by Scott Mackay
And with the peculiar sensation that he now had a voice inside his head.
2
Retired Air Force Colonel Timothy Pittman lifted his phone after three rings.
It was, of all people, General Morris Blunt, his old Orbital Operations commander.
At first he couldn’t concentrate on the man’s words because he was so surprised to hear the general’s voice after four years—they hadn’t kept in touch. He thought the general might be calling him simply to say hello, and it took him nearly ten seconds to realize the call was about the Moon, how they might need a military presence there, and how something extraordinarily odd had happened. The general explained that he usually didn’t like calling people out of retirement, but this was something special, with its own circumscribed set of problems.
‘‘And because of your spectacular success in the orbital exchanges against the People’s Republic of North China four years ago, Tim, we think you might be the man for the job. Orbital, hard-vac, and micro-g warfare are your specialty. No one does them better.’’
Pittman glanced out the window at his desert homestead where a coyote nosed around a scorpion. A jet from Peterson Air Force Base five miles away hit the sound barrier, music he usually gloried in— the reason he lived so close to an air base, so he could watch the jets go by and remember his days as a pilot—but which under the circumstances he now found a distraction. ‘‘The Chinese have something on the Moon?’’ For the Chinese would never leave his blood.
It turned out the PRNC had nothing on the Moon. The situation was far stranger than that.
An entity had come to the Moon.
Blunt said, ‘‘We have no idea what it is. But we know that someone with your particular skills should be the one to handle it. Fye and Goldvogel both agree, and we have Oval Office approval.’’
It took Pittman a moment to answer, and when he did, it was still with China in his mind. ‘‘Has satellite reconnaissance shown any launch activity in the People’s Republic of North China?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Have interlunar tracking stations shown any approaches?’’
‘‘The thing just appeared.’’
‘‘And you’re sure the PRNC doesn’t have any assets on the Moon?’’
‘‘You forget how badly we degraded their capability. Believe me, the PRNC was the first thing we thought of. And we’ve ruled it out. Po Pin-Yen is concentrating on his navy, not his space program.’’
‘‘Have there been any casualties?’’ He was already thinking about how he could neutralize this entity— this thing, this potential new enemy—if in fact it had caused any casualties. He was like that scorpion out there. Scorpions stung when attacked, and stinging was what he did best. What he loved. What he lived for.
Blunt, in a voice that was now subdued, said, ‘‘We have one man in critical condition. He’s not expected to live.’’
Pittman felt his stinger flexing.
In Arlington, two low-ranking officers took Pittman to one of the smaller situation rooms, no windows, the lights down low, a big screen, the shield of the Department of Defense in blues and greens, and Blunt there with Oren Fye and Brian Goldvogel, Fye looking after intelligence matters, Goldvogel their security head.
In those first few seconds he saw in their eyes the usual judgments, Fye turning his jowly face a fraction of a centimeter, Goldvogel’s expression hardening like quick-drying cement, General Blunt—his crisp blue uniform, round red face, and white goatee— appraising him, all of them thinking, Why did he retire?Why did he desert us? and none of them understanding how it had been his last desperate effort to put his marriage with Sheila back together. He needed to leave the military, the thing he worshipped most, so he could show Sheila and the kids that he loved them.
The reproach was still in their eyes.
Blunt said, ‘‘Soft drink?’’
The offer was like the first move in a chess game.
‘‘A Coke.’’
Blunt nodded to the accompanying officer. The officer went to get Pittman the refreshment.
Move two: Fye and Goldvogel, on their feet now, offering casual salutes—here they were in the Pentagon again, and the rogue colonel, Timothy Pittman, was graciously returning to duty, divorced and single still, at last seeming to understand that the role of soldier and husband simply couldn’t be reconciled.
The pleasantries, if such they could be called, ended quickly.
Blunt began. And Pittman was glad he did. For as much as he loved his ex-wife and kids, he was never happier than when he had a military problem to solve.
