Spindrift Page 4

  “When the transient occultated Proxima Centauri,” Shillinglaw went on, pointing to the orbiting blip, “it spotted this thing. So, as you say, its recognition program kicked in, and it transmitted a signal.”

  He paused. “Two days ago, we received a response.”

  Ramirez’s jaw dropped. His shoulders sagged, and his knees buckled. For a moment, Shillinglaw thought the man was about to faint; he started to reach forward to steady him, but Ramirez recovered himself. Putting a hand to his mouth, he stared at the holo with such fascination that tears began to form at the corners of his eyes. A nervous giggle, almost like a little girl’s self-conscious laughter, escaped from his throat; he made an effort to choke it back, but it came forth again, no less hysterical than before.

  “We received a signal,” he whispered, almost breathless. “My god…oh, my god…we received a signal.”

  “Yes, we did.” Until then, Sinclair had remained in the background, quietly observing the conversation. Now he came forward, hands clasped behind his back. “And you see why we need your help. Obviously, this is something that needs to be investigated, the sooner the better…”

  “Yes…yes, of course.” Ramirez took a deep breath; Shillinglaw could tell that he was trying to calm down. “I need…I need a comp. Or at least a pad. And as much access to current data as you’ll allow me.” He looked again at Shillinglaw, his eyes pleading. “If you could speak with the warden, perhaps ask him to let me…”

  “Actually, I think we can do better than that.” Shillinglaw glanced at Sinclair, received a curt nod in response. “A high-level conference has been scheduled to discuss the matter. It’ll be held in England, about a week from now. We’d appreciate it if you’d agree to attend…if you don’t mind, that is.”

  Jared Ramirez, traitor to the human race, stared at him in shock. For an instant, it seemed as if all color was suddenly bled from his face. He blinked rapidly as his mouth opened and shut several times.

  “Yes,” he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “Yes, I’d like to do that, very much.”

  TWO

  APRIL 16, 2288—WILTON PARK, ENGLAND

  The Daimler hovercoupe glided up the narrow country road that wound its way through rolling meadows, passing ancient oaks where magpies fluttered from limb to limb. Once the fields had been filled with vast flocks of sheep placidly grazing upon emerald grass; when the global climate began to change, though, sheep were among the livestock in the United Kingdom to succumb to disease and longer winters. Although the West Sussex countryside was one of the few places in England that remained relatively unspoiled, even the small, white-shouldered birds had become an endangered species, and it was nothing short of a miracle that a semblance of springtime had come to the downs.

  The coupe slowed down as it approached a security gate. Its scanner recognized the vehicle, and the gate swung open. The Daimler moved up the serpentine driveway, heading toward the grey manor house that sprawled across the crest of the hill, until it finally came to a halt within a courtyard in front of the main entrance.

  Jared Ramirez waited until the Daimler’s skirts deflated and the coupe came to rest. Even then, though, he was not at liberty to leave the vehicle by himself; he had to be patient until a pair of Special Air Service officers—or at least that was what he assumed they were, even though they were dressed in civilian clothes—came out from beneath the archway and opened the back door for him. Seated beside him, John Shillinglaw prompted him with an unnecessary nudge to the elbow. Ramirez ignored him, and instead glanced toward the driver.

  “Thanks for the lift, David,” he said. “See you on the way back?” The driver, who’d picked them up at the shuttle landing field at the nearby RAF base and doubtless was another SAS man, favored him with a brief nod and a smile. Picking up his cane, Ramirez swung his right leg out of the vehicle, ducked his head and, with his wrists still bound together by magnetic handcuffs, allowed the two security guards to extract him carefully from the car.

  “Welcome to Wiston House,” one of them said, as if he were an honored guest instead of a prisoner. “May I take your bag for you?”

