Illusions of Control

Alright, this is the first chapter of a story i've been working on for sometime. I've rewritten its everal times (having gone through 30,000 words of writing in the process) and I started it out in a way i really liked. My questions for comments is what works, what doesn't. What questions does this raise that should be answered in this chapter, versus later chapters. What drags and what is good? etc etc etc.
- Colton


Chapter 1
“During the latter half of the Third Age of Discovery, the Dominion was faced by a more daunting prospect. The fact of how to more rapidly cover exploration of the galaxy. Numerous planners had debated the merits of manned expeditions to the star systems of the Galaxy. While the presence of numerous habitable worlds was know, the actual on-sight conditions eluded them. Finally during a joint venture between the Academy of Technology and the Hunters Society. The Academy obtained permission of the Emperor himself to construct a primitive self-replicating AI, a technology long forbidden. The AI would launch itself through its own low powered spacewarp drive to the nearest known inhabited world. There it would firstly find a nearby rocky body and replicate itself twice. Then it would insert itself into the planetary atmosphere taking care to avoid detection and monitor the inhabitants below. The Academy was especially cautious to install numerous failsafes to keep control over the AI. The project was a complete success and within 10,000 cycles, the entre galaxy had been mapped with numerous thousands of observing drones watching every planet.” – A History of the Four Ages of Discovery.

June 26th, 2157, 0750 GMT
SETI2 Control Room, Armstrong Moon Base
The SETI 2 project had been set up over three decades previously on the far side of the moon. An assortment of telescopes dotted the area, covering several square miles. Much like its now long-dead predecessor, it was being used to scan the heavens for the sign that so many had wondered about, and none had found. It no longer thrived off of government grants, but the donations of the wealthy and the eccentric back planetside.
The array consisted of over 140 satellites, joined together at a central processing hub that then transmitted the data to the other side of the moon at the Armstrong military base. The telescopes switched every few minutes from location to location, searching the heavens for radio signals of an extra terrestrial origin.
Rafael Kilgore sat at the monitoring station letting another long night go past. It wasn’t night in the sense of night back on Earth however. Being on the near side of the moon generally left them in an odd arrangement where it was similar night with only the Earth in the sky, and periods when it was more like day when the sun was out as well. The station was setup to change the lighting on a 12 hour schedule to simulate the planetside conditions.
The whole process was automated. Scientists back on Earth had selected a wide range of candidate starts to look at that were fed into the computers managing the satellites. A list was then compiled and the satellites went down the list looking at each target. Rafael’s actual job was incredibly laid back. Make it didn’t break. If it did break, tell the appropriate person. He passed his time watching reruns on the holovids, eating microwaves pizza, and sleeping
Raphael popped his neck when the show went to commercial. The computer wallscreen up against the wall showed that the current location was currently completed. The new right ascension and declination showed up on the screen. On the other side of the Moon the satellites began moving, looking towards yet another star.
As the show came back on, Rafael heard an odd noise in the background. It was curious noise, one that he had never heard in this capacity, one that he had never expected to hear, yet there it was. He threw the pizza off his lap, and it splattered drifted across the room splattering into the wall. Taking advantage of the low gravity he bounced over several piles of junk and several desks to the phoneline.

