Year's Best Scifi 7 Part 21

Justin swiveled his chair. "If you think the message purports to be from an alien species on Europa, then yes."

Fortified with a large mug of Swiss mocha, Justin brought his parents up to date. "So am I making sense?"

"Tell me if I have this right," said his mother. "ISI, through some fancy maneuvering, placed secret employees on Europa. Those agents surrept.i.tiously upgraded the radio at Europa base to interstellar capability. Nine years ago they used one of your AIs to encode an unauthorized transmission to the Centaurs. In that message they claimed to be a separate species, to have monitored past Earth/Centaur dialogues, and to now be opening their own communications. The fake Europans were therefore able to explain knowing that the Centaurs wanted fusion technology, and that Earth did not want nanotech.

"They broadcast UN-proscribed fusion technology, including the design of the superpowerful lasers needed for inertial containment of deuterium/tritium fuel pellets. It's the lasers that the ICU has specifically embargoed, because of their potential use as weapons. And the conspirators requested in return that the Centaurs send Europa their mature industrial nanotech that the UN has refused to order."

To Justin's nod, his father added, "The claimed sensitivity to Earth's desire to avoid imported nanotech ... oh, what a clever touch. It motivated the request that the Centaurs use a comparatively unattractive freq"-by which he meant a radio frequency with significantly more attenuation than commonly used for interstellar comm-"to reduce the likelihood that anyone but the plotters would hear the signal. ISI will not only obtain revolutionary technology, but they can claim it as indigenous. They'll be able to build patent walls here around the Centaurs' advanced nanotech, to supersede whole industries, and-unlike everything else we've ever learned from the ETs-ISI will be without compet.i.tors."

"There must be trillions of dollars at stake." Despite the plot just summarized, his nervous pacing, and his original intent not to involve his parents, Justin felt a sense of relief. Alicia had teased him about working in the family business, but there was truth to her jests. Drs. Dean and Bridget Matthews were among the world's top experts on commerce with the various ET races, having literally helped write the book on the subject. Their acceptance of his evidence and inferences meant that the worries preying on his mind were valid. "Trillions of dollars. I believe they killed Alicia to protect their conspiracy. I can't help but think that they'd do so again."

7.

"The horror of Alicia's death aside, might not the worst be over?" asked Bridget Matthews. "We know the frequency on which to listen, lest the Centaurs answer the fake Europans. I think it's time to turn over your findings to the Interstellar Commerce Union."

The question reflected a trust in government that was admirable in a public servant and enn.o.bling in a parent. It seemed impractical in a counterconspirator. "I'm not convinced, Mom. Consider the deviousness involved in setting up Solar Services Corporation as a suspect in case the signal to the Centaurs is discovered ... a bit of inspired misdirection that may yet protect the ISI masterminds if this goes to trial." Justin shook his head sadly. "No, what we've uncovered so far shows enough planning and chicanery that I suspect there's more to be found."

His mother got up to pace. "Such as?"

"Something more than an unusual frequency to keep from unintended ears the recipe for practical nanotech. Although I can't say how that could be done."

"Jamming," said his father.

"Jamming?"

"How many programmers does it take to change a light bulb?" Dad paused. "Can't be done-it's a hardware problem."

Not that Justin was a programmer any more, or that anyone had used light bulbs since Centaur ultrabright LEDs had been introduced twenty-some years ago. "What hardware problem?"

"I'm stretching a point. Orbital mechanics is the issue."

Dad had architected several satcom constellations and one interplanetary net; when Dean Matthews volunteered something about orbital mechanics or s.p.a.ce-based comm systems, Justin took it as gospel-even when he didn't understand it.

"Even I know that interstellar receivers are very directional. To jam an incoming signal would take a s.p.a.ce-based transmitter in the same direction as Alpha Centauri. But there are no such transmitters.

Alpha Centauri is way off the plane of the ecliptic."

"Hence the matter of orbital mechanics."

"Dad ... I'm running on no sleep, jet lag, and an ocean of coffee."

