Monkfruit Investigates
by T. Richard Williams
TO: Professor Bindi Cook & Students
Indigenous Australian Studies Seminar
Charles Darwin University
New Darwin, NT, Australia
FROM: Dr. Stevia Monkfruit, Director SETI
Exoarchaeology Program
Aitken
Base, Farside Moon
DATE: April 19, 2279
SUBJECT: YOUR LETTER OF APRIL 10th
Thank you so much for contacting me, Dr. Cook. As requested, I'm writing to
you and your class from Aitken to tell you about my involvement in
the discovery of the Artifact--and about the ongoing, often-frustrating
mysteries surrounding lunar colonization. The candor of your communication
was refreshing; I hope to match it. Obviously, because of our locations--me
on the Farside and you in an undersea location--I'm unable to use the Com.
You'd think after nearly two centuries--not to mention recent events
here--that the Consortium would develop links to any place on the Moon and
Earth. But here we are, using old school technology. Rather than employing
my avatar, I'm actually dictating a letter to a Com keyboard
for transmission via century-old cubesats. We'll just have to think of it
as something pleasantly "retro" and forge ahead.
*****
So, before anything else, the first thing we must get out of
the way is my absolutely ridiculous name.
Stevia Monkfruit.
What were my parents thinking? Did they actually believe I
would get through my childhood without constant joking? That my early adult
life wouldn't be filled with little side/snide comments and smirks?
My father legally changed his surname to Monkfruit (from Wilson) after a
drunken visit to Thailand during spring break of his senior year at
Melbourne Uni. Why? I have no idea. A bet? A dare? He never told me; I
never asked. Our family's version of don't ask, don't tell.
That's the same trip he met Mum, another college senior (at RMIT) also on
break. Apparently, as the old song goes, "one night in Bangkok and the
tough guys tumble"--or as my Dad said: "I was totally smitten." They came
back to Melbourne and nine months later, there I was, wailing out my first
WTFs. According to the midwife, immediately after I was born--like literally ten minutes after I popped out--my parents (and the
midwife and the midwife's friends) decided as another old song goes "to
party like it was 1999," did a whole mess of psychotropic drugs, and
somehow came up with the name Stevia because one of Mom's sorority sisters
who was a barista at a local Starbucks told her that's how one of their
sweetener options came up on their Com screen: Stevia Monkfruit. Mom
thought it sounded romantic and Italian: Steeev-iah.
Rather than change the name when I became 17, I actually kept it. Yes, I
still think the name's asinine, but I've appropriated it as a sign of
strength, an eccentric flip of the middle finger. It's unique; it's mine.
It's a dare--as in "I dare you to laugh in my face when I introduce myself
or make a dinner reservation or display my ID on your Com."
There. Have we had our chortle? Can we move on?
Good.
So now we can get down to the important stuff--like the Artifact and those
cryptic monoliths. And that'll require a bit of backstory.
******
My parents moved to the American Consortium when I was an infant because my
Mum got a tech job in New York--and Dad taught Humanities at Columbia. That
was 2145.
From the time I was a kid, I was always interested in the planets and
stars; I became a math and astronomy whiz at an early age, which, as I got
into high school, some girls found sexy. I was tall, athletic, with my
Dad's curly blond hair and my Mum's big brown cow eyes--so the word cute was sometimes tossed around as only the Americans can.
And if my classmates razzed me endlessly about my name--Monkey Fruits,
Fruit Pie, Monkey Bars, to name but a few--they also admired the stuff I
was exhibiting at science fairs or showing off in chem lab: "Holy crap,
Fruit Loops, that's freakin' awesome."
After high school came a few years at Harvard, and then Cambridge on a
Hawking scholarship. With a PhD in hand, I was chosen by the United
Consortium to work in New York on SETI projects and to establish a special
Archive collection devoted to anthropology, archaeology, and hominin
paleontology--past, present, and future. A dream come true. Then a couple
of years ago, they decided to move me up to Aitken.
Oh, just a few more details before we move on: I'm 134 but don't look a day
over 30. All hail gene-splicing and nanobots! I'm also single and gay. The
attention from those high school girls back in the day definitely added to
my "cool factor," but by my junior year, I figured out it was the high
school boys I found more intriguing. For some of the guys, it was just
another aspect of my overall weirdness, but a few others tried to bully me.
Fortunately, Dad loved the martial arts and taught me well. After two or
three encounters that I won fairly decisively, the bullying turned into
tacit, grudging admiration by a handful and "I don't give a crap" from most
everyone else. I was Monkey the Science Guy--funny, smart, and--yes--kinda
cute. In Uni and grad school, the gay thing was a total non-issue--as it
has been for the last century.
That's probably enough shaggy-dog story for now.
******
So, the first question some of your students want answered: What do I do as
exoarchaeologist?
Well, until the discovery of the Artifact, I was a theoretical
archaeologist who hypothesized about potential relics, ruins, and abandoned
sites found off-planet. It was a growing theoretical field that was pure
SETI research based on solid Earth-bound field work.
But then came the discovery of the Base, the Monoliths, and--most
importantly--the Artifact.
And that, ladies and gents, requires a little more backstory. If this is
stuff you already know, forgive me; I never want to assume.
Humans didn't return to the Moon until the late 2020s. The Chinese, the
European Space Agency, the Americans and Russians. Even India and Japan
made their way there. By the 2090s, there were two thriving international
colonies, both on the Nearside: Aristarchus and Cleomedes.
Then in 2098--or so the American Consortium once had us believe--the
American Consortium took the lead on the third colony, this one on the
Farside: Aitken. Other nations joined in, but the American big wigs
were the head honchos. The official party line? Aitken was going to
be the first real attempt by humans to explore the cryptic Farside, an
attempt finally to decipher the mysterious thickness of the
Farside crust and the inordinate number of impact craters. Only a permanent
Base with a steady stream of scientists could really accomplish "our"
goals.
And so Aitken was born. Again.
Flash forward 180 or so years and I was invited to take part. Me. Living on
the Moon. An exoarchaeologist.
And once more, you ask: Doing what, Monkey Bars?
******
Ah, let's go back to last October--2278.
Enter Ethan Milnar. Transportation chief at Aitken and all-around
good bloke.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when I saw Ethan's rover returning to the
Base--but I immediately suspected that something was off.
Why?
