The Project
Copyright (c) 2012 by Simon Haynes
* * *
James Garrett's jaw muscles tightened as he read the letter from the Ministry of the Exterior. For once the tangled, bureaucratic nonsense had given away to plain English: they were terminating the Project in two weeks. Garrett ripped the letter in two and squeezed the pieces into a tight, compact ball. There was a hollow clunk from the wastebin as the missive bounced on the metal base. "Pricks," he muttered, turning to the computer terminal perched on the corner of his desk. "Penny-pinching, short-sighted, arse-covering layabouts, the whole bloody lot of them."
He brought up a spreadsheet, wincing as he ran his eye down the column of red figures. If they were ever going to hear from an alien race in some far-flung corner of the galaxy, it wouldn't be with government help.
There was a knock on the door. Before Garrett could call out, it burst open and Matthew Harris strode in. The scientist was thirty-five or so, his thinning ginger hair shaved close to his skull to disguise a spreading bald patch. From the stubble on his jaw it was apparent he hadn't shaved for several days, and his pale grey eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep.
"Afternoon," said Garrett warily.
Harris leant across the desk. "Where's my hardware?"
Garrett glanced at the requisition form lying in his in-tray and shook his head. "No chance. They're winding up the project."
"That's bullshit!" Harris thumped the desk. "If we had ten percent of the cash those thieving bastards spend on their so-called fact-finding holidays ..."
"That's enough," said Garrett mildly, holding his hand up for silence. "Our power bills are astronomical. Our data usage has gone through the roof, and some chair warmer in the Ministry even wanted to know whether our little green men were reversing the call charges." Garrett glanced at the bin. "According to the latest missive, we're expendable. Too many demands on their funds."
"Yeah, well I've got demands on the antiquated hardware they fobbed off on us. I can't give you any results because the gear isn't up to it, and you can't get more gear without the results." A cunning look came into Harris's eyes. "Of course, if we changed our operating system ..."
Garrett snorted. "You want to run my project on something you downloaded off the net?"
"Jim, I know what the rules say about standardisation and license contracts and all that crap, but if you let me change over I'll withdraw my request for hardware. I can scab some old machines from the basement and use them instead."
"How long will it take?"
"A couple of days. I'll work through the night if necessary."
"I thought you were doing that already?" Garrett glanced up. "Those data splitters will run unattended, you know."
Harris rubbed his fingertips along his jaw, his bristles reacting with a noise like sandpaper on raw timber. "We're so close! I know there's something in all that data. There has to be. With the new OS I can run hundreds of routines in parallel, and ..."
"Spare me," said Garrett, holding up both hands to ward off the tech-talk. "How long will it take?"
"I can swap the software by Thursday. Testing Friday, processing data all weekend - let's say Monday for a progress report?"
"Monday then."
Harris nodded his thanks, then spun round and strode for the door.
"It had better be good," muttered Garrett. He glanced at the ball of paper lying in the bottom of the waste-paper bin. "It had better be really good, or we're screwed."
* * *
Garrett set the report on his desk and stared into space. There was a limit to the amount of speculation allowed in a these things, and Harris had found that limit, imperiously brushed it aside and marched onwards into unexplored territory. How like the man, thought Garrett. Oh, the report was positive enough: 'Massive increase in data throughput', 'Milestones met sooner than expected', 'Performing better than hoped for'. But once you stripped away the excitement and the retelling of past glories the report boiled down to a reluctant admission of failure.
Garrett glanced at his terminal. He'd already typed up most of his own report, and it would only take a few sentences to summarise the findings in Harris's part. He was just reaching for the keyboard when the office door flew open and the scientist burst in.
"I've got something!" shouted Harris, his face flushed. "Quick. Come and see!"
Garrett jumped up and ran for the door. Harris was already half-way down the corridor, running flat-out with his white lab coat flapping behind him like a sail in a hurricane. Garrett followed more sedately. He trotted down the two flights of stairs to the basement, then strode along the dank concrete corridor to the lab, where Harris was waiting for him. The scientist shoved the battered wooden doors open and stood aside like a showman presenting his prize exhibit. Garrett walked into the lab and stopped.
The Meta-Dimensional Telegraphic Receiver was huge, bigger even than the twin-phase muon accelerator a third-year student had built for an honours project twelve years ago. It dwarfed the lab, drowning out all other sounds as it buzzed, hummed and whirred to itself. The aluminium panels quivered with urgency, an urgency which until now had just seemed like childish impatience.
There was a shelf bolted to the front of the machine: it contained a miniature LCD screen, an old keyboard and a positively historic dot-matrix printer. Beneath the shelf an access panel stood open, revealing the insides of the machine - a mass of twisted wires, soldered circuit boards and row upon row of silicon chips. A line of battered computers ran along one wall of the lab, connected to the central machine with loops of thick blue cable.
Garrett stood aside to let Harris past. "Was it a verified contact?" he asked.
The scientist sat down at the keyboard and started to type. "Nothing like that," he said with a shake of his head. "I still can't decode anything,"
"Christ man, when you came charging into my office like that I thought you had something!"
