Tales of the United States Space Force, page 16
I opened the fridge to find a platter of thin-sliced roast beef, just the way I liked it, next to a covered bowl with fresh buns. This after I had stood Kylie up for the seventh time in two weeks. I didn’t deserve her.
I like to say I’m not smart, I’m just persistent. I don’t let a go of a problem until I understand all the pieces. In my business, that’s the functional equivalent of smart . . . except when that obsession with knowing things, with being right, makes me do stupid things like decide that maybe I could simulate the anomalous entity, and then learn something from that. I didn’t have any data to describe the anomaly, but I had something almost as good: my expertise. I had pioneered multidimensional variances and moments, and I knew those forms of analysis almost intuitively. I could even look at a data set and predict the moments and their magnitudes. My naked eye was almost as good as the best algorithms I’d ever seen—before mine.
Of course, moments and variances are aggregate data, the sum of thousands of data points. Knowing the answers necessarily loses the inputs. If you have a hundred-pound bag of rocks, that doesn’t tell you anything about the individual rocks within the bag. Without the input data, the moments couldn’t tell me precisely what the original measurements had looked like.
But maybe . . . ? I could examine existing, known data, and see if anything produced similar moments. That was what my method was about, after all, recognizing statistical similarity to—
Sorry, it’s classified. I was getting away with myself there.
But to simplify: I could take a large, public collection of existing entities, analyze them with my thesis algorithms—which are public knowledge—and look for any results that matched. All I really needed was a bunch of test entities to which I could apply the algorithms and filter out anything which didn’t have substantially the same variances and moments. That became an interesting, fun challenge.
I had the analysis filter built in under an hour. I could feed it entities—geometric shape models—and it would spit out any that had characteristics like the anomaly. I just needed a source of entities.
I was still pondering the best web search when Kylie came home from her exhibition. “Hey, Paul,” she said, wrapping her arms around my neck from behind and planting a kiss on my cheek. “Sorry I couldn’t wait, but . . . ”
“No,” I said, staring at my latest search results. “I got home two hours after your exhibition started. You did the right thing.”
“Yeah, I suppose . . . But still, you would have enjoyed it.”
“I’m sure I would’ve,” I answered. “But I . . . ”
“You can’t explain, I know. Can’t explain, it’s classified, need to know, clearance . . . I am so fucking sick of this,” she said, plopping down behind her desk and powering up her Mac.
“Kylie . . . ”
“I know, you don’t have any choice . . . Same old, same old . . . ”
“Kylie, do we have to fight about this now?”
“When else are we going to fight about it? You’re here, you’re home, you’re awake. Let’s celebrate with a good fight!”
I sighed. “Look, you’re not wrong, but I don’t have any choice. I have to find this glitch, or we could lose the whole contract that pays my half of the bills around here. Don’t you understand what the penalty phase means? When we start paying them?”
Suddenly she tilted back in her chair, looked up at the ceiling, and screamed for five long, loud seconds. When she was done, she leaned forward and looked at me.
I looked back. “Better?”
She grinned back at me. “No, but venting is good. They say what can’t be changed must be endured, but I think what can’t be changed must be screamed at.”
I understood. Past fights had taught me this: while some people might escalate, Kylie had a good sense for when further argument was futile, when desire was at an impasse with reality. When she saw that point, she gave a good scream. It didn’t change her mind, it just let her release her frustration and move past the fight. She wasn’t over it, but she would let me know when we were good again.
In the meantime, I could turn safely back to my work. I had my obsessions with data, she had her screams of futility. We were each broken in our own unique ways, and we made it work.
I was deep in building entity models when I knew that Kylie was over her anger. She stood behind me, looking at the screen. “What’cha doing?”
I failed to hide my grin. The tone in her question told me she really didn’t care about what I was doing, she cared about what we might be doing. That was another coping mechanism. After we hit a wall that we couldn’t change, some time in bed would remind us that we were worth putting up with each other.
But while she might’ve passed her crisis, I was still stuck with mine. So I answered the question within the bounds of security. “I need to study shapes. Lots of shapes. I’m looking for something—”
“—but you can’t tell me what.”
“But I can’t tell you what,” I said, grinning at her. “And I don’t even really know how to look for it. I just need to feed the computer lots of shapes and let it do its work.”
“Is that all?”
“‘Is that all?’ I need . . . tens of thousands of shapes. Hundreds of thousands, even millions might not be enough.”
“Is that all?” she repeated in the same tone. “Paul, I’m a graphic artist. After all this time, do you have any idea how I work?”
“You . . . um . . . you render images. Lots of rendering, computers always rendering.”
“Paul, you have no idea about anything two inches outside of your data. What do you think I render?”
After a pause, I said, “Models!”
“Models, honey. Digital shapes. And I’ve got a million of them.”
“I knew you had a lot, but—”
“A million,” she said. “I collect them like Imelda Marcos collected shoes. You never know when you’ll need a particular model, and they’re usually cheaper in bulk. I’m always adding new models.”
