Chapter 7
There were times when loneliness hung so heavy in the air that it stuck a lump in her throat, the tears at the corner of her eyes upwelling from tiny springs of misery. Tonight, here by herself in Rho Lab, long after everyone else had left, Nancy knew all too well the source of her feelings.
She had been raised straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting, the tenth child in a New England family of eleven children, all girls except for John, the baby of the family. All those wonderful growing-up years, her organized mother carefully delegated tasks to each of the kids in a way that had given them a wonderful camaraderie. Despite the family’s old, New England money, a rigorous work ethic was a requirement rather than an option.
Then it had been off to Princeton to study computer science, her bachelor’s degree followed quickly by her doctorate at Carnegie Mellon University. Working with Dr. Stephenson at the Los Alamos Laboratory had been a dream come true, a dream that had grown far more wondrous once she had first been shown the Rho Ship.
How things had deteriorated in the two years since that day. Now everything had come to a head in a way that was about to force her to betray the famous Dr. Stephenson.
With the information she had discovered on his personal laptop, there could be no doubt that he would not be deputy director of the Los Alamos National Laboratory much beyond tomorrow. Despite an authorization to access Dr. Stephenson’s computer that came directly from Senator Conally, chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, she felt soiled.
What would her family think of her now?
She removed the USB memory stick, sticking it in her purse, then powered the laptop down, flipping the lid closed with a snap.
??Find anything of interest?”
Nancy jumped up with a gasp of surprise, sending the chair rolling across the floor like a runaway shopping cart in a supermarket parking lot. The lean form of Donald Stephenson stood staring at her through eyes that showed no hint of emotion. Nancy had seen eyes like those before. Shark's eyes.
Her hand fluttered to her breast. “Dr. Stephenson. You startled me.”
“Did I? Imagine my own surprise when I return to my lab to retrieve an item I forgot, only to find you in my private office, browsing through files on my personal computer.”
Nancy felt sick. The confrontation had been coming, but she had expected to do it tomorrow, during the relative comfort of the normal business day, not here in the semidarkness of the most secret facility at the Los Alamos National Laboratory, probably the most secret laboratory in the country. Rho Lab.
“Doctor Stephenson, I am sorry that you had to find me like this. I have just completed an audit of this program for the Senate Intelligence Committee, the information on your laptop completing the information I required. I will be filing my report tomorrow.”
“And may I assume that your report will not be favorable?”
The unflinching calm of the deputy director's face made Nancy more nervous with each passing moment. “I am afraid that you are correct. I would say that I am sorry, but my compassion for you died once I realized that there are large portions of the work you are doing here that are hidden from the other scientists, even from the US government. And from what I can tell, you have made considerable progress unraveling portions of the alien technology that have tremendous implications, although I do not claim to understand many of the derivations in your equations.”
“Very impressive. Of course, that is why I selected you for the program. Still, you surprise me. I doubt that there are more than a handful of physicists and mathematicians in the world who can understand many of those equations, even fewer who could have hacked their way past the encryption on my laptop.”
A thin smile crinkled the corners of Nancy's lips.
“You are not the only one who was first in your class. All that will become moot once my report is filed tomorrow.”
Dr. Stephenson stepped closer, leaning down so his face was only inches from her own, but Nancy did not flinch.
“I was not ready for this, young lady.”
He paused a moment before continuing.
“Do you know the significance of the Greek letter Rho? I chose it from an inscription in Olympos, an ancient Lycian city. It is an alphabet oracle which, loosely translated, says, ‘Your journey will proceed faster with a brief delay.’ In other words, don’t go off half-cocked, but don’t wait until the other fellow shoots you either.”
A mirthless grin spread across Dr. Stephenson’s sharp features.
“You think your report is complete, but it is not. If you will follow me, young Dr. Anatole, I will show you something that may make you reevaluate.”
Without waiting for a response, Dr. Stephenson turned and strode out of his private office in the laboratory. Curiosity aroused, Nancy followed him into the huge room where the Rho Ship rested, its cigar-shaped hull clamped between curved supports that held it elevated a full ten feet above the floor. Stephenson did not pause to look at the ship, instead continuing directly beneath it to where the ramp led upward into the doorway through its hull.
Nancy followed him into the narrow passageways that honeycombed the interior of the ship. She had been inside it often enough over the last year and a half that it should have seemed routine to walk through these alien rooms and hallways, but it didn’t. There was nothing beautiful about the ship. Everything was gray, shaped for efficiency and utility, not aesthetics, functionality trumping beauty at every twist and turn.
Dr. Stephenson stopped before a wall that blocked access to the back third of the ship. In all the years the research team had studied this ship, nobody had accessed beyond this wall. At least, that was what everyone believed.
As the deputy director’s hands pressed against it, fingers tracing out a complex set of patterns, the wall slid open.
Nancy gasped.
“Now, now, Doctor,” the deputy director's voice called out to her from within. “Do you want to make a complete and accurate report to the good senator, or don’t you?”
With a deep breath, Nancy stepped through the opening, her eyes sweeping the large room that stretched out before her. The aliens had made no attempt to group equipment in any way that made its functionality apparent, instead positioning everything so that the tubes and bundles of conduits that connected the various apparatuses optimized efficiency. Very narrow walkways led through, around, even over the various machines and instruments. Spreading her arms in wonderment, she turned back toward Dr. Stephenson.
His fist hit Nancy in the stomach so hard it sent all the air in her lungs whistling out through her teeth. She twisted into a fetal ball, her shoulder dislocating itself as she hit the floor. Try as she might, Nancy could not uncurl herself as she struggled to breathe. Dr. Stephenson strolled slowly around her prostrate form, moving in suddenly with a kick to her injured stomach that rolled her three times across the alien floor.
Nancy vomited; the pain was so great, she prayed she would lose consciousness. She could no longer focus well enough to see Dr. Stephenson’s face, although his feet were clear enough, pacing slowly back and forth before her. Once more he stopped, his foot seeming to swing toward her in slow motion, impacting her midsection harder than either of the two previous blows, sending her rolling into the wall.
The pain embraced her, squeezing so hard that her vision narrowed to a straw's-eye view, a view outlined in red. Into that narrow tunnel swam the deputy director's face peering down at her, his features lined with concern.
“My dear Dr. Anatole. Your breath is bringing a bloody froth to your lips. Now I am not a trained physician, but that can’t be good. One or more of your ribs must have punctured a lung.”
As Nancy struggled to breathe, the sound of footsteps moved away from her, ringing loudly through the floor her ear rested upon. The steps stopped for several seconds, then returned, growing in volume until she thought her eardrums would explode.
Then his face was back, leaning down very close as he took her head in his hand, twisting it up to face the dull gray ceiling. His other hand moved slowly down toward her neck, a long hypodermic syringe clutched in a three-finger grip. And within that syringe a dull, gray viscous liquid quivered with an energy all its own.
The needle pricked her neck, and Nancy surprised herself by finding the strength to scream, the sound echoing out of the ship into the darkness of the empty lab.