Probability Sun (25 page)

Of course, that was only the smallest piece of it. The biggest piece was that glimpse of the whole, that one insight that justified pursuing a line of thought. So far, Capelo hadn’t had it. The window was closed as tightly as ever.

“All right,” Kaufman said to the assemblage on the observation deck, “Grafton has agreed. We’re putting the artifact back on the ring in the meadow.”

“I’d love to have heard that conversation,” Albemarle said.

Kaufman ignored him. “The techs will retrieve and redirect the artifact. Anyone going planetside should report to shuttle bay in three hours. Tom?”

“Staying here for the test,” he said curtly.

“Hal?”

Albemarle hesitated. “Staying here.”

Gruber said eagerly, “Then I’ll go down.” He began to ask technical questions. Capelo didn’t listen.

The problem with quantum phenomena was—had always been—that a system goes along one way, particle and wave, for a while. Then it goes along another way, one or the other, after being observed. Why should that be? Why did an observer make so much difference—and why did it have to be an observer who was either sentient or created by sentience? Why should the whole system require an observer, an outside component, at all?

There was another way to think about it, of course. The wave collapses not because of any observer, but because the means of measurement, whatever it is, has somehow forced the curvature of spacetime to exceed some critical, very small value. But what value? Why? How?

The space tunnels transported huge masses—but not more huge than one hundred thousand tons—across great distances, instantaneously. The accepted buzzword for that was “macro-level entanglement,” a term which meant exactly nothing. How did anything larger than an electron move from classic laws of motion into the quantum world of entanglement? If the artifact was entangled with something, what was it? Where was it? How did the entanglement work?

A third window to try to catch a glimpse through: probability. Physics itself was probable; it had been clear since the twentieth century that all models of the universe were provisional, and most were partial. Anything that explained anything never explained everything.

On a smaller and more specific level, it was easily seen that certain events were probabilistic: They may or may not occur. In many cases the probability was documentable: We know there is a 17 percent chance that event x will occur under these specified conditions. There is a 53 percent chance that event y will occur under different conditions. Or whatever. What nobody could say yet was
why
event x occurs 17 percent of the time. There were no identified causals for varying probability levels, even when the levels themselves were known. There were no equations.

Yet what the artifact represented was manipulatable probability fields. Had to be. The directed-beam destabilizer: It manipulated the strong force, so that all atoms above atomic number seventy-five emitted alpha particles. Or did it manipulate not the strong force directly, but the probability that a nucleus would emit a more-than-probable number of alpha particles?

How the hell did you manipulate probability? No one could even
explain
probability, let alone direct it. That contradicted every known theory. In fact, Capelo now had reams of experimental data, his own and Syree Johnson’s, that clearly contradicted theory. So for, that hadn’t led to any progress in his understanding. No glimpses through the window.

“Tom?” Kaufman said, evidently for more than the first time. “Did you hear me?”

“No.”

“I said, do you want anything to eat?”

“No.” He left the observation deck to find Amanda and Sudie.

They were in their quarters with Jane Shaw. To Capelo’s surprise, Jane looked upset. This was serious. Jane never looked upset; she was the bedrock all of them rested on.

“Daddy!” Sudie cried, hurtled herself at him, and burst into tears.

Capelo picked her up and cuddled her. Over Sudie’s shoulder he looked inquiringly at Jane. She said, “She’s been having nightmares. For a few days now. She’s hardly had two hours’ unbroken sleep.”

“What kind of nightmares?”

“She won’t say,” Jane said. Sudie’s howling rose demonically, making further conversation impossible. Capelo sat in a deep chair and rocked her, crooning wordlessly, patting her back and her springy dark curls. Amanda came to stand beside the chair, and Capelo patted her, too. So grave, so quiet, her pale face way too sad for a ten-year-old.

It took a long time, but Sudie finally fell asleep in her father’s arms. Capelo whispered to Amanda, “What are her nightmares about?”

Amanda whispered back, “I don’t know, Daddy. She says she can’t tell anybody.”

“‘Can’t’?”

“That’s what she says.”

“When did they start?”

“Right after the aliens were aboard, and Sudie played with the alien girl in the ship garden.”

