Читать книгу Noumenon Infinity - Marina Lostetter J. - Страница 11

“You appear nervous. I think it would be more effective if you appeared not nervous,” C said.

The third-floor public bathroom in the consortium office was freaking freezing, and the sink refused to give hot water. In addition, the battle between paper towels and hand dryers still raged on, and seeing how this particular model of Strongblow (no, really) had an “Out-of-Order, sorry :( ” sign taped to it, Vanhi was firmly on Team Paper.

She settled for flicking her hands over the sink basin instead of wiping them on her business jacket. On the counter, C peeked out of her open purse like one of those pocket dogs rich girls carried. The light near its camera flashed green.

“I hadn’t considered that,” she said sarcastically. “Don’t look nervous, got it. Anything else?”

“Your shoe is untied.”

She glanced down, a skeptical eyebrow raised. “I’m wearing pumps. Oh, was that a joke?”

“Humor eases tension and is often used to suppress anxieties. If that witticism was not sufficiently alleviating I can find another one.”

She pushed the phone back into its pocket and slung the strap over her shoulder. “I’m good, thank you. Sleep now, C.”

Shoving through the swinging door, she stopped dead and was nearly smacked in the face by the springback. In the hall, outside the presentation room, sat Dr. Kaufman. But he wasn’t alone. A young man in an overly baggy suit—an aide, maybe, or an intern—stood nearby, stopped by Kaufman’s grip on the bottom of the boy’s jacket. The kid looked nervous, stack of files in hand, body taut like he wanted to run away. Kaufman’s hold wasn’t restrictive, just … intrusive.

Calmly, Kaufman spoke in low tones, nodding regularly while the young man listened.

After a moment, Kaufman pulled a wad of bills out of his breast pocket. The aide glanced furtively over his shoulder, this way and that, before snapping up the cash and handing Dr. Kaufman a folder from his stack.

With a flourished lick of the thumb, Kaufman began flipping through the contents, taking mostly cursory glances at the pages. He hadn’t had the file for sixty seconds before he handed it back. Looking around once more, the boy slipped it into the center of his pile, exchanged a few quick words with the doctor, then shuffled off around a corner.

It was blatant, it was careless, and though Vanhi was decently scandalized, she wasn’t surprised in the least.

“What was that?” she demanded, stomping up next to her former advisor.

He glanced up, lips pursed. “What was what?”

“I saw you pay that kid for something.”

“We shared a cab this morning. He insisted on paying then, and I insisted I compensate him now.”

Most people would have bought that explanation outright. But Vanhi knew better. She dropped heavily into the chair next to him. “Try again.”

He threw up his hands, melodramatic as ever. “I can’t convince you of the truth if you’re not having it.”

This was the brilliance of Dr. Kaufman’s schemes. He played innocent so well; seemed so put upon. He was the sort of person to play the fiddle with one hand and throw a dime with the other. And people who picked up on his braggadocious nature always found a way to dismiss it as well earned. After all, “He’s done a lot for SD research.”

Only those actually in SD research knew how overblown his claims were. His contributions had been important, but he made it sound like he’d discovered SD travel all on his own. He hadn’t. No single person could have.

But the general public didn’t know that.

People tended to like the “single genius” answer, no matter how inaccurate.

Grad students who’d complained he’d put his name on research he’d had no involvement in were labeled “ungrateful.” Academic partners he didn’t get along with often had their dirty laundry publicly aired by anonymous tipsters. Projects he found no value in were sometimes abruptly unfunded.

But no one could ever trace lines of fault back to Kaufman. Things just always seemed to go his way.

Vanhi saw through the bullshit. She called him on the bullshit. It was the only way she’d held on long enough to come away with her Ph.D.

Unfortunately, earning her degree under his tutelage gave him claim to her future accomplishments—according to him and society at large, anyway. She could never be free of his overbearing, rights-grabbing, self-aggrandizing shadow.

So the least he could do was tell her the truth about a stupid fistfull of bills in a halogen-lit hallway.

“What did you pay him for?”

“Sexual favors.”

“What did you pay him for?”

“Burning his bad tie.”

“What did you pay him for?”

“A cab, Vanhi. I told you. A cab.”

