Under Strange Suns (4 page)

“I realize the physics is esoteric. In the interest of keeping you all awake, I will keep the eye-glazing geek-speak to a minimum and demonstrate my conclusions in as visual and hands-on a manner as possible.” He stood and lifted the case nearest him to the tabletop. Unlatching the top, he removed from the padded interior a pair of rings joined by several lengths of tubing and wires. “It would not be strictly accurate to state that the Y-Drive has one fundamental component. But if one were to advance a contender, the graviton splitter would not be a bad option.”

He set aside the case, retrieved a second and took out a cylindrical cone of titanium. “The graviton impeller, or pulse generator, is another good candidate.” Stacking the second case atop the first, he grabbed a third, then a fourth, removing components and assembling them on the table, all while keeping up a steady patter practiced over twenty years of explaining the Y-Drive to laymen. But while he was speaking his mind was dwelling on his family, that collection of individuals he’d not seen for so many years yet were still so dear to him.

The Y-Drive began to take shape on the table before him, occupying most of the surface. He sensed a certain disquiet in the chamber, papers rustling, the shifting of forty congressional rumps picked up by sensitive microphones. The chairman broke into Azziz’s spiel, clearing his throat and ensuring that the cameras were focused on him before saying, “We’ve all seen the dog and pony show, Doctor Azziz. With respect for the Committee’s time, would you mind getting to your theory regarding Doctor Yuschenkov’s disappearance?”

“Yes, sir. I wish to prepare the ground, so it doesn’t appear that I am merely speculating.”

“How ‘bout I do a little layman speculating? Was there a fundamental flaw in the early design? Something we should be concerned might have carried on to the current Y-Drive models? Or was it what the scientific consensus has assumed these last couple of decades: a surge in the graviton splitter rendering inoperative all the drive components within the Y-Drive bubble.” The congressman sounded pleased with himself.

“Scientific consensus may be on the right track, Congressman.” Azziz smiled, playing along. Meanwhile he clicked a circuit board in place.

“So are your fellow scientists correct or not? Is that the reason we lost about one in fifty ships during the initial space push? ”

“Correct or not, mandating that FTL ships operate in pairs, each carrying a backup Y-Drive, was an admirably practical solution.”

“Practical, maybe. Expensive, definitely. My colleagues would love to hear you say there was another reason. My constituents would love to hear you say there was another reason. Eliminating the redundancy would cut operational costs in half.” The chairman paused. He’d set the table for the public, explaining the issue in a condescending fashion to the foremost expert on the subject precisely to set up the next moment. He leaned forward. “Doctor Azziz, was it something else? Not a mechanical defect after all? Of course, I don’t yield to scurrilous rumors, but some others, perhaps in this august body itself, suggest Doctor Yuschenkov deliberately included a flaw in his design, and withheld the fix. Perhaps you can help clear up this...slander. Do you have some insights into Doctor Yuschenkov’s mindset? Was–as some claim–the disappearance of the
Eureka II
deliberate?”

Azziz looked up from his work, scanning the faces of the committee. In his hand he clutched a lead that would slot into the power supply in the open case directly in front of him. “Deliberate? A conscious choice? An exercise of free will? Is that what you are asking? It would be comforting, wouldn’t it? If Doctor Yuschenkov had simply decided not to return, it might suggest that our actions are truly our own, not dictated by externalities. Not ordained by God.”

The disquiet grew, adding a susurrus of whispering. Azziz noted an armed policeman at one of the back doors straightening, beginning to take an interest. “I know I’d like to think I was in full command of my fate, making my own decisions, and not compelled to act in a certain fashion.”

“Doctor Azziz,” the chairman said, “what are you talking about? Why, exactly, have you assembled the Y-Drive? How does this explain..?”

Azziz interrupted him, seeing the policeman dropping one hand to the weapon at his hip and beginning to saunter in his direction. “But ultimately it is all in God’s hands. I am sorry.” He watched the policeman approaching, dedicated, insightful. A good man he was sure, as conceivably were many others in this room, and he mourned them all. He thought of Brennan Yuschenkov, wondering how he had met his end. Had he time to ponder the oncoming abyss? Another good man, Yuschenkov, though rash, coarse, probably irredeemable.

