How else can you explain the Helium?

The hum of the data center was a constant companion, a low-frequency drone that seeped into my bones after eight years at the National Data Analysis Bureau. My cubicle was a fortress of screens, each flickering with streams of numbers—satellite feeds, atmospheric readings, geological surveys. It was mind-numbing until it wasn’t. That day, three months ago, I’d stumbled onto something that made my pulse race: a helium anomaly over the Southwest US.
Normally, helium spikes tied back to uranium and thorium decay—natural processes, predictable half-lives. But this? This was a flood, a steady climb since the 1960s, pouring from hundreds of subsurface points. I’d crunched the numbers, cross-referenced every known deposit, and still came up short. The data screamed industrial output—hundreds of megawatt-scale nuclear plants, maybe thousands of smaller ones, all hidden underground. I’d filed my report and waited.
A month passed. Nothing. I’d almost convinced myself it was a glitch when the summons came.
The conference room was a stark contrast to my cubicle—polished steel walls, a long table, and whiteboards scrawled with chaos. My report’s highlights glowed on a holo-display: “Helium Plume Trends, 1960–2025” and “Estimated Energy Output: 1.2 Terawatts.” Another board caught my eye—big red letters shouting “NEUTRINO SHIELDING!?!?!” next to equations that twisted my math-major brain into knots.
The door swung open, and in strode my supervisor, Dr. Evelyn Carver, her gray-streaked hair pulled tight in a bun. Behind her trailed a dozen others—scientists, judging by their rumpled blazers and caffeine-jittery vibes. Evelyn’s sharp blue eyes locked onto mine.
“Carter,” she said, voice clipped. “What would you do if you needed to hide your neutrino signature from a technologically advancing civilization?”
The room went silent. I blinked, my mind racing. Neutrinos—those ghostly particles that slip through everything—were the bane of stealth tech. Nuclear reactors spewed them like cosmic confetti, impossible to mask. Or so I’d thought.
I took a breath, piecing it together. “I’d try to stack layers of superconductor, graphene, and black phosphorus into disks. Spin them up—high velocity, like a gyroscope—to warp space locally and reflect the neutrinos back at their source. Surround the reactor with a lattice of them. It’d be tricky, but if it worked, you’d not only hide the signature—you’d boost efficiency, maybe by orders of magnitude. Compact reactors, less shielding mass.”
A murmur rippled through the group. An older scientist—white beard, wiry frame—leaned forward, his badge reading “Dr. H. Kessler, Theoretical Physics.”
“Where do we have you working right now?” he asked, squinting at me like I was a specimen under a scope.
“Data Analysis,” I said, shifting in my seat.
“Not anymore!” Kessler clapped his hands, his voice booming with glee. The room erupted, scientists talking over each other.
“Get this to Home Office—priority one!” Kessler barked at a younger aide, who scrambled for a tablet. “This young man just cracked it—neutrinos aren’t unblockable. Warping space to bounce them back? Brilliant, if we can make it work!”
Evelyn raised a hand, silencing the chaos. “Meeting’s over. Carter, walk with me.”
We stepped into the hallway, a sterile tunnel of fluorescent light and steel. Evelyn’s pace was brisk, her heels clicking against the floor. I hurried to keep up, my head still spinning.
“Clearance bump’s in process,” she said, not looking at me. “You’re joining Future Tech Division—effective now. That helium plume you flagged? It’s not aliens, if that’s where your mind went.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Aliens had crossed my mind, briefly.
“Americans,” she continued. “Volunteers, buried since the ‘60s. Deep underground colonies—DUGCs. Cold War paranoia birthed them. Too many attack vectors, not enough defenses. The plan was simple: if the surface got wiped out, they’d survive, rebuild, advance. The ones you detected? They’ve been busy.”
I stopped walking. “Underground colonies? With terawatt reactors?”
She glanced back, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Not just reactors. Whole cities—sealed, self-sustaining. They’ve had six decades to innovate, and they’re not sitting on their hands. That helium’s a byproduct of their fusion tech—compact, efficient, but leaky. Neutrinos, too, until now, maybe.”
We reached a secure door, retina scanners blinking red. Evelyn leaned in, and it hissed open, revealing a lab that looked like a sci-fi set—holo-screens, prototype rigs, a faint hum of machinery. She gestured me inside.
“Your new playground,