Daedalus, Approaching Pluto Orbit, 0700 hours, August 24, 2123

Nicholas Rutherford felt the dreams slipping away. Dreams of Earth and blue sky and solid ground beneath his feet. Someone running beside him, a woman perhaps, didn't know her name. God! I hate coldsleep! he thought, his mental processes slowed a hundred-fold. He couldn't feel his body--and for that, he was thankful. He was a man half-frozen in the oxygen-rich, viscous fluids of the sleep tank, a feeding tube stuck down his throat, a hundred sensors monitoring his life signs. Such a crazy way to travel. He would have preferred to stay awake the year-long journey out from Earth, had the planners of this mission allowed him the option.

He felt a vibration, a buzzing in his ears. The tank was bringing him back to life. Slowly, with significant discomfort, he became aware of his body. His stomach felt like it was the size of a ball bearing. The muscles of his legs and arms ached. He felt warmth permeate the tissues of his body. He could not breath--panic flooded his mind. His limbs would not obey the signals he sent. Something sharp stuck him in his buttock. He drifted away . . .

. . . Nick opened his eyes and was blinded by the overhead lights. The tank had opened its cover and removed the feeding tube. He lay naked in a sticky, syrupy mess, sick in his stomach, his head pounding. He didn't want to wake up. Something he was supposed to do . . . he could not remember. His thoughts were slow, disjointed, barely conscious.

"Nick? How do you feel?"

He heard the voice, couldn't decide who had spoken. Nick pushed himself up with trembling arms and looked around the coldsleep chamber. His vision was blurred. "What?" he called, his voice little more than a gurgle.

"The tube is to your right, Nick. You must drink from it."

Nick remembered: It was imperative that he take the quickener soon after waking. He couldn't remember exactly why. Something about restoring homeostasis and avoiding tetany. The doctor--what was his name?--had stressed the point so adamantly, Nick had wanted to clobber the man--he remembered that much. He grabbed the tube and sucked the salty liquid down his throat until there was no more left. It didn't seem to make him feel any better.

"How do you feel, Nick?"

Nick climbed out of the tank and waited for this legs to stop wobbling. "Who are you?"

"I am Alan, Nick."

The damn computer. He wakes up six-billion kilometers from Earth, only to be greeted by a computer program. Never mind that it thought it was conscious, that its creators thought it was alive. "The others?"

"They are being revived. You will feel better after you shower. I've activated the autokitchen. A meal will the ready once all passengers have been revived and checked out."

"Great," Nick said, and stumbled in the direction of the showers.

The warm water felt good against his skin. The quickener was starting to get his body chemistry back in sync. The tank fluids washed away cleanly from his body. He almost felt human. Nick turned the water off and pulled a towel down from the rack, briskly rubbing himself dry. He wrapped the towel around his waist and went to a basin, studying himself in the mirror. He'd been in coldsleep for a year; his beard was three days old. He wondered who'd had the bright idea to slow human metabolism down a hundred times. He brushed his teeth. Was a year so long? Was not a year of space travel better than the sickness he now felt? He elected not to shave, didn't think he had the coordination. He entered the dressing room and saw the woman.

She sat on the bench opposite the door. She was naked and her hair wet, her nipples erect from the damp cold. A towel was draped across her lap. Nick knew who she was, but her name eluded him. She looked like she felt no better than he did. Even with the coldsleep sickness upon him, he found the site of her stimulating. Nick figured she was about twenty-five years old, ten years his junior. Her long blondish hair, now dark with water, clung to her body. Her eyes were blue-green.

"Hello," Nick said.

She looked up at him, only now realizing he was present. She crossed her arms to hide her breasts, seeming embarrassed by her nudity. "I didn't hear you come in . . ."

"Sorry," Nick said. "I can wait in the other room."

"There's no need. I was . . . surprised. Do you feel as bad as I do?"

Nick turned around, allowing her privacy, and opened his locker. "I can hardly remember my name."

"You are Nick," she said. "I think I'm Christine."

Christine Zeller, the linguist, Nick remembered. She'd caught his attention before they left Earth, but there had been no time to speak to her. He selected undergarments and a jumpsuit, dressing slowly--partly due to lack of muscle control, partly to allow Christine time to do the same. When he was done, he took his boots and went to the bench. Christine was dressed and lacing up her boots, apparently having more coordination than he did. He sat down next to her.

"I guess we're there," she said, smiling shyly.

"Yeah. Guess so."

"We will enter orbit about Pluto in twenty-four hours," Alan said, his voice coming from the ceiling speaker.

"God! Is he everywhere?" Christine grumbled.

"That's his job. It's only the computer," Nick said.

"Big Brother."

Nick leaned over and attempted to pull his right foot into a boot. He felt the vertigo overcome him.

"Wrong foot," she told him, smiling nervously. She squatted down next to him and helped him get his feet into the correct boots. "Is this your first coldsleep?" she asked as she laced him up.

"Yeah."

"Me, too. I hate it. They say the sickness only last a few hours. I hope they know what they're talking about . . . there, you're done." She returned to the bench.

"Thanks," Nick said. "I would've been here for hours trying to figure it out."

"I think someone would have noticed you before then."

I'm glad it was you, Nick wanted to tell her. But he barely knew her, and said nothing.

"Wasn't the doctor supposed to wake up first?" she said.

