by Rolf Nelson
Delivery Driver: Where do you want it?
Helton: Need the container back?
The driver shakes his head.
Helton: Can you drop it inside?
He tips his head toward the cargo bay. The driver eyes the bay a moment and nods.
Delivery Driver: No problem.
The driver spins the truck in place, backs up the ramp. Loading arms lift up and gently drop the container onto the deck. The truck glides smoothly down the ramp and away. Helton pushes a button on a wall com unit.
Helton: Henery, got some parts you were waiting for. Think you’ll need a hand unloading them.
FADE TO
INT - NIGHT - Helton’s cabin
Helton walks in looking tired. He takes off his shirt and flops down on his bed.
Helton: Lights out.
Most of the lights turn off, but one over the desk shining on the book stays on.
Helton: All lights off!
The light remains on.
Helton sighs, rises up slowly onto one elbow, grumbling. He looks toward the book, open under the light. He sits up sharply, surprised. The exposed pages are now quite legible, densely covered with writing margin to margin.
The writing is divided up. The top left starts with a set of small tally marks next to a symbol. There are twelve symbols, and no tally marks in the top row next to a zero-like symbol, then one, down to eleven. Then there is a group of 12, and the first and second symbols next to each other. It looks like a basic math text setting up a counting system. Below it are further symbols and small groupings of tally marks. The symbols are angular, similar to Futhark. As Helton flips through the pages they become less clear and distinct as they have had less exposure to light. The page appears to have some basic math expressions, showing tally marks and symbols.
Helton: (Aloud to himself) Weird place for a basic math book. Wonder what language it is?
He turns the book up on its end and spreads out the covers to hold it up, facing the wall screen/ light so it can shine in on all the pages from the side, and heads back to bed.
DISSOLVE TO
INT - DAY - Engineering
Stenson is working with a couple of guys and a young woman on a long, partially disassembled tube-shaped thing, watching as they take it apart and discuss. Helton walks in through the open hatch.
Stenson: How goes it, captain?
Helton: You tell me. Ready to trans-light yet?
Stenson: Almost. The drive cores will be so far out of harmonic alignment we’ll look like a calliope on anyone’s scope until we can tune them, but I think we are close enough to not make ourselves a small star.
Helton: Good to know.
Sanchez: (Looks up from working on tube) Calliope?
Stenson: A ship with poorly matched drive cores, so they are “playing different notes” in the same tune, as it were, like the old musical instrument. Usually ships built from parts not designed to work together. Slower, less efficient.
Helton: This ship has always played a different tune, it seems.
Stenson: We can get them synchronized and meshed close enough to fly, then fine tune on the next trip. Anything new in the book?
Helton: Things are showing up. Looks like a math text.
Stenson: Math?
Helton: Yah. Don’t recognize the language, though.
Stenson: We can take a look at it later and run a comparison to known alphabets. Shouldn’t be hard to match.
Helton: How about when you break for lunch?
Stenson: See you then.
DISSOLVE TO
INT - DAY - Officers’ Mess
Lag, Stenson, Allonia, and Seraphina sit at the table with food and settings for six. Helton walks in with the book and sits down to general greetings.
Helton: A bit more readable already. Take a look.
He slides the book over to Stenson.
Stenson: Yup. Looks like a math primer. Hmmm… Base twelve.
Sar: What’s “base twelve”?
Helton: We count in base ten; ten digits, zero through nine, then you add a column when you get to ten, and at ten times ten you add a hundreds digit, and so-on for any power of ten. Computers are binary, base two, just ones and zeros.
Lag: Where did you get that?
Helton: In a cave Harbin and I hid in, back during that event that didn’t happen at the mine, after we weren’t hit by pirates. It was closed. The hole there is where it got hit with a grenade shot at me while I was carrying it on my back.
Allonia: If you hadn’t been carrying that…?
Helton: We’d not be having this conversation.
Stenson: You can see some writing around the edges of the blast hole. Lost a lot, though.
