began the story.
Two strange things happened in the spring of 1978: the first occurred five hundred feet beneath Wyoming, the second, five hundred feet south of Pennsylvania Avenue. The most powerful bureaucracy in the world, presented with the most important asset in history, chose to limit its own influence.
Over the weeks following the catastrophic failure of the Very Large Ion Collider facility at Wind Creek, the president of the United States and most of his cabinet were briefed on the details as they came in from inspectors on site. The trapped DOE personnel had all been hospitalized and released; along with thick nondisclosure agreements, they'd been provided with trauma counseling, some of which would probably be long-term. Ruben Ward remained in a coma; he'd been flown to Johns Hopkins, where so far there'd been no change in his condition.
On April 3, the first scientific inspection team entered the VLIC site. They found that more than ninety objects had accumulated beneath the Breach-that term was well cemented even by then. If it hadn't already been clear to everyone involved that this situation would call for delicate handling, the team's findings brought the picture into razor-edged focus. In the eighty-seven-page report they filed after that first object survey, the word dangerous appeared more than two hundred times.
Upon receipt of the report, the president's most senior advisors settled into discussion along predictable lines. How tight a stranglehold should be kept on this project? How limited should Congress's awareness be? Which defense contractors should be brought on board, and how central a role should they play in making use of this strange new resource? Obviously those that had been the most generous during the election would have to be first in line, but how far back did the line go? Two companies? Maybe three?
Several hours into the first such meeting, the president turned to a man who'd said almost nothing so far: Peter Campbell, an MIT professor and, at thirty-three, the youngest member of the Science Council.
"You don't appear to agree," the president said.
"I don't."
"Then say what you're thinking."
Campbell chose his words carefully before he began.
"Does anyone in this room really believe we can keep this secret?" He allowed a few seconds of silence for an answer. None came. "Consider the spec data on the Manhattan Project. If there was ever a secret we needed to keep, that was it. How long did we manage? Two years. The Russian bomb program was under way within two years, at the latest. Think of the amount of knowledge they had to obtain from us to make their project work, and then consider that they need only learn two facts this time: that the Breach exists, and that the VLIC created it. After that, all the information they need is there for the taking. The specs on the VLIC were published in Scientific American five years before we finished building it."
The vice president spoke up. "Russia developing its own Breach is problematic, but-"
"Russia, China, India, North and South Korea, Israel, Germany, France, Britain, Japan, Saudi Arabia," Campbell said. "Probably a few more I'm leaving out. Count on each of them to have it up and running inside of ten years. Our VLIC took a decade to build with Department of Energy funding. DOD would've gotten it done in half that time, and we should expect the same urgency in all of these countries." He waved his own copy of the object report in front of him. "You want all their most generous defense contractors fucking around with this kind of stuff?"
Even years later, Campbell would lie awake wondering if one calculated use of the word fuck had saved the world. Certainly something in those few hundred words had struck a nerve, because the conversation tipped at that fulcrum and never managed to tip back. He'd aimed for their fears, that was all. He'd aimed for their fears and hit.
In the end, the president turned the inevitable question back to Campbell. What alternative approach did he propose?
Campbell had an answer. Take away the incentive for any other country to waste resources creating its own Breach. Share this one with all of them. Hold a secret summit with the leaders of these nations and their most respected scientists-but not their military-industrial tycoons. Be straight with them. Be upfront. Set in stone the only policy with a chance of avoiding chaos: the Breach should be overseen by a single organization loyal to the world as a whole and to no nation in particular. Let this group be composed of people with impeccable backgrounds in science and ethics-real ethics of human needs and liabilities, not the limited scope of any one culture's religious morality. Let no one actively seek to join; anyone craving that much responsibility should never be trusted with it. Instead identify excellent candidates and recruit them. The member nations should protect and finance this group, but none should control it. Not even America.
"But the Breach is on our soil," the defense secretary said. "We paid for what created it."
"All the more legitimate our stance will be," Campbell said. "Look, to whatever extent we flex our egos over this thing, we increase the chance of some other superpower saying, 'Forget it, we'll make our own.' Once one of them does that, others will follow. The only way to prevent it is to be evenhanded. Think about it: wouldn't we be grateful if one of them did the same, if one of their research facilities had accidentally generated this thing?"
"I don't believe any other country would do that," the president said.
"I don't either," Campbell said. "Which is why history will think so highly of you."