"Maybe he's in sickbay. He should've been here, though. When we--"

"--Dr. Bidwell will not awaken," Alan said.

Nick didn't like the sound of that. "What do you mean?"

"His sleep tank malfunctioned."

Nick stood up and headed for the sleep chamber, Christine at his heels. They found Dr. Harold Bidwell's tank. A red warning light pulsed on the control panel. Bidwell's face was dark gray and sunken, his flesh withered and hanging loose on his bones. He looked like he'd been dead for six months. The termination date on the display confirmed this.

"Oh, my God!" Christine blurted, turning away from the machine.

"What happened, Alan?" Nick called.

"The control circuitry failed. The backup circuits did not engage. I was unable to gain access to the tank's computer."

"You could have woken the rest of us up, for Christ's sake! The man didn't have to die."

"I am sorry, Nick. My orders prevented me from waking you up until we arrived at the destination point."

"You couldn't override your orders? A man has died! Don't you get it, Alan?"

"I regret that Dr. Bidwell has ended. My programming--"

"--Goddamn your programming! . . . just forget it, Alan. Just forget it!"

Alan did not respond.

"Let's get out of here," Christine pleaded, touching Nick's arm.
 
 

0730 hours, August 24, 2123

The Daedalus was a class-3 interplanetary spacecraft powered by an old-fashioned fusion drive fueled by the helium-3/deuterium mixture extracted from Jupiter's radiation-drenched atmosphere. In its heyday, it had been an exploratory craft with a crew of about one-hundred scientists, researchers, and graduate students. Twenty years ago it was state of the art. Today it was antiquated, and relegated to hauling freight and personnel to and from the various military and research facilities spread out over the solar system. Much of the research equipment had been gutted to make room for the cargo bays. But not all of it. The telescopes remained, as did the biology and physics labs. And the computers, too, still buzzing with the accumulated knowledge of the human species. Although the Daedalus was the property of the United States, and crewed by US military personnel, most assignments came from the UGSA--the United Governments Space Authority.

The ship was five-hundred meters in length and composed of six spherical compartments sixty meters in diameter. All but the forward and thruster spheres had eight smaller spheroids attached equidistance about the circumference and held steady with struts and cables. The craft looked more like an amusement park than a spaceship. Trolleys ran along the external length of the ship, designed to carry crew and supplies to the observation stations and weightless laboratories. A morass of deflector rods jutted out of the hulls, generating the torsion fields that protected the ship from the planetary debris and other relics left over from the creation of the solar system. To the untrained eye, it was difficult to tell which were deflectors and which were hyperspatial antennae. A significant portion of the power generated by the fusion drive was diverted to the artificial gravity generators, an invention made possible by the penetration into the hidden hyperspatial dimensions late in the last century . . .

Nick and Christine left the civilian coldsleep facility in S-3 and boarded a midship tram. Nick studied the control panel and tried to recall the operating procedures he'd been taught a year ago by the prep trainers on Earth. "You remember how to make this thing go?" he asked.

"Car, sickbay," Christine called.

"What?"

"Please take hold of the safety bars," a synthetic voice instructed.

"It responds to voice commands," Christine told Nick.

"Oh, yeah. I must look like an idiot."

"No you don't. Hold on."

Nick grabbed the same vertical bar Christine was holding. The tram, sensing their positions, engaged its clutch and the car lurched forward, moving slowly along the rails. Warm air gushed out the vents on the floor. Soft music came from the overhead speaker. Mozart's Violin Concerto no. 3 in G Major, if Nick remembered correctly. He looked into Christine's eyes. "You doing okay?"

"Feels like one helluva hangover. But I'm okay. You?"

"The same."

"Exiting sphere-three," the tram announced.

The car jolted as it switched to the external cables. Nick felt his stomach rise and the car fall. "Oooh shiit!"

"What's wrong?" Christine asked, giving him a puzzled look.

Nick studied the view outside the car windows. The car wasn't falling anywhere. It was moving steadily across the open space between S-3 and S-4. The gravity generators had no effect outside a sphere.

"I'm practicing being an idiot," Nick said, feeling his face grow warm.

Christine smiled. "But a nice idiot . . ." Her eyes wandered off. "Car, stop."

"What?"

"Look! I've never seen anything like that."

Nick turned and followed her gaze. She was looking through a clearing in the tangled maze of the ship's beams and tethers. Tiny points of light formed a thick, crystal haze. Billions of them. "We're looking into the plane of the galaxy," he told Christine.

"I know. Before we left the way station I studied the stars from the observation lounge. But there was too much light and traffic, and noisy. It broke the effect. But here . . ."

She was right. Nick hadn't been interested in the stars as seen from the Earth orbiting way station. Now he was. The sight of so many worlds--so much potential--awed him in a way he wouldn't have expected. And this was only one galaxy . . .

He looked at Christine. She was transfixed, eyes wide, mouth open, so desirable. Nick didn't want to break the mood. But he couldn't stand the weightlessness much longer, not in his current state.

She caught his eye and smiled. "Car, start."

"We need to get our physicals . . . just in case," Nick said.

"I know. I feel as bad as you."

The tram entered S-4 and stopped at the boarding platform. Nick and Christine exited and made their way to sickbay. They would have to perform the post-sleep physicals for themselves.

"Are we allowed to take something for the headache?" Christine asked.

