Prologue
Starmuse Station
Auricle Alliance Science Council
in close orbit, Alpha Orionis A (Betelgeuse)
Date: 5/9/178
The memo glowed irritatingly on the screen, until Thalia Sharaane cleared the workspace with an angry flick of her hand. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about, with convergence fast approaching, now she had to start getting complaints from the guest observers. Their complaints — and questions — were becoming increasingly difficult to answer.
“We request explanation for your refusal to abide by the joint worlds exploration agreement …”
Request, indeed. The joint worlds agreement had made no guarantees. It was a carefully crafted diplomatic deception to appease the observer-status worlds, a pretext to give the Alliance expedition freedom from interference for the critical time period needed to complete the project.
Requests from the Querayn Academies she could usually deal with, at least in principle. The robed scholars were actually here for purported scientific studies, even if their subject was nonexistent, in her opinion. They were attempting to observe the so-called Kônô consciousness of the sun, an alleged primitive sentience for which they had never produced any actual evidence. Still, it was a harmless endeavor, and it added a layer of scientific legitimacy to the whole “Starmuse” side of the project. Unfortunately, the Querayn were becoming increasingly demanding, in their polite scholarly fashion, about their need for better data — and, by extension, their dissatisfaction over their restricted movements about the station. There was little she could do about it; they wouldn’t be here at all but for politics beyond her control. As for the data they wanted: if they were given access to much more, they might begin to suspect how they were being misled.
Frowning, Thalia shook her head. She hated this; she was supposed to be a scientist, not a diplomat — or professional liar. But she had to draw the line somewhere.
And as for the Tandeskoes, her patience had long since given out. She scarcely understood why they’d even been allowed status here. Relations between the Auricle Alliance and the Tandesko Triune were deteriorating, almost to the point of outright hostility. The culmination of this project would hardly improve matters in that regard — which, in truth, she regretted. Certainly, she had no love for the Triune worlds, which were competing for the same regions of space as the free-marketing Auricle Alliance — nor for Triune citizens, who willingly submitted to the authoritarianism of their regime. It was a strange interspecies union, the Triune. In addition to its political insufferability, it was marred by deviant social mores: many of the Tandeskoes gave themselves over to a psychosexual bonding system that repelled her, that she couldn’t and didn’t want to understand. They claimed that their way offered a “deep-soul” spiritual experience that the “bonding-free,” as they referred to Auricle citizens, would never comprehend. Sharaane doubted the claim, and found the whole system morally questionable. In any case, she was proud of Alliance leadership in galactic exploration and had no intention of seeing it eroded by a group of political and social fanatics. On the other hand, she had no desire to be the cause of an interstellar incident.
The memo. You can’t just ignore the memo.
She sighed and punched the call-code for the chief Tandesko representative. There was a short delay before the narrow-faced, bony countenance of the man appeared in her screen. He was wearing a high-collared shirt bearing a three-pointed starburst emblem on his shoulder. His gaze was sharp, his eyebrows perpetually arched. He was a Tandeskotalisan, a so-called “wielder of communication and understanding” — and among his own people, he actually appeared to carry out that role. How, was beyond her. Granted that they were in adversarial roles, she could still scarcely ever see eye to eye with him. “Greetings, Talis,” she said wearily.
“Dr. Sharaane. Madame Director — you have received my request?” the Tandesko asked.
“I have. I’m afraid I must deny it,” Thalia said. “I want you to know that there is no personal animus toward your team.”
The Tandesko’s gaze did not soften. “May I ask for an explanation, in view of the joint worlds agreement that both of our governments are committed to …”
She let him run on for a few moments. Explanation? What did he think? The Tandeskoes were demanding access to primary instrumentation in the station’s control room — a ridiculous demand, in view of the directive to visiting observers: that this close-range study of Alpha Orionis was funded by the Auricle Science Council, and that while the council was pleased to share scientific data, it was unwilling to reveal proprietary technologies used in the gathering of the data. To do so in the present interstellar marketplace could jeopardize Auricle leadership in certain competitive disciplines. And that was perhaps true … as far as it went. “You know the directive as well as I do,” she said finally, when the Tandesko had run out of words.
“As you know, we consider that directive to fall short of the agreement, Dr. Sharaane.”
“I am aware of your feelings, Talis. Perhaps in a time of better political rapport, the directive could be loosened. But I have my responsibilities laid out for me by those who —”
“Really, Madame Director —” the talisan protested.
“And now, I must deny your request. I have urgent work before me. Good day, Talis,” she said sharply. And with a jerk of her finger, she broke the connection.
She glared at the screen until her temper subsided.I’m a scientist. Why am I dealing with this crap? She couldn’t help wondering if the Tandeskoes might in fact suspect the real purpose of “Starmuse.” Well, she could only guess how they would react when they learned the full truth. But that was supposed to be for Auricle policymakers to worry about, not her.
However, one thing she was worried about, in the absence of word from their missing team member, was that he might somehow have been waylaid — or turned from his intention to rejoin the project. Was it possible that Tandesko mischief was to blame? Or interference from one of the dozens of other splinter groups that might have learned of the project? She doubted it; he had only barely agreed to be present at all, to come out of his self-imposed exile. She had not given up hope; but in the meantime, she had to be ready with alternative plans.
Turning, she punched up station security and spoke to the console. “Memo from the Director to Security Chief: It may become necessary to isolate all guest-observers until the culmination of Breakstar. I would prefer to avoid this, for obvious political considerations. However, I want special attention paid to any breaches or attempted breaches of visitor restrictions. Please report to me soonest on your current appraisal of security. End memo.”
At last, she turned back to the science that was awaiting her. She was coordinating one of the most difficult and ambitious projects in human history. Decisions had to be made, whether she had everyone here to help her or not.
As she summoned the latest remote-sat readings to her console, she was deeply conscious of the gigantic crimson sun swimming in the big wall-screen — the star Betelgeuse, in which she and her station floated like a speck of plankton in a vast ocean of fire. And more than ever, she was keenly aware of the swift passage of time, and of the approaching convergence that no human agency could stop now.