Deep Storm

by Lincoln Child

  “Extinguish the light, please.”

  Now Korolis could see more clearly.

  They were suspended above a massive cavity, of which only the smallest speck had been exposed. Whether the cavity was hollow—or whether the glassy surface directly below them filled it, like glue forced into a hole—he could not be sure. The velvety blackness gave no distinct impression, save that of vast depth.

  But no…a faint light appeared from far below. As he stared, barely able to breathe, it slowly brightened.

  It was coming closer.

  “Sir!” said Rafferty, his normally reserved voice tense.

  Korolis glanced at him. “What is it?”

  “They’ve stopped broadcasting their signals.”

  “You’ve regained full control?” Korolis asked.

  “Yes, sir. Wireless and remote systems, as well. Sensors, too: ultrasound, radiation, magnetometer, everything.”

  Korolis turned back to the viewscreen. “They’re showing themselves to us,” he murmured.

  The light was closer now. Korolis noticed that it was wavering slightly: not in the lazy, undulant way of the sentinels’ silhouettes, but in a sharp, almost fierce pulsation. And it was a color he had never seen before: a kind of deep metallic sheen, like the glow of black light on a knife blade. It seemed he could taste it as much as see it. This was a strangely unsettling sensation. Something about it made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up.

  “Sir!” said Rafferty again. “I’m picking up radiation signatures from below.”

  “What kind of radiation, Dr. Rafferty?”

  “Every kind, sir. Infrared, ultraviolet, gamma, radio. The sensors are going crazy. It’s a spectrum I don’t recognize.”

  “Analyze it, then.”

  “Very well, sir.” The engineer turned to his station and began punching in data.

  Korolis turned back to the viewscreen. The glowing object was still rising toward them out of the rich blackness. Its strange color deepened. It was shaped like a torus, its outline pulsating ever more brilliantly. As he stared, openmouthed, the lambent otherworldliness of it brought back a sudden memory of childhood, long forgotten. When he was eight, his parents had taken him to Italy, and they had attended a papal mass at St. Peter’s basilica. When the pontiff had brought out the host and raised it toward the congregation, Korolis felt himself galvanized by something like an electric shock. Somehow, the richness of the baroque spectacle brought the true import of it home to his young consciousness for the first time. There, at the tabernacle, the pontiff was offering them the most wonderful gift in the universe: the sacred mystery of the consecrated host.

  Of course, organized religion had long since lost its usefulness for Korolis. But, staring at the wondrous, shimmering thing, he felt the same blend of emotions. He was among the chosen. And here was the offering of a higher power, the most wondrous of gifts.

  His mouth was dry, and the coppery taste had returned. “Either one of you want to take a look?” he asked huskily.

  Rafferty was still hunched over his laptop. Dr. Flyte nodded, then slid his way across the cramped interior and took up a position at the view port. For a moment, the old man said nothing. Then his jaw worked briefly. “‘No light; but rather darkness visible,’” he murmured.

  Abruptly, Rafferty looked up from his laptop. “Commander!” he barked. “You need to see this, sir.”

  Korolis bent over the screen, which showed two images, each one a blizzard of narrow vertical lines.

  “At first I couldn’t identify the spectrum of electromagnetic radiation,” Rafferty said. “It made no sense; it seemed impossible.”

  “Why?” Korolis found his glance stealing back toward the viewscreen.

  “Because the spectra contained wavelengths of both matter and antimatter.”

  “But that can’t be. Matter and antimatter can’t exist together.”

  “Exactly. But that object you see on the screen? Sensors said it was composed of both. Then I separated the matter signature from the antimatter signature. And I got this.” Rafferty waved toward the computer screen.

  “What is it?”

  “Hawking radiation, sir.”

  At this, Dr. Flyte turned from the viewscreen in surprise.

  “Hawking radiation?” Korolis repeated.

  Rafferty nodded. Sweat had appeared on his forehead, and there was a strange brightness to his eyes. “It’s the thermal radiation that emanates from the edges of a black hole.”

