The Reply

CHAPTER 2

Deep Space Communication Center (DSCC) 10 was one of two dozen radio receiving systems placed around the globe by the United States government in conjunction with various research organizations to monitor radio waves coming in to the planet from outside the atmosphere. At DSCC-10 twelve large dishes were spaced evenly across the desert floor, 250 miles northeast of Las Vegas. The setting sun reflected off the metal struts and webs of steel that pointed to the sky, listening with the infinite patience that machines are capable of.

Cables ran from the base of each dish into the side of a large modern, one-story building. Inside the structure the two humans also had patience, that born of years of listening to the cosmos with no tangible results.

The recent discoveries on Easter Island and the disclosure of the alien mothership and bouncers secreted away just miles to the north in Area 51 had proven beyond the slightest doubt that there was extraterrestrial life in the universe and that that life had once had a colony on Earth. Humans were not alone, and while most of the planet focused its attention on what had been found, those in places like DSCC-10 were concerned with what was yet to be discovered among the stars.

The message sent out by the guardian computer had jolted everyone out of their daily humdrum. Now those at DSCC-10, and at other listening posts around the world, watched their computer monitors with mixed hope and fear. Hope that a message would come back in reply and fear about what the message would be and who would be sending it.

Jean Compton had worked at DSCC-10 for twelve years. Officially, and as far as her partner, James Brillon, knew, she worked for Eastern Arizona State University. In reality she worked for both EASU and the National Security Agency. Her job for the NSA was to have DSCC-10 ready as a backup to the Air Force’s satellite dishes at Nellis Air Force Base. If the tracking station at Nellis went down, Compton was to use DSCC-10 to download classified data from the network of spy satellites that the U.S. had blanketing the planet as they passed overhead. The vast amount of data those satellites accumulated, and their limited storage space, made it imperative that each scheduled download be picked up or valuable intelligence could be lost.

Compton had yet to have to do that backup job, but she did appreciate the extra paycheck she received each month from the United States government, deposited directly and discreetly into her checking account. She also had a classified Internet address and code that she was supposed to use in case DSCC-10 ever picked up signs of intelligent alien life. All she knew about the organization on the other end was the designation, STAAR, and that the NSA told her to follow any instructions given by it.

She didn’t know what STAAR stood for, and after receiving the briefing from the STAAR representative at Nellis four years ago, she’d had no desire to know more. The man giving the briefing had sent chills up and down her spine with his emotionless detailing of instructions she was to follow in case they found evidence of extraterrestrial life. He was a tall man, with blond, almost white, hair cut short, his face looking like it was carved out of pale marble. She wondered if the man’s skin ever saw the sun, yet he had worn sunglasses throughout the entire briefing in an empty hangar at Nellis. Armed guards surrounded the hangar, hard-looking men in black jumpsuits. Their presence had further enhanced the significance and power of this mysterious organization.

Shortly after the guardian computer had sent out its message from Easter Island, she’d been contacted by STAAR and given a classified briefing by the same man and detailed new instructions. She didn’t really believe that she would have to use those new instructions, as she hadn’t the old ones from the NSA, until eight minutes before eight P.M. on this evening.

She was in the process of doing a loop scan, the dishes slowly rotating to get a clear radio picture of a section of sky, when the master warning light bolted to the beam running across the front of the control room snapped on and a high-pitched tone screeched.

At those two simultaneous occurrences, Brillon dropped his Coke, the can bouncing on the carpeted floor, dark fluid pouring out unnoticed as he stared at the flashing warning light. Compton was more practical. She immediately hit the record button on the console in front of her, which turned on every piece of monitoring machinery in the control center. Then she focused her attention on the large screen to her left, which had a series of electronic grid lines laid over the section of star map the radio scopes were currently aimed at.

“Off center, move quadrants. Left four, up two,” she ordered.

Brillon shook his head, trying to get back in reality, and Compton had to repeat the order until he sat down at another console and began realigning the radio telescopes to be more on line with the incoming message.

Compton spun her chair to the left and looked at another screen. A jumbled mass of letters and numbers filled the entire display. “We’ve got data coming in,” she said in a surprisingly calm voice. “Real data,” she added, meaning it was not random radio waves generated by astral phenomena.