Nick went to a terminal and switched it on. "I don't know. I'm looking for the procedures . . . okay, got it." He looked at her. "You want to go first?"

"And do what?"

"The medscanner."

"Is that all?"

"As long as it finds no problems, that's about it," Nick said.

Christine looked at him dubiously. "You know how to operate that thing?"

"It's automated. All I do is push buttons and watch the display. My father was a doctor. He taught me a few things."

"That's really comforting." She went and pushed herself in the medscanner. The machine, detecting her presence, moved her into a horizontal position. Christine gripped the handholds and placed her feet in the stirrups. "Ready," she said, closing her eyes.

Nick stood by the machine and hit the start button. "What's your badge number?"

"My what?"

"The number on your ID badge. The computer needs the number so it can access your medical records."

"Damn! I don't know. My badge is in my cabin."

"Hmm . . . " Nick went back to the main terminal. "Maybe I can find you in the computer. My head is still swimming pretty bad, though." He accessed the passenger manifest. The computer requested a name. "You have a middle initial?"

"R," Christine said.

Nick keyed in her name. "Here we go. 00122. Remember that." He returned to the medscanner and entered her badge number. The machine extended her arms and spread her legs. Her body was bathed in a red glow. The machine's emitters purred.

"Remember what?" Christine said belatedly. "I feel like I need to throw up."

"You have a child," Nick said.

"That's impossible."

Nick looked at her sideways. "No, no. I meant you have a child on Earth."

"Uh . . . oh. You're studying my medical history?"

"Would you prefer I close my eyes?"

"No. I'm sorry. I guess I don't wake up very graciously."

"Yearlong naps do that to people. I feel like hell."

"I am hell," Christine said.

"What's her name?" Nick asked.

"Who?"

"Your daughter."

"Oh. Her name's Tracy. She's three--well, four now. I think the damn tank lower my IQ by one-half."

"Which makes you twice as smart as I am," Nick said. "So, what did your husband think about you signing on to this mission?"

"He doesn't know. We're divorced. He's out in the Kuiper cloud somewhere. What business is that of yours?"

"Just working on my bedside manner," Nick said.

Christine sighed. "I'm gonna owe you a ton of apologies."

"Don't worry about it. We're not exactly at our best."

"I know. Am I going to live?"

"About done . . . and . . . you're in perfect health, all things considered." The medscanner went silent. "My turn. You get to play doctor now."

"Is that what we're doing?" Christine said, extracting herself from the machine. "We hardly know each other and already we're playing doctor."

"Fun, huh?"

The whirring sound of machinery came from across the room, attracting Christine's attention. "Now what?"

"It's making you a protein and vitamin drink, tailored to your precise needs. I added a pain killer, too. Go drink it now. It'll make you feel better."

Christine smiled weakly at him. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Nick?" Alan's voice called.

"What is it, Alan?"

"We have a possible medical emergency in coldsleep."
 
 

0800 hours, August 24, 2123

His name was Quinn Seabright. Nick figured he was about twenty years old. The tattoo on his left arm identified him as a registered genoclone. He had long black hair and equally dark eyes. His skin was a light shade of brown. The warning light on the tank display flashed red. He seemed to be having a nightmare.

Nick stuck the quickener tube into the man's mouth while Christine tried to hold him steady. The slippery fluids of the sleep tank made the task difficult. He drank the quickener reflexively and calmed down a bit. He mumbled in a synthetic language Nick did not know. Christine shook her head.

"Let's get him cleaned up," Nick said. "I think he's okay."

They managed to get Quinn out of the tank and into a shower. The other passengers had awakened and were wandering about the facility like a horde of zombies. They would be no help. Nick and Christine got Quinn washed down as best they could, making a mess of themselves in the process, and then helped the man into the dressing room. Nick helped Quinn get dressed. They led him to the bench and made him sit down. Quinn held his arms close about himself and shivered as if cold. Christine put her hand to his forehead. "No fever," she said. She went and got a dry towel and wrapped it around Quinn's shoulders. The man looked at her, his eyes betraying confusion and fear.

"What happened, Quinn?" Nick asked.

"Elor neglo vo explicho. Wengve," Quinn replied.

"In English."

Quinn blinked. "I do not know. It flew at me with wings."

"What flew at you?"

"A being. Like an angel, but not friendly. I think it was trying to tell me to stay away."

"Only a dream, Quinn. A bad dream. You're awake now," Nick said.

"We must turn back!" Quinn said loudly.

"You must get him to sickbay," a man's voice said from behind Nick.

Nick turned and looked at him. The man stood next to his locker with a towel around his waist. He seemed to be forty or so, his light colored hair cut short, his eyes dark blue and intense. His name was . . . something with an 'S' . . . --Shapiro. Saul Shapiro. Nick remembered him now, remembered the man interviewing him before they left Earth orbit. The man was the ship's psychologist; a position required by law for any ship that carried civilian passengers.

"Take Quinn to sickbay," Nick told Christine. "Run him through the medscanner. The machine will guide you through the process. Tell Alan to contact me if you have problems. "

"Understood." Christine helped Quinn to his feet and led him out of the room.

Nick turned to Shapiro. The man was sliding into his jumpsuit. "You seem to recover from coldsleep rather well," Nick said.

Shapiro gave him an emotionless smile. "I have been through the process many times. I suppose I have gotten use to it. But believe me, I look much better than I feel."