  “You’re joking.”

  The engineer shook his head. “The spectrum is instantly recognizable to any astrophysicist.”

  Korolis felt his growing sense of euphoria begin to dissipate into disbelief. “You’re saying that object we’re looking at is a black hole? Composed of both matter and antimatter? That just isn’t possible.”

  Flyte had returned his gaze to the viewscreen. Now, he pushed himself back, blue eyes flashing in his pale face. “Ehui! I think I understand.”

  “Then explain, please, Dr. Flyte.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen. That torus-shaped object down there isn’t a single black hole. It’s two.”

  “Two?” Korolis repeated, his incredulity deepening.

  “Two, yes! Imagine two black holes—they’d each be extremely small, perhaps the size of a marble—in very tight orbit around each other. They’re orbiting at a furious rate, a thousand a second or more.”

  “Orbiting how?” Korolis asked.

  “Not even I have all the answers, Commander Korolis. They must be held in that orbit by some force, some technology, we don’t understand. To the naked eye, they appear to be a single body. And to Rafferty’s instruments, they appear to be emitting Hawking radiation of both matter and antimatter.”

  “But in reality they are two separate entities,” Korolis said.

  “Of course,” Rafferty breathed. “Just as the individual spectrum readings on my laptop indicate.”

  All of a sudden, Korolis understood. It was unimaginably powerful, and yet so elegant in its simplicity. His euphoria returned. “Two black holes,” he said, more to himself than the others. “One matter, one antimatter. Locked together but not touching. And if the force that held them in orbit was removed…or, as it were, shut off…”

  “The matter and antimatter would collide,” Rafferty said grimly. “Utter and complete conversion of matter into energy. It would release more energy per unit mass than any other reaction known to science.”

  “Let me see that.” Korolis replaced Dr. Flyte at the viewscreen. His heart was hammering in his chest, and his hands were slick on the control handles. He stared at the glowing, pulsating thing below him with new reverence.

  When this descent had started, he’d had hopes of discovering some new and revelatory technology; something so awesome and overwhelming it would guarantee America’s supremacy. Now he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

  “A bomb,” he whispered. “The greatest bomb in the universe. And it fits in a matchbox.”

  “A bomb?” said Rafferty. There was a note of concern, even fear, in his voice. “Sir, as a weapon, what we’re looking at is of no practical use.”

  “Why is that?” Korolis said, not taking his eyes from the viewscreen.

  “Because it could never be used. If those two black holes ever collided, the resulting explosion would be staggering. It would destroy the solar system.”

  But Korolis was no longer listening. Because the dark infinitude in his viewscreen was now subtly changing.

  Where before there had been inky blackness—broken only by the shimmering light of the single artifact—now a faint, even blush of light was suffusing the spaces below. It was like the light of predawn. And Korolis caught his breath at what it revealed. There was not one artifact, but hundreds—thousands—held in the clear matrix that spread out beneath him. The nearer ones glowed with their strange, alien light, while those farthest away were mere pinpricks, almost invisible to the eye. Between them all, sen
tinels prowled, tendrils rippling, ceaselessly vigilant.

  It was a prize beyond all hope, beyond all imagining, beyond all measure.

  Korolis leaned back, wiped the sweat from around his eyes with the back of a hand, leaned in again. “Return to your station,” he told Flyte. “Ready the robot arm.”

  The cybernetics engineer blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Ready the robot arm. Extend it down one meter.”

  “But that would put it in contact with the surface of—”

  “Exactly.”

  There was a pause. Then Rafferty spoke up. “Forgive my saying so, sir, but are you sure that’s wise, given the apparent nature of—”

  “I’m letting them know that we’re accepting their gift.”

  Another pause. Then, murmuring something in Greek, Flyte turned to his station, grasped the arm’s trigger mechanism.

