Noumenon Read online

  Dedication

  For everyone working toward a better tomorrow and a more hopeful today. Thank you.

  And for Alex: my love, my laughter, my light in all dark places.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Resistance Chapter One: Reggie: A King of Infinite Space

  Chapter Two: Margarita: Inside Taro’s Box

  Chapter Three: Jamal: Balance

  Chapter Four: I.C.C.: Look Now How the Mortals Blame

  Resilience Chapter Five: Reginald: A Tell-Tale Pulse

  Chapter Six: I.C.C.: Because it is Breaking

  Chapter Seven: I.C.C.: Miscloned

  Chapter Eight: Nika: Behind the Curtain

  Chapter Nine: Esper: Return Through the Wardrobe

  Epilogue: I.C.C.: Old Salts and New Songs

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Resistance

  Chapter One

  Reggie: A King of Infinite Space

  April 14, T minus 37 Years to Launch Day (LD)

  2088 Common Era (CE)

  The Planet United Consortium was formed in order to pursue Earth-wide interests in deep space. Each Planet United Mission is designed to further humanity’s joint scientific understanding, its reach beyond the home planet, and to ensure the longevity of planet-wide cooperation . . .

  The hot stage lights made Reggie’s forehead break out in beads of sweat. He could barely hear the professor from Berkeley even though she was only three seats away. She sounded like she was broadcasting from the surface of Mars.

  Mars—wouldn’t that be a nice alternative to where he was now? It was quiet on Mars. Deserted. No cameras and no horde of scientists, reporters, and politicians ready to hang on his every word.

  “It’s your discovery, you give the presentation,” Professor McCloud had said back in his study. From behind his mahogany desk he’d stared at Reggie like a mad dog, ready to bite if he didn’t get his way.

  Of all the professors in the world, Reggie had to get the only one who wasn’t eager to slap his name all over a graduate student’s research. “Sir, defending my thesis is one thing, but this . . . I don’t know if I can.”

  “Of course you can.” McCloud coughed heavily into his handkerchief, his thick white sideburns jumping with his jawline. “They’re just people, for cripes sake. If you can stand a bunch of crusty old intellectuals judging you on every eh, but, and I think that comes out of your mouth you can stand a few colleagues and digital recorders.”

  “But—”

  “See! Besides, the discovery has been validated. So they’re not going to make fun of you. They’re not even going to be there for you. They’ll be there to hear about the idea, to marvel at the concept. When it’s all over they won’t even remember you were there. It’s the information that matters, Straifer, not your mumbling, fumbling presentation.” He leaned closer to Reggie, his chins jiggling. “If you’re passionate about this mysterious, stroboscopic star of yours, it would be a crime to force an old, gluttonous man like me to make the case for you.”

  “The professors’ point is valid,” chimed in an electronic voice from Reggie’s pocket. He pulled out his phone. The Intelligent Personal Assistant’s icon was blinking—he’d set it to interject-mode. “In the past twenty-five years, projects requiring similar screening before financing have been seventy-eight percent more likely to succeed when the original researchers have presented their findings directly. Third party involvement—”

  “Thanks, C.” Reggie turned the phone off and gave the professor a glare.

  Ten minutes later, he’d reluctantly agreed.

  Oh, but how he wished now, as he stood in front of this crowd, that he’d told Dr. McCloud and the computer both to shove it.

  And there the professor sat, in the third row, nodding at every other syllable that came out of the presenter’s mouth. His focus momentarily shifted to Reggie, and he gave him a go-for-it grin.

  He turned his attention back to the presentation. Had he heard right? Dark matter? Was the professor from Berkeley seriously suggesting they focus the long-range studies solely on dense dark matter regions? He almost laughed. That was a ridiculous way to allocate these funds. What could twelve dark matter studies reveal that one couldn’t alone?

  But dark was sexy. Anything with a “dark” label: matter, energy, forces, etc. What was sexy about his discovery?