  “Certainly. Thank you.” Leaning heavily on his cane, Ramirez watched as his escort opened the coupe’s boot and removed the nylon duffel bag that contained everything he owned, not counting his prison jumpsuit and the handful of trinkets he’d left behind on the Moon. Almost everything else he’d brought with him, including the suit he wore, supplied courtesy of ESA along with the cane that he used to help himself cope with Earth’s gravity. If all else failed, at least he’d return to Dolland with a few items he might use for barter with his fellow inmates.

  But you’re not going back there, are you? he thought. You got off the Moon. And one way or another, you’re getting out of here, too.

  Ramirez gazed up at the weather-beaten Tudor walls and mullioned windows of Wiston House. During the short ride over from Wilton Field, David had obliged his curiosity by giving him a brief history of the place. Established on a private estate that dated back to the eleventh century, the manor had been erected in the 1500s, with additional wings, along with an adjacent chapel and carriage house, built during the eighteenth century. Although parts of the original edifice had been demolished during the nineteenth century by an overenthusiastic architect, Wiston House remained largely unchanged through the mid-twentieth century, when the family that owned the manor put it under long-term lease to the British government. Since then, Wilton Park had served as a site for high-level conferences. The manor’s interior might have been remodeled many times to suit contemporary requirements, yet its purpose was still the same: a dignified and comfortable place where diplomats, scholars, defense officials, and scientists could discuss the pressing issues of the day.

  This wasn’t the first conference Ramirez had been invited to attend, but it was the first one where he’d arrived wearing manacles. As one of the SAS men carried their bags through the front entrance, he turned to Shillinglaw. “Think you could have these removed?” he asked. “They’re rather unnecessary…not to mention humiliating.”

  Shillinglaw hesitated, yet before he could respond, someone else answered for him. “I don’t think that’s an inappropriate request. If you’re willing to trust us, then we should be willing to trust you.”

  A tall, young-looking man with thinning blond hair sauntered toward them from the door. “Rudolph Beck,” he said, his voice thickened by an Austrian accent. “Director General, European Space Agency.” He glanced at Shillinglaw. “Good to see you again, John”—Shillinglaw briefly nodded—“and you must be the famous Dr. Jared Ramirez. Delighted to meet you at long last.”

  “The pleasure is all mine.” For the first time since this all began, Ramirez found himself taken off guard. “Are you sure you don’t mean the infamous Dr. Jared Ramirez? I believe that’s who you’re expecting.”

  “Only if he’s still in the car and hasn’t gotten out yet.” Beck made a show of glancing past him at the coupe. “No? Well, then, I suppose we’ll just have to make do with you.” He looked at their driver. “David, would you please…?”

  Without a trace of reluctance, David produced a remote unit from his pocket, aimed it at Ramirez’s wrists. A brief buzz, and Ramirez felt the cuffs loosen as his hands parted from each other. “There’s an interesting legend about this place,” Beck went on, while David removed the manacles. “The first conference was held here shortly after World War II. The subject was the rebuilding of Germany, and the participants included a number of high-ranking former Nazi officials. One of the conference organizers asked whether they should take special precautions to make sure that none of the POWs escaped, to which another is said to have replied, ‘Then we’ll have to make sure that they don’t want to escape.’”

  The Director General pointed to the long driveway leading down the hill. “As you see, there are no guards, no watchtowers. Nothing but the gate, and you can walk around it easily enough. So there’s nothing to prevent you fr
om leaving anytime you choose to do so.”

  “Honor system?” Ramirez tried not to smirk, but he couldn’t help himself. “I appreciate your…um, candor, but unless you’ve haven’t heard, I’m the man who sold out the human race. I’ve just spent the last nine years of my life in a place where people barter sex for an extra roll of toilet paper. And when I’m done here…”

  “You’re going back. Or at least so you assume.” Beck turned to lead them toward the iron-strapped front door; Ramirez noticed that the SAS men remained behind. “Dr. Ramirez…Jared, if I may?…ifyou don’t wish to participate in this conference, that’s your choice. Your manacles have been removed, and as I said, you’re free to go as you will…although I doubt you’d get very far. There are quite a few people who won’t want you running loose.”