  On the screen, Korolis watched as the robotic arm came into view below the Marble. It moved forward hesitantly, a little jerkily, one steel finger extended. And once again his mind flashed back to his childhood trip to Rome. He remembered standing in the Sistine Chapel, staring upward, mouth agape, at Michelangelo’s depiction of the Creation of Adam: the fingertips of God and man about to touch—the first moment of life—the start of a universe…

  The arm came in contact with the glasslike surface. It dimpled inward, like transparent gelatin.

  Korolis thought he heard a faint singing, a low susurrus of sound like a choir atop a distant mountain. This is what it is like to touch eternity…

  Instantly, the two sentinels floating on either side winked out of sight. One moment they were there; the next they were gone, ghostly reflections now of mere memory. As he stared, a bright light bloomed deep within the cavity below them. It had the golden brilliance of a tiny sun. And its fierce light suddenly revealed all the secrets of that deep void. Korolis gasped, stunned, as its true enormity—and the staggering, overwhelming number of artifacts contained within it—was laid bare.

  This was a cache of death that could threaten the entire cosmos.

  “If just one could blow up a solar system, why do they need thousands?” he muttered.

  In the sudden silence, Flyte asked a question. “Do you know why the Parthenon is such a ruin?”

  This was so bizarre that Korolis turned toward the old man despite himself.

  “The Turks,” he went on, once again sounding serious. “They used it as a munitions depot in the eighteenth century. A stray shell blew it up. This is the same thing, Commander. It’s a weapons dump, the fruit of some intergalactic arms race. Something far beyond our technical comprehension.”

  “That’s rubbish,” Korolis said. “Has Dr. Crane been talking to you?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not rubbish. We were never meant to find this. These weapons were buried so they could never be found or used. Because they could absolutely destroy not only the world, but this section of the universe.”

  “Sir!” Rafferty said. “I’m getting some very strange readings.”

  “What kind of readings?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. A completely alien energy signature. And it’s moving toward us at a tremendous rate of speed.”

  “‘A generation of men is like a generation of leaves,’” Flyte sang in a low, mournful, dirgelike voice. “‘And the season of spring comes on.’”

  As he turned back to the viewscreen, Korolis realized the sun that had blossomed into existence far below them was not so tiny, after all. The singing grew louder, became an unearthly shriek. A moment later, Korolis realized the sunlike object was moving—passing by the sentinels and the artifacts, bomb artifacts, so quickly now they were mere blurs of color. For a brief moment, something about its single-minded trajectory reminded him of an antiaircraft missile. And then, as it drew closer and became clearer, it no longer looked like anything he’d ever seen before; racing up through the void toward him, growing and still growing until its fiery light filled the entire viewscreen, flinging off tongues of flame in bright angry curls like molten shavings…

  …And then—as it engulfed Marble Three and erupted up the tunnel, vaporizing Korolis’s flesh and carbonizing his bones in less than a millisecond—there was no time to feel surprise, or fear, or even pain.

  61

  “Thirty seconds,” the tech at the control panel said. “Maximum buoyancy achieved.”

  Vanderbilt looked up from the instrumentation. “Hang on, people. This is going to be a rough ride.”

  Below, the sounds of gunshots had ceased.

  Crane looked around. The escape pod had gone utterly still now, and in the faint blue light the sea of faces looked drawn, tense, worried.

  “Ten seconds,” the tech said.

  “Ejection sequence initiating,” said Vanderbilt.

  Now Crane could hear—echoing up through the entrance tube—the clang of some metallic object against the outer hatch. Over his shoulder, somebody began to pray loudly. Crane reached over and took Hui Ping’s hands in his.

  “Ejection under way,” said the tech.

  There was a sharp jolt, the grinding of metal on metal, and then the escape pod shot upward like a cork. Crane felt himself pressed into his seat as they rocketed toward the surface. He glanced down through the porthole but could see only a storm of bubbles, illum-mated by the pod’s running lights.

  At that moment, he heard a strange sound. It was low, almost at the threshold of audibility, and it seemed to come from far below. It sounded as if the earth itself was crying out in pain. The escape pod trembled in a way that had nothing to do with their rapid ascent.

