Читать книгу The Alien's Secret Volume 1 - Robert M. Doroghazi - Страница 4

“Sir, I believe this is the most serious threat of the war,” said General Raton, Chief of the Orian Armed Forces.

“I agree,” replied Chairman Rommeler with a nod. “I’ll call an emergency meeting of the Committee of Ten for 1300 hours tomorrow to discuss the situation.” As Rommeler glanced down at the clock on his desk, he said, “Seventeen hours should be sufficient time for all of the Committee members to return to DiGamma.”

I believe it will be,” replied the general.

“We’ll meet in the Suppay Room. General, be prepared to present the options we’ve just discussed and any other legitimate possibilities we might come up with in the interim.”

“Yes, Sir,” replied Raton.

The chairman was already keying in the instructions to summon the Committee members as Raton stood up and turned to leave. It would be a long night.

Makeup can hide a scar, but it can’t hide the pain, and it can’t change reality.

All of the physical damage to DiGamma, the capital city of the planet Oria, was now just a memory. Even the greater sasz, a majestic bird, the largest raptor on the planet, the symbol of royal power when kings still ruled the land, whose ten centimeter talons could snatch a lamb, had returned to their traditional nesting sites atop the tallest buildings, like a feathered crown on the capital city. The people welcomed the return of the great white birds with their chisel-hard beaks, reddish-tipped wings and black tails as a sign that daily life had returned—almost—to normal. Because the sasz had long-ago been genetically programmed to take only bisms and prinzs, the capital was again free of vermin.

The revolution, a word that to most meant only dark memories and awful associations, began fourteen months ago with such a pile-driving suddenness that the central government was taken completely by surprise. On the first day, three of the rebel’s quark-drive fighters broke through DiGamma’s defenses and headed straight toward the capitol building, the Hall of Rankin, raking everything in their path with the fire from their lepton cannons. Sye W. Kanaduh, 112 year-old member of the Committee of One Hundred, was among the 2,350 civilians that died in the surprise attack. An interplanetary transportation facility and power sub-station were completely destroyed, and eighteen homes and two hospitals were damaged.

Even before the central government regained the initiative, the rebels turned to terror. They claimed to be fighting for the freedom of the oppressed, but it was just an excuse; they wanted power. With their only seismic weapon, they directed a class four tremor at a grade school in the provincial capital of Pawlee, burying almost three thousand children in the rubble. They had planned a second quake for two hours later, just the right amount of time to also kill the rescue workers. But a daring raid by the elite Rankin Star Commandos, led by Captain Meir, took out the facility just as the weapon was being recharged.

The last suicide attack on the capital was seven months ago. A grandmother, a widow known for her generosity and pleasant manner, who would do anything for anybody, because that’s just how she was, was taking her daughter and her two children into the city for a day of treats, a little indulgence, some shopping and a show to celebrate the older girl’s birthday. “That’s what grandmas are supposed to do,” she would say.

She also had a package she was delivering as a favor for a friend of a friend, which she was told was a hand-sewn dress. It was in fact, the cellulose-based explosive ammit, which was near-impossible to detect because it gave the same signal as a candy bar on all the routine monitoring devices. It was initially hoped that one of the children may have been left at a friend’s and not involved in the tragedy, but genetic testing of material scraped off the sidewalk confirmed that the four year old had also been pulverized.

On Orian television, radio, and internet, on the broadcasts from other planets, from the soldiers returning from the fighting to savor the hugs from their family and the well-deserved respect of their neighbors, all the news of the recent fighting was positive. The Orian stock market lost 60 percent of its value during the first two weeks of fighting, but was now on the verge of breaking to a new high. Many, even those whose job it was to be cynical and skeptical, such as pawn shop owners and high school assistant principals, openly predicted victory in six weeks, or maybe if things went well, as little as four weeks.