A little more info: You need to imagine Aitken's layout. It's a
hodgepodge of buildings created steadily since 2098. (Stay tuned--more
about the actual date in a sec.) In any event, the Base is
concentrated in an area about twenty square acres--and still growing. We
have the original Quonset huts that were constructed by robots--whom we
call Mechanicals--before the initial settlers--the "New
Millennials"--arrived in 2101. Those structures contain all the "firsts":
the first farm, the first "air forest," the first lab space, and first
personal quarters--all of which are maintained in their original state for
"historical purposes" and for the small but regular flow of tourists from
Earth (aka "Downstairs"). Then we've got the domed structures of various
sizes built by the ensuing waves of human colonists that now house half a
dozen farms plus a massive "farmers' market," eight "forests," some living
quarters for the farmers and "park rangers," and the hangar-sized Garage
dome for our local transport, space shuttles, all-terrain tractors, and
other smaller vehicles. And finally, we have well over a dozen,
centrally-located multi-storied, urban-sized structures--including a few
pyramids--that are the hub of what amounts to a lunar city: rather toney
apartment buildings, administrative offices, a state-of-the art medical
center, a library that includes the Archive labs where I work, a theater
complex for live as well as Holo presentations, and--most recently--a
rather beautiful art museum that hosts special exhibits from Earth and the
growing number of lunar artists. All in all, our Base has everything you'd
need a quarter million miles from Earth.
And though you already know this, I still find the most
remarkable aspect of Aitken is that--like Nearside Aristarchus and Cleomedes--the colony is completely
underground, constructed inside a vast cave that's part of an enormous,
extinct lava tube--nearly a kilometer wide, over two hundred meters high,
and winding further back into the crust over a dozen klicks. The first wave
of Mechanicals installed the great "sun lamps" on the "ceiling" of the cave
directly over the initial Quonset "village" for the incoming humans to help
dispel the sense of being trapped underground. As the colony expanded into
a small city, more "sun lights" were added--which also help illuminate the
rough-hewn interior of the cave, a rather boundless, bouldery world of
greys, blues, purples, and even a few splashes of deep orange. And the
bottom line for all this cave-dwelling? No stray meteors or untoward
radiation bursts can affect us in here.
Final important detail: The entrance--a yawning 500-meter-wide slash
towards the top of the eastern wall of the cave--is about one klick from
the "city." Our rovers and tractors use the 25-degree trails to and from
that opening to access the surface; and all vehicles leave and return to
the Garage on the eastern edge of town.
So late on that Tuesday afternoon, I was reading in East Park. I looked up
and noticed my friend Ethan's excursion rover make its rumbling way back
through the entrance. It was easy to recognize: A large six-wheel vehicle
that resembled an old-style RV like the one I've seen in prehistoric family
photos, bright yellow (instead of the usual sand-toned), Ethan's Rider detailed in large blue italicized letters under the
front window. No big deal--except that when I saw that it didn't go to the
Base's garage, I was more than curious. Instead, his vehicle worked its way
through the town's somewhat narrow streets, forcing smaller conveyances to
the side or onto walkways, making more than a few pedestrians scramble to
safety. It finally made an awkward docking maneuver with Tower C, the
Administration building in city center.
An hour or so later, in Mess Hall Two--one of three available to those who
wanted a break from cooking in their own quarters--I approached Ethan
during our supper hour. There are three staggered hours in each Mess to
accommodate the usual crowds. We're a city of nearly a hundred thousand
people; that's a lot of mouths to feed, which keeps all the farms going
round the clock. So I asked if I could join him at his table--he was alone
and it's something we do all the time. I've always considered Ethan one of
my closer friends on Base since I arrived, so his reluctant "Yes"
surprised me somewhat.
The first part of the conversation ended up being small talk about who was
dating or mating --Rick and Madi? Really? And what's with Sven and Harry?--how the
expansion was progressing--Ten new buildings by year's end--and the
elections--Do you think Hoshi will run for Colony Commander? All
fine and good, but then I asked about Ethan's Rider.
"Why C Tower? It's not equipped to handle big off-loads."
"I can't talk about it."
"Oooh, mysterious," I joked, leaning in. "Must be something big."
"Seriously, I can't talk. I'll get in trouble." He was clearly
uncomfortable, as evidenced by his glances around the crowded dining hall.
"Sorry." I pulled back. "Just an innocent question."
"Mind your business, Monkey Bars." The tone was suddenly sharp.
I registered an internal "What the hell" that must've been
apparent--I don't exactly have a poker face. "Sorry, kiddo, just curious."
"Which we know kills cats."
For the third time: "Sorry."
"Then drop it." The strident tone was muffled, under-the-breath, more of a
plea.
"All right, all right." I dropped it, but...
The rest of the meal--about five minutes of watching him shovel his food in
as quickly as possible--was silent and tense. And with nothing more than a
nod, he got up and left.
What the hell,
indeed.
******
Then came the call the following morning--Wednesday--from Jenna Hilliker,
who despite (or is it because of?) everything, is still Base
Commander.
Her top floor office in Tower C is spacious even by lunar standards--10 by
10 meters with a steeply vaulted metallic ceiling that boasts not one, but
three skylights that let in "sunlight" from the stony roof of the cave.
I was ushered in by her assistant, a very humanoid Mechanical named Larken.
Hilliker sat in a high-backed, possibly-leather chair behind her desk--a
large slab of polished lunar basalt resting on spidery titanium
legs--looking every centimeter the Commander-in-Chief: 40 years old (but
who knows?), a salt and pepper crew-cut, squared-off features, battleship
grey eyes, a crisp khaki-colored uniform.
"Thanks for coming, Steve." (Did I have a choice?)
She didn't get up, which meant I couldn't shake her hand unless I leaned
awkwardly across the desk. She nodded towards the visitor's chair, a
smaller companion to hers, and I sat, feeling somewhat like the naughty
school boy being brought into the principal's office.
I can't believe how ridiculously inept my opening remark was: "What's up?"
As if we were going to have a pleasant little chit-chat. No, this was
serious business. No two ways about it.
"'What's up'"--she repeated my words--"is something potentially very
serious, and we need your help."
Relief clearly registered on my face; she actually broke into a smile:
"What? Did you think you were in trouble?"
"Frankly, yes--and I was trying all morning to figure out what the hell was
wrong after your office called." I admit it: I tend to assume the mantle of
guilt in front of authority figures quite easily, which is a surprise since
my upbringing and school experiences were anything but rigid or
authoritarian. "Well, this isn't a social call, for sure. But, no, you're
not in trouble. In fact, quite the opposite. We're pleased with your work."
My turn to smile. "I haven't really done much other than organize the
anthropology and archaeology sections in the library. In fact, I've always
been a bit puzzled by my presence here since I arrived."
"How so?"
