Kristine Kathryn Rusch - The Tenth Planet

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Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Kathryn Rusch - The Tenth PlanetThe Tenth
Planet
Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Kathryn Rusch
<>Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book
is
coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "un-sold or
destroyed"
and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.
ADelRey®Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 1999 by Creative Licensing Corporation and Media
Technologies Ltd.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copy-right
Conventions.
Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division
of
Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of
Canada Limited, Toronto.
Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of
Random House, Inc.
www.randomhouse.com/delrey/
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-90139
ISBN0-345-42140-X
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: June 1999
10 987654321
In memory of Richard B. Weaver
Section One
DISCOVERY
1
August 16, 2017 16:04 Universal Time
240 Days Until Arrival
International Space Monitoring Buoy Number Six was alone. Since it had left
Earth over three years ago, it had been alone, traveling through the depths
of
space to the seventh planet, Uranus, then settling into a wide elliptical
orbit.
For the past six months, ISMB 6 had faithfully done its job, taking readings
of
the surface of the planet, using its cameras and sensors and equipment to
explore the outer reaches of the solar system.
ISMB 6 was a hardworking little craft, although from the outside it seemed
like
little more than a piece of space junk in an area devoid of anything else
man-made. A silver craft, the diameter of a small bedroom, its surface was
cluttered with a myriad of dishes, antennas, and measuring devices, making it
look like a spider. On the side of the craft, in one of the only small, open
areas of the main body, were the letters ISMB fol-lowed by the number 6.
Under
the letters were a dozen tiny stencils of flags, indicating the countries
that
had helped in the joint project.
Out here, everything familiar seemed remote. Even the sun was nothing more
than
a distant hole of light in the massive field of stars, not even strong enough
to
cast real shadows, or supply any real warmth.
Not that ISMB 6 cared. It was one of seven buoys de-signed by American and
Japanese engineers, and sent out-ward by a consortium of twelve countries,
all
believing that the heavens needed to be monitored as the seas were once
monitored. The early scientists saw the ISMB system as a twofold project: the
buoys would act as ways to gather infor-mation in deep space, and they would
also serve as the markers of Earth's boundaries.
Surprisingly, the nations making up the consortium did not want to consider
the
boundary issue. To them, having bounda-ries meant defending them, sending
weapons into space, per-haps even developing a fleet.
Such things are not necessary, the politicians said, unless there is a
perceived
threat. And of course, there was no threat and no hint of one ever appearing.
The politicians believed we were alone. The scientists weren't sure.
So the consortium took its funding and built the seven buoys, launching them
over a three-year period. Three buoys orbited the three largest planets in
the
solar system: Jupiter, Saturn, and Uranus. Two buoys were stationed over the
sun's poles, holding positions above and below the plane of the solar system
at
a distance from the sun about the same as Mars. The seventh was completing
the
last year of its flight to catch and orbit Pluto.
All seven sent a constant stream of data Earthward, pow-ered by batteries
designed to last thirty years, even without solar reenergizing. The data was
received at stations all over Earth and relayed to a classroom-sized area
three
floors under a complex outside of Sydney, Australia. The complex housed, at
times, upwards of a hundred scientists from around the world, studying
on-site
the information being sent back from the buoys.
At the complex, ISMB 6 was the only buoy that hadn't been assigned a
nickname.
The nicknames suggested by the English-speaking scientists were too crude to
use, even acci-dentally, at press conferences, and besides, the jokes did not
translate well into the complex's other approved languages. As a result, the
scientists who tried to create a shred of per-sonality in their tools
imagined
ISMB 6 as a serious, unimagi-native little worker, who could be relied upon
at
all times.
ISMB 6 wasn't aware of any of this. ISMB 6 really wasn't aware of anything.
It
simply went about its job, orbiting Uranus, sending telemetry back to Earth.
It's entire mission was routine, as routine as a pioneering mission could be
until ISMB 6's third orbit of the day, a day artificially measured in Earth
time.
As ISMB 6 rose slightly above and beyond the dark, cold surface of Uranus, a
blackness seemed to loom near the little craft, almost as if an invisible
cloud
of soot was filling space.
