by Ben Bova
Another shrug. “Her file could be lost. Or her prescriptions suspended pending a complete medical review of her case.”
Tavalera fought down the urge to leap over the man’s desk and strangle him.
Reluctantly, grudgingly, Tavalera reported back to the restoration project office that afternoon after lunch and began his new “career.”
But night after night the skies glowed with the Northern Lights. And night after night the police declared an emergency and ordered everyone to stay indoors during the hours of darkness.
The small brass plaque by the double doors of the redbrick, four-story building modestly proclaimed:
KLRA-TV
THE EYES AND EARS
OF GREATER LITTLE ROCK
The words were encircled by the twining palm-bough symbol of the New Morality.
Tavalera remembered that before he’d left for his public-service duty in space all the TV stations in the state had been combined into a single network, under the management of the New Morality. There had been some objections at the time, soreheads and alarmists complaining about the separation of church and state and freedom of expression. But the system seemed to be working; the complaints had been silenced.
The commuter line that served the restoration project had a station stop right in front of the KLRA-TV building. As he rode home after his working day finished, Tavalera reacted to a sudden impulse and got off the maglev train at the TV station’s stop. He walked toward the station’s front doors while the train whisked itself away in a whisper. The Northern Lights had been flickering in the sky for four nights in a row, but he could find no mention of it on the news. And each night the police enforced the “temporary emergency” procedures that kept everyone indoors until dawn.
Maybe Andy knows something about it, he thought. His older brother was an administrator of some sort at the TV center; maybe he knew what was going on.
What bothered Tavalera most, as he strode up the walkway to the building’s front entrance, was that nobody seemed to mind being forced to stay indoors night after night. True, there had been tremendous thunderstorms the past two nights, torrential downpours streaked with terrifying bolts of lightning. Electrical power had been knocked out for hours at a time, but neither his mother nor any of his new coworkers at the restoration project saw anything unusual in that.
“Springtime comes earlier now,” his mother had said when he’d remarked on the storms. “We always get downpours in the spring. Be happy the good Lord hasn’t sent us any tornados.”
During lunch at the cafeteria in the restoration project office, he had asked about the power outages.
“Hey, don’t complain. It used to be a lot worse,” said one of his fellow technicians, between bites of a pathetically thin sandwich. “When they first put up the emergency housing projects for the flood fugitives, we could go without power for days. Two weeks, one time.”
Everybody seemed to accept whatever was handed to them, Tavalera thought. They’re like a bunch of sheep. He remembered the fierce political contests that raged in habitat Goddard as it orbited Saturn. Of course, Goddard’s people were mostly malcontents, troublemakers who’d been exiled from their homes on Earth because they were misfits. And scientists. Scientists are always ready to argue about anything, he knew.
Was it this way before I went into space? he asked himself. Thinking back more than six years, Tavalera figured that maybe it was, but he just didn’t take notice of it. People’s passivity seemed kind of normal back then, but now, after being really free on Goddard, he realized that most of the people around him were sheep. Including his mother.
People were leaving the KLRA building. It was the end of the workday for them, too. Tavalera hoped that Andy hadn’t gone yet. As he came within arm’s length of the smoked-glass double doors, his brother pushed through, heading out.
“Andy!”
His brother couldn’t have looked more surprised if a fire-breathing dragon had suddenly materialized before him. His round, bland face went white. His soft brown eyes flashed wide for a moment, then narrowed. Frown lines creased his forehead.
“Rolly! What’re you doing here?”
Making himself smile, Tavalera said, “I came to see you, pal.”
Andy was dressed in a collarless pale yellow jacket and crisply creased dark brown chinos. His thinning hair was carefully combed forward over his high forehead. Tavalera felt almost shabby in his flapping tan shirt jacket and shapeless jeans.
“You can see me at my house, Rolly. Any time.”
“Yeah, I know. How’s Mildred? I didn’t see her at the party.”
“She had to stay home; one of the kids had the flu or something.”
“Oh. I hope he’s okay now.”
