The Second Ship Read online

  Mark cleared his throat. “We studied together. I got grounded for doing poorly on my science test last week. I spent a lot of time with Jennifer and Heather studying to do well on this test. We memorized a good portion of the text.”

  “Ridiculous.” Ms. Gorsky stomped her foot to emphasize the point, an act that reminded Heather of the dancing elephant on the GE commercial. “The wording is exactly the same. Nobody memorizes the text. They copied from each other.”

  “Sir,” Heather said, “even if we wanted to copy, it’s just not possible. Ms. Gorsky has us sitting across the room from each other. There’s no way that Mark could see either one of our papers, or vice versa.”

  “Is that correct, Ms. Gorsky?” Principal Zumwalt asked.

  The rotund history teacher scowled at her students before turning back toward the principal. “Yes, but that only means they came up with some sort of signaling scheme to pull it off.”

  Principal Zumwalt interlocked his fingers under his chin. “So, you’re saying they tapped out the paragraph in Morse code?”

  Where Mark’s face had been bright red, Ms. Gorsky’s turned purple. “Yes. Maybe not that way, but they passed the information somehow.”

  “But you didn’t actually hear any tapping or see them passing a note or anything of the kind?”

  “No, I didn’t. But I didn’t have to. Look at the paragraphs I circled with my red marker. If they all memorized that so well that they can quote it word for word, then I am an idiot.” Ms. Gorsky glared at the principal, as if daring him to accuse her of being wrong.

  Principal Zumwalt paused for several seconds, then turned toward Mark. “Young man, would you mind telling me the quote you used from your text in response to question number three?”

  A look of hope dawned on Mark’s face. “‘Whereas Longstreet was consumed with a growing dread at the thought of an attack up that long gradual slope, an attack which reminded him of the slaughter his own men had inflicted upon the forces of the north at Fredericksburg, Pickett was overcome with enthusiasm. Feeling that his unit had been unfairly kept from achieving their share of the glory in the previous two days of battle, General Pickett demanded that he be allowed to lead the charge on the morning hence, a charge that would eternally bear his name.’”

  As Mark spoke, Principal Zumwalt’s eyes followed along the paragraph circled in red. Raising an eyebrow, he turned back to Ms. Gorsky.

  “Well, Harriet, unless you have some additional evidence, I have to conclude that these young people did, in fact, memorize that section of text from the book. Although it is unusual that they all used the same quote, this appears to be a case of a zealous study group, not a case of cheating.”

  Ms. Gorsky’s mouth opened and then shut with an audible snap. Grabbing the papers from the principal’s desk, she stormed from the office, glaring down at the three companions as she opened the door. “Don’t believe for a second that I won’t have my eye on you, all of you. You don’t fool me. Watch yourselves.”

  With that, the large woman swept from the office, not bothering to close the door behind her.

  The principal waved his hand at them. “You are all free to go.”

  Heather grabbed her backpack, leading the others out into the empty hallway and then through the broad double doors onto the entrance walkway, her head still spinning from the encounter. This wasn’t really the way she had wanted to make a name for herself as a junior in high school.

  “Great. We missed our bus,” Mark exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air. “Can this week get any better?”

  “I’ll call Mom to come and pick us up,” Heather said. “I’m not really looking forward to explaining why.”

  Jennifer sat down on the step. “No kidding.”

  Heather made the call, then flipped her cell phone closed before stowing it back in her bag. “She’s on her way.”

  “You think Mom and Dad will buy what we told Principal Zumwalt?” Mark asked.

  “It’s the truth,” said Jennifer.

  “Yeah, but they know me,” said Mark.

  Heather patted his back. “They also know how much we’ve all been studying together since you got grounded. They’ll believe us.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. If we keep screwing up like this, it is only a matter of time until someone finds out about our ship.”

  Jennifer sighed. “We’re just going to have to act more normally.”

  “Yeah,” said Mark. “If anyone can remember what that’s like. Oh, speaking of acting normal, has anyone else noticed any coordination issues?”

  “Like what?” asked Heather.

  Mark took three coins from his pocket, placing them on the back of his right hand. As he wiggled his fingers, the coins began rolling end over end between his knuckles like a magician might do. As they watched, he flipped one over the other, hopping them up and down so that the coins spun between each other on the back of his fingers.

  “Like this.”

  Jennifer gasped. “When did you learn to do that?”

  “I was messing around in study hall today.”

  “Well stop it before someone sees you! Christ, you’re creeping me out.”

  Mark flipped the coins in the air, snagging them in his fist and putting them back in his pocket. “I figured it must be more of that neural enhancement we got.”

  Heather nodded. “Odd that I haven’t picked up the same benefit. What about you, Jen?”

  “Are you kidding me? I tripped over my front step this morning and almost fell in the rose bushes. If Mark hadn’t caught me, I’d still be picking out thorns.”

  Heather pursed her lips. “Hmm. All of us had our memory enhanced, but either some of the effects kick in more slowly for us or perhaps it’s some individually dependent behavior. After all, our minds are all unique. That might account for it.”