Then, with a weak, reflected flash of light from the dark-ness, all data
stopped
flowing toward Earth.
All instruments shut down.
ISMB 6, the faithful, hardworking little buoy, was dead.
August 16, 2017
4:56 a.m. Pacific Daylight Time
240 Days Until Arrival
Orange and yellow bands of light cut through the morning mist as the sun
peeked
above the Coast Mountain Range. The morning air had a thick dampness that
felt
more appropriate to winter than to August, yet by noon the chill would be
gone
and the temperature would hit eighty.
Dr. Edwin Bradshaw ducked out of his tent and pulled his jacket tight around
his
shoulders, shivering slightly in the cool morning air. A mile to the west the
Pacific Ocean rumbled as the surf hit the beach. He couldn't see the
water—the
tall pine trees that surrounded him prevented that—but he could hear the
ocean.
Its sound was constant, sometimes a low murmur and sometimes an angry
explosive
pounding. And sometimes this rumble.
He found that the ocean's constant conversation soothed him. He knew he would
miss it, as he always did, when he had to go back to the Valley. He would
miss
all of this. He was lucky to have ended up here, in Oregon, rather than some
po-dunk university somewhere, a place with no credentials and no budget to
send
him anywhere. Oregon State University liked his background, despite the
controversies, and for the most part, the administration left him alone. He
was
able to choose his dig sites, and his assistants, and use university funds to
continue his research. Fortunately for him, his re-search centered on the
Native
American tribes of the Oregon Coast, and he got to spend his summers, and an
occasional winter, in what he considered to be the most beautiful place on
Earth.
But he was getting older. The morning chill got into his bones these days. In
September, he would turn sixty, and lately, he had begun to feel it. Sleeping
in
a tent, even with a thick sleeping bag and an air mattress (something he
wouldn't have considered in the old days), left him stiff and sore. It took a
few minutes of movement every morning be-fore his joints stopped creaking.
No one stirred in the dozen other tents around the small clearing.
Twenty-four
Oregon State University students had signed up for this dig, more than any
other
summer. He was having trouble just keeping them all busy. The dig site wasn't
big enough for all of them to work at once.
He grinned. He always woke before his students. On the second day of the dig,
most of them had groaned their way through the work, and he hadn't felt old
at
all. These days stu-dents got no exercise, except for the federally mandated
stuff in the public schools. Remotes, handheld computers, and the new
personal
assistants, which were little more than headless robots, ensured that anyone
who
wanted to spend his life in a chair could do so without any effort at all.
Bradshaw was an old-fashioned guy, old enough to re-member when kids spent
their
summers outside playing baseball and kick the can until their parents forced
them in-side. Old enough to remember when color television was an unusual
thing.
Old enough to remember only three television channels—all free—and changing
those channels by twist-ing a dial. When he was a little, little boy, it had
taken him two hands to go from one channel to the other.
Now some of his students brought their own televisions with them, tiny things
that attached to the wrist and changed channels with a soft verbal command.
On
the first day of the dig, he had Kelly Flynn, his graduate assistant, help
him
with what he called the Great Electronics Search. He confiscated most of his
students' "necessities"—generally, watches that served as small computers,
with
television, radio, gaming, and Internet capability. He wanted them to focus
on
the lives of Native Americans before white settlers found this beautiful
place.
His theory was that if his students were able to think like the tribe that
filled this area, they would do better when they searched through the earth
for
remnants of that life.
He hated the day of the Great Electronics Search. It made him the most
unpopular
man in camp for the first week of the dig. But he had done it often enough to
know that by the end of the summer, his students would thank him. They would
say
things like "I really got to enjoy the woods, Doc. I'd never done that
before."
And never would again, he would wager.
Most of those students would be angry if they knew that Bradshaw always
brought
his own electronic equipment to the dig site. They would be even more upset
if
they knew that he spent part of his evenings on-line, keeping track of
current
research. His favorite on-line site was a place he lurked, a place where some
of
the best archaeological minds of this generation argued theory in terms that
were as far beyond these students as computers were beyond the tribes that
once
lived in this very spot. Bradshaw's only contribution to the site—for that
matter, to most archaeological publications, print or on-line—was to list the
location of his dig and the reason he was excavating the site.
