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“No, the idea.”
McCloud scoffed and pulled the glass from Reggie’s fingers. “If it’s within the realm of the possible, it’s not silly.”
“A construct larger—and perhaps more massive—than a star?” Reggie said. “Built by whom? All those billions of life forms we’ve taken note of out there?” The sarcasm was heavy, almost condescending, and he wished he’d dialed it back as soon as he spoke.
“Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
“Wasn’t that Dr. Countmen’s argument?”
“Look,” the professor said, “it got the crowd talking, didn’t it?”
“Your proposal is the only one that postulates the possibility of meeting intelligent life, or finding evidence thereof,” C chimed in. Reggie’s phone sat on the table between the two men. “Its uniqueness is statistically likely to make it more appealing.”
He had wanted interesting, he’d wanted sexy. And what was sexier, a bunch of rocks or an enormous alien machine?
“But, it’s just so unlikely,” Reggie said. “So unlikely that—”
“That what?” McCloud asked.
“That it feels like a lie.”
The waitress sauntered up, quickly exchanging his barren glass for one of plenty. She gave them both a sweet smile, one Reggie tried to return. Instead of thankfulness, though, he was sure his expression signaled mild indigestion.
McCloud started to speak, then paused to cough into his handkerchief. He wiped his mouth and nose, then tucked the square back in his pocket. “If I told you your research could either end up earning you a minor teaching position, or the Nobel Prize for physics, would I be lying?”
Reggie sighed and took a drink. “I’m not going to win a Nobel Prize.”
“But it is a possibility, no matter how remote. My suggestion that it might happen, whatever the odds, is no lie. That’s very different than saying I believe it will happen if I don’t.”
Reggie pouted. “You don’t believe my research is worthy of a Nobel?” He felt ridiculously petulant even as he said it and took another drink to hide his embarrassment.
“Did I say that?” He slugged Reggie in the shoulder and they shared a laugh. Professor McCloud finished off his whiskey. “So, if you don’t believe it to be an alien machine, what do you believe?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I want them to go find out—find the truth.”
“You want them to go, or you want you to go?”
An internal shudder ran through Reggie’s nervous system. McCloud had just hit on an idea Reggie hadn’t even let himself contemplate—a secret desire he hadn’t dared to hope for. He shook his head. “That’s impossible. Not worth thinking about.”
“Weren’t we just talking about possible/impossible? You could go. No one says you can’t. They haven’t decided on how to crew the ships. Haven’t decided who they need to man the warp-drives or whatever.”
“SD drives,” Reggie corrected. “It’s subdimensional travel.” Subdimensions, ha! It was a mangled term if he’d ever heard one. Almost as bad as calling something “dark” when it was simply unknown.
That was why the missions were being put together now. Deep space travel was finally a reality, the world’s political climate was in an upswing, armed conflict was at an all-time low, resources were abundant and more evenly dispersed than ever before, population growth had leveled out at nine billion (some scientists projected a possible decrease in the next fifty years), and humanity intended its first steps beyond its own solar system to be grand.
Humans were finally ready to see if they could survive out there, beyond the warm embrace of their little G-type star.
“I would never make it,” Reggie said. “It’s too far. You know how long it would take to get to LQ Pyx. Generations.”
“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t go along for the ride. Get things started in the right direction.”
“But it does mean I’ll never know.” He pushed his ale away. “I’ll never know why LQ Pyx is the way it is, one way or the other.”
“So, you’re a glass-half-empty man?” McCloud tapped his fingertips against the beer glass.
Reggie shrugged. “Maybe I am.”
“Here’s something I think glass-half-empty people always fail to consider.” He paused.
Reggie pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. “What?”
With a flick of his wrist, McCloud had the beer in his hand. In the next moment he poured it down Reggie’s front.
“Ah!” Reggie sprang up, trying to jump away from the liquid that had already soaked through to his skin. “What the hell?”
McCloud laughed. “It’s not the empty that leaves an impression, is it?” He offered Reggie his handkerchief, but Reggie declined—he knew where it had been. Instead he held his shirt out from his chest, glancing around for help, but none was coming. McCloud continued. “Life’s not about missed opportunities, Mr. Straifer. It’s about the moments that drench us to the bone and leave us sopping with experience.” He pointed to the back of the pub. “Restroom’s that way, I believe.”