"The doctor didn't survive the trip."

Shapiro zipped up his jumpsuit. "I know. I've sealed his tank."

"A coffin."

"A sleep tank. Don't be morbid. The tank will be moved to cold storage for the return trip."

Nick leaned against the bank of lockers. "Do you know why we're here?"

"They found something."

"They told you?"

"I've been told nothing. Come, let's get our mandatory physicals. Then we can go to my office."
 
 

0900 hours, August 24, 2123

The mathematics of quantum mechanics suggested that the four dimensions of spacetime that the humans species could experience directly were not the only dimensions with which nature had endowed the physical universe. According to present-day historians, the first physicist to successfully explore additional dimensions of space was Theodor Kaluza who proposed early in the twentieth century the existence of a fifth spatial dimension. Building on Albert Einstein's general theory of relativity, Kaluza showed that a fifth dimension allowed the electromagnetic force to be viewed as a form of gravity in the unseen dimension. Later in the century, physicists added additional spatial dimensions bringing the total spacetime dimensions to eleven. The problem with the hidden dimensions was that they manifested at an extremely small scale, many times smaller than an atomic nucleus, and thus required extremely high energies to probe--energies that were not available at the time. The physicists didn't stop here. As the twentieth century came to a close, more spatial dimensions were added and new dimensions of time were proposed. Then, in the mid twenty-first century, the Japanese physicist, Jun Yawashita, made a discovery that would change the world of physics in a way unseen since quantum physics toppled the classical physics of the nineteenth century. Yawashita found that the unseen dimensions of space and time could be explored without requiring the enormous energies heretofore thought to be required. He referred to his discovery as the "Spontaneous Manifestation Theory." The SMT said that the hidden spacetime spontaneously unrolled and manifested as "hyperspacetime" trillions of times per second at every point in classical spacetime. However, since the "alignment" of the manifestations were random, they statistically canceled out and went unnoticed. This spawned a new branch of physics known as "hyperspatial physics." Toward the end of the twenty-first century, physicists developed the technology to align the unrolled spacetime and discovered a whole new world of hyperspatial matter and energy. This led to the development of hyperspatial technologies, the most important being the nearly instantaneous transmission of information across great distances in an apparent violation of Einstein's speed of light limit. Physicists argued that this was not a violation of the speed of light, but rather an allowed exception, not unlike the apparent violation of the laws of conservation observed in pre-hyperspatial quantum mechanics. Nevertheless, it was widely believed by the lay public, and even many physicists, that Einstein had been proven wrong, at least in part. Once the hyperspatial technologies were in place, another discovery was made that would once again rock the scientific community. Researchers using hyperspatial probes to explore the human brain were not surprised to find the unrolling present since the SMT required that the phenomena occur in all of spacetime. What was surprising was that the brain seemed to have the ability to align the hyperspatial manifestations by force of will. This had not been expected. Equally unexpected was the fact that the brain could respond to hyperspatial "signals" transmitted from another brain or machine. This gave a whole new meaning to the concept of holopathic phenomena . . .

Nick sipped the concoction the medical computers had designed for him. He sat in the chair opposite Shapiro and waited for the pain killer to take effect. The psychologist thumbed through papers on his desk.

"We are all in good health," Shapiro said. "Except for myself and Dr. Bidwell, none of you had undergone coldsleep. It was risky putting you under for so long a--"

"--Risky? How? I was told it was completely safe," Nick said.

"It is safe for most people. Normally, subjects are tested with partial stasis for short durations to determine if the procedure is safe for them. Apparently, the UGSA was in a hurry to get us here."

"Because they found something." Nick felt anger grow in his mind. How could the government risk his life and those of his fellow passengers? What in hell was so damned important?

"Yes. But why the rush?" Shapiro said.

"You tell me," Nick replied sullenly.

"I don't know, but I wouldn't think the extra week of testing would have made much of a difference considering the year it took to get us here. Unless, of course, something has gone very wrong."

"Have you spoken to the captain?"

"I have, but he told me nothing. He wants us to rest for a while before he tells us why we're here."

"So you don't really know anything. All you have are suppositions."

"What is your specialty, Nick?"

"I'm a physicist."

"A theoretical physicist," Shapiro added. "Why is a theoretical physicist needed at Proserpine?"

"My specialty is hyperspatial physics. Proserpine was built, in part, to study the properties of hyperspace. I don't find it odd that they'd want me there."

Shapiro studied Nick silently for several seconds, then, "They can beam the results of their experiments to you on Earth in a matter of seconds using the hyperspatial transmitters. Proserpine was set up for practical physicists. That is not what you are. You are not needed there."

"The pay is good," Nick said.

"What?"

"They offered me twice what I normally make for my work. I signed on for two years, and I get to continue the same research I was doing on Earth. How could I refuse? Besides, I figured two years of hands on experience would be good for me. I didn't start out as a theoretical physicist."

Shapiro frowned. "That explains why you agreed to come, not why they brought you here. What about your friend, Christine Zeller. Why is she here? What do they need a linguist for?"

"Physics is not all they do at Proserpine."

"True. But a linguist? What kind of place is Pluto for a linguist?"

Nick said nothing.

"Are you familiar with the specialties of the others?"

Nick shook his head. "They didn't give us time to get to know one another."