  Passing through a small foyer, they strolled through the manor’s great hall. Ramirez paused to marvel at the hammer-beam rafters of the high ceiling, rising sixty feet above a Renaissance dining room lined with oak tables and high-backed chairs. At the far side of the room was an ornate fireplace, its white-marble mantel carved with a family crest. Midmorning sunlight streamed in through tall windows; from the kitchen door, he caught the mixed aroma of broiled salmon, steamed asparagus, fresh-baked bread. A team of waiters quietly moved through the room, setting the tables for the luncheon soon to come, while Mozart gently filtered from speakers concealed within the minstrel gallery.

  “But if you choose to work with us,” Beck continued, oblivious to the luxury through which they casually passed, “we may find a way to ease your sentence. Make it possible for you to reenter society in your former capacity.”

  Distracted, Ramirez almost missed this part. He stopped, turned around. “What are you saying? Are you telling me…?”

  “Not now,” Beck said quietly, raising a hand to shush him. By then they’d reached a hallway running lengthwise across the manor’s ground floor. To their left, past a mahogany staircase leading to the second floor, was an open door leading to what appeared to be a parlor. Ramirez spotted several men and women standing around, drinking coffee and chatting among themselves. Other conference members, taking a break between sessions.

  “You’ve missed the keynote,” the Director General said quietly, “but you have a few minutes before we begin your presentation.” He pointed to the nearby stairs. “Your bag has already been taken to your room. Perhaps you’d like to go up there, freshen up a bit…”

  “Thanks, but that’s not necessary.” During the long trip from the Moon, he had spent the last two days preparing his notes and mentally rehearsing what he’d have to say. Although he was tired and his clothes felt rumpled, he was ready for what lay ahead. To the right, he saw another door at the other end of the corridor. “That’s the conference room?”

  “Yes, it is.” Beck turned to escort him that way. “Come. We’ll get you set up.” Then he smiled, and gently grasped his elbow in what was meant to be a comradely gesture. “Relax. This is supposed to be informal. And besides, you’re among friends.”

  I doubt that, Ramirez thought, although he didn’t say so aloud.

  The Wilton Park conference room was long and broad, with tall windows that looked out across the downs and a fireplace topped with a gilded antique mirror. An oak-top table shaped like an elliptical ring dominated the room, with a decorative floral arrangement set up in its center and high-backed leather chairs evenly spaced around the ring’s outer rim. The table was equipped with built-in data screens and microphones; bottles of springwater and crystal jars of hard candy had been set out, refreshments intended to keep the attendees comfortable during the long hours they spent in session.

  As the principal speaker for this session, Ramirez was seated in front of the fireplace, with the conference chairman to his right. He turned out to be someone Ramirez had encountered many years ago: Sir Peter Cole, the Royal Society professor of physics at Cambridge who, only a little while ago, had been appointed Britain’s Astronomer Royal. Tall and slender, with longish grey hair and an air of studied affability, he greeted Ramirez with a firm handshake and a pleasant smile, as if they were old colleagues who’d simply been too involved with their own careers to drop each other a line now and then. Yet Ramirez hadn’t forgotten that Sir Peter once published a blistering critique of his work in the Astrophysical Journal; perhaps he was no longer a foe, but he certainly wasn’t a friend either.

  His left knee involuntarily twitching beneath the desk, Ramirez watched the other conference members as they filtered into the room to resume their places at the table. Besides Cole, Beck, and Shillinglaw, the only person he recognized was Donald Sinclair. The political officer gave him a cursory nod, then opened his screen and began to review his notes from the previous session. The rest were strangers, identified only by last-name placards arranged along the table. Most looked like tenured academics or government officials of one stripe or another; they regarded him with guarded curiosity, as if he were a rare beast, reasonably domesticated yet nonetheless dangerous, that had been temporarily released from his cage and trotted out on a leash.

