Джек Макдевитт - A Voice in the Night

An hour later, we returned past the shore front. Bryan was still there.

Four characters had been written across the face of the flip chart. “It’s the god’s name,” said Murray. “It’s from the tablet with the pyramid.

“What does the inscription say?” asked Judy.

“‘In (the god’s name) are all things made possible. Speak, and he will reply.’” There was of course no way to know how the name had been pronounced, or indeed how any of the Martian language had sounded.

“We have two kinds of inscriptions,” Murray explained. “One set advises visitors about behavior. No loud talking. No shouting or laughing. That sort of thing. The other’s devotional. ‘Know that in the hour of most peril I am with you.’”

Warren was puzzled. “So we have a society in a place where no one could have lived during the last three billion years or so. Some of the artifacts, drums, religious symbols, and whatnot, seem primitive. But they were able to put up solar power units.” It gave him a headache. “How long has this stuff been here? Have we established that?” He looked toward Sam.

Sam nodded. “The lab thinks the altar, the urns, the more primitive stuff, is about eleven thousand years old. The cable, the coils, the pyramid, one item that seems to be a gauge, are all older. By about a thousand years.”

“Older?” said Eddie.

“Yes. The high-tech equipment came first.” He paused. “This is off the subject, but it’s something you should know. During the night, a lot happened back home. We have reports of widespread arrests across the United States. They’ve got massive riots, and the rioters are on both sides of the issue. The National Guard was called out, and in some places they refused to fire on the rioters. Martin’s expected to declare a national emergency and there’s even talk of his suspending the Constitution. On top of all that, Broadwell says he’s not doing enough.”

“Broadwell?” asked Judy.

“Chairman of the Joint Chiefs,” said Bryan.

They stared at one another. Warren thought about his kids, four of them, all in their twenties and trying to get started. He didn’t like what he was hearing. “I need to get to the commcenter,” he said.

Sam nodded. “We’re making provisions for anyone who wants to call home. Make a list of people you’re worried about and we’ll try to get through. But Harvey asked me to tell you that lines are jammed in some places and down in others so he can’t promise anything.”

“Best thing for us,” said Jason, “is to just continue what we’re doing and let things play themselves out. There’s nothing we can do from here.”

Sam touched one earphone, the way he always did when a message was coming in. A moment later he nodded and punched a button to activate the speakers.

“—and gentlemen.” It was the Director. His voice, usually rich and full and authoritarian, sounded shaky. “I have to announce,” he said, “there’s been a coup.”

There was a rush of conversation and shushing.

“President Martin has stepped down. A government statement says that his retirement has been caused by ill health. It’s no longer clear whether the Constitution remains in effect. The military has announced that Broadwell is taking over until they get things sorted out. Congress is reported to have approved the step.”

“A coup?” said Jason. “In the United States?”

“We’ll keep you informed as the situation warrants.” The Director seemed to be having trouble breathing. “Our only course is to recognize that we’re two hundred million miles away, and we should simply concentrate on doing our jobs. Thank you for your attention.”

“They can’t do that,” stammered Murray. “They don’t have the authority.”

“Where’s the President?” asked Judy.

Sam was still pressing his earphones. “The Tampa White House. Apparently. Worldwide says he’s asking everybody to support Broadwell for the duration.”

Beyond the plasteel, the low red hills stretched to the horizon.

Nobody said much. It struck Warren that perhaps the void between the worlds, black and deep and empty, could twist reality, could spirit away the mundane and insinuate shadows and phantoms. This Broadwell, for example. Warren had never heard of him. And now he was running the country?

Judy shook it away, as if she too sensed that the environment invited illusion. She smiled at Warren, suggesting it would all be okay.

The pyramid and the pyramid tablet had been set side by side on a work table. She sat down in front of them. She looked first at the tablet, on which the crocodilian Martian lifted the glowing pyramid, its head bowed. And then at the pyramid itself, cool and remote. But something was different about the pyramid. “Warren,” she said, “look at this.”

Warren looked. “It’s redder than it was.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Now that was unsettling. “O god of the pyramid,” she said. “I’d be delighted if you’d speak to us.”

Later, Warren would recall with a smile that it wasn’t exactly a formulation to conjure up other-worldly powers. But the lights dimmed and the pyramid brightened. And a quivering singsong cacophony erupted inside the dome.

The voice, if indeed it was a voice, was pitched high. Warren glanced up at the speakers, but Sam shook his head. The sound wasn’t coming from them.

“The pyramid.” Judy almost fell out of her chair getting away from it. The others circled the table, but kept a discreet distance.

“Why don’t we button up?” suggested Abu Hassam. Abu’s background was medical—he was a physician—but his specialty was math. He’d worked with Murray’s group on the translation.

Sam closed the shields, which shut off the sunlight, and turned off the lamps. Warren stared at the pyramid, stared into the pyramid. Deep in its interior, a ruby glow pulsed in time to Warren’s own heartbeat.

The ventilators were loud.

“Is someone there?” asked Judy.

“Yes.” The voice sounded disembodied, spectral, inhuman. It chilled Warren.

“Who are you?” asked Murray.

“I’ve already told you my name.”

Warren glanced at Sam, who was shaking his head and muttering no no no.

Out in the hills, at the edge of vision, a buggy was crawling over the lip of a crater.

“You’re the god—” Her voice went off the top of the scale and she had to pull back and start again. “You’re the god of this place?”

“I’m the Administrator.”

“Where are you?” asked Patti hesitantly. “Are you located inside the pyramid?”

“The ‘pyramid’ is a communication device.” Warren could hear the apostrophes. “You are from the third planet.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” said Murray. “Are you alive?”

“Define the term. My grasp of your language is tenuous. I don’t even know its name.”

“English,” said Charlie Kepper, an archeologist who had done most of his previous digging around North American Native mounds.

“Keep it simple,” said Patti. “Are you aware of your own existence?”