Harris glanced over his shoulder. "I have. We can transmit."
"Transmit!" Garrett stared at the scientist, then turned to stare up at the machine. They were supposed to be scanning the the sixth dimension for alien civilisations, not using it for broadcasts. "Harris, what exactly have you done to my receiver?"
The scientist grinned. "It's a transceiver now. I copied the pickup circuits and reversed them, then wired in an amp to boost the signal."
"But what's the point of sending anything out? You can't tell if anyone got it!"
"I can if they reply. I'll have to transmit on all channels at once, and anyone picking it up should be smart enough to call us back in the same way." He frowned. "When they do, they can tell us how to narrow the focus."
"But where would you point the signal?"
Harris shook his head. "I can't point anything. Muller proved that every point in space is inter-connected within the sixth dimension."
"So?"
"Our message will be broadcast to every star, every planet in the galaxy simultaneously."
"I can't authorise that," said Garrett, shaking his head. "Let's go back to scanning the incoming data. If we can show enough positive progress to stop the Ministry closing us down ..."
"I've got a data packet ready. It'll take a couple of seconds to send it out, then we can shut everything off and go home like good little boys."
Garrett's curiosity got the better of him. "What have you prepared?"
"Three alphabets, a collection of mathematical symbols and a selection of binary-encoded pictures. Artistic poses, of course. All packed into thirty megs of data," said Harris smugly.
"You've put a lot of effort in, but I can't let you do it. The bureaucrats at MinExt would have kittens."
"I though
t you might chicken out." Harris reached out and tapped the Enter key. "Whoops, clumsy me."
Lines of data scrolled up the tiny screen, and the huge machine growled and rattled like a caged beast. Garrett felt something crawl up his back "What have you done?"
"Any moment now we could have our first contact with another civilisation," said Harris, his voice raised over the noise from the transceiver. He gestured at the screen. "Pity it's not full motion video," he shouted, with a fierce grin. "We could stick it on the web and make a fortune off ad revenue."
"You're mad!" cried Garrett, his face white. "They'll have my balls for this! Turn it off, man. Switch it off now!" The last words were loud in the sudden silence of the lab.
Harris laughed. "Too late. It's already gone."
Garrett stared at him. Then he smiled. "I get it. It's one of your little jokes, isn't it?" He shook his head. "You really had me going there for a minute. All that sturm und drang, the rattling, the wheezing noises ..." his voice had a pleading edge to it "... it was all a sendup, wasn't it?"
Suddenly the machine rumbled. Wires spasmed and the aluminium panels flexed and shuddered. Then the whole contraption fell silent. Harris's fingers danced over the keyboard, and he scanned the data pouring across the screen.
Garrett cleared his throat. "Was that supposed to happen?"
"Something's come in," muttered Harris. "We've got something!" he said, louder. He turned around, his eyes bright. "Did you see? We got something!"
"I thought you couldn't receive ..." Garrett lost his voice as Harris jumped up and grabbed him, and it was all the administrator could do to keep his feet as the younger man whirled him around in a madcap jig.
"They sent on all channels, just like we did!" Harris was yelling into his face. "They must have --"
He was cut off by the sudden chattering of the ancient printer. It buzzed like a demented cricket, then stopped. A sheet of paper spooled out, and only the loud breathing of the two men broke the ensuing silence. They stared at the printer with eyes like saucers for a full minute before Garrett raised one hand and gestured weakly. "It's your machine. You take it," he said.
Harris reached out with shaking fingers and tore the flimsy sheet of paper from the printer.
"Quick, man, read it!" urged Garrett breathlessly.
Harris scanned the uneven, faded print, then lowered the piece of paper and looked up, perplexed. "It's from the Trans-Comm Corporation of Tau Ceti IV. It's a bill for thirty-seven million long distance calls."
Both men stared at the printer as it clattered again. The noise stopped and Harris tore off the second message.
"This one's from the Universal Law Enforcement Agency," he said slowly. "We've been banned from using this communications device."
"In God's name, why? What else does it say?"
Harris laughed bitterly. "Someone reported us for spamming."
About the Author
Simon Haynes was born in England and grew up in Spain, where he enjoyed an amazing childhood of camping, motorbikes, air rifles and paper planes. His family moved to Australia when he was 16.
Simon divides his time between writing fiction and computer software, with frequent bike rides to blow away the cobwebs.
His goal is to write fifteen Hal books (Spacejock OR Junior!) before someone takes his keyboard away.
Simon's website is www.spacejock.com.au
Don't miss the Hal Spacejock series!
1. Hal Spacejock
2. Hal Spacejock: Second Course
3. Hal Spacejock: Just Desserts
4. Hal Spacejock: No Free Lunch
5. Hal Spacejock: Baker's Dough
Hal Spacejock: Framed (Short Story)
Hal Spacejock: Visit (Short Story)
www.spacejock.com.au
Simon Haynes also writes the
Hal Junior series for children
1. Hal Junior: The Secret Signal
2. Hal Junior: The Missing Case
www.haljunior.com