June 26th, 2157, 1620 Local Time
The Office of Colonel Jonathon Quincy Newton, ICOM, Bejing, China
It had been forty years to the day since Katzenmeir had died. Now the old bear just lived on in the memories of everyone on the planet. Jonathaon Quincy Newton allowed himself a small smile. If only his old mentor could see him now. Katzenmeir had been a strong believer in the space program, having singularly breathed life back into the then-extinct agency, accelerating man to other bodies into the solar system, to bases on the moon, and harvesting projects on the many asteroids. But he only had dreamed of this. Katzenmeir turned back to his adjutant. Roaxanna Huxley was gazing at him curiously, seemingly reading his nostalgic thoughts.
He paced back and forth in his office, twiddling an herbal between his fingers. He stopped and looked back at her. “So Huxley, what specifics do we have on this signal?”
Roxanna brought the dataslate back up to her eyes and scanned it through quickly again, then looked Newton eye to eye. “The signal was picked up by the SETI2 project at approximately 0750. We managed to get an information blackout into an effect on it but it’s doubtful we can keep the canting from getting out. Current results show the signal is operatin’ at a frequency of 4.46 gigahertz.”
Newton smiled smugly. It seemed almost like a fairy tale come true. He motioned for Roxanna to go on. “Current coordinates are from an R.A. of 19 hours, 22 minutes, and 22 seconds. The dec is from negative 27 degrees, 3 minutes, with a slight margin of error on that, that is currently being hammered out into something more refined.” Roxanna stated, again looking at the dataslate to gain certainty in her repetition. “Currently we have over a dozen other major installations confirming this reading. I’ll go square with that, soon enough.”
Newton lit the herbal cigarette and took a long drawn out smoke. The flavor on these things had vastly improved since they were first manufactured. Another thing he had to thank Katzenmeir for. “Warrant Huxley, I don’t suppose you give copious measures of cognizance to astronomy or to physics?”
Huxley shook her head, and then looked to Newton to expound on this wisdom. He obliged and continued, “This is definitely worth looking at and worth scrutinizing for one lucid reason. The first? The wavelength. That wavelength of being broadcast is equal to the wavelength that hydrogen broadcasts at, multiplied by the irrational number pi. This is important as because pi is not harmonic. It cannot be unpretentiously created by any sort of star or stellar object.” Newton continued, gazing out of the window of his 78th story office.
Roxanna stood immobile listening to the General’s musings, maintaining an outward expression on non-emotion, while internally not understanding a word that Newton had just explained. It sounded like a bunch of sci-fi hogwash to her, but she didn’t say as much. She knew that her superior officer liked science-fiction, liked astronomy, and didn’t like people mocking it.
Newton thought a moment and then turned towards Roxanna again. The herbal hung firmly in his mouth and the ember of the end glowed brightly. Roxanna knew that Newton didn’t smoke very often, only when he was thinking deeply about something. He’d already had one lung replacement, and because of that only smoked when he became anxious. After a moment longer he spoke again, “Enlighten the rest of MCOM, as well as Sec-Gen. I think that Salieri may want to know about this.”
“What do we do in the meantime, sir? Roxanna asked, looking at Newton with a genuine quizzical look, hoping for some non-arcane instructions.
“Now? Now we try to figure out what this signal means. Signals don’t just show up as azoic objects. It has meaning, it has illumination. And I would very much like to figure out what said illumination means. Concurrently, I need to think. I suggest you talk to Mossadegh and Singh and get their input on the situation,” Newton finished as he walked over to his window and looked out over the city. Roxanna saluted and walked out of the room. Newton sighed as he inhaled deeply again. It seemed people in the military these days had no thoughts or hobbies except military. Another thing he missed about Katzenmeir’s command.
Meanwhile, Roxanna had left to go find her other colleagues. Zamani Mossadeph and Saranya Singh were other adjutants to Newton. All three of them operated as the generals ears and eyes, letting him know everything that was going on in the world. As Roxanna entered the room, Zamani was currently listening to music through his earpiece. While not extremely loud, Roxanna could still hear it was a newer band, probably Rapture. Saranya was looking down at her left hand, currently formed into the L-shape needed for palm-pcs to activate. She seemed to be reading the news while sipping some vile drink or another.
Roxanna waited for the strings section to finish on Zamani’s headset before making a cut-off gesture to him. He quickly got the hint and the music quieted. Saranya folded her hands as the pc deactivated. “What did the good general have to say?” Zamani askedm looking at the foul smelling drink Saranya was drinking. His Persian accent was soft and smooth with the air of someone who was well educated.
“He spoke some arcane mumbo-jumbo about gigahertz and irrationality. I won’t bother you with the details, but he said it’s most likely the real deal. Unfortunately the only thing we can do right now is wait. He said if it was real, there would be something inside it. A message of some sort.” Roxanna started saying, leaning against the wall.
“Have you ever tried mugging up anything, yaar? Remember who Newton worked for. Katzenmeir was a man from another age. Newton may not think he shows anything, but he misses those times. A time when military actually studied things beyond war. He was referring to artificial signals along a spectrum not known to exist naturally. Likewise, he was referring to one message sent along one specific wavelength, not an actual signal or some obscure thing.” Saranya stated while sipping from the drink.
There was an awkward silence for several seconds while Roxanna looked at Saranya, Saranya gazed absent-mindedly into the cup, and Zamani sat, simply with his eyebrows raised. After a few seconds, Roxanna laughed at Saranya. “You’re asking for a belter if you don’t shut your mouth. The point is that’s what we’re doing now. Waiting for more information. I suspect he’ll have you running your own analysis very soon. In fact, you can probably get it now.” Saranya nodded, and opened her fingers back up. The pc flickered to life and she began writing onto it, gaining the authorizations for the data. She continued thumbing through the data and occasionally sipped from the drink. Meanwhile Roxanna walked over and sat nex to Zami, who was staring off into space. As she sat down next to him, he then looked directly at her. “I suppose things won’t be the same from here on out?”
She sat pack and the sound of her back popping filled the air before she answered. “It certainly seems that way, doesn’t it? While I’m not as much of a Tam as some people, “she said, glancing in Saranya’s direction, “I’m still trying to turn my hand to this.”
Zamani smiled and looked at her, “And what have you found out so far?”
“Well, what purpose is there in sending a signal? Are they checking to see if anyone is home, or are they actually looking for a response? Why is it coming now? And what is inside it?” she stated while leaning back in her chair with her arms behind her head. Her sing-song twang method of speaking, coupled with a life associated with lower-class Cockney folk left her with an pleasant sound when speaking.
“Well, it seems that whatever this signal is, it’s strong enough that it hasn’t traveled very far. If it’s capable of getting here as strong as it seems to be, the transmitter must be relatively close. I think it’s the former. Someone to check if we’re home,” Zamani mused while leaning back in his chair.
Saranya took another sip of the drink, and Roxanna made an ugly face in defense. “How do we know it’s not a universal declaration of war? We want your planet, so here we come!”
Zamani laughed and leaned forward getting closer to Roxanna. “Listen to you Rox, you sound like some fictional paranoid maniac. I doubt that any intelligent race will travel several light years to punch us in the face and take our things.”
“Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. I suppose we’ll both find out rather soon then, won’t we?” Roxanna said while leaning forward towards Zamani as well.
Saranya glanced up over her pc and eyeballed the two of them. No one would have ever figured that the Iranian born Zamani and the Welsh Roxanna would ever be as close friends as they were now. The air was becoming thick with romantic tension and while Roxanna seemed oblivious, it was still beginning to become nauseas. She fidgeted with her black hair vampire fangs, and then spoke up finally, “Oof, kindly get one room you two! I’m going back to my office.” Saranya picked up her cup and sauntered out of the breakroom. Zamani and Roxanna watched her leave, and then turned back to each other.
“I honestly have no idea what she’s referring to,” Roxanna stated as she stood up. She patted Zamani on the shoulder as he looked up at her. “I’ve got to go report to numerous other generals and whats-its. The General wanted me to inform you guys. Anyway, see you around,” she finished while Zamani bowed his head in agreement.
Zamani watched her leave. Roxanna was known throughout the area was being incredibly flirtatious, while remaining professional. She always had that glint in her eye that she was looking for a little more fun, and that she was looking for action. She was incredibly attractive and had a well defined body, whose curves were still obvious through the long military coat she wore. Her hair, zebra striped as always stayed in the bun on her head. Zamani sighed as she left. No chance. He stood no chance getting a girl like that. Turning back on the music to the previous piece, he sighed as he listened. The strings section finished their solo and the lead guitar and the drums started back on, while he continued day dreaming of things he perceived as ideas that could never be.