He was almost glad his mentor was not here to witness this day. This day, or one near enough to it, so long in coming.

All those years learning, studying, positioning himself, all to reach this point, this moment. This horrible moment. And yet he did not hesitate, his resolve did not waver. Did he not owe an obligation to his family? Did he not owe his allegiance to God? “God,” he whispered, “is great.”

He socketed the lead into the power supply, trying to hold the image of his mother in his mind. The graviton splitter whined to life. The Y-Drive pulsed once, redly.

A
CHIME DECLARED COFFEE’S AVAILABILITY, AS IF
the smell hadn’t provided her advance notice. The apartment’s automatics cycled through their routines. Sensing damp clothes, the dryer kicked on the touch-up tumble. The refrigerator displayed the pending ‘use by’ dates on the dairy products. Routine, normal, as befit a state-of-the-art condominium unit boasting all the latest appliances, all finishes high-end and tasteful. Though somehow the space left an impression of cold austerity, as if it belonged to someone seldom at home, serving as little more than waystation and storage locker. Perhaps that very coldness made the routine functioning seem an exercise in artifice, as if the El Paso apartment ran through its quotidian functions to mock its tenant.

Brooklynn Vance slumped on the couch facing the wall panel television, sound off, the screen showing images of the spot that had until yesterday been Washington, DC. Brooklynn was no longer watching, having been for hours absorbing the pictures of the perfectly hemispherical crater slowly filling up with water. She was drained. Tears had ceased near midnight. An outburst of screaming ended around dawn. Aching grief gave way to numbing exhaustion as the sleepless night began to catch up with her. The shock had worn off. The anger ebbed, though it lay not too far beneath the emotionally hammered-flat surface.

Now she was staring at the box on the coffee table before her. It had required multiple rings of the doorbell before she had noticed the drone delivering the package on her doorstep. Brooklynn had struggled with the incongruity that such things as package delivery still occurred in the world, a world in which the U.S. capitol could disappear in a single deadly instant. She couldn’t grasp the notion. It made no sense. But drones did not care, any more than the pre-programmed coffee maker.

The box remained unopened. Brooklynn could not tear her eyes from the name on the return address: M. Azziz. Fucking Mehmet Azziz. Azziz, a man she had considered a friend. And the same man she had seen throughout the night over and over and over again talking to the committee–then making them all disappear.

The box tormented her. That name, Azziz, printed in proximity to hers across the tape-sealed surface. Some part of her suggested that if she opened the box, DC would magically reappear. Slide the letter opener along the taped-over join and this would all prove to be a bad dream, an elaborate hoax concocted over a lifetime of repressed humor.
Please let that be true
, she thought.

How could he have perpetrated this monstrous, murderous atrocity? Committed this massive obscenity? Azziz had never shown evidence of fanaticism. After Uncle Brennan’s disappearance, Mehmet Azziz had stepped in. Not precisely filling the void, but nonetheless there.

The man she had known was reserved, even kind. Brooklynn’s gaze slipped up from the box to the framed certificates above her office niche in the corner between the television wall and the kitchen door. When her thoughts drifted to her professional achievements she almost always looked at the sheepskins and licenses as if for confirmation, an affirmation of her hard work and recognition of her accomplishments and value. Her BS degree from the University of Houston, where she had studied astrophysics with an emphasis on astronavigation. Mehmet Azziz had sat in the front row during commencement. Varnished oak framed her commercial space pilot’s license. Azziz had written a letter of recommendation to get her into the program. The same man who had murdered tens of thousands had gone out of his way to boost her career.

No, no balancing the equities. The man was a monster. A dozen acts of kindness do not counterbalance a vast evil.

So did she want to open the box? What would a monster send her? Should she open it? Maybe she should call the FBI? Was there even still a functioning federal government to sanction the Federal Bureau of Investigation? Or did that matter? She wasn’t certain how the FBI was structured.

