Origin - Season One (38 page)

Francis shook his head and sighed. “All that said, we’re still no closer, are we?”

“To what?” Max said.

“To finding out who these people are.”

“Aren’t you?” Max said. “I would have thought that was the simplest riddle of all.”

“What do you mean?” Francis asked.

Max sat down at the desk and opened a new window in the browser. He typed Professor Peter Bershadsky into the Google search bar and clicked on the images tab. A series of pictures appeared on the screen. He scrolled down to a black and white one and opened it.

“That’s the professor at MIT in nineteen seventy-eight with his two daughters. Caroline, who is twelve, and Richelle, who is seven.”

Max minimized the window, opened a new one and typed: Karl Gustav Foundation. Choosing the foundation’s official website from the results, he clicked on a link marked Who We Are and a picture of a striking woman in her early forties dressed in a tan trouser suit appeared. She was standing casually outside the Fraumunster Church in Zurich. The title read: Caroline de Villepin, Chairman of the Karl Gustav Foundation and one of the city’s most generous philanthropists.

“I checked the name,” Max said, “de Villepin is their mother’s maiden name. I’m guessing they changed it at some point to keep the name Bershadsky out of the limelight.”

“Holy shit,” Mike said.

“Sometimes the most obvious things are the easiest to miss,” Max said. “Hitler had four million troops practically spilling over the Russian border in ‘41 and Uncle Joe still didn’t believe there would be an invasion. Although that’s probably not a very good analogy. But you know what I mean.”

“So it’s settled, then,” Mike said. “Switzerland it is.”

Francis nodded. “I guess so.”

Max opened the disc slot on his laptop and handed Francis the CD. “You may need this.”

Francis took it, hesitated, then handed it back. “I’d like to ask you for a favor. Would you mind…?”

“I’ve already copied it,” Max said. “When should I expect a call?”

Francis smiled, “Give us forty-eight hours. If you haven’t heard anything by then, go to the press.”

This time is was Max who laughed. “My dear boy, taking this to the press would be like telling the pope you had a message from God.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Francis said.

“The only way to go public with something like this is through people who would know what to make of it. Leave it to me. If I don’t hear from you in the next two days, I think I can guarantee you a lot more than a back page story in the Sun.”

Pandora

Kattegat Sea, Denmark

Sunday 23 July 2006

2200 CEST

Captain Almila was enjoying a plate of savusilli, a dish of smoked herring and new potatoes from his native Finland, when the call came through the galley loudspeakers that the Danish pilot was boarding the ship. He finished his meal and used the small elevator in the hall outside to make his way to the bridge. He got there before the pilot and was standing on the bridge when he arrived with the chief mate.

The ultra-modern bridge had long since ceased to be a novelty to the crew, but for the pilot who had never been on board a similar vessel, it was a unique experience.

Unlike most vessels her size, the Pandora was not directly powered by piston-driven engines, but used four of the largest and most powerful electric motors ever built to drive her propellers. Each motor was powered by a bank of three diesel generators. This made her both the most silent ship of her class, and arguably the least fuel-efficient.

A closer inspection of the ship would have raised more questions than answers even to a qualified engineer – chief among them, why an oceangoing research vessel would be built with a flat keel of three heavily reinforced steel layers.

The computer system that ran her left little for her crew to do – a fact reflected on the bridge, which contained only a narrow bank of dials and monitoring equipment. The bridge was rectangular in shape and situated at the top of a superstructure located behind the bow as opposed to at the stern. The tall curved viewing windows ran all the way across on both sides of the bridge, allowing the crew to see the deck of the ship and the sea ahead with equal clarity. In the center of the bridge, a chair that looked more like an upholstered throne was mounted on a revolving pivot that gave the occupier a three hundred and sixty degree range of motion.

Captain Almila greeted the pilot and pointed at the chair. “She’s all yours, sir.”

The pilot only looked at the chair and back to the captain. “Captain, I’m not sure…”

“Please,” Almila said, “I assure you, it’s quite straightforward.”

