Gate Crashers

by Patrick S. Tomlinson

  “Can you forward the message?”

  “Ah, no, Professor. Trust me.”

  Eugene sighed. “Naturally. Give me an hour. And tousle your hair. You look much too presentable for this time of night. People will get suspicious.” He cut the connection, gave his young wife a peck on the neck, swung his legs to the floor, and made his way to the wardrobe.

  While he dressed, he remembered his aircar was in for maintenance, so he keyed the automated valet to fetch his wife’s and headed for the garage. His wife’s small, sporty aircar waited patiently in the rooftop garage a minute later, gull-wing door open. He half stooped, half crawled in and reclined his ample girth into the seat.

  “Good morning, Professor. Where would you like to go today?” asked the bright blue car.

  “Well, I would like to go to Havana for a week, but I guess I’ll have to settle for the Stack.”

  “Very good. Estimated flight time is twenty-three minutes. Door closing.” The car’s wispy wings unfurled from the fuselage like cigar wrappers. Thousands of tiny turbines whined to life. The aircar gently rose out of the central atrium of the garage, then accelerated into the cool night on the sound of an orchestra of mosquitoes.

  The situation was probably bad. Disastrous, more likely. Jeffery was much too eager to please to be rude, so both the hour of his call and the fact he wouldn’t discuss whatever the QER had to say were very troubling indeed.

  Scenarios washed over the professor’s mind like waves at high tide. Space exploration had always been a risky business. Disasters were constantly just a few degrees, centimeters, or a tiny course error away. Many ships had simply lost communication with home a dozen light-years away, passing into history as another mystery among dozens. Others radioed home that they’d been hit by a radiation spike and would succumb within hours. One infamous incident ended after a faulty operating system upgrade caused the ship’s computer to mistake the crew for poultry, with tragic results when they failed to produce eggs. It took a special kind of personality to accept such a way of life. Eugene assumed it was testosterone poisoning, but that didn’t explain the women …

  The lights of Washington, D.C., glowed on the horizon. Whereas most major cities had a skyline of buildings that resembled a bell curve in their height, D.C. was inverted. The closer to the center one was, the shorter and older the buildings were. The blue aircar glided gracefully around the monuments and museums. It abruptly warped its wings to skirt the edges of the no-fly zone that surrounded the historic seat of the nation’s power, painted bright white in an affront to purity. A roof-mounted battery of surface-to-air missiles tracked him as he passed with the feigned interest of a bored sentinel. The contents of Eugene’s stomach made a pitched effort to storm the gates of his esophagus until the turn had completed.

  The Stack was soon in sight. It was an immense, five-sided tower that had started life four hundred years earlier as the Pentagon building. The original structure had become the ground-floor levels of the tower as new layers were added year by year.

  It was not the home of AESA headquarters, which was Berlin, but for purposes of global security, it was the permanent location of Fleet Com. It was widely agreed upon that no one was more paranoid than Americans. It only made sense that the securest location for AESA’s network of QERs would be in the center of America’s securest building.

  Eugene’s aircar was challenged by the building’s automated air traffic control. Codes were exchanged, clearance was certified, and towers of disappointed weapons ringing the facility like fence posts stood down. The car nestled into an available slot and wrapped its wings around itself like a sleeping bat. With considerable effort and groaning, Eugene exited the tiny sports car and made his way to the entrance at a brisk pace. He arrived at the first of many checkpoints, each with identification and verification procedures that became more uncomfortably personal as they went.

  “Good evening, gents.” Eugene presented his hand to the door guards for his blood vessel scan.

  The larger of the two guards looked up from his display after he read the name, stood to attention, and threw a crisp salute. He was as dark as five to midnight and appeared to be made of recycled warship keels.

  “Professor Graham?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “I’m your escort, sir,” replied the guard in a flat tone.

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to get between you and your duty. By all means, lead the way.”

