“Looks like we were right about it being inactive,” Oscar said. “Thankfully.”
Long-range passive scans had shown no infrared emission. There was no neutrino activity, or electromagnetic broadcasts. As the rock had a fast rotation, once every twenty-six minutes, they had concluded it was now abandoned, most probably a victim of some ancient battle.
As he watched the images appear, backed up by the slow trickle of data, Mac was convinced they were right. The rock was fashioned like a sharp blade, over a kilometer and a half long, but never more than a couple of hundred meters wide. Every side was sheer, with razor edges: obviously a splinter that had snapped off cleanly from whatever asteroid had been nuked into oblivion.
“That must have been one brute of an explosion,” Mac said idly. “We’ve never seen them build anything on a small asteroid.”
The station was rooted in the surface at the wider end of the fragment. Cubes and pyramids and mushrooms of polytitanium composite made up the bulk of it, their once-strong hulls now brittle from centuries of vacuum exposure. Crumbling fissures exposed reinforcement ribs below, while the color had been mottled down to a grubby lead-gray by uncountable micrometeorite punctures and constant molecular ablation. Spiky fungal structures molded from toughened plastics and metaloceramics lurked between the larger sections. They, too, were fraying around the edges, leaving long delicate strands poking out from ragged cavities.
“At least you won’t have any trouble gaining access,” Oscar told him. “There are more holes than walls.”
“Yeah, on the upper sections. Those lower portions look more intact. Ah, here we go, the deep scan’s coming in.”
They leaned forward in unison, peering at the small hologram portal that was now showing a three-dimensional map of the station’s internal layout.
“That looks like a surrealist’s maze,” Oscar said. “It’s got to be some kind of industrial refinery, those are all pipes, aren’t they?”
“Or corridors, or warren tunnels. Remember the jarrofly nests we found on Tandil? We thought they were just beautiful coral outcrops until the swarm came out.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Oscar gave his friend a wide smile. “Only one way to be sure.”
“Right. Send us in to do the dirty work. Never fails.”
“Damn right. I’ll just lounge around in here, maybe have me one of those gourmet meals from the canteen, then access a hot TSI drama. But you be sure to enjoy yourself in those ball-squeezer suits of yours while you’re over there.”
“Once I set foot on that lump of rock, make first contact with the Dysons, it’ll be my name that our race remembers, not yours.”
“Tut tut: vanity, the most tragic sin of all. Hey, Mr. Legend, what are your first words going to be when you set that photogenic foot down?”
Mac struck a sincerely thoughtful pose. “I thought something like: Fuck me, now I remember why you shouldn’t eat curry before you put on a space suit. ”
“Cool. Historic, even. I like that.”
Mac grinned, then stood up. “Okay, everybody, eyes and ears to the front, please. Our captain is going to hold the Second Chance a hundred kilometers off the Watchtower as a safety precaution. That means we’ll be using the shuttles to get ourselves over there. Preliminary scouting party will be myself and team C. The main objective on the first flight is to ascertain occupancy levels. If that is confirmed as zero, we’ll conduct an initial survey. Following that, I want to operate a rotating three-team shift pattern to map out the Watchtower’s contents. As you can see, there’s a lot of pipes and tunnels and shit to get through. We’re going archaeological on this one, which I know is a little different from the kind of exploration most of you are used to. What we need is clues as to what these critters look like, what they eat, what they drink, who they voted for, if their team won the cup, all that crap. So what you have to track down are artifacts that will open any sort of window into their culture for us. Teams B and F, I want you to concentrate on their electronics, or optronics, or difference engines, or whatever they hell they used. If there are any data fragments left in any system over there, I want them downloaded and copied. Got all that?”
A rumble of happy agreement went around the room.
“Fine, team C with me now, we’re suiting up. Shuttle departs in thirty minutes. Now while we’re scratching around over there, Oscar here is assuming his usual job of exploration supervisor, which means he’ll be watching our asses from his nice comfortable office chair. I’m sure you remember the drill, all major decisions are his—I don’t want any rogue calls on this one, no just going around the next corner because it looks interesting. If there’s any doubt about something, clear it with Oscar first. Team A, you’re our direct observation monitors on the first flight. B, D, E, if we okay the site, you’re on next. I suggest you get some rest accordingly.”
He turned to leave. Oscar caught his arm.
“I know everyone thinks I’m obsessing over the barrier coming down,” Oscar said. “But take care over there.”
“Don’t worry. Coward is my middle name.”
It wasn’t until a full twenty-four hours after Mac had landed on the Watchtower that Dudley Bose finally got his chance to regain some of the limelight. He’d thought that as a member of contact team A he would be among the first humans to meet the Dysons. That hadn’t happened, of course, not with McClain Gilbert preempting him.
Dudley had considered his predeparture appointment to the starship’s contact team as a smooth move. After all, Wilson and his senior officers couldn’t deny he was the Commonwealth’s expert on the Dyson Pair, from an astrophysics angle at any rate. And with his first-life engineering degree expanding his knowledge base on a practical level, he was an obvious choice for the contact team as well as the science staff.
So far on the voyage his knowledge had been left sadly unapplied. He understood very little about the quantum state of the barrier—managing the university’s astronomy department single-handed had left very little time for him to keep up-to-date on the theoretical front of physics. And although the insides of the Dark Fortress remained visually spectacular, he was unable to offer any insight on the nature of that gargantuan mechanism.
While the Second Chance was examining the Dark Fortress, he had spent most of his time alone in his cabin, recording commentaries. His contract with Gralmond WebNews called for informed opinions and interpretation of the information that the starship gathered: to be a pop science pundit, basically. So he would watch the day’s results come in, and provide an explanation that was dumbed down to the lowest level possible. His time as a lecturer, reducing complex facts to a series of easily digestible chunks, followed by his meteoric exposure to the media and their demands for simplified sound bite presentations, made him perfectly qualified for the job.
But the Watchtower had finally presented him with the opportunity to enhance his profile. Physically placing him on the ultimate human frontier would make it his flight. He, Dudley Bose, was due to become the human interface with the mystery of the Dyson Pair.
Then McClain Gilbert announced the team schedule, and Dudley had to wait for yet another day. Until it became his turn he was once again reduced to a secondary role, watching through the shuttle’s camera as Gilbert jetted himself over to the large alien structures on the Watchtower, and spouting banalities like: “This is it. Any moment now. Yes! Contact. How much this differs from our usual first encounter with an alien environment. CSI contact personnel normally walk through a wormhole and step firmly on the ground. Here, you can see my friend Mac actually having to cling onto the edge of a hole with his hand. Now, wait, he’s shining his lights through into the structure. You’re seeing the first glimpse of a whole new alien universe.”