She would keep at it until he confessed. “What did you—?”

The door to the main chambers opened, revealing a gentleman in a suit jacket and kilt. “They’re ready for you,” he said, gesturing for them to enter.

“After you,” Kaufman said, smiling at the escape it provided.

As much as she wanted to argue with him, now was not the time. She walked in.

Most of the large auditorium lay in darkness, except for the high balcony at the front of the room which seated the eight consortium members chosen for today’s evaluations. A gentle spotlight slowly dawned over two chairs at a desk midroom. The space felt more like a courtroom than anything.

It stole Vanhi’s breath away, though she couldn’t pinpoint why. She had a strange sense of déjà vu, like she’d stood below the high-seated members of the consortium before. Steely eyes waiting to be impressed, firm mouths set in straight-lined judgment.

“Please, sit,” said Madame Chair from the center of the balcony. Her voice was flat, businesslike, and it fit her image: perfectly tailored black suit, gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, nails short and perfectly manicured. Her attire, along with her German accent and dark eyes, all made for a formidable persona. “Let the record show that Doctor McKenzie Kaufman and Doctor Vanhi Kapoor have entered. Before us we have their formal statements on why subdimensional research should be the replacement study for the Planet United Mission designated to Convoy Twelve. We are here to have the consortium’s questions and concerns addressed, so that we may be fully informed when making our final decision.”

Her statement was clearly practiced and even-toned. But there was restrained passion in her voice. She cared about these missions, this wasn’t simply a prestigious assignment for her.

The other seven consortium members present constituted individuals from around the globe. Representatives from Singapore, Malta, Iran, and Cameroon flanked Madame Chair on the left, while members from Zambia, Argentina, and Tasmania presided on her right. The entirety of the consortium board represented one hundred and eighty-eight of the world’s two hundred and seven countries, including states that had only gained sovereignty in the past three decades.

The Planet United Missions were nothing if not aptly named.

And Vanhi understood her place here was special. Everyone involved in the missions was under a gag order not to talk about the cancelation until a new mission for Convoy Twelve had been chosen. Only scientists with previously considered proposals were contacted about the new vacancy, and in turn sworn to secrecy.

Vanhi’s was a singular case. She had had no previous involvement in the P.U.M.s on account of her age, and Kaufman on account of his arrogance—he’d originally called the idea of a worldwide space effort a “pipe dream” and “ludicrous.” Vanhi wasn’t part of the inner circle, shouldn’t be one of those “in the know.” And yet they’d agreed to include her, to consider her proposal.

She was grateful to them, and even to Kaufman, for the opportunity, but the insidious sense she didn’t fully belong, that they somehow resented her presence—as though they were loath to make the exception—crept up her spine.

It was a sick, familiar feeling. One that had haunted her all too often, especially in her youth.

When she and Kaufman had taken their seats, Madame Chair turned to her left and said, “Doctor Ndi of Cameroon has the first question.”

He cleared his throat and glanced at his notes, bow tie blazing red against his black skin in the harsh spotlighting. He looked young—perhaps younger than Vanhi. She wondered if he was the second individual to hold the seat for Cameroon. Many of the distinguished scientists who’d been given the honor of a consortium seat were getting on in years now, and others had already passed away.

“In your proposal,” he began, “you outline the types of vessels and crew that would constitute this new convoy. You are aware that the majority of the ships for Convoy Twelve are already nearing completion, and insist you would be able to repurpose them. While we applaud that—applaud all of the proposals that have stated such, which is the majority—we are concerned by your request for approximately two hundred shuttles in addition to the existing ships.”

Vanhi’s heart leapt, she wanted to interrupt, to swiftly correct the misreading, but forced herself to keep quiet.

“We’d like you to justify this request.”

Straightening her jacket, Vanhi stood. “Thank you, Doctor Ndi, for your question. The additional spacecraft we are requesting are not shuttles, not in the sense you mean. Like all of the convoys, ours would require specialty equipment in order to perform the mission’s research. These shuttles are actually referred to in the proposal—if I’m not mistaken—as ‘pods.’ Each pod would house dozens of individual experiments and one small SD drive designed to breach a new subdimension we’ve never attempted to crack before.”