  It’s like the star’s encrusted, he said over and over in his mind. He had to word it right. Word choice made all the difference. That would make his star interesting, notable. And, hopefully, it would be enough to convince them to allocate him a team.

  This variable star, designation LQ Pyxidis, was unique. He had to make them see there was something special about it. He knew it was a great find waiting to be fully unveiled by an actual visit.

  He just needed them to agree.

  We’re going off-world, Reggie thought excitedly. We’re going into deep space. For the first time in human history, people were going to try and visit the wonders of the universe. Reggie wanted to be a part of that in some way. But, more importantly, he knew LQ Pyx had to be a part of it. He could feel it. This variable star was important.

  Reggie turned on his tablet and scrolled through his notes. As always, the simple, black-and-white snapshot the JWST 3 had taken of his star made him pause. It was easy to see how lopsided LQ Pyx was; energy spewed off to one side, the output orders of magnitude greater than the star’s opposite hemisphere. And the readings shifted consistently. Either the star rotated unusually slowly for having such a dramatic solar jet . . . or something was orbiting around it, obscuring the star’s normal output.

  It’s like it’s encrusted. Encased.

  Dr. Berkeley—what was her name again? He couldn’t remember; his brain felt like it was draining out of his ears. Anyway, she was almost done with her Q and A session.

  Reggie pulled a tissue out of his pocket and dabbed his forehead. It tore, and a few bits of the soggy paper stuck to his face. He hastily brushed them away, hoping he’d gotten them all.

  It was almost his turn. He looked up and down the table, glancing at each of the other presenters. It was a long line of veteran researchers. Three of them had authored textbooks he’d used as an undergrad. Two of them had authored books he’d cited in his own doctoral thesis. He could pick out an accolade for each and every one of them—when he wasn’t too nervous to remember their names. They were all seasoned, all well respected—even those whose theories were controversial; they had the excitement of popular contention going for them. And one hosted a highly acclaimed TV series, The Cosmos and You. They’d all made names for themselves, all had fantastic careers in full bloom.

  And then there was Reggie.

  His chip-phone buzzed near his eardrum, and the display screen implanted behind his iris sprang to life. “Are you ready? Do you have all of your notes? No last-minute requests? We’re about to move on.”

  “Yes,” he mumbled. “I’m ready.”

  “Okay, prepare to rise. We’re moving to you in five, four . . .” the countdown continued only in visual form. His heart leapt as each purple number faded before his eyes.

  “Thank you, Dr. Countmen,” said the moderator. That’s her name. “Next, may I present Mr. Reginald Straifer.”

  As he stood, Reggie could have sworn he heard a collective snicker under the obligatory opening applause. Why couldn’t the board have awarded him his doctorate before the conference? Was a face-saving title too much to ask for?

  All five-foot-seven of him trembled. But the irritation was subtle—he’d tensed every muscle to keep himself still. Gawky, with a mouse-brown mop
on his head, a squat nose, and shy eyes, he knew he wasn’t exactly the picture of confidence.

  Relax. Pretend. They’re here for the work, not you.

  “Th-th-thank you. I—I’m here to propose one of the convoys be built with the express purpose of visiting variable star, LQ Pyxidis. Or, as I like to call it, Licpix.” Silence. Reggie tugged at his collar.

  “Deep breath, sir,” C said from Reggie’s pocket.

  That elicited a small giggle from the first row. “Quiet mode, please,” he asked, then did as the AI suggested. “Uh, if we could have the animation on screen.”

  The lights dimmed, and a reproduction of LQ Pyx in full color appeared on everyone’s implants. Reggie reminded himself to keep things colloquial—the reporters were broadcasting to the world—and then he launched into his spiel.

  As he explained about the strange jet of energy, and how it might not be a jet at all, he felt himself falling into a rhythm. He demonstrated how the star’s wobble might indicate an extremely massive partner they could not make out at this distance. And he presented his hypothesis about the hidden partner’s location—how it most likely encompassed the star.

