Jintao Page 22

  Quan had wisked the discovery away from sinister hands. Components were on the way to a spanking-new facility and the research, perhaps the greatest discovery of modern times, was going to be safe. And, in due course, the new science would be shared with the world.

  From the Stratos850 he boarded a shuttle at San Francisco International and headed south. The shuttle flew along the Pacific coastline and Quan watched as the terrain slipped by. There were towns and forests and grassy fields. Some stretches looked like Norwegian fjords with steep cliffs down to the water’s edge and there were beaches where surfers rode the waves. Almost eight hours had elapsed since he left China and Quan was feeling restless in the confines of the small craft.

  In the distance, a tiny white square became visible and, as the square became larger, he could see a small red dot moving across its lower edge. As the shuttle drew nearer, the square appeared to be a building and, after another minute, the glide settled in front of a white barn. McGowen turned out to be the red dot, a spectacle in a red plaid kilt and construction boots.

  Stepping out of the craft, Quan looked around. It was a rustic scene as far as the eye could see, with waist-high shrubs interspersed with patches of dirt and rocks. Hills to the east were dotted with trees and rocky outcroppings. A breeze delivered scents of wild sage and rosemary. In contrast to the crowded island of New Hong Kong, the land seemed vacant, devoid of civilization, and for Quan it conjured up images of the Old West.

  McGowen approached. “Glad you’re here. How was the flight?”

  “Fine,” said Quan, pulling his bag from the cargo hold. “This is more remote than I imagined.”

  “True enough,” said McGowen as he led the way from the vehicle toward the old farmhouse. “No one’s going to bother us. The nearest town is eighty kilometers away. Come, I’ll show you what’s going on.”

  Behind them the shuttle beeped and made its departure announcements. With lights strobing, it slowly lifted into the air and turned northward.

  As they walked, McGowen pointed to the new structures, two major buildings and three smaller bungalows, nearly completed. Arriving on the front porch of the farmhouse, McGowen paused to mention the housekeeper. “She doesn’t speak English or Chinese, but she cleans and cooks. I’ve been giving her a few dollars here and there to buy food. She hasn’t asked for more, but I figure we probably owe her a month’s wages.”

  “A housekeeper,” said Quan, approvingly. “Nice addition. We should get a translator for her. I’ll ask von Ang to bring one.”

  “I’ve been using mine,” said McGowen, retrieving it from his sporran.

  At the front door, the dark Cholo woman, Rosalea, appeared in a dress brightly patterned with yellow, red, and black. She wiped her hands on a white kitchen towel draped over her belt and said, “Hola. Buenas tardes.” (Hello. Good afternoon.) Her broad smile revealed perfect rows of short white teeth.

  “Hello,” said Quan “Nice to meet you.”

  “Sí. Tienes hambre?” (Yes. Are you hungry?)

  “Yes. Thank you,” said Quan.

  Rosalea stepped aside, letting them pass. “Haré el almuerzo.” (I’ll make lunch.)

  “Thank you,” said Quan, looking back over his shoulder. “We’ll see you later.” Under his breath, he confided, “It’s awkward. I thought everyone in the United States spoke English.”

  “Nope,” said McGowen with a smile. “But I think you handled it well. Once our AI system is up and running, this won’t be a problem. You’ll bunk here in the farmhouse for the next few nights, until the bungalows are finished.”

  Quan was shown to a spacious bedroom, with dark wood floors and a view of the rounded eastern hills. The room was furnished with dark wood furniture—a king bed with hand-carved headboard and two stout bedside tables, each with a simple lamp. After unpacking, Quan closed the door and lay down to relax. The bed was as soft as a cloud and he awoke four hours later to the smell of burning wood, onions, and roasting chicken. Following his nose, he found his way back to the front room where McGowen sat next to a large stone fireplace, his face lit by its amber glow. Overhead, the beamed ceiling reminded Quan of the older halls at Oxford College.

  “There you are,” said McGowen. “Rosalea has dinner for us. Hope you’re hungry. Everything’s ready.”