What I thought was: What a weird conversation. What I said was: "As an exoarchaeologist, my work is--at least so
far--highly theoretical. We humans haven't found any extant alien
civilizations anywhere we've looked. I hypothesize, but I'm not examining
actual artifacts or evidence, unless, of course," I winked and laughed,
"you've actually found something buried you're not telling me about."
She went pale, then quite stone-faced. "Has anyone spoken to you?"
Is she changing the topic? What's that reaction?
"About what?"
"About anything involving the Base."
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Has anyone told you something?" She wasn't spelling it out.
"I'm at a loss here, Commander. I'm confused. I made a joke and I seem
to've said the wrong thing."
"Not wrong. Just interesting." Like grey-eyed Athena, she scrutinized. "Are
you sure no one has spoken to you in, say, the last 24 hours."
"Again, I'm at a loss. About what?
"About anything unusual."
"No."
"You're certain?"
"What's this about?"
"Your comment about artifacts."
"What about it?"
"Because we need your help--and," she paused, carefully minding her next
words, "an artifact may be involved." She emphasized the word like a
cautious lawyer. "An object that may have been delivered to us by a
field crew yesterday."
My lights went on. "Ethan Milnar."
"Then someone did say something to you."
"Actually, no. I happened to see his vehicle pulling in yesterday. It came
here rather than the garage. When I asked him about it at dinner, he told
me to mind my own business."
"But you're friends, right? He didn't say anything?"
"No. We're friends, but he said nothing. If you asked him for his silence,
he definitely followed orders."
"Good to know." She was all business. "But what I brought you here for is
your expertise. And your discretion. If we asked Ethan to remain quiet,
we're asking you doubly so. No one, outside of a few very select people,
must know about this."
"About what?"
"About this." She went over to a set of drawers installed under a
bookcase filled with HoloPix of family and friends plus a few very old
leather-bound books that must have been worth a fortune. She pulled out a
small metal box and went back to her desk.
She slid the box across to me. "Open it, Steve."
I did. Inside, nestled in foam padding, was a shard of bone--from its
slight curvature, perhaps a piece of skull.
"Where did you find this?" I asked.
"About three klicks west from here. That's all I can say for right now. Not
because I'm being evasive. We just don't know what we're dealing with."
"Who's we?"
"Need to know only at this point. Sorry."
I took the piece out and turned it in my fingers a few times. "It appears
to be a section of a skull. Human."
"Or humanoid."
The word hung in the air for a moment.
"Ah. Hence the possible need for me--the exoarchaeologist?"
"Exactly. We want you to date the fragment. But we'd like a DNA analysis,
too. And we'd like you to work with Ethan--don't worry, I'll let him know I
spoke with you. I'd like the two of you to head back to the site and see if
there are other remains."
I put the bone back and placed the box back on her desk; she leaned forward
and retrieved it, placing it squarely in front of her. Protectively.
Probably for the first time in years, I was truly speechless. The questions
poured through me: Why the hell was there a skull fragment on the Moon?
Where'd it come from? If it was human, what was the cause of death? Was it
someone from the early days? Why was he--or she--buried out there? Hilliker
said three kilometers--why so far from the Base? Natural causes? Foul play?
Accident? Why did she say humanoid--as opposed to human? If
it wasn't human--holy crap--that'll rattle more than a few cages.
Hilliker could see my cogs whirling around. "You're up to this, Steve. We
have every confidence in you. We also know you'll treat this as top secret.
Absolutely no one must know what you're doing."
"Except for Ethan."
"Yes."
"But what about people in my Archive lab? I can't do this alone."
"We're assigning you two Mechanicals."
"But won't using the robots--replacing my regular human assistants--raise
questions among the rest of the staff?"
"Which is why you'll tell them the truth--or a variation of it--that you're
working on something sensitive for the Consortium. It won't be a problem."
"Unless someone decides to snoop."
"Which is why you'll be using special equipment that can be locked down
anytime you or the Mechanicals aren't around."
"What about someone hacking into the data?"
"Not possible."
I raise an eye. "Seriously? Where there's a will..."
"...there's a prison." She wasn't smiling. "If anyone tries anything, we'll
be on immediate alert and they'll be escorted off to the brig before they
have a chance to say a word. The Mindwipe is quite effective."
"And quite painful, sometimes fatal," I said.
She didn't respond. Instead: "Are we clear, Steve?"
"About the rules, yes. About the bone itself, about its origins, not so
much."
"And we know you'll solve the mystery."
"When do I start?"
"You and Ethan will go to the site tomorrow morning. This bone
fragment"--she tapped the box--"and anything you find at that site of a
similar nature will be delivered to your lab in the afternoon and retrieved
by Security when you're done for the day. It will be delivered and
retrieved every day for your analysis for as long as you need it."
"Can Security be trusted?"
"They're Mechanicals programmed by us; only we have their codes."
"And you trust every one of the 'we'?"
"My, my, you're more cynical than I imagined."
"I've read too many novels, seen one too many holos."
"I'm glad you're being so questioning; it proves we made the right choice.
You're looking at all the angles, and you're doubt-filled. We need a
skeptic to make sure we'll get the right answers."
And with that our meeting ended. Hilliker got up and walked me to the door.
Her tough Commander demeanor slipped for the briefest of moments when she
put her hand on my shoulder. "You can do this, Steve. This is why
you're here on the Moon."
As I walked out and made my way down to the first floor, I replayed
Hilliker's last sentence: "This is why you're here on the Moon."
Does that mean they--whoever they are--know something about the Moon
they aren't telling the rest of the world? Was I brought here because they
already knew there were bones to be found? Or that bones already had
been found? But why an exoarchaeologist? Yes, I've got a background in
medicine and genomics thanks to some early work at Cambridge--but that
wasn't my focus. I was busy imagining alien civilizations. Is that what
this was all about? Was there something here on the Moon? Proof?
Suddenly, my job wasn't about theories and speculation.
******
So Dr. Cook--and class--we're now up to Thursday morning.
Ethan and I were heading out onto the surface in his excursion rover.
"I'm sorry, Monkey Bread," he said. "I didn't mean to be such a dick at
dinner, but I'm anxious about all this. The Consortium--not to mention
Hilliker--can be pretty intimidating."
"You should've seen her yesterday when she asked me to do this. She was
right out of a holo--the imperious matron of a prison unit. Though I
couldn't help but think that some of her tough act was and is a
show--not for me or you, but for the Consortium."
Once we hit the mouth of the cave, we were slapped by the brilliance of the
sun against the pale lunar landscape; the Rider's sunscreens
immediately activated. We rumbled away from the Aitken's entrance.
Heading west, the regolith alternated between a dusty sand and rocky debris
mingled with monumental boulders.
