The Solar Sea (6 page)

As the shuttle swung around to the dark side of the Moon, Jefferson caught his breath. On the surface, near the Quinn Corp factory were ten enormous scaffolds. Within each were long, white blades that looked like plastic, though he knew the material was in fact a far lighter and stronger material—quinitite.

"Those quinitite blades,” began the colonel, “how big are they? They must be what ... three miles long?” He leaned over the shuttle's command console, peering out the window at the craters and other features on the Moon, trying to get a sense of scale.

The shuttle's pilot grinned. “Try five miles."

"So Jerome Quinn and this ... this Thomas Alonzo ... are really building a solar sail to go to the outer planets?” Jefferson shook his head, amazed. “Where's the main fuselage being built?"

The shuttle pilot pointed to a large building at one end of the factory complex. “It's in there. They're expecting it'll be finished next week."

"Next week?” The colonel's eyes went wide. “They must be devoting a lot of the factory's resources to this project."

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to return to your seat in the crew cabin. We're getting ready to land."

Jefferson nodded and then turned, his stomach doing flip-flops. His last trip to the Moon had been over a year before and he was no longer used to the tricks gravity played aboard a spacecraft approaching a body such as a moon or planet. They were close enough to the Moon, he could feel a small amount of gravity beneath his feet. At the same time, the shuttle was decelerating, making it feel like he was being pushed from behind as he fell-stepped-drifted back to his seat in the passenger cabin of the shuttle. He sat down next to John O'Connell, the man who'd met him at Quinn Corp's spaceport. O'Connell's chin had fallen onto his chest and a light snore escaped. Jefferson buckled his harness. Out of habit, he double-checked O'Connell's harness was also secure.

O'Connell awoke with a start as the shuttle fired its rockets, preparing to descend. “Are we there?"

"Almost,” said Jefferson. “So, tell me, who exactly is this Thomas Alonzo that I'm going to meet?"

"They say he's a hotshot engineer. He's been working his way through the ranks of the company for about five years.” O'Connell stifled a yawn. “The funny part is that no one seems to have met him before the ship started being built.” Jefferson lifted an eyebrow and O'Connell continued. “Oh, people knew him from teleconferences, but so far, I haven't met anyone who actually worked alongside him."

"Well, Quinn Corp is a big company—lots of divisions.” Jefferson narrowed his eyes, suspiciously, belying his offhand tone. “He said something about being the pilot manager?"

"He's going to pilot the ship.” O'Connell shrugged as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Jefferson took a deep breath. “I guess since it's a corporate ship, he wants to avoid giving people ranks like in the military.” He shook his head. “Could make discipline aboard ship difficult."

O'Connell pushed his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I don't know.... It's not like there aren't chains of command in the civilian world."

Jefferson pursed his lips, thinking about his civilian bosses. He wondered if someone like Bill Pickett would have actually been promoted above him in the military. “What about Jerome Quinn? Have you met him? Has he been up for an inspection?"

O'Connell shook his head. “From what people say, he rarely leaves his estate in California."

"You'd think he'd take an interest in his highest profile project.” Jefferson inclined his head.

"They say the old man has never been to the Moon. Maybe he gets space sick."

"Maybe.... “Jefferson looked out the window. “He must trust this Alonzo quite a bit."

The shuttle settled onto its landing pad with a gentle thud. The rockets shut off suddenly and the cabin became eerily quiet.

Myra Lee found herself back at the Oceanographic Institute. Lisa had already read the whale song data into the computer. It was such a jumble that there did not appear to be any way to make sense out of the information. Even so, they hoped the computer's voice recognition software would be able to distinguish each whale's tones and print a plot of the individual songs.

Staring at the plots displayed on the computer screen, Myra realized she was seeing virtually the same pattern over and over again. With just a little relief, she realized some of the individual variations each whale normally added to its songs did appear in the graphs. Still, those changes were not quite as apparent as they should have been and there were places in the songs where the whales seemed not to allow any variation at all. Myra kept being haunted by Lisa's words about the songs looking like binary encoded messages.