Imagine his surprise when he was awakened this morning by the vibration of
his
watch against his wrist. He had only set that private computer alarm for
messages marked urgent, be they phone, fax, or e-mail.
This one was an e-mail message, sent only a few hours after he had updated
the
dig information for the archaeologi-cal site. It was from Dr. Leo Cross.
Cross
was not the world's most famous archaeologist. Bradshaw had no respect for
the
famous people, the brand names, to whom recognition was more important than
research. They usually let their grad stu-dents handle the hard work, and
then
took credit for the find-ings. No. Cross was the best-known archaeological
historian among his peers. They all envied his intuitive ability. It was
almost
as if the earth spoke to him, revealing to him secrets that none of the
others
could ever hope to hear.
The thing that made Cross so very very good was that he did the things that
other archaeologists hoped to do, and probably would never achieve. Cross
used
the myths of his-tory to find actual archaeological sites. And Cross hadn't
just
done that once or twice. He'd succeeded dozens of times, which to Bradshaw
meant
that Cross had more going for him than just luck.
Cross worked at Georgetown University and had, in the last fifteen years,
developed its archaeology department from one whose reputation was in decline
into one of the best in the world. Sometimes Bradshaw wished he were young
again, or young enough to justify going to Georgetown for some post-doc work.
He
would have loved to spend a semester listening to Dr. Leo Cross.
Bradshaw stretched, wishing the tall pines let some of the sun's warmth
through.
Later in the day he knew he would be thankful for those trees, but now he
wanted
just a little of the morning sun to take the chill off.
But maybe the chill he was feeling had nothing to do with the lack of
sunlight.
Maybe it had more to do with the mes-sage he had received from Cross.
Already, Bradshaw could recite it from memory:
Dr. Bradshaw:
Greetings. I see you are working a dig on the Oregon Coast this summer. Would
you please inform me if you find a thin layer of black residue covering your
site at any level?
Thank you for your consideration.
Leo Cross
The message had Georgetown's stamp, and Bradshaw used his EncryptionChek
program
to confirm that the message also used Cross's personal code. This had been
sent
by the man himself, not some automatic program sending a stan-dard e-mail
message every time someone updated a dig site on the archaeological bulletin
board.
Cross wanted information, and before Bradshaw replied, he wanted to make sure
he
had some to give.
He glanced once more at the tents. No one stirred. Thank heavens. He really
didn't want to discuss this message with anyone, not even his indispensable
graduate assistant.
Bradshaw walked quietly through the tents and down the worn trail toward the
site. The dig area was staked and roped off, carefully detailed so that any
discovery would be exactly placed in a numbered grid. Even the tiniest scrap
of
artifact could be traced back to an exact location, both in direction and
depth,
long after it was removed.
The site was under a rock bluff that had sheltered bands of Native Americans
from the cold winds in the winter, yet al-lowed them to remain close to the
ocean and the nearby river. This dig was focused on the Tillamook, who were
native to the area. Bradshaw had chosen the area because he knew, from some
of
the aerial photographs and the migration pat-terns of the tribe, that his
students would find something here. But he didn't expect it to be anything
important.
Bradshaw already knew a great deal about the Tillamook, and had excavated
several other sites relating to them, one that got mired in yet another
controversy when his students discovered skeletal remains and the local
Native
American tribes, most of whom knew nothing about the Tillamook and their dead
culture, had demanded that the dig end while they researched Tillamook
cultural
values to know if Bradshaw was violating an ancient burial site.
He had already known that he wasn't violating anything— the body had no
evidence
of traditional Tillamook death rituals. Instead, the skull was cracked and a
large section in the back was depressed, indicating that either this guy had
fallen and hit his head or that he had been murdered. Eventu-ally Bradshaw
won
this argument and continued the dig, but not without some personal pain. The
fight with the local tribes had inspired The Oregonian to investigate
Bradshaw'spast.
That was the thing that surprised him the most about the message from Cross.
No
archaeologist with a good reputation had spoken to Bradshaw in twenty years,
let
alone asked for his help. He supposed he was flattered by Cross's message.
