It was from the team of academics at Princeton who were trying to translate the messages the children had been sending to Earth. (She remembered Dan Ystebo’s apparently informed speculations on the subject, and she made a mental note to have one of the FBI plumbers dig out who was leaking this time.)
The sporadic signals were in the form of ultraviolet laser light targeted on an antiquated astronomy satellite in Earth orbit. Why they chose that means of transmission nobody knew, nor how they had gotten hold of or built a laser, nor why they felt impelled to transmit messages at all. Perhaps all that would come after the graybeard academic types at Princeton and elsewhere had figured out what the hell the kids were talking about here.
The message itself was text, encoded in a mixture of ASCII, English, other natural languages, and mathematics. But the natural-language stuff didn’t seem to bear much relation to the math, which itself was full of symbologies and referents whose meanings the academics were having to guess at.
The math appeared to be some kind of diatribe on fundamental physics.
Maura knew that for a century the theoreticians had been struggling to reconcile the two great pillars of physics: relativity, Einstein’s theory of gravity, and quantum mechanics, the theory of the submicroscopic world. The two theories were thought to be limited facets of a deeper understanding the academics called quantum gravity.
It is impossible to delimit a theory that does not yet exist, the report writers noted pompously. Nevertheless most theorists had expected to find the quantum paradigm more fundamental than the relativistic. The speculations of the children contradict this, however. . .
Maura skimmed on. Perhaps, the children seemed to be suggesting, fundamental particles — electrons and quarks and such — were actually spacetime defects, kinks in the fabric. For instance, a positive charge could be the mouth of a tiny wormhole threaded by an electric field, with a negative charge the other mouth, the flow of the field through the wormhole looking, from the outside, like a source and sink of charge. Einstein himself had speculated on these lines a century ago, but hadn’t been able to prove it or develop the theory to his satisfaction.
Anyhow, it seemed, Einstein hadn’t thought far enough. The children seemed to be saying that the key was to regard particles not just as loops or folds in space but as folds in time as well. Such a fold necessarily creates a closed timelike curve. . .
So every electron was a miniature time machine.
. . . This has clear implications for causality. The properties of a fundamental particle would be determined by measurements that can be made on it only in the future. That is, there is a boundary condition that is in principle unobservable in the present… Imagine a skipping rope, some dusty academic had dictated, struggling to make herself understood. If a handle is jiggled, the shape of the wave created depends not just on what is happening at the perturbed end but what happens at the other handle. . .
In this worldview it was this breach of causality that provided uncertainty, the famous multivalued fuzziness of the quantum world.
And so on, at baffling and tedious length.
She sat in her chair, struggling with the concepts.
So the world around her, the familiar solid world of atoms and people and trees and stars, even the components of her own aging body, was made up of nothing more than defects in space-time. There was nothing but space and time, knotted up and folded over on itself. If that’s so, she thought, maybe we shouldn’t be surprised at the eruption of all this acausal strangeness. It was there all along, just too low-level for us to see, too obscure for us to understand.
But was it possible?
Just accept it, Maura. The important thing, of course, is why the children are trying to communicate this to us.
… The children may be attempting to bridge the chasm in understanding between our patiently constructed but partial theories and their own apparently instinctive, or paradox-prescient, knowledge of the world’s structure. It may be they wish us to understand on a deeper level what has happened to us so far — or, possibly, what is to happen to us in the future. . .
A prediction, then.
Or a threat.
Maura shivered, despite the clammy warmth of her office.
Maura, skimming the transcript, found scraps of plain language interspersed with all this heavy stuff: We’re all right here. Please tell our parents we aren ‘t hot or cold or hungry but just right, and it s a lot of fun bouncing around on the Moon, like a big trampoline… You shouldn ‘t have done what you did when you dropped that big bomb on us and it just made us mad is all and some of us wanted to come back and hurt you the same but Anna said we mustn’t and it wasn’t really your fault that you cared for us underneath even if you didn ‘t know how to show it and. . .
A kid’s report from summer camp, beamed down by ultraviolet laser from the Moon, interspersed with theoretical physics so heavy-duty a gaggle of Nobel prize winners couldn’t make sense of it. She felt her heart break a little more.
Even while it scared the life out of her.
She closed the report and dropped it into the high-temperature incinerator that hummed softly under her desk.
The last report in her tray was color-coded — by hand, with a marker pen — as the highest category of secure. It was about how the new NASA lunar outpost at Tycho would be used as a base for infiltrating the children’s mysterious encampment.
The Trojan-horse children had been screened for the Blue syndrome from before they could talk or walk. There were more than a hundred candidate kids at this point, all of them infants or preschoolers. And now their education was being shaped with a single purpose: loyalty to Earth, to home, to parents. There was training, discipline, ties of affection, every kind of behavioral conditioning the psychologists could dream up, mental and physical. They’d even brought in advertising executives.
Nobody knew what was going to work on these kids — who would, after all, eventually be smarter than any of the people who were working on their heads. Eventually, when they got old enough, the conditioning would be tested, sample candidates put through a variety of simulated experiences.
Little human lab rats, Maura thought, being given mazes to run, with walls of loyalty and coercion and fear.
The objective was to have selected a final cohort of seven or eight individuals by the time the children had reached the age of five or six, and then to ship them to the Moon and offer them to the Blues up there. And then to have the Blues’ new friends betray them.
She came to a list of candidate infants. One of them was Billie Tybee: daughter of Bill Tybee, who, a thousand years ago, had turned to Maura for help, and June Tybee, who had died during the failed assault on Cruithne, and the sibling of Tom, one of the children who had gone to the Moon, lost forever to his grieving father.
As if we haven’t done enough to that family.
Maura hadn’t yet worn her conscience completely smooth. This is, she thought, a war against our own children. And we’re using every dirty method on them that we dreamed up in a million years of waging war against ourselves.
But she knew she had to put her conscience aside, once again.
The children on the Moon, whatever they were doing up there, had to be understood, controlled, stopped.