"Are you familiar with the Ulysses mission? Ancient stuff: launched by NASA in 1990." When no answer came, his father continued. "Isaac: display the mission trajectory for Ulysses." Presumably Isaac Newton, an orbital-mechanics program.

The Jupiter image that had dominated the wall was replaced by a 3-V solar-system cartoon. In that representation, a green thread arced out from Earth to Jupiter-where a bit of geometric magic occurred.

The green bent sharply around Jupiter, in the process twisting almost at right angles to the giant planet's...o...b..t. The trajectory went on to become an elongated oval pa.s.sing over the sun's polar regions. Dad pointed at the gas giant. "Through clever use of the gravity well, that 1992 Jupiter encounter changed Ulysses' path enough to reach eighty degrees solar lat.i.tude."

"Which is proof by example that someone can, if they choose to, put a transmitter into a stable orbit steeply inclined to the Earth's...o...b..tal plane." Justin followed some summary links about the displayed mission. "And Ulysses accomplished that maneuver almost purely by choice of the fly-by trajectory-think how much more could be done using a probe with a full load of fuel.

"The message I found in Encode requested a specific response date. ISI could easily have designed a mission to place a transmitter into jamming position. I mean, to put the s.p.a.cecraft roughly between Earth and Alpha Centauri when the return message was expected."

Dad nodded agreement. "Of course even an orbit that grazes the sight line doesn't stay on it...

especially as the Earth moves. When the time came, the s.p.a.cecraft would use its engines to keep nudgingitself back onto the Earth/Centaur line of sight. The typical ET broadcast lasts a few weeks, providing enough repet.i.tions to a.s.sure complete reception-it shouldn't be a problem to carry enough fuel for that."

"You described ISI's probable defensive strategy as jamming. I think they could do better than that."

Ignoring his stomach's explicit warning, Justin chugged another cup of now luke-tepid coffee. As the caffeine jolt cleared his thoughts, he went on. "This s.p.a.cecraft we're imagining, ready to transmit over the Centaur signal... it has a receiver, too. To know when to send, when to maneuver, it needs either to hear a 'go' command from the conspirators' base or the Centauri signal directly. Instead of jamming with random noise, which risks detection by, say, an amateur radio astronomer, why not simply beamcast an out-of-phase version of the Centaur signal?"

"That's good. Cancel the signal, rather than jam it. That would work like 'active stealth,' the radar countermeasure-except that the signal to be obscured is the original rather than a reflection. Although the Centaurs' beam will have dispersed to better than solar-system breadth, the cancellation signal need only spread to encompa.s.s the receivers on the Earth. From Earth's perspective the signal meant for the 'Europans' won't exist. All the while, the Centaurs' routine transmissions to us continue on the usual freqs."

Mom canted her head thoughtfully. "Are the people who you work for that shrewd?"

Justin strode over to the window and pulled open the drapes. Somehow, it had become midmorning.

He gazed down to a slate-gray lake over which, appropriately, a squall was forming. "You can bet on it."

Too hyped and full of caffeine to sleep, Justin returned to the Geneva s.p.a.ceport and its anonymous net connections. This research session required the exploration of unfamiliar systems and archives, but he persisted. His target: contractually required records from the years when ISI had run Europa base.

The UNASA scientists had initiated twenty-seven unmanned Jupiter missions during ISI's tenure.

Exploration is a risky business: five of those probes had failed. Four of the failures were thoroughly doc.u.mented. The dearth of information about the fifth disappointment stood out by comparison.

Concurrent faults in the telemetry and main radio subsystems had left very little for the a.n.a.lysts to work with. The data shortfall from the probe was compounded by a base-side computer glitch that knocked the tracking radars off-line for forty minutes and overwrote many of the prelaunch records. The mainframe problem, at least, had an explanation: spectacularly poor timing for the installation of an operating-system upgrade.

