Nautilus

By Dara Patrick Quinn

When an alien visitor leaves behind an artefact on Earth, its impact aeons later is far-reaching and potentially devastating.
An NSA cryptographer realizes that it can imprint Artificial Intelligence onto computer hardware. No longer concerned with 'Could they access the artefact?' ... Nathaniel Marx wonders 'Should they?'...

When Nathaniel disappears, his family are left with no answers, save for a couple of secret deliveries from beyond the grave. Now, with unimaginable and unseen forces in pursuit of the artefact, it falls to his son, Jacob, to decide the fate of the planet, and perhaps beyond ...

A gripping, cautionary tale about thinking machines and the human spirit, Nautilus holds up a mirror to an ever-expanding technology and consumer-driven society where the consumers are also the slaves.

As mankind races to create artificial life ... is it stopping to consider the terrible consequences?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dara Patrick Quinn
• Release date: Nov 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463129319

Dara Patrick Quinn

Born in 1972 in Dublin, Dara Quinn graduated in Computer Science from DIT Kevin Street and holds a Post-grad in Education from Nottingham University. He worked as programmer/analyst until 2004 before moving to Thailand where he teaches Computing. He lives there with his wife and twin daughters. He loves the Chicago Bears, MMA, the music of The Beethoven, Mozart. The Beatles, The Doors, Cream, Jimi Hendrix, Stevie Wonder, Joni Mitchell. Paul McCartney, the voices of Sumi Jo and Nat King Cole, Ella, Louis, ABBA, The Carpenters, Mike Oldfield, Pink Floyd, Nick Drake, Carole King, Eric Clapton, Van Halen, Colin Hay, Metallica, Iron Maiden, ACDC & Motorhead ... the films of Stanley Kubrick, Malick, Coppola and Scorsese .... and his favorite day out is a day at the National Hunt races.This is his debut novel.

Book preview

Nautilus

Or

Aliens Don’t Make Music

By

Dara Patrick Quinn

Nautilus :

Or Aliens Don’t Make Music

by Dara Patrick Quinn

Copyright © 2018 Dara Patrick Quinn

Smashwords Edition

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For paperback or film rights please contact [e-mail]

For Noel & Mary Lou.

For doing all they could.

"God is glorified not in one, but in countless suns, not in a single earth, a single world - but in a thousand, thousand I say - in an infinity of worlds."

- Giordano Bruno, who was burned at the stake for refusing to renounce his heresy.

"Teach your children what we have taught our children, that the earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons and daughters of the earth. This we know. The earth does not belong to us. We belong to the earth. This we know. All things are connected, like the blood which unites one’s family."

− Chief Seattle of the Suquamish Indians.

"To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life!"

- James Joyce, Portrait of a young artist.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Epilogue

Prologue

Portugal . . . . circa four hundred thousand years ago. Homo Heidelbergensis are the dominant species of life on Earth.

A traveler came looking.

From a distance, farther than the mind can imagine, traveling in ways it cannot ... it came searching for what there might be on the third planet of a yellow dwarf star in the outer spiral of the Milky Way, part of the Virgo supercluster – itself a tiny lobe of the Laniakea supercluster, itself a speck in an infinite sea of stars. Though the star itself was unremarkable, its third planet was special. It was very special indeed; a small body that supported life on its land and in its rivers, lakes and oceans. A spinning sphere suspended in the darkness, a blue-green oasis in the cold desert of the cosmos.

The traveler had crossed through many dimensions in the time it took to process the thought to do so. Representing a race hungry with curiosity, the traveler had come to explore this new jewel in the sky. The creature was a lone nomad, exploring worlds throughout space-time, collecting and collating information on its discoveries, as did the others of his race. Though it had lived for hundreds of our years, the traveler did not see time as we do – linear and sequential - it moved through dimensions incomprehensible to man, seeking out new life, wondrous new sights–loving them, recognizing them as another face of the Great Energy, before moving on and seeking others. It had no name, no gender, no family, nothing to distinguish itself from another of its kind, save for what it had seen. For amongst its own, there were no others. For them there was no ego. All were kin, all of its kind saw through the creature’s eyes, as it saw through theirs. Each being acted as the eyes and ears of a great intangible consciousness residing in the unbeginning, unending, ageless ether of space. They were sensitive, curious beings that visited life in all of its patterns, communicating love to advanced civilizations, secretly observing those not yet ready to receive it.