Resources for Writers

Hey all, I know Jesse and Landon know me, but I'm afraid that is the extent of who knows me. I'm a geology major like Landon, and I enjoy writing in my offtime. Off and on, I'll be submitting writings from a novel I just started writing (technically, I've been writing for a while, but this draft is the newest version), and am looking for feedback. What works, what doesn't work, etc.

In the mean time, here is a great resource for writing
http://www.writingexcuses.com

It's a podcast for writers from several Provo natives, who are reasonably well known in the writing world. I've found it quite useful.

Username and Password

Original screenplay by Carson Tietjen

Int. Computer Lab. Day
Matthew Connelly is sitting at a computer HUNCHED over staring deep into the monitor. He has a hoody on and headphones from his mp3 player. He looks over a Word document and moves the mouse to scroll up and down. Someone sits next to him at another computer.
Matthew turns his head to see a brunette sitting down at the computer next to him. She is decked out in full fall outfit including scarf and petticoat. Autumn girl removes a leaf that has been stuck to her scarf.

Matthew
Hey.
Autumn
Hello.
She sets her book bag down, removes a pen from behind her ear and sets it down, puts her phone next to the keyboard, sets her Ipod down, takes her scarf off and bundles it next to her bag, and sets a water bottle on the desk next to the computer.
She reaches in her book bag and removes a jump drive. As she does so, she catches Matthew from the corner of her eye. She smiles real big and bites her lip. Clearly interested and happy with her luck of sitting next to Matthew.
Matthew glances at her and Autumn looks away in a inconspicuous/conspicuous manner. Matthew rubs under his eye and returns his face returns to his own computer monitor.
Autumn stifles a laugh and sneaks several peaks at Matthew. She opens her email and begins typing a message. “…boy next to me is so HOTT!!!...”
Autumn can't stop staring at the boy until it draws Matthew’s attention once more and she resumes an INNOCENT and oblivious facial expression. Matthew glances at her screen to see what she has written. Casually Autumn reaches up and turns the monitor away from Matthew. He removes his headphones and openly glares at her as if to say Are you kidding me? Autumn does not react. She merely twirls her hair with one finger. Matthew eventually resumes his homework.
Autumn grabs her phone, and, holding it down to not be noticed, takes a picture of Matthew. The phone makes a SHUTTER sound effect that draws Matthew’s attention once more. He removes his headphones and waits for Autumn to see him, but she is busy writing a text message on her phone. She sends “pic” to her email address autumn_girl_32@gmail.com.
Matthew leans forward and trys to catch another glimpse of Autumn’s computer monitor. This time she sits back in offense and stares at Matthew. He looks shocked that she is acting so innocent. Autumn points at his computer monitor and shoos him away.
Once Matthew isn’t looking anymore Autumn gets a sneaky smile on her face. She stares at Matthew a moment longer.
A message pops up on the screen: “1 New Email Message in Your Inbox”. She opens it and it’s the picture of Matthew she texted to her own email. She proceeds to forward it to her friends.
Matthew once again glances at the monitor and Autumn downsizes the window to reveal a word document. Matthew shakes his head in disbelief. Something is going on and he wants to know.
Autumn hits the print button. She stands up and walks to the printer leaving her items behind. Once she is across the room Matthew leans over and opens the email window on her computer to find out what she has been up to but to his dismay Autumn has signed out of her email. He looks at her as she walks to the printer. Autumn turns and smiles at him and shakes her head mouthing the words “ah ah AHH!” .
At this point Matthew is getting fed up. An idea pops in his head. Matthew straightens himself in his seat and checks his surroundings. His head turns from one side to the other and then it comes back to the computer. He checks for Autumn who is now standing at the printer waiting.
Matthew JUMPS up and grabs the two keyboards in front of himself, swapping his keyboard for hers. He does the same with the mouse so that he has the controls to her computer and her spot has his keyboard. Matthew grabs an out of order paper from the computer next to himself and places behind Autumn’s monitor.
By now Autumn is already on her way back with several papers in her hands. Matthew acts casually as she sits back down. He can’t help but reveal a smile but then quickly wipes it off his face. Autumn is now WARY but after searching her surroundings she returns to her computer.
Autumn sits and reaches for her mouse. At first her mouse doesn’t react but she shakes it back and forth and it begins to respond. As she does Matthew, unnoticed, follows her every movement with his mouse. Autumn types her username into the computer. The letters appear slower than she types them. She does not notice but Matthew is mimicking her every movement.
Matthew turns his monitor away from Autumn as the username appears that Autumn unknowingly just typed into the wrong keyboard making them display on Matthews computer. He smiles and continues to imitate her movements.
Next she types in her password and on her monitor it appears blanked out, but on the real monitor to Matthews right, the words are plain. Her password is cinniminstix27. Autumn hits enter but nothing happens. She continues to do so several times. Autumn is suddenly frustrated and stares at Matthew as if he is the culprit. Matthew acts casual.
Matthew
Hmm, must have froze. Oh wait see this?
Matthew pulls out the out of order paper from behind the monitor.
Matthew
Computer must have problems.
Autumn glares at him and then moves one computer away. Matthew casually opens the email account on his left using Autumn's username and password. He opens her sent mail and reads the messages about himself “…boy next to me is so hott!!!” Matthew smiles and closes the email.
Matthew closes the window, logs out, grabs his backpack, and walks away.
Autumn remains behind still figuring Matthew is up to something. By now she has successfully logged onto her email once more. On her screen a new email appears in her inbox. She opens it and it has a 7 digit number. Autumn slowly punches it into her phone. Across the library she sees Matthew answer.
Matthew
Hello?
Autumn (with a big grin)
Hey.
The end.

