Music of the Spheres (The Interstellar Age Book 2) Page 3

  While the downloads were relatively inexpensive, the harness itself was pricey, and getting the techs to integrate the PERSuit sensors with her optilink required signed affidavits that she would not sue in the event of a sensory overload. Combining her body’s natural senses with the artificial sensors was not recommended by any of the company’s medical staff.

  The result was more than she had hoped for, and while she wore the specifically tailored harness, it was as if she had her sight back. There was a major drawback to the garment.

  Within a few days of wearing it, Justine began to feel the effect that the company had feared: extended exposure caused her to develop severe migraines. She couldn’t wear the harness for more than twelve hours in a day before the pain became unbearable—her mind just couldn’t process the enormous amounts of data.

  Through experimentation, Justine had also found that if she wore the harness four days in a row, the headaches would start as well.

  As a compromise, she never wore the harness at home—she had memorized every nook and cranny in her apartment and didn’t need it anyway—and she rarely wore it in public.

  For the most part, she wore it when she was working. In her newest vocation as a liner hostess, being able to identify passengers by sight was a valuable ability—especially since the majority of those passengers were country-corporate decision makers, department heads for various science and tech companies, and influential members of the media.

  Folding the harness carefully, she packed it in one of her travel bags and headed out to catch her taxi to the spaceport.

  ∞

  Houston Spaceport was bustling with activity. As the taxi pulled up the long stretch of road to the main entry gates, Justine could sense many human forms gathered on the grassy hills in front of the twenty-foot-high fence. While her optilink sensor picked up that the protestors held signs, she could not read any of the slogans written on them; she could, however, hear their angry shouts when she opened the window a crack.

  “Feed the people—not your greed!”

  “Space is a waste!”

  “We need jobs on Earth, too!”

  “God gave us Eden; only those who are unworthy seek to leave the garden!”

  It was nearly impossible to explain to such protestors that space exploration had opened avenues to new technologies and conveniences which they themselves used on a daily basis. Mining the asteroid belts did provide jobs as the raw materials were shipped back to Earth for processing; it also saved the Earth’s natural resources.

  There were protestors at nearly every facility in the country that promoted science and technology. If someone suffered a job loss for whatever reason, they often didn’t care to look closely at the actual cause; it was easier to point the finger at the nearest target. In the past few years, it was the space industry. Nearly gutting the NASA program was not enough; they wanted to ground all space exploration.

  There were also outcries from many of the world’s religions, which had started from the day Justine and her crew had discovered the Dis Pater on Pluto. Many thought it blasphemous to consider that humans weren’t a unique and divine species. To entertain the notion that there were thousands of alien races among the stars was sacrilege.

  Some pundits theorized the only reason there hadn’t been a full-out religious revolution was because of the failure of Alex’s mission. He had come back without any evidence of alien contact; that, to the religious extremists, was proof that the entire affair had been a hoax, and humankind’s status as the sole intelligence in the universe was secure.

  Over the past year, the crowds of protesters had gradually dwindled, and their rants had not held the vehemence they once carried.

  Security, however, remained tight. Once the taxi arrived at the main entrance, it was scanned before any of its occupants were allowed to exit the vehicle. The taxi was quickly cleared of any harmful substances, such as explosives, weapons, or contraband. Justine got out, gathered her bags, and headed for the main building.

  The automatic doors parted for her as she entered the spaceport, but when she stepped in, her way was blocked by a tall, thin figure whose back was to her.

  Many first time visitors to the port were intimidated by the size and scope of the main terminal, which also doubled as a kind of museum of space flight. Large reproductions—most life-sized—of NASA’s various rockets, shuttles and other craft from its long history were displayed throughout the interior of the large building. Crowds of tourists came just to look at the scale models, even if they didn’t have tickets for an outbound flight.

  Justine assumed the man in her way was simply taken aback by the scope of the space terminal.

  “Excuse me,” she said politely.

  The visitor turned, and though Justine could not make out his features, what struck her as odd was that he wore glasses. With current technological levels, they could correct nearly everything short of blindness. It was rare to see someone still wearing spectacles. When he spoke, there was a hint of a foreign accent that Justine couldn’t quite place.

  “My apologies, ma’am. I am not sure where I need to go.”

  Justine, who had been in the port a hundred times, said, “Are you here for a tour or a flight?”

  “Flight.”

  “Check-in is right over there.” She pointed to a bank of kiosks to their left. “Then you’ll have to go through security.”

  “Thank you,” the man said with a slight nod, and then he headed off.

  Justine had no need to check in. She went straight to the security gates and said good morning to the ever-watchful guard. She had to remove her optilink so that he could perform a retinal scan. There was a gentle chime as the computer confirmed her identity, and then a second chime indicating she had a personal message.

  Justine put her optilink back on and turned in the direction of the holoslate. While any words written in analog format on a sign were nothing more than a blur, the optilink sensor had the ability to receive digital data and feed it directly into her optic nerve—the original purpose of the technology. Her name, position, and other vital information popped up on the floating slate beside the scanner, and the blinking message icon hovered below her name.