Shapiro took the papers on his desk and fanned them out. "Some of their specialties make sense. Edmund Baines, for example; a mathematician, and Conrad Zimmerman; a chemical engineer. Those two might be useful. But what about Adrian LaPierre? He's a theologian. Can you tell me what in hell they need a theologian for? And Jiro Kikumura; a biologist. No biological research takes place in Proserpine. And then there's Quinn Seabright."

"What about him?"

"They say he's a holopath."
 

1500 hours, August 24, 2123

It was in 2085 when the weak signals were first detected by a team of astrophysicists at the Apollo Research Center on the Earth's moon. At first the researchers thought the signals originated from within the solar system, perhaps from a facility on one of the moons of the outer planets. It did not take long to determine that the signals originated from outside the solar system, coming from the direction of the Orion nebula. After several years of analysis, researchers announced that the signals came from a fleet of spacecraft that appeared to be heading in the direction of the solar system. There were many thousands of them, it was believed, although the available telescopes did not have sufficient resolution to detect a single ship. The signals were emitted in the microwave band, periodic beeps that varied in frequency from twenty- to fifty-thousand kilohertz. No one was able to decode the transmissions. The signals resembled telemetry, but there was no discernable logic to the repeating patterns. Many thought they were nothing more than the ships communicating amongst themselves. With further study, it was discovered that the number of ships in the alien fleet was multiplying, at times exponentially. Apparently the fleet was building new ships out of the raw materials found in the star systems it passed through. Many thought the ships were von Neumanns-- universal constructors, self-replicating robotic probes possibly carrying no biological life. The press of the time dubbed the "invaders" Orions, and the name stuck. Thousands of articles were published in the popular and scientific journals. Fringe groups announced the destruction of the human species; others announced the salvation. The governments of Earth rallied to prepare for the "invasion." Then, ten years later, scientists at the Proserpine Research Station on Pluto reported that they had determined the distance to the alien fleet and their rate of travel. The Orions, it was found, would number in the millions when they entered the solar system, and that would not be for another fifteen-hundred years . . .

"Nick?"

Nick rolled over on his bunk and looked at the chronograph embedded in the bulkhead. "Go away."

"It is time," Alan said.

"Time for what?"

"The meeting with the Captain Sullivan in the conference room. It's down the hall to the right."

Nick sat up. "I'm on my way." He put his feet on the floor and rubbed his eyes. The sickness was almost completely gone now. A few hours of natural sleep had helped. He could use a few more. Shapiro's words had bothered him, but he wasn't going to lose sleep over the man's theories. When he got to his quarters in S-2, he had flopped down on the bunk, feeling the drowsiness overcome him. He wondered if the damn computer had given him a sedative. But he wasn't going to lose sleep wondering about that either. The last thing he could remember thinking about was Christine. He thought about Jenny, too, and wondered what she was doing. They'd been divorced for five years now. Jenny was a neurosurgeon of great repute, and had decided she wanted to be married to a classical musician for some God-awful reason. The real reason she left him, of course, was his obsession with his work. Jenny didn't like being alone and living with Nicholas Rutherford amounted to the same thing. Nick didn't know why he still thought about her. Maybe he still loved her. The whole thing was too complicated for his physicist's mindset. He'd given up trying to figure out what happened long ago--Jenny was history. Thank God there were no children to be hurt by their breakup.

Nick went into the small bathroom and splashed water on his face. After he'd dried himself, he combed his hair and stared at himself in the mirror. What in hell am I doing out here in the middle of nowhere? He decided he looked presentable enough and headed for the door of his cabin, exiting into the narrow passageway.

The conference room was six doors down. Quinn Seabright sat by himself with his back against the wall. His expression was passive, as if living in a world of his own. Nick figured that was better than having a nightmare. Shapiro sat across the room, talking with Conrad Zimmerman, probably making the same arguments he'd made to Nick. Zimmerman was a short, chubby man with gray, thinning hair. He wore thick eyeglasses, presumably unwilling to go through the surgical procedures that could repair most any visual defect. His face had a reddish tint that suggested the man imbibed a bit too much. Nick had met the man at the Earth orbiting way station. They'd had time to do little more than introduce themselves and shake hands.

Adrian LaPierre and Jiro Kikumura sat together near the rear of the room, quietly discussing some common interest they had discovered. LaPierre was about sixty years old, with white hair and a doughy complexion. He didn't look much like a priest in his jumpsuit, except for his thoughtful eyes. Kikumura was half LaPierre's age, a thin fellow with long hair falling across his shoulders and energetic expression. He waved his hands flamboyantly as he spoke.

Nick spotted Christine sitting with the mathematician near the front of the area. Christine noticed him and motioned him over. He sat next to Christine and nodded his head at Edmund Baines with a quick smile.

Baines offered his hand. "I don't think we met before they put us under. Edmund Baines."

Nick shook the man's hand. "Nick Rutherford. I guess they figured we'd have plenty of time for that once we got here."

"I suppose. Whatever they found, it must be damn interesting."

Baines didn't quite fit Nick's image of a mathematician. The man was in the late twenties or early thirties, and had a sturdy, muscular physique. His bronze hair was neatly combed, his intelligent eyes the color of gunmetal. His face was tanned and chiseled a little too well for Nick's taste. Nick didn't like the way he kept glancing at Christine either.

