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  “And suppose that such a hypothetical failure occurs?” Ellen persisted. “What operational tests do you have planned to demonstrate PS-1’s corrective action?” Pause. “Marcus, would you check that for me?”

  “Sure, Ellen,” Marcus said.

  He was all but certain that the test-case database contained nothing relevant. And that Kendricks’s award fee for the calendar quarter would take a hit if Ellen wrote up the finding as a critical deficiency. And that Phil, who as the Kendricks program manager got a slice of the award fee, would share the pain.

  Phil sighed. “It won’t be necessary, Ellen. Transmitter failure and response sounds like another set of simulations we should run.”

  “And also,” Marcus added, “simulations with randomly spaced pairs of transmitters gone rogue at the same time.” Twisting the knife, but also being practical. “Dealing in such large numbers, two near-concurrent faults are bound to happen.”

  Because what the hell. Phil hated him anyway.

  * * *

  Toe tapping aimlessly (and, occasionally, kicking the Ethernet cable), Valerie pondered an empty screen. She was so tempted to roll up her datasheet, but at week’s end the application window closed for observing time on the big dish. Miss the cutoff—or fail to make a strong case—and she would have to wait four months to reapply.

  She and a few hundred other needy applicants.

  By her side at the dinette table, Simon worked on a school assignment. Or, to judge from his fidgeting, not. At least while she sat there, the IM window on his datasheet remained closed. “How’s the assignment coming?” she asked.

  He countered with, “What’s for dinner?”

  Not encouraging while Simon still toyed with his midafternoon snack, and with a big stack of homework due the next day. “Want me to take a look? Need some help?”

  “Nah.” Fidget, fidget.

  She looked anyway. The top window in his datasheet was a social studies unit called The Great Oil Shock. There had been, she read furtively, “an unexpected drop-off in production among some of the world’s largest oil suppliers.” Very PC: something had happened. Not something anyone caused to have happened.

  Not that she would want to try explaining the Crudetastrophe to a nine-year-old, but it was no mere “drop-off,” and someone had most definitely caused it. Even though who, and what had happened October 12, 2014, remained a closely held secret of the Restored Caliphate.

  But far more was known than the sanitized children’s lesson Valerie was surreptitiously skimming …

  * * *

  Oil prices surged in the weeks following Simon’s birth. Valerie scarcely noticed, let alone registered that the jump supposedly was a big deal. With a colicky newborn to care for, who had time to sleep, much less to surf?

  Or, for that matter, to drive? She had nowhere to go for the next few months, and work, when she did go back, was in biking distance. And hallelujah for teachers: Keith had the summer off, too. If the world chose to have a crisis—and when was it not on the verge of one?—she figured the world could muddle through without her. And, anyway, didn’t energy prices yo-yo every few years?

  The world did have a crisis without her.

  That August the Caliph’s Guard declared to the world that it had deployed atomic devices deep within the country’s main petroleum reservoirs. To deter aggression by its enemies—variously: counterrevolutionary elements, apostate neighboring regimes, the Zionist entity, and hostile Crusader powers—the Guard vowed to deny their oil for all time if blasphemers impinged on the Caliph’s holy sovereignty.

  Still, she scarcely noticed. Simon was all of three months old. Keith was up to his eyeballs in last-minute lesson plans. After two years as a substitute, he had just gotten an appointment to teach economics at the Pocahontas County High School. She and Keith both struggled to make child care arrangements so she could return to work at the observatory. The few scattered minutes she could spare from family, if only to clear the cobwebs from her brain, she spent poring over the latest exosolar planet surveys.

  If none of that had been happening in her life, she still would not have understood what insanity drove the Guard to trigger its nukes. To this day, perhaps no one knew outside the regime’s inner circles. And maybe not even them. After the explosions, Guard factions had turned on one another, and on foreigners, in an orgy of blame, purges, and executions.