Finally I saw her point. “Send me a model file.”
“All right, if you say so . . . ” Again I heard her suggestive tone, but I couldn’t pay attention. When the file arrived, I started tearing it apart. It was so simple. I could convert the artists’ models into entities with a simple algorithm, hundreds per second, and then feed them to my filter. “Baby, you’ve got the jackpot!”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Hey, Mr. Obsession, I’m trying to seduce you!”
“After you share your model folder, you can have my full attention. I’ve got nothing but time while the computer works.”
“Good. I want some of that time.”
I was sleeping lazily in a tangle of bedclothes, Kylie’s leg under my head, when suddenly I was instantly awake. My computer had chimed for attention.
I tried not to wake her, but we were too intertwined, and I was too excited. By the time I padded naked out to my desk chair, Kylie was wide awake. She followed me, naked as well, but I barely noticed. “Look!” I said, pointing at my screen. “Zero point nine eight three confidence. This shape has the perfect moments!”
She didn’t ask what a moment was. Early in our relationship, that sort of question had come up often before we realized: She didn’t speak math, and I didn’t speak art. Not even computer art. Instead, she simply asked, “What is it?”
I looked at the filter output, and I read out a file name: “DE_2371_2591_QC_ASTR.SVG.”
“That don’t tell me nothing,” Kylie answered. “Send it to me.” As she sat at her Mac, I sent over the file name. I also brought up a data visualizer to give me an idea of what the entity was. It wasn’t a rendering, more a graph of the shape. I saw signs of a central mass, and lobes branching off from the mass: two long lobes at one extreme, two shorter in the middle, and the smallest at the other extreme. The long lobes reminded me of limbs, except they were too wide, almost stumpy. But then, artists work with imaginary creatures all the time. Was it some sort of fantasy monster? An orc or something?
But Kylie had gone conspicuously silent. She twisted her screen around so I could see it. The model was an astronaut in a puffy spacesuit.
Despite the long, passion-filled night and the exhaustion that followed, I couldn’t go back to sleep. Now that we knew where to look, Kylie sent more models of astronauts and fighter pilots, anyone in a suit with a helmet. The only ones that pinged the bell on the filter were astronauts in their suits.
“What does this mean, Paul?” But before I could answer, Kylie added, “It’s classified. Never mind. But does it mean the contract is saved?”
“Hon, I don’t know what this means. It’s—I don’t know if it’s an artifact of my algorithm, or if it’s just there.”
“If what’s just there?”
I didn’t say, “It’s classified.” I didn’t answer at all. But in the back of my mind, I was coming up with new tests to run on the real data.
Showered and shaved a full three hours ahead of my usual schedule, I sat in my blue Dodge Dart, waiting for my turn at the gatehouse. I’d never had to wait so long before, but I usually came in after the morning commute. I had no idea the gate ever got backed up like that, with seventy-four cars, three trucks, and a white panel van in line ahead of me.
Eventually I pulled up at the gatehouse, rolled down my window, and smiled at Guardian Wayland. “Good morning, Wayland.”
“Good morning, Mr. Simpson,” Wayland answered. After months, I knew the routine. Verify identity—again. Answer questions about my purpose—again. Answer who I was working with that day, and then wait while Wayland called them to confirm. Then one of the guards would leave the gatehouse, get in my passenger seat, and ride with me to the classified building. The guard would then escort me inside and hand me over to another guard, who would escort me to my station.
At least that was the usual routine; but this time . . . After checking his clipboard, Wayland dropped his arm back down to his side. Near his sidearm. “I’m sorry, Mr. Simpson, you have to turn around.”
“What?”
“Your base access has been revoked, sir.” Before I could ask, he continued, “That’s all I know, sir. Instructions are that you can check in at the Administrative Center. Do you need directions?”
“No, I know where it is, but that’s not where I work. I have a computer in there, with all my work. In there.”
Wayland shook his head. “I wouldn’t know about that, sir. And unless there’s need to know, I would prefer you not discuss it further. If you left behind personal property, I’m sure you can make a claim when you go to the Administrative Center.”
“But—”
Wayland stood straighter. I noticed another guard step out of the door behind him, with a rifle unshouldered. “Turn around, please, Mr. Simpson,” Wayland said. “Other people need to get to work.”
As I headed across town to the Administrative Center, I found myself sympathizing with Kylie and her need to scream.
I didn’t know what they did in the Administrative Center—administrate, obviously, but that covers a lot—but the security was tighter. There wasn’t a chance for civilians to enter the fenced area at all. Instead I was instructed to pull off into the Visitor Center parking lot, go in, and wait for someone to come to me.
What else could I do? I was playing Space Force’s game, and on their court. I could play by their rules, or I could go home. I’m sure the bosses would love that. So I entered the Visitors Center, which was at least less boring on the inside than the government-beige-painted bricks on the outside. Everything within was shining metal and glass, with an overriding theme of blue. This was what Space Force was supposed to look like: modern, even hypermodern. A goddamned Starship Enterprise.