Nor was she entirely up to speed on the hierarchy and organization of the Federal Government, though she’d been getting a crash course from the television. The harried, frightened-looking talking heads she’d heard through the night seemed uncertain, offering contradictory opinions. Some, pale and haggard despite studio makeup, suggested the United States no longer existed, that power now devolved to the individual states. Others advocated for imposition of martial law; lots of shaky video feed of uniformed soldiers scrambling aboard vehicles hinted this was a likely prospect. Still others ran down the list of presidential succession, updating the search for surviving senators, congressmen, or secretaries of the President’s cabinet. An update developed over the hours, indicating the Secretary of State was alive, and next in line to assume the Presidency. Details remained unclear. Some reported she was en route from a summit in South Africa. Other reports suggested she’d already landed in Philadelphia, declaring it the new capital of the Republic. Still others denied she’d ever left Johannesburg.

Everyone–from haggard, stumble-tongue anchors to bleary-eyed, pale guests–appeared stunned, sharing a national sense of disbelief, bewilderment, and shaking fury. Unsurprisingly, no firm consensus had emerged by the time Brooklynn had muted the volume, eyes no longer registering the scroll of information at the bottom of the screen, seeing but not absorbing the news of riots, looting, re-direction of the fleets, the responses of foreign governments–promises of solidarity and aid, gloating claims that the chickens had finally come home to roost, confusion, military mobilizations. All the players stumbling into position to fill a power vacuum, still uncertain if there was a power vacuum.

But assuming the FBI remained active, would she somehow be implicating herself, opening herself up to lynch mobs as a suspected accomplice? Not worth the risk. For now she would keep it to herself. The FBI would probably come knocking on her door eventually, once agents had tracked down everyone Azziz had spoken to over the last few weeks and discovered he had sent a package. No reason to rush that prospect. Brooklynn concluded that the fact the FBI hadn’t yet arrived on her doorstep was evidence of the extent of the chaos sown by the destruction of DC.

Part of her wanted to throw the box away, shove it into a furnace with a broom handle so as not to touch it. The thought of physical contact with something Azziz’s fingers had touched revolted her.

What it came down to at last was simple curiosity. She couldn’t
not
open the box. She slit open the tape, lifted the flaps. Saw the stacks of documents.

Brooklynn began to read.

The coffee pot was empty by the time she finished. She was staring again, this time not blankly. Fucking Azziz. That a monster could still give her this. It made no sense. She hated him not one whit less, but she couldn’t deny a sense of gratitude for this...gift. Of course, he could have given this to her at any time over the past decades. So fuck him. Fuck him and move on, give her mind full rein to deal with the surge of plans, overlapping and confused. But plans nonetheless, with a definite goal.

She would need a spaceship. That would require money. Brooklynn had some savings, assuming the banks remained operating. She could sell the apartment. Still nowhere near enough, not in the same country as enough.

For the first time she wished she could have tapped into the income stream from Uncle Brennan’s Y-Drive patents. But that had never tempted her. It had all been tied up in the courts anyhow, and shown promise to stay that way for years. Disappearance in space, it seemed, had no legal precedent. No court could be persuaded to declare Brennan Yuschenkov dead. His income went into escrow, accumulating interest, though with regular withdrawals to pay the lawyers. And that had been fine with Brooklynn. Capitalizing on her uncle’s fame, infamy, or money did not sit well with her. Anonymity was a prize she and her mother had worked hard to achieve. Brooklynn had determined to succeed or fail on her own merits and she had stuck to that commitment, keeping her connection to Brennan Yuschenkov to herself whenever possible.

She would need to keep working, berth onboard whatever spaceship hired her on, save the expense of lodgings. But even with her rating, wages wouldn’t begin to come close. She would need investors, which would require some sort of business proposal. More details. The complications piled up. Maybe she could hit up mom for a loan. Her mother had never given up her claim to her brother’s patent income. Perhaps a probate court had finally come around, though Brooklynn wasn’t sanguine about the prospect.