Eon (Eon, 2) Page 5

  "I'm going off shift now," Carrolson said, picking up her tray. "Just keep it in mind. Every woman on the team has had their letch for Garry. But he's responsible to someone back home—someone very important." She smiled mysteriously and walked toward the dishwasher unit.

  Lanier sipped his cup of coffee. "I'm not sure she's reading you correctly."

  "She most certainly is not."

  "She means I'm responsible to the Advisor—to Judith Hoffman."

  "I met her," Patricia said.

  "And I'm not on the social roster because there's too much work to do here and not nearly enough time. Besides, there's rank to consider." He finished the cup and set it down.

  "You'd think with so many intelligent people around, rank wouldn't be that much of a factor," Patricia said. She felt naive the instant the last word was out of her mouth.

  Lanier folded his hands on the table and looked at her directly until she glanced away.

  "Patricia, you're young, and this might seem very romantic to you, but it's deadly serious. We're working under agreements which took years to iron out—if they're ironed out even yet. We're an international team of scientists, engineers and security forces, and whatever information we find is not necessarily going to be available to every person on the globe, not for some time yet. Since you'll have access to almost everything, you must be particularly responsible—as responsible as I am. Please don't waste your time concerning yourself with. . . Well, I suggest you stay off the social roster. Another time, another place, sure, romance and adventure. But not on the Stone."

  She sat stiffly, hands knotted in her lap. "I have no intention of going on the roster," she said. She hadn't been called on the carpet, exactly, but she was still upset.

  "Good. Let's get your green badge and take a ride across the valley." They deposited their trays in the scrubber and left the cafeteria. Lanier walked a few steps ahead of her, eyes on the ground as they approached a small building near the northern side of the ramparts. A stocky broad-shouldered woman in a black jumpsuit, with a green belt and red sergeant's stripes on her sleeve, opened the door for them, then sat behind a desk made of more baffle metal to fill out forms. When they were done, she opened a locked box and pulled out a green badge with an outline of the Stone printed in one corner, surrounded by a silver circle.

  "Our security is tight here, Miss Vasquez," she said. "Make sure you know the rules. A green badge is a great responsibility."

  Patricia took the indelible pen and signed the badge, then pressed her fingers onto an ID scan plate for storage in the security system computers. The woman clipped the badge to her breast pocket. "Pleased to have you with us. I'm Doreen Cunningham, head of security for First Chamber Science Compound One. Any questions or problems, feel free to visit."

  "Thank you," Patricia said. Lanier led the way out of the guardhouse and up the rampart steps.

  "If you like to exercise, we have a running path around the inner perimeter of the compound, with an extension that takes you to the second compound. There's a gym pit not far from here. I recommend pretty strenuous exercise whenever possible. The low-g is a bit easy on us. I tend to get flabby if I don't maintain. And exercise will acclimate you more quickly to the air pressure."

  "I think the low-g is pleasant," she said as they walked to the front of a wide plastic-sheet quonset hut. "Buoyant."

  Inside the hut were two vehicles resembling large snow-cats, mounted on six rubber-tired band-steel-spoke wheels instead of treads. Patricia bent down to look beneath, then straightened. "Very rugged," she said.

  "Our trucks. Easy to drive—you'll learn soon. But today, you're just going along for the ride. Keep your eyes peeled."

  He unlocked a door and helped her up the high step into the shotgun seat. He paused before closing the door. "I'm sorry I came down on you so hard. I'm sure you understand how important you could be here, and—"

  "I don't understand," Patricia said. "I haven't the faintest idea what use I'll be."

  Lanier nodded and smiled.

  "But you were right, anyway. If I'm so important, then I need to keep my nose to the grindstone."

  "Looks like the Stoned work ethic will come natural to you," Lanier said. He climbed into the driver's seat and reached into his pocket, pulling out a slate. He offered it to her. "Slipped my mind. You'll probably want to make notes at some point or other. Government issue."