A noise came from the front of the room. "I guess we're about to find out," Christine said, smiling shyly at Baines.

A crewman entered pushing a holoprojector in front of himself and proceeded to set the machine up. The captain followed and stood at the podium, scrutinizing his audience. Ian Sullivan seemed too young and boyish to be a captain. He looked able-bodied enough and had an air of command about him, but Nick wasn't sure he'd want to depend on the fellow if things got rough. His short-cropped hair was red and his eyes greenish. He sported a chevron mustache. His face was ruddy and scrupulously clean. His jumpsuit was starched and pressed. Nick couldn't see the man's boots from where he sat, but he imagined they shined. A military man from the ground up. Nick hoped that was a good thing.

"It's ready, sir," the crewman said to Sullivan. The captain nodded and the crewman left the room.

Sullivan cleared his throat. "First, I want to apologize for not briefing you before we left Earth. I hope you understand that it was imperative we get here as soon as possible--"

"--Why?" Zimmerman broke in.

"I'm coming to that. An object was found on Pluto about two years ago. We do not think it is of terrestrial origin. The researchers at the Proserpine Research Station have been studying the object, but have learn little about it. That is why you have been brought here. We have reason to believe it may be dangerous--"

"--Just show it to us," Zimmerman said. "We already figured out this was not a routine mission."

Captain Sullivan held a steady gaze on Zimmerman for at least ten seconds before speaking. "That is correct, Dr. Zimmerman. This operation is under the jurisdiction of the United Military Forces of the United Governments of Earth. Under title seventeen, section six of the UMF Code of Procedures, you have been attached as civilian officers of the UMF under my command."

Zimmerman stood up. "You can't do that! I'm a private citizen of the United States of--"

"--It's done, Dr. Zimmerman."

"Sit down, Conrad," Shapiro told him. "We're here. What does it matter if you're suddenly an officer in the military?"

Zimmerman sat down, his face a shade redder than normal.

Sullivan shook his head. "As I was saying, we have reason to believe the object is dangerous." He reached over and hit the on switch of the holoprojector. The machine hummed to life. The space above the projection grid shimmered for a few seconds and then solidified.

"What in hell is that?" Zimmerman said.

"We don't know," Sullivan said. "I suggest you all gather around while I tell you what we do know."

Nick stood up with the others and approached the image of the mysterious object.

"An icosahedron," Baines said.

"A what?" Zimmerman asked.

"Solid geometry. A regular polyhedron. It has twenty triangular faces."

"That's correct," the captain said. "It has a span of about thirty meters. The geometry is nearly perfect. Each face is identical to the others within a few microns and perfectly flat to an equal degree."

Nick studied the object. It appeared to be made of a highly polished metal. The reflections he saw were, of course, images of the facility where the object was kept on Pluto. If its geometrical precision was what Sullivan claimed, then this certainly was not an object made by human hands. "What is it made of?"

"We don't know. Some suspect it is made of hyperspatial matter," Sullivan replied.

"That's impossible!" Nick said. "The energy required to maintain it would be enormous."

"Nevertheless, that's the best explanation we have. Whatever it is made of, we can't cut it or mar it in any way. It appears to be impenetrable."

"So you don't know what's inside of it," Kikumura said.

"I assume you have you scanned it?" Nick said.

"We've tried. It is opaque to all electromagnetic and hyperspatial frequencies," Sullivan said.

"Where exactly was it found?" Christine asked.

"It was found buried in the methane ice on Pluto's surface about two kilometers from Proserpine. Geomorphological studies of the area suggests the object is quite old."

"How old?" Nick asked.

The captain hesitated. "We don't have a precise number . . . perhaps as much as a billion years."

Nick felt his jaw drop involuntarily. No artifact can last that long. "Have more precise dating methods been tried?"

"I'm not a scientist, Dr. Ruthorford. But from what I understand, we are not able to interact with the object at all. We know only its size and shape."

"What about mass? Surely that's been determined."

"That cannot be measured. It apparently has some kind of internal power source. When we move it, there is no inertial resistance. It's as if the object has no mass. You could lift it with a single finger and not feel anything. It has no weight."

Exactly the way hyperspatial matter would behave.

"Like antigravity," Baines said.

"Not at all," Nick said. Baines looked at him curiously. Nick paid him no mind, he was lost in his thoughts.

"Why am I here?" Zimmerman asked. "If I can't get a sample of the goddamn thing, I'll not be able to analyze its properties."

"We don't know the object is hyperspatial," Sullivan said, "it just behaves that way. We are hoping that you and Dr. Ruthorford can find a way to get inside the object."

"What do you expect to find?" Christine asked.

"Evidence of whoever left the object here. And hopefully writing of some kind."

"Or the remains of the visitors themselves," Kikumura said, realizing why he was here.

That left the question of why a theologian and a holopath were brought here. "Do you think it has some religious significance?" Nick asked.

Sullivan dropped his eyes and tugged on his mustache. What is the man hiding? "The research team at Proserpine has reported some odd effects on the those studying the object."

"Such as?"

"Dreams, mostly. In a few cases, hallucinations."

"Of what, Captain?"

"Winged, human-like beings. Not unlike the angelic beings of Biblical account."

Nick turned and looked at Quinn Seabright. The man had remained in his seat, calmly listening to the the others and not participating. He returned Nick's stare without emotion. "Tell them why Dr. Bidwell died," he said to Sullivan, but kept his eyes on Nick.