  “It’s crusty—eh, encrusted. It’s like a light bulb that’s become part of a child’s arts-and-crafts class. Say the child thought the bulb might look better with a smattering of paint and plastic gems. So she covers the bulb—glue and glitter everywhere—but happens to miss a spot. What would we see when that light bulb is illuminated? Most of the observable light would come from a small expanse of surface, even though the bulb’s fundamental output has not changed. Overall, it would appear dim, with a single bright point: much like this star.

  “It’s simply concealed. Something unusual is blocking out the starlight, and it is crucial that we travel to LQ Pyx to discover exactly what that is.”

  Finished with his presentation, he took a deep breath and sat down. Bracing himself for an onslaught of probing, nitpicking questions, he eyed the crowd.

  After a moment a palsy ridden hand went up. An elderly gentleman in a tweed jacket and bow tie stood. “What do you believe to be the culprit, young man?” He had an accent Reggie could not place. “If we go there, what will we find?”

  Reggie accepted a glass of water from one of the stage aides and took a hearty gulp before answering. “Well, I, uh . . . If I knew that we wouldn’t have to go, would we? An extremely small and dense version of the Oort cloud, perhaps. Or maybe an asteroid globe instead of a belt. Wouldn’t that be something, to discover new possibilities of orbital projection? It could be the beginnings of a new system—we could be seeing a stage we’ve never observed before. This could change our theories on planet formation. I . . . I don’t really know.”

  The old man nodded, and his bushy white eyebrows knitted together. “And what about Dyson?”

  The question surprised Reggie. “You’re asking if it could be artificial?” He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  The audience erupted into conversation, everyone murmuring to their neighbor. The auditorium rumbled with speculations. A knowing glint came into Professor McCloud’s eyes.

  “Why not indeed,” the old man in the bow tie called to Reggie, a smile lifting the bags on his face.

  “That old man made me look like an idiot,” Reggie said. He lifted his glass and threw back the rest of his golden ale. The brew smelled like old T-shirts. “Made me seem like an American hick who should just slink back to the Midwestern town I hail from.”

  After the presentation session, Professor McCloud had ushered him to a nearby pub. Oxford had many to choose from, and yet they’d come to this hole-in-the-wall. It was dark—not for the sake of ambiance, but because half the overhead lamps were out. Cigar smoke permeated everything, including the ripped vinyl cushions of their booth. The décor reminded him of a poker lounge from the 1970s without any of the charm.

  All of the other patrons were at least sixty, like McCloud. Reggie suspected this was a regular hangout for tenured dons.

  Something I’ll never have to worry about becoming now, he thought.

  “That old man made you look like a genius,” McCloud countered, taking a sip of his Jack. He gestured for the waitress to bring another glass for Reggie. “You’ve speculated about artificial constructs around Licpix before, why didn’t you bring it up yourself?”

  Reggie tilted his glass so he could look at the seal on the bottom. He wished he was looking at it through more beer. “It’s silly.”

  “The reason?”

  “No, the idea.”

  McCloud scoffed and pulled the glass from Reggie’s fingers. “If it’s within the realm of the possible, it’s not silly.”

  “A construct larger—and perhaps more massive—than a star?” Reggie said. “Built by whom? All those billions of life forms we’ve taken note of out there?” The sarcasm was heavy, almost condescending, and he wished he’d dialed it back as soon as he spoke.

  “Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

  “Wasn’t that Dr. Countmen’s argument?”

  “Look,” the professor said, “it got the crowd talking, didn’t it?”

  “Your proposal is the only one that postulates the possibility of meeting intelligent life, or finding evidence thereof,” C chimed in. Reggie’s phone sat on the table between the two men. “Its uniqueness is statistically likely to make it more appealing.”

  He had wanted interesting, he’d wanted sexy. And what was sexier, a bunch of rocks or an enormous alien machine?