You win some, you lose some...

This is a submission for my Isaiah class. It is four and a quarter pages long. It was written in one sitting and was reviewed only once. I'm interested in hearing impressions about voice and how to develop character by situation, what they notice and think, as well as dialog. Tschuess!

God with us.
I was on the city wall when Rabshakeh the traitor spoke to the servants of the king. “What makes you think you can rebell against the king of Assyria? Do you think Egypt will save you? The pharaoh is a broken reed, and if you lean upon him you'll only cut yourselves on him. Or do you think you can depend on Jehovah, whose altars Hezekiah has torn down in favor of his temple in Jerusalem?” Rabshakeh turned up toward the wall and away from the king's servants and pointed right toward me and my fellows on the wall. “If there were even two thousand men in this city, we'd give you horses for them to ride just to make things more interesting! So how can you stand here and tell me that you intend to stand ten minutes against my master, mighty Sennacherib?” Then he and his entourage began laughing.

I shifted my spear back and forth uncomfortably. Everything he had said was true. I looked down the wall, noting that about one in every three spots lay empty. We wouldn't last even five minutes if the army which took Lachish marched on Jerusalem. Too many people had left the city for the countryside, hoping to escape the brunt of Assyrian anger. Why had the king thought to anger the Assyrians? Now we were doomed to their wrath. I spat angrily. The soldier to my left looked at me in surprise but all eyes were quickly back on Rabshakeh as he shouted again at the city walls.
“Besides, do you really think that Jehovah would have let us take every walled city in the country if we weren't sent by him? No, no, Jehovah sent a message by his prophets to Sennacherib, saying, 'Go up against Judah, and destroy it,' and we have faithfully fulfilled his command!”
The master of the king's house stepped closer to Rabshakeh and hissed something, but Rabshakeh interrupted him by shouting, “The better question is, why shouldn't I speak in Hebrew? My master has sent me to tell those men on the walls that they have a choice, either to eat and drink their own wastes with you while you rot inside your fortress, or to surrender and inherit a fertile land where every man can eat from his own vine.” He turned directly to us again and shouted, “It's entirely up to you to believe whether or not Hezekiah, who has taken away all the altars of Jehovah, can really suggest that now he has your god's approval against an army that so clearly has been successful. But if I were you, I wouldn't stick around to see what we do to this city.” And with that, he and his servants turned and left. The master of the king's house rent his robe and stalked off through the gate.
I took off my helmet and tossed it against the parapet and sat down with my knees holding up my chin. The soldier who noticed me before picked my helmet up, dusted it off, and set it on the wall above my head. He and I remained in silence for some time while murmuring went up and down the line of soldiers. Then all was quiet, deadeningly so. Finally, the soldier turned to me and said, “You don't have to worry, you know.”
I scrunched up my face and looked at him from under my eyebrows. “You must be an idiot,” I said. “The Assyrians destroyed Lachish and now they'll come up out of their camp and they will flay us alive on a moment's notice. It's all because that fool king of ours decided to play games with the enemies of the greatest kingdom on earth, and expected someone in Egypt to care about us. We've already given those beasts down there everything valuable in the whole city, and now you're telling me I've got nothing to worry about.” I spat again. “That's what I think about Hezekiah and his blasted temple.”
The soldier raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything else for some time. I let him keep watch for the both of us. He nudged me with his foot when he saw the captain of the guard walking up. I jumped to my feet, spear in hand, but the captain was so preoccupied he looked as if he were going to be sick all over the wall that I doubt he would have noticed me if I had been sleeping all across the walkway. Now that I was up, though, I looked out at the huge army that waited a little less than a mile away, down the hill, for our only option: surrender.
My neighbor noticed where I was staring and the sour look on my face and stroked his silvering beard. I caught him looking at me from the corner of my eye and turned sharply to face him. “What do you want?” I snapped. He stopped pulling his beard and shook his head.
“Do you pray much?” he asked, seemingly not having heard me at all.
“I used to at home until some soldiers came and tore down our altar and cut down our grove. Oh yeah, I have the king to thank for that, too,” I snarled, and turned away, intending to ignore him.
“I just thought in absence of anything else constructive to do, we might try it,” he said calmly.
“Do whatever you want, just don't do it aloud or I'll break your jaw,” I mumbled through my arm as I rested my head on the parapet.
My neighbor said nothing. The only thing I could hear was the sound of insects basking in the heat of the valley below before the light faded completely. A boy, whom I also ignored, walked along the parapet distributing torches. My neighbor took one and jammed it into a crack in the wall and lit it with some flint. Then we both looked out at the Assyrians in the distance. Finally, just as the sun disappeared from view, he said, “You know, this isn't the first time Jerusalem's been besieged. We'll be all right, just like we always are when we're trusting in the Lord.”