The life forms on the third planet of this system were not yet ready. Some aquatic life forms had developed telepathy. The terrestrial bipeds also showed some promise. The traveler had projected future images of them. They had the potential to develop nuclear capabilities and inter-planetary travel – and as long as they didn’t blow themselves up in the interim – they would be interstellar travelers themselves one day. Their kind had been singled out to be special, but like any child, they were a force of nature, and nature will not be contained. A kink had formed. The engine of their evolution was violence. They used it to secure mates and remove competitors from the equation. That would be a problem. That would make their time on this planet short … and foil the plan.

The traveler stood in a cave completing its readings, tapping them into a pad that was built into the slender arm of its suit – when it was suddenly startled from behind. Whirling around, the traveler screeched at the sight of two bipeds rushing towards it, much taller than the thin little creature and many times more massive. The visitor panicked and reached for a device on its belt, but the bipeds were quickly upon him - the first pinning its stick-like arms to the ground ... the second wielding a wooden club that ended its life with a single blow.

Looking the still form up and down for any trophies, one of the bipeds spotted a gleaming prize hanging from the creature’s belt. Snatching the trophy away, he dropped it again immediately as if it was red hot. His companion looked down at the object, looked up at his puzzled companion, then back down at the object. He anticipated the excitement of the tribe when they saw this.

In the end, it was the biggest hominid who won the golden prize. Its finder was stunned into silence as he watched the reaction of the larger hominid which was to walk away and wrench a bone from the rib-cage of an antelope that they had hunted together. The silence turned to grunts of protest as the finder sensed danger. The grunts turned into screams when the bone was plunged into his side, robbing him of his air. Dropping the trinket from his hand, he looked down at the bone protruding from his side, before his legs buckled beneath him and he fell to the ground. As he lay prone and gasping for breath, not having the energy to pull it out, he tried to reach his other arm over so that he could free it, wincing in pain as he did so. The bone was firmly entrenched and his power had all but left his body. It was part of him now, and would remain so. The larger one stood over the helpless, dying animal below him. He felt stronger watching the other in its last moments. The aggressor’s head angled to the side as he studied the shocked face looking up at him. In a final show of strength he roared as his victim breathed its last.

The victor turned his attention to his newly won trophy. It was the color of the circle in the sky, and it was his now. He had killed another for it. This was not like the hard rock, which was abundant. This was not from the hand of his kind. It was shaped by the Gods. He knew that it was ... other.

Many cycles of the moon passed. The holder of the trophy was ever-curious about the tingling sensation that touching it brought – he treasured it, keeping it close to him always.

He began to understand things.

Observing the migration of his tribe, their habits and their interactions with the other tribes … he formed thoughts and imagined courses of action. Rather than just doing things, he began to understand them. His ideas became clearer. He understood that some tribes were passive and weak – his tribe could benefit if they were bold enough to just take from them what they wanted. He understood that some tribes were stronger and more prone to violence – his tribe should avoid them at all costs. Some tribes were strong in number but also quite passive, they could exchange tools and materials with them. Then there were the plants that appeared after the rains. Eating them caused profound visions in his mind, taking him out of his body and showing him that he could separate from it. Eating the plants opened up doorways to new understanding, pictures of other places, places that were strange to him. The others in the tribe marveled at his improvements to their hunting weapons and cutting tools. He showed them his ideas for crop cultivation and they revered him once they saw the bountiful results.

The following account is what occurred as a result of our celestial visitor’s demise ... and the curious trinket it brought to us from afar . . . . and it’s all true.

Every single word.

1

Over the fence.

Kontum, Vietnam. 1968.

Failure to understand ... failure to communicate ... is the curse of humanity.

A terrible misunderstanding resulted in what became known as the Vietnam War. The United States of America misinterpreted a civil war between the Việt Cộng and the South Vietnamese government, as being the extension of a communist Chinese fist into Vietnam. The truth of the matter was that the Vietnamese had no love for the Chinese whatsoever.

From Nineteen Sixty Four to Nineteen Seventy Two, a secret war was being fought in South East Asia. MACV-SOG was an American unconventional-warfare task force, jointly-commanded by the Central Intelligence Agency and the 5th Special Forces group. Codenamed Prairie Fire, it oversaw highly classified clandestine operations ‘over the fence’ into Lao, Cambodia and Southern China. The CIA financed and supported the operations under the moniker of Studies & Observation Group - allegedly performing analysis of the lessons learned up to that point in the Vietnam conflict. In reality, SOG more correctly stood for Special Operations Group, and the 5th Special Forces group were responsible for running reconnaissance and sabotage missions in countries where they weren’t supposed to be active. Lao and Cambodia weren’t officially supposed to allow American bases within their borders. Recon teams (RTs) - or Spike Teams - usually consisted of three American Special Forces commandos, accompanied by a support team of up to six indigenous fighters - Montagnards - more commonly known as Yards.