And
intrigued. But he felt something else, something he didn't want to feel,
especially at his age: just a little bit of hope.
Bradshaw passed the dig site and crossed behind it, toward a thin Douglas fir
where he had had the students dig their first test hole. The test hole went
very
deep—this one went deeper than it should have, since the students were being
overly cau-tious. This was called a depth-gauge dig, and it was done so that
he
could examine the layers and see how deep the dig site had to go to reach the
ideal location for their search. Brad-shaw's students were going back three
to
five hundred years, but they had dug the test hole so deep that he figured it
went down five thousand years.
He smiled as he remembered double-checking their work. "No need to go any
deeper," he had said. "Much of the North-west Pacific Coast culture was just
forming right about the point you're at."
The students had stopped as if they had been burned. Ap-parently they hadn't
realized that you didn't have to dig five hundred feet down to get to five
hundred years. "This was why," he had said to his students on their first day
of
class, "you actually dig instead of read about digging. Archaeology is a
hands-on science, just like all the others. Knowing theory only takes you so
far."
Now he was glad they had gone down so deep. Because he remembered other test
holes from other digs in the area, and they all showed what he thought this
one
would show: the black layer Dr. Cross had been looking for. Only the layer
was
thousands of years old.
Bradshaw crouched, hearing his knees crack, and knowing it would take some
work
to get out of this position. He peered into the hole, and saw exactly what he
remembered: a very thin black line several feet down. He knew without
checking
that the five other depth-gauge holes would also contain this black line. It
was
about an eighth of an inch thick and in the same level in each hole.
Considering the depth of the line, his guess was that at least four thousand
years ago something had created this black layer. He knew from the look of
the
layer that it was caused by an exogenic process, but he hadn't cared what
that
process was. It was outside his area of concern. When a stu-dent had asked
him,
he had said that he thought, without testing, that a massive fire had gone
through the region. And that was all the thought he had given it, until this
morning's message.
Bradshaw stared at the thin, black line cutting across the thick dirt of the
wall. Why would someone like Dr. Leo Cross want to know about such a line?
Tracking volcanic eruptions? Large regional fires? Neither seemed likely,
considering Dr. Cross's reputation.
But clearly something interesting to Cross had laid down that line of black
soot
four thousand years before.
Bradshaw shrugged and pulled his coat even tighter around his middle against
the
chill. Then he turned and headed back to his tent. He didn't trust voice
commands for this message. He wanted to make sure each word was the one he
intended, no misunderstandings, no misspellings. He would write to Leo Cross,
and he would use his full-sized keyboard to do it. ^_
This was the closest Bradshaw had been to cutting-edge science since his
disgrace twenty years earlier. And he was still ambitious enough not to want
to
screw this up.
August 16,2017
9:23 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time
240 Days Until Arrival
The black racquetball flashed past, just out of Leo Cross's reach. He
twisted,
his momentum slamming him into the hardwood wall, shoulder first. He rolled
along the wall, ending up with his back against the wood, breathing heavily.
Sweat dripped from his forehead and down his bare arms. His T-shirt was
soaked
and his heart was beating like it wanted to get out and run away from the
torture of this racquetball court. Forty-six years old and he was more out of
shape than he had ever been in his life. How had he let that happen?
"Leo?" Doug Mickelson said, leaning against the other wall, clearly breathing
and sweating just as hard. "You all right?"
"Yeah," Leo said. "I just can't believe you beat me. Have you been
practicing?"
"As if I have the time." Mickelson wiped his forehead with the back of his
arm,
and then shook his arm once. Leo was glad he was on the other side of the
court.
He knew that Mick-elson maneuver—he'd seen it on their first day of college
twenty-eight years ago in, of all things, a racquetball class they were
taking
for an easy PE credit. They had been friends ever since.
"They don't have racquetball courts in Southeast Asia?" Leo asked. He had his
hands resting on his knees, and he was still breathing hard. Served him
right,
going after this game as energetically as he had, after not playing for three
months.
"I think the Sultan of Brunei has a racquetball court," Mickelson said. "But
then, he can afford anything."
"You should know," Leo said. "Check it out. Research. Tell them while you're
handling the latest diplomatic crisis that you need a racquetball break."
