Miranda Sena had the distinct feeling she was arguing a lost cause. "I'm just a bit, uh, surprised to be asked."
"We've got to get order out of chaos, it's that simple." The sharp greenish eyes of Avram Rolstein, a prime mover in the Holn Contact and Study Group, remained fixed on her. "And we need your help."
"I'm only here a couple of days to gather a little more data on Holn brain configuration. I'm scheduled to present a paper at the neurological congress next month."
Avram smiled. "All I want you to do is listen and make suggestions if you see fit. I was very glad Franklyn told me you were here, and it goes beyond the artistic thing."
Miranda tapped a foot on the floor of the carpet and looked out of the window. Once again, the Holn were throwing everything out of whack. Her first word about them came from a fellow graduate student crashing into a lecture in the late '90s, shouting about an odd blip that had shown up in sky images and how this blip had changed course. Then the blip began sending messages . . .
Can you imagine what would've happened if they'd just announced themselves in a blaze of light and pulsating music?" one of many scientists netted by TV had said during the ship's transit across the solar system. "They're giving us a chance to get used to them. If we can."
The calm voices of scientists (in public, anyway) did little to smooth the hysteria on the planet. Miranda's studies served to steady her own nerves as she followed the transit daily like a soap opera addict. She was in transit herself, from graduate student to postgraduate status and thus tried to bear down on her future. But the Holn had changed that paradigm forever . . .
And the pulse of fear that had surged through her the first time Hubble telescope pictures came in of the ship shocked her so much she had to switch off the TV. Once the ship had landed, though, data about an alien physiology started trickling in. She dropped the line of study she'd pursued for six years like so much scrap paper and joined the tumult of scientists begging, pleading, conniving to get a piece of Holn research. When her number finally came up in the "contact lottery," she played a hunch—and it paid off spectacularly.
Now this new twist . . .
With an inner voice warning she'd regret it, she turned to Avram. "Dr. Nakai warned me about you." She began stuffing wallet, hotel key, and change into pockets.
"Did he, now? I'll take that as a compliment."
Miranda followed the slight figure—she stood a head taller than he did—out of the room. Avram, now stuffing tobacco into his pipe as they walked down the three flights of stairs, had been the first scientist on the site. Not by design, though.
"You came up here just to get me?" She said as they crossed the lobby. She had to scramble to keep up.
"I'm surprised you got a room here. La Fonda is usually booked solid in summer."
"Luck," she said as he pushed a wooden door with glass panes open, held it for her. "I called, they'd just had a cancellation."
Avram nodded as he scurried down a short flight of steps and got into position to hold another, heavier wooden door for her. He was supposed to be closer to seventy than sixty, but his pace made Miranda wonder what he'd been like at twenty-five. He crossed a street in the middle of the block, seemingly oblivious to the crawling traffic.
"Holn physiology," she started as they headed down a sidewalk under a long roof supported by upright logs, "is much different than human. So how could they pull this off?"
Avram swerved to avoid a camera-toting tourist. Indeed, weaving became essential in order to get around slow-walking people gawking into store windows. She caught her own reflection, a slim woman with dark hair cut at her collar, dressed in T-shirt, khaki shorts, and sport sandals.
"That question is number one." Avram went left to get around a coven of youths in red T-shirts; Miranda swerved right but other knots of bag-laden shoppers kept them apart for another quarter-block. "We don't have the faintest idea how or why it was done," he said when they could rejoin.
"I just don't know what I can add—"
He grabbed her left arm, pulled her around and pointed with his pipe stem at a newspaper vending machine in front of a Woolworth's store. WHO ARE THESE CHILDREN? blared USA Today's headline with an image below it of the children as they had been found on the hillside but with parts of their anatomies fuzzed over. SCIENTIST: CHILDREN "ALIEN" said the headline on The Santa Fe New Mexican, the local paper.