The pilot stepped up and into the chair, clearly ill at ease with the alien nature of the controls, and sat down. Almila pushed a button on the armrest and a large screen descended from the ceiling, showing a map of the surrounding waterway. There was a joystick at the end of the armrest on the right-hand side. Almila took it and pushed the button on top with his thumb. The picture changed from the map to a video image of the ship from a camera mounted above the bridge.

“You can select any of the eighteen external cameras with this,” Almila said.

When he pushed the stick gently to port the response from the ship was instant. She could be felt not turning so much as pivoting on a central axis.

“Amazing,” the pilot said, still hesitant to take over the controls.

“Back and forth to regulate speed,” Almila said. “She turns on a dime and the thrusters will bring her to a stop in less than a quarter of a mile. The button under your thumb will also select the fathometer if you push it to the right and radar to the left.”

The pilot grabbed the joystick hesitantly and gave it an experimental nudge to starboard. “I’ve never seen anything like it. She handles better than my Volvo.”

Almila laughed. “You’re wondering what they pay me for, right? She’s on autopilot at the moment, but please feel free to take control at any time. Now if you don’t mind, there is something I need to attend to. The chief mate will assist you until I return. You have the con, sir.”

Almila left the bridge and returned to his own quarters. The luxurious space looked more like a three-room suite at the Hilton than anything so humble as a cabin. He sat down at the large desk in one corner of the room and faced the computer. A moment later the face of Richelle de Villepin appeared on the screen. The image was striking, both for its clarity, and the beauty of the woman herself.

“We’ve entered the Kattegat,” Almila said. “We should be in position in just under twelve hours, presuming we don’t run into any problems.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Captain. How did you get on with the pilot?”

“Oh, the usual. By the time we reach Bornholm, he won’t want to leave. What’s the status on RP One?”

“Still on course.”

“Good,” Almila said. “I’ll contact you again when we reach Bornholm.”

Aurora

Monday 24 July 2006

1000 EEST

Mitch and Heinz were sitting at a table on the veranda overlooking the harbor. Mitch had been listening in rapt fascination for almost half an hour as Heinz described both how the cave had been found and the enormous effort involved in turning it into a habitable structure.

The little harbor-front town – if you could call five buildings a town – had actually been the first thing built. According to Heinz, it was the indispensable representation of civilization without which life inside Aurora would be unbearable, if not impossible. The residents called it Amity, after the small town in the movie Jaws, although nobody seemed to know who had started it.

“I just can’t get over it,” Mitch said, “All these people living and working here in complete isolation.”

Heinz took a sip of his coffee and greeted a man who sat down several tables away.

“That’s Harold,” Heinz said. “He’s one of the programmers. If you want to know exactly how the emulator works, he’s the man to speak to about it. The thing you have to understand is that this isn’t just a random group of people, they’re scientists, doctors, and engineers. And each and every one of them was thoroughly prepared for what they found here. We actually placed a question in one of the surveys we give to all potential candidates: ‘Do you accept the possibility that there may be other intelligent life in the universe?’ It’s one of a hundred and fifty other random questions, but it’s the only answer we really look at. Anyone who says ‘no’ is out. Do you see what I mean?”

“That’s actually quite clever,” Mitch said.

“Anyway, my point is, you are the only person ever to set foot in this facility without a measure of preparation. I won’t lie; there were some heated discussions about what should be done with you. It was Sarah’s father, Erik, who finally convinced me that you should be treated no differently than anyone else who arrives here. I believe that conviction has been vindicated. In fact, were I a religious man, I might even say your coming here was providence. I’d like you to stay. I’d like you to join us, Mitch.”

Mitch was silent for a long time. When he turned his eyes back to Heinz he said, “First tell me what happened to Mike.”

“Agent Banner knows nothing that could compromise this facility or our work here. I assure you, he is safe and well.”

“What about Bruce Jessops?”