‘‘At oh nine hundred hours today, an entity appeared on the Moon. We have no idea where it came from, what it is, or what it’s going to do.’’ A hint of speculation crept into Blunt’s voice. ‘‘The Greenhow System detected no approaches until the thing was forty kilometers above the lunar surface.’’ Mention of the Greenhow System, something that was visible from space as Earth’s ‘‘ring,’’ so sensitive it could detect the movement of an insect under a leaf, an apparatus that had been instrumental in his orbital spearhead against the Chinese four years ago, made Pittman feel as if he had at last come home. ‘‘It came to rest less than a kilometer from the Gettysburg Scientific Installation. Brian, if you could give Tim the scoop on Gettysburg.’’
Goldvogel, every strand of his blond hair perfectly in place as if with laminate, glanced at his waferscreen. ‘‘The entity produced significant ejecta on its final approach, and while the eastern slope of Bunker Hill took the brunt of this wave, the fallout circumference was significant enough to destroy much of the Sumter Module and Command Port.’’ Years in Washington hadn’t entirely eliminated Goldvogel’s Bronx brogue. ‘‘This has effectively stranded all scientific and support personnel at Gettysburg, at least for the time being.’’
‘‘But Gettysburg itself is okay?’’ asked Pittman.
Goldvogel nodded. ‘‘It’s built snug to the western slope of Bunker Hill. Damage to the facility was minor.’’
‘‘Who’s up there now?’’
‘‘Two teams, both scientific, one under the leadership of Dr. Cameron Conrad, the other headed by Dr. Renate Tennant. Dr. Tennant’s under contract with us. Dr. Conrad’s with the Brookhaven National Laboratory. He and three of his team were on the surface when the entity touched down. As General Blunt might have mentioned in his telephone call, one of his doctoral students, Jesus Cavalet, was badly injured, and remains in critical condition.’’
‘‘But no one is dead.’’
Blunt shook his head. ‘‘Not yet.’’
The officer came back with Pittman’s Coke. Pittman took the soft drink, snapped it open, and took a meditative sip.
‘‘Have we had a report from Dr. Tennant? If she’s on Pentagon contract—’’
‘‘She’s sent us a status report and some preliminary safety proposals,’’ said Goldvogel.
‘‘Have we spoken to the North Chinese?’’ asked Pittman. He still had a hard time accepting that they didn’t have anything to do with this.
Oren Fye sighed. ‘‘Their space program is in moth-balls, Tim. As I think General Blunt explained to you, and I’m sure it’s something you already know, Po Pin-Yen is concentrating on his navy.’’
He didn’t like Fye’s tone. Fye was speaking to him as if he’d been out of the loop too long. ‘‘Do we have any intelligence on this thing? Any live feeds? Anything at all?’’
‘‘Dr. Conrad captured some footage,’’ said Fye.
He took another sip of Coke and pondered Dr. Conrad. ‘‘No one else?’’
‘‘No,’’ said Blunt.
‘‘Do we have it?’’
‘‘We do,’’ said Goldvogel.
Goldvogel lifted a remote and thumbed some buttons.
The fuzzy footage of a helmet-cam appeared on the screen. The camera shifted dizzily from Conrad’s wrist, then rose into the sun. For a second, the screen went white as sunlight overpowered the digital
medium. But then the camera made adjustments, and the moonscape dimmed. Everything was gray, rounded, and bleak.
‘‘This is the eastern arm of Shenandoah Valley seen from the top of Bunker Hill,’’ said Goldvogel. ‘‘If you look behind the dust, you’ll see the entity.’’
Pittman was impressed. It was huge. As a possible fighting vehicle it was bigger than anything the U.S. or the PRNC had. Its lower edge appeared first, reflecting the light of the sun. Conrad shifted and the sphere became centered in his helmet-cam lens. The top curve gained definition. Though the image was grainy—the same quality one might expect from a convenience-store security camera—Pittman now discerned texture, color, and . . . movement? The entity appeared to spin in a hundred different directions at once. Was that possible, or was it some kind of optical trick? Perhaps camouflage? Its texture was as smooth as polished marble. The thing reminded him of a giant blob of mercury.