"That's what we're up against," Avram said, as a man in a straw hat and yellow shirt stepped up and dropped in a dollar coin to buy the USA Today. "Rumors, speculation, fantasy, spreading at the speed of light all over the world. Much faster than we bumbling scientists can keep up with. And this," he gestured at the customer's copy as he walked away, "is mild compared to some of the other stuff. We need ideas, direction, and we need them now from anyone we can grab. Your mistake, I'm afraid, was being within my reach."
At a newer—and to Miranda, uglier—hotel, milling people crowded into the meeting room. Some were from the contact group, others she recognized from television appearances. She felt self-conscious among the suits and skirts until she noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man.
"Greetings, Dr. Gunnarson, I believe," she said as the man filled a plastic foam cup with cold tea. "Glad to see someone else is casual."
The man turned to her, smiled. His eyes were bluer and hair blacker than had been promised by video color. "Name's Matt. Almost twins, I'd say, although you seem to have more refined tastes in T-shirts."
"Umm, maybe." Hers said "Santa Fe Opera," his "Old Santa Fe Trail Run." "I'm Miranda Sena, of UCLA—"
"Ah, yes, the one who discovered the Holn have an aesthetic side."
Miranda sighed, reached for a cup. "I guess that's what I'm going to be known for."
"Nothing to be ashamed of. You shot up in esteem at Princeton just for that one discovery."
Miranda shrugged as she plopped a couple of ice cubes into her tea. "It just seemed a natural quest—"
"Can we get everyone to settle down, please?" a man in a suit called out. "Chairs around the table are first-come, first-seated. Otherwise grab what you can."
Matt's muscular build helped clear a path to the long conference table. Through the introductions and reviews, Miranda just sipped her tea. Almost immediately, complaints started flying about restrictions.
"You Americans have been hogging the good stuff all along, anyway," said an accented voice. Miranda knew the Australian Jake Skettles because he'd had the slot for the Holn audience right behind hers. "Now your FBI and your soldiers are telling us to bugger off—"
"All operations have switched back to the chaos and confused modes," said a sandy-haired man in his late thirties. "I'm Ben Danthen of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory and I'm here to tell you the situation is just like the days of first contact."
Ben took off his glasses, rubbed an eye, put the glasses back on. "The Holn breathe poison, methane and ammonia. They didn't poke their noses—such as they are—out in six years. For them, oxygen is both toxic and caustic. Indeed, they were quite shocked at the O2 levels on this planet. So we had not a clue, not an inkling, not a warning, a premonition, anything, they would pull humans in beyond the museum. That's why we sent out the SOS."
"After the fact," said Skettles.
Miranda accepted a laptop Matt passed to her containing preliminary reports about the children.
"Oh, man." Ben put his head in his hands. "You guys are sounding like the media. 'So—what were you talking about, the weather?' We unfortunately took a cue from the Manhattan Project and compartmentalized the research. Everything we know about the Holn is scattered among every state and twenty-one countries at last count. Everyone wants to be the first with the Nobel for Holn research, and the competition is nasty. Well," he looked around at the group, "speaking for a beleaguered JPL—help."
"We've declared a national emergency." Heads swiveled toward the voice at the head of the table. The speaker was a heavy-set man in a tailored three-piece suit with the attitude of someone used to moving easily through the corridors of power: Harrison Conroy, the president's science adviser. "From what I can see, there's been no coordination between groups. A national emergency will allow us to at least begin sorting it all out."
"You mean knock anyone who isn't American out," said a French-flavored voice from Miranda's left.
"That's not our intent, Anton. We ask that you give us time to work the wrinkles out. This took us completely by surprise, too."
"We were like kids on a beach," Ben said. "Trying to gather up all the pretty shells before the tide came in and swept them all away."
"I think first we need to form some kind of central group to organize the data mountain and coordinate the teeming masses of scientists," Avram said between smoky pulls from his pipe. "But you'll have to cut the red tape, Harrison."
Murmurs of agreement passed around the table as Harrison leaned toward Avram and said something. Avram nodded, then Harrison faced the group.
