“Headley” was just too perfect.
“So, Headley… did you manage to move that Air and Space Museum reject out of my bad old baby’s orbit?”
Headley nodded wearily.
Fin blinked in feigned surprise. “You mean that relic actually responded to your command?”
“Come on, Fin, GO7 isn’t
“Headley my man, when GO7 was launched,
Headley ignored the slight. In his view, Fin Ullbeck mainly got through life by projecting an attitude of smug superiority peppered with “jovial” disdain. Headley had long ago resolved to treat such insufferable behavior as a genetic malfunction—along the lines of a cleft palate or stunted arm.
“Hey, Fin. Don’t forget the big show at 1400 hours—”
“I know, I know! Just keep it to yourself, man,” said Fin, shushing him. He eyed the overhead security camera anxiously.
“Well, got to go,” Headley called over his shoulder. “Happy motoring.”
Scratching the scraggly beard that covered his double chin, Fin continued through the tunnel until he reached a second set of climate-controlled automatic doors. Beyond that barrier, an elaborate air filtration, cooling and purification system double-scrubbed the air to protect the computers from sand, plant pollen and ordinary dust. The entire facility was built over a five-foot-thick concrete foundation as near to earthquake-proof as human engineering could achieve. Insulated, soundproofed walls muted the whisper of wind on sand and the occasional howl of coyotes baying at the moon.
Beyond those doors the computer-lined Telemetry and Data Monitoring Center was staffed by a dozen scientists and technicians. All of them looked up as Fin entered the room. He smiled and flexed his pudgy fingers.
“Daddy’s here. Let’s get this show on the road!”
Flickering on walls and on desk consoles, high-definition television screens digitally projected data gathered by dozens of surveillance satellites. Generated by radar or microwave transmissions, by ultraviolet light, thermal imaging or simple photographic equipment, this data was gathered, assessed and sorted by multimillion-dollar Kray computers.
Fin tipped his baseball cap to Dr. Langer. The day supervisor scowled and turned his back.
Tossing his cap on the console, Fin flopped into a groaning office chair and spun in a half circle to face the largest and most advanced workstations in the entire complex. Every bit of data collected by Big Bird’s array of scanners could be accessed from this single station. More importantly, the ergonomic keyboard and joystick in the center console controlled PS12's propulsion system.
Cracking his knuckles, Fin emptied his pockets to create a mound of Snickers, Milky Ways, PayDays and Baby Ruths on the desk. With a keystroke, he activated the console and began to type. Minutes, then an hour, passed as Fin fed information into Big Bird’s telemetry computer. Finally, he activated the large HDTV screen above his workstation and slipped a hands-free communications unit over his head.
“This is Waystation One, Waystation One, commencing scheduled telemetry alteration for satellite P as in Peter, S as in Santa, One-Two. That’s PS12 moving in five minutes from right…. Now. Stand by to receive data stream.”
Fin flipped a switch and sent Big Bird’s coordinate changes to computers at dozens of space agencies, observatories and satellite tracking facilities all over the world.
“Data confirmed, Waystation One. Good luck,” a voice announced into Fin’s ear.
Ready now, Fin grasped the joystick and pickled the activation switch. Thousands of miles above the earth’s surface, the propulsion system aboard satellite PS12 came to life. Back on Earth, Weyland Industries technicians strained at their workstations to watch the self-styled “Master of Telemetry” in action.
Legend had it that both Microsoft Game Studios and LucasArts had courted Fin to design game systems for them, but the “Game Shark,” Fin’s nickname before he’d come to Weyland Industries, had found a new passion during his years at M.I.T.—satellite technology. In the end, the National Video Gaming League’s highest scorer ever had chosen a lower-paying position at Weyland’s TDMC because management had let him achieve an entirely new level of kicks with his joystick by driving the big satellites.
And Fin had never lost the skills he’d honed as a dedicated game player. Now, through barely perceptible movements of his hand, he skillfully inched two-and-a-half tons’ worth of orbital mass out of its current orbit and into a new one—an orbit that would take the Big Bird satellite cruising over the bottom of the world. Each subtle move of Fin’s hand was followed by minutes of gazing at the figures dancing across the tracking computer to see if the satellite needed any adjustment. Sweat beaded his forehead as Fin hunched over his console, eyes focused on the telemetry data that continually poured in. Occasionally his white-knuckled fingers twitched, gently moving the joystick to one side or another. Throughout the intense ordeal, Fin’s eyes never left the screen.
Finally, after two hours of toggling the joystick, Fin sighed and sat up, blinking his eyes as if he had just awakened from a long sleep. He stretched his arms and tilted back his chair.
“Mission accomplished,” Fin announced into the communicator. “PS12 is in its new orbit. Systems are running normally. Nothing to do now but sit around and wait.”
Fin tossed the hands-free on the desk and checked his watch. It was almost time. Fingers flying across the keyboard, he activated Big Bird’s onboard sensors. As the satellite began its assigned task of deep-mapping the Antarctic continent from orbit, Fin propped his feet up on the console, snatched a candy bar from the pile, and tore at the wrapper with his teeth. Munching chewy nougat and crunchy peanuts, Fin touched another button. A television screen near his foot came to life.
“Right on time,” said Fin with a sigh of satisfaction. On the monitor, the black-and-white credits for Universal's 1943 classic
Sixty-two minutes later—just as Bela Lugosi’s Frankenstein monster was about to square off against Lon Chaney, Jr.’s, Wolf Man in the ruins of Frankenstein’s castle—a blinking red light interrupted Fin’s much anticipated downtime. He bolted upright in his chair and switched off the television, to activate the main HDTV monitor above his console. A real-time digital image shot by Big Bird filled the big screen. Fin studied the flickering picture for nearly a minute, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.
“Oh my God,” Fin gasped at last, his legendary cool shattered. Then he whipped his head around and called over his shoulder, “Dr. Langer! Over here, quick. Take a look at this.”
“What is it?” the day supervisor demanded.
Fin’s gaze never left the screen as he replied, “It’s the data stream coming in from PS12.”
“Where is she now?”
Fin triple-checked the satellite’s navigational data before answering. “She’s right above Sector 14.”
Dr. Langer blinked. “But there isn’t anything in Sector 14.”
Fin pointed at the image on his monitor. “Well there is now.”
Over Fin Ullbeck’s shoulder, Dr. Langer saw a series of interlocking square shapes—perfectly symmetrical and, if PS12’s sensors were correct, very large. Too large to have formed naturally.
“What are we looking at?” Langer asked.
“Thermal imaging,” Fin replied immediately. “Some kind of geologic activity tripped the heat-sensitive sensors, which activated the cameras. Then Big Bird’s computers alerted me.”
Dr. Langer studied the image. The shapes mimicked precisely the look of man-made structures as seen from high earth orbit. But that, of course, was impossible. Nothing existed in Sector 14, unless you counted polar bears and penguins. So if those interlocking shapes really were structures, then they were built a long, long time ago— which made this the most important archaeological discovery of the twenty-first century, perhaps of all time.
“Wake them up,” said Dr. Langer.
Fin reached for the phone, then paused. “Who?”
“Everybody…”
As he spoke, Dr. Langer’s eyes never left the screen.