Sar: That font looks like the Planet Mover message.
Helton: Let me see that again.
He pulls the book closer, and the others crane their necks a bit to get a better look.
Ship AI: (OC, thin, dreamy voice) Nice. Quiet. Good listeners.
Helton: Uh, what was that?
Everyone: …
Helton: Taj, what did you just say?
Ship AI: (OC, normal voice) What? I didn’t say anything.
Helton: Just now, you said something.
Ship AI: (OC, petulant) Of course I did. I said “I didn’t say anything!”
Helton: No, before that.
Ship AI: I was talking to Quinn on deck 5, but I’m not sure how you heard that.
Seraphina: Deck five? I thought there were only three decks here?
Lag: That symbol there. It looks like the three line “equals” sign in the Planet Mover’s message.
Helton looks where he is pointing. He flips back and forth through the pages rapidly, suddenly starting to tremble. As he flips describing what he’s seeing and what it represents, the pages flash onto wall screens all around the room. They show densely packed symbols, tables, diagrams, short “phrases,” etc.
Helton: (Quiet, then increasing excitement) Counting, just like a child. You start with counting. Number symbols. Then basic arithmetic operations: add, subtract multiply, divide. Fractions. Roots. Algebra. Geometry. Pythagorean theorem; that has to be a proof! A circle gives us pi and irrational numbers. Physics, definitely physics diagrams. Free body diagrams. Text describing the problem… switch the objects moving and acting on them, change in syntax, change the formula… that’s got to be a table of elements, with hydrogen, helium, oxygen. Water. Balancing chemical reactions. More symbols. More math. Mostly text. Good God….
Helton looks up at them. They look at one another.
Allonia: Is… is that a book about the planet movers?
Lag: I think it’s a book by the planet movers.
Helton: Mother of all that’s warm and fuzzy.
They sit staring at the book, soaking up the implications, when Bipasha walks in with a tray of food. She sits down chattering, then notices their stunned silence.
Bipasha: I was just talking with Kwon about how we seemed so lucky to get a high paying easy job, then so unlucky to find out we were set up, then lucky to get through it all and make a pretty penny, then… What’s got all you all bent? Is the book that good a read? I…
Helton: Until we know for sure, no one says anything. Agreed?
All nod their heads.
Bipasha: Agree to what?
Lag: Don’t breathe a word to ANYONE.
Bipasha: Even uncle Harbin?
Helton: OK, your uncle, he deserves to know, and I’m pretty sure he can keep a secret.
Bipasha: Um… OK, I guess. What?
Helton: I think this book was written by the Planet Movers, and it may be a universal translation text for their message.
Sar: Really?
Helton: How would you send a message to someone in any advanced culture, regardless of what language they speak or what their background? It doesn’t make any difference if you are counting on fingers, flippers, or feathers, or what symbols you use, two plus three equals five. If they have sp
ace travel, they have science, and the basis of all science is mathematics. Start with counting, work your way up, defining counting numbers, then arithmetic symbols, then use pictures for physics and chemistry which are both pretty universal, then create a written language out of that by describing the things in the physics and chemistry diagrams. Build up from there. We have more than four hundred pages totally intact, and about the same that are damaged to some degree by the grenade. Diagrams and text look dense, so it’ll take a while to decipher, but the more I look at this, the more I think that’s it. It might be premature, but-
Stenson: I think you’re right. A basic, universal medium, a printed book: tough, and will only be readable by someone in a relatively high oxygen atmosphere who uses visible light. Any space-faring race could translate the message with this, if that is what it is.
Allonia: But it’s incomplete… will it still work?
Bipasha: That’s worth more than this planet. You do know that, right?
Helton nods his head in wonder.
Allonia: (Incredulous) You’re joking.
Bipasha: No. Any human government I know of would kill us all in a heartbeat to get it.
Seraphina: Some might kill us to destroy it or hide it, too.
Helton: So… do we keep silent, sell it, or copy it and put it out on general broadcast for everyone to see at once?
