“Then what?”
She glanced at me. “Then,” I said, “we’ll withdraw into the field station and try to see what we have.”
Bryan was wearing a T-shirt with a silhouette of Abraham Baranov, the dates of the seminar, and the motto Mars or Bust. Several of the participants had them by now. He nodded, tried the roast beef, stirred some sweetener into his iced tea, and buttered a roll. “When do we get to the AI?” he asked.
Startled, I looked suspiciously at Maureen. She shook her head no. She hadn’t told him. But nobody else knew the scenario.
“Bryan, what makes you think there’s an AI?”
“Well,” he said, “I don’t see where else you could go with all this. Anyway, I’ve read your work.” He shrugged.
I was insulted again. But I hid my feelings behind a casual smile. “There are all kinds of possibilities,” I said.
When Maureen and I were alone again, a half hour later, she let her dismay show. “What do we do?” she asked.
I’d been thinking about little else. “It’s too late to change the scenario. We’ll stay with it.”
But I didn’t sleep well that night. Sam had suggested I was predictable. Bryan had demonstrated it.
The field station consisted of dormitory-style sleeping quarters for eight, a lab, a maintenance shack, a kitchen and dining room, a communication center, and a rec room. Additional support modules had been established outside. Their domes gleamed in the ruddy sunlight.
In the morning, there was fresh news: preliminary analysis of the North Ridge disks suggested they had been electrically powered. Two more had been found; and they were all in a straight line, horizontally placed, approximately fifty meters apart.
Sam, manning the radio console, picked up a series of UPI Worldline bulletins that suggested the Earthside situation was deteriorating. President Martin had declared a national emergency, promised a war on terrorists, and mobilized the entire array of federal agencies in the effort. In a related development, Congress passed a joint resolution calling for a mandatory death penalty for anyone convicted of a terror crime, or for any accessories in a terror crime. The president, vacationing at the Tampa White House, was quoted as saying he might consider calling for a suspension of habeas corpus until calm had been restored.
That all seemed far away. Warren thought how well distance lends perspective. The home world was a violent, angry place. And somehow, against the eternally placid stars, its virulence was more apparent. And less real.
Meantime, the team had spent the morning at the site, where they’d unearthed several more tablets, some with images, some without. All had inscriptions. The characters were unlike anything Warren had seen before, little more than squiggles and dots. But Judy said she thought they had enough to attempt a translation.
“How do we even begin?” asked Warren.
“Actually,” she said, “it might be fairly easy. We should be able to assume the text is connected to the images. So first we try to figure out what the images are about.”
There were eleven tablets. Eight had images; all had inscriptions. The reptilian figure was portrayed in various poses: it gazed contemplatively past the observer’s shoulder; it walked casually through a corridor; it drank from a flagon, through which a lightning strike passed; it even leaned casually against a wall, as if waiting for a bus. (In the latter depiction, the lightning was again present, this time a bolt drawn diagonally across the lizard itself.)
“Hey,” said Sam, pulling his earphones down around his neck. “They took out the Holland Tunnel.”
“Blew it up?”
“Yeah. During rush hour. They’ve got a couple thousand casualties.”
They stood around for a time in stunned silence, the curious Martians all but forgotten. “I wonder,” said Jason at last, “if they ever knew what kind of neighbors they had?”
A half hour later, Sam announced that a lab report had come back on the altar stains. “There’s DNA,” he said, “and plasma, oxygen, fructose, proteins, urea—”
“Blood,” said Patti.
Sam shook his head. “They’re saying there are some differences, but it’s a decent approximation.”
Meantime, Murray thought he had the meaning of one of the tablets—The one with the creature leaning against the wall. “No loitering,” he said. “And this one, no littering.”
Somebody laughed. Snorted. But every image with a lightning bolt contained the same cluster of characters at the beginning. Do not—? Warren knew instinctively that Murray was right. But he was disappointed that the first other-worldly translation would be so prosaic. No littering. My God.
Toward the end of the afternoon, they heard that Congress had voted Pesident Martin broad emergency powers.
They worked through dinner, reading increasingly ominous bulletins, which Sam was now posting. The FBI were rounding up suspects. The National Guard had been placed on standby. The President, promising action against “cowards,” made good on his threat to suspend habeas corpus. The ACLU warned against overreacting.
Meantime, Mars Central reported that the North Ridge disks had moved! Three had rotated and now seemed to be tracking the sun. (The fourth was apparently not functional.) Warren had just begun to digest the implications when another bulletin arrived: electrical power was being collected by the disks and relayed below ground.
“What’s down there?” asked Judy.
“They’ve finally got around to ordering a radar survey,” said Sam, pressing his earphone down.
Murray’s team produced an alphabet for the alien script, and constructed a model syntax. Warren worked with them for a while, but they were too quick for him. Anyway, there was something else he wanted to look at.
“This,” he told Judy, indicating the pyramid tablet. “The pyramid has to be something special. It puts off light rays. And look at the Martian’s attitude.”