Sullivan retrieved several holodisks from this jumpsuit pocket. "These contain a recording all that is known about the object as of our last transmission from Proserpine. We have about sixteen hours before we enter orbit about Pluto. I suggest you study them carefully. And rest as much as possible to recover from coldsleep. You will need to be at your best when we arrive."

"You did not respond to Quinn," Nick said.

"That will be all," Sullivan said, and turned to leave.

"Captain! What is it you're not telling us?"

Sullivan glance at Nick, but said nothing. He exited the room. Adrian LaPierre rose and followed him.

"Because it would have us taken longer to get here," Shapiro said to Nick.

"What?"

"The Daedalus was accelerating much of the trip out. The gravity generators and inertial inhibitors were disabled. The ship would have had to slow down if they brought us out of coldsleep to save the doctor. They apparently considered doctor's life less valuable than the lost time."

Well, that's just fucking great! So what in hell is going on at Proserpine?
 
 

1700 hours, August 24, 2123

Among other things, the holodisk contained details of the various experiments the researchers on Pluto had performed in an effort to learn more about the alien artifact. All efforts had failed. The captain had not lied when he said the object was impenetrable. What he had failed to mention was the fact the object was transmitting a low-power signal in the microwave band. The pattern of pulses was similar to the transmissions received from the Orion fleet fifteen-hundred years distant; a series of pulses that varied in frequency from twenty- to fifty-thousand kilohertz.

Which means the Orions had visited the solar system before, perhaps a billion years ago.

Nick Ruthorford leaned back in his chair and stared at the image on his computer terminal. The alien artifact was kept in an underground structure used to store land vehicles and general supplies. It was the only place in the Proserpine facility large enough to hold the object. The commentaries and videos on the holodisk showed no evidence that anyone was affected by the object. Nick backed out of the viewer and put the terminal in command mode. He requested a directory listing of the holodisk. He was not surprised to find that all the files were more than a year old.

"Alan?" Nick called.

"Yes, Nick."

"Where is Edmund Baines?"

"In his quarters, cabin twenty-six."

"Thank you, Alan."

"You are welcome, Nick."

Conscious, my ass.

Nick switched the terminal to ship's communications and signaled Baines.

The man's image appeared on the display. "Dr. Ruthorford. What can I do for you?"

"Call me Nick. Have you viewed the holodisk?"

"Yes. It seems the Orions created our icosahedron and left it here for us to find."

"You think they wanted us to find it? How do you figure that?" Nick said.

"What other reason could there be?"

"Maybe it gathers information."

"There has been no evidence that it is receiving anything. And what about the signal it is transmitting. A one-watt microwave signal does not go very far and is limited by the speed of light. I don't think it is trying to communicate with the Orion fleet."

"Agreed. But might it not be transmitting and receiving using some method we are not aware of?"

Baines smiled. "I thought of that, Nick. And I agree. It very well might be. But, still, why is it transmitting in the microwave band? It seems obvious to me that we were intended to find it."

Nick thought for a moment. "Once we were sufficiently advanced enough to get to Pluto . . ."

"Exactly. When I was a teenager, I read an old science fiction story where an advanced space faring species placed an object on the Earth's moon. I forget the title, but I think the author's name was Arthur C. Clarke. Anyway, when mankind finally started exploring the moon, they found the object and it sent a signal to its creators to inform them of the fact. I think the situation we have here is similar to that."

"Except our object may or may not be communicating with its creators," Nick said. "And if it's not, then it must be gathering and storing information. What other function could it serve?"

"That's a good point," Baines said, nodding thoughtfully

"One more thing. Have you looked at the time stamps on the files Sullivan gave us?"

"No."

"None have a creation time less than about thirteen months."

Baines frowned. "I don't like the implications of that. Earlier I tried to contact a colleague of mine at Proserpine. The computer said a link could not be established and that I should try again later. I didn't think anything of it at the time."

"A link couldn't be established because no one's listening," Nick said.

"It gets worse."

"What do you mean?"

"I tried to contact my father on Earth. I got the same message."

"Which means Proserpine is down and we're cutoff from Earth and probably every other location in the solar system. I think it's time we had a talk with Captain Sullivan."

"I'll meet you there," Baines said.

Nick's terminal printed the word: "DISCONNECT."
 
 

1720 hours, August 24, 2123

Nick got there first. A female guard stopped him at the entrance to the bridge. She couldn't have been much more than twenty years of age, an attractive girl--kinky shoulder-length hair the color of cinnamon, dark blue perspicacious eyes, a slender well-proportioned body with small but evident breasts. She wouldn't've have seemed menacing at all if not for the stunner strapped to her belt.

"Access to the bridge is not permitted, sir," she said, formally and politely.

"It's important I see Captain Sullivan at once."

"You may enter a request for an appointment at any terminal, sir."

"I don't have time for that. Can't you contact him?"

She looked at her wristwatch. "He is in conference at the moment, sir."

Edmund Baines turned the corner and approached. "What is wrong?"

"We are denied access to the bridge," Nick told him. "Seems we have to make an appointment."

"Why?" Baines asked the guard.

"Standard protocol, sir."

Baines smiled at her. "Are you aware of the situation we are in?"