  Quan walked over to the large window next to the chair where McGowen sat, straining to see something moving in the dusk outside.

  “It’s the construction-bots, sir. They work all night. I only turn on the floods when I need to go check something. We’re only a few hours away from being done. Pretty comfortable here, though. I’ve been stayin’ in a room over there.” McGowen pointed to the far wall. “And Rosalea has a little room behind the kitchen. She goes home on weekends.”

  The floorboards creaked under McGowen as he ambled into the dining room. Quan followed and they pulled chairs up to a heavy wooden table. Bowls of refried beans, Spanish rice, and guacamole came to the table, followed by a platter of grilled onions, peppers, grilled chicken, and a plate of steaming tortillas. Placing a bottle of hot sauce in the center of the table, Rosalea stood back and smiled. “Fajitas. Usted puede mezclarlo.” (You can mix.)

  “Might be a bit spicy, but it’s good,” said McGowen. “Here, let me show you. It’s like mu shu. Lay down a tortilla . . . a spoonful of beans . . . a spoonful of rice . . . some avocado . . . chicken . . . cheese. Whatever you like. There’s some cilantro—it’s like Chinese parsley—and onion.” He splashed some hot sauce on top before rolling it up. “And there you have it,” he said, taking a bite.

  In the kitchen doorway, Rosalea clasped her hands as if in prayer, watching the neophyte build his first fajita. After taking his first bite, ingredients began to fall out and Quan resorted to cleaning up the spoils with a fork. “Mmmm, very good,” he said, eyeing Rosalea. “Thank you.”

  “De nada,” she murmured and returned to the kitchen.

  Quan looked out the window pensively. “How much longer before the reactor can be started?”

  “The underground vaults and the lift are ready,” said McGowen. “The reactor is down there and I was going to install it tomorrow. We’ll need to get the inspectors to sign off before we can bring it online.” He paused then added, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I took a turn in the machine before we disassembled it.”

  “Good to hear. And how was it?”

  “For me, it was a life changer and I can hardly wait to do it again. Don’t know if von Ang told you, but he took a turn too. Looks like we’re making progress. He was able to transmit and receive a gamma signal.”

  “Yes. He told me. It’s a first step and like Lao-Tzu said, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

  Through the window, Quan saw one of the construction-bots leading a bobcart loaded with wallboard across the yard. Machine sounds emanated from one of the smaller buildings.

  Zzzt, zzzt, zzzt, zzzt.

  “I hope that won’t be going on all night,” said Quan.

  “If we’re goin’ to stay on schedule, I’m afraid so.”

  31.

  Just before dawn, unable to sleep, Quan left the old farmhouse and walked to the edge of the coastal bluff. Over the eastern hills, purple sky was turning pink, smudged with charcoal clouds. Stars lingered in the sky above. A hundred meters below, waves boomed against the rocky shore.

  He imagined the enormous forces of interplate collision that, eons ago, lifted the land and formed the cliff he was standing on. Over millions of years, the sea rose and fell, like a gigantic cutting tool, carving away aggregate and creating the cove. Below him white water welled and retreated like the quantum exchange between worlds.

  The discovery was safe from the grasp of vultures and he could freely explore its mysteries. Nothing stood in his way. He would leave the science to others—they would probe and measure, analyze and catalog. But for Quan a different quest was calling: to know the innermost nature of that other place and to know what had become of
his father.

  McGowen found Quan standing on the bluff overlooking the ocean. Overhead, red-tailed hawks hovered in the thermal currents, barely moving their wings. Looking up he pointed and said, “Aren’t they something?”

  Quan lifted his head. Ten meters above, the birds were making lazy circles in the brightening sky. Suddenly, one of them folded its wings and, like a missile, streaked toward the rocks below, disappearing from view. A moment later it re-emerged, soaring upward with a small creature clutched in its yellow talons.

  “It took time to learn that,” said Quan, “and the ones who were able, thrived. The ones that couldn’t, died. Survival is what drives evolution.”