Still impressed with its size, he asked, ‘‘How big is it?’’
‘‘Gettysburg reports a diameter of at least three hundred meters,’’ said Fye.
‘‘Have we spoken to Dr. Conrad?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘And did Dr. Tennant provide anything useful over and above her status report and safety protocols?’’
‘‘Nothing of military value, if that’s what you mean?’’
‘‘And satellite reconnaissance indicates that this is the only one?’’
The notion that there might be more seemed to surprise them all.
Cowed, Blunt answered, ‘‘So far.’’ As if he was now willing to admit to the possibility of an invasion.
‘‘And we’ve definitely spoken to the North Chinese?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘And they deny . . .’’
Fye shook his head. ‘‘They’re just as baffled as we are, Tim.’’
‘‘Has it done anything since it landed?’’
‘‘The Greenhow System indicates it’s remained stationary,’’ said Goldvogel.
‘‘Is it emitting energy?’’
‘‘A minimal electromagnetic field,’’ said Fye.
‘‘You say Conrad has one scientific team member in critical condition. What is the nature of his injuries?’’
‘‘Blunt-force trauma due to flying ejecta,’’ said Goldvogel. ‘‘As well as vascular distress from sudden decompression. His suit was breached.’’
‘‘Is he going to live?’’
‘‘The nurse practitioner says it’s doubtful. Especially because they can’t medevac him to Earth.’’
Pittman stared at the image on the screen. The camera shifted away to the west arm of Shenandoah. He saw what was left of the SMCP, a mass of twisted metal, destroyed modules, and crumpled space vehicles. That in itself was reason enough for war. But first they had to determine the nature of their enemy, and he was beginning to think that Cameron Conrad might be an asset in this regard. The camera veered northwest, and he saw Gettysburg itself, delineated by its own outside lights, a hub with several spokes built close to the ground, rugged, secure, but now covered in dirt from the thing’s moonfall.
‘‘And we’re planning a rescue mission?’’
‘‘NASA is,’’ said Goldvogel. ‘‘It might take a while.’’
‘‘How soon can we get a military presence to the Moon?’’
‘‘Ten days for the expeditionary force,’’ said Blunt. ‘‘Three weeks for a larger force.’’
Pittman said, ‘‘Put me on the first shuttle. What about these scientists? Can we use them?’’
Goldvogel said, ‘‘We think we should put Dr. Tennant in charge because she’s already under contract with us.’’
Pittman’s brow settled. ‘‘I think we should go with Dr. Conrad. He filmed the damn thing. That took guts. And we’re going to need guts for something like this. He might be a scientist but he seems to have a firm grasp of military reconnaissance. More so than Dr. Tennant.’’
3
Two hours after they took Jesus to the infirmary, Cam sat in the common room for a briefing. Dr. Renate Tennant, having come back from her mysterious disappearance with Laborde, conducted the briefing.
‘‘Because I’m the senior scientist here at Gettysburg, and am operating under the auspices of the Department of Defense, I’ve taken it upon myself to coordinate our emergency response to the development out on the surface.’’
Her lips were thin mauve lines, her eyes wide and glittery, and her makeup precise, redone since her disappearance, a gesture that seemed superfluous to Cam under the circumstances, but in keeping with the woman’s personality, for she was nothing if not precise.
‘‘I’ve been working to devise, along with Lamar, appropriate measures to ensure our safety, maintain our discipline, and secure our rescue.’’
Lamar Bruxner, chief of support, stood to one side, his face frozen, looking bewildered by this sudden lapse in routine, as if emergency briefings at a time of day when everybody should have been starting their afternoon round of research constituted a serious breach of Gettysburg etiquette.
Renate continued. ‘‘I know many of you are wondering how we’re going to get off the Moon, now that the SMCP has been wrecked, so I’ll address that question first. I’ve made initial contact with the Pentagon, and they tell me NASA’s planning a civilian rescue mission, but that it might take some time. The Pentagon’s chief concern is landing an expeditionary military force on the Moon, which I’m pleased to say speaks to our first concern, that of ensuring our safety.’’