  She touched the icon, and it transformed into a terse sentence: Please report to Director Mathers.

  The guard, trying to be helpful, pointed down an adjacent corridor with his neuro-baton and said, “Administration is that way, ma’am.” He sat back down on his chair, looking bored. “Director Mathers’ office is there.”

  “Thank you,” Justine replied with a smile, though she knew exactly where his office was, and headed off in that direction.

  ∞

  “Sir?” she spoke softly at the entrance of Director Mathers’ office.

  Behind the large oak desk, a high-backed leather chair swiveled around towards Justine. Director Allan Mathers held up one finger for her to wait. His other hand was touching the comlink on his ear.

  “—Yes, she’s here now,” he said to whoever was on the other side of the call. “—Yes. Consider it handled… All right. I’ll brief her and send her right down.”

  He pulled the comlink off his ear and dropped it on the desk.

  “Justine,” he said. “Close the door and come in. Sit.”

  Usually, the director greeted his employees with a smile, but today his face was grave and drawn. He looked out the window into the distance while Justine closed the door and approached the desk.

  “What’s up, sir?” Justine asked as she eased herself into the small guest chair.

  Director Mathers turned back and leaned his elbows on his desk. He touched the tips of his fingers together and leveled his gaze at Justine.

  “Did you scan the news this morning?” he asked.

  Justine shook her head. “Sorry, sir, I was in a bit of a rush.” Then, when the director didn’t follow up his question, she asked, “What’s happened?”

  “Justine, you are aware that with all the cut
backs, quite a few of USA, Inc.’s subdivisions, like NASA, have been outsourcing a number of their flights to commercial lines like ours. We even sometimes provide transport for armed forces troops and military cargo to Luna and the outlying space stations.”

  Nodding, Justine said, “Yes, of course. Why are you telling me this?”

  “I’m not comfortable about it, but the directive came from corporate.” He glanced up at her, then looked back at his hands.

  “What directive, sir?” Justine wrinkled her eyebrows. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  The director took a deep breath. “Well, apparently a report just came in that the original Mayan scroll—the one they say was transcribed from alien visitors a thousand years ago…”

  “Yes,” Justine said, gulping. “I know which one you’re talking about.”

  “Well,” he continued, “it’s been stolen, and the old man who had it has gone missing. They think he might have been kidnapped.”

  “Oh?” Justine hadn’t heard any news about this. She wondered what the kidnappers thought to accomplish. At last report, translating the document was a bust. That was one of the reasons for mothballing the Quanta experiments.

  Director Mathers nodded. “That’s not all. The Honduran Cooperative passed some intelligence on to the CIA. There’s a growing movement within the Departmentals in that country. Many of them consider that, because the aliens”—he made air-quotes—“picked the Mayan people to visit half a millennia ago, they are the ‘chosen ones’ and should be in the forefront of any interstellar commerce. They’ve been grumbling for years about being sidelined. The governments, though, now think this group might be behind the kidnappings and theft.”

  Justine pursed her lips. “I’ve heard something about them. What do they call themselves?”

  “Cruzados,” the director said. “But now NASA feels keeping their supply of Kinemet here in Houston is a security risk. They’ve suffered enough bad press, and don’t want to see themselves in any more headlines. They’re not doing anything with the Kinemet currently, and so they want to transport it to Luna Station. They feel the rebels don’t have the resources to attempt any extra-planetary action.”

  “How much Kinemet are we talking about?” Justine asked.

  “About a thousand kilos.”

  She whistled. “That’s a lot!” They had used about a hundred kilograms of the kinetic metal on Alex’s flight, and they’d overestimated how much they would need.

  “We’ve got the room,” he said with a shrug.

  Then Justine cocked her head. “So, what does this have to do with me?”

  “Understandably, NASA wants to keep this shipment hush-hush until it has arrived safely on the Moon. An army squad is providing protection.” He pointed at Justine. “But NASA wants a liaison to go with them. Someone who has security clearance, and apparently yours has never been revoked, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You were attached to NASA from the Air Force,” he said. “Best of both worlds. So they’ve requested you accompany the security detail.”

  Justine didn’t want to get her hopes up. She swallowed, then said, “Accompany? What does that mean? What do they want me to do?”

  “Same thing you always do. Only this time you’ll be attending the soldiers they’ve assigned to the cargo.”

  “Oh,” Justine said, trying valiantly to keep the sharp disappointment out of her voice.

  “You’re to report to hangar twelve for a briefing with Colonel Niles Gagne before the other flight crew or passengers embark.”

  Justine got to her feet and sighed.

  The director said, “This is not a crap assignment.”

  “Yes it is,” she told him.

  “It came from up top, Justine,” he said by way of apology. The expression on his face showed his sincerity. “Look, just do this one boring flight—”

  “A week in a cargo hold babysitting a squad of soldiers is more than just a little boring,” Justine said and headed for the door. She would never be recalled to active duty. No one needed a blind pilot. “It’s demeaning. If you recall, my actual position with Lunar Lines is in public relations. Now you want me to serve coffee to soldiers?”