I could tell this was one of Hezekiah's men, and a religious fanatic no less, so I just spat and tried to ignore him since he wasn't going to talk to me like a rational person. He went on as if he hadn't noticed. “You know, I once saw the prophet Isaiah ben Amoz deliver a message to King Ahaz about the Israelite and Syrian war years before it began.” Since I was ignoring him, I didn't try to stop him. He unfortunately took my silence for permission to continue, which he did at some length as he leaned on the parapet.
“Ahaz had been playing politics himself and had got the nation stuck in a position where he was depending on Assyria to come to his aid. It looked like the only option was going to be a war like this one against both Syria and the Israelites. But what Ahaz didn't remember was that Jehovah had for generations warned Israel that if it didn't shape up, it would be captured and taken away.”
“Thanks for that cheery thought,” I mumbled under my breath. My neighbor didn't seem to mind.
“Isaiah risked his life to go up to the palace and talk to Ahaz, but Ahaz listened to what he had to say. When Isaiah told him that Jehovah would destroy Israel and Syria and told Ahaz not to fear, Ahaz's eyebrows raised almost off of his face. He stroked his beard and said it was good, figuring it would be easier to unite the kingdom if he had the option of calling on a holy man of Jehovah to rally the people. But then Isaiah told him that Jehovah invited Ahaz to ask a sign to prove what he had said was true. Ahaz laughed and said, 'I'll do no such thing!' Isaiah told him that he was wasting both his and God's time, and then went on to prophesy that Israel and Syria would be utterly humbled before a newborn child named Immanuel would know good from evil. As it turns out, that was true, and before the child could grow up, Israel and Syria were gone.”
My impatience bubbled to the surface. “Again, buddy, thanks for the pleasant reminder about destroying countries. It warms me all over inside to think that Jehovah went ahead and explained to Ahaz how well Assyria was going to smash Syria and Israel, since that's what's going to happen to us in the morning. The best thing we could do now is give up before they grind us into bits under their feet.” The words were bitter in my mouth, and I regretted saying them. God had given my family's land to my us almost a dozen generations ago. My forefathers as far back as I could count were buried there, and here we were, probably going to be killed, at best sent to who knows where while someone else tills my land and walks all over the graves of my fathers. I moved a bit further down the wall from him.
My neighbor seemed unperturbed, which was perhaps more evidence of his mental instability. “Well,” he said, “as it turns out Jehovah has said that Judah will not be destroyed at this time. In fact, that same Isaiah prophesied about what's going on now at least fifteen years ago, but the Assyrians won't take Jerusalem. Here on top of these walls, we're pretty safe.”
“Listen, I don't have time for rumors about soothsayers. I've only got a few hours till morning when I've got to figure out how to say, 'I'll do whatever you want, just don't kill me,' in Assyrian. So if you don't mind, I'm going to enjoy my last twilight before I die a slow, agonizing death.”
I looked down the wall in the last rays of the day at the ground a few dozen feet below. Just a headlong jump was all it would take and then the Assyrians couldn't take me alive. If they came up to the walls, would I jump? I didn't hear my neighbor sneak up next to me, so when he spoke I was startled a bit and lost my balance. He grabbed the back of my robe so I wouldn't fall as he continued. “When Isaiah prophesied about that child, he wasn't just guessing. Israel and Syria are gone, just like he said, and Assyria will be to. Just watch.”
A whisper was moving down the wall in the dark. The soldier on my right, who was a full space away and somehow ignored everything the soldier on my left had been spouting, now turned to us and said, “The word of Isaiah ben Amoz, prophet of Jehovah, is this: 'Thus saith Jehovah: Be not afraid of the words that thou hast heard, wherewith the servants of the king of Assyria have blasphemed me. Behold, I will send a blast upon him, and he shall hear a rumor, and return to his own land; and I will cause him to fall by the sword in his own land.' Pass it down.” I ignored him, but my neighbor clapped his hands passed it on down, word for word.
The night began to drag on. The fires at the temple were still burning, and the word along the line was that the king himself was joining the people in sacrifices, singing psalms and announcing that the Ethiopian king was approaching from the south, and that Sennacherib's army would not stay to fight him. The implication was that they would also leave Jerusalem alone.
I didn't want to, but I began to hope a little that the prophet was right. My old grandfather used to worship only Jehovah and would tell stories about how once a year Israelites and Jews would go together to Jerusalem and offer sacrifices to Jehovah in peace. Of course then there was Moses and Joshua, and if the stories were true, Jehovah had protected them and given them all sorts of miracles. Then there were the judges, and David. And though my father and mother had never believed those stories, preferring the gods that Ahaz worshiped, I couldn't help but wonder if there was a God who could do all that, why shouldn't we always worship him?