  He switched on the electric motor and drove the truck out of the shed. "We're going into the second chamber now, into the first city. We'll spend a few hours there, then take you on the Thirtieth Century Limited."

  "One of the trains?"

  He nodded. "We'll skip the third chamber today—too much, too soon. It could overload you. We'll stop at the fourth chamber security compound for a break and lunch, and then go right through to the sixth chamber."

  The truck approached a chain link fence stretching for several kilometers east and west.

  "Would it be premature to ask questions now?"

  "We have to start somewhere," Lanier said.

  "That's real dirt outside. You could grow things in it."

  "It's moderately fertile," Lanier said. "We have several farming projects under way, mostly in the fourth chamber. Most of the dirt is straight carbonaceous asteroid material, with supplements."

  "Mm." She turned to survey the scrub and the low plume of dust behind them. "Is the Stone still powered-up—I mean, can it leave?"

  "It's still powered-up," Lanier said. "We don't know whether it can leave or not."

  "I was wondering. . . if we could be trapped inside, if it decided to leave. Then we would need to farm, wouldn't we?"

  "That's not why we're farming," Lanier said. She waited for him to elaborate, but he stared straight ahead, slowing the truck as they approached the gate in the wire fence.

  "The motors are very old. Some of the engineers think they're worn out," he said, as if he had half listened to her and half followed his own chain of thought. He removed an electronic key from his pocket, dialed a number and opened the gate with a radio signal. "We don't understand the drive yet. The motors' last effective act was to slow the Stone down for insertion into the present orbit. They used chunks of mass removed by robots from the outside of the Stone—mostly in the deep bands. Mass-drivers lobbed the chunks towards a point just above the northern crater. That end is sealed off—you'll soon discover a second reason why. What happened to the chunks at that point, we don't know; the documentation is difficult."

  "I should imagine."

  The truck hummed through the gate and across a track marked by tire ruts and an absence of scrub.

  "All that chain link," Patricia said. "Once you prescreened everyone coming up here, you'd think that would be enough security. Must have cost a lot to have all that stuff shipped up here. Could have shipped up science, instead."

  "The chain link wasn't shipped here. We found it."

  "Chain link fence?"

  "And figurines," Lanier said.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Humans built the Stone, Patricia. People from Earth."

  She stared at him, then tried to grin.

  "Built it twelve hundred years ago. At least, it's about twelve hundred years old."

  "Oh," she said. "Pull the other one."

  "No, I'm serious."

  "I don't expect to be made fun of," she said quietly, straightening in her seat.

  "I'm not making fun. Do you think we'd ship eight or nine kilometers of chain link?"

  "I'll believe that before I believe Charlemagne or whoever had the Stone made to order."

  "I didn't say it came from our past. Before this goes any farther—please, Patricia, be patient. Wait and see."

  She nodded, but inside she was furious. This was some sort of initiation. Take the young woman out on a ride, terrorize her, stick her hand into a spaghetti-worm mystery, bring her back and have a good laugh. She's now a true Stoner. Great.

  She had never stood
for that sort of treatment, even as a thirteen-year-old whiz-kid at UCLA.

  "Look at the scrub," Lanier said. "It's grass. We didn't bring it with us."

  "It looks like grass," she acknowledged.

  The ride across the valley took thirty minutes. They approached the slate-gray cap. A silvery metal arch stood before the entrance to the tunnel, which was about twenty meters wide. A ramp rose from the dirt to the entrance. Lanier accelerated up the ramp.

  "How is the air maintained?" she asked. The silence made her uncomfortable. Lanier switched the truck lights on.

  "The middle three chambers have large ponds buried beneath them. The ponds are shallow and filled with several varieties of duckweed, water hyacinth and algae. Plus some other plants we're still identifying. The biggest pond is shaped like a doughnut and circles the fourth chamber. There are ventilation ducts in the caps at about three kilometers—you can see them with binoculars, or if you have sharp enough eyes—and the Stone is honeycombed with other shafts and ducts."