Nathaniel Marx had been posted to an SOG base in Kontum, South Vietnam, deep in the heart of Charlie Country. The base was known as Forward Observation Base 2 (FOB2), and it controlled the daily operations into Lao and Cambodia. Nate’s arrival at Kontum had concerned more than a few of the gunfighters on the base. By no means was his the typical profile of a ripped and gripped gunfighter. His basic training at Fort Dix, New Jersey was typical enough, as was his advanced infantry training at Fort Gordon in Georgia. Ditto his jump school training at Fort Benning. Neither was graduation from the Special Forces Officer’s course in Fort Bragg a big surprise given the clandestine operations run out of Kontum. But a doctorate in cryptology definitely stuck out on a gunfighter’s résumé. Headhunted straight out of college by the National Security Agency, Special Forces training was a world away from the normal career path of a number cruncher.

Major Frank Stanley was certainly curious about the new arrival. At twenty six years of age, the fresh recruit sitting in front of him was by no means a baby on the team. He was quite senior in fact. It wasn’t strange to have gunfighters as young as eighteen come through Kontum. It took a youthful kind of ball-sack to do the kind of work that they did. This wasn’t an ideal job for family men or guys with any stake in their future. Life-expectancy didn’t extend beyond your next mission, you couldn’t plan anything beyond tomorrow. Running a handful of missions over the fence was required before you opened your mouth in the Special Forces drinking holes. Running say, twelve missions, entitled you to swing your dick a little. Hitting eighteen trips over the wire ensured two things. One, you were a lucky sonofabitch to have even lived that long - and two, nobody would bat an eyelid if you quit. You were already a legend by then, even though you might only be twenty two years old. How many of those spoilt, dope-smoking, baby-boomer college grads had faced death eighteen times by that age?

For the conscripted grunts it was quite possible to go months on end without ever seeing the enemy, running endless patrols with nothing but mosquito bites and jungle-foot to show for it. Running recon over the fence came with a one hundred per cent guarantee you would not only see the enemy, but be close enough to smell them. The guys that signed up for Spike teams were absolutely assured to be in the shit from the get-go. Teams not carrying out an assigned mission could be on standby for teams that were - ready to be called in if things went bad - or for Search And Rescue missions. These were called Bright Light teams. If your number was called when you were on Bright Light, you were not just going to engage the enemy, you were going into a situation that was already FUBAR. It wasn’t unknown to smell the blood and the shit of your comrades before you actually found them. Bright Light was a voluntary assignment, as it had to be. You needed to be sure that you were committed to the team when you went over the fence. A weak link in the chain could spell disaster for the whole team - your buddies could sniff out the fear on you like dogs. It had to be your call. No obligations. It was all or nothing. Knowing when to stop was the thing. There was no shame in hanging up your guns - there was at least some dignity in admitting you’d had enough - you weren’t putting anyone else at risk - besides, you could always put your experience to good use and help those that were still in the loop, or those still to come. Some of the chopper pilots had run recon, as had most all of the trainers and advisors.

It was only one of two reasons that kept gunfighters going back for more. Peer pressure or insanity. You never wanted to be seen as the guy calling it a day - although anyone of sound mind thought about it constantly. How long do I keep doing this? When is it okay to stop? Why am I doing this? Running recon was like playing Russian roulette for a living. Were you doing it to prove a point? A lot of guys were trying to prove something ... to themselves ... a girl back home ... fathers that had served ... the son wanting to go one better than his dad’s stint in World War II. But if you didn’t know why you were doing it …. then maybe you had strayed into the twilight zone – drifting in and out of sanity – after all, wasn’t insanity just a sane response to an insane situation*?

The brief for the next mission was so classified that the only member of the team who knew what it was … was Marx himself. Major Stanley had no intel on what they were looking for. Not a sausage. He knew they had general co-ordinates for a communications post and specific intel from a spy in deep cover, but that was as much as he was privy to. His curiosity was piqued, but no more than that. Marx had his orders, Stanley had his. Insert the package, protect him with all available assets, and if they lost Marx somehow, the mission would revert to capturing a VC alive. A live gook was always a valued prize - none moreso than drivers, because they knew all the routes.