"Our marching orders come from the President of the United States. She has made it clear she wants action right now. I, personally, see no reason to delay. As soon as this meeting's over, Avram becomes administrator of that committee and will begin picking the members—"
"It's too late."
Conroy searched the table for the source of the comment. "Excuse me? Who said that?"
"I did." Miranda waved her hand, suddenly feeling self-conscious again. "You people are discussing this like it's just another bureaucratic task to be done, another folder to be filed."
"Well, I haven't had time to review in detail the initial reports from the Santa Fe hospital—"
"Ladies and gentlemen," Miranda hefted the laptop, "I was told, as I was being herded to this meeting by a very insistent senior scientist, that we have precious little time. Well, he's wrong. That time ran out two days ago." She tapped keys. "A bladder removal remade. Amputated toes back in place as if they were never gone. Asthma cured, missing teeth regrown, missing tonsils regrown—"
"I'm sorry, uh, Miss—ma'am," Conroy said. "That's all anecdotal at this point. There's nothing to support—"
"I see nothing yet refuting these 'anecdotal reports.' Somebody mentioned the Manhattan Project. From where I sit, the blast of the first atomic bomb will be a firecracker to the explosion this is going to cause.
"And, ladies and gentlemen, the detonation has already begun."
* * *
[["In other developments related to the mysterious group of seventeen children, Health and Human Services Secretary Roberta Fletcher announced today the appointment of Radmilla Everett, an attorney and one-time social worker, as special liaison who will report on the status of the children. Everett will work with the New Mexico Department for Children, Youth, and Families to ensure, as the statement by a spokesman for HHS put it at a briefing, 'rights are protected and special needs of the young victims are met with immediate and fulfilling dispatch.'
"Also in Washington today, Harrison Conroy, special scientific adviser to the president, announced the formation of the Holn Effect Task Force, a panel of scientists who are, as Conroy put it, 'empowered to determine the facts behind the extraordinary events of June tenth, especially in relation to the group of seventeen children found after the departure of the extraterrestrial ship,' end quote: The main members of the task force will be made up of volunteers who will take leaves of absence from their respective institutions, Conroy said.
"The exact structure of the task force still has to be determined, but two appointments have been made already. Dr. Avram Rolstein, a neurophysiologist with Harvard University, has been named administrator, while Dr. Miranda Sena, a professor of neurological studies at the University of California at Los Angeles, has been named scientific director. Rolstein has been with the Holn project since the landing six years ago. Sena received some attention three years ago when she pointed out that the Holn have an artistic side.
"Rolf Treadwell, CNN, Washington."]]
* * *
The just-appointed scientific director of the Holn Effect Task Force stood at the head of the same hotel conference-room table Avram had brought her to two days before, idly tapping the surface as other people filed into the room. One of them was Matt, and by now she'd gleaned other facts about him, including his specialty—genetics—and the fact that he was not married, although she would not allow herself to see the relevance of that.
All members here had been pressed into service, and not so much "volunteers" as TV would have everyone think. Just like Miranda, they all had met the velvet-coated iron will of Avram Rolstein.
"You're doing this to get back at me, aren't you?" she had said. "You and that Harrison fellow."
Avram merely smiled. "Harrison has no say whatever in the formation of this group beyond my appointment. I want you because I think you are the best qualified. That will be true of everyone on the committee."
"But why in charge? We just met formally when you dragged me to the meeting."
"And what I saw there impressed me. Everyone read the same reports, yet you were the one who seemed to put it all into context first."
"Maybe I was just panicking first."
Avram shook his head.
"Yeah, well . . ." She looked down at her hands. "Dr. Nakai might not like me leaving at this time."
"I've already cleared it with Franklyn."
"But the neurology congress—"
"Has been canceled."
Miranda sighed. "The deck is stacked, isn't it?"
In the conference room, the group had settled down, each member looking at her with expectation.
"All right," she said as the murmuring quieted, "I declare the first meeting of the Holn Effect Task Force in order on June 14, 2008. Welcome to meat grinder."