Cam peered more closely at Renate. ‘‘And the Pentagon feels an expeditionary force is necessary? This may not be a military situation.’’ He paused, not exactly sure why he had interjected, feeling only that some outside force had prompted him.
Renate glanced at the chief of support, then turned back to Cam. ‘‘They have to consider the . . . the possible danger that the sphere outside presents, not only to us but to the rest of the world, and that’s why they’re sending an expeditionary force.’’ She raised her chin, and the corners of her lips settled. ‘‘We have no idea what that thing is or where it came from. We don’t know if it’s a threat. We don’t know if it plans to do anything, or remain inactive, as it has so far.’’ She motioned toward the observation window. ‘‘The Pentagon is looking at the bigger picture. As for us, we have to design protocols that address worst-case scenarios until NASA can arrange a civilian rescue. Lamar and I have discussed a number of approaches. We’ve generally agreed that it’s best to stay inside Gettysburg. It’s safest if we remain invisible to it. In other words, no surface activity, and minimal radio communications.’’
Cam frowned. Remain invisible to it? Did she have no concept of the historical importance of the thing? He examined her as she continued to outline in exacting detail further security protocols, a tangle of rules that touched on everything from carbon dioxide venting to human waste recycling. Didn’t she understand that they had an opportunity here? It seemed perfectly obvious to him what they had to do.
‘‘So we’re just going to sit here and do nothing?’’
Renate turned to him. ‘‘In the interest of safety, Lamar and I feel that would be best.’’
He felt his face settle. ‘‘That’s the last thing we should do. We should go out, take a look at it, and try to figure out what it is, where it comes from, and what it wants.’’
Her face tightened. ‘‘Yes, but Dr. Conrad, we can’t rule out hostile intentions.’’
‘‘If we don’t go out and look at it, how can we decide if it’s hostile? Also, if it’s extraterrestrial—and this is certainly starting to look like our best hypothesis—shouldn’t we find out what we can about it before it takes off? When are we going to get a chance like this again? How can you even suggest we hide from an opportunity like this?’’ He looked around at everybody, taking control of the room, and in a more hushed voice said, ‘‘This is first contact.’’ He motioned out the window. ‘‘Do we want it
to slip through our hands?’’ He turned to Renate. ‘‘I’ll volunteer. I don’t mind. I’ll go take a look. We could learn so much from it.’’
Her eyes narrowed with worry. ‘‘What if you antagonize it? It may retaliate, and staff could be injured or even killed. Look at Jesus.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘I’m sorry, but I believe our security should be our first concern, and as ranking scientist I really must insist on our three-pronged plan of safety, discipline, and rescue. That means no excursions to the surface.’’
He glanced around the room. The Princeton Team members nodded encouragement. His own team members looked at Renate with growing skepticism.
He pushed his arguments. ‘‘To give you an example of just how much we can learn from it, while you were talking to Lamar, I was reviewing the Greenhow tapes, specifically, the thing’s approach. It’s a most puzzling and intriguing approach. The entity just appears. It comes out of nowhere. It materializes forty kilometers above the lunar surface. How can something do that? What are the physics behind it? Don’t you see that this hints at something beyond our realm of understanding? I’ve particularly examined what I’m calling its point of entry, that spot forty kilometers above the lunar surface, where the sphere is first observed by the Greenhow ring. I’ve run this point-of-entry sequence through some of our Stradivari software models, ones that weren’t destroyed, and I’ve determined that at the moment of materialization, a viscous impact occurs. This impact has much in common with the five-dimensional black holes we’ve been creating at Brookhaven. Low-viscosity fields like this curve space and time. In this particular case, the curved space-time field was seventeen kilometers across. We’re at the microscopic stage in these kinds of things. But this point of impact seems to indicate a practical stage. If what we have here is a sentient species, then we’re looking at an extremely advanced one. Which means an immense opportunity to learn. So let’s not blow it by being cowards.’’
Her brow settled. ‘‘In other words, your own field of professional work is motivating you.’’