  McGowen studied him for a moment, noting the change in his personality. He seemed wiser and more certain of himself. “ʼTwas ever thus. One trailblazer starts the whole thing. Then the others follow.”

  “Whenever there’s a major breakthrough, there are those who, for whatever reason, find themselves in its path,” said Quan. “What we do here will change everything.”

  “I agree. Ever since I took my turn, I’ve looked at things differently.”

  “It’s a natural progression . . . like walking upright,” said Quan, looking down at a few reconnaissance ants wandering near his feet. “In a hundred generations, humans will be so advanced they won’t even recognize us. And those who don’t evolve will be no more significant than ants.”

  “Aye. That may be,” said McGowen, looking back toward the compound. “I’ve got an inspection scheduled and I’ve got a few things to do. I’ll see you in a bit. By the way, some of these rocks are a bit wobbly, so be careful.”

  As McGowen walked away, Quan looked far out across the ocean.

  What we’re doing, he thought, is nothing less transformative than when Eratosthenes realized that the Earth was round instead of flat. What we thought was solid matter doesn’t exist at all. Matter is composed of elements that are constantly changing. Everything turns over—the cells in our bodies—stars and galaxies. There isn’t even a moment we can label as being the present. As soon as we try to mark it, it’s gone.

  ~~~

  McGowen stood inside the laboratory atrium, watching two glides touch down. Two men disembarked from the black glide, a tall one with broad shoulders, pale blue eyes, and a thick white mustache, and another, shorter man with close-cropped hair, wearing casual business attire. From the second glide, a tan one with a State of California emblem on it’s side, a dark haired man in a green quilted vest walked over to join the other two. The man with the mustache swung a large rubbery viewflex onto the rear deck of his vehicle and repeatedly dragged his finger across its surface.

  From inside the laboratory atrium, McGowen watched the men repeatedly looking around and pointing at things in the compound. Watching their body language, he could see who was who. Pushing open the door, he walked out to greet them and as he drew near the man with the white mustache looked up and said, “Hello there.” Reaching into his vest pocket he fetched a thin black card that instantly lit up with the emblem of the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, his picture, and title: Edward Nathanial Stuart—Senior Inspector. “Ned Stuart, NRC,” he said, “This is Pete Sanchez and Jason Brokowski. Pete’s from state and Jason’s with me.”

  McGowen shook hands and said, “Gregory McGowen, project engineer.”

  Slipping the card back into a small pocket on his vest, Stuart took out a pair of eyeglasses from a larger pocket. Flexing the stems behind his ears, he asked, “Did you design these plans?”

  “No. I’m the construction manager. Why, is there a problem?”

  “No. Not at all. The plans were approved by the agency and good to go. Think of us as part of your construction team. We’re here to make sure the site is safe. We have nearly eight hundred reactor sites in the U.S. and in the last fifty years there have been zero incidents. We just want to double check and verify everything is correctly installed.”

  “No argument here.”

  Looking from the plans and back again, the Stuart said, “Help us get oriented. Would that be the reactor vault you just came out of?”

  “Correct,” said McGowen, never taking his eyes off the inspector.

  Stuart looked back at the plans, then said, “Tell me about the reactor. What are they going to use it for?”

  McGowen hesitated, unprepared for such an intrusive question. “Scientific research,” he said.

  “Care to be more specific?” said Stuart.

  “They’re looking for ghosts.”

  The inspector laughed and rolled his eyes. “That’s a new one. Found any yet?”

  “They’re pretty elusive,” said McGowen with a mischievous look. “You’ll have to excuse my sense of humor. They’re doing particle research.”

  “Let’s have a look,” said Stuart, patting McGowen on the shoulder.

  McGowen led the inspection team to the elevator and down into the laboratory. He could read the senior inspector clearly: a seasoned veteran with an excellent nose for bullshit, probably from years of people trying to slip things past him.