All that could be said with certainty about the probe was that it had disappeared without a trace. ISI had recalled both its base executive and the failed mission's project manager in a futile attempt to placate UNASA.

That disgraced base executive was none other than ISI's current chief of security, Michael Zhang.

When Justin got back to his parents' house, his equally haggard-looking father was on the phone.

Apparently Justin was not the only one unable to sleep.

Whoever was on the other end of the connection did most of the talking. "Uh-huh ... yes ... OK.

You're sure? ... Well, thanks, Vladimir. I owe you one." Dad stayed seated in a dinette chair, his head resting against the wall. He looked weary.

"Bad news?"

"There are advantages to having been around." Dad's eyes shut as he answered. "Good contacts, for example. I called an old friend-someone whose other friends might be able to do him a big favor.

Vladimir Antinov, a Russian general who was a military liaison to the original Lalande task force."

Justin started measuring for one more pot of coffee. The technomist knew what question he would ask if he had had a high-level military connection, especially a retired general of the Russian strategic rocket forces. And Dad's reaction to Antinov's call had not been a happy one. "So military radar confirms an object in jamming position."

Dean Matthews opened his eyes. "This once I would have really liked to have been wrong."

8.

Proscribed Technology Transfers: specific interspecies exchanges of technical data that have been barred by one or both parties. These proscriptions are generally justified on grounds of economics (that the introduction of a particular technology would be too disruptive) or public policy (that the technology could s.h.i.+ft military/political balances). Each species is left to establish its own technology policy.

Human technology proscriptions are decided upon and enforced by the Interstellar Commerce Union.

The ICU, as its name suggests, has jurisdiction only over interstellar movements of technology. A technology that has been banned by the ICU for import may be freely researched.

-Internetopedia

Dean and Bridget Matthews had semi-retired without relocating from Geneva, where the ICU Was headquartered, so naturally the current Secretary-General was out of town. More precisely, she was off-planet.

Bridget Matthews had her own first-cla.s.s connections. Dr. Hanan al-Fraghani did not question her predecessor's request for an urgent face-to-face meeting, and al-Fraghani's chief of staff pulled strings to get Justin on the next flight to the L-5 habitat.

The habitat was located on the Moon's...o...b..t, sixty degrees ahead of that orb. This position, one of two at which the Earth's and the Moon's gravity fields meet in stable balance, provided a long-term fixed location for the colony. It also made for a long trip.

Long after the transport's engines fell silent, Justin dozed in his acceleration chair. Microgravity made him queasy, and the medicine for s.p.a.ce sickness made him groggy. Vaguely aware that most of the other pa.s.sengers were moving about the cabin and enjoying the spectacular views of Earth and Moon, the xenotechnomist kept his eyes shut and tried to sleep. He wanted to be rested for the upcoming meeting.

When sleep came, it was troubled. The conspiracy dated back at least to ISI's lowball bid on the initial Europa base operations contract. That meant the skullduggery had been going on throughout his entire tenure at ISI. How could he have been so oblivious for so long?

Justin tossed and turned in his chair, kept from floating off by loosely fastened straps. Arlen Crawford, his current boss, had only been at ISI for four years. Arlen's boss, ISI's present Chief Operating Officer, was a long-term employee. The COO was a competent but unimaginative administrator-perhaps a member of a cabal, but unlikely to be its leader.

Justin's semiconscious mind turned to ISI's charismatic Chief Executive Officer, Wayne LaPointe.

One had only to chart ISI's growth during LaPointe's tenure as CEO to know that he was brilliant. He also had a reputation for ruthlessness, and an absolute lack of tolerance for anything short of his concept of perfection.

Despite the management layers that separated him from the CEO, Justin had been at many meetings with LaPointe. That had not seemed odd: xenotechnomics was a driving factor in setting corporate strategy for the aeros.p.a.ce giant. Should the CEO's interest have been a red flag?

A long-ago company party came to mind. How many years past? At least ten, Justin thought. He'd have to dig into some old files to be sure. LaPointe had been present, although at the time he hadn't yet taken the CEO job. About twelve years ago, then, not long after Justin finished school and joined ISI.