“She. Yeah, she’s fine. Kids can scare the devil out of you, though.” Andy looked suspicious, wary. “So what’re you doing here, Rolly?”
“I just thought it’d be fun to see where you work. I’ve never seen the inside of a TV station.”
Andy glanced at the steady stream of people leaving the building and pulled Raoul to one side of the walkway.
“You can’t go inside the building,” Andy said in a low, tense voice. “Security, y’know.”
“Security?”
“The first thing terrorists go after is the news media,” Andy said.
“But that was a long time ago, before we were even born. There hasn’t been a terrorist attack—”
“Because we’re always on guard against them!” Andy said forcefully. “Always on guard!”
Tavalera thought about the security cameras that had been mounted in every home. They’re always on guard, all right, he said to himself. They’re watching every move we make, 24-7.
“Just last month they caught a plot to blow up one of the power satellites,” Andy went on. “That could’ve knocked out electrical power from Tennessee to Texas!”
With a shake of his head, Tavalera said, “I didn’t know you’d be so uptight about security.”
“We’re still at war, you know,” Andy retorted. “We’re fighting terrorism all around the globe.”
To Raoul, his brother’s words sounded like a slogan that he’d memorized.
Shrugging, Raoul said, “Well, if I can’t go in, I can’t go in.”
“You could apply for a visitor’s pass,” Andy suggested more reasonably. “Might take a couple of weeks to check you out, though.”
Raoul nodded glumly. “Yeah, maybe I’ll do that.”
Brightening, his brother said, “And then I’ll give you the grand tour of the place.”
“Great.”
They started walking toward the maglev train stop on the elevated station. Half a dozen people were already up there on the platform, waiting, with more climbing the stairs. Raoul recognized the redhead who worked in Beauregard’s office as she passed him, walking briskly toward the stairs. Wondering what she was doing at the TV station, he smiled at her. She smiled back.
Turning back to Andy, Raoul said, “I thought you had a car.”
“Sure. But we’re not allowed to drive to work if we’re within a fifteen-minute walk of a train stop. Keeps down the pollution and greenhouse emissions.”
Helluva time to worry about greenhouse warming, Raoul thought, with Florida and Louisiana and a good slice of Texas underwater. Besides, all the cars are either hydrogen fueled or electrical.
Aloud, he asked, “Cheez, whattaya do when it rains?”
Andy grinned. “Get wet. Or carry an umbrella. And watch your language, pal. They might hear you.”
Tavalera had heard that line before. They might hear me. So what if they do?
“Andy, I’m curious about—”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” his brother interrupted.
Screw the cat, Tavalera thought. “I wanted to ask you about the Northern Lights. Isn’t it weird—”
This time Andy grabbed him by the arm and walked rapidly away from the train stop.
“Rolly, you’v
e got to understand there are some things you don’t ask about.”
“Huh? The Northern Lights? I can’t ask about the Northern Lights?”
Practically dragging Raoul along with him, Andy headed around the corner of the redbrick building.
“Have you seen a news report on the subject?” he asked almost belligerently.
“No. That’s why I—”
“If it’s not on the news then you shouldn’t ask about it. That’s a simple-enough rule, isn’t it? You can understand that, can’t you?”
“But why isn’t it on the news? What’s the big deal? And what’s this emergency that we have to stay indoors after sundown?”
“Lord have mercy!” Andy hissed. He had broken into a sweat, beads of perspiration trickling down his round cheeks. Pointing to a security camera fixed to the building’s wall, Andy said, “You’re gonna get us both in trouble, Rolly! If the powers that be don’t want the Northern Lights story aired, it’s gotta be for a good reason. Don’t—”
“What stupid kind of reason can they have for hushing up the Northern Lights?” Raoul demanded, wondering even as he spoke who they were supposed to be.
Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, Andy said, “How should I know? Maybe they think people might get scared if they see the Lights. Think it’s the end of the world or something. They don’t want to cause panic, riots . . . whatever.”
“That’s crazy.”