  But however mysterious the Crudetastrophe’s origins, its consequences were all too clear:

  —Radiation tainted petroleum reserves measuring in the billions of barrels, the contamination spreading into neighboring states’ oil fields. Whether the reservoirs were always linked deep underground or the atomic blasts had opened fissures between once distinct reservoirs—experts disagreed—petroleum exports abruptly ceased from across a wide area.

  —Regional antagonisms erupted into open warfare.

  —Oil-field destruction and shipping blockades spread far beyond the Restored Caliphate’s borders. Economies collapsed across the Middle East.

  —The price of petroleum tripled.

  The supply and price shocks plunged most of the world into deep recession. Unlike the oil embargos of 1967, 1973, and 1979—their extent and duration limited, ultimately, by the suppliers’ dependence on oil sales—the Crudetastrophe was irreversible. Many onetime exporters could not resume production, as fervently as they wished to.

  China’s and Japan’s export-driven economies collapsed further and faster than most. Almost overnight, China and Japan were selling U.S. treasury bonds rather than buying them. Interest rates soared, currencies deflated, and countries reneged on their debts.

  Stagflation, Keith called it. Stagnation and inflation together.

  Nine years later, The Great Stagflation still raged. But not everywhere—

  The Crudetastrophe explosions had not affected Russia’s vast oil and gas reserves. Russia emerged from the crisis as a petro-superpower, controlling unprecedented wealth, snapping up American treasury bonds at fire-sale prices, and vying for global economic hegemony.

  And as chaos spread across the Middle East, Keith’s Marine Corps reserve unit was called up.…

  * * *

  “Mom. Mom. Mom!”

  Valerie shook off the old, sad memories to find Simon squinting at her suspiciously. “What is it?”

  “What is for dinner?”

  She was in no mood to cook. “Frozen pizza.” As Simon beamed approval—not exactly a compliment to her culinary skills—the phone rang.

  Life without cell phones was liberating. But only corded phones? Shaking her head at the primitiveness of it all, Valerie took the three steps to her ancient, corded landline phone. Simon was squirrelly today. If she took the call on her datasheet he would be out of his chair like a shot to mug for the webcam.

  “Valerie?”

  She could not place the voice. “Yes?”

  “Marcus Judson.” Pause. “Is this a bad time?”

  In hindsight, she had not handled his visit very wisely. It was hard to imagine this call ending well. “Now is fine. What’s up?”

  “You and your cronies gave me something to think about. And the thing is … you’re right. There might be a problem.”

  The well-stretched cord would reach well into the dining room. She went; Simon followed; she shooed him back. “Your assignment,” she mouthed. “Go on, Marcus.”

  “It’s not like I think we should stop work on the powersat, but there could be complications. There might be problematical failure modes we need to work around.” When he started explaining phased arrays to her, she interrupted. “Remember who I work for?”

  “Touché.” He coughed. “I meant to ask, Valerie. How’s your son feeling?”

  “Thanks for asking. Simon has progressed to the malingering stage.” And unless he is bleeding from the ears in the morning, he’s going back to school.

  “Okay, here’s the thing. We never had our one-on-one discussion, and I’d also like to collect input
from specialists there to fold into a failure-mode simulation. What if I come back out, say, Friday the twenty-eighth?”

  “That would work.” But there was something else in his voice. A hesitance. He wouldn’t. Would he? “Was there something else?”

  “Yeah … I wondered if I could take you out to dinner afterward.”

  Crap, he would. She hadn’t dated but once or twice since Keith died. For the longest time, she hadn’t been ready. After, Simon and work consumed her time. Anyway, she was content with things the way they were. Or was it resigned?

  Had she wanted to, who was there to date, anyway? Coworkers? Uh-uh.

  If she told Marcus no, then what? A sudden loss of interest in radio astronomy? He did not seem like the punitive type. Hell, she had sandbagged him. Maybe he meant only a dinner of colleagues.

  As her thoughts churned, the silence stretched.

  “Or not,” Marcus said. “I thought we might hit it off, but maybe you’re seeing someone. Or whatever. Forget I asked. It has no bearing on my returning to Green Bank. I do need to talk with the experts.”