“Jessops is what you might call a necessary evil. I’m afraid there is no way to legally elicit the help of a government official, and yet at times we have no choice – although I have a feeling your expertise might change that. Jessops is amply compensated for his efforts, as you well know. We are aware that Agent Banner could report him to his superiors. If that happens, we’ll assist him and his family in any way we can. Remember, he was co-opted, not blackmailed. As for your own friendship with agent Banner, staying here would obviously mean you could have no further direct contact. I’m afraid that is a part of the choice I can’t help you with.”

Mitch nodded to say he understood this. “You still haven’t explained what Jessops was doing in the first place. Unless you’re telling me that you guys are behind what happened at the Fed.”

Heinz held up his hands. “What happened in New York had nothing to do with us. We hold assets at the bank however, and Jessops was instructed to ascertain if it was safe to continue keeping them there. That is all.”

“You had nothing to do with Vermont, the shootings, Gerald Ross?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about any shootings, or anyone named Gerald Ross. I’m the chief scientist; what happens at Skyline is Titov’s business.”

“Who?” Mitch said.

“Titov Kargin. It’s his job to keep a lid on this place so we can get on with what we’re doing. Unfortunately, both he and Richelle are away.”

“Who’s Richelle?” Mitch said.

“The boss,” Heinz said smiling. “She’s also Peter Bershadsky’s daughter. She’s a remarkable woman. She and her sister practically grew up inside these walls after he moved his family here.”

“And her sister?” Mitch said.

“Caroline is the chairman of the Karl Gustav Foundation. The running joke is that Caroline makes the money and Richelle spends it. Although that’s not entirely fair. So far Aurora has cost us over 50 million dollars. That’s not counting the money we spend keeping the island free of visitors.”

“How
do
you? Keep people away, I mean.”

“Bribes, political contributions, a lot of sovereign debt purchases and a mole or two on the inside. The island’s little more than a rock, really. The Soviets set up a testing facility here in the fifties and maintained a small garrison until ‘65. The soldiers called it the Isle of Dragons. After the fall of the communist block it became part of Estonia.”

“So we’re in the Baltic?” Mitch said.

Heinz nodded. “Thirty-four miles off the eastern tip of Hiiumaa, one of Estonia’s two largest islands. One of our subsidiaries was hired to survey the place for traces of radiation after rumors surfaced that the Soviets had kept warheads here.”

“Rumors that you started?” Mitch said, smiling.

“Oh, we may have had something to do with it. Needless to say, our results were quite disturbing. The outcome was a ban on all travel to the island and a three-mile exclusion zone. It’s enforced by a private security firm based in Talin.”

“Which you own,” Mitch said.

“Which we own, yes.”

“You have your fingers in a lot of pies,” Mitch said.

“More than you might believe,” Heinz said. “The world is a dangerous place, Mitch. You probably understand that better than most. Peter Bershadsky certainly did. He understood that Origin was not only the greatest discovery in the history of mankind, but that it might also be the most sensitive. And I can tell you, he’s been more than vindicated on that account.”

“What do you mean?” Mitch said.

Heinz hesitated. He looked at Mitch doubtfully for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind. “We have trouble transmitting to Origin, but we have no problem receiving. One of the reasons, perhaps the primary reason, their transfer protocol requires such high levels of compression is that they contain huge amounts of data. It took us a long time to understand why, but we now think it’s because the nature of the media it’s stored on makes it highly susceptible to degradation. The data, not the system. My personal guess is that the microscopic scale of their architecture is only achievable using the same high-density alloys the ship itself is made of. The problem is, the alloy has a very high level of resistance, making the transistors unstable. It’s a trade-off, you might say.”

“And they get around it by turning the whole system into a RAID array,” Mitch said.

“Yes. Luckily for us, we’ve had more than enough time to decompress and trans-code a significant amount of it. And some of the things we’ve seen are truly incredible.”

“Like what?” Mitch said. He looked like a boy on his way downstairs on Christmas morning.

“Origin arrived in its current location over two thousand years ago. To put it into perspective, that was the year Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon with his Thirteenth Legion.”