  “But, it’s just so unlikely,” Reggie said. “So unlikely that—”

  “That what?” McCloud asked.

  “That it feels like a lie.”

  The waitress sauntered up, quickly exchanging his barren glass for one of plenty. She gave them both a sweet smile, one Reggie tried to return. Instead of thankfulness, though, he was sure his expression signaled mild indigestion.

  McCloud started to speak, then paused to cough into his handkerchief. He wiped his mouth and nose, then tucked the square back in his pocket. “If I told you your research could either end up earning you a minor teaching position, or the Nobel Prize for physics, would I be lying?”

  Reggie sighed and took a drink. “I’m not going to win a Nobel Prize.”

  “But it is a possibility, no matter how remote. My suggestion that it might happen, whatever the odds, is no lie. That’s very different than saying I believe it will happen if I don’t.”

  Reggie pouted. “You don’t believe my research is worthy of a Nobel?” He felt ridiculously petulant even as he said it and took another drink to hide his embarrassment.

  “Did I say that?” He slugged Reggie in the shoulder and they shared a laugh. Professor McCloud finished off his whiskey. “So, if you don’t believe it to be an alien machine, what do you believe?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I want them to go find out—find the truth.”

  “You want them to go, or you want you to go?”

  An internal shudder ran through Reggie’s nervous system. McCloud had just hit on an idea Reggie hadn’t even let himself contemplate—a secret desire he hadn’t dared to hope for. He shook his head. “That’s impossible. Not worth thinking about.”

  “Weren’t we just talking about possible/impossible? You could go. No one says you can’t. They haven’t decided on how to crew the ships. Haven’t decided who they need to man the warp-drives or whatever.”

  “SD drives,” Reggie corrected. “It’s subdimensional travel.” Subdimensions, ha! It was a mangled term if he’d ever heard one. Almost as bad as calling something “dark” when it was simply unknown.

  That was why the missions were being put together now. Deep space travel was finally a reality, the world’s political climate was in an upswing, armed conflict was at an all-time low, resources were abundant and more evenly dispersed than ever before, population growth had leveled out at nine billion (some scientists projected a possible decrease in the
next fifty years), and humanity intended its first steps beyond its own solar system to be grand.

  Humans were finally ready to see if they could survive out there, beyond the warm embrace of their little G-type star.

  “I would never make it,” Reggie said. “It’s too far. You know how long it would take to get to LQ Pyx. Generations.”

  “That doesn’t mean you couldn’t go along for the ride. Get things started in the right direction.”

  “But it does mean I’ll never know.” He pushed his ale away. “I’ll never know why LQ Pyx is the way it is, one way or the other.”

  “So, you’re a glass-half-empty man?” McCloud tapped his fingertips against the beer glass.

  Reggie shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

  “Here’s something I think glass-half-empty people always fail to consider.” He paused.

  Reggie pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  With a flick of his wrist, McCloud had the beer in his hand. In the next moment he poured it down Reggie’s front.

  “Ah!” Reggie sprang up, trying to jump away from the liquid that had already soaked through to his skin. “What the hell?”

  McCloud laughed. “It’s not the empty that leaves an impression, is it?” He offered Reggie his handkerchief, but Reggie declined—he knew where it had been. Instead he held his shirt out from his chest, glancing around for help, but none was coming. McCloud continued. “Life’s not about missed opportunities, Mr. Straifer. It’s about the moments that drench us to the bone and leave us sopping with experience.” He pointed to the back of the pub. “Restroom’s that way, I believe.”

  “There are three dry cleaners in this sector of town,” chimed C.

  McCloud was crazy.

  But that didn’t mean he was wrong.

  In the months of waiting that followed, after he and the professor had returned to the States, Reggie spent a long time contemplating soggy Dockers as a metaphor for life. But he was a scientist, not a poet. Math was his thing—he’d never had much use for metaphors.