"Did you stumble across the find--or were you sent?"
"Can't say."
"Wow, she really does have you by the nads."
"Again, I'm sorry Monks, but they're probably tapping our Coms right now.
Anything we say ..."
"Got it."
So we spent the next few minutes in a tense silence, watching the moonscape
slip by. The blaring sun on this side meant the Nearside was in darkness--a
New Moon on Earth. The horizon--only a couple of klicks away--was
saw-toothed and, as we got further out, the nearer terrain reasonably
smooth with occasional up-swells of basaltic rock.
"It's up ahead."
"What am I looking for?"
"You'll see it, trust me."
In another moment, I did. A quonset--a much smaller version of the larger
ones in Aitken--stood between a pair of matching five-meter-high
monolithic rocks. Were they a bizarre natural feature? Something created by
the original settlers? And for what reason? I felt my pulse speed up with
the next thought: Or were they erected by something else? Someone else? My imagination was scampering.
As we got closer, I realized that the hut was significantly damaged. Its
metallic skin was torn in several spots--as if blown out from the
interior--and there were scorch marks emanating from the doorway. What had
happened? An explosion? An accident? An attack?
We stopped a few feet from the entrance, which appeared to be a large
sliding door on a metal track; affixed to it was an old American flag
emblem--neither the United Consortium nor the American Consortium shield. This place is seriously old.
"We'll go inside now." Ethan's voice clearly hinted at his nerves; he just
wasn't himself.
"Fine, but I wish you'd open up with me. What the hell's going on?"
He pointed to his Com implant behind his right ear, shaking his head. I was
tempted to say something snide about Consortium Security goons, but for
once I filtered my usually too spontaneous mouth and simply acknowledged my
understanding with a grudging, quick nod. No use in arguing or forcing an
issue.
We went to the rear of Rider and donned the new Belt Units that we'd
all been issued just last week. With a press of the "buckle," we were
almost instantly enveloped in a transparent head-to-toe SuitBody; we could
hear the nanobot-powered air recyclers kick in. They sure beat the EVA
suits we'd been using for the last few decades--even the newer models could
be cumbersome. The Belts allowed so much freedom, including wearing "street
clothes." You could walk around in pretty much any exterior environment as
if you were inside the city, enclosed only in a thin body-shaped "bubble"
of plasma energy that protected you from radiation and any noxious
atmosphere--or, in the case of the Moon, the lack thereof. A marvel.
We left Rider and headed towards the bruised entrance. Low gravity
and the consistently stony ground of the Farside kept us walking gingerly
and methodically.
The closer we got, the more I could see how damaged the entire facility
really was.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"I'm showing you something inside."
The door slid open fairly easily revealing an interior now bathed in light
from emergency lamps that floated like oversized fireflies around the room.
(They were probably placed there by a previous away team.) I guessed the
hut to be about 4 meters wide and about 8 long. A few workbenches lined the
curving walls. The center of the room had what appeared to be wooden
flooring, some of which had been pulled up a little left of center.
"Wood on the Moon? Now there's a sight." I said aloud.
But Ethan pointed towards the exposed soil. "That's where the fragment was
found. We'll need to dig more."
As if on cue, five Mechanicals walked through the door we'd left open.
Gleaming white, 2 meters tall, and decidedly human in appearance, each one
bore some type of digging tool either in its hands or in a haversack.
"Where'd they come from?"
"They've been here since the discovery, outside, in rest mode. They've been
waiting for us." He then addressed them: "Okay fellas, it's time. We need
more of this area in the middle excavated. Be careful. If you find
anything, let us know before proceeding."
They began immediately, shovelful by shovelful. More and more planks
cautiously being removed. For two full hours.
And then: "Over here, gentleman." The lead Mechanical--Roger was
printed on his chest next to a Consortium logo--raised his hand. "I've
found something."
Ethan and I walked over. There it was. Another bone sticking out of the
grimy grey lunar soil.
I carefully walked into the dig site. Kneeling, I could see clearly what it
was. A leg bone. A tibia. I brushed aside more dirt. A broken piece of
fibula rested immediately next to it.
Unless some alien species was an exact match, I was willing to bet I was
looking at human remains, but I'd have to determine that in my lab.
"Extract these, please," I ordered. "And uncover the entire floor of this
hut. Keeping digging. You have my permission." Just in case, I looked at
Ethan to make sure I had the authority; he nodded. As if the Mechanicals
needed further assurances, a voice came through our Coms. It was Hilliker:
"Yes, proceed. And carefully bag and label everything. Do thorough imaging
as well. We want a complete record of the site."
And so it went for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening.
Digging. Imaging. And bones. Many more bones. The skeletal remains of at
least five persons. I could see this would easily be the work of several
more days, probably a week.
Normally, I think I'd be over the Moon with unfettered excitement.
(Sorry, I couldn't resist; I've been wanting to say that for the longest
time.) A lunar excavation site with the remains of once living beings? Who
were they? When was the hut built? What was going on here? Which came
first--the skeletal remains or the hut itself? How and why was the hut
damaged? Dozens of pulse-quickening questions. But all of that was tempered
with the ominous feeling of being used, of being part of something the
Consortium clearly wanted to keep under wraps and under control. This was their show and nobody else's. I was--and I assume Ethan was--merely
a tool, part of something that I might never fully know about. This was
like the 20th century's Manhattan Project or the 21st
century's Project Staghorn. People working on something, being told to keep
their mouths shut, and never completely realizing what they were part of
until it was all over.
So my awe and wonder were definitely tempered--and my natural tendency to
shout from rooftops was being squelched.
Yet--despite the buzz-kill--there was something wondrous happening. Until
now, all that humans had been able to discover on another world was
microbial life--on Mars and five of the gas and ice giant moons. And aside
from some intriguing "signals" from deep space, finding a bonafide
extraterrestrial civilization had been full of dead ends. There was still
that part of me dazzled by the idea that I might be having the chance to
identify and analyze remains from once-living alien beings found
someplace other than planet Earth. Or perhaps--just as
remarkable--identifying and analyzing mysterious human remains that
had somehow gotten buried here in the thick gravel of the Moon several
kilometers away from the nearest settlement.
*****
Moving along.
It's now Friday--the day after our initial visit to the site--and we're in
my lab in the library building. It's a gleaming room of screens and work
tables, MicroSeers and good old-fashioned test tubes.
Commander Hilliker came in, placing a disrupter on my workbench. I must
admit, I was deeply suspicious.
"A disrupter? Illegal tech?"
"For fifteen minutes, they won't care--especially since I've rigged it to
look like a system malfunction."