“There are three dry cleaners in this sector of town,” chimed C.
McCloud was crazy.
But that didn’t mean he was wrong.
In the months of waiting that followed, after he and the professor had returned to the States, Reggie spent a long time contemplating soggy Dockers as a metaphor for life. But he was a scientist, not a poet. Math was his thing—he’d never had much use for metaphors.
He got the gist, though.
Reggie was precariously balanced on a wobbly footstool, hanging his recently framed doctoral certificate, when his phone rang. He answered using his implants. When he heard who was on the other end, and why they were calling, he dropped the diploma. Glass shattered. The fragments formed a distinct blast pattern out across his wood-laminate flooring.
“They awarded me what? My proposal … my project? Are you sure? There’s no mistake? Yes, yes, that’s me. Oh my god. I can’t—I mean, thank you. Thank you!”
After twenty-four weeks, the panel—composed of thousands of professionals from nearly one hundred nations—had voted. Another week and the votes were tallied. The top twelve proposals, one to match each of the twelve convoys, had been chosen.
And his had claimed a spot. They were going to his star.
They were going to LQ Pyx.
Without picking up the glass he dashed for the coat closet and pulled out his jacket. Two more steps brought him to his apartment door, and he was already on the phone before it latched shut behind him.
It was time for a party. The kind of party he hadn’t thrown since his undergraduate days.
“C, send a message to the troops: we’re going in!”
Even PhDs know how to get good and snockered.
“Come on. Come on, it’s fun.” Reggie entwined his fingers with a young woman’s as he led her out into the night. With his free hand he toyed with the neck of his beer bottle, and his feet took stumbling, giddy steps through the grass. Behind them the party continued to roar.
One of Reggie’s friends, Miguel, rented a house in the hills not far from campus, and Miguel had agreed to host the shindig. “It’s like your coming-out party,” he said, slapping Reggie on the back. “You know, like they have in the south when girls get their periods.”
“That’s not what a coming-out party is for,” Reggie said. To be fair, he hadn’t a clue what it was for, but it couldn’t be that. Regardless, he let his friends go around telling everyone he was “coming out.” Somehow they’d found a way to turn the get-together into a celebration and a ribbing all at once.
Light streamed into the backyard, and music with a heavy bass beat still rocked Reggie’s insides though they’d left the speakers far behind.
With him was a dark-featured young woman, her hair as wavy and body as curvy as any Grecian goddess’—Abigail, she’d said her name was.
Abigail. He liked how that sounded. He liked how her hand felt in his.
He just wasn’t quite sure how her hand had actually found its way into his …
The party was full of people Reggie didn’t know. Friends of friends, relatives of friends, walk-ins who’d come to investigate the noise and mooch some munchies. Abby—wait, no, she said not to call her that—Abigail was a cousin of a friend’s friend, getting her masters in English.
“What do you study?” she’d asked.
Oh. Right. Reggie had immediately grabbed her hand and led her out the back door. “I’ll show you.”
Through the flimsy wire gate, up a steep incline (pausing so she could remove her shoes), around a little rocky outcrop, and they were at the top of a tall hill. The flat little college town spread out below them, and the wonderfully wide sky stretched out above.
“Lie down,” he said, waving at a comfortable stretch of grass.
She crossed her arms and gave him a skeptical raise of one eyebrow. “Yeah, right.”
He was crestfallen, until he realized how he sounded. “Oh my god, no! I’m sorry—not like—sorry—no, look. Like this.” A little tipsy, his flop onto the ground was less than graceful. He stretched out his arms and shivered, as though he’d tucked himself into a comfortable bed. “You can’t see the stars from there,” he said when she leaned over him, hands on her hips.
Apparently deciding Reggie had no evil intentions, she shrugged and sat down beside him. She craned her neck back, trying to take it all in.
“This!” he said, reaching upward. “This is what I study.”
“The stars?”
“Yes. I’m an astrophysicist.” His tongue stumbled over the ysicist.
“Oh. It’s your party. Congrats. A Planet United Mission is a big deal.”
Reggie was half sure she was teasing. Big deal? he thought. Big deal? It’s the biggest deal in the history of big deals.