  “No,” Valerie said, surprising herself, “asking is fine.” Reassuring which of them? “And dinner does sound like fun.”

  Friday, April 28

  Astronomers, engineers, and programmers wandered in and out of the Green Bank social lounge, where the atmosphere was more like an after-hours bull session than an inquiry. For long-scheduled observing time or to handle other commitments, Marcus told himself every time someone left. But despite the informality—or, perhaps, because of it—the notes file on his datasheet grew voluminous. His fingers ached from so much typing on its virtual keyboard. One thing this gathering was not: a D.C.-style, stultifying meeting.

  Phil Majeski’s simulation team would have its hands full in the coming weeks.

  Valerie Clayburn was among the nomads, leaving Marcus to wonder how they would sync up for dinner. Whenever she popped in he treated her like anyone else—this was work, not a date, and her coworkers were all around, too—while second-guessing himself whether he was being too distant.

  Why, but for a getting-back-on-the-horse-that-threw-you theory, had he asked her out?

  Because Lindsey—the horse who had thrown him—was three months gone. Because life went on. Because Valerie was smart, intriguingly intense, and, despite her apparent efforts not to show it, hot.

  “… until they’re in the way.”

  They? Marcus had let his mind wander. Again. “Say that again?”

  “Are we going too fast?” Tamara Miller asked. “Moving targets. How will we know where they are until they’re in our way?”

  Going too fast would serve as an excuse. Marcus opened a datasheet window for the auto-transcription function. With everyone chiming in at will, the voice-recognition output was half gibberish, but half was more than he had processed over the past few seconds. He skimmed. Aha. Migration.

  All powersats, not just PS-1, would be built near Phoebe and its mines and factories. After completion and checkout the powersats would be boosted—slowly, because they were so massive—to their final destinations. In geosynchronous Earth orbit, GEO, they would be all but stationary overhead.

  “So your concern,” Marcus inferred, “is the trek to GEO, with the powersat’s orbit spiraling out till it arrives.”

  Tamara nodded. “Yeah. How will I know when and where it’s going to get in my way? Or maybe they, if there may be more than one powersat migrating at once.”

  “Not just us,” Valerie said, back again. “Optical astronomers, too. And pity the poor Earth-based infrared astronomers. A structure that’s miles square soaks up a lot of sunlight.”

  “Kind of the idea,” Marcus said, getting laughs. “But I see your point. You need a way to plan around the powersats even before they settle into geosynch. I can recommend an Internet application anyone can access for tracking and orbital predictions. And real-time position, too, as determined by GPS. Okay?”

  “What about filing flight plans?” Tamara countered. “Shouldn’t powersats be in FAA databases?”

  Marcus took notes. “Probably a good idea.” And around Phoebe and The Space Place, essential for safety, too.

  “Real-time access,” Ernesto Perez added, “so we can input the powersat orbital predictions into our scheduling software.”

  When Valerie disappeared again, around 4 P.M., Marcus thought maybe she had left to change clothes. (He planned to change, but after his first visit he had known to leave coat and tie in the car.) When she reappeared half an hour later, though, she still wore the same blue jeans and tan sweater. Even in sneakers, she was almost his height. He guessed she was about five foot ten.

  She could wear a flour sack and be gorgeous. As for his coat and tie, they would stay where they were.

  Five-ish, Aaron Friedman left with a parting shot of, “See you later, Valerie.”

  Marcus waited for her to correct her colleague. She did not. He thought he had asked Valerie out. On a date. Had Can I take you out to dinner? somehow changed meanings during his time with Lindsey?

  Shit, he was not ready for this.

  The two of them finally had the lounge to themselves. “Ready for dinner?” he asked.

  She smiled awkwardly. “Sure. That’ll be nice.”

  “I’ll need you to suggest someplace to eat.”

  “Not hard.” She smiled again, and this time it came across as genuine. “We don’t have many places to choose among.”