“And why can’t these experiments be performed on the preexisting science ship designed for Convoy Twelve?” asked Dr. Ndi.

Kaufman leapt to his feet as though yanked upright by a puppet string. “Safety,” he said bluntly. “The entire point of taking SD study off-world is safety. Currently all SD experiments—unless you want to call the drives aboard the convoys experiments—are computer simulations, some in part, some in their entirety. We know trying to break out of the restrictive dimensions we exist in on a day-to-day basis is dangerous. We’ve had experimental engines explode, and worse. All in simulation. We don’t know what the consequences of opening up each new dimension might be. By their very definition, these dimensions do not play by the scientific principles we long thought to be true. Time and space, matter and energy, do not behave the same in these arenas.

“If we move this research off Earth because we fear a new SD breach might swallow all of Cincinnati, we cannot expect our scientists to risk the rest of the experiments, their convoy, and their lives if they don’t have to.”

“Thank you, Doctor Kaufman,” Vanhi said. “He’s exactly right. Each pod would be remotely piloted away from the convoy, ensuring the safe continuation of the research.”

Dr. Ndi nodded, but made no indication he was satisfied or unsatisfied with the answer.

Next, the representative from Zambia asked about the efficiency of the convoy. “Doctor Kapoor,” she began, leaning over the contoured edge of the desk-like balcony to see better. She was a match for Kaufman in size, and wore a green chitenge dress topped with a purple blazer. “You suggest the building of the not-yet-complete food processing ship be halted, because your convoy would not need to be self-sufficient. Why do you think it best that Earth be burdened with constantly resupplying your mission, instead of your crew learning to support themselves?”

“Thank you, Doctor Mwansa. Our mission will be so unlike the other eleven, we don’t want to do things exactly as they do simply for consistency’s sake. It doesn’t make sense to put the burden of food production and resource conservation on an SD-focused mission. We will not be traveling far beyond the Oort cloud. Our convoy will still be ‘local.’ The other convoys need to be totally self-sufficient because they will not engage with Earth for a century or more. They may not, in fact, see the underside of an atmosphere for just as long. Their crews need to be extraordinarily large to ensure mission success. They need resources for all of those people, and, in turn, enough people to process those resources. Their crews are upward of one hundred thousand at peak operation, and the majority of those people are not directly essential to the science that is the mission’s focus. They will be nomadic societies. We will not.

“Our crew does not have to be socially self-sustaining, as there is no reason for the entirety of the crew to remain aboard for the twenty-year study. We do not need clones because we will not be permanently removing scientists from Earth. Stints aboard our convoy can be limited to two or five years at a time. On any given day, I see no reason for there to be more than five hundred crew members—perhaps fifteen hundred to two thousand people total, including crew families—living aboard.”

“Doctor, you’re not answering my question about food production.”

“I’m sorry, yes, I’m getting there. My point is, if we are ferrying people back and forth, rotating the crew so that they can come back and contribute to Earth once they’ve served, so that they can be with their families, I see no reason not to put resupply missions on the same schedule. Requiring our convoy to be self-sufficient resource-wise means we will need that many more crew members, because someone will have to tend to the plants and the proteins, will need to keep the processing ship in order and functioning. How many clones are currently slated for food production jobs in the other convoys? A few thousand? We won’t need anything like that. Our serving crew will be so small, it will be easy to store the necessary rations and rely on resupplies. It will be far more efficient.”

“And we will get you the hard numbers that prove as much in a week,” Kaufman added.

Vanhi didn’t counter him.

The questions kept coming, some hard and fast, some—in Vanhi’s opinion—obtuse and frivolous, but she didn’t balk at any of them. They talked about the use of clones. Many had already been grown for the previous Convoy Twelve mission. Vanhi had no problem with reeducating those people and adding some of them to her crew if they wanted to be a part of it. But the consortium would not need to grow new clones, and she would still need Earth experts, those she handpicked for particular jobs.

