Steven McDonald - Steven E. McDonald

The traverse through Daylight Station could not have been quick enough for Weir: He doubted that it was quick enough for Admiral Hollis either. Hollis was not used to waiting for anything he wanted.

The tube walls blurred by outside the station transport, but Weir, strap-hanging in an empty car, paid them no attention, preferring to spend his time rooting around in the recesses of his mind. He had hoped before, but this time it was certainty, cold and clear, knowledge transmitted to him in the form of a dream. The mechanism was unfamiliar, something he might have rejected without thinking twice before he began to explore ideas that delved into ways of rejecting or reconfiguring the laws of space-time.

He had found a was down the rabbit hole into Wonderland, and he had been encouraged relentlessly, with money, material, and facilities, until everything had gone horribly wrong. Even so, they could not take the truth from him: he had found the rabbit hole and he had shown the way.

The transport disgorged him at his destination in the USAC Command section.

People flowed around him, intent on their own business, paying him no heed. No bosun’s whistle meaning boffin on the bridge, just the odd dismissive look here and there and otherwise blind ignorance. He doubted that many of those in the Command area knew who he was. He glanced down at his security badge once more, making certain it was properly in place. All he needed was some overzealous security thug taking a dislike to him.

He knew his way around in Command, had for years. He glanced up at the wall displays, barely absorbing the images, taking note of the date and time.

August 23, 2046. Seven years since… There was a cold feeling deep in his gut, as though mercury had pooled there.

He walked slowly into the main reception area. He started to introduce himself, but the unsmiling man at the desk ignored him and stabbed a finger at the vid terminal near his right hand. Weir stood uncertainly in the center of the USAC seal that had, in a flagrant waste of taxpayer’s money, been printed into the synthetic-fiber carpet. Symbols and seals and codes by which men lived. So many things to despise, so little time to do anything but sell your soul for a shot at the main chance. The military mindset would not allow a good man to sink completely, but there was always one procedure too many to go through when it came to sorting out the mess.

Weir watched the double doors to Hollis’ office, trying not to shuffle his feet while he waited. After a few moments, one of the doors opened and Lyle emerged, walking quickly over to Weir. Lyle was still wearing her diplomatic face, still covering something. Weir favored her with an aggravated expression, hoping to give Lyle the impression he was as clueless as Lyle would like.

No more than nods were exchanged before they went into Hollis’ office. At this rate, Weir thought, we’re going to have a conference in sign language and grunts.

Hollis’ office was still impressive, Weir noted. A video wall, currently blank, took up one side. Other monitors around the room played views of Earth from several different BlackSats. Hollis’ desk was a dark monolith sitting to the back of the room, an object even more imposing than the ominous video wall. There was a scattering of equipment on the top, arranged around an impressive black desk lamp that shone with halogen fury. The lights in the office were dimmed down, so that Hollis’ lair occupied the most visible spot.

Behind the desk, in the pool of light cast by his desk lamp, sat Admiral John Hollis, looking like a bear considering mayhem. Weir had learned to trust Hollis over time, despite the gruff manner the Admiral cultivated. Unlike many people, Hollis was uninterested in what was good for ensuring the annual appropriation, and had solid notions of what was and was not reasonable in the course of a project. Hollis had been Weir’s savior when everything went to hell in a handbasket.

Weir stopped in the center of the office. The USAC seal on the wall glittered with the light from the desk. Lyle passed by Weir and went to stand before the video wall, her hands clasped behind her back, unsmiling, unmoving.

Hollis leaned forward, watching Weir with the air of a concerned uncle. It had been a while since they had seen each other, Weir realized. Hollis’ hair had thinned, and he could see deeper lines in the Admiral’s face.

Hollis steepled his hands and tried a small smile. “How are you, Bill?”

Hollis’ voice was gentle, kind.

Automatically, Weir said, “I’m fine.” His voice sounded flat, lost in the huge office.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Hollis waited, watching Weir, who had nothing more to say and no will or desire to invent small talk to keep his favorite brass hat entertained.

Hollis glanced over at Lyle. Weir noted that the adjutant barely flinched.

It was obvious that Lyle could give the Admiral no clues as to the next step.

Hollis looked back at Weir, sighed, and sat back in his chair, idly playing with a pencil. Weir felt a pang of sympathy for the Admiral—there were no easy decisions, no simple approaches to anything. Even so, he wished this meeting was over.

Hollis glanced over at Lyle again, then turned back to Weir. All business now, leaning forward and dropping the pencil on the desk, Hollis said, “I apologize for the short notice, but we’ve had something come up that requires your immediate attention.” The Admiral nodded sharply at his assistant.

“Lyle?”

This is it, Weir thought.

Lyle produced a remote, apparently from up her sleeve, gesturing with it.

The video wall lit, bathing the office in a faded blue glow that quickly coalesced. The solar system faded up, turned, closed in. Lyle aimed and fired, and the view tilted and accelerated, closing in on the eighth planet. Virtual boundaries surrounded the chosen area, forcing it to grow in size, magnified until the occupants of the office seemed dwarfed.

In the heart of the video wall, confined within a box filled with stars, Neptune shone blue and cold, methane winds rearranging the patterns of its cloudy surface.

A red dot was blinking in close orbit around the planet.

Stepping away from the video wall and looking intently at Weir, Lyle picked up the thread. “At oh-three-hundred this morning, TDRS picked up an automated navigation beacon broadcasting at two minute intervals in Neptune orbit.”

Passing by Hollis’ desk, Lyle picked up a sheaf of papers, riffling through them quickly, selecting a small stack to hand to Weir, who went through them hurriedly, going back to confirm the data he had been handed.

“Incredible…” Weir muttered. He looked up from the papers, at Lyle, at the video wall, back at the papers, at Hollis. His chest felt hollow, but his heart felt huge and leathery, pounding helplessly in his chest. “These are the same coordinates as before the ship disappeared… this, this happened?” He swallowed, hard, trying to force control, trying to grab hold of the scientific approach before his growing excitement started him shaking. “This isn’t some kind of hoax?”

Hollis laid his hand flat on his desk, watching Weir now with a flinty, hard look that had a dangerous edge to it. Weir turned his head and saw that Lyle had a nervous look about her now.

“I wouldn’t bring you here on a hoax,” Hollis said. The Admiral’s hand closed into a fist, and he looked down at it as though it had taken on a life of its own and was becoming a threat to national security. Weir recalled too well that strange and unusual events did not go over too well with Hollis.

“Houston confirmed the telemetry and ID codes.”

Weir took several steps toward Hollis’ desk, then one back, turning to stare at the video wall. “It’s the Event Horizon,” Weir said, trying to get his breath, trying to force his heart to slow down. “She’s come back.”