by Allen Steele
And fourth, the Denebian explorers—whom the Sons of the Two Moons reverently called the Old Ones—were humanlike yet not completely humanoid. Assuming that the figures in the petroglyphs represented themselves, they had been bipedal, with four limbs and a triangular head on an ovoid thorax. They also displayed a wide range of motion. The petroglyphs showed rows of tiny figures in a vast and bewildering array of poses that some called “the Dancing Denebs.” They walked, squatted, pranced, raised their left arms and legs, raised their right arms and legs, stood on their hands … and no one who’d studied them had any idea what these gestures meant, nor figured out the meaning of the geometric shapes—circles, squares, triangles, hemispheres, lines slanting both left and right—that periodically interrupted their performance.
For two and a half centuries, the Deneb Petroglyphs had been the object of attention of scientists, historians, scholars, poets, and crackpots. Stacks of books, treatises, and monographs had been written about them, each a determined effort to divine their meaning, yet no one had ever come close to devising a definitive and inarguable solution to the enigma they posed. The petroglyphs were a riddle without an answer … or at least one that was clearly true.
Otho and Curt stood before the petroglyphs, for the moment ignoring the sounds and sights of the reception as they gazed upon the mysterious pictographs. Then Otho quietly chuckled.
“Well, I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I’d say the answer is obvious.”
Curt raised an eyebrow. “It is?”
“Oh, certainly.” Otho pointed to the petroglyphs. “The writing is on the Wall.”
“Yes, it is.” Curt slowly nodded. “I only wish I knew what it means. Perhaps—”
“You don’t know? It’s pretty plain to me … the writing is on the Wall.”
“Of course it is. People have been studying this for years, but no one’s yet been able to translate the language. With no Rosetta stone, deciphering it is very nearly impossible.”
“They don’t need to, because”—a significant pause, then Otho spoke slowly—“the writing … is … on … the Wall!”
“I know the writing’s on the Wall!” Curt was becoming annoyed; Otho wasn’t usually this obtuse. “But no one knows what it means.”
Otho smiled but said nothing. When Curt continued to glare at him, his smile faded and he shook his head. “We need to work on your sense of humor,” he muttered as he turned away.
“What?”
—Never mind him, the Brain said. He never knows when the writing is on the Wall.
Bewildered, Curt was about to respond when he heard a faint whirring from somewhere close overhead. He turned his head about and looked up to see a small surveillance drone hovering just a few feet above him and Otho. As he watched, it descended a few inches, its lens reflecting a distorted mirror image of himself gazing up at it.
“Don’t pay attention to it.” Otho’s voice was low and no longer playful. “Just go back to looking at the petroglyphs.”
“All right.” Curt reluctantly turned away. “Simon, do you think it—?”
Otho made an urgent shushing noise and Curt immediately shut up. When he glanced down at his left hand, though, he noticed that his ring had gone dark. The Brain had gone off-line, silencing his Anni interface as he did so.
Meanwhile, the drone continued to study Curt and Otho.
II
Joan Randall, inspector third class of the Interplanetary Police Force, Section Four (Intelligence), was at the VIP entrance when Ezra Gurney’s voice came over her Anni.
—Busy over there, kid?
—What do you think? Joan watched from beside the entrance arch as the IPF corporal under her supervision motioned for a middle-aged woman who’d just come through the connecting tunnel from the landing field to insert her hand into the identity scanner. The lady scowled at the indignity but obediently stuck her hand beneath the plate. It read the tattoo on the back of her palm while the arch searched her for weapons. Having ascertained—within reason—that the old matron wasn’t a Starry Messenger terrorist, the corporal waved her through.
—If you’re not, I could use your help.
Joan glanced down the tunnel. About a dozen or so other people were waiting their turn at the checkpoint.—They’re still coming in, Chief. I don’t want to leave Mario by himself.
—Look, I know you got your hands full, but y’think you could check out a couple of guys for me? They kinda pushed their way through the crowd to get near the podium, and something ’bout ’em gives me the willies.