Polite laughter greeted the remark. "As you know, the children were taken to the Lovelace Medical Center in Albuquerque late last night with so little fanfare more than one reporter was taken by surprise." She shrugged. "My first run-in with the press. Anyhow, this means a move for us also. Our new quarters will be at Sandia National Labs. We should all be down there by tomorrow night. Housing is being arranged. The lab is on an air force base, and that means security, and that means badges, and that means guards. A DOE rep will explain all this a bit later. I know many of you aren't comfortable with this, but look at the bright side: You won't have to dodge reporters every time you need to go to the rest room."
"Hallelujah," a voice muttered.
"Another advantage is proximity to the supercomputing facilities of both Sandia and Los Alamos, which means, in case you're unfamiliar with either, access to a whopping chunk of computer power.
"Meanwhile, JPL has formed a new data-search team. They have assigned a liaison, a Wanda Bettym—Bettermay"—she looked at the slip of paper in her hand—"Bet-te-mey-er, Bettemeyer, to the group. Until she arrives, though, Ben, Dr. Danthen, has graciously agreed to give us a quick review of the Holn contact. That might mean going over some old history for most of us—but, you never know, there might be a clue there somewhere. Lord knows we need a clue. And I need to sit down."
Matt jumped up, hurried over, pulled her chair out, held it as she sat down. "Thank you," she said.
"At your service." He stepped back to his chair.
"If you're sitting at this table, you're the head of a study group. Staff and technical personnel are being assigned to each group, along with a colleagues representing other nations. Officially, that's so research information can flow freely back and forth. Unofficially, it's so we can dodge the charge of being selfish.
"Olive Greenlea, here on my left, heads the Psychological Study Group. She and her colleagues are the only direct transfers from the local hospital, but they did such an outstanding job we decided we needed them.
"The rest of you are fairly well known in your fields, but I don't know how much you know each other. Next to Dr. Greenlea is Dr. Timothy Jenkins, head of the Cardiopulmonary Study Group, then Dr. Constance Peterson, Genetics and Cells, Dr. Lindsey Rollins, Neurological, Dr. Randall Whitman, Nutrition and Metabolism, Dr. Orlando Tousee, Osteology, and Dr. Anna Lowry, Endocrine. On my right, the chivalrous gentleman in the Marvin Martian T-shirt is Dr. Matthew Gunnarson, at-large member, willing to work with anyone. Dr. Avram Rolstein, of course, is the overall head of the group and the one we all can blame for being in this fix, but right now, he's out sparring with the media."
"I heard Smilin' Sam Innes has been appointed," Matt said. "Is this true?"
"Dr. Samuel Innes of Florida is the other at-large member who will join us in Albuquerque. Is this a problem?"
"He could be." Matt shrugged.
Terrific, she said to herself. She turned to the group. "The other personage at the table is Jack Theodoric, FBI. You can relax, he's not here to check our loyalty. Jack?"
"Yes," the man said as he scribbled idly on a yellow pad. "I'm a liaison. My first report is that we should have information shortly on the fingerprints taken at the hospital."
Miranda nodded. "A start at last. Other data from the St. Vincent studies are being transferred to a server at Sandia. We're also collecting medical records from family doctors, hospitals, whatever. We should be able to confirm claims of removed tonsils, say. Other suggestions?"
"We'll need sources of pre-event DNA," Matt said. "The famous strands of hair from hairbrushes and the like, and I suppose if there are toenails or fingernails lying around, you could collect those, too. Or favorite clothing that might have flakes of skin embedded, although if they've just been washed, it'll probably be no good."
"Right."
"Two of the people have claimed to have had surgery not too long before the event," Olive said. "Each said the hospital collected blood prior to surgery. We've contacted both hospitals and both blood samples are on their way."
"Excellent," Matt said.
"We're also checking the hotel rooms where some of these people stayed," Jack said. "Collecting personal belongings."
"Birth records?" Randall asked.
"As we speak," Miranda said. "We're going to the families first, but if they're lost or the families don't want to cooperate, we can go to county authorities."