  There was a sudden confusion of shouts and groans. Beside him, Hui suddenly raised a hand to her face. “My ears,” she said.

  “Change in air pressure,” Crane told her. “Try swallowing or yawning. Or the Valsalva maneuver.”

  “The what?”

  “Pinch your nose and shut your mouth, then try forcing air through your nostrils. It helps equalize the pressure in your ears.”

  He glanced downward through the porthole again, searching for the source of the strange roar. The welter of bubbles had cleared and he could just make out the curve of the dome, already hundreds of feet below them now, its cluster of lights like the faintest of stars in a black sky. As he watched, they faded from view, and all was dark.

  Then—just as he was about to look away—an explosion of light came from below.

  It was almost as if the entire ocean had suddenly been illuminated. Crane had a brief vision of the sea floor—stretching away in all directions like a grayish lunar plain. Countless bizarre and alien-looking deepwater fish hung below him. Then the brightness became too intense and he had to turn away.

  “What the hell?” he heard Vanderbilt say.

  The porthole was like a lightbulb, bathing the inside of the escape pod in brilliant yellow. But even as he looked, Crane noticed that the light was beginning to fade. More sounds came from below now: sharp booms and rat-a-tats like a legion of enormous fireworks. He leaned forward again, squinting into the porthole. He caught his breath.

  “Oh, my God,” he breathed.

  In the light reflecting upward from the ocean floor, he could just make out the dome. It had been abruptly blown open, peeled back like a banana. Inside it, he could see unearthly flashes of red and brown and yellow, a furious cascade of explosions as the Facility tore itself apart.

  And there was something else: a massive shock wave—roiling and churning like a living thing—boiling upward toward them at a furious rate.

  He sat up instantly, grabbing Hui Ping with one hand and the safety railing with the other. “Brace for impact!” he yelled.

  A moment of terrible anticipation…and then the pod was abruptly thrown on its side, nearly upended by the force of the wave. There were cries, screams. The lights went out, and the only illumination was the dying yellow light from below. Crane clung grimly to Hui as they were shaken violently back and forth. Som
eone went tumbling across the cabin, colliding with a safety railing and sinking to the floor with a groan. More screams, shouts for help. There was a popping sound, then a hiss of water.

  “Seal that breach!” Vanderbilt shouted to the tech above the tumult.

  “What is it?” Hui asked, her face pressed against Crane’s shoulder.

  “I don’t know. But those active controls you were asking about? I think Korolis might have just run into them.”

  “And—and the Facility?” she asked.

  “Gone.”

  “Oh, no. No, no. All those people…” Softly, she began to weep.

  Slowly, the buffeting abated. Crane glanced around the dim space. Many were sobbing or moaning; others, frightened and agitated, were being restrained and comforted by their neighbors. There seemed to be only one casualty: the man who had tumbled across the cabin. Gently, Crane freed himself from Hui and went to tend him.

  “How much farther?” he called out to Vanderbilt.

  The oceanographer had risen to help the tech deal with the breach. “Unknown,” he called back. “Power’s out; all systems have failed. We’re rising on our own buoyancy now.”

  Crane knelt before the injured man. He was dazed but conscious, struggling to get up. Crane helped him to a sitting position, then dressed a nasty gash across his forehead, another on his right elbow. The light from below had faded completely now, and the escape pod was pitch black. Crane felt his way through ankle-deep water back to Hui.

  As he took a seat, he felt someone else move past him in the dark. “We can’t seal the breach,” came Vanderbilt’s voice. “We’d better hope we reach the surface soon.”

  “Eight minutes have passed already,” the tech said. “They must have.”

  Even as he spoke, Crane noticed—or thought he noticed—the oppressive blackness of the cabin giving way to the faintest light. He felt Hui press his hand: she had noticed it, too. The headlong upward rush seemed to slow, then falter. A lambent light began to suffuse the cabin, flickering in patterns of green and deep blue.

  And then came a sensation that was unmistakable. They were bobbing in a gently rolling swell.