Joan smiled. She always got a kick out of the way Ezra spoke, the Dixie slang and aphorisms that had been imported to the Moon long ago to become the native language of the loonies. —Would you care to be more specific? ‘Gives me the willies’ doesn’t tell me much.
—Their Annis went dead as soon as my drone dropped down to check ’em out. I call that a bad sign.
—That’s suspicious behavior? Joan wasn’t getting what Ezra meant. Nearly everyone here was probably linked to the neural net, and people logged in and out all the time. Sure, a cop was supposed to develop a nose for trouble, but still …
—Yes, missy, it is. Ezra’s voice, dry and reedy from a lifetime of off-duty whiskey and cigars, became a little tougher. —What I want you to do is mosey over there and speak with those two gents, and make sure they’re just a couple of good ol’ boys we’re not gonna have to worry about. Now hop.
—Okay, Chief. Joan knew better than to argue further. Ezra Gurney might be her mentor in the IPF and even something of a father figure, but first and foremost he was her superior officer in Section Four. She’d never seen a frog in real life, but she well understood that she was supposed to emulate one if Marshal Gurney told her to. So she told Mario to hold things down until she came back, then began picking her way through the crowd toward the stage.
As always, appreciative eyes traveled over her as she made her way through the atrium. On her, the blue dress uniform of an IPF officer, with its epaulets, lariat, and comet insignia, was as elegant as many of the glamorous outfits worn by the wealthy young women attending the ceremony. With straight black hair cut at the neckline, solemn brown eyes, and a trim figure that moved with an athletic yet sensual grace, Joan was one of the most beautiful females there, yet she had no desire to sip wine and make small talk with a wealthy bachelor. When she was on the job, duty came first … and she was a woman who was almost always on the job and preferred it that way.
Ezra hadn’t been specific about which two people near the stage he wanted her to investigate, but it wasn’t hard to figure out whom he’d meant. Beneath the drone were two men. One was thin and bald, with narrow eyes and the snow-white skin of an albino—not unusual for native-born loonies, for whom melanin deficiency was a common genetic defect. His companion had his back turned to her as she approached. He was tall as a loony but more muscular, with longish red hair that looked as if it had been cut with gardening shears. Both wore gray bodysuits, which indicated that neither were dignitaries but instead were average citizens who’d somehow managed to wrangle a couple of the passes that the organizers had grudgingly released to the general public.
The albino gazed past his friend’s shoulder as Joan approached. Spotting her, he quietly said something she didn’t catch but which she figured out anyway: Heads up, cop’s coming. The other character turned about just as Joan reached them, and she found herself being regarded by cool gray eyes.
“Hello, Officer. May I help you?” His voice was softer than she’d expected, and lacked any sort of accent she might have been able to immediately identify, loony or otherwise. His face had the helmet tan of someone who’d spent a lot of time in a vacuum suit, and was handsome in a mannish-boy sort of way. Joan figured that he was about her age, perhaps two or three years younger. Rather good-looking, too, but that was only a passing thought she quickly pushed aside.
“Just curious about why you’re so close to the stage.” Joan tilted her
head toward the floater. “A colleague noticed you here. He asked me to come over and see why you and your friend made such an effort to get near the podium.”
“I’m sorry. We weren’t aware that we broke any rules by getting this close.” A rueful shrug. “It’s my fault. I’m fascinated by the petroglyphs, and just wanted to get a better look at them.”
As he spoke, his gaze traveled down her body. Joan was accustomed to this; she was aware of her beauty and the sort of response it provoked in some men. Still, it was surprising that someone so handsome would also be so rude, and she was grateful for the distraction of Ezra’s voice.
—Scanner says he’s telling the truth. Ezra would be using the drone’s biometric instruments to monitor any changes in skin temperature or respiration that might indicate a lie. —But I’m still just a l’il bit suspicious, if y’know what I mean.