But the Orians are a pragmatic, sanguine people; they never let bliss dilute reality. Although they had every reason to be optimistic, the fact that there would inevitably be more deaths and destruction before the final victory was not sublimated. More Orians had died in the fourteen month Civil War than had died in the last two hundred years of all of Oria’s interplanetary conflicts, including the seemingly endless fighting with the barbarian Grog. Neighbor fighting neighbor, brother fighting brother, is always more vicious than when warriors meet on the field of battle. Of the casualties, 70 percent were civilians that had never touched a weapon.

The skyline of DiGamma was dominated by three grayish-white energy receptor panels. Each round panel was more than two kilometers in diameter and stood atop towers that were a kilometer square at the base and more than six kilometers high—thirty times taller than the St. Louis Arch. The towers were visible from more than 350 kilometers away. At least one panel was visible to more than 90 percent of Orians from their front yards. Far from eyesores, they represented power and security. These panels, and the forty-five others strategically placed over the planet and Oria’s two moons, received energy beamed directly from the Rankin Cube, which surrounded the black hole-star binary at the center of the Orian solar system. The towers were the largest man-made structures on Oria, taller than all but the highest mountains, a constant reminder to all citizens that they had conquered the secrets and had unlocked the power of the black hole. The Rankin Cube was still, by more than an order of magnitude, the largest man-made structure in the universe.

Each tower was a community unto itself. The central core was for transmitting energy, but the outer frame was more than just a stand. There were shops, manufacturing facilities, warehouse space, schools, and living quarters. One hundred thousand people or more could be in a tower during usual business hours. For 118 years, the government held the bi-annual Pixxlerr competition, granting an artist the privilege to paint a twenty by fifty meter mural on a tower depicting a scene from Orian history. Every winner, no matter how popular or how much their works fetched on the open market, received no compensation and considered it the highlight of their artistic career. They would be forever part of Orian history.

With the limitless power of the black hole, the Orians were able to control their weather. There were still the four seasons, but the temperature was never warmer than +33° or colder than -8° Dye-Anz (commonly called “DA” and just happened to be conveniently equivalent to our Celsius).

Weather cataclysms, such as hurricanes, typhoons, tornadoes, floods, severe storms, hail, even lightning strikes, were unknown on Oria for almost five hundred years, from the time just after Odibee Rankin built the Cube. Many Orians traveled to the more backward outer planets in their solar system just to experience a thunderstorm. Some thought that a slow-motion image, capturing the lightning bolt from its first twinkle through its race across the night sky in a thousand different and ever-changing directions, to be the thrill of a lifetime. How could anything be so fleeting, so small at barely one centimeter in width, near instantaneous, gone long before its presence announced by the clap of thunder, and yet be so powerful? It was easy to see why the Whe-Woulons, one of the prehistoric tribes of Oria, considered Eashten, the god of the sky, to be the most powerful in their pantheon of deities.

Although it was the middle of what was still called winter, the temperature was a cool but pleasant +2° DA. The Orian sun Mhairi shone brightly. There were a few scattered, yellow-green clouds and a soft breeze, evident only by the signs above the doors of the local businesses creaking as they swung back and forth, the waving of the purple beengum moss hanging from the rocca trees, and a few wisps of dust from the fields. A light coat, hat and gloves, or even a hooded sweater, were enough to keep the school children warm on the playground during recess.

During the night, Chairman Metetet Rommeler had contacted all of the members of the Committee of Ten to notify them of the emergency meeting. The formal business of the Republic of Oria was conducted by the Committee of One Hundred in the columned, ornate beaux-arts style Hall of Rankin, located in the center of DiGamma on the banks of the mighty, fast-flowing Donow, its clear, and still cool water coming from snow-melt of the CarPattKum Mountains barely visible off in the distance to the west.

But for this meeting, easily the most important since the outbreak of the war, celerity, and above all, secrecy, was what really mattered. Any suggestion that the Committee was meeting at this particular moment would immediately alert the rebels, who seemed to have spies everywhere, that the government had learned of their plan. The rebel’s plan, if successful, would change the course of the war. Billions would die. Centuries of progress and hard work would be wiped away, vaporized in an instant in a mushroom cloud.