“Sweet Jesus,” Brillon muttered, realizing what this meant. Contact. Not first contact as they had always dreamed — that had occurred with the discovery of the Airlia artifacts — but this was first live contact, beside which even those earlier discoveries paled.

Compton checked another display. “Damn, it’s a strong signal. Very strong.” She glanced over at her partner. “Are you dead on yet?”

“I’ve centered up as best I can,” Brillon reported, “but it’s a very tight transmission beam and I can’t seem to center.”

“How do you make a radio transmission on a beam?” Compton asked. “They’re not directional.”

Brillon didn’t have time to answer the hypothetical question as he continued to work. Compton quickly turned to another computer and accessed the secure Department of Defense Satellite Internet Link. She typed in the two addresses that she had long ago memorized but never used. As soon as she got a line and a prompt, she typed.

Compton cursed to herself as she read the message. She quickly typed in more information.

Compton sat back in the chair and waited while replies came back.

Compton shook her head in irritation at the STAAR questions.

“Do you have a lock yet?” she asked Brillon.

“I’ve got a source lock!” Brillon yelled. “I’m sending it to your computer. Nothing yet on destination except it’s west and south of here. This system wasn’t designed to pinpoint a destination here on Earth for a transmission.”

Compton accessed another program on her computer and put that box next to the one that was her dialogue with STAAR and the NSA. She transferred the source numbers to the dialogue box and transmitted them.

Compton glanced at the other screen. More numbers and letters were still coming in.

Compton glanced over at Brillon. He was concentrating on what he was doing. Compton slid her hand under the edge of her desk. She felt the special switch the NSA had installed and flipped it on. It shut the center down from the outside world by severing all links except the one she was using.

“I can’t get the destination,” Brillon said. “Somewhere southwest a long way.” “Easter Island.” Compton said it out loud before she could catch herself. “Jesus!” Brillon said. “It’s the answer to the guardian.”

“Yeah, but I can’t make any sense—” Compton began, but she was interrupted by a new message from STAAR.

Brillon was now looking over her shoulder. “That’s because it’s coming from a spaceship, assholes,” he muttered. “It has to, to be that strong. It’s not coming from outside the solar system. It wouldn’t be that strong,” he repeated, “nor could they keep it directional over a distance of light-years.” He frowned as something occurred to him. “Who the heck is STAAR?”

“NSA,” Compton said, although she doubted very much that the pale blond man and STAAR really were part of the NSA. Why else, then, would she be sending the data to both of them?

“NSA? We work for the university.”

“Not right now we don’t,” Compton said. “Check the numbers,” she ordered.

Brillon grumbled something, but he sat down at his computer and did as she ordered. “Numbers are verified,” he announced. “Whatever is transmitting is along that line.” He cleared his screen and brought up a computer display of the solar system. “And I’ll bet you my paycheck it’s coming from a spaceship heading into our solar system on that trajectory. We’ve got to contact the university!” he said. “Professor Klint will be—”

“We can’t contact anyone,” Compton said. She was speaking from memory, seeing the pale blond-haired man in her mind. “This data and this facility are now both classified and closed by National Security Directive forty-nine dash twenty-seven dash alpha.”

“Bullshit,” Brillon said, reaching for the phone. He turned to her when he couldn’t get a dial tone. “What did you do?”

“We’re sealed off to the outside world, except for the NSA and STAAR,” she said.

“Screw you!” Brillon said. “You sold out to the government.” He stood, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll drive and call it in on a pay phone, then. You people aren’t going to pull another Majestic!”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Compton said in a surprisingly calm voice. “Why not?” Brillon was tensed, his body leaning toward hers. “Are you going to stop me?”

“No.”

“Then screw you and your national security directive.”

“I won’t stop you, but I think they will.” She pointed to the ceiling. They could both hear the dull thud of helicopter rotor blades coming closer. “Shit!” Brillon threw his car keys down.

Compton turned back to her computer and pulled up Brillon’s display and looked at it for a moment before typing in a few commands. In a second an electronic green line reached out from the small dot representing Earth. It speared through space and intersected dead-on with a red circle.

“Goddamn,” Compton muttered. She looked up at Brillon. “Besides owing me your life, you also owe me your paycheck. The message isn’t coming from a spaceship. It’s coming from Mars!”