Renne wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.
They reached the main building and went inside where the world was warm again. It didn’t make any difference to Renne’s heart, which was still racing away. She had to sit heavily in the first office they came to. There was no way she could get up again, so she had to take her coat off while remaining in the seat, a simple act that made her even more out of breath. She couldn’t think how she was going to get back out to the VTOL again; the others might have to carry her.
“Doesn’t this altitude bother you?” she asked Phil Mandia.
“Takes a while to adjust,” he admitted.
Renne was beginning to realize how the local team resented her. Some big shot exec sent up to check on why the operation had crashed, looking to shift the blame onto a field team. It’s not like that, she wanted to say. But that would make her look weaker in his eyes. Office politics she could handle easily enough.
“Okay, let me start with the Director,” she said.
Jennifer Seitz was only five years out of rejuvenation. A small, trim woman with attractive green eyes and very dark skin, she wore a baggy chestnut-brown sweater that was long enough to qualify as a dress. The sleeves were rolled up, but even that didn’t stop them flapping around her thin arms. Renne decided it had to be borrowed from someone else about half a meter taller. The Director seemed irritated by the navy’s invasion of her observatory rather than intimidated or worried. Her forceful, dismissive attitude was outwardly softened by the beguilingly youthful smile that she could produce. Phil Mandia received an exasperated glance as he politely ushered her into the office; even that came over as mere petulance rather than genuine disapproval.
Renne pointed at the room’s circular window and the three big dishes outside. “Which one”—she paused, took another breath—“is pointing at Mars?”
“None of them,” Jennifer Seitz said. “The major dishes are for deep-space radio astronomy. We use one of our ancillary receivers to pick up the signal from Mars. It’s not a huge operation.”
“And are we sure it’s the Martian data which Cufflin supplied to McFoster?” Renne glanced at Phil Mandia for confirmation.
“There’s no trace of any of it left in the observatory network memory,” the navy officer said. “Cufflin loaded a tracerworm program to eliminate any record of the transmissions right after McFoster picked up the copy.”
“There must be other copies,” Renne said. “How long have you been receiving the data?”
The corner of Jennifer Seitz’s mouth produced an involuntary tic. “About twenty years.”
“Twenty! What the hell have you been doing with it?”
“We collect it for a science research association. It’s a very minor contract for us; less than one percent of our overall budget. It doesn’t even require human supervision; our RI can handle the whole process. The signals come in once a month. We receive them and store them for the association. Their project length is expected to be thirty years.” Jennifer Seitz caught the surprise in Renne’s eyes. “What, you think that’s long-term? We’re running some observations here that will take a century to complete, that’s if we’re lucky.”
“Okay, back up a moment here and take me through this slowly,” Renne said. “I didn’t even know the Commonwealth had anything on Mars. Where do these signals come from, exactly?”
“The remote science station on Arabia Terra.”
“And what sort of science goes on there?”
“Just about the full range of planetary science remote sensing: meteorological, geological—I should say areological—solar physics, radiation. It’s a long list; you name the subject and it’ll have its own set of instruments up there busy watching. They’re all over Mars, relaying their readings to Arabia Terra, which in turn sends them to us. Satellites, too. There’s four of them currently in polar orbit, though they all need replacing.”
“I never knew anyone was still interested in Mars.”
“Very few people are,” Jennifer Seitz said sardonically. “We’re talking astronomy, here, after all. Even after Dudley Bose came along, we’re not exactly the most popular profession in the Commonwealth. And there are planets in this universe a lot more interesting than Mars. However, a small collection of sensors operating over a long time can produce just as much data as a shorter, more intense study. Actually, the data is more relevant when gathered over time, more representative. We have remote stations right across the solar system collecting little chunks of data and sending them back to us and the other observatories in a steady drip. Most Earth universities or foundations tend to have some small department for each solar body. They all struggle along on minimum resources, cataloguing and analyzing their information. But the instruments they use don’t cost much by today’s standards—they’re all solid state, and either solar or geothermal powered; they last for decades. Between them they supply just enough information to keep Earth’s few remaining planetologists in business.”
“I’d like a list of them, please.”
“The association which funds the Martian station is based in London, the Lambeth Interplanetary Association, I think. God knows where they get their grants from. I mean, pure science planetology in this day and age. You’ve got to be a real science philanthropist to support that.”
“What exactly is the project which the Lambeth Interplanetary Association is paying for?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“You don’t know?” Renne said it so loudly she had to take a fast breath to refill her lungs, which made her cough. She could feel a headache growing behind her temple.