  “I’ll make it up to you,” Director Mathers said.

  Justine opened the door, but paused before leaving. “Well, I can think of one thing that would make this worth it for me.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “I have a friend on CS3,” she said.

  “You mean Alex Manez, don’t you?”

  Justine nodded. “Yeah.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s not doing so well.” Justine pulled at her lower lip. “On the return trip, I’d like to take some shore leave up there; spend a little time with him and see what I can do.”

  “That can be arranged.” The director smiled. “Consider it a bonus. We’ll arrange some rooms in the Starwatch Resort. I’ll even write it up as a training expense.”

  Justine smiled. “Thanks, Allan.”

  She closed the door behind her. Feeling much better about her newly assigned duty, she strode off to find hangar twelve and the colonel.

  6

  Canada Station Three :

  Lagrange Point 4 :

  Earth Orbit :

  Within moments of entering his apartment, a sudden bursting pain literally knocked Alex off his feet.

  That haunting song that he heard whenever he used his sight filled his mind, pushing out every rational thought.

  How is this happening? he screamed to himself. The Kinemetic radiation had long since left him.

  The song was there nevertheless. It urged him—no, compelled him—to finish what he’d started over a decade before.

  Alex was not whole, and unless he could complete his journey and transform into a full Kinemat, he would die in agony; and very soon. Time was his enemy.

  For the rest of the day, hiding in his apartment, Alex floated in and out of consciousness.

  Since the first time he had been exposed to Kinemet, Alex had not been able to sleep or to dream. He could do neither, and did not seem to have suffered any of the physiological or psychological effects of sleep deprivation. Apparently, his mind could still shut down.

  As if drugged, his thoughts soared and wandered. Images appeared before him, and flittered away before they could fully form.

  Always, though, there was the Song, calling to him. No matter what he did—taking painkillers, turning off the lights, lying down—it was always there.

  It was difficult for him to think clearly. Like a gas-powered automobile running on empty, he needed an infusion of Kinemetic radiation before he succumbed.

  His exposure to Kinemet a dozen years before had begun to transform him, but the change was far from complete. Alex was a hollow shell, a ghost, trapped between two dimensions. The key, he knew, was in translating that ancient scroll. No one had been able to solve the riddle, and they’d given up trying. Alex knew the answer was in the scroll. It had always been right there.

  As he thought about it, fighting off the pain of Kinemet withdrawal, the certainty grew.

  With great difficulty—and struggling to maintain his wits—Alex commanded the communications system to make contact with Michael Sanderson. If there was anyone who could figure out his puzzle, it was Michael.

  But the pain!

  He couldn’t remember if he had connected with Earth and spoken with Michael, but before he could try again, the song filled his head … and then something happened to him that tore him away from reality.

  His body, ill-equipped to deal with the pain, betrayed him.

  He began to shut down.

  The last thing he heard was the ancient voice calling to him: Alex, come home.

  7

  Sanderson Family Barbeque :

  Hull, Quebec :

  Canada Corp. :

  A cloud of smoke billowed out of the barbeque when Michael’s brother, David, opened the lid to reveal
half a dozen charred steaks.

  “You think maybe they’re cooked enough?” Michael asked, standing off to the side.

  With his fingers wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle, he lifted it to his lips and tipped the drink up enough to let a stream of golden liquid pour into his mouth. Several drops spilled over his beard, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand.

  “Wise-ass remarks will not get you invited back,” David said, waving a spatula in a fan-like motion over the burning steaks to dissipate the rising smoke.

  “Probably better for my health, anyway.” Michael winked at his brother.

  “If you’re worried about your health, you’d best watch what you say.” David lifted one of the barbeque utensils and pointed it at Michael. “I have tongs, and I’m not afraid to use them.”

  Michael laughed. “I’ll go get some plates,” he said and headed toward one of the picnic tables scattered around the yard.

  Halfway there, he stopped and turned around. David was poking at the blackened meat with a long knife.

  “And a fire extinguisher,” Michael added in an attempt to keep the banter going.

  “Bah!” David made a shooing motion, but he was grinning when he went back to his attempts to resuscitate their dinner.

  Laughing, Michael closed the distance between the barbeque and the tables. By the time he got there, though, his smile faded.

  His humor never lasted long these days.

  After Alex Manez made his miraculous return from Centauri, Michael had returned to Quantum Resources as a consultant to help coordinate the Quanta trials. For reasons the technicians could never adequately explain, none of the test pilots who were exposed to the Kinemetic radiation had fully developed the electropathic ability that Alex had. Without that control, they were unable to return the ships to normal space once they were quantized as light. Several of those who volunteered died during the initial Kinemetic irradiation.

  Failure after failure caught up to the corporations, both financially—each ship cost in excess of seventeen billion dollars—and from a public relations perspective. Coupled with the continued economic instabilities as more country corporations went into bankruptcy on a global basis, USA, Inc. had decided to mothball most of their experimental sub-companies, including Quantum Resources, which they sold to Canada Corp. at a bargain basement price.