The debate didn't quite end that day, but over the spring and summer of 1978, nearly every decision ultimately went Campbell's way. The group that would oversee the Breach was designated Tangent. Its objectives were simple: to organize and study everything that emerged; to draw scientific insight-if possible-from those observations and advance human knowledge; to prevent the Breach from ever becoming a wishbone between opposing parties.
And it worked.
For a while.
"My father's strongest ally in the fight to create Tangent was a man named Aaron Pilgrim," Paige said. "He was the president's chief science advisor, and also one of the founders of the original VLIC project. Like my father, he went on to become one of Tangent's highest-ranking decision makers, and was general
ly considered the smartest member of the organization. He was exceptionally good at figuring out the purposes of the strange and unique entities that came out of the Breach. In time, those were brought to Aaron Pilgrim first, by default."
She paused. Stared out into the harsh sunlight on the plains.
"The Whisper came through in the summer of 1989. It had an attachment that kept it separate from its key, at first. But even switched off, it was dangerous as hell. The key only turns on the intelligence; the self-destructive aspect of it is always on. The first person who held it barehanded murdered two lab assistants and then cut his own throat with a pen. With its intelligence on, it triggers the same murder-suicide impulse, but on the scale of the entire world."
Travis tried to recall the thing's possession of him. He couldn't. His memories of it, vague only a few hours earlier during the interrogations, were simply gone now. All he had left were memories of his own descriptions of the experience, but even those were going.
Paige saw his expression. "No one ever remembers," she said. "In a few more hours, you'd forget you ever held it at all, without others reminding you. No idea why it does that."
"Why did it save my life?" he said. "From the killer in the suit?"
"If we understand anything about its pattern, it works like this: first it addresses any needs on the part of the user. The more desperate the need, the better. So it helped you kill your attacker. And then-I'm guessing a little here-it gave you the ability to read the language you saw on my wall, because that's a need too, if we're going to prevent what's coming."
"But is that my need, or yours?"
"It's everyone's need now."
The way she said it didn't lend itself to doubt.
"So then what?" he said. "When it's done with the user's needs, it gets busy with its own?"
"Something like that. It may toy with the person for a while. Reveal some painful insight into an old wound, things like that. That may be why it uses a voice from the person's past, one with a strong emotional impact. But yeah, it turns toward its own goals pretty quickly, and they're always the same: cause as much harm in the world as possible, as quickly as possible."
"Nice."
"We understood all that about it, early on. The danger was so obvious, we considered locking it away and never studying it at all. But the potential for good was too big to ignore. It knows everything. And everything about everything. It knows how many blades of grass are in Kansas right now, and the length, angle, and arc of each one, and how the arc would change if the wind were half a mile an hour stronger. It knows the cure for cancer. The cure for everything."
"I assume you asked it."
"We asked. We brought in late-stage cancer patients and let them hold it. Should've worked, right? But it didn't. Either it didn't consider their need compelling enough, or…" She hesitated to say the next part, then exhaled and went ahead. "Or it just didn't want to tell us things like that."
Travis waited for her to continue. She looked outside again, maybe reliving the angst the thing had inspired in her over the years.
"You probably don't remember," she said, "but when it switches from help mode to kill-the-world mode, the light changes."
He didn't remember, but took her word for it.
"The focus of our research, of Aaron Pilgrim's research, was figuring out how to extend the first part, indefinitely if possible. How to control it, as a user, and not let it change. Pilgrim was the only one who ever gained any ground on it, in that regard. He learned how to keep it tame for minutes on end. And then indefinitely. He mastered it, by some combination of focus and… who knows? He said he didn't even know. He just got to where he could control it, keep it talking to him as long as he wanted."
"No cure for cancer, though," Travis said.
She was quiet a moment. Then she said, "Looking back, we have no idea what it really told him," and Travis understood where the story was going.
"There was no warning at the time. No sense that there was anything wrong with him. He made his move in 1995, after six years of working with the Whisper. He shut down Border Town's defense system and killed eight security personnel on his way out. He took three entities with him. One was the transparency suit you recovered for us this morning. Another was the Whisper. The last one I'll describe later. It's important. It's still unaccounted for, and it must be part of his plan."
"To take control of Border Town?"
She nodded. "In a way that wouldn't have been possible in 1995, all by himself. He's spent these past fourteen years assembling his own organization. You could call it a dark twin to Tangent." She met his eyes, and looked more grave than when she'd been dying. "There are things locked up inside Border Town that make a joke of every military on the planet. Pilgrim knows how to use them. Count on his people knowing, too. If he gets them inside, if they get control of that place for even half an hour, that's the end of any chance to stop them. They get the world that day. And whatever miserable fucking agenda they want to push, six and a half billion people will be stuck with it."