They asked about Vanhi’s request that those crew members with spouses and children be allowed to bring them aboard. After all, all of the other convoys were genetically selective. Only essential crew members, who all met a very strict genetic standard, were allowed to be a part of the mission. But Vanhi’s convoy wouldn’t rely on genetic mandates. She needed volunteers, and allowing families was the surest way to guarantee the best people signed on. If they didn’t have to choose between their careers and missing out on lost baby teeth, they were more likely to come aboard.

As the inquiry wound down, Vanhi realized she’d calmed. Not only did she feel like she belonged, she was starting to think this might work. Maybe Kaufman wasn’t out of his gourd for trying to get her a convoy. Maybe he would get the legacy-preserving green light he was looking for.

Madame Chair asked the final question.

“As you both are aware—better than anyone else we’ve spoken to, I’m sure—” she began, “SD research has made interstellar travel possible for the first time in human history. I do not question the importance of furthering that research. But your proposal indicates you would not have the convoy travel farther than the Oort cloud. So, if the original point of the missions is to exercise our capacity to leave the solar system, why should we assign a mission that lacks the same fundamental ambition as the other eleven convoys? Why shouldn’t we assign another interstellar mission while you look for funding elsewhere?” The chair raised an eyebrow. It was the first time she’d allowed an emotive expression. And in it was a silent challenge: impress me.

Vanhi’s heart turned to dust in her chest. How could she counter that? The chair was right, of course. That was the whole point of the P.U.M.s. How could they in good conscience assign a mission that completely missed the spirit of the world’s scientific union?

What was supposed to be a brief pause while she gathered her thoughts turned into a drawn-out silence and then a full-on hiatus. Kaufman gave her no help.

What could she say? What was the consortium looking for?

This is just like defending your thesis, she reminded herself. The research itself is the body, but the why is the soul.

She realized Madame Chair’s expression wasn’t a challenge, it was an entreaty: You’ve argued Reason. Now argue Heart.

She sniffled nervously and adjusted her glasses, then rounded the desk to stand freely before them. She did not clasp her hands or rock on her heels. Instead, she dug in, with a strong stance and her arms open. “What do you remember most about space exploration from when you were a kid?”

Madame chair smiled ever so slightly. “I remember the first manned dive on Europa.”

“What about that mission, specifically?”

“The pictures of the underwater spires.”

Vanhi nodded, smiling, too. The geology on Europa was stunning. Who knew such intricate structures were hiding under the ice? “I used to have a calendar with those pictures on it. Do you remember when the mission was launched? The day it was launched?”

The chair thought for a moment, then shook her head. Not a strand of her gray hair moved independently of its brethren. “Can’t say I do.”

“But you remember the pictures, when they were first released?”

“Yes.”

“When these missions are ready, and the ships launch from orbit—it’s only four short years before Convoy One launches, correct?—when they go, there will be pictures. Pictures of huge, silver-and-black ships. People will take epic shots of the convoys with the moon as their backdrop.” She took a breath, pausing for effect. “And then those ships will turn on their drives, and disappear into a subdimension, and there will be no more convoy pictures for a century.”

She let it sink in. No new pictures, only the occasional bland communiqué. Nothing with which to rally the non-initiated, to invigorate the public.

“Keeping one convoy close to home is absolutely essential for public morale. We want them to stay excited about space travel. That’s the whole point. We want kids to remember these missions, to look forward to joining missions of their own one day. We want people to gaze at the stars in wonderment and know that they are reachable, that the secrets of the galaxy can be touched. What is the point in hurrying SD research if we can’t keep this international union alive? We need the whole world to feel the gravity of its importance, to know that these kinds of peaceful, worldwide endeavors are beautiful, and human.

“If you place us around the corner, outside the neighborhood but just down the road, people can visit. Both literally and figuratively. People can point their telescopes at us. They can take space jaunts to see us. There can be pictures as often as you want them. We can keep the excitement high. We can make sure people don’t forget about all those other brave souls while they’re doing the hard work of trying to be societies in space. We owe them the public’s continued interest. And we owe the world a sense of wonder.”

Kaufman raucously applauded, his beefy hands clapping out an echoing ovation.

The consortium members did not join in. But Madame Chair smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “I think we have all the information we need.”

After Vanhi and Kaufman gathered their things, the man in the kilt appeared once more and escorted them back into the hall.