Bipasha: Sitting on it won’t pay the bills.
Stenson: We don’t have the tools to properly decode and understand it here.
Allonia: I think it should really belong to everyone, so the best minds can really figure it out.
Seraphina: Give it away? You are very sweet, dear, but crazy naive.
Helton: Crazy? I agree that giving it away kind of makes it hard to pay the bills-
Seraphina: There are people who don’t want the truth to be known, just like they don’t want Jews alive, or self-aware computers, or honest politicians. They feed on the problems. They’d kill us and destroy the ship to keep it secret for their own purposes.
Helton: And I thought Kwon was the only conspiracy nut I knew.
Lag: She’s right, though.
Helton: I don’t follow.
Stenson: There are people who would want to keep this under wraps. Think about how any major religion would view a potential challenge to their message?
Allonia: This is insane! People will want to kill us to get it if they knew we had it, others who would want to kill us to destroy it, it’s so valuable no one can afford to buy it, but its real value is in letting everyone know what it says, and then it’s of no value to us!
Bipasha: We don’t know for certain that’s what it is, though.
Helton shakes his head, still leafing through the book.
Allonia: What languages does everyone here speak? Anything but English?
Seraphina: Some Spanish and Hebrew.
Bipasha: Hindi
Stenson: Math, a bit of German
Lag shakes his head.
Helton: Some Latin and Greek, and a handful of words in a dozen other languages. Computer, awake? What language analysis programming do you have?
Ship AI:(OC) My name isn’t “computer”.
Helton frowns in surprise. Others look quizzical.
Helton: Sorry… Well?
Ship AI: (OC) Nothing specific to this task. Basic organizational tools may be useful, if you are correct in your assumptions. I have some vague records that indicate I worked on a language problem long ago.
Helton: OK, then. We need to find out what it says, scan it with every tool we have to establish authenticity and content. We don’t say anything to anyone until we know more. Once we’re sure it’s a real artifact, then we figure out what to do. It might be worth more as a hole-card than a played one.
Allonia: As good a plan as any.
Seraphina: For once I get to be in on the conspiracy! Silence for now. I just hope more good than evil comes of it.
Stenson: As if I didn’t have enough to do.
Bipasha: More knowledge is always better. How long?
Ship AI: (OC) A few days to a few weeks if it is laid out as logically as Helton suggests, and depending on what was damaged. At least it appears we are starting from the beginning.
Helton: Well, I’ll get to work on it, and in the meantime-
Seraphina: Meals don’t cook themselves.
Lag: Things are heating up at the New Medina complex, and there is a lot of intel to evaluate.
Stenson: The drives and power cores need all the new parts installed and checked-
Allonia: I have a couple of projects to work on while the good sergeants get better.
Bipasha: And we need a new paying cargo lined up.
Helton: Well then, let’s get to work, while more of these pages “come to light.”
FADE TO BLACK
Privates
FADE IN
EXT - DAY - Cab of heavy wheeled military truck
Two soldiers are driving down a road on the outskirts of Adelaide, toward the port. The morning sun casts sharp shadows, but the dust arising from the truck ahead of them in the small convoy creates haze. They are in tan camo fatigues with no armor other than helmets. Semi-auto rifles are in a gun rack in the back window. Their uniforms are dirty and unkempt, both have not shaved in a few days, one has his shirt buttons misaligned. They look rough; not evil, just lazy, sloppy, poorly disciplined.
PVT Schumer: This war sucks.
PVT Levin: All wars suck.
Schumer: This one really sucks.
Levin: Dunno. I think not getting blown up or shot at is kinda nice.
Schumer: I mean, we are at the absolute ass-end of this thing.
Levin: Gettin’ paid. Gettin’ fed. Gettin’ sleep. Seen worse.
Schumer: Yeah, but we ain’t got any action for six months. Can’t even get action in town!
Levin: You never get any action anywhere ‘cause you’re ugly. And still barely a private after six years.