Capelo shifted Sudie against his shoulder and tried to keep his voice under control. “Jane, why was Sudie playing with an alien?”

Jane said, “I didn’t know about it until afterward. In fact, I didn’t even know that natives were aboard. I let the girls go to the garden with Marbet Grant … you remember that you got them to come aboard without you by promising they would see Marbet again.”

Capelo nodded.

“Marbet took them to the garden, and then Ann Sikorski showed up with three aliens, one a little girl.”

Amanda took up the story. “Yeah, and I was talking to the nice alien that spoke English, her name is Enli, and Sudie and the native girl were awful. They were running and playing hide-and-seek and dropping leaves and nuts on people from the tops of trees. She always embarrasses me in public, Daddy. It’s not fair.”

Capelo pushed Amanda back on track. “Did this alien child hit Sudie? Or hurt her in some way? Or give her anything to eat or drink?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. They just played. Sudie seemed fine, until nighttime when she had her first nightmare. And she’s had them ever since. Lots of them.”

Jane said, obviously reluctantly, “She cries out, and sometimes she talks. But the only word I can distinguish is ‘Mommy.’”

Capelo looked at Amanda. Her eyes had filled with tears. He took one arm off Sudie and put it around Mandy.

Jane said, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Capelo said, because clearly it wasn’t. Still, rage filled him. His girls had been through enough with the death of their mother. Karen’s body sliced in two by the sweeping laser weapons from the Faller skeeter, the bastards too cowardly to even land and fight against soldiers. His peaceful wife and his two children … Sudie had screamed for her mother for months. Gradually she had calmed down, laughed again, slept through the night. And now the nightmares all over again, set off by
more
aliens even if they weren’t Fallers …

“Here,” he said to Jane, “take Sudie. I’m going to have a little talk with Marbet Grant.”

*   *   *

Capelo hoped to find Marbet in her quarters. She wasn’t there. Nor was she in the wardroom, the garden, or the exercise area. He glanced into the chapel—her subjective Sensitive art didn’t seem to him all that far from mysticism. Certainly you couldn’t call it science. She wasn’t in the chapel. He headed for the observation deck.

But she wasn’t there, either. “Hello, Tom,” Kaufman said. “Come to see the show?” Outside the viewport, robots were hauling the artifact back into the shuttle bay.

“It’s a routine operation,” Capelo said. “Where’s Marbet Grant?”

Kaufman turned. Was there tension on that bland face?

“Marbet?”

“Yes. You know, diminutive Sensitive that nobody’s seen for weeks.”

Kaufman smiled. “Well, not exactly. She did come down to see the artifact, remember. And I’ve seen her.”

“Then where is she?”

Somehow they had edged away from the rest of the group, out of earshot. How had Kaufman managed that? Capelo felt his anger growing. He was being manipulated.

Kaufman said, “You’re looking for Marbet Grant.”

“A man of insight. You look directly into my soul. Where the hell is she?”

“Can I ask why you want her?”

“No. Where is she?”

Kaufman said easily, “She’s indisposed.”

“‘Indisposed’? You mean she’s sick? In quarantine?”

“I didn’t say that. But it might help, Tom, if you could tell me why you want to see her. It might be something I could help you with just as well.”

Capelo put his hand on Kaufman’s arm. He looked directly into Kaufman’s calm brown eyes. He said softly, “I want to talk to Marbet Grant. Not you. Marbet. Now stop fucking around with me and tell me where she is.”

Kaufman pressed the door; somehow they had moved all the way over to it. He stepped into the corridor, forcing Capelo to follow, and pressed the door closed. “I can’t tell you where she is, Tom. It’s a matter of security. Special Compartmented Information. Believe me, I would answer you if I could. But Marbet is working on a separate project involving the aliens—you knew that much, of course—and she really can’t be disturbed.”

“Security? SCI? What have those flower-mad aliens got to do with security? They’ve given us no trouble whatsoever!”

“No, they haven’t. Yet,” Kaufman said, and Capelo felt that the man was telling him the truth.

“So?”

“Again, I can’t explain her project. But she really cannot be disturbed. If I can help—”

“You can tell her to stay away from my kids. She took them into the garden when Ann brought her aliens there, and something happened that’s sent Sudie straight into nightmares and screaming.”