“It’s almost religious,” she said. Judy’s group had been cataloging and analyzing the other artifacts.
“That might be a leap,” said Bryan. “After all, these are alien icons. I think we should go slow trying to read nonverbal cues.”
Judy picked up the pyramid and compared it to the one in the image. “It’s the same object.”
“I think you’re right,” said Warren.
She held it at eye level. “What are you?” she asked.
It was getting late. “We’ll pick it up from there tomorrow,” I told them. “But I want to congratulate you. We didn’t think anybody was going to be able to translate the language.”
Murray drummed his fingers on the table and glanced around at the five people who had been working with him on the tablets. “We thought we’d stay on awhile,” he said. “We’re close to a breakthrough.”
But I didn’t want anyone getting ahead of the program. “Let it go, folks. We’ll get back at it in the morning.”
They grumbled and picked up some notes and I knew damned well they were going to find a place and keep working. But I wasn’t brought in to police these people, and they couldn’t take the tablets with them, so there was a limit to how much progress they could make.
Skyhawk maintained The Hawk’s Nest, a bar and recreation lounge next door to Harper Hall, which filled quickly with the Baranovians. They drifted by and talked about books they’d recently read, or about recent advances in one area or another, or just how good (or poor) the drinks were. They made it a point to avoid talking about the exercise with us. “It’s not considered kosher,” Sam said. “Not after hours.” After a while Maureeen and I withdrew to talk about the next day’s scenario.
I have to make a confession of sorts here. Maureen had caught my eye right at the start. By the end of the second day I felt positioned to try to implement some dishonorable intentions, so when she started toward the office we’d been using in the Long Elm Building, I steered us instead along the lakefront.
She looked surprised but said nothing. We congratulated each other on the good job we were
doing. The wind was loud in the trees and somewhere a radio was playing. Exactly the right sort of music for a moonlit night and a beautiful woman. “You have lovely eyes, Maureen,” I told her.
Her lips curved into a smile. “I thought science fiction writers were above this sort of thing.”
The comment threw me off stride. The truth was that I couldn’t even see her eyes in the shadows. I struggled to come up with an appropriate response. Something witty. If you can make a woman laugh, I’d always noticed, everything else comes a lot easier. But she’d turned away from me and was looking out toward the lake. Along the shoreline, there were a couple of docks and a boathouse and a few benches. Someone was sitting on one of the benches.
“It’s Bryan,” she said. “What’s he doing out here by himself?”
I shrugged. “I guess he wants some time alone.”
“I guess. But the whole point of coming here’s to party, isn’t it? Especially for a guy his age.”
There was something disconsolate in his appearance, a distortion in the geometry of body to bench to moonlight. I could see that Maureen felt it too, and a cold wind blew suddenly off the lake. We looked at one another, and I read the unasked question in her face, whether we should go over; and I saw the answer in her eyes. If he wanted company he’d be in the Nest. Best let it be.
We passed on, chilled, and strolled among the bungalows that served as living quarters. Gradually we got back to laying plans for the morning. The mood of the evening had changed, and I knew that an advance on my part would not be welcome.
An hour later, we returned past the shore front. Bryan was still there.
Four characters had been written across the face of the flip chart. “It’s the god’s name,” said Murray. “It’s from the tablet with the pyramid.
“What does the inscription say?” asked Judy.
“‘In (the god’s name) are all things made possible. Speak, and he will reply.’” There was of course no way to know how the name had been pronounced, or indeed how any of the Martian language had sounded.
“We have two kinds of inscriptions,” Murray explained. “One set advises visitors about behavior. No loud talking. No shouting or laughing. That sort of thing. The other’s devotional. ‘Know that in the hour of most peril I am with you.’”
Warren was puzzled. “So we have a society in a place where no one could have lived during the last three billion years or so. Some of the artifacts, drums, religious symbols, and whatnot, seem primitive. But they were able to put up solar power units.” It gave him a headache. “How long has this stuff been here? Have we established that?” He looked toward Sam.
Sam nodded. “The lab thinks the altar, the urns, the more primitive stuff, is about eleven thousand years old. The cable, the coils, the pyramid, one item that seems to be a gauge, are all older. By about a thousand years.”
“Older?” said Eddie.
“Yes. The high-tech equipment came first.” He paused. “This is off the subject, but it’s something you should know. During the night, a lot happened back home. We have reports of widespread arrests across the United States. They’ve got massive riots, and the rioters are on both sides of the issue. The National Guard was called out, and in some places they refused to fire on the rioters. Martin’s expected to declare a national emergency and there’s even talk of his suspending the Constitution. On top of all that, Broadwell says he’s not doing enough.”
“Broadwell?” asked Judy.
“Chairman of the Joint Chiefs,” said Bryan.
They stared at one another. Warren thought about his kids, four of them, all in their twenties and trying to get started. He didn’t like what he was hearing. “I need to get to the commcenter,” he said.