"Because that won't raise flags."
"I doubt it. They're installing a whole new Com link in Building G. A
fifteen-minute outage won't matter. Trust me."
"One of the perks of being the Commander?"
Was that a self-effacing, almost-a-smile look I saw? But it quickly
disappeared. "We're down to 14 minutes; let me fill you in on what's been
going on."
"Why the change of heart?"
"Because I like you; I like Ethan. I don't appreciate seeing any of us
screwed over by the system."
"Which you represent. Why should I be trusting you now--especially in the
middle of this supposed Consortium assignment?"
"I don't blame you for being wary."
"Wary doesn't even begin to cover it."
"Fair enough."
We watched the various machines in front of us clicking and calculating.
Any moment now.
"Be honest: Do you already know the results I'll get?" I asked.
"Possibly, but before I tell you what I do know, I want to see those
results. To verify or refute what I've been told."
And so we watched a little longer. Me, Hilliker, and the two Mechanicals
who stood like sentinels at the door.
It was one of the longer minutes of my life.
Then--finally--after a quiet ratcheting sound, a magnified section of a DNA
strand fizzed into view, rotating slowly, floating in the air over my
workspace. Above and below the spiral with different colors representing
the chemical components, a few math formulae faded in and out of view along
with an analysis chart off to the side.
Realizing we were pressed for time, I quickly tapped into my Archive Com to
verify the results--reanalyzing the strand, recalculating the math,
rereading the chart at least three times.
Impatiently chron-watching, Hilliker finally broke the silence. "So?"
"Human. Definitely human. But."
"But?"
I raised my hand for quiet--which I'm sure surprised the Commander--I
imagined her calling me a cheeky bastard--and checked the numbers
again.
"The bones are human, that's definite. But the results say they're between
300 and 325 years old, which would mean the original sample and all these
other remains could date as far back as the mid-1950s--which is
impossible." I turned and saw a Cheshire cat smile spread across Hilliker's
face.
"Son of a bitch," she muttered. "Not the mid-1950's, but maybe the
mid-1960's."
"And is this what you were planning on telling me?" I asked.
"You need to sit, Steve. I've got a story for you."
As I turned off the display, she checked the disrupter ball. Satisfied it
was fully operational--"We've got another few minutes"--we took our places
on two work stools. The Mechanicals remained at a distance--standing guard
or listening in; I couldn't guess which.
"So. You were right, Steve. If these remains had indeed proven to be
alien--as in visitors from another planet--yes, that would've been a major
game changer. But they're not. They're human. Twentieth century human."
Meanwhile, I just sat there wondering what the hell was happening. "The
1960's? Really?"
"Really. Here's the 'truth'," she made air quotes, "as I know it. The truth
uncovered through lots of behind the scenes digging around. Believe me, I
owe lots of folks lots of favors. Who knows if it's the whole truth or just
part of a larger narrative? One never knows with the Consortium."
I didn't know what surprised me more, her openness, or her doubts about the
Consortium. Yet chief among my reservations was the possibility that this
whole conversation was bull. Was this tête-à-tête nothing
more than a quite vivid, award-winning act? Was she feigning everything?
Testing my loyalty? Testing my ability to keep my mouth shut?
Yet...there was an intangible something about her
whole demeanor that made me think she was actually being honest with me.
That she'd been wanting to open up to someone who wasn't part of the system
for a long time. Was that my sixth sense--or good old-fashioned projection?
Truth or attributing a wish?
"Here's what I've been told--take it or leave it. Are you familiar with the
name Project Horizon?"
I smiled at the memory of my mother telling me about it, a kind of bedtime
fairytale. "Supposedly the American government's plan to build a military
Base on the Farside."
"Exactly."
"I'm not sure I like where this is going."
"Why? If it's the truth, it's the truth. And apparently it is. What Ethan
Milnar uncovered is the remnant of an old military base finished in 1966.
It housed around a dozen men and women--a full three years before Apollo 11
made the supposed first landing. It operated for nearly twenty years,
growing to hold close to a hundred people in twelve buildings."
Suddenly, my filter was off: "That is some serious bullshit, Commander. How
could anyone have constructed the transport rockets, brought up the
supplies, let alone convey the personnel, given the state of rocketry in
the 1960s? It's ridiculous."
"And yet here we are. You saw what you saw and DNA doesn't lie."
"I don't trust the Consortium. I barely trust you, sorry to say. I don't
mean disrespect, but it's the truth."
"None taken."
"The Consortium could've built this whole site for some bizarre,
yet-to-be-discovered reason; they could've planted those skeletons."
"Just like some people thought the Moon landings were all a hoax?"
"Exactly."
"And for what purpose? Why go to all the trouble? Isn't that 'serious
bullshit,' too?"
I was flummoxed by the whole proposition. "Besides, why hasn't anyone from Aitken come across the site before? It's been around a long time;
it's a pretty decent-sized city these days. Is that probable? Science teams
travel west all the time--dozens of missions a year. None of them found it?
Seriously? Two monolithic rocks? A half-destroyed Quonset in the middle of
nowhere? And then where's the rest of this alleged Base?"
It was Hilliker's turn to put up a hand. "All good questions. Two minutes,
Steve, two minutes. Let me finish. There's more."
I guessed: "The monoliths?"
She nodded.
******
Let me pick up on Saturday morning and finish the story:
"How long?" Ethan asked.
"Ten minutes. I'll claim another glitch in the system. Hilliker'll back us
up."
We were out by the damaged hut again.
"So how much do you really know?" I asked.
"Lots."
"Hilliker told me everything. You might as well tell me your version."
He looked at me as if he were weighing what to do; the anxiety was
palpable. But after a few moments he exhaled. "All right. Let's do this."
He walked over to a metal locker that was partially tipped and opened the
warped door. If there'd been air, I could imagine the sound of an un-oiled,
rusty creak despite there being no rust on the Moon.
Inside were large map rolls, one of which he brought over to a workbench
along the wall and unfurled it. I quickly saw it depicted the local
region--I recognized a few of the features.
"Aitken cave--over here on the map--was the original Base. 1966.
This hut was one of twelve built out here--near missile launchers."
"Where are the other huts? The launchers?"
"Destroyed."
"Why is this one left?"
"That's one of the mysteries. I honestly don't know. But first things
first. Go back to your lab and look for DNA matches for the remains we
found. What you'll find are matches from a long time ago, one of them being
a distant forefather of mine. About 12 generations ago another Milnar
worked inside this hut."
"Seriously? You have proof?"
"Your lab results should prove it."