But though the style was modern, the procedures were as old as time. Stanchions and ropes guided me to a three-windowed waiting area where receptionists male and female sat behind bulletproof glass. Armed guards at each end of the bank of windows were a clear indication that this was a secure military facility, not a tourist trap. They took security seriously.
A young guardian behind the first window on the left said, “Can I help you, sir?”
I walked up to the glass and spoke into the microphone. “Mr. Paul Simpson, here to see Colonel Hale.”
“Regarding?”
But I was far too experienced to fall for that one. “It’s a classified matter, Guardian. He’s expecting me.” It was a bit of a lie. I had no appointment to see Hale, but he had to expect me to come looking for him. He was Warriner’s contract liaison, and so I was supposed to talk directly to him or to whomever he designated. Not to a random receptionist.
The receptionist didn’t miss a beat. “Very well, Mr. Simpson. Take a seat. When I hear from Colonel Hale, I’ll call you up.”
I turned away with a shrug. There was really nothing else to do. Again a scream moment, when you just have to tolerate the hand you’re dealt. If there were right motions for this situation, I was going through them; and if there weren’t, I would find that out eventually. But only here.
The guardian pointed toward my right, so I shuffled over to a well-appointed waiting area. I didn’t know what else Space Force spent money on, but they were definitely getting the best when it came to decor.
I might as well have stayed in bed. Getting in early had done nothing for me. Sitting there, stymied, my long night finally started getting to me; and unexpectedly for a government facility, the guest chairs were really comfortable. I found myself fighting to stay awake—and losing.
I must’ve dozed off. I found myself staring down at a pair of shiny black shoes beneath crisp blue pant legs as a hand touched my shoulder. “Mr. Simpson?”
I looked up. A young lieutenant was looking down at me. The rest of her was as crisp as those pants creases. She wasn’t a person, she was Space Force. A part of the machine.
“I’m Paul Simpson,” I answered, rising. “Can I see Colonel Hale now?”
The lieutenant shook her head. “Colonel Hale will not be seeing you, Mr. Simpson. He asked me to give you this.” She held out a thick legal envelope. “And then to thank you for your time, and to let you know that your services will no longer be needed by Space Force.”
“No longer—”
“And one more note: He said to tell you that you did a fine service for your country, and you should be satisfied with that.”
“Satisfied?”
“Yes. Good day.” Before I could say another word, the woman, the machine officer, spun on her heel and strode away.
I waited until I got into the Dart before I opened the envelope and perused the contents. I probably should’ve waited longer, until I was back in the office: a lot of the papers within were stamped CLASSIFIED. I didn’t like examining those out in public.
They were acceptance forms, every single form required by our contract with Space Force; and every one had been stamped COMPLETE and signed by Colonel Hale. I was starting to get nervous. I reached for my phone to call the colonel’s office.
But my phone was ringing even as I pulled it from my pocket. The screen said Richard. My manager at Warriner.
I jabbed the green button. “Paul here.”
“Paul!” Richard said. “Good work at Space Force! You must’ve put the glitch to bed.”
“Richard! Open line!”
“Oh . . . Yeah . . . ” I had never understood how Richard could rise to management in a company that dealt with so much classified information and still have so little understanding of what security meant. Yeah, I could slip up once in a while, but Richard was just plain sloppy.
Richard continued, “Great job fixing the thing.”
I stared at the phone, not sure how to respond. But I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “No, I didn’t fix it.”
“Paul, I’ve got the electronic copies right here. It says you fixed it, and all the tests passed after that. Colonel Hale specifically attached a note that said you did good work, and they were letting us keep most of our bonus.”
“That’s—” I almost said crazy, but instead I said, “nice. But there’s more to do.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Richard said. “I can tell you what happened, though the colonel will never admit it. The whole thing was starting to make his command look bad, so he decided to bury it. The scan—”
“Richard!”
“All right, ‘the system’ isn’t that vital for his overall upgrade plan. He’d rather have it officially done and just not use it than have it dragging on and delaying his target date. He just redefined ‘done’ as ‘We can live with it, even if it’s broken.’”
I stared at the beige building for several seconds before answering, “You’re right, Richard. That has to be it.” I hoped I was convincing him, because I wasn’t convincing myself. Not at all.
I told myself to walk away. I didn’t have to prove what I believed. I didn’t have to.
But I had to. I wasn’t going to forget what I knew.
Kylie was thrilled when she came home from her studio and found me waiting, sitting around with nothing to do. She insisted upon going out for dinner, someplace fancy to celebrate the completion of the contract. How could I say no? It was exactly what I had promised her.
But halfway through the meal I could tell she was frustrated because I was distracted. The project had let go of me, but I hadn’t let go of it. “Paul,” she said, “you’re hardly touching your linguine. It’s your favorite dish.”