  Once Cole rang a small silver bell to bring the meeting to order, he began the meeting by reminding everyone that the proceedings were officially classified Top Secret, and that the nondisclosure agreements they’d signed forbade them from any pubic discussion or publication of what they learned during the conference. Knowing nods from around the table, yet once again Ramirez was puzzled by Sinclair’s presence. Why had a WHU political officer—along with a contingent of Union scientists, no doubt—been invited to attend a high-level scientific conference sponsored by the European Alliance? Had the rivalry between the two superpowers eased that much while he was in Dolland? He doubted it, yet nonetheless there they were, just the same.

  Sir Peter then briefly introduced Ramirez. He pointedly didn’t mention where he’d been the last nine years, or the crimes for which he’d been convicted—everyone there knew those things already. Instead he stated that Ramirez was an astrobiologist associated with the Union Astronautica and, in his capacity as a SETI researcher, the creator of Raziel. Then Cole turned the session over to Ramirez.

  Ramirez didn’t rise to speak, but instead remained in his seat. Although he made use of his screen’s interactive features, for the most part he consulted the handwritten notes he’d made during his trip from the Moon. Much of his material was already well-known, of course. Christened after the ancient Hebrew angel of mysteries, Raziel was a lunar-based optical interferometer: twenty-seven twenty-meter reflector telescopes configured along a Y-shaped axis, with each arm six kilometers in length and the entire array having a baseline of ten kilometers. Located within Mare Muscoviense on the far side of the Moon, a few kilometers from the Union Astronautica’s long-baseline radio telescope to which it was linked and operated, Raziel was designed to work independently for years at a time, conducting full-sky sweeps of the galaxy in cycles that would take up to two years to complete before they’d begin again.

  In the beginning, Raziel hadn’t been intended for SETI research. Its primary mission had been the discovery of habitable worlds—or at least terrestrial-size planets—in orbit around distant stars. But that mission had been largely fulfilled by 2278 with the discovery of a little over a hundred terrestrial planets within a seventy-light-year radius of Earth; less than ten were considered to be habitable, and none was closer than Coyote, forty-six light-years from Earth. Furthermore, none of these worlds displayed any signs of intelligent life.

  Yet even as the public had embraced the anthropic principle—the idea that natural selection favored the emergence of humankind as the heir of the galaxy, to the point that it seemed like divine will—Ramirez dissented by reintroducing an old theory. Although a highly advanced alien race might try to transmit radio messages, as generations of scientists had assumed they would, it was also possible that they might instead resort to visual means of announcing their existence.

  To this end, he proposed that Razie
l be retasked from searching for terrestrial planets to a search for intelligent life. It was Ramirez’s theory that, given sufficiently advanced technology, aliens might build very large, rotating structures—triangles, for instance, or even louvered rectangles—that couldn’t be mistaken for planets, which in turn would be established in heliocentric orbits around their native stars. When these structures passed in transit across the faces of those stars, the resultant light curve could be recognized even across the distance of many light-years by high-power telescopes.

  Raziel’s new mission was to visually search those cataloged stars within seventy l.y.’s of Earth believed to have habitable zones, to see if such macrocosmic structures might exist. The array was reprogrammed to disregard already-identified planets that might briefly occultate those same stars; it would take two or more transits for Raziel’s AI to log a newfound object as a possible target. From there it would proceed to the next step, which entailed instructing the nearby deep-space network to transmit a recognition signal—a digitalized series of prime numbers—toward the suspect.

  For nearly ten years, Raziel had conducted its lonely vigil, its telescopes moving from one star system to the next, observing it for a while before moving on. Yet none of these systems showed signs of being inhabited, and although there had been the occasional tiny object that, if only for one-thousandth of a second, occultated a distant sun in a way that suggested it might be artificial in nature, there was no repetition of their light-curve patterns.

  After each sweep, Raziel was programmed to reposition its telescopes toward Proxima Centauri, a routine procedure that allowed the telescopes to recalibrate themselves. Ramirez compared it to a reader relieving eyestrain by focusing upon a random object across the room. Although only 4.2 light-years from Earth, Proxima Centauri was a red dwarf that had long since been determined not to support any terrestrial planets.