The Fatal Tree (9 page)

“That, my friend, is the smoking gun.”

“Gun?” wondered Gianni aloud.

“Confirmation of the scan completed yesterday – the scan conducted at
your
suggestion, I might add.”

“Confirmation,” echoed Tony. He glanced at Gianni, who looked over the paper once more and handed it back.

“Correcto-mundo,” declared Segler, tossing the page onto the heap once more. “I consider we now have preliminary verification of those initial readings – ”

“The anomaly we pointed out,” said Tony.

“Yes, verification that the background radiation differential in sector B240-22N altered significantly since close monitoring began.”

“So it would not appear to be a system glitch.”

Segler was shaking his head. “Not a glitch, not an equipment malfunction, not a mathematical abnormality – nothing like that. Something is definitely happening out there.”

“Excuse me, Dr. Segler,” said Gianni. “What does your interpretation of the data tell you is happening
out there
?” He lifted his eyebrows toward the ceiling.

“Too early to tell,” replied Segler. “What I am saying is that our baseline readings are correct and that the anomaly you brought to our attention has now been confirmed. In the immortal words of Dave downstairs, ‘It ain’t no freakin’ blip.’”

“Then our assumption is essentially correct,” concluded Tony. “The technical equipment is not responsible for the data discrepancy.”

Segler shook his head. “Nope – not unless three separate telescopes on three separate continents experienced the same technical malfunction simultaneously.”

Jason returned with a plastic tray on which were balanced three Styrofoam cups. “I put milk in all of ’em,” he said as he handed them around. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Thanks, Jaz. You can go.” The director took a sip of coffee and then shuffled through his papers once more. “Now then – where was I… ?”

Jason, hovering by the door and looking hopeful, asked, “Anything else?”

“Yes, find out from Delores when the government guys are due to arrive, and tell Miranda to get guest passes made up now so we don’t have them standing around cooling their heels in the lobby half the day.”

“No problem, chief. I’m on it.” He left, closing the door behind him.

“Okay,” said Segler, digging another scrap out of the mass of paper spread before him. “Here’s the project schedule for the next forty-eight hours. On the strength of the aforementioned numbers, I’ve bumped this up to the top of our project list and given it highest priority. Officially, it is project number JA60922.” He handed Tony the schedule. “I’ve made room for as many sessions as necessary.”

Tony glanced at the page. “How long does each pass take?”

“An observation session takes anywhere from two to ten hours – not including calibration,” Segler answered. “As you can see, we’re in the middle of the ninth session right now. I’m running three shifts to minimise downtime. Weather is not much of a consideration here, so we’re able to run flat-out most of the time.”

Tony nodded. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Sam. You seem to have covered all the bases. Who is in charge of data coordination and analysis?”

“We’re doing some, of course. The rest is being handled at Cal Tech right now, but I’ve got calls in to Rudin at Illinois–Urbana and Yeoh at UT–Austin for independent analysis and support. And this morning I put in calls to Puerto Rico, England, and Australia for backup and suggested they might want to mount their own projects. The more heads, the better.”

Tony raised his eyebrows. “Is that wise, do you think? Involving so many outsiders at this stage?”

“I’m gunning for nothing short of full corroboration from multiple independent sources,” Segler declared flatly. “We’re not messing around. Besides, if we’re right about all this, we won’t be able to keep it under wraps very much longer. There’s always the possibility that somebody else will discover it independently. And word is going to spread pretty fast once it gets out.” The director took another slug of coffee and stood. “Okay, shall we go see the Desert Rats?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” said Tony, getting to his feet.

The three men took the elevator down to a sub-basement level and emerged into a glass booth separating them from a large room crammed floor to ceiling with computer screens of every size – many linked up to form even larger panels. One continuous table formed a sort of ledge that ran around the perimeter of the room with arms poking into the centre; the surface of this ledge was stacked with keyboards and innumerable black boxes with myriad LEDs in blue, red, yellow, and green, all blinking away like Christmas.

A handmade sign taped to the glass door informed visitors that they were entering the domain of the Desert Rats: eight men and six women, the fourteen technical mavens inhabiting the moveable workstations scattered around the single, large open room.

Segler pushed through the door, and they instantly felt a tendegree drop in temperature. “Ah, nice and cool. Good for the little grey cells.”