“No need to apologize,” Joan said with a neutral smile. “I don’t think anyone can see these things and not wonder what they mean. For this event, though, we’d prefer it if anyone who isn’t an invited guest to refrain from getting any closer than these seats.” She gestured toward the nearby row of chairs. “Security reasons. I’m sure you understand.”
“We do,” the albino said, “and thank you for informing us. My friend and I will be only too happy to cooperate.”
Joan was about to acknowledge him with another smile when Ezra snapped in her inner ear. —Whoa! Something’s off here! I’m getting almost no readings from this fella! If this guy was any colder, he’d be in a mortuary!
There was no way she could respond without the two men hearing, so she remained quiet. But Ezra was right. The more closely she studied the albino, though, the more peculiar he became. His eye color wasn’t the pale pink typical of albinos, but rather a lovely shade of green. He had no eyebrows or eyelashes, and his face was free of blemishes and wrinkles. He could have been a mannequin come to life.
—Maybe the drone’s not finding him, Joan replied.
—Suppose it’s possible. Maybe there are too many people around for it to lock onto his vitals. Still, I’d like to know who these guys are.
“If you don’t mind,” she said aloud, “I’d like to see your ID’s, please.” She kept her tone light as she reached for her scanner with her left hand, but nonetheless she let her right hand fall casually to where her holstered pistol was strapped against her thigh.
The pale man hesitated, but his companion didn’t. “Not at all,” he said, stepping forward to raise his left hand. “Here … see?”
Joan looked down, and for the first time noticed the large ring on the middle finger of his hand. It was an unusual piece of jewelry, a multifaceted diamond in a platinum setting. As she watched, a holographic image slowly rose from the diamond: a miniature, three-dimensional model of the solar system, with the eight major planets in their respective positions around the sun.
“You like this?” the red-haired man asked. Intrigued by the projection, Joan nodded. “A friend of mine named Simon gave it to me some time ago,” he went on, “and he claims the sidereal motions of the planets are accurate. Now watch…”
A slight movement with his hand and the planets began to revolve around the sun, Mercury moving the fastest, Neptune the slowest. “See?” the red-haired man said quietly, his voice a pleasant purr. “Perfect synchronization. If you watch for a while, you can actually see their respective apogees and perigees. Look, I can make them move just a little faster—”
—Joan, don’t watch!
She heard Ezra, but it seemed as if he were calling her from a distant place. Besides, where was the harm in admiring the ring? “See how Mars is now in aphelion as opposed to Earth?” the red-haired man asked. “And notice how long it takes Saturn to catch up with Jupiter even though their orbits are adjacent.” Fascinated, she slowly nodded. “Here, let me make it go just a little faster—”
—Damn it, Randall, don’t—!
By then, Marshal Gurney’s voice was a little more than a whisper. The tiny solar system had grown to fill her view, Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune all moving in perfect harmony about the Sun. Watching this display from a godlike height, Joan felt herself relaxing, soothed by the sound of the red-haired stranger’s voice. Nothing mattered except the planets, nothing but—
“Joan!” Ezra snapped, and slapped her face.
All of a sudden, she found herself standing against the back wall of the atrium, her left cheek stinging from the impact of a calloused male hand.
Astonished, she blinked against the tears that welled in the corners of her eyes. Marshal Gurney stood before her, his mouth trembling in anger beneath his white handlebar mustache. She stared at him in bewilderment, with utterly no recollection of how she’d come to be here. Just a second ago, wasn’t she…?
“What … Ezra, how—?”
“Hush.” A little more calmly, Ezra lowered his voice. “Keep it down. The speeches have started.”
The ceiling lights had dimmed, and when she gazed past him, she saw that a spotlight was casting a luminescent circle on the podium. The crowd standing between them and the stage was applauding the woman who’d just walked onstage; Joan recognized her as the new director of the Straight Wall System Monument. Just now, though, this was the least of her concerns.
“What happened, Chief?” she whispered. “How did I get here?”