Schumer: I mean, we been reduced to getting used as a safe supply point for people picking up ammo and shit to use where things are really happening.
Levin: (Grunts assent, pauses) I heard we were getting a visit from some high-price Plataean ass-kickers, so something must be up.
Schumer: Christ on a left-handed rubber crutch. Really?
Levin: That’s the word. Supposedly the same platoon that took out that air-defense battalion that was giving the 41st fits.
Schumer: Platoon?! Nah, must’a been a company at least! A platoon is even less likely than the one I heard about a babe shoving some local muscle around.
Levin: Flint said it was a platoon that leveled em’, an’ the locals do seem a little jumpy. He’s pretty well connected, so…
Schumer: We are so ass-end we not only gotta use civilian transport, but we get our asses bailed out by female mercs when we aren’t even fighting!
Levin: Yeah, pretty low. I’m sure you’ll find a way to sink, though.
Schumer: Gee, thanks.
Levin: I mean, the tech limits on weapons make for mostly pretty slow movement. Can’t use the old grav tanks or anything in Sourkraut’s battalion unless the Kiv break the rules in a big way. Manual aiming and simple ballistics and all is a pain. A lot more ways to get stupid and killed than get brilliant and win.
Schumer: Well, maybe so, but… I guess this must be the ship.
The convoy of three vehicles pulls to a stop to one side of Tajemnica, darkened by the mid morning shadows cast by her hull. Their radio squawks.
Private3: (OC, on radio) Hey Asshole, hop out and see who’s home.
Levin: That’d be you.
Schumer: (To radio) Shit-head. (To Levin) Damn civvies will likely run in terror at the first sign of trouble. Rather deal with uniforms.
They both grab their rifles and hop out of the cab, slinging them casually over their shoulders, and saunter up to the cargo ramp. They look in, see no one, then continue around the end and get a look on the sunny side. Th
ey round the corner and stop in their tracks. Neither of them look at the other while they talk in low tones.
Schumer: On th’other hand, ain’t never seen uniforms like that.
Levin: Make love, not war, daddy always said. How’s my uniform look?
Schumer: Like shit.
Levin: Yours, too.
Schumer: Screw it.
Camera view slews around to show what they see. Half way down the side near the side hatch, there are seven folding chairs reclined in the sun. On them are Allonia, Kaminski, Quiritis, Helton, Bipasha, Kaushik, and Harbin. They are in bathing suits and bandages (smaller than original, but still numerous on the three Plataeans, and Allonia’s temple still has a slight red scar), basking in the sun, looking very mellow, eyes closed or wearing sunglasses. There are pitchers of iced beverages, and glasses for each. Rifles or pistols hang or lean by each chair, apparently unnoticed by the skin-entranced soldiers.
The two privates straighten out their uniforms as they walk toward the seven, reflexively feeling their stubble and brushing their hair back.
Schumer: How would you ladies like to meet a pair of gen-u-wine war heroes?
Quiritis: (Politely sarcastic) Why, know any?
Levin: We were told there was a ship here to haul our classified equipment out to Raptus Regaliter.
Schumer: If you fine young ladies could direct us to the person in charge of this bucket, we’d be happy to regale you with the tales of our adventures!
None of the crew moves for a moment. The privates glance at each other, used to a lot of things, but not being ignored.
Schumer: Ain’t got all day! Got important things to do!
Kaminski, who is sitting half upright, glass in hand, takes a leisurely sip.
Kaminski: (Slow drawl) Doctors orders. R&R. Sunshine. Take it easy, let things heal.
Schumer: Sorry to see you lost your bar fight, pal, but I was talking to the ladies.
Harbin: (Drill sergeant voice, not moving from his reclined position otherwise) SCHUMER! You still a private?
Schumer’s jaw drops for a second as he recognizes Harbin’s voice. He snaps to attention. His partner recognizes the tone, and sees Schumer’s reaction, and does the same, knowing they just stepped in it.