Mickelson grinned. It was the same boyish grin he'd al-ways had, one that
hadn't
been on his face much since he'd been appointed secretary of state. "Yeah,
right," he said. "And have you fly in at someone else's expense so I have
someone to play with." He glanced down at his running shorts and filthy
tennis
shoes. "Somehow I don't think this is proper attire in Brunei."
"Have you ever been to Brunei?"
Mickelson's grin faded. "I think it's the only place I haven't been. I
thought
I'd love this job, I really did."
"And you do." Leo had finally caught a breath. He stood, already feeling the
workout in his muscles.
"Not like I thought I would, Leo. Not when we were in school. Remember those
mock debates? Remember how hyped I would get?"
"I never understood why you liked it then," Leo said. "It seemed dry to me."
"It's not dry." Mickelson picked the ball up and held it in his right hand.
"It's fascinating work. It always has been. It's just… so much is at stake.
So
much is always at stake."
They had had variations on this conversation before. It was one of the
benefits
of being old friends. Leo knew that Mick-elson talked to him in ways he
didn't
talk to anyone else. He couldn't.
"You knew that going in. Hell, you've been flirting around this level of
government for a long time."
"Flirting around the corners is not the same as being the one in charge."
Mickelson glanced at the ball. He seemed about to say something, and then
stopped himself.
Leo watched him, waiting. Leo was a bit out of his depth. He didn't entirely
understand the differences Mickelson was talking about. The kind of power
Mickelson had was some-thing that Leo couldn't get close to, and didn't want
to
even if he had the opportunity.
Then he shivered. If his research turned out, he might need to make use of
such
power.
He shook off the thought. "Four months is a long time to go from crisis to
crisis."
Mickelson smiled. This time it was the press briefing smile. "I was home for
a
few days."
"Not long enough to play racquetball."
"Long enough to call you and cancel." He shook his head. "Thank God for the
plane. You know, if I didn't have time on that jet to meet my staff and
concentrate on the next country, I wouldn't know what time zone I was in, let
alone what U.S. interests were in the area."
"You've always known what our interests are. Every-where," Leo said.
Mickelson nodded. "True enough. But going from a con-versation on the
International Cloning Treaty violations in China to brokering the latest
economic crisis in Greece re-quires a different set of protocols, different
knowledge, dif-ferent skills. You know, I'm very good with the Chinese."
"I've heard."
"But the Greeks baffle me every time. You'd think I'd do better with them."
"Why?"
"Because of the influence of their culture on ours."
"Their ancient culture," Leo said. The conversation had now moved into his
specialty. "A hundred years makes a huge difference in our own culture.
Imagine
talking to someone who survived the influenza pandemic of 1918 and trying to
explain how conditions helped it spread. You can't expect the Greeks to be
anything like their ancient ancestors."
"I suppose not." Mickelson sighed. "You caught me on a bad day, Leo. I guess
we
should have waited until I was back for a week before we had our racquetball
date."
"Only to have you cancel again because of another terrorist incident in
Milan?
No thanks."
"I hope that never happens again." Mickelson started across the court. "I'm
supposed to be back for at least a month. Maybe as out of shape as we are, we
should schedule twice a week."
Leo smiled. "Whatever you want, Mr. Secretary."
"You're not going anywhere?"
"Research is keeping me home." Leo stood up completely, and walked to the
glass
door. On the bleachers sat Hank, the head of Mickelson's Secret Service
detail.
Two more Secret Service officers stood outside the private door leading into
the
racquetball courts. Since Mickelson had become secre-tary of state, privacy
had
become a thing of the past.
At first Leo felt uncomfortable even talking to his friends with the Secret
Service around. But Mickelson pretended they weren't there, and Leo felt that
if
Mickelson was com-fortable discussing personal matters around these men, then
Leo could be to. Still, every time he came out of the racquet-ball court to
see
a burly man in a black suit, with the most so-phisticated electronic
equipment
on his wrist, and a gun in a shoulder holster ruining the line of the man's
jacket, he was astonished. Astonished because, in his mind, he and Mick-elson
were still students at Columbia, their theoretical discus-sions simply
continuations of all-night pizza sessions at the dorm, the ups and downs in
their personal lives just more grist for the conversation mill.