She folded her hands while looking at the plots and wondered if the phenomenon she observed was limited to whales in the Frederick Sound area or if it were happening worldwide. Opening a new window on her computer, Myra fired off three email messages. One went to her graduate advisor, Dr. Stirling Cristof, who studied humpback whales out of San Francisco. Another went to a cetacean biologist in Hawaii who studied Right Whales. The final message went to a Wood's Hole biologist who worked with Spermaceti Whales.

Within minutes, Stirling Cristof's face appeared on the computer screen. He was requesting a video chat. “Hi, Myra, got a moment?"

With a keystroke, she was in touch with the wiry, sharp-eyed man. “I always have time. Did you get my message?"

"I did. I have to say, I've been thinking about calling or sending a note for some time now."

"Oh? Why so?” Myra leaned toward the computer monitor.

"Having to do with the subject of your email. The whales down here have changed their songs as well, and just as radically. It's downright bizarre. Unfortunately, I wasn't out to sea when it happened, but I just received a disk from one of my students who got in last night.” Stirling rubbed the bridge of his hawk-like nose.

Myra twirled the end of her hair in her fingers. “Do you have any idea what it means?"

"None at all. Your guess is as good as mine."

"There's got to be a good explanation,” said Myra. “But I can't get over how much the songs look like binary code.” She blushed a bit, embarrassed about the observation. “You probably think I'm over-interpreting the data."

Cristof was silent for a time, as though thinking. “You may be onto something."

Myra snorted a laugh. “Get real, Stir! I called you so I could find an alternative explanation, not have you reinforce my delusions!"

"No, really. What if whales have figured out a way to talk to humans? Binary encoded messages travel through the atmosphere—and through the water—all the time. There are radio signals to submarines, wireless computer communications, all kinds of signals the whales could, in theory, hear or feel in some way."

"Okay, let's say I'm not delusional.” Myra sat back and folded her arms. “Why now? Why after all these years? Why speak in code at all? It's not like whales haven't heard English or other languages."

"True, but maybe it's the language that makes sense to them. Or maybe the message isn't meant for humans."

Myra laughed, incredulous. “If it's not meant for humans, who
is
it meant for?"

"Ask the whales,” said Cristof with a wry grin.

"Thanks a
lot."

"Seriously, I have a friend who's a philologist at Oxford University. I'll put you in touch with her. Now that you have identified some definite patterns in the whale song, maybe she can help you interpret what you're hearing."

"If it's binary code, wouldn't I need a computer expert rather than an expert in languages?” Myra inclined her head.

"Binary's a language.... It's just a mathematical one. In many ways, that makes it easier to sort out.” Cristof shrugged.

"Stir, this feels like a wild goose chase to me.” Myra leaned forward and peered into the screen.

"Are there any other geese to chase?"

Myra sighed and shook her head. “That's the problem. I can't think of any."

"Well, keep thinking,” said Stir. “Philologists and language experts have looked at whale songs before and come back with nothing. It'll probably happen again. I just think it's worth asking again in light of the new data."

Myra sat back and closed her eyes for a moment. She had sent the email to her former advisor because she trusted him implicitly. “It's worth a shot, I suppose.” She sighed and opened her eyes. “Send me the info."

John O'Connell led Jonathan Jefferson from the shuttle through a series of corridors. Jefferson couldn't help but be impressed by the decor. Martin-Intelsoft's facility was very sterile with white corridors connecting large manufacturing chambers and small, utilitarian sleeping quarters. Quinn Corp clearly put more effort into making their facility a comfortable living space. Liquid crystals had been set into the walls creating the effect of living, moving murals.

In some places, there were scenes of forests back on Earth. In other places, the murals were more imaginative, scenes from classic movies or even fantasy scenes with dragons flying high over dramatic mountain ranges. Once again, an uneasy feeling washed over the one-time astronaut. Even though he had caught just a mere glimpse of the
Aristarchus
, he was nearly ready to give up his cubicle on Earth to work for the competition.

O'Connell led Jefferson to a door and sounded the buzzer.

"Come in,” called a voice from within.