This meeting, without any aides, secretaries or note-takers, was held in the War Command Room of the Suppay Building, the headquarters of the Orian military, more than forty kilometers from the center of DiGamma. It was the most secure building on the planet. There were no other structures and no plants taller than the daily-manicured blades of grass within five hundred meters of the building. No aircraft without special clearance was allowed within twenty kilometers. Committee members entered either by one of the eight heavily-guarded subterranean routes or by military aircraft that landed directly on the building’s upper floors, all far from public view.

Chairman Rommeler was normally seen in public almost every day. He gave a formal news conference on the first Hetfon Day of every month and usually answered at least a few questions after every speech or public appearance. So he could devote all of his time to the unfolding crisis, the press had to be given some legitimate reason that he would not be seen for the next week or longer.

It was decided to tell the press that the Chairman was going to the family’s personal retreat at Murrdorr. Rommeler was there three or four times a year, often using it to host interplanetary heads of state and other dignities. It would arouse no suspicion. Murrdorr was also secure. On Oria, the media respected the personal lives of prominent personalities, political or otherwise. Security was always on the lookout for spies and traitors, but at least they didn’t have to worry about paparazzi-like journalists.

As Rommeler walked through the vine-covered gates of 115 Bingham, the address of the Chairman’s official residence, within just a block of the Hall of Rankin, he stopped for a minute on the sidewalk to chat with reporters. Rommeler was dressed casually but neatly, and as always, his every movement and gesture showed poise, confidence and self control.

“Hello, everyone,” said the Chairman with a smile that was inwardly forced but outwardly relaxed and appeared adequately genuine.

“Hello, Sir,” was the reply in unison, almost as Beaver, Whitey, Larry, Gilbert and Violet would say “Hello, Miss Landers,” on Leave it to Beaver.

“What’s on your schedule, Mr. Chairman?” asked Ilon Lekki-Thoma, the senior political reporter of the Septadian Times, who by custom was given the first question.

“We’re headed to Murrdorr. Mrs. Rommeler is already there, and a few of the grandchildren will be in and out.” (In such situations, the Chairman never used his wife’s first name, Ora. He was the one in political office, not her, so he made every effort to distance his family from the press.)

Rommeler then turned more serious. “I will of course, stay in close touch with General Raton. My main goal over this time is to do some reading and study on how other societies re-integrated after a civil war in the way fairest to all. We want to have a plan that’s ready to go when this conflict ends. I don’t think we have the luxury to let time wear away the bitterness. A few people will need to be punished, and punished very severely,” he said in no uncertain terms. “But overall, I’m convinced that compassion and forgiveness will be the key to rebuilding a successful future for Oria.”

He paused, and was again more casual. “I’ll do a little gardening, and we’re going to make some fraiseberry jelly.” With a smile he added, “And I’ve heard that the fish in our lake have been getting lazy. They need some exercise.”

Rommeler needed to move along, so he brought things to a quick end. Indicating there would be no more questions, he said with a wave of the hand and that reassuring Rommeler smile, “See you in a week or so.”

The meeting was scheduled for 1300 hours. Punctuality was a virtue on Oria. “Nobody cares if you’re ten minutes early, everybody cares if you’re ten minutes late,” was the old saying. Being late was a sure sign of intellectual disorganization, a sloppy mind, and was thought at a minimum to be inconsiderate, showing no regard for the feelings of others, as a way to control them—or at worst—a not-so-subtle way to insult someone. Anyone late for a meeting of this importance would be greeted with stone silence and a stare that could tear the hide off a gevaudan, the most ferocious animal in the galaxy.

Chairman Rommeler stood just inside the door and greeted the Committee members as they entered the room. Aside from wearing a sweater and slacks instead of his usual neatly tailored flatton suit, Rommeler appeared as relaxed and confident as always. No one could tell he had slept less than thirty minutes in the last twenty-seven hours.

First to arrive, at 1240, was Feher Blanck, Academia’s representative on the Committee of Ten.

“Hello, Feher,” said Rommeler as he shook his hand.