The festivities were in recognition of a new product rollout. He couldn't exactly remember the project, some early exploitation of Leo superconducting technology.

LaPointe was holding forth about the state of ISI's business amid a gaggle of sycophants. Justin had sought other conversation, mildly turned off by the over-loud laughter at the executive's witticisms.

Hearing his name called, he'd turned to see LaPointe gesturing him over.

"Justin. Wunderkind. Can we see you for a minute?"

"Sure." What other response could the new hire make?

"We were discussing protectionism. You're against that, right?"

The Matthews household sometimes had the atmosphere of a debating society. It was second natureto wonder about the question. "Are we discussing a specific situation?"

Two of the hangers-on exchanged looks of surprise. Imagine not reflexively agreeing to an exec's leading question.

"Old history, Justin. We're discussing old history. The Protocol on Interstellar Technology Commerce, to be precise. The proposal on the floor," and here LaPointe swept his arm grandly to encompa.s.s the group, "is that limiting imports of ET technology is protectionist and noncompet.i.tive. As the company xenotechnomist, I felt certain you'd have an opinion."

How could Justin not have an opinion? Besides setting the policy that LaPointe had oversimplified, the protocol had also established the Interstellar Commerce Union. Justin's mother was the founding Secretary-General of the ICU. Was it possible that the exec didn't know that about Justin?

He picked his words carefully. "Protectionism has the right denotation but the wrong connotation. I would agree that the ICU charter includes import gatekeeping, to avoid any recurrence of something like the Lalande Implosion."

"Gatekeeping, exactly my point." LaPointe tapped Justin's chest for emphasis. "But, to reverse your phrase, the wrong denotation. The so-called 'Lalande Implosion' would be better described as the Lalande Expansion. Leo fuel cells made transportation so much less expensive, and the reduced demand for petroleum made petrochemicals that much cheaper. Introduction of Leo fuel cells was a good thing.

The global economy benefited enormously. Only the petroleum companies think otherwise."

Justin didn't want to contradict the executive in a social setting, but intellectual honesty left him no other choice. "I suspect the citizens of many countries would have a different view." He had in mind the economic collapse of most of OPEC, plus significant recessions in Norway and the United Kingdom, during the Lalande Implosion.

Blind chance had just wrought simultaneous conversational pauses in all of the groups scattered across the ballroom. Justin's polite contradiction of LaPointe, ISI's rising star, seemed to hang out there-a most uncomfortable feeling. All eyes in the room now focused on the two debaters.

"What if ISI's labs had invented the new fuel cells? Would you still be in favor of suppressing that technology?"

LaPointe's scenario was hardly a.n.a.logous. "The protocol says nothing about indigenous research, at ISI or any other human inst.i.tution. The ICU was intended to consider possible unintended consequences from importing alien technology, something fully developed out there that might be revolutionary or disruptive here."

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I see." The executive threw back his head and laughed. "Well no matter. It's always interesting to hear another opinion."

Hardly, thought Matthews. The protocol and what it stated were a matter of interplanetary law rather than of opinion.

That was the end of the conversation. With a motion that was half a pat on the arm and half a nudge, the executive was past Justin and on his way to another knot of employees.

Seat-back displays showed the approaching L-5 habitat, giving a pilot's-eye-view of the docking.

Justin didn't notice the show. He'd awakened from his nap with a renewed memory of the long-ago conversation with the now-CEO of ISI, and an epiphany. LaPointe hadn't innocently fallen into conversation about the protocol and called the newly hired Justin over; the situation had been staged expressly to feel him out about partic.i.p.ation in the conspiracy.

In retrospect, Justin's nonrecruitment was both a tribute and an affront. Continuing as ISI's xenotechnomist after failing LaPointe's test was presumably a compliment: it must have inconvenienced the cabal to keep him in the dark. The insult was that the plotters felt that they could keep Justin in the dark for year after year.