"Why would the Consortium allow that--especially if they're part of a cover
up? This whole story has serious holes in it. If this were a holo, I'd be
cringing at this point."
"Let me go on, please." Like Hilliker, he seemed seriously relieved to be
getting this saga off his chest. "When I was back on Earth, I'd heard the
stories and had my suspicions, but then Hilliker contacted me when she was
last there--about three years ago--and told me she'd been researching the
same story. She'd heard one of her distant relatives had been part of
Project Horizon, too. She wanted the proof. Since I was an engineer and a
construction expert, there would be a logic to her requesting my transfer
to Aitken."
"Again, I ask: Why bother? Even if it's true, why would the Consortium want
this known? It's been denied for thirty decades." I just rolled my eyes,
more out of frustration than anything else.
"Let me finish." He waited for me to nod. "Why bother, you ask? Because
what happened when the Americans got here was beyond remarkable." Another
pause. "Why bother? Because the monoliths were placed here thousands--or
millions--of years ago by alien visitors. What are they? Who knows? A
greeting? A weapon? A marker?"
I couldn't help it. I burst into spontaneous laughter. "Oh my God! This is
the same bull that Hilliker told me yesterday. Alien monoliths? Really?
That's called 2001: A Space Odyssey, and it's one of the great holos
of the 20th century. Seriously? Monoliths on the Moon?" Lots more laughter.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"2001? You don't know it? It's an old film--you can watch it in any
holo archive these days. They find a monolith on the Moon that's clearly
alien in origin. It leads to a mission to Jupiter, which is seen as the
source for the object. Anyway. You're both telling me that the two rocks on
either side of this hut were placed here? Placed by aliens? That's the
official story?"
"There's no official story at all. Just lots of denials and
unofficial, wink-wink stories. Let me go on."
"By all means; this is getting good."
"So the Base was originally built because the American government was
afraid the Soviet Union--the old name for the Russian Consortium--was going
to use the Moon as a military Base to attack the States and its allies. But
then the monoliths were discovered--and that just sparked another fear
going around in the mid-20th: namely, UFOs and malevolent
visitors from space. Now the Base had a dual purpose: To stop the Soviets
from attacking us and to ward off space invaders."
I was still really trying not to laugh. "Can't you see why I'm finding this
all hard to swallow?"
"Oh, I get it, Monks. Really, I do. But if you let me finish, I can ..."
"Can't you see that this is probably a hoax? Monoliths on the Moon? They're
stone; they're slabs of basalt. Believe me, I'd love for them to be alien,
but I'm just finding the whole scenario tough to swallow."
"Then why are they standing upright? It's geologically impossible, Monks."
"Not necessarily. Think of all the natural features on Earth that were
mysteries until science unraveled the answers."
But he moved along: "On top of that, if you do more analysis, I think
you're going to find out the bodies we found were murdered. You're right.
They--whoever they were--seemed intent on destroying everything. So
why leave this one hut? Why leave these few human remains? Was it on
purpose? Or did someone stop them before they could finish the cover-up?"
"The aliens stopped them?"
"Who knows, Monks. We also think the Consortium knows about our digging
around and actually wants us to discover the truth--and leak the
information. If we do their work, they can claim they had no idea and can
take over the investigation."
"If that's the case, Ethan, then why bother hiding these conversations? If
they already know, why do you and Hilliker use all the disrupters and Com
glitches?"
"Because if we're wrong, it'll halt our work. We're erring on the side of
caution. But everything I've told you so far leads up to this. Our proof."
"Of what?"
"About the monoliths."
I checked my chron. "You better hurry. Our time's almost up."
"Hilliker and I have tracked down a lead on some proof. Supposedly, there
was an artifact that was returned to Earth shortly after the Base was in
operation."
"Artifact?"
"Allegedly, next to one of the monoliths was a small metallic globe--about
25 centimeters across--inscribed with writing--maybe it's something similar
to the Golden Record we sent on the Voyager I craft."
"Where's this globe?"
"Supposedly back on Earth at the Consortium's New York
headquarters--'hidden in plain sight'." He rolled up the map and placed it
back in the locker. "Hilliker has the only notes about the inscriptions in
her possession. Unfortunately, there's no photographic record."
"Of course not." My head was still reeling. "I'm havin' a really tough time
buying all this. Too many holes. Too many improbabilities."
"And despite the flat Earth, people still sailed into the unknown."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Suspend your disbelief, Monks. Go along with it. See where it takes you."
"Probably no place good."
We both heard our Coms switch on--a clicking sound deep in our heads. "Ah,
we're back on." Ethan winked. "Gee, Monks. I wonder what's causing all
these disruptions?"
I played along, though still a bit stunned. "Ghosts maybe?"
******
It's still Saturday--later that afternoon--and we're back in Hilliker's
office.
She pressed a button, and the corridor windows darkened. "We've got six
minutes."
"The way you keep using them, I'm surprised Disruptor's haven't been made
illegal."
"That's prescient of you. It's on the agenda for the next Assembly meeting.
Which is why I need to get this out in a hurry. Do your results confirm our
intel?"
"To a tee. DNA matches for Ethan Milnar and Jenna Hilliker. Your forebears
were definitely at that Base in the 1960s."
It was hard to read Hilliker's reaction. Pleased? Affirmed? Angered? She's such a damn sphynx.
"So here's what we'd like you to do."
"Who's we?"
"Ethan. Myself. A couple of others Earthside. A couple of Consortium moles.
We'd like you to use our connections with Undertow ..."
"... the underground news outfit?"
"That one. Yes. We'd like you to go to Undertow and tell them what
you've found. Tell them about everything--the destruction of the Project
Horizon base and the remains, about the monoliths and the artifact."
"And if the higher ups realize I was the source?"
"Our moles will definitely keep things in check; they're pretty high up.
And Undertow is discreet."
"What if Undertow isn't as discreet as you believe? What if your
Consortium moles fail?"
"The President will disavow the story or she'll praise the story. I'm still
not convinced the hierarchy hasn't set this whole thing up so that they can
grab headlines: 'The Consortium Discovers Truth About Base.' 'Alien
Civilization Has Visited Us.' That sort of thing."
"Or," I said, "it could be the one thing they don't want leaked out,
especially if it was their ancestors who were behind destroying the Base."
"A possibility, for sure. So, yes, if you're found out, it could do a real
number on your career. Or not. You could end up being the hero if they want
to frame it that way."
"You know there's a part of me that wants to do this, don't you? You
wouldn't have brought me into this whole craziness if you didn't think I'd
be up for it. I'm an exoarchaeologist who finally has a chance to practice
his craft. But, lady, there are some serious lacunae in the story.