Heads swivelled as the newcomers entered, and several of those nearest the door rose to their feet to greet the visitors. Most of those present knew Tony Clarke – by reputation, if not by sight – and several hurried over to shake his hand. “Welcome, Dr. Clarke, it is a pleasure to meet you,” said a young man with prematurely grey hair cut short except for a ponytail at the back.

“This is Dr. Leo Dvorak,” said Segler. “He is TD for the facility, and he designed the program protocols we’re following on the scans. He also acts as floor manager, foreman, and union rep.”

“Keeping the rats happy, that’s me. I’m sorry I missed you before, but is there anything you’d like me to show you?”

“Gianni cannot seem to get enough of your gear,” Tony joked.

Dvorak’s eyes lit up. “Then step right this way, Gianni.” The technical director took over and proceeded to give his visitors a quick tour of the various stations, introducing the staff, who explained briefly what they were doing. Gianni gazed with unabashed fascination at all the glowing screens with their mesmerising dance of coloured graphs and diagrams, morphing blobs, coloured interference patterns, and blinking spreadsheets; in a state of continual amazement, the priest could only shake his head and murmur, “
Benedicimi
,” under his breath.

Tony too was impressed. “What kind of power are you using?” he asked at one point.

“We’ve got two Cray Zeus-10s linked to a multinode IBM Power8+ server, and that’s just for down here,” Dvorak told him, sounding pleased as a parent of a prodigy. “You could run the entire Northern Hemisphere from this room. Let’s just say we’ve got all the muscle we need for the job.”

“The next session is due to start at eleven,” said Dr. Segler. “Are we still on schedule, Leo?”

Dvorak called over to one of his team, who answered with a number expressed as a ratio. The technical director did a quick calculation and looked at his watch. “Yeah, we should make it,” he said. “This one runs another six hours. After that we’ll recalibrate and start number ten right away. I’m looking forward to that one.”

“Why?” wondered Tony. “What is special about scan ten?”

“It’s what I call a small bore scan of sector B240-22N,” he explained. “We’ve been getting some interesting numbers from that region, and I’m anxious to see if that represents a trend. If so, that specific region may be our canary in the coal mine.” At Gianni’s puzzled expression, he explained, “Our early-warning system.”

“A moment, please,” said Gianni. “Do you suggest that the event we are investigating is not uniformly spread over the cosmic horizon?”

“Doesn’t seem to be,” replied Leo. “If the preliminary results are anything to go by, it looks pretty lumpy.”

“Um, lumpy?”

“As in exhibiting a marked asymmetrical bias – which would be coherent with a category disorder unprecedented since…” He paused. “Well, since
ever
. Nothing like this has ever been seen before – ”

“Thanks, Leo,” said Segler, interrupting. “We’ll let you get back to it.” He turned and, shepherding his visitors through the glass doors, led them to the elevators and up to his office once more. Gianni thanked him for allowing them to see the data centre and expressed the view that he still found it mind-boggling. Tony, however, wondered why the visit had been curtailed just when it was beginning to get interesting. “I got the feeling we were being hustled out of there,” he said. “How come, Sam?”

Segler looked up from below his brows. “Sorry about that, guys. I apologise. It’s just that Leo has a tendency to pick up the ball and run – sometimes without waiting to see which direction he should be running.”

“But if he’s right… ,” countered Tony.

“If he is right, we’ll all know it soon enough. If not, it would be best to refrain from upsetting people unnecessarily, wouldn’t you say? Anyway, there’s a long way to go before we know for sure what we’re dealing with.”

“I guess that’s what we’re here to find out,” replied Tony.

“How can we help?” said Gianni. “We put ourselves entirely at your service, Dr. Segler.”

“I appreciate that,” said the director. “There won’t be much happening here until the current session is finished. We have a few hours, so I suggest we go get some dinner and put our feet up for a while. Then we’ll come back and hit it fresh later on tonight. Have you got a room yet?”

“Not yet,” replied Tony. “I thought we’d just find a motel in Socorro.”

“Oh no,” said Segler. “You’ll do no such thing. You two will stay with me – Linda will be delighted to see you. She’s making her
carne asada
tonight and would love some company around the table. But I’m warning you – if I don’t get to sleep, then you don’t either.”

“Sleep is overrated,” Tony told him.

“Right.” Segler laughed. “Tell me that this time next week.”