We all sat in silence under the night sky. Over in the camp of the Assyrians, hundreds of fires were burning. There were probably more campfires than there were Jewish soldiers on the wall. I started shaking, more from cold than horror. The fear was what was keeping me awake, however. My neighbor came up beside me, looking up at the night sky. “It's funny,” he began, “one set of lights in front of us threatens destruction, but there are so many more above us that are singing in harmony about the power of Jehovah, who made them. You know, that prophecy about Immanuel didn't just refer to saving us from Syria and Samaria. Immanuel means, 'God with us,' and it refers to other anointed ones who will save us in our times of need. Jehovah will spare us because he loves us, each of us, and we are his covenant people. The king is in the temple praying right now. Isaiah has been right before, and I know he's right now. Jehovah will send Sennacherib back to Assyria, just as he's promised.” I nodded and leaning on the wall I rested my head on my hands. My neighbor left me alone with my thoughts.
After considering my family outside the city, hopefully still safe and hidden, I decided a little prayer to Jehovah might be worth it. What could it hurt, anyway? “I don't know thy name well,” I began, mumbling so that only I could hear, “and I don't really know what thou desirest of me. I'm about to die, though, and I thought that since I—I don't have any real reasons not to ask for thy help. So here it goes. We can't defeat this army, not now, not ever. But if thou art the one who parted the sea for Moses and knocked down the walls of Jericho for Joshua, hey, this is a piece of cake. So I'm begging thee, send the Assyrians home so that my family can live! I'll find out what thou desirest from me if thou wilt do this thing, and I promise that I will do whatever thou askest, and will worship no other. Just watch over my family, please!”
It was anything but an eloquent prayer, but I felt like it was at least accurate, and I was sincere. I immediately felt a kind of calm wash over me, and I smiled. I looked out at the Assyrian camp and thought of Isaiah's words. God would send a blast and a rumor. I didn't really know what that was supposed to mean, but maybe Sennacherib would just change his mind and take off. I tried to imagine that view of twinkling campfires gone, with just the night to replace it. Whispering on the wind, I heard a psalm that my grandfather used to sing when he was working, or when the insects had eaten the corn:
“Save me, O God; for the waters are come into my soul. They that hate me without a cause are more than the hairs of my head! But God will save Zion, and will build the cities of Judah: that they may dwell there, and have it in possession. The seed also of his servants shall inherit it: and they that love his name shall dwell therein...”
I think I fell asleep there on the wall, because I don't remember much else that night. My neighbor watched out for me and made sure I didn't get in trouble with the captain. The next thing I remember was the sound of shouting in the valley. I woke up in the pre-dawn light to the song of birds. My neighbor, grim-faced, stood still, looking out at the Assyrian camp. The morning was calm and peaceful, as opposite to the oppressive and dark feeling of the night before. I marveled at the change. Suddenly, a whole lot of noise started coming from the Assyrian camp. Everyone on the wall got nervous, restrung their bows and adjusted their armor, until it became clear that the Assyrians weren't coming toward us. They were going north, back up the valley. Most of us couldn't believe our eyes, but my neighbor didn't seem to be surprised a bit. He just smiled and said nothing.
We later found out that more than one hundred thousand Assyrian soldiers had died during the night due to an unknown disease, and had retreated. We were dispatched from the city out to the south and had the unpleasant duty of burning the bodies. I did find a good few pieces of gold, though, and a pair of Assyrian steel swords, so I'd say it was definitely worth the awful smell. Within a few days, we were released to go back to our families. I finally asked him his name when I ran into him on the way back to Jerusalem. “Shear-jashub,” he said. “I know it's unusual, but my father insisted.”
I shrugged. “It could be worse. It could be even longer.” He nodded and smiled lopsidedly. “Listen, how did you know all those things about Immanuel?” I asked.
“Well, like I said, I was there. I saw the whole thing. It left a deep impression on me, and I wondered why it was that the Lord had wanted me to be there, so I've pondered it and I've prayed about it for years. I don't know if I've come to a very conclusive answer, but I do know that I've learned more about the Lord thinking about it that I would have just reading someone else's writings, though that's nice too.”
“You can read?” I asked.
He smiled. “Sure. And if you bring your family to visit some time, maybe I can teach you. Just ask for me, I'm the only Shear-jashub in the city.” I chuckled and embraced my new friend before heading out on the road home. My wife and our two young sons would be there, but we would have a lot of work to do. If by the will of God our crops were still alive, we might make it through this harvest. Then, during the winter, I would go to Jerusalem and offer up a lamb at the temple. Maybe I would send my youngest son to Shear-jashub to learn how to read and come back and tell me more about prophecies and Jehovah. There were prophets out where I lived, too. I would invite one to come and eat with us and teach us the law. But first things first: I would remember to thank Jehovah for saving my family and me each morning and each evening. And I would remember how it felt, up there on the wall in the dark night, when he comforted me.