Nate observed the Major as he went through the folder on him, comparing it with another sheet. His rolled-up sleeves revealed freckled, weather-beaten forearms that looked like they could bale hay, even now, well into his seventh decade. He still had a good covering of hair that required Brylcreem. Nate noted they were certainly fond of mustaches here at Kontum. Almost everyone had one. Major Stanley favoring the neatly trimmed pencil mustache that Nate presumed was the most time-consuming, yet essential step in the Major’s morning ablutions. With a satisfied grunt, he closed Nate’s file, squinting as he eyeballed him directly with a faint smile.

I have to ask you son … what the hell are you doing here?

Sir, I have classified orders to search a communi-

No son, that’s not what I mean, you know what I mean …. you’re a smart boy from what I can see, The Major nodded towards the folder beneath his clasped hands on the desk between them, Cut the bullshit. Why?

Why not?

That ain’t gonna fly …, said Stanley shaking his head, … now those are some top secret orders you got there - you’re going on this mission no matter what I think, your One-Zero is gonna sit on you real good, don’t worry about that … he’s the best we have …. but I would like to know why a civilian with a doctorate signs up for this particular line of work? How do I know you have the sand to stand tall in the face of enemy fire? I’m guessing your old man served and you want to make him real proud, that so, son? You want to show him you’re no pussy, is that it?

My father was killed during Operation Overlord sir, just outside Cherbourg. I was two years old.

Stanley nodded, sorry that he’d implied the young man was here solely to appease an overshadowing father - he was trying to appease a ghost, better still. He might fight that much harder for a ghost.

9th Infantry?

79th, Sir.

Major Stanley raised his eyebrows and nodded again, grunting. This time he did lower his eyes, and reflected for a moment, They had the worst of it taking Caen, He muttered. Still nodding, he looked back at Nate, Your father was a goddamn hero son.

They all were, sir.

Stanley’s eyes dropped again as he swallowed the lump in his throat.

Absolutely … yes … absolutely ….we left a lot of heroes in France.

You served there, sir?

4th Infantry, Stanley said flatly, momentarily stuck in some Normandy scenario more than forty years in the past, a cast of bloody images passing in front of his mind’s eye like a film reel, carnage the likes of which this young corporal had never seen. He’d see carnage soon enough - on a smaller scale - but hopefully he would be causing the majority of it.

The briefing is at oh-eight-hundred, end of this corridor, door on the left. Met your One-Zero yet?

Lieutenant Casey? No sir.

"Len Casey, Lenny the Lion, he’ll look after you. Do as your told, do not deviate from any instructions he gives you, listen to the ‘yards, you’ll be okay. Your One-One is Staff Sergeant Danny White, twenty two trips over the wire, as tough and as smart as any of our One-zeroes. He’ll have your back, but listen to those ‘yards, you hear me? Trust their instincts and you’ll be okay. They might come out with some strange shit, but you listen up and you might just come back alive. All right?"

Sir!

Dismissed.

Nate was instantly taken with the ‘yards. Montagnards as they were referred to by the French colonists, literally translated meant ‘mountain dwellers’ or ‘mountain people’. They were the indigenous inhabitants of the central highlands of Vietnam, calling themselves Dega. They were spread across about thirty three tribes, each distinguished by slight variations in language, but seen as second class citizens in their own country. Living in remote highlands, amongst rainforest and dense jungle, they were masters of their environment. Their population was very small in comparison to the total population of Vietnam - never numbering more than a million souls - although they inhabited about fifty per cent of the land area. The Vietcong stole their crops, forced their people into service and used their land as bases from which they launched attacks on American troops. It wasn’t long before they were recruited and trained by Prairie Fire to utilize their unique strengths in jungle warfare against their common enemy.

They giggled and laughed in the briefing room as those present awaited the arrival of the One-Zero - in stark contrast to the blank demeanor of the One-One and twelve pilots from the 170th Assault Helicopter Company. There would be a gaggle of six choppers performing the insertion. Two Kingbees carrying the nine-man Spike team, two slicks (UH1 general purpose helicopters) and two Cobras (AH1 assault helicopters) - although there were Sikorsky CH-53 helicopters which could be called in. There would also be the fast movers - other fighter aircraft which served as standby support - operating out of Dak-To. These included Phantom F-4s and A1E Skyraiders, armed with 500lb munitions, napalm pods, cluster bomb units and 20mm cannons. The AC-130 Spectres carried 105mm Howitzers as well as the standard 40mm, 20mm cannons and mini-guns. And of course, crucially, they would have the support of the 20th TASS or ‘Covey’, tasked with providing Forward Air Controller coverage. They would always be assisted by a