B
urleigh heard the now-familiar metallic clank sounding from somewhere down the underground corridor and groaned.
It must be Wednesday
, he thought. Market day: the day when the insufferable German baker brought them food and drink he had purchased in the square.What a fool! His continual meddling made no sense, no sense at all that Burleigh could see – unless, and this was the view Burleigh doggedly maintained, the fat baker nursed an ulterior motive of an extremely subtle and devious kind. That Burleigh lacked evidence for this assertion, and indeed had never been able to discern even the faintest whiff of guile on Stiffelbeam’s part, did not matter and was not, ultimately, important. He despised the baker; no other proof was needed.

In a moment, he heard the shuffling slap of shoe leather on the damp stone outside the door, and realising he had been holding his breath in anticipation of the sound, he exhaled and slumped back against the mildewed stonework of the dungeon cell. He closed his eyes and waited for the humiliation to begin anew.

Revenge, reprisal, retaliation – these motives the earl could understand. That the baker would retaliate for the savage beating Burleigh had given him was only natural. It was, after all, exactly what Burleigh would have done in his place. The other theory, sometimes ventured by one or another of the Burley Men, was that Engelbert brought them food for the reason that he said he did: because that was what his Jesus would do. Jesus – who apparently exerted an inordinate influence over His slavish minion – had died preaching love for everyone, including one’s enemies. The love of enemies was, to Burleigh’s mind, nothing more than an open invitation to be victimised by any and all, not least those self-same enemies. Had not this Jesus been executed precisely for saying such absurdly irrational things? Far better to believe, as Burleigh did, that people only ever behaved in ways that would satisfy some basic desire, whether for power or pleasure or personal gain. Ergo, Engelbert the baker was only seeking to advance some nefarious aim of his own. Bringing food to his tormentors was only a means to an end; Burleigh allowed himself no doubt that the object of the exercise was his complete and utter destruction. That was Burleigh’s way. And that was the way of the world.

There were voices outside the cell door, followed in a moment by the click of the lock and a grating whine as the door swung open. As before, as always before, the lumbering oaf stood in the doorway, a little pause before entering. Burleigh raised his eyes to his unwanted visitor. “You again,” he intoned in German. “Always you.”

“Yes, always me,” replied Engelbert, stepping into the cell. The gaoler, who had ceased taking an interest in these visits, closed the door behind him. “I have brought some special things today. The summer sausage is now ready, and many farmers are selling it in the market. I brought one for each of you.” He swung the bag off his shoulder, opened it, and proceeded to dig around inside. As he bent to his work, the loathing Burleigh always felt in the baker’s presence rose up once more – this time it was so strong and virulent he thought he would vomit. “Your presence sickens me,” Burleigh said, his voice thick, almost strangled. “The very sight of you sickens me.”

“Perhaps it does,” agreed Engelbert affably, “but my absence would soon sicken you much more. I think so, yes.”

This produced a snicker from Tav, the only one of his men who had more than a snatch of German. Burleigh whirled on him. “You think that funny? You think that hilarious, do you?”

“No, boss,” Tav replied, suddenly solemn. “But why insult him? You want to drive him away?”

“Yeah, boss,” agreed Con. “If t’weren’t for the baker, we’d ha’ starved to death by now. The big lunk’s the only reason we’re still livin’.”

“You call this
living
?” Burleigh shouted.

“Easy, boss,” said Con, raising his hands. “Didn’t mean nuffin’ by it.”

Burleigh glared at his two henchmen so hard he thought his eyes might burst. Across the cell, Dex and Mal had risen from their rancid nests; the two said nothing, but it was clear from the looks on their faces that they shared the prevailing sentiment of their mates.

Meanwhile, Etzel pulled the sausages from his bag and began handing them round. “This one for you,” he said, passing Con an oblong muslin-wrapped bundle. “And this for you,” he said and proceeded to deliver the provisions to each man in turn.

When he got to the earl, Burleigh refused to take the proffered item. After holding it out for a time, the baker simply gave a little shrug and placed the sausage at His Lordship’s feet. “You will enjoy this later, I think.” He then turned and continued unloading the bag of food. There was bread in dense, dark hemispheres, cheese in pale, flattened globes, a few bunches of carrots and celery, small jugs of beer, knobs of butter, and handfuls of hard biscuits from the Grande Imperial’s larder. All this he stacked carefully on the folded sack and then announced, “Summer is good this year. The crops are growing. We will be having apples and pears soon, and blackberries, vegetables, and new cheese. I will bring them as soon as I can.”