  “That would make some sense,” said Jennifer. “Learning to use some skills may take a while.”

  “Or maybe we are each more naturally adapted to certain things,” said Heather. “I guess only time will tell.”

  The conversation came to a close as Heather’s mom pulled up in her red station wagon, the Grunge Buggy, as Heather called it. Heather slid into the backseat beside the twins. The good news about the ride home was that Heather’s mom bought their story. The bad news was they were going to have to repeat it for each parent, something that could lead to questions where uncomfortable half-truths would be the best they could give.

  As they rounded a bend, her mother screamed and slammed on the brakes, throwing them hard against their shoulder harnesses as the sedan fishtailed. The car slid to a stop barely two feet from a pedestrian who stood calmly in the center of Pajarito Road, the main road between Los Alamos and White Rock.

  The man was tall and thin, his greasy blond hair hanging down below his shoulders, his eyes so deeply set that the shadowed sockets looked empty. Clutched in his right hand, a crudely lettered sign screamed at the world.

  Beg his forgiveness. The end of all things is at hand!

  As the strange man moved closer, Mrs. McFarland activated the door locks with an audible thunk. The man grinned, his mouth a horror of stained, misaligned teeth. As he reached for the door, Heather’s mom hit the gas, accelerating past him down the highway toward home.

  Glancing back, Heather saw the ragged man standing in the center of the road still staring after them, the mad grin fixed upon his face as if it had been painted there. The feeling that he was still there grinning at her persisted, long after he had disappeared around the bend.

  11

  Since 1970, when President Nixon presented the White House with an oval mahogany conference table, its massive surface had filled the cabinet room in the West Wing. This table had been the platform for countless meetings of the highest-ranking executives of the United States government.

  Vice President Gordon leaned back in his leather chair, trying to maintain his trademark calm, businesslike exterior. Directly across
the table from him, President Harris leaned forward in his taller chair, elbows on the mahogany of the table, the corners of his mouth tugged downward by a slowly emerging scowl. The secretary of defense also leaned forward, looking ready to blow a gasket that would send steam spurting from every bodily orifice.

  “Mr. President. As you recall, I counseled against the announcement of the Rho Ship's existence, advice that recent events have shown to be very sound. But what is done, is done. We can’t undo that. We can, however, retract your promise to publicly release the Rho Ship’s technologies. We can still stop this madness.”

  Peering over cupped fists, Vice President Gordon stared at the president. Many people who did not know the man regarded President Harris as something of a stubborn dunce, a self-absorbed man, ill-suited to the mantle of leadership placed upon him. Over his long political career, the president had left a broad trail of political corpses—those who had underestimated his intellect and his ability to make a decision and see it through.

  Someone once described the president as the one the family would send out to shoot Old Yeller. George Gordon could no longer look at the man without that caricature springing to mind. President Harris was a man of conscience who, right or wrong, fulfilled his perceived duty, then left his staff to sort out how to spin the situation for political advantage.

  The president’s bulldog gaze now affixed itself to his defense secretary. “Bob, we have already discussed this. If you don’t have anything new to add, then you are done.”

  “I do have something. The secretary of energy proposes we release the cold fusion technology, that we provide a detailed publication describing the steps that make the process efficient and repeatable. While I understand the importance of the technology, must I remind everyone of the circumstances surrounding the murder of Dr. Harriet Price in ninety-seven? The Cal Tech cold fusion expert? She was pushing DOE to re-evaluate cold fusion as a viable energy source when she was killed. You can believe the ‘killed during a home invasion’ story if you want, but I say it looks more like someone already wants the competing methodology kept private.”

  Porter Boles, the secretary of energy, interrupted. “Hogwash. Nobody else is close on cold fusion. There are a few guys out there tinkering with aquariums in labs, producing a little more heat than what is put in. Using current techniques, the nuclear interaction probabilities are too small for significant nuclear fusion.”

  Porter Boles continued. “What we have at the Rho Division at Los Alamos is completely unique, a procedure that enables commercially viable cold fusion production. It has the potential to get us off of fossil fuels within five years.”

  The secretary of defense rose to his feet.

  “And that doesn’t scare the shit out of you? You may be right. This may truly be a wonderful thing for our country. But I say we can afford to take our sweet time analyzing all ramifications before jumping in bed with this thing.

  “What are the weaponization possibilities? Will oil futures collapse, causing mass shortages before the other energy can come online? And what about our big OPEC buddies? Are they just going to sit idly by waiting for their world to be replaced, or panic and lash out? This little Kyoto-friendly project of yours could spiral into a world war.”

  The lines in the president’s forehead deepened. “Sit down, Robert. These are tired subjects. The energy and defense departments have had access to the Rho Ship for sixty years. I will not keep this thing bottled up for another sixty years to appease the parochial fears of the defense department, the net effect of which would limit mankind's advancement.”

  But Robert Caine did not sit down. Instead he leaned forward, scribbling a single sentence on a yellow pad before him.