  Patricia nodded, avoiding his eyes. She's going to be Stoned soon, Lanier thought. Resentment was the first sign. Resentment and disbelief were much easier than acceptance. And the most careful introductions to the Stone didn't prevent the cycle. Here, everyone came from Missouri. Everyone had to be shown first. All other learning and refinement came later.

  Six minutes after entering the tunnel, they came to a heavy chain link hurricane fence completely covering the tunnel mouth. Lanier opened another gate with his key, and they emerged in the second chamber.

  The ramp leading down from the tunnel had been fortified on each side with masonry walls. More fence had been strung between the walls, and a guardhouse stood to one side of the next gate. Three marines in black jumpsuits came to attention by the guardhouse as the truck rolled toward them, its tires grumbling on the ramp paving. Lanier braked the vehicle and shut it off, then swung down from his seat. Patricia remained where she was, staring at the vista before her.

  Beyond the ramp was a two-kilometer-deep shelf of parkland, irregularly spotted by copses of trees and numerous broad, flat white concrete structures, resembling thick building foundations. Beyond the parkland, a narrow lake or river about a kilometer across ran east and west completely around the chamber. A suspension bridge with tall, slender, curved towers crossed the water, set between massive concrete anchors.

  The bridge pointed toward a city.

  It could have been Los Angeles on a very clear day, or any other modern terrestrial city, except for the surreal exaggeration. It was bigger, more ambitious and ordered, more architecturally mature. And scattered throughout the city, like bumpers on a pinball board, were the biggest structures she had ever seen in her life. Easily four kilometers tall, they resembled upright chandeliers made of concrete, glass and shining steel. Each facet of the nearest chandelier-structure was as large as entire buildings in between. The chandelier resemblance increased as she looked up and saw them suspended from the chamber floor overhead. Across the two layers of atmosphere, fifty kilometers away, the city became beautifully unreal, like a model behind dusty glass in a museum.

  Her eyes swept to either side, head swinging as if she were watching a slow tennis match between progressively taller players.

  "Good morning, Mr. Lanier," said the senior officer, approaching to inspect his badge. "She's new?"

  Lanier nodded. "Patricia Vasquez. Unlimited access."

  "Yes, sir. General Gerhardt passed the word yesterday to expect you."

  "Any activity?" Lanier asked.

  "Mitchell's survey squad is going through the K mega now, at thirty degrees and six klicks."

  Lanier leaned back into the cab. "The 'megas' are the big buildings," he explained. She shielded her eyes against the plasma tube, trying to see the opposite side of the chamber more clearly. She could make out parks and small lakes, systems of streets—laid out in alternating concentric circles and square blocks.

  She was as far from the opposite wall as Long Beach was from Los Angeles. Despite its scale, the city was definitely human-built.

  Lanier stepped up on the running board and asked if she would like to stretch her legs before they continued.

  "What do you call it?" Patricia asked.

  "Its name is Alexandria."

  "You named it?"

  Lanier shook his head. "No."

  "We're going all the way to the seventh chamber today?" she asked.

  "If you're up to it."

  "How long do we stay here?"

  "A few hours at most. I want you to get a look at the library before we continue."

  "A library?"

  "Indeed," Lanier replied. "One of the highlights."

  She settled back in her seat, eyes wide. "Is the city deserted?"

  "Most of us think it is. We've had scattered reports, but I put it up to nerves. Boojums, the security team calls them. Ghosts. We've never found a live Stoner."

  "You've found dead ones?"

  "Quite a number. There are mausoleums in this chamber, and in the fourth chamber. The main cemetery in Alexandria is at two-six degrees and ten kilometers. Do you understand the coordinate system?"

  "I think so," Patricia said. "Measure from the axis for angle, then distance from the cap. But what's zero, and which cap?"

  "This is the zero bridge, and we measure from the south cap."

  "This isn't an initiation, then—you weren't telling me a story. Humans built the Stone."

  "They did," Lanier said.

  "Where did they go?"

  Lanier smiled and waggled a finger.