Why wasn't the entire Base destroyed? Were the destroyers--whoever they
might be--interrupted? Was leaving behind some evidence purposeful? Did
someone hope the site would be discovered? Then there's the whole issue of
timing. Aitken's been around for a very long time. How is it even remotely possible that a site barely 3 klicks from town has never
been discovered before? How are you or anyone going to explain that one?
I'm sure there are lots of questions like that. Undertow
will want to know; so will the public if the story actually gets out." I
stopped to catch my breath.
I found the whole situation remarkable.
Implausible.
Frustrating.
Exciting.
Daunting.
Exhilarating.
Terrifying.
What the hell was Hilliker asking me to do? I'm just a lab-based scientist,
not some undercover government agent.
"You'll be bringing this with you." She pulled out a small flip-lid
container from her tunic pocket. "This holds a biochip with my signed
statement, images of the site, and above all, drawings of the markings on
the object."
James Freakin' Bond.
Jason Freakin' Bourne.
And now: Stevia Freakin' Monkfruit, Super-Agent.
I am so screwed.
******
And so I left the Moon on the following Monday.
Sitting in the lounge of the luxury transport--Selene V--I kept
nervously looking out the viewport watching the Moon shrink incrementally.
Every moment it got smaller meant I was closer to Orion Station where I'd be held for a week to reacclimate
myself to Earth's gravity and atmospheric pressure.
And after that week? Then what?
I shivered every time I thought about it.
Hilliker's "official" nanochip--the one displaying the Holo document saying
I was on a sensitive mission for the lunar Consortium to the Council--was
safely tucked in the Port on my left arm. It would easily pass scrutiny.
The not-so-official document--the biochip that probably wouldn't
register on the Scanners because it's gentech, not nanotech--was surgically
implanted in my colon, the way those old-time runners would stuff drugs in
bags in people's rear ends back in the cartel days. She told me if the chip
scanned at all, it would appear to be an internal hemorrhoid.
Great. Just great. Hilliker's mule. With freakin' hemorrhoids.
So
screwed.
******
They told me seven days, so I tried to make the most of it. Orion is
a sight to behold: It floats majestically in synchronous orbit 35 thousand
klicks above the equator. Its six enormous wheels--each named after an
explorer--are spaced half a kilometer apart, each spinning to create one
gee gravity, each connected by spokes to a central three-klick-long
cylinder that allows easy movement from wheel to wheel. The "rehab" unit
where I was staying takes up much of Frobisher Ring (after the explorer who
searched for a Northwest passage back in the 16th century). If
you don't know it, anyone traveling from the Moon, Mars, or the Asteroids
is now required by law to spend a week's recoup time in Fro Ring; to do
otherwise would mean serious or permanent injury not to mention some prison
time.
But not to worry. No cabin fever here. Fro is seriously decked out.
And if you're like me--on a so-called "Executive Mission" from the
Commander of Aitken to the Consortium High Council in New
York--well, then, break out the caviar and champagne, fellas.
Of course, all the luxury in space couldn't keep me from looking over my
shoulder, constantly wondering whether the chip up my bum would be detected
before I shuttled Downstairs. (I cringe--and smile--at the very words: a
chip up my bum. Sorry for the crudity, but that's what it was.)
So when I say it was a "mixed" week for me emotionally, I'm putting it
mildly--and when I was finally given the go-ahead to leave, I let out a
sigh I'm sure could be heard 'round the entire Station. The infamous bum
chip remained undiscovered.
I was put on a private shuttle that flew directly to the Port at Consortium
Headquarters on Broadway and 181st Street.
In New Darwin, you live in an underwater city--in a sense, you chose to
embrace the flooding seas. Not so the New York branch of the American
Consortium. What used to be Washington Heights is now the epicenter of
Manhattan. Much of what was 21st-century New York is under 18 to 20 meters
of river, harbor, or ocean. Whole sections of the old downtown and
waterfront skyline are now submerged, leaving only towering fingers of
metal and glass emerging from the lapping waves. Some of those buildings
remain standing, interconnected with skywalks, but many are condemned,
awaiting either a natural collapse or a planned demolition depending on
which demise will prove less dangerous to the surrounding structures that
are still deemed safe.
Hilliker told me the artifact could be anywhere in the complex of buildings
making up Headquarters--perhaps in the President's office--or more likely
(according to one of her sources) in a Council office. Or somewhere else
entirely. If I kept my eyes peeled, I might find it. Meanwhile, my magical
bum chip would be removed by an operative who just happened to be the
President's personal secretary, a Nigerian named Odalauh Okeke. He might
also be able to help me find the "probable" location.
And then what? Okeke would make sure Undertow got the information on
the chip, but what would we--what would I--do if the actual artifact
were to be uncovered? What then? Would I bring that to the press as
well?
But those thoughts slipped away for the moment when I landed--10 AM. The
Port was a grassy, soccer-sized field next to the Consortium complex, two
massive buildings constructed to imitate architectural aspects of the old,
long-since water-logged United Nations Building down on 42nd Street.
New fears settled in.
There was Okeke--nearly seven feet, slender, sinewy--waiting for me at the
bottom of the shuttle's ramp.
He smiled. Friendly enough.
But still the fear washed through me.
Screwed. So screwed.
******
At 10:30, the chip was removed in Okeke's secured office--during another
one of those mysterious, brief Com outages. I'll spare you the embarrassing
details, though I must say Okeke handled the situation with as much dignity
and discretion as he could muster. Within minutes, the message was
transmitted as an encrypted archive over the library system--to an
outsider, it would appear to be a summary of the last Council meeting. The
send button was hit just as the Com system came back on--a close call. Over
the next hour, its contents were split by some of Okeke's deep channel
friends into discrete units and dispatched to Undertow over
different channels from five widespread Manhattan locations--all in the
effort to make tracing the original source a little more difficult. Looking
back, I'm still impressed by the speed of the whole operation; clearly,
everyone was more than ready.
To anyone watching us over the Com--or listening to the conversation--Okeke
and I were discussing lunar cities and their respective futures. Since I
was an exoarchaeologist, my task was to devise time capsules and other
means of preserving lunar history for future generations; in other words, I
was to invent something for future archaeologists to uncover should the
lunar cities ever be abandoned for whatever reason. I'm sure we sounded
quite convincing, especially since several aspects--like the time
capsules--were indeed being considered by the Consortium.
Around 11:45, a light blinked on Okeke's desk console. He tapped his Com,
listened for a moment, and then tapped it off.
"We can begin our tour now. Security just called. They've cleared the
Atrium for us."
"Well, don't I feel special."