“I saw your short press conference yesterday,” said Blanck. “Nice excuse.”

“I had to tell them something,” he replied. “I’m always honorable, but sometimes you have to be honorable and a little opaque,” he said with a smile.

Blanck held up a book he had brought for the Chairman. “You said you were going to do some reading.” He opened the worn, but well-preserved, dark brown kathedine cover to the title page. “This was written three centuries ago. It is an autographed copy of the memoirs of Bela Sarius, the Carrallon General who won their civil war. He was a daring and imaginative soldier. And,” Blanck added with emphasis, “absolutely relentless. He would be a great captain at any place or at any time in history.

“One week after the rebels surrendered, Sarius convened a tribunal where he sat as judge and jury. Justice was swift. The prosecutor spoke for ten minutes, and the accused were each given ten minutes to defend themselves. There were no appeals; Sarius’ word was final. He had the ten most important leaders of the rebellion executed immediately. Ten more were sentenced to life imprisonment and fifty were sentenced to prison terms of various lengths, although many sentences were later commuted. Another hundred were put on probation; anything out of line, and they were in the hoosegow.

“But,” said Blanck with an air of finality, “what you must read is how he treated everyone else, even those who had borne arms. There was no capricious display of temper, no viciousness. They were treated as brothers and sisters, with generosity. All that was destroyed in the war, the homes and factories, was rebuilt within five years. Metetet,” he quickly corrected himself, “Mr. Chairman, Carrallon’s greatest warrior was their most compassionate healer.”

As he stepped away, Blanck said, “I’ll leave the book on the table for you.”

Rommeler in fact,, had already read and studied the work closely but was personally touched that Blanck would make such an effort, loaning him a treasured autographed copy, the sort of book that would be the proud centerpiece of any museum’s collection. “I look forward to reading it,” he said to Blanck. “Thank you very much. And you can be sure I’ll take very good care of it.”

To the Chairman’s right was General Tsav Raton, Chief of the Orian Armed Forces. In the shadows, behind the General, were two Army officers in fatigues. Everyone immediately recognized one of the men; no one recognized the other, slightly older gentleman. No Committee member exchanged verbal greetings with either officer.

After being greeted by the Chairman and General Raton as they entered, everyone went to their predesignated seats at the pedestal table in the middle of the room. The table was made from a single piece of wood, carved from a lotton tree planted 732 years ago by General Fronzfunn Suppay, Oria’s greatest military hero of the pre-Rankin times. The black, reticulated, almost-luminescent grain was striking and appeared so bold that anyone who saw it for the first time felt almost perversely compelled to run their hand over the surface to be sure it really was smooth. They would then, almost sheepishly, look around to see if anyone had seen their apparent indiscretion. If they hadn’t been noticed, they might even do it again.

The table was made to seat the ten military members of the Committee of One Hundred. Today Chairman Rommeler was at the head of the table, the position designated by the flat rather than round edge. General Raton was on his right.

Time: 1254.

“Since everyone is here and we have a great deal to discuss, we’ll get started,” said the Chairman. “I call this emergency meeting of the Committee of Ten to order. Please be seated.” The two soldiers pulled up chairs to sit behind General Raton.

The Chairman looked at the empty seat on the far side of the table. “Dr. Slaytorre, the representative of the Medical and Biological Sciences, is on Feara Bata, chairing the meeting of the Inter-Galactic Society of Medicine. She was too far away to reach this meeting in time. She has given her proxy to Mr. Wir-Gardena.

“We’ll get straight to business: the reason you’ve been called here. Two days ago, our intelligence service, with a bribe of just one thousand horas, learned that the leader of the revolutionaries, Rennedee, has implemented an audacious, and I must admit,” said Rommeler with a hint of grudging admiration, “a brilliant and ingenious plan that could change the course of this war which we are now so close to winning. His plan involves a planet called Earth.”