  They headed in his car for Durbin, only slightly less tiny than Green Bank. Instead of making get-acquainted chat (not that he seemed to remember how), he focused on the narrow, twisty roads. The ten-mile—and thirty-minute—drive took most of his attention.

  Unless dimness counted as a décor, the family restaurant and bar had none. Several people he recognized from today’s meeting, including Aaron Friedman, occupied stools at the bar. Banter with the bartender suggested they were regulars. That was one mystery solved, anyway. As for Valerie’s expectations for the evening? Time would tell.

  Compared to the afternoon’s free-for-all, the conversation once he and Valerie were seated felt stiff. His scars were too fresh. Her scars, whatever they were, seemed to run deeper. He called it a toss-up which of them felt more ill at ease.

  Ruling out shoptalk might have been a mistake. What did people talk about on first dates? He couldn’t remember. The short menus, when the waitress brought them by, offered few possibilities to eat or discuss.

  “How old is your son?” he asked as they waited for their appetizers. “Simon?”

  Getting the name right got him another of those too-rare natural smiles. “Simon. He’s nine. Precocious guy, in a mischievous kind of way. Reminds me…”

  Of Simon’s father, Marcus filled in the blank. It felt too soon to ask. All he came up with, gracelessly, when enough time had passed was, “What have you read recently for fun?”

  She named two novels he had never heard of, but he asked about them anyway. The waitress arrived with their entrées and the conversation trailed off again. This evening was a disaster.

  * * *

  Valerie told herself she should be home with her son. Only she knew that for a lie: Simon did just fine with babysitters, had more or less adopted Brianna as his big sister. Lying to yourself is never a good sign.

  Her head was not in the game.

  She found little to say when Marcus asked about favorite movies and music, or volunteered his own. When he launched into gadgets—about which, as an engineer, he was predictably enthusiastic—she shot down that, too. Sorry even as she said it, she disgorged some inanity about devices that would not function in the quiet zone or were a pain tethered to an Ethernet cable.

  And when he unintentionally brought Keith to mind, she shut down even more.

  She should have asked around about first-date topics. Clearly, she would not need to ask about second dates. “Will you excuse me? I should check on Simon,” she said.

  “Sure.” Re
flexively reaching for his cell, Marcus laughed at himself. (She liked that in a guy. Too bad she was such a failure at this.) “I guess the restaurant has landlines you can use.”

  “For regulars, the house phone. It’s behind the bar.” She stood. “I’ll be right back.”

  She found Patrick Burkhalter holding down a barstool. The rest of the Green Bank regulars appeared to have left.

  Patrick must not have shaved that day. She thought he had worn the same pants and shirt the day before. He was heavier every time she saw him, his clothes tighter, his gut bulging over his belt. The mound of buffalo wings in front of him would do nothing to reverse the trend. And he drank alone far too often. Poor guy: no one to go home to.

  “How’s the big date going?” Patrick asked her.

  “Just colleagues,” she said. After the fact, if not by original intent. “Hand me the phone?”

  To judge by the giggling in the background when Brianna answered, Simon was doing fine.

  Patrick was nursing a beer with one hand, prodding his datasheet with the other. An Ethernet cable snaked behind the bar from the datasheet. Something about Patrick tickled at the back of her mind.

  Damn! Maybe she had gadgets to share after all. And they were wireless in a big way.

  * * *

  Black, sterile landscape hung in a shallow arc before Marcus. Up close, churned ground. In the left distance, a range of low hills. Straight ahead, receding into the distance, a pockmarked plain. In the right distance, rippled terrain that blended into more hills.

  Phoebe, as he had never experienced it.

  He and Valerie sat side by side on her living room couch, an ordinary game controller in front of each of them on the coffee table. “What do you think?”

  Marcus hardly minded being invited inside after dinner—but he was more than a little surprised. She had insisted she had something to show him. What was this about? “Interesting,” he offered neutrally.

  “Give it a shot,” she said.