"You are. The President wanted to give you the VIP treatment."
"Honored, indeed." We both made sure we weren't milking the scene for any
potential eavesdroppers. Just a polite exchange.
And thus we began our treasure hunt, expecting to come up empty-handed. But
then:
"Odalauh. Look." I spoke very quietly despite knowing we were being
monitored.
"What?"
We were walking down the ramp from the administrative building into the
General Assembly's remarkable grand hall--an immense space of glass and
marble. Suspended mid-air above the floor was a Calder-like mobile--we'd
all seen it many times in holos and Com reports over the years. It was a
sculpture representing the Pleiades--the Seven Sisters.
Hidden in plain sight.
There it was. The artifact--a 25-centimeter silver globe covered in
hieroglyphic markings--was hanging with six slightly smaller bronze
spheres, each representing the stars of the Pleiades. The silver globe was
placed to represent Alcyone, the brightest star in the Pleiades. Very
clever.
Feeling quite bold, I tapped my Com twice--which sent what I was seeing to
the general public. Anyone on Social Mode would probably sense my link and
focus on it. In moments, images of the artifact would be pouring through
the heads of countless people.
As I expected, Security guards began to appear and slowly descended to the
Atrium floor. Yet I didn't sense my Com being shut down. In fact, I had the
feeling that any attempts to freeze me out were being thwarted.
And suddenly, along with the images of the artifact, Hilliker's avatar
appeared in everyone's Com--like yours down in New Darwin--telling
listeners and viewers about the lunar Base, about the mysterious monoliths,
about the skeletal remains at the hut.
Security picked up their pace, but then stopped a few meters short of our
position. After Hilliker's image dissolved, the President appeared--Sera
Sonjohnkoksoong, a middle-aged Thai woman dressed in a colorful sabai. She
smiled. "Well done, Mr. Monkfruit."
It was Okeke who spoke up: "What next, Madame President?"
"Absolutely nothing. I'll see to that."
I was taken aback. "Nothing?"
"Nothing. It's time to end this charade."
Which proved the possibility that Hilliker and I had discussed back in Aitken: The Consortium had secretly wanted the discovery--and
Hilliker, Ethan, and I were the means to get it out there without the
Consortium looking foolish.
As you know, by the afternoon, the Consortium lowered the Artifact--now
always spoken of with a capital "A"--in full view of the world and the
scientists like myself who would study it.
******
So here we are. There's not much more I can share with you. It's a few
months later, and no one knows much more than they did when I was first
brought into the picture. Or so the Consortium claims.
Certainly President Sonjohnkoksoong has pulled off a political victory for
herself primarily by throwing the American government of three hundred
years ago under the proverbial bus. "It was America's participation in a
needless Cold War that provoked the building of the secret Base. When they
discovered the Artifact, the military hid it from their Commander-in-Chief,
from America's citizens, and from the rest of the world. Their ultimate
reasoning remains inscrutable and unsavory, clearly the work of control
freaks and micro-managers. Perhaps worst of all--after retrieving the
Artifact and bringing it to Earth, they destroyed the Base and slaughtered
the good men who had gone to the Base in good faith. Now, many, many years
later, thanks to the inventive work of Commander Jenna Hilliker and her
team, we know about the two great monoliths and the Artifact found by them.
We know that we humans are not alone and that the Universe is potentially full of ineffable civilizations."
Of course, her "explanation"--broadcast around the world via the Consortium
Network and over every personal Com system on the planet--still hasn't
explained so many things--things that scientists like me want to know.
Things that you and your class down at the University have asked me about. Undertow has certainly done its best to keep the questions in the
foreground, though as time has gone on--and the next news cycle, and the
one after that, and the one after have unfolded--those questions have
gotten pushed to the side.
You know them; you've asked me about them. I've rehearsed them with you
more than once in this response. Why was any evidence left behind? How
could the remaining portion of the Base remain undetected for so many
years? How long has the Consortium really known about the Artifact and the
monoliths? Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
It's all a big political game, isn't it? But that's the way things always
seem to go. Always mired in et cetera. The all-important questions
that get brushed away before the important, inconvenient, embarrassing
answers can be spoken. Et cetera is the fly paper that traps
everything and makes getting at the truth nearly impossible. Cynical,
aren't I?
But while I mutter and quietly fume about the way of the world, I'm back on
the Moon again and have free reign at the dig site. I spend hours each
week--often with the help of Ethan--studying the monoliths, trying to
understand their structure, composition, and their meaning (if there is one
other than an interstellar "We were here"). As for the capital "A"
Artifact, I spend (along with a few colleagues down on Earth) just as much
time attempting to decipher its content, hoping one day for a Rosetta
Stone, hoping for the eureka moment when I can tell everyone about the
civilization that once visited our strange little solar system tucked among
the billion stars and countless nebulas of the Milky Way.
Of course, each week new questions arise, or old ones are re-visited. The
one I'm pondering today is an old one: Why leave the monoliths on the Moon? Why not on Earth? Or did "they" leave some down there,
and we just haven't discovered them yet? Or have they been found and that's
just another cover-up?
The biggest take-away from all this is that there are often mysteries that
remain mysteries, might always remain mysteries. We can keep
struggling, for example, to understand the Big Bang or the concept of a
Multiverse, but in the end, we simply may never know where the material for
the Bang came from or if there really are parallel universes.
And that, my new friends, is the greatest challenge we humans face, isn't
it? Can we live in a world where some things remain ambiguous at best? Can
we live in the Grey when we long for, yearn for, beg
for the Black or the White? Can we--to borrow an ancient title--live in the Cloud of Unknowing?
******
Well, that's all I have for now. I hope I've helped flesh out the version
of the story you've been fed. I realize that everyone--from Com Network
pundits to the Consortium--has a version. I'm sure it's difficult to
rummage through all that--so I'm glad you wrote to hear my angle. May it
prove helpful.
Feel free to contact me again. Who knows, I may have more insights at some
point. Just know that despite some frustrations, the work is wonderful. The
guy with the silly name forges ahead and leaves the politics to the
bureaucrats, loving instead the sound of this simple two-word sentence: Monkfruit investigates.
With that thought, I wish you all the best. Have a wonderful, productive
semester.
Warm regards,
Dr. Stevia Monkfruit
THE END
For Ethan, who inspired the character.
Copyright 2019, William Thierfelder
Bio: Writing under the pen-name of T. Richard Williams, William Thierfelder is a Professor of Arts and Humanities (Retired); Visiting Guide, American Museum of Natural History; as well as a lecturer and artist. His web site is at: www.makingwings.net
E-mail: William Thierfelder
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