“Slickest bit of hypnosis I’ve seen this side of the Interplanetary Circus.” Despite his irritation, Ezra shook his head in wonder. “I saw the whole thing. First he got you gawkin’ at that gimmick ring of his, and once he had you pulled in, he told you to never mind anything else, just turn around and walk away. And damned if that ain’t exactly what you did.”
“What?” Joan stared at him. “Where is he now?”
“Right where you left him, the sneaky son of a—”
Curling a hand around her holstered pistol, Joan started forward, intending to barge through the crowd and apprehend both the red-haired man and his weird companion. But Ezra stepped in front of her and planted his hands on her shoulders.
“No, not now,” he said quietly. “We’re certain neither of ’em are armed, and I put a coupla guys on ’em to make sure they don’t cause any trouble. Whoever they are, they ain’t getting very far … but we can’t let them interrupt the dedication ceremony if we can help it.”
Joan felt a surge of helpless fury, but Ezra was right. Making an arrest here and now would only unnecessarily create a scene. So she nodded, let go of her weapon, and contented herself with gritting her teeth as the director finished her opening remarks.
“And now,” she said, “please allow me to introduce the person most responsible for persuading the Senate to allocate the funds to build this lovely new monument … the senator of the Lunar Republic, the honorable Victor Corvo.”
III
The man who walked onstage was tall and slender, obviously earthborn and not a native selenian, with thick, dark hair turning gray at his temples and receding at his forehead. Victor Corvo had glowering, deep-set eyes in an otherwise handsome face, and there was little about him that suggested a ward healer who’d achieved his position by shaking hands and kissing babies. Nonetheless, somewhere along the line he’d learned enough about the acquisition of political power to become the Moon’s junior representative to the Coalition Senate, and one of those lessons had obviously been how to address an audience.
“Thank you for that lovely introduction, Dr. Chase,” Corvo said once the applause had subsided and the director had stepped away from the podium. “You flatter me greatly by stating that I’m the person responsible for the construction of this monument. All I did was what a politician usually does … accept bribes and share them with my colleagues.”
Loud and sustained laughter from the crowd, peppered with howls of mock-outrage from other Senate members. A rueful grin crossed Corvo’s face as his narrow shoulders rose and fell in a self-deprecating who-me? shrug. It w
ould have been a lot funnier if his joke had been reflected in his eyes. But they remained humorless; this was a gag created by one of his speechwriters, dutifully recited as a way of warming up the audience.
All the same, Curt laughed and clapped his hands along with everyone else. When he glanced over at Otho, though, he saw that his face remained stolid, his hands at his sides. He regarded the senator with an expression that was cold and malevolent. In fact, Curt couldn’t remember seeing him quite this way before.
“Hey, at least he’s got a sense of humor,” Curt whispered. “I thought you like that sort of thing.”
Otho regarded him coldly. “You think he’s funny?” he asked quietly.
“Well, yeah, kinda…”
The android returned his attention to the podium. “Just listen … and study this man.”
Curt wanted to ask why, but kept his mouth shut. In the past few minutes, he’d become aware of a couple of men wearing ordinary business suits unobtrusively taking up positions near the place where he and Otho stood. Too late, he’d realized that he’d gone too far by using the hypnosis trick Simon had taught him several years ago to get rid of the IPF officer who’d asked to see their ID’s. She’d obediently wandered away without pressing the issue—necessary, since Curt’s instincts told him that she’d picked up something wrong about Otho, and their tats probably wouldn’t have survived close scrutiny—but his actions had apparently raised the suspicions of the presidential security team … and that, no doubt, was what the two men were.
Now there were cops all around them, and even though the Brain had gone silent and Otho wasn’t saying much either, Curt knew he had to be careful what he said and did the rest of the time they were here. So he continued to watch Senator Corvo, and hoped that they’d get out of there without any problems.
“The Deneb Petroglyphs represents one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of history,” Corvo said, barely glancing at the text scrolling across the podium surface. “It’s a puzzle that has consumed generations of scientists, and while many theories have been made as to their meaning, no certain interpretation has ever been accomplished.”