Rommeler paused just long enough to press a button on a small device on the table in front of him. The lights dimmed. The faces of those around the table were still well illuminated, but the two soldiers seated behind General Raton were now barely more than apparition-like silhouettes. The holographic images that appeared above the table could not be traced back to their point of origin, as in a smoke-filled movie theater. Multiple images could be displayed anywhere in the room. If the images were associated with a sound, such as a person speaking, it appeared that the voice came right from their mouth—because it did. To further add to the perception of reality, the image was like a scotomata; the viewer could not see through or beyond it. It did appear that real people and real things were right there, hanging in mid-air.

The first image was a familiar one. There was the binary, the black hole and its sister star Mhairi, which orbited each other at the center of the Orian solar system. Mhairi had received its name in antiquity, before the written word, probably even before its image was painted on cave walls or carved into rocks.

From Oria, the black hole is invisible to the naked eye. With an event horizon of only fifty-four kilometers and the absence of any light to further disguise both its existence and its power, even now the black hole itself can’t be seen. Its presence was only inferred from the surrounding matter, the accretion disk, after the invention of the first powerful telescope by Lineck. For centuries many could not accept the concept that something could “swallow light.” Many thought for sure they had found heaven, which God kept dark to disguise his (or a few thought her), presence. Because of the disagreement, the skepticism that such an otherwise unimaginable creature even existed, and the religious significance attached by some, the black hole remained unnamed. Even today, it is still just, even without capital letters, “the black hole.”

Dominating the image, surrounding the binary, was the Rankin Cube. The interior and sides of the Cube were open. The margins were 314,159.26 kilometers thick and 5,332,467.394 kilometers long, with some thickening at the corners for support. The yellowish appearing, but actually white, twinkling Mhairi could be easily seen, but appeared smaller than a cat’s eye marble compared to the tennis ball-sized Cube. The only visible evidence of the black hole was the flat, swirling rainbow-colored accretion disk and the stream of colored gases extending in a perpendicular plain above and below the black hole, giving it the appearance of a galactic-sized top. A swirling, funnel-shaped trail of stellar dust, the 4.5 million tons of ashes per second spewing from Mhairi’s stellar furnace, appeared to tether the tiny black hole to the giant star. In fact, however, it was just the opposite.

On the next image, and all that followed, an area of less than 3 percent of the previous image was first denoted with broken lines and then quickly magnified. Only a small bit of the now tiny Cube was visible in the lower left hand corner. On the third image, the Cube was no longer present. As the Chairman spoke, the process was repeated, but at a faster and faster pace. The images were shown just long enough so that the observers could recognize that another parsec had been traversed. Planets, stars, nebulae, even whole galaxies flew by in what seemed like an abbreviated tour of the Universe. After the 13th enlargement, a small area of space was magnified showing Earth’s solar system. Again the image was magnified and the blue and white Earth, with its single gray/white moon, were brought into sharp focus. Oria, with its two moons, the green Alcuinn and the golden yellow Auric, were shown for comparison.

“The Earth,” began the Chairman, “is approximately three-quarters the size of Oria, and its star is size 2, class B.”

The difference was obvious. A set of numbers below Earth represented its standard cosmologic notation—414:826:009:716:825:326, 1, 1, 23. The first six numbers are the coordinates from universal zero, the star of Hold. The next number denotes if the planet rotates—zero if it does not, one if it does. The next number signifies if the rotation is positive or negative—one if positive, zero if negative, with the planet Tante as reference. The last number is the cosmological mass in Kwin-Kenee units.

“Until yesterday, all we knew about Earth was that there was a planet in that location. There was never a reason to study it.”

Rommeler prided himself on being able to provide accurate facts and non-judgmental opinions, but a hint of sarcasm could not be concealed. “To our knowledge, Earth has never been visited by an alien species. They have not yet even traveled to their own moon; they have barely begun to study their own solar system. Yet they are convinced they are unique—that their planet is the only one in the entire Universe with life, and that they have somehow been blessed and ordained as the ‘chosen ones’ as they call themselves.”

The Chairman raised an eyebrow, shook his head ever so slightly, and said, “There is little more dangerous than the arrogance of stupidity.”