Kaufman’s eyes sharpened. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. Sudie’s too upset to say. But I don’t want it to happen again. Marbet Grant stays away from Sudie and Amanda. And Ann Sikorski does, too.”

“I think I can guarantee both those things, Tom. Ann stayed behind on World, did you know that?”

“She did?” So that explained Gruber’s uncharacteristic gloom. God, the ways people messed up their lives.

Kaufman said, “She was very opposed to moving the artifact off-planet and destroying shared reality.”

“We don’t even know for sure if the damn thing causes your so-called shared reality!”

“Yes, I told her that,” Kaufman said.

You couldn’t get anywhere with the man. He agreed, and smiled, and politely digressed, and all the while he manipulated you and everything else around him. It was like arguing with the wind. Capelo had gotten what he wanted. His kids would be kept away from Marbet, aliens, and upsetting encounters. But he still felt as if he’d lost.

Kaufman’s comlink rang. The OOD’s voice said, “Colonel, the object is re-secured to the shuttle. Descent in forty minutes.”

“Thank you,” Kaufman said. To Capelo he said, “Commander Grafton has agreed to your test. Ninety minutes from now is the ideal gunnery position.”

“Fine,” Capelo said.

“Thanks, Tom,” Kaufman said, as if Capelo had done him a favor. Wind.

“You’re most sincerely welcome, Lyle,” Capelo said, but Kaufman ignored the sarcasm and merely smiled.

*   *   *

Kaufman watched the shuttle leave the ship with its cargo in the net of dislocation-free monofilament cables. In a moment it had dwindled to a dark dot.

He had successfully diverted Capelo from tearing the ship apart looking for Marbet. Which, Lyle was convinced, Capelo was capable of doing. But, the larger problem of Marbet remained, twisting Kaufman’s gut. He needed to know exactly what she had learned from the Faller, if anything, about the artifact. And he needed to make a decision on how much more might be learned, versus a further breach of security from her.

Not a breach of security. Call it what it was; he’d done so when he had her arrested. Treason. She had knowingly communicated valuable, classified military information to an enemy in time of war.

Kaufman had ninety minutes. He went to the brig.

On a ship like the
Alan B. Shepard
, this consisted of two rooms, an anteroom and a cell. When there were no prisoners, which was nearly all of the time, the anteroom was used for storage. When there was a prisoner, the packing crates became desk and chair for the MP who monitored security, although for petty offenses the formality of a guard was usually skipped. Both anteroom and cell were e-locked. Kaufman had been given the codes at Marbet’s arrest, a piece of information he had not expected to need on this expedition.

The MP got to his feet and saluted as Kaufman entered the anteroom. “Sir!”

“At ease, Sergeant. Has Commander Grafton authorized my visit to the prisoner?”

“Yes, sir! The special project team has been cleared for entry, sir!”

Kaufman looked again and saw how young the MP was. A first tour of duty, most likely. The newbies always got the boring assignments.

Kaufman passed into Marbet’s cell. It was three meters by two, with a bunk, toilet, and sink. She sat on the edge of the bunk, dressed in green coveralls, writing on paper with a pencil. Not even e-tablets were allowed in the brig. Beside her on the bunk was an untouched tray of food.

“Hello, Marbet.”

“Hello, Lyle.” Her voice was neutral—a good sign. Kaufman had hoped to avoid hysteria or fury. He realized now that she wouldn’t indulge in either one.

“I’ve come to ask you some necessary questions about your work.”

“Am I going to be allowed to continue it?”

Brief and direct. “That’s not decided yet.” He was lying, of course. Military treason, which giving critical and classified weapons information to enemy personnel certainly was, fell under Grafton’s purview no matter who committed the crime. There was no way Grafton would release Marbet Grant to anyone but a Solar Alliance high court.

“You’re lying,” Marbet said. “Look at you … you’re lying and you hate it.”

“All right.” He sat beside her on the bunk, not too close. “You can’t resume your work, you can’t see the prisoner again, and you’re in the brig until we arrive back on Mars. But meanwhile, I need to know everything you’ve learned about how much the Faller knows about the artifact. This is an official inquiry, Marbet, but it’s also an appeal for the good of the project. Will you cooperate?”