"We'd better try to cut down on the number of people going to these families," Anna said. "They're already distraught, and all these people making demands could make it worse."
"Good point," Miranda said, taking notes.
"What, uh, what goals have you established?" Orlando asked.
"Avram and I have set down some priorities," Miranda said, scrolling back a couple of pages. "First, establish the identity of the children. Second, decide if they are human or alien. If we decide the children are who they claim to be, then the priority is to find out how they got into that state. Brain transplant? Transfer of personality into another organism? Or have the adults been . . . regressed . . . into children?" Miranda paused, frowning at her notes.
"It sounds a bit unreal," Constance said.
"It sounds like bad science fiction is what it sounds like," Miranda said. "Anything else?"
No one spoke.
"OK. Ben?"
"Can someone get the lights? Ladies and gentlemen," he said as a giant image of a Holn loomed on a wall screen, "here are the beings most responsible for saving the Jet Propulsion Lab from extinction." As the laughter died, he added, "After NASA handed the project to us, some of the staff suggested we change the name from JPL to the Holn Analysis Lab, to be known foreverafter as HAL."
That joke didn't go over as well, but Ben didn't seem perturbed as he adjusted his glasses. "Some of this might be old territory, but here's some of what little we know.
"About two-point-four meters total length, although only one-point-five erect. About as wide as a human, slightly thicker. Total body mass is approximately two-and-a-half times average human male, but distributed more evenly. Four sort of legs on the back section, with hair covering the body. The triocular vision is a theme common throughout Holn physiology. The body is divided into three segments. The larger pair of tentacles on the second segment are quite powerful, the smaller on the first are about the strength we have in our arms, and the itty-bitty ones just above the second set divide into three fingers for fine work. How many times have we wished for more than two hands? They have six appendages of independent mobility."
"What they could do with a set of Lego blocks," Matt muttered.
"Or an erector set." Ben hit a button and the vidstill was replaced by an anatomical drawing. "Bilateral symmetry, plus a spinal cord that makes almost a ninety-degree turn here. I get a backache every time I look at this.
"Their brains are segmented into three pairs. One pair is in the upper segment, two pair are in the middle segment. As far as we can tell, each segment, or each nodule in a segment, handles different types of processing."
The drawing was replaced by a video. "Inside the control room, with Pip and Pop doing something." A titter passed through the room. "Yes, I know, those are silly names for ETs, but they didn't seem to have individual monikers, so we came up with our own for all six: Pip, Pop, Pup, Pook, Alpha and Beta. The latter two were named by someone with a little more of a serious demeanor. Watch Pop, here—see how he just seems to climb up the instrument console? This is the scene that makes everyone compare these creatures to terrestrial centipedes. A superficial resemblance at best, but enough to give many humans the heebie-jeebies."
"Amen," said Constance, a slim blonde woman. "I had dreams of tiny Holn scurrying across my kitchen floor."
Ben chuckled. "You know, I don't think anyone asked if they have their version of cockroaches. Anyhow," the video froze, "nothing we've seen about Holn technology is beyond the realm of our own. The ships, the fuels—chemical in the case of the lander, fusion in the case of the deep-space boosters—the life support systems, the orbital mechanics, the mother ship—all are within Earth technological limits. Just a couple of generations ahead is all. Look at some similarities, such as the Apollo program and the late lamented Delta Clipper. We had trouble transferring data at first, but that was mostly equipment incompatibility, not anything so outrageous we couldn't find an accommodation eventually." He looked around at the faces in the room, "As for the seventeen, well, looking at what's being suggested as possibilities . . .He took a breath. I don't envy you people one little bit.
After a long silence, Miranda stood. "OK. Get moving ASAP. The children have been isolated not only from the outside but also from each other. Two days from now, we're going to bring them all together for the first time since June 10. Dr. Greenlea and her group will be observing, as will I. Anyone else is welcome to join." She closed the notebook. "Any questions?"
She waited a moment. "Any answers?"