“You’re not in charge. They are. They see more than you do, pal. They know a lot more.”
“It’s still crazy,” Raoul said.
Andy shook his head hard enough to make his cheeks wobble. “Look, Rolly. I’m going home. I don’t know you. Not anymore.”
And his older brother marched away from him, head down, fists balled at his sides. Raoul stood there, too stunned to move.
CHAPTER 6
The next morning when Tavalera showed up at the restoration project office he knew something was wrong.
The Northern Lights had glowed in the sky again the previous night. And again all the news media had warned that there was a police emergency in force and everyone was to remain indoors from sundown until dawn.
But Tavalera had sat by his bedroom window for hours, watching the delicate shimmering curtains of light dancing in the dark night sky. They’re not afraid of a terrorist attack, he was convinced. They’re scared of the friggin’ Lights.
His train ran a bit late that morning, so Tavalera’s coworkers were all at their desks when he arrived at the office. They all said their good mornings warily, as if they might be infected with something if they got too close to him. When he asked his computer for his morning’s schedule the holographic display spelled out: SEE MR. BEAUREGARD IMMEDIATELY.
Uh-oh, he thought. That doesn’t sound good.
The others in the office watched him silently as he got up from his workstation and walked toward Beauregard’s office, holding his head high to show that he wasn’t worried.
But he was. Tavalera figured his conversation the previous afternoon with his brother had brought trouble down on his head, just as Andy had warned. Either that damned camera on the building wall picked up everything we said, or Andy himself gabbled to somebody about me.
He almost grinned, though, as he approached Beauregard’s door. Maybe they’ll boot me out. Exile me to Goddard—and Holly.
Even Beauregard’s redheaded assistant looked at Tavalera solemnly, worriedly. No smile on her pretty face this morning.
Beauregard was unsmiling, too, as he sat behind his desk in his usual dark tunic and white turtleneck. But this morning his tunic bore the twined palm-bough symbol of the New Morality on its breast. And a small silver crucifix hung on an almost invisible chain around his neck.
There were two grim-looking men sitting in the burgundy leather chairs in front of the desk. Both of them wore tan uniforms, like soldiers. But they were both too old to be real soldiers: one had bushy gray hair; the other was shaved bald, his face seamed with wrinkles. They turned in their chairs to glare at Tavalera as he stepped into the office.
Tavalera closed the door behind him and stood there, waiting.
Beauregard said, “These gentlemen are from the Federal Security Department. Seems you’ve been askin’ some pretty touchy questions.”
“Me?”
“You,” said the bushy-haired security agent. He had narrow cold blue eyes, and his muscular body threatened to burst the seams of his uniform.
The shaved one got to his feet. He was slimmer than his partner but still looked strong enough to lift Beauregard’s desk with one hand.
“Raoul Tavalera,” he said, his voice a flat nasal twang. “What kind of name is Raoul? Cuban, maybe?”
Feeling his brows knit, Tavalera answered, “My grandfather was Cuban. He worked at the Cuban embassy in Washington after the Reconciliation.”
“Habla español?” the security agent asked.
“Huh?”
“Do you speak Spanish?”
Tavalera shook his head. English had been the official language of the United States all his life. No one spoke or wrote or even thought in anything except English.
The bushy-haired agent stood up. “You’ll have to come with us, son.”
“With you? Where? What for?”
“Like Mr. Beauregard here says, you’ve been asking questions about a sensitive area.”
“It’s a crime to ask questions?” Tavalera felt his temper heating up.
“No crime,” the agent said. “But you’ve stepped into a sensitive area and you need to be briefed.”
“On security regulations,” said the shaved one before Tavalera could ask.
“You’ll be back before the end of the day,” said the first one.
“Or tomorrow, at the latest,” added his partner with a smirk.
They came up on either side of Tavalera. The shaved one opened Beauregard’s door and they marched him out. They didn’t grab his arms, didn’t touch him at all, but Tavalera certainly felt like a prisoner being marched off to jail.