  The inspection went by the book and three hours later, after checking the entire installation, Stuart said, “Choosing a SSTAR unit was a good move. Those precertified reactors save us a lot of time. Looking at your bots, your materials, and your construction techniques, looks like you know what you’re doing.”

  “I appreciate that,” said McGowen.

  “The precision shows. Job well done. I’m going to sign off on this phase and we’ll be back when you’re up and running.”

  As soon as the government glides lifted off, McGowen met with Quan and said, “Now, we can add our retrofits. In a couple of days we’re going to need von Ang to boot this thing up.”

  32.

  Two days after the inspection, Quan and McGowen were standing in front of the new laboratory. On the surface there wasn’t much to see—a glass atrium surrounding a burnished steel vault that housed the service elevator and an emergency stairwell that led to the underground laboratory.

  “It needs something,” said Quan. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. A potted plant?”

  A flash of sunlight caught their attention as a highly polished glide came cruising into view. It came in low, then swung its tail around and landed, kicking up a small plume of dust. The hatch opened and out popped Lotus, shaking off the confines of her trip. Bouncing up and down on red plyform shoes, her blue hair and magenta jumpsuit recoiled after each bounce.

  “Look, Gaston!” she exclaimed, pointing at the new structures. “Isn’t it just orbital?”

  Von Ang emerged and surveyed the scene: the five new bungalows, and the stark laboratory entrance, covered walkways and a circular pond. In contrast, to the north stood the old farmhouse with its Craftsman-style wood eaves and the large whitewashed barn.

  “Very nice,” he said.

  “Oh, look—there’s Quan.” Waving her arm, Lotus yelled, “Hey! We’re here!”

  McGowen came striding toward them, his tartan kilt swaying with authority. Under his breath he said, “Well, now, what do we have here?”

  Eyeing his boots and muscled calves, Lotus teased, “Hey. Nice legs, big guy.”

  “Oh my. Compliments. Thank you.” He walked up to Lotus and said, “Gregory McGowen. Pleased to meet you.”

  “I’m Lotus, Sealy’s sister. May I call you Greg?”

  “I prefer Gregory,” said McGowen, “or just Hey You.”

  Walking around the glide, McGowen slid his hand across the sleek chrome surface. “What’s this, then?”

  “It’s leased. I thought we might want to do some sightseeing while we’re here,” said von Ang with a dry mouth.

  “Sounds like you could use a drink,” said the big Scotsman. “Let’s get you and the little lass settled in.”

  “Any problems I should know about?” asked von Ang as he followed.

  “Nothing we can’t handle.”

  Quan walked up to them and
Lotus threw her arms around him, kissing his cheek. “That’s from Sealy.” Kissing his other cheek, she said, “And that one’s from me.”

  “Very sweet, Lotus. How is she?”

  “Sealy? She’s bigger and her cheeks are rosy. I’ve never seen her look so healthy. You should vidi com her.”

  “Com links are not reliable here. It’s something we’re working on.”

  McGowen’s boots made a grinding sound as he pivoted toward the bungalows.

  Passing the front porch of the farmhouse, Rosalea said something in Spanish.

  “Wait,” said Lotus. “I have something for her.”

  Lotus mounted the three wooden steps and held out a small disk-shaped device, red plastic with a wristband attached. She pressed a quadrant on the disk and spoke, “Translate. Spanish.”

  “This is for you,” she said. The device repeated the same words in Spanish. “It’s easy to use. Here, you try.” She handed the device to Rosalea. “Just tell it what language you want. It’s yours to keep.”

  “Sí?” Rosalea looked puzzled. “Muchas gracias,” she said. “En Inglés, por favor.” The device repeated the phrase in English. “Oh my, it talks for me,” Rosalea said. “What a clever little thing! Thank you very much. I’m going to make something good for you to eat.”

  After setting down their bags in one of the new bungalows, von Ang and Lotus returned to the old farmhouse. Inside the timbered dining room, bowls of guacamole and salsa fresca were set out on the heavy wooden table along with a large basket of fresh tortilla chips. Rosalea poured sangria from a large earthenware pitcher into ceramic cups.

  Von Ang carefully spread guacamole on one of the chips with a knife and McGowen chuckled to himself.