“Not my field,” Jennifer Seitz said. “Strictly speaking I’m a radio astronomer; I work with the main dishes. They’re part of the Solwide array. Our baseline is Pluto orbit, which gives us one hell of a reception capability. It’s also why we have a lot of ancillary receivers here, to keep in touch with the Solwide units that are really far out. So you see, I have not the slightest concern in dust on Mars or tidal ice fracture patterns on Europa or the geoshell superconductor currents on Charon. Now if you wanted to know about truly interesting events like big bang emission rebounds or magquasar squeals, then I can entertain you for days on the subject.”
“Is anyone here a planetologist?”
“No. All we’ve got here is two radio astronomers—that’s myself and my partner, Carrie—and four technicians to keep everything running smoothly. Well…as smoothly as something as underfunded as Solwide can be kept running. And just to add to the richness of our lives, since the Prime attack, the UFN Science Agency is actually talking about shutting us down for the duration. I’ve got to produce proposals to mothball the whole observatory. I should have shoved this whole astronomy kick into a secure memory store at my last rejuve, and come up with an interest that makes me filthy rich. I mean, who the hell’s interested in supporting people who’ll quietly dedicate several lives to help expand the general knowledge base of the human race? Not our goddamn government, that’s for sure. Now I’ve got you people jumping all over us.”
“I’m sorry about the observatory,” Renne said sharply. “But there is a war on. The Commonwealth has to prioritize.”
“Yeah, right.”
“So has the Lambeth Interplanetary Association actually seen any of the data you were receiving for them?”
“No. Mars accounts for nearly half of the remote monitoring projects in the solar system. Their timetables are measurable in years. Admittedly, thirty years is quite long for planetary science, but not exceptional.”
“What kind of sensors were transmitting from Mars? Exactly?”
Jennifer Seitz shrugged. “I checked the contract when the shit hit the fan, of course. It doesn’t tell us much. The instruments we were recording just provided a generalized overview of the Martian environment.”
“Could you have been receiving encrypted signals in with the rest of the data?”
“Sure. I don’t know what from, though.”
“Do you at least have a list of the instruments up there?”
“Yeah. But, Lieutenant, you have to understand, we didn’t place any of them on Mars. Some were already there, left over from earlier projects; the rest have been deposited over the years by the UFN Science Agency’s automated ships. We have no control over them, no supervisory role. I cannot give you an absolute guarantee what any of them actually are. Simply because we’ve been told a specific channel in the datastream carries the results of a seismic scanner, doesn’t make it that in reality. It could equally well be information on Earth’s defenses for an alien invasion fleet. There’s just no way of knowing for sure, other than going there and checking the transmission origin in person. All we are is a glorified relay node.”
Renne didn’t like getting distracted, but…“There are automated spaceships working in the solar system?”
“You didn’t know that?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Well, Lieutenant, there have to be. It’s like this. None of us in the heady world of astronomy or solar planetary science can afford to hire a CST wormhole to drop a thermometer into Saturn’s atmosphere. Instead, we swallow our pride and group together; that way we coordinate our budgets to produce instrumentation in batches. When a batch is ready, we load up one of the Science Agency’s three robot freight ships with our precious consignment of satellites and sensors, and send it on its merry eight-year tour around the solar system. Then each and every one of us selfishly prays that the damn antique doesn’t break down before it drops off our own particular package. Tip for you, Lieutenant: when you’re in the company of Earth’s astronomers don’t ever mention the 2320 placement mission. A lot of colleagues left the profession after that minor catastrophe. It takes on average fifteen years of applications, proposals, review procedures, outright begging, and signing away your firstborn to get a sensor project approved. Then all you have to do is find the funds to design and build it. There’s an awful lot of emotional and professional investment riding away in that cargo bay.”
“Yes,” Renne said defensively; her headache was now pounding away inside her skull. She was sure she’d brought a packet of tifi. It was probably in her jacket pocket, hanging up several meters away—too far for her to walk.
“Thank you, I get the picture. Yours is not an overpaid celebrity occupation.”
“Not unless your name is Bose, no.”
“So to conclude, you have no idea what you’ve been receiving from Mars for twenty years?”
Jennifer Seitz gave an apologetic smile. “That’s about it. Although I’d like to go on record as saying I’ve only been Director here for seven years, with two years absent for rejuvenation. I didn’t take the contract, and none of us were involved with it. The whole thing is run by a couple of subroutines in the RI.”
“Who did begin the contract?”
“Director Rowell was in charge when the Lambeth Association began the project. I think he moved to Berkak; he was offered a dean’s post at a new university.”
“Thank you. I’ll have him questioned.” Renne sucked down more thin air; the lack of oxygen was making her feel light-headed. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, but her thoughts were sluggish. “Tell me something. In your opinion, what could possibly be on Mars that would interest a bunch of terrorists like the Guardians?”