“No,” Burleigh told him, stepping forward. “Do not come here again. I do not want your food… your good works. Do you hear? I do not want anything from you!”

At the sound of raised voices, the indolent turnkey shoved open the door and poked his head into the cell. “What is happening here?”

“Get out!” Burleigh screamed. “Get out, do you hear? Get out and never come back.”

The gaoler took a step into the cell. “Etzel, is all well?”

“All is well,” Engelbert assured him. “I am just leaving.”

As he stepped to the door, Tav moved to intercept him. “Pay him no mind, sir. Boss is… ah…” He fumbled for the German word. “He’s sick, see. He don’t mean what he says.”

“Tav!” shouted Burleigh. “What are you doing? How dare you apologise for me!” Burleigh surged forward. “I am your master, you dog. Shut your fat gob and get away from him!”

“Boss, it ain’t his fault. Fella’s only trying to help,” said Tav, putting up his hands and edging away.

“Ease off, boss.” Con moved to interpose himself between Burleigh and Engelbert. “Calm down. He don’t mean nuffin’ by it.”

“Calm down!” roared Burleigh. He balled his fist and swung hard at Con, striking him on the side of the head. Con took the blow and staggered backward. “You presume to tell
me
to calm down?”

Burleigh, blind with fury, bulled past Con, who tried to hold him back. The earl shook him off with another blow and reached for Tav. The gaoler, stepping in, shoved him roughly aside and, pushing Engelbert out of the cell, quickly slammed the door in Burleigh’s face. “Never come back!” shouted Burleigh in a voice of strangled rage. “You hear me? Never!”

The footsteps retreated down the corridor, and Burleigh, strength and anger spent, slumped against the door and slid to the floor. Tav bent near to help him to his feet. “Get away from me, traitor!” snarled Burleigh. “Leave me alone. All of you just leave me alone!”

Later that day he got his wish when his men, his very own Burley Men, were removed from the cell and taken to another part of the dungeon. He heard their footsteps recede down the corridor, followed by the creak and slam of a door farther on. He would not see them again.

In the days to follow, Burleigh’s unreasoning rage subsided and he had plenty of time in the solitary silence of his cell to think. He told himself that his anger was warranted. It was nothing more than a reaction against the frustration of his present situation – though, in thinking long and hard about it, he could not seem to account for this mysterious sense of unfairness that he felt. Whatever its source, it was this keenly felt sense of injustice that had triggered his outburst. He concluded that his native tolerance had reached its limit and he had lashed out.

This explanation satisfied him and allowed him to sleep at night. However, as explanations go, it proved insufficiently robust. For as the sting of the incident receded, he began to grow hungry and, though he resisted the temptation for as long as he could, need eventually overcame his resolve, and he allowed himself to eat from the allotment of food that Engelbert had provided. While he was gnawing on his bread and sausage, the notion occurred to him that injustice alone was not a sufficient cause for his anger. While his persistent feeling that he was being treated unfairly may have been a contributing factor, the provocation, the root cause of his rage, went far deeper.

Ordinarily, his thoughts were of an angry, retaliatory nature, enflamed by a seething sense of injustice at the callous unconcern exhibited by a bunch of dim-witted, officious lackeys in the service of a legal system that allowed such deplorable treatment of its detainees. This led him into a meandering meditation on the nature of fairness and why he should feel the sting of injustice so acutely in his present circumstances. After all, he was a man who had chosen to live his life outside the bounds of righteousness, beyond the commonly accepted norms of fair play, if not moral rectitude. Yet feel the lash of unfairness he did. And it hurt. Moreover, the prick of injustice produced a slow-simmering anger and a hunger for a benevolence, a pardon, a deliverance he knew in his inmost heart that he did not deserve.

Still, as often as he told himself that he had no right to expect anything but the pitiless indifference of an ultimately heartless universe, the rage and hurt he felt could not be denied. Nor was it lost on him that he, who had so often shown this same pitiless indifference to the plight of his victims, had no reasonable right to rage against it now. He did rage, however; and he did suffer the hurt.

He hurt. There was no denying that. Yet, try as he might, Burleigh could not fathom how he had acquired this gritty, unrelenting insistence that he was owed something better than what the random workings of a coldly impersonal, chance-driven universe had allotted him.