To think that, in twenty-eight years, Leo had risen to the top of his
profession
and Mickelson had risen to the top of his made Leo feel like a grown-up. He
wondered if this was how his parents' generation felt when they woke up one
day
to dis-cover their friends were successful bankers and doctors, and a man
their
age was president of the United States.
Perhaps that was what got Leo the most. The president was only five years
older
than he was, and Mickelson—the guy who had once called himself king of the
mosh
pits, who had gotten his nipples pierced on a dare—was now secretary of state
for the United States. A man who wore Saville Row suits because they told
leaders of foreign countries that he was conservative and cautious despite
his
relative youth (forty-six, apparently, was considered babyhood in
international
politics).
Leo himself had reached the age where anyone under thirty called him
"sir"—and
rightly so, since he could have fathered most of them. He hadn't fathered
anyone, however, and he hadn't married. He had dedicated his entire adult
life
to his work, and he didn't see that changing. Archaeology combined the best
of
all the sciences. He had to know chem-istry and biology and physics, as well
as
geology and paleon-tology. In the last year, he'd learned more about
astronomy
than he ever thought he would, and he'd been to a lot of classes and meetings
in
archaeoastronomy, a growing branch of his own field.
Yet the more he learned the more he realized he didn't know. And that worried
him. He was beginning to think he was running out of time.
As Leo pushed the glass door open, he said, "Hey, Hank."
Hank nodded, just as Leo expected him to. In the years that Hank had been
assigned to Mickelson, Leo hadn't managed to get more than a "Yes, sir," and
"No, sir" out of the man. There was no way of telling if he had enjoyed
watching
two middle-aged men play racquetball for the past forty minutes. There was no
way of telling anything about Hank at all.
"Dr. Leo," Hank said, and Leo started. Hank had never ad-dressed him directly
before. "Your computer alarm has been buzzing off and on for the last ten
minutes."
Mickelson frowned. "You should have interrupted us. It might have been
something
important."
"No," Leo said. "Being my secretary is not part of his job description."
Leo grabbed his towel off a lower bleacher and wiped off his face and chest.
Then he wrapped the towel around his neck and picked up the watch.
Watches weren't really watches anymore, but all the trendy names like
Infometer
by Swatch failed to catch on. Even though watches could do everything but
drive
your car (and Leo sometimes wondered why someone hadn't developed a program
to
do that), they were still called watches. They were thick little creatures
though, and the older models, like his, were bulky. He just didn't believe in
upgrading every time someone improved the sound speakers. He simply waited
until
the upgrades were something he could use. And in the last three years, no one
had thought to upgrade the business programming.
He didn't buckle the watch onto his sweaty wrist. Instead, he sat on the
bleacher and called up his e-mail.
Mickelson stood beside him, toweling off. "It's kind of nice to see someone
else
get the urgent message these days," he said to Hank.
Hank, characteristically, didn't reply.
Leo stared at the e-mail response from Professor Edwin Bradshaw in Oregon.
Part
of him had hoped that he wouldn't get another e-mail like this, but the
scientist in him, the part that loved discovery, was thrilled.
"Problems?" Mickelson asked.
"A pet project," Leo said. "A worrisome one."
"Something you need to talk about?" Mickelson was a good friend; he always
asked
that. And once or twice Leo had taken him up on it. But archaeology was not
Mickelson's strong suit. He didn't understand how ancient civilizations had a
relevance in modern society.
This time, though. This time, he might need to know. But Leo would pick his
moment, and this certainly wasn't it.
"Actually, I might need to talk to you," Leo said, "in an of-ficial capacity."
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DeanWesleySmithandKristineKathrynRusch-TheTenthPlanetTheTenthPlanetDeanWesleySmithandKristineKathrynRuschSaleofthisbookwithoutafrontcovermaybeunauthorized.Ifthisbookiscoverless,itmayhavebeenreportedtothepublisheras"un­soldordestroyed"andneithertheauthornorthepublishermayhavereceivedpaymentforit.ADel...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：141 页 大小：336.68KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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