  The two men walked down an endless series of halls and elevators. They formed a walking contradiction; the pasty middle-aged academic with no clearly defined waist, and the dark young marine with no clearly defined neck. The exception was in the eyes, which betrayed a fierce competence in both of them. They passed the expected series of security checkpoints and were waved through without challenge. They passed the door for the Fleet Com conference room, yet still they walked.

  Eugene grew uncomfortable with the silence and unfamiliar surroundings. So he decided to attempt conversation. “So have you been assigned here long”—he snuck a look at the guard’s nameplate—“Corporal Harris?”

  “I’m not allowed to say, sir.”

  “Oh, well, then, how long have you been in the service?”

  “I’m not allowed to say.”

  “Ah.” Eugene felt flummoxed. “Are you from D.C.?”

  “Not allowed to say that either, sir.”

  “Oh, come now, surely there’s some nail we can hang a friendly conversation on.”

  “Of course there is,” the corporal said. “We aren’t just mindless automatons, you know.”

  “Well, no, I didn’t mean to suggest…” Eugene was suddenly treading water.

  “Heck, there’s a whole list of topics that are authorized for use in everyday conversation with civilians.”

  “Okay, perfect. So what’s the first item on the list?” asked Eugene as he grasped at the opportunity to get back on track.

  The corporal looked sheepish. “I’m not allowed to talk about the list, sir.”

  “Right.” Somehow the professor was unsurprised. “Well, how about I take a guess at a few topics and you can let me know if they’re permitted?”

  “That should be fine.”

  “Excellent. All right, can you talk about your family?”

  “Absolutely not, sir. Gotta keep them safe from kidnapping or blackmail.”

  “Of course. That was silly of me. Football?”

  “Not since some of the boys got into trouble with gambling debts.”

  “Weather?” ventured Eugene.

  “Off limits since the development of the lightning gun and the tornado bomb.”

  “There’s a tornado bomb?”

  “Can’t talk about the—”

  Eugene waved an irritated hand. “Yes, yes. How about pets?”

  “Pets? Sure, pets are fine.”

  “Excellent. So, Corporal, do you keep any pets?”

  “No. I have allergies.”

  Eugene sighed. “Should have seen that coming. How much farther do we have to go, and don’t tell me you can’t talk about it.”

  “We’re nearly there, sir.”

  “Excellent. Not that this hasn’t been lovely, you understand.”

  After one last elevator ride, they reached the QER center proper, which took up an entire subbasement level. The doors opened to a stark white hallway. The end of the hallway was occupied by a very serious-looking metal blast door and an even more serious-looking marine Mk VI urban battle android. You could tell it was an urban model because it was only two meters tall and its weapons could only punch through several human bodies, but not the reinforced concrete wall behind them. Eugene didn’t bother trying to strike up a conversation with it.

  “Don’t worry about him. He’s activated only if things go south,” said the corporal. “He’s offline right now. They’re remotely piloted by a marine operator anyway.”

  Eugene waved a hand in front of what he assumed were the machine’s
eyes. He mulled over the similarities between the battle android and Harris standing at attention.

  “What gives it away?” he asked the young marine.

  “They have a slight electric whine when they’re active.” Harris unlocked the blast door with a quick handprint and voice recognition.

  The heavy door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. As the corporal turned to squeeze his shoulders through the entrance, Eugene reflected that young Harris could make a passable door in a pinch. The corporal stopped and opened one of several small drawers built into the wall.

  “Please place your phone and any other electronic devices in here. You’ll also need to power down any cybernetic implants as long as you’re inside.”

  Eugene handed over his mobile phone. “All I have in my head is an eAssistant. It doesn’t have a wireless connection.”

  Harris shook his head as he took the phone and placed it in the drawer. “Wireless isn’t the issue. It’s electromagnetic radiation.”

  “Ah. Finicky little devils.”

  While the battle android was certainly there for security purposes, the thirty-centimeter-thick door was not intended solely to discourage interlopers. The thickness of the walls and doors also isolated the entangled particles from any outside interference. The sensitivity of the QERs housed inside the next room put even the skills of a pea-detecting princess to shame.