Sam nodded. “We’re making provisions for anyone who wants to call home. Make a list of people you’re worried about and we’ll try to get through. But Harvey asked me to tell you that lines are jammed in some places and down in others so he can’t promise anything.”
“Best thing for us,” said Jason, “is to just continue what we’re doing and let things play themselves out. There’s nothing we can do from here.”
Sam touched one earphone, the way he always did when a message was coming in. A moment later he nodded and punched a button to activate the speakers.
“—and gentlemen.” It was the Director. His voice, usually rich and full and authoritarian, sounded shaky. “I have to announce,” he said, “there’s been a coup.”
There was a rush of conversation and shushing.
“President Martin has stepped down. A government statement says that his retirement has been caused by ill health. It’s no longer clear whether the Constitution remains in effect. The military has announced that Broadwell is taking over until they get things sorted out. Congress is reported to have approved the step.”
“A coup?” said Jason. “In the United States?”
“We’ll keep you informed as the situation warrants.” The Director seemed to be having trouble breathing. “Our only course is to recognize that we’re two hundred million miles away, and we should simply concentrate on doing our jobs. Thank you for your attention.”
“They can’t do that,” stammered Murray. “They don’t have the authority.”
“Where’s the President?” asked Judy.
Sam was still pressing his earphones. “The Tampa White House. Apparently. Worldwide says he’s asking everybody to support Broadwell for the duration.”
Beyond the plasteel, the low red hills stretched to the horizon.
Nobody said much. It struck Warren that perhaps the void between the worlds, black and deep and empty, could twist reality, could spirit away the mundane and insinuate shadows and phantoms. This Broadwell, for example. Warren had never heard of him. And now he was running the country?
Judy shook it away, as if she too sensed that the environment invited illusion. She smiled at Warren, suggesting it would all be okay.
The pyramid and the pyramid tablet had been set side by side on a work table. She sat down in front of them. She looked first at the tablet, on which the crocodilian Martian lifted the glowing pyramid, its head bowed. And then at the pyramid itself, cool and remote. But something was different about the pyramid. “Warren,” she said, “look at this.”
Warren looked. “It’s redder than it was.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Now that was unsettling. “O god of the pyramid,” she said. “I’d be delighted if you’d speak to us.”
Later, Warren would recall with a smile that it wasn’t exactly a formulation to conjure up other-worldly powers. But the lights dimmed and the pyramid brightened. And a quivering singsong cacophony erupted inside the dome.
The voice, if indeed it was a voice, was pitched high. Warren glanced up at the speakers, but Sam shook his head. The sound wasn’t coming from them.
“The pyramid.” Judy almost fell out of her chair getting away from it. The others circled the table, but kept a discreet distance.
“Why don’t we button up?” suggested Abu Hassam. Abu’s background was medical—he was a physician—but his specialty was math. He’d worked with Murray’s group on the translation.
Sam closed the shields, which shut off the sunlight, and turned off the lamps. Warren stared at the pyramid, stared into the pyramid. Deep in its interior, a ruby glow pulsed in time to Warren’s own heartbeat.
The ventilators were loud.
“Is someone there?” asked Judy.
“Yes.” The voice sounded disembodied, spectral, inhuman. It chilled Warren.
“Who are you?” asked Murray.
“I’ve already told you my name.”
Warren glanced at Sam, who was shaking his head and muttering no no no.
Out in the hills, at the edge of vision, a buggy was crawling over the lip of a crater.
“You’re the god—” Her voice went off the top of the scale and she had to pull back and start again. “You’re the god of this place?”
�
��I’m the Administrator.”
“Where are you?” asked Patti hesitantly. “Are you located inside the pyramid?”
“The ‘pyramid’ is a communication device.” Warren could hear the apostrophes. “You are from the third planet.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” said Murray. “Are you alive?”
“Define the term. My grasp of your language is tenuous. I don’t even know its name.”
“English,” said Charlie Kepper, an archeologist who had done most of his previous digging around North American Native mounds.
“Keep it simple,” said Patti. “Are you aware of your own existence?”
It chuckled. “How would you reply if I asked you that question?”
“Okay,” said Murray. “You said you’re the Administrator. What do you administrate?”
“Mostly transportation among the five cities. I had other responsibilities as well. But nothing demanding.”
“What five cities? There are no cities out there.”
“Well, of course you can’t see them. How did you people manage to cross the void from the third world?”
“The cities are buried,” said Eddie.
“Very good. I always thought the monkeys—do I have the right word?—had possibilities.”
That stunned everybody. Patti broke the long silence that followed: “You’re familiar with Earth?”
“The third world? The People were familiar with it, and I through them.”
“The People?” said Patti. “You mean the Martians?”
“The People were not native to this world.”
Warren finally found his voice. “You’re talking about them in the past tense. Are they dead?”
“Extinct, yes. Dead.”
“How long ago?” asked Jill.
“This world has completed its orbit six thousand seventeen times since the last of them died. But they forgot who they were long before that.”
A Voice in the Night Page 27