The two entered the small office together. A thin, lanky man sat behind a desk, typing at a computer. He was much younger than Jefferson expected and he suddenly felt self-conscious about his own gray hair and stomach that stuck further over his belt than he'd like. The lanky young man looked up with a broad smile. “Ah, Colonel Jefferson, pleased to meet you face to face, at last.” He stood slowly, then stepped around the desk. “I'm Alonzo, Pilot Manager of the
Aristarchus
.” He reached out and shook Jefferson's hand, then indicated a seat.

"Pilot, if you don't need me anymore, I need to continue checking that solar flux data from last week,” said O'Connell as Jefferson took a seat in a surprisingly comfortable metal chair.

"Go right ahead, Neb,” said Alonzo. “Sorry to pull you from that.” He looked to Jefferson. “Though this is a big facility, the
Aristarchus
project itself is rather short handed. We're trying to fix that as quickly as we can, though."

"Neb?” Jefferson eyed John O'Connell.

"Oh...” he said as though caught off-guard. “It's my old college nickname. I'm from Nebraska. They used to call me Nebraska John...."

"You mean like Kansas Jim in those movies from the ‘50s?” Jefferson's lip curled upwards. “Those were great! Do you have a fedora?"

"I used to.” O'Connell grinned sheepishly. “Anyway, Neb's short for Nebraska.” With that, he waved and left Jefferson and the pilot alone to talk.

Jefferson turned to face his host. “They call you Pilot?"

"Sorry, like I said, we're a bit short handed on the project. There are only fifteen of us so far. We get familiar with each other rather quickly,” explained Alonzo. “Pilot's kind of a nickname, but I like it. I've never been all that comfortable with my given name."

"I hope I'm not being rude, but you look awfully young to be in charge of this project.” Jefferson leaned forward. “Over at Martin, we know a lot of Quinn engineers, but your name only started appearing regularly with this project. Is there a senior engineer in charge?"

Pilot looked down at the desk for a moment, then looked up with an amused smirk. “I'm older than I look and—if you're worried—those senior engineers have been checking my work. I've even been checking in daily with Old Man Quinn himself."

"Rumor has it that the plans for the ship were originally drawn up by Quinn's son Thomas. Some people say this project is being done to indulge the boy."

Alonzo's face fell just a bit at the suggestion, then quickly brightened again. “Does it matter what the motivation for the mission is as long as the design is sound?"

"It matters if I'm putting my life on the line."

"Biochemicals,” said Alonzo. “Saturn's moon Titan is teeming with organic compounds. Harvesting them will be a gold mine for our pharmaceutical division."

"You'll need a good biology team,” said Jefferson. “Anyone I know?"

"We're looking for people with just the right qualifications.” Pilot sat back. “Colonel Jefferson, you came here to learn more about the
Aristarchus
. I think I should give you a tour."

"I'd like that.” Jefferson brimmed with questions, but assumed he'd have the opportunity to ask more, later.

Without saying anything further, Pilot stood and led Jefferson back down the corridor. At a junction, they turned left and Pilot stepped into a small glassed-in room that looked out over a vast enclosed space. “I present the heart of the
Aristarchus.
” Pilot held his hand out toward the window and beamed like a proud parent.

Sitting on the floor, surrounded by scaffoldings was a great silver spheroid. Jefferson was reminded of photos he'd seen of the very first machine humans had launched into Earth's orbit—the Sputnik. This spheroid was much bigger than the old Soviet satellite and somewhat elongated—similar to a pill shape. Where Sputnik was the size of a basketball, the silver spheroid that Jefferson saw seemed to be about the diameter of a football field, about ten times the size of the craft he'd traveled to Mars aboard. “Would you like to see inside?” asked Pilot.

"I would love to,” said Jefferson.

Pilot stepped back into the corridor and around to a gangplank that led into the silver spheroid.

Captain Natalie Freeman was led into the oval office. Her one-time ally Oscar Van der Wald sat behind the desk, looking stern. Sitting in one of the high-backed chairs flanking the desk was a Latino woman the captain did not recognize. “Captain Freeman, reporting as ordered, sir.” She snapped a salute as the doors closed behind her.

The president waved at a chair. “There's no need for that,” he said dismissively. “Have a seat.” He gestured to the other woman in the room. “Captain Freeman, I'd like you to meet Secretary Aguilar, Department of Energy."