Parked in a geosynchronous orbit high above the Earth’s equator, the entity that had once been Keith Stoner puzzled over the total lack of response from the billions of human beings on the planet below.
For nearly a human generation he had been trying to communicate with his former brethren. His first tentative attempts at contact had been swallowed up in fear-filled paranoia. His later electronic messages had received no response, even though the planet was awash with wireless communications. He had resorted to stimulating the planet’s ionosphere, making the aurorae glow from pole to pole. Still no response, although the procedure recharged his starship’s power systems.
Why don’t they answer? Stoner asked himself. They’ve got to act on my information before it’s too late for them. Before they destroy themselves.
Why bother? replied his wife, silently, in his mind. He could sense Jo’s revulsion at the stubborn refusal of the people of Earth to make contact with the star voyagers.
For them, Stoner answered, mentally picturing Cathy and Rick, their children. Both of them were adults now. Rick barely remembered the Earth of his childhood; Cathy had no memory of her earlier life at all.
The two security agents walked Tavalera to the parking lot behind the building, where a gray tilt-rotor aircraft was waiting. It looked old to Tavalera, hard used, its big rotor blades drooping almost to the ground.
They climbed the dull gray beryllium ladder into the craft, the shaved agent ahead of Tavalera, the gray-haired one behind him. The ladder creaked and sagged slightly beneath their weight. Inside was a small compartment with four bucket seats. Tavalera took the seat that the agents indicated.
“Where’re we going?” he asked.
The bushy-haired agent, settling his bulk into the seat next to Tavalera’s, nodded ponderously. “You’ll find out when we get there.”
The plane’s engines growled to life and its big rotor blades started turning, whooshing like
giant scythes. The entire cabin rattled; the engine noise made Tavalera’s ears hurt.
Before he could click his seat belt the vehicle wobbled off the ground with a lurch that made Tavalera’s stomach heave. He gulped and tasted acrid bile in his mouth.
“I thought you’ve been in space,” said gray-hair, beside him.
“I have,” Tavalera replied, barely avoiding gagging.
“Hmp. You look kind of green, kid.”
CHAPTER 7
Once at altitude the tilt-rotor’s engines swiveled to the horizontal position and the ride smoothed out, although the cabin still rattled and creaked. Tavalera couldn’t see outside, there were no windows in the cramped cabin, but the agent sitting beside him calmly reported that they were flying at nearly the speed of sound.
“Goin’ where?” Tavalera asked.
“Ski country,” said the agent sitting in front of him. “You like to ski, kid?”
Tavalera remembered the stuntman he’d met aboard the Goddard habitat: Manuel Gaeta. Manny had skied down Mt. Olympus on Mars.
“Naw, I never been on skis,” he said.
“Good thing,” said the agent, with a bitter laugh. “There hasn’t been any snow to ski on for years.”
They flew for nearly three hours, and then the tilt-rotor spiraled down to a landing. The hatch opened automatically and, again with one agent ahead of him and the other behind, Tavalera clambered down the shaky little ladder and planted his feet on solid ground once more.
They were in the mountains, he saw. Probably the Rockies, judging by the stark granite peaks. It was decidedly chillier than it had been in Little Rock; a cold, dry wind cut through his thin shirt jacket and made him shiver. He was glad when the agents quick-marched him across the windswept landing pad and into a concrete building set into the side of a bare rock cliff.
Tavalera noticed the emblem above the sliding steel doors of the building: the stylistic eagle of the federal government, surrounded by the twining palm boughs of the New Morality.
Inside, the place looked like a more-or-less ordinary office complex. No windows, but long corridors dotted with closed doors. Each door bore a coded plaque that apparently indicated who or what was inside that office, Tavalera figured. Small rectangular electronic keypads were mounted on the walls beside each door. There were plenty of men and women walking along the corridors, some of them hurrying, pinch faced, others looking relaxed, almost at leisure. Most of them wore ordinary street clothes, although a few were in uniform and several were dressed in what looked like clerical garb.