Prologue . . . hopefully

U.E.S. Indiana Jones
201.-11

Sometimes, Santiago wished his brain would just shut up.

He’d been right in the middle of the perfect date—dreaming, of course; but hey, who didn’t?—a night of high stakes gambling in Las Vegas with a gorgeous blond Venutian—the new type being grown in the black market crèche pools on the Paradise World for the big timers down Earthside: mouthwatering blonde; dark skin that was the perfect blend of oriental, African, and Latina, smoothed out with some anglo genes; eyes the color of amber, or gold, depended on the light; and full lips that were just begging for attention—anyways, the point was the flaca was perfect. And he’d been perfect too, at craps, poker, black jack, Martian Hold’em . . . he hadn’t been able to touch a chip or card without walking away a whole order of magnitude richer. Gambling was one of the few pastimes that made Santiago grateful for his brain; the rest of the time, his super-sized cranium was more trouble than it was worth. No matter what the bigwigs at New Harvard claimed.


The point was, it had been the best kind of dream: way too good to be true. The kind of dream that could only be cooked up by the cocktail of drugs the U.E.S. Indiana Jones’ medic had force-fed him somewhere around Jupiter. Not that they’d had to—after that last slingshot past the Big Guy, Santiago had been bored enough to actually try striking up a conversation with the other flesh and blood weirdos that wandered around the ship—he’d slipped the IV without a moment’s hesitation. Not that his efforts at socializing had gotten anywhere. The only female-type in the whole ship who wasn’t crew—he’d made a promise to himself, years ago, not to get involved with Navy women—was some quantum physicist who was wider than she was tall. Not that he was shallow or anything.

So, basically, the dream had been a welcome relief. Until his brain had to go and mess it all up, that is. He’d been on the brink of a winning throw, the dice rattling in his hand, when the flaca had leaned forward and whispered in his ear—so close those perfect lips actually tickled, mind—“We’re decelerating at one g.”

“You outta your mind, chata,” he’d replied, grinning and rattling the dice some more, “I’m just warming up.”

But then he threw the dice, and instead of bouncing around on the table like they should have, they zipped across the board, fell to the floor, and kept on rolling until they hit the far wall, fifty meters away . . . exactly like they would have if they’d been experiencing one g of lateral deceleration.

He’d turned around, ready to give the Venutian an earful for breaking his concentration, when suddenly the vibrations started, like hands running up his legs and back in a gentle massage, and he’d thought for a millisecond that the Venutian was going to work on him—they were trained in that kind of thing—but no, she’d been a good half meter away from him, perfect hands at her side, full lips quirked in a knowing smile.

“You’d better wake up and find out when we’ll arrive at our destination.”

“Screw you sister”—at least, he meant to say that, but suddenly it wasn’t the Venutian anymore, but his mamita, hands on hips, squeezed into the Venutian’s tube dress.

“Santiago Zambrano Alcaraz, you wake ¡este momento! ¿Me escuchas? ¡Este momento!”

“Shut up, brain, er . . . mom? ¡Callete!”

But by then it was too late. With his mamita still screaming at him in the back of his mind, he cracked an eyelid, and the cold light of the Jones slapped him across the cornea. He squeezed his throbbing eye shut with a moan that rattled through his teeth, and fumbled for his sleeping bag’s zipper. And his brain, his brain wouldn’t stop yammering at him. The rhythmic pulsing that he was still vainly trying to pretend was the Venutian’s small hands working on his cramped muscles was rolling through the Jones’ bulkhead every 2.5 seconds, interlaced with a slower rumble that cycled through his aching body every 13.75 seconds, so loud that he could hear it. As if knowing that did any good. As if his vaunted brain was any help ninety-five percent of the time!

Almost smugly, his brain told him the deceleration was increasing, nearing 1.5 gs and still climbing. That little tidbit brought an involuntary frown to his face. 1.5 gs? At that rate, they’d have come to a complete stop in—his brain chortled and dove into the physics—in roughly 52.4897959184 seconds.

Unfortunately, it was at that moment that his hand—still functioning largely without higher direction because 50% of Santiago’s brain was asleep and the other 50% was cheerily crunching numbers—found the zipper and pulled. Hard. It was also at that exact moment that Santiago remembered that he’d ignored the boson’s stern warning to secure his sleeping bag to the bulkhead labeled with a big black 1, not the one labeled 2—a warning that he had promptly ignored, just to show the Navy muscle he could. After all, in null gravity, who cared?

The deceleration forces ripped him out of his bag with a strangled shout, and 0.521640530957 seconds later he slammed into the 1 bulkhead. Of course, half a millisecond before he actually hit the wall the Navy jerks up on the bridge decided to cut the burn, so instead of sticking to the bulkhead like he should have, he was bounced, screaming profanity the whole way, back towards 2 bulkhead, which he struck with enough force to finally shake the Venutian flaca from his brain and send her spinning back to Venus once and for all. He only barely managed to wrap his hand around one of the straps on his sleeping pouch, which kept him from dribbling back and forth between the bulkheads like a human basketball.

For a second he just hung there, contemplating the cruel nature of the universe, shoulder screaming at him like his mamita had been only a few seconds ago, his hand that had grabbed the strap burning. He was sure it was bleeding. He just didn’t want to look. His head was rattling and spinning like the dice he’d been throwing in his dream. He had to blink half a dozen times just to bring the cramped cabin into focus. Was that his blood on the far wall?

He ran his trembling free hand across his forehead, and then grimaced at the red stains on his fingers. More of his blood was floating free in the air between the bulkheads in shimmering spheres that looked like wine. Good wine, too. Maybe a Montpelier 1997.

“Lights at fifty percent,” he said. The room dimmed, and he hooked his left leg around the pouch so he could shake the sting out of his hand. “Exterior view on screen one.”