  Harris stood as far to the side as his size would allow. “I’ll wait just outside to escort you back once you’re finished.”

  “You’re not coming in?”

  “No, I don’t have the clearance. Besides, between us, I have a feeling if anyone heard whatever message you were brought down here to see, they’d be changing assignments before they could even pack.”

  As Eugene stepped into the room for the first time, he felt the cool, dry air and low hum that betrayed the presence of superconductors. Humidity was kept very low to keep moisture’s close friend corrosion from crashing the party. Bright display screens marked rows of machines. The hushed voices of a handful of techs in white coats were the only sounds to be heard above the din of electronics. Eugene’s mind latched onto the memory of a monastery he had visited in his youth.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  The sharp voice from behind startled the professor out of contemplation. He turned to see a short man with wild silver hair whose eyes bored into him like corkscrews, which was quite a trick from behind his nuclear-rated safety glasses. He wore the same white coat as the others, but carried an old-fashioned clipboard and pen. An abacus hung from his neck.

  With a sharpened tongue, he spoke again. “I asked you a question, sir. What is your purpose here?”

  Eugene fumbled, “Who are you?”

  “Who am I?” His voice rose. “Who am I, asks the impertinent stranger. I’m the QER Keeper, that’s who. And anyone who has any business being here would know that already. So once more, who are you?”

  “I, sir, am Professor Eugene Graham, administrator of the American/European Space Agency. I also happen to be the person who sets your department’s budget and personnel allotments. I am here by the request of my personal assistant, whom I expect to be led to presently.” Eugene leaned over the smaller man as he spoke, crushing him with the weight of his position.

  The man relented and his voice changed. “Ol’right, no need for bruised feelin’s. Me and my mates was just havin’ a bit o’ fun. It’s pretty dull down here most o’ the time.” He motioned to the closest tech. “Hey, Marvin, go get that Jeffery fellow. There’s a good lad.”

  “Er, thank you.” Unsure of exactly which of the Keeper’s façades was the act, Eugene was uneasy. “I suppose you don’t get many visitors.”

  “Not a daily happenin’, if ya follow.” He looked at his clipboard for a moment. “But neither is a packet like this li’l bugga. Normally, we just write a daily report and send it on up. Sometimes, we see somethin’ sensitive come in and we use our discretion on how much crypto to use. But we didn’ even want to let this one through the Net.” The Keeper let his glasses slip down his nose and looked Eugene directly in the eye. “We called your office, sir, but the only person still around was young Jeffery. He said he’d fetch you for us. This is the definitive need-to-know kinda packet, mind.”

  Eugene’s thoughts sprinted. He’d never been called directly to the QER center before. He’d been to briefings at Fleet Com’s office frequently, but that was many levels up. The topics of those meetings had been dark; lost ships, a plague ravaging the Tau Ceti colony. In the past, bad news was limited to merely traveling fast. Now, it could arrive instantly. Even in the parched air, Eugene was sweating.

  “Here’s your man now,” said the Keeper.

  The lightly muscled frame that carried Jeffery around lagged about a second behind him. He always seemed to be several steps ahead of everyone, including himself. It made for a very good, if a bit awkward, assistant. Eugene noticed that Jeffery’s hair remained resolute.

  “Good morning, Professor.”

  “Morning comes with the sun, Jeffery,” said Eugene. “This is still evening.”

  “Um, yes. Sorry about that. I see you’ve already met Dr. Kiefer.” Jeffery cocked an eyebrow and glanced in the direction of the retreating Keeper, who busied himself sliding beads back and forth. “He’s very … dedicated.”

  “Committed might be the word I’d pick.” Eugene looked back to his assistant. “So what’s this message, and how bad is it?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly … it’s probably better if you just look for yourself. The Magellan’s machine is this way.”

  “Ridgeway’s ship? It just reported in a few weeks ago to confirm they’d crossed the thirty-yard line. What happened to them?”

  “Come see for yourself. It’s just over there.” Jeffery started walking before Eugene could respond.