It was also a big responsibility. But he didn’t want to think about that right now. Responsibility was not party-talk.
“Noumenon is gonna be the greatest mission ever.” He’d meant to say something a little more profound, but his brain was floating in a beer haze. He reached for his drink, but couldn’t find the bottle. He’d set it down somewhere between here and the house.
“Noumenon?” she pressed.
“They said I could name the mission whatever I wanted.” He wrinkled his nose, trying to chase a scratch. “Nostromo was already taken, and I’m pretty sure it’s doomed, so …”
She punched him lightly in the arm for the joke. “So you picked Noumenon? Why? What is that? Sounds like one of Achilles’ lovers—you know, Agamemnon, Patroclus, Noumenon …”
“Agamemnon and Achilles weren’t—”
She winked at him and he blushed. She was joking right back.
“Oh. A—A noumenon is a thing which is, is real, but unmeasurable—the flip side of phenomenon. A phenomenon can be touched, tested, while a noumenon …” He wasn’t sure if he was explaining this right. For a moment he wished for sobriety. “What is a thought? What is a value, or a moral? These things exist, they’re real, but the thing itself can’t be directly measured.”
“But how does that relate to your mission?”
“The convoy’s gonna go to this star, see. Variable star, which is a phenomenon. A thing to poke and prod and study. But for me, it will always be unknowable. It’s real, but unreachable. That doesn’t make it a literal noumenon, but it … it feels fitting to me. There are things I can never know, things humanity can never know—or, hell, maybe I’m wrong and nothing is unknowable, nothing unmeasurable. But that just means the noumenal world is fleeting, a vast frontier.”
She nodded to herself. “Noumenon. Okay. I think I like it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, because I already sent in the paperwork, and I’m pretty sure it’s too late to change it.”
She giggled and inched closer to him. “What do you love about them?” she asked quietly. He looked over just as a light breeze whipped her hair across her face and she tucked it back.
“Who?”
She laughed louder. “The stars.”
He thought about it for a moment. “They’re pretty. Hold on, let me finish.” He held up a finger to stave off further snickering. “Pretty, but dangerous. Powerful. And … strange. They’re mysterious to me. They’re like lighthouses. Each one is different, and each is sometimes the only part of a system we can see.”
“Lighthouses,” she murmured. “I like that.”
“I wanted to be an astronaut. Still do.” He hadn’t admitted that since his undergrad days. It was a private dream, and he hadn’t told anyone in a long time for fear of seeming childish. But now … “To go into space—to see Earth as just another twinkling dot. If this dot can contain so much, but seem from afar like all the others—what else is out there?”
“You’re a king of infinite space,” she said wistfully.
He grinned, though he didn’t understand. “What?”
“It’s from Hamlet. Your world could be the size of a walnut, but your mind gives you infinite space to explore. You’re here on Earth, but the universe is your playground.”
He liked the idea. It was a comforting concept. He pulled his phone out of his trouser pocket. “C? Make me a note: read Hamlet again. All the way through this time.”
She laughed once more, and Reggie was sure he’d found his favorite sound in all the world.
FEBRUARY 5,-28 LD
2097 CE
… Convoy Seven has been assigned the mission designated Noumenon, the express purpose of which is to visit the star LQ Pyx, determine the cause of its variable output, conduct in-depth proximity research for two decades, and return home to educate earthbound researchers with regard to its origin, scientific significance, and viability as a resource …
The sweet smell of buttercream frosting mixed with the pungent scent of black coffee. Under the fluorescent lights of the campus meeting hall, toasts were made and welcomes were given. It was supposed to be a party—the first time all of Reggie’s team members were together in the same place—but he wanted nothing more than to get down to business.
His team consisted of a baker’s dozen head thinkers, each in charge of a subteam—people Reggie had never counted on meeting—who would really make the work come together.
Now his team leaders were all here, in person. They represented five countries, and two thirds of them were still jetlagged. They only had a few short days together before everyone was expected back at their respective posts and day jobs, so a party—even one as casual as this—felt like an unnecessary drain on their scant resources.
“Breathe, my boy. Relax. Give them all a chance to unwind before you throw new loads on their backs,” said Dr. McCloud. He’d retired after convincing the dean to hire Reggie, but had returned to share in this meeting of the minds.