To his right, the cabin’s media console came alive, the main screen brightening into an impressive star field. Some people might have paused a moment to gaze at the . . . 147,678 stars that were visible in just this tiny slice of the universe, but Santiago didn’t care much about the view.

“Augment,” he commanded, and suddenly the starscape was overlain with a hundred different colors, texts, and lines. The pinpricks of light were separated by color into stars, galaxies, nebulae, planetoids, asteroids, unidentified Trans-Neptunian objects, etc. Text blocks that seemed to hover just above the celestial bodies indicated mass, relative velocities, relative distances, ages . . . the list went on. And the lines that swept across the screen tracked the orbits of the 10,000 nearest objects. A normal person probably would have had a coronary just looking at all the data. Santiago, on the other hand, had his brain, and his brain cobbled up everything the computer could shove at him, and more, in the half second it took Santiago to sweep his gaze across the screen.

Thanks to his brain, he knew where he was before the computer had finished painting all of the orbits across the screen. The Kuiper belt, roughly 6 billion klicks from Earth, give or take an astronomic unit. That raised his eyebrow. What in the world was out here? Ice . . . lots of ice.
Shaking his head—ignoring the eight hundred and ninety seven possible locations in the Kuiper belt his brain was suddenly suggesting as the Jones’ destination—Santiago unhooked his leg and pushed away from the wall, angling for the tiny sanitation unit on the bulkhead opposite the media station.

“Music,” he said absently once he reached the sanitation unit. A glance in the mirror, a tiny thing no bigger than his palm, revealed a haggard-faced eighteen year-old with a fan of blood spreading across the right half of his face. Lousy Navy. Some way to treat the world’s smartest person. And that was documented too, no bragging on his part. He had a certificate from the Department of Neurosciences of New Harvard. Where had he put that, anyway?

He groped around the tileplast station till he found the bath wipes, then started cleaning off his face. “Lets hear something from the ‘30s . . . make it alternative rock.”

His eyes drifted back to the screen, which was still tracking orbits and velocities; he barely heard the music, but his brain logged it away anyways. Coldplay, their last album.

Where was the Jones' going?

It had taken a long time for Santiago to get used to his brain. Heck, it still gave him the creeps some times. Who wouldn’t be creeped out by a brain that was faster and smarter than any AI ever invented? Santiago would like to meet the fellow. He’d shake the monse’s hand, tip his hat to him, and then switch brains without breaking a sweat. He really would. Most days, anway.

But now, with that empty starfield making faces at him on the monitor, Santiago’s brain had no answers, and he didn’t like, not one bit. The Navy boys—and the occasional Navy female-type he’d run into on the Jones—had been about as talkative as clams. And compared to the secret police that had busted into his flat in New Washington, three months and six billion kilometers back on Earth, the Navy crew was downright chatty. He grimaced as his brain replayed that night. The visit from the three police—all of them women . . . the nasty kind from the DAR—had gone from bad to worse: a break-in through his apartment window, followed by a long ride in a windowless van, followed by three weeks solitary confinement in a cement box with a bed and toilet, followed by another three weeks of psychological tests that made the hoops the New Harvard had made him jump through seem like cake, followed by a ride up the Western Atlantic Space Elevator, and finally ending with him being shoved into the United Empire Ship Indiana Jones like a sardine with only the clothes on his back . . . and his brain, of course.

He was still wiping at his face. Frowning, he deposited the bloody wipe into the trash recycler, and pushed off back towards the media station. His brain had been his only asset during the psych tests, and yet from those tests he’d learned more about this mission he’d been hijacked into going on than the doctors had learned about him.

The Navy was looking for something. Something that was, apparently, out here in the Kuiper Belt. And whatever it was, they needed a computer expert, the computer expert, to help them deal with it. And whatever it was, they wanted it bad. So bad, in fact, that the DAR—Daughters of the American Revolution, that is—was in on it. And if the secret police were in on it, the Imperial family was in on it. And if the Imps were in on it . . .

Well, if the Imps were in on it, Santiago Zambrano Alcaraz wanted to be in on it.

His brain pointed out, snidely, that the death rate among middle-class citizens that dabbled in Imperial politics was 15.78% higher than their less politically inclined peers, but he ignored it. After all, those statistics didn’t apply to him, a New-Harvard-certificate-carrying genius.

He extended his hands over the computer’s holopad, and the controls flickered to life around his fingers. Zero point two five seconds later he was deep into the Jones’ programming, cruising through lines of codes he doubted any Navy personnel had reviewed in years. Yeah, the DAR secret police might have all but stripped him naked before shoving him onto the ship, but that hadn’t stopped him from hacking into the network through a public, supposedly ‘safe’, terminal, and writing up three- or four-dozen programs that basically put every system on the Jones at his disposal.

Just thinking of how he was suckering the Navy and the DAR made him laugh out loud. Of course, that’s when his brain chose to remind him that he’d been abducted because he was able to do just this sort of thing, and that the Navy probably fully expected him to be doing exactly what he was doing right now, so he wasn’t really pulling a fast one on anybody, and they were probably blocking access to any really crucial systems through subroutines he hadn’t considered yet.

“Shut up you,” he muttered through his teeth. Stupid brain. Why couldn’t it just do as it was told?

Gently, he assumed control of the ship’s passive scanners, and began scrolling through the flood of data that the Jones was pulling in. As the information flooded passed him, his brain whistled in surprise—well, the lipless and soundless equivalent of a whistle at least. And for once, Santiago could only agree.

“Wow.”