It was the kind of thing Travis wouldn't have believed even a few days earlier. He believed it now.
"Aaron Pilgrim became the most hunted person in history," Paige said. "The intel communities of every nation that funds Tangent pooled their resources, their knowledge, their means. They got nothing. Nothing for years. The more time passed without Pilgrim making another move, the more nervous everyone got. He was out there somewhere, setting up the chess pieces for whatever he had in mind. And it had to be something big, right? He had the Whisper to help him. He had all the knowledge he needed, and considering that knowledge is power, he had all the money and influence he needed too. He had all that, yet it was taking him years to set up whatever he was planning. You can imagine how that scared the shit out of us. Like there's someone standing behind you with a slingshot, and the longer it takes before he shoots, the farther back he's drawing it. After five years of waiting for the intelligence groups to unearth something, Tangent decided it'd been idle long enough."
"They got into the hunt themselves," Travis said.
Another nod. "This was around the time I came along, twenty years old. My father wanted me to stick to the research side of things, tucked away safely in Border Town. I wanted that too. But I saw the importance of the new program that was coming together, and I wanted to contribute. We modeled it on the CIA's Operations Directorate, but with every corner of it beefed up with Breach technology. Our going active like that was the one thing Pilgrim never expected, and if the Whisper told him about it, it wasn't enough to help him."
"How do you know?"
"Because it worked. We started getting leads on him. Picked off a few of his people, even grabbed some alive. Made them talk. Got even more leads. Like that. Dialed in on him."
"Couldn't Pilgrim just stay on the move?" Travis said, but even as he asked, he realized the answer himself. "Oh."
"Seven Theaterstrasse," she said, seeing his understanding. "He built his entire plan around a single location. In retrospect, we should've guessed Zurich, or Switzerland at least. Information security like no other place on Earth. There's nowhere better to hide a serious, expensive enterprise. We pinned the address down on May 17, 2005, and came within maybe two minutes of catching him there. He escaped by such a narrow margin, he had to leave the Whisper behind. Along with a few of his people. Whom we grabbed. And whom we made talk. Almost all that we know about that place, we learned from them. They told us Seven Theaterstrasse's stated purpose is-and I'm quoting here-'to permanently end Tangent's restriction of Aaron Pilgrim's global authority.' And they told us it's not just a building. It's a weapon. It's a weapon he was three hours away from pulling the trigger on, when we arrived that day to stop him."
Silence fell between them. There was only the drone of the engines, and the soft rush of air past the window.
"Three hours," Travis said.
"Three hours."
"That's very hard to believe.
"
"Yeah," Paige said.
"Borderline impossible to believe."
"There are factors that nudge it toward plausibility. His people were a lot more active than normal in the last few months before his deadline, acquiring essential things here and there, some of them hard to come by. That made their movements easier to spot. At the same time, Pilgrim had to know we were closing in. Stands to reason he picked up his pace a bit, wasn't as careful as he might have otherwise been. All of that helped us."
"Three hours, though," Travis said. "I know shit happens, but that kind of shit almost never happens."
"The alternative is even less likely. That he wanted us to show up there, force him out of the place he'd spent a decade preparing, and leave him on the run without the Whisper, which he'd probably come to think of as a second brain by that time. He'd probably rather have lost his eyes and ears than lose that thing."
She had a point.
"So Tangent has controlled Seven Theaterstrasse for the past four years," Travis said. "I assume you've had people studying what Pilgrim built inside it."
"Twenty-four seven, since the day we occupied it."
"So what does the weapon do?"
"That's where you come in," she said. "Because even Pilgrim's own people didn't have a clue. And neither do we."
Silence again. He had solid guesses for some of the questions in his head, but not all of them.
"The reason we don't know is obvious enough," Paige said. "Pilgrim didn't design the weapon himself. He made the Whisper design it for him, based on what he needs it for. Made it guide his work, for the ten years he spent building the thing, which occupies just about every cubic inch of the building, nine stories on the waterfront in Zurich. It's alien technology, cobbled together from human-made components. Clever way to build something, using the Whisper like that, but there was a downside, too, from Pilgrim's point of view."
"The memory effect," Travis said.
Paige nodded. "Impossible to remember, from one time to the next, what the Whisper has told you. That'd make it tricky as hell to follow its instructions consistently. So Pilgrim had to write things down. But that was a security risk, so the Whisper gave him a language no one else could read."