  "I know," Patricia said, sighing. "Wait and see for myself." She stepped down from the truck and stretched, then rubbed her eyes. "I'm impressed."

  "The first time I saw Alexandria, I felt kind of at home," Lanier said. "I was raised in New York, moved to LA when I was fifteen—lived in big cities all my life, practically. But this really impressed me, even so. We could move twenty million people into just this chamber and still not be crowded."

  "Is that why the Stone is important—as real estate?"

  "No," Lanier said. "We don't plan on selling condos. We have fifteen archaeologists on the team, and they'd kill anyone who even suggested it. They hold briefings every few days—I'm sure you'll attend several soon. They're working around the clock, and have been since we brought them up here three years ago. They haven't let us touch anything since that time, except when one of the security team commanders or myself has overruled them. And even then, we needed damned good excuses."

  Patricia nodded to the three guards, who returned the greeting cordially, one tipping the visor on his cap. A radio in the guard house beeped and crackled. The senior officer answered. Patricia couldn't catch the guttural message, but the guard replied in what sounded like Russian.

  "I could have sworn they were all clean-cut American soldiers," Patricia said.

  "They are. There are Russians working with Hua Ling in the southern cap bore hole."

  "The marines speak Russian?"

  "This one does, obviously. And three or four other languages. Cream of the crop."

  "Is there anybody up here who isn't brilliant?"

  "No common grunts, if that's what you mean. We can't afford them. Everyone has to do double and triple duty." He sat in the driver's seat again. "When you're ready, we'll cross the bridge and drive to the library."

  "Anytime," Patricia said, resuming her seat.

  Lanier advanced the tractor and the gates swung wide for them, then closed after.

  They crossed the four-lane bridge, tires chattering and whanging on the asphalt. Patricia reached into her pants pocket to pull out the slate. Using its ten-key shorthand board, she typed:

  Weather—or rather, the absence of it. Sky is quite clear. Perspective—really startling. Land appears flat nearby, then just above the horizon (looking north) seems to curve, the curve getting more radical up the side of the valley. The chamber overhead has lots of detail, visible through slight haze.


  She played back what she had keyed in, hunting for errors. She had learned to type on a slate in high school, but that had been many years ago, and she preferred writing by hand. Paper, however, was obviously an expensive commodity on the Stone, to be used sparingly.

  She continued to type as they passed down a broad thoroughfare. Street about fifty meters wide, divided down the middle by what might have been grass at one time, and trees. Two lanes each side. None of the plants look healthy. Gardening systems deteriorating—not working at all? Shop windows on street level, nearly all broken. Lobbies of businesses, agencies, open to the air. One window—humanoid mannequin. Long-necked. Poised, but nude.

  She spotted a sign above what might have once been a jewelry store. "Kesar's," she read. Latin alphabet—and on the other side of the sign, as they moved on, she saw that the same name had been spelled out in Cyrillic. Some shops had Oriental ideograms—Chinese and Japanese. Others were in Laotian and the modified Vietnamese–Roman alphabet.

  "Lord," she breathed. "I could be back in LA."

  There was something peculiar about the shops, the designs, even a few window displays. She squinted, trying to resolve the discrepancies. "Wait a minute," she said. Lanier slowed the truck. "This is all supposed to be quaint, isn't it? I mean, like back home, where we have shopping malls built to make us think we're in Old England. This is supposed to be old-fashioned."

  "As good an observation as any I've heard," Lanier said, shrugging. "I've never really paid this area much attention."

  "Garry, I'm very confused. If the Stone was built a thousand years ago, how does all this fit in?"

  Lanier swung around a gentle curve and brought the truck to a stop in the middle of the street. He pointed to a large, umber-toned building on the northern edge of the greenspace. "That's one of the libraries—one of two we're investigating now. All the others are closed off."

  Patricia clutched her lower lip between her teeth. "Should I be nervous?" she asked.

  "Probably. I would be."

  "I mean, it's as if—" She shook her head. "Why should I go in there? I'm a mathematician. I'm not an engineer or a historian."