"Yes, sir. But my orders prevent me from allowing you entry. If you wish, I will notify Captain Sullivan that you need to see him as soon as he's free."

Baines stepped closer to her. "How long have you been in the service, uh . . . ?"

"Raineau, Danielle, sir. Four years, sir."

"I see. You must be very proud. I understand the training is very difficult."

What in hell is Baines up to?

From the look in Danielle's eyes, she was wondering the same thing. "Yes, sir." She moved her hand to the stunner. Baines gave her two sharp blows just below her ears with the sides of his hands. Danielle eyes went blank and she slid down the bulkhead to the floor, unconscious. She never stood a chance.

"What did you do that for?" Nick asked, feeling alarmed.

"She is only stunned. She'll wake in a few minutes and feel a bit disoriented. Not too many people know of the technique I used on her, but believe me, it is harmless." Baines reached down and yanked the access card from her belt.

"Sullivan could have us arrested, you know. A lot of good we'll do sitting in the brig."

"A point I don't think Sullivan will miss. Do you want to sit around and wait for Sullivan to grant us an audience?" Baines went to slide the card through the reader.

He never got a chance. The bridge door slid sideways, and they were met by a huge black man with a shaved head and angry eyes. "What did you do to Danielle?"

"She fainted," Baines said, offering a pointless smile.

"We've got cameras, you fuckin' idiot." The man was holding a stunner on Baines.

"Save it for later, Kurt," the captain said, his voice coming from the door of his office.

"He hit her, sir!" Kurt protested.

"I know what he did," Sullivan said, eyeing Baines. "You're on report, mister. If you so much as lift a finger against one of my crew again, you'll spend the trip back to Earth in the brig without coldsleep. You got that?"

Baines nodded understanding. "Assuming we get the chance."

Sullivan eyed Baines a moment longer and then looked at Nick. "What do you want?"

"We need to speak to you, privately," Nick said, not at all comfortable with the way things were going.

The captain shook his head in displeasure. "Come into my office, then."

Nick followed the captain into the room with Baines following. He found Adrian LaPierre sitting next to the captain's desk, his hands folded in his lap. "Hello . . . Father."

"Call me Adrian," the man said, giving Nick a gentle smile. "I'm not a practicing priest."

"Of course."

"Sit," Sullivan said brusquely as he took his seat. Nick and Baines sat in the remaining chairs. "Now, what is this about?"

"What happen at Proserpine?" Baines said, not wasting any time.

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, Captain. We know the facility is down. What happened?"

Sullivan sighed. "Contact was lost over a year ago. We don't know why, and won't until we get there."

"Why didn't you tell us this earlier?" Nick asked.

"I didn't want to alarm you. We don't know for certain that anything is wrong other than a failed communications system."

Baines laughed without humor. "You're not going to tell us they don't have a backup system or replacement parts are you?"

"There are many things that could go wrong, Dr. Baines."

"Why the rush out here?" Nick asked.

"It is possible they are having problems with their nuclear reactor. If they are losing power, then they are in serious danger. Pluto is a very cold place, as I'm sure you know. Our mission is to determine what has happened at Proserpine and to rescue the personnel if necessary. We have a highly trained rescue team on board for that reason. And, before you ask, we do think it may have something to do with the alien artifact. That, gentlemen, is why you are here."

"We know there's more to it than you're admitting," Nick said. "We know we are cutoff from Earth. Why is that?"

Sullivan glanced at LaPierre. "As I mentioned earlier, some of the people at Proserpine were having . . . experiences. We do not want knowledge of that to become public. The government is concerned with creating a panic. I think you can understand the need for secrecy."

"You don't want the people to know the alien artifact is related to the Orions," Nick said.

"That is true."

LaPierre raised a hand. "Show them the recording, Captain. There is no longer any reason to hide things from them."

"What recording?" Nick said, looking at LaPierre and wondering why he had inside information.

"The one edited out of the files we were given," Baines said, staring hard at Sullivan. "You said they were having dreams and hallucinations. No indication of that is in the files."

Sullivan stood up and went to the monitor behind his desk. "This is the last transmission we received from Dr. Robert Hamlin, the facility's director." He pushed a button.

The Robert Hamlin that appeared on the monitor was not the same man Nick had met on Earth six years ago. That man had been calm and intelligent. The man he saw now was a crazed lunatic. His graying hair was wildly tousled, his eyes wide in what was either ecstatic joy or absolute fear; Nick could not tell which--the whirlwind emotions crossed the man's face so fast Nick could not follow them. Beads of sweat ran down the man's face and chest. He wore no shirt. He was sitting at his desk, and would periodically lean toward the camera, rising slightly. The man was naked. He seemed to be having problems remembering what he was doing. He looked at the camera, smiled, and then cried.

"Many have gone outside," he blurted, and then looked around as if he were afraid of being caught. He returned his eyes to the camera. Nick could see the man was trying desperately to focus on what he was doing. "Tell my wife I love her. You must blow this place up! Do not let it escape! Please, for the love of mankind, do not let it escape!"

A man and a women appeared on screen, both naked and no less crazed than Hamlin. They were young, no more than twenty, probably graduate students. "We must go now!" the woman shouted. "He awaits us!" The pair grabbed hold of Hamlin and tried to pull him from the desk. Their wet, naked bodies made the effort almost comical.

Hamlin looked into the camera one last time and said: "I have seen the Face of God!"