  As they passed unit after unit, the professor noticed the machines becoming progressively bulkier. The displays were more primitive. Fonts retreated backward through time. It felt like walking through an industrial museum. He passed one with a physical keyboard with a tiny logo of an apple with a bite missing. Since they only worked as paired units, QERs had to be replaced simultaneously, which might not happen for decades between trips. The oldest machines down here had run incessantly for almost a century.

  The two men neared the back of the room, where Jeffery slid to a stop in front of two machines labeled AEUS Magellan A and B. He pulled up a message log on the first machine and highlighted the most recent entry.

  “Well, here it is.” Jeffery stepped out of the way to allow the professor closer. Eugene leaned in to read the message.

  FROM: CAPTAIN ALLISON RIDGEWAY, CO, AEUS MAGELLAN

  TO: ADMINISTRATOR, AESA

  MESSAGE TEXT:

  FOUND ARTIFACT SIXTEEN METERS LONG FLOATING IN DEEP SPACE THREE DAYS AGO. RECOVERED. CURRENTLY RESIDING IN SHUTTLE BAY TWO. PRELIMINARY EXAM TO FOLLOW.

  STRONGLY SUSPECT NONHUMAN ORIGINS. PLEASE ADVISE.

  END

  Eugene sat for several seconds in stunned silence. His brain had read the last line of the message, but it just wasn’t connecting the dots. He didn’t know Allison Ridgeway personally, due to the fact that when Magellan launched, he was still trying to master the intricacies of two-legged locomotion. He was very familiar with her file, though. She was imminently qualified for her position as head of the expedition. Her mission reports were always thorough and punctual. She didn’t seem like the sort disposed to histrionic overreaction.

  “Professor?” Jeffery looked anxious, which ran counter to his usual grating state of wide-eyed excitement. “What are we going to do?”

  “Do you remember what Montezuma II did when he mistook Cortés for Quetzalcoatl?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Hopefully not that.”

  “Okay…” Jeffery paused. “I was thinking in more immediate terms.”

  “Right, sorry.” Eugene felt the weight of the future piling on top of hi
m. “This is a little above our pay grade, Jeffery. We need a meeting with the president’s team first thing in the morning.”

  “That’s a pretty tall order, Professor. They don’t move around the president’s schedule on a whim, you know. What should I tell them?”

  “The truth. That should suffice, for once. We have to get a game plan together before this hits the holos tomorrow.”

  “But we’re the only people who know, aside from Dr. Kiefer and his men.”

  “That’s more than enough vectors. Something will slip. It always does.” Eugene turned toward the door. “Now then, I’m going home so that I can lose sleep somewhere more comfortable. Call me once you have the meeting arranged.”

  “What should we tell Ridgeway?”

  Eugene slapped his forehead. “Of course, this is why I need you, Jeffery.” He walked back to the QER interface, typed out a reply, and hit Send. They both headed back toward the door while the device worked its magic over the light-years. Eugene stopped near Dr. Kiefer and waved the man over.

  “Now, Doctor. I scarcely need to explain the gravity of our situation. It is absolutely critical that we keep this under wraps until the government has time to prepare a plan of action and an official statement. If this isn’t handled properly, it could lead to a public panic that would make the African Food Riots look like an ice cream social.”

  “Right you are, sir. We’ll keep the ol’ lips tight, no worries.”

  “Excellent. I know I can count on you.”

  The wild-haired man walked back to speak with his subordinates.

  Eugene leaned over to whisper to Jeffery. “I give it until noon.” He stepped to the door and looked back as it opened. “Once you have the meeting set, go home and get some sleep. I have a feeling we’re both going to run low in the coming weeks.”

  With that, Eugene stepped through the door and nodded to Corporal Harris, who’d taken up position next to the android. Eugene took a moment to center himself and collect his thoughts.

  “I’m ready to go home, Corporal.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The door hissed open again, and Jeffery walked into the hall with something in his hand. He passed the two battle androids and held his hand out to the professor.