  Pushing the pad over in front of the president, he said, “Mr. President, I cannot, in good conscience, continue serving an administration that would share critical national technologies with the world at large. You believe your job, as president, is to make the world a better place. I believe your sole responsibility is securing the future of the American people. Please consider this my formal resignation.” With that, Robert Caine turned and strode from the room.

  Absolute silence settled over those assembled in the cabinet room as all eyes watched the president. After several seconds, he turned toward his chief of staff.

  “Andy, I want that list of potential replacements for sec. def. on my desk by six. Get the vetting process rolling. Get the press secretary briefed right away because there is going to be a firestorm she will need to handle very shortly.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” The chief stood and departed through the doorway into the office of the president’s secretary.

  Turning back toward the energy secretary, President Harris removed his reading glasses. “Porter, the ball is in your court. Get that publication finalized if it isn’t already. I’ll make the announcement from the Oval Office in the morning. Gentlemen, get ready. Tomorrow we will let the world know that a brand new future, independent of fossil fuels, is at hand.”

  All members of the cabinet stood as the president of the United States left the room, and then they filed out behind him. Vice President George Gordon waited several moments, carefully returning his Montblanc pen to his daily planner. He looked around the empty room where once again history had been made, a thin, tight smile on his lips as he rubbed the soft leather on the back of his chair.

  12

  “Dad! You’ve got to be kidding me. Why do we have to go? Mark, Jen, and I haven’t had our own day in weeks.”

  “Heather, it’s Family Day, remember? We’ll be grilling burgers and dogs with the other lab families. It’ll be fun. I’m sure your plans aren’t of such earthshaking importance they warrant skipping the annual picnic.”

  “But we planned on biking and rock climbing today.”

  Her mother glanced up from the afghan she was knitting for the church raffle. “Heather. Discussion over. We’re going, and I’m sure the Smythes are too. Besides, you loved it last year.”

  With a resigned sigh, Heather nodded, kissed her folks good night, and headed upstairs to bed. Frustration gnawed at her gut, knowing she would once again be denied a visit to the starship.

  Events this past week made returning to the ship all the more imperative. They needed to discover how to access more information in those computer banks.

  The news media was in a frenzy. First there had been the shocking resignation of the secretary of defense, followed almost immediately by the president’s announcement that the first of the alien technologies to be publicly released was cold fusion.

  Then the scientific papers on the production of controllable cold fusion were published, sending every scientific laboratory in the world scrambling to independently reproduce the results. Confirmation had come flooding in, numerous universities announcing the results almost simultaneously, while major companies scrambled to commercialize the applications.

  As if that weren’t enough, the stock market stumbled into another black October decline with two days of record sell-off. That then reversed when several energy companies appeared able to adapt parts of their infrastructure to support some of the anticipated automobile technologies.

  Outcries from oil-producing countries were largely ignored by industrialized countries, including emerging economies like China and India. Clearly the perceived benefits of the release were winning widespread support around the globe.

  Even within the United States, opposition arose. A large contingent of congressmen from both parties, along with commentators from assorted think tanks, complained the information was released too quickly, without fully scrutinizing national security implications. Still, these voices were drowned out by the enthusiasm of the world's academic communities.

  Heather switched off the light and pulled her blankets up under her chin, peering out the dark window beside her bed. The wind was up this evening, and a thin branch of a pine tapped softly against the pane. The image of the ragged homeless man with the sign sli
pped across her mind. A call to the sheriff had brought a visit by two deputies, but there had been no further sign of the man. From Heather’s perspective, that was a good thing.

  Sleep claimed her, pulling her into troubled dreams in which she needed desperately to do something unattainable, something that, try as she might, she could not recall. From far away her mother called to her, a note of desperation in her voice.

  “Heather. Are you hearing me? I need you.”

  Heather’s eyes popped open. “Heather! I need you up and ready or we’ll be late for the picnic. Get a move on.” Her mother’s face appeared at her door. “Are you hearing me? I’ve been calling for five minutes.”

  Clearing her throat, Heather sat up. “I hear you, Mom. Give me just a minute.”

  “Okay, but make it snappy. The Smythes have to be there early to set up the grill and we’re carpooling. You’ve got twenty-five minutes.” She glanced at her watch. “Make that twenty-four.”

  “All right, Mom. I don’t really think a countdown will help.”

  Heather stumbled groggily to the shower, letting the hot water and steam bring her back to life. What was up with her sleep pattern? Ever since they had found the ship, she couldn’t seem to get enough sleep. And the stress of her unremembered dreams was sapping her energy.

  Despite hurrying, by the time Heather reached the bottom of the stairs the horn on the Smythemobile blared impatiently. Locking the front door behind her, Heather slid into the van’s backseat beside Jennifer and Mark.

  Mark grinned at her knowingly.

  “You ready to flip some burgers and dogs?”

  “Hmph.”

  With the arrival of the Smythemobile at the Los Alamos City Park, their parents put the teens to work setting up the grill, hauling bags of charcoal, and performing other picnic preparation tasks. All around them, the smells of the giant potluck circuit wafted over. Despite their urge to wander amongst the offerings, their mandate was clear. They would hold down their assigned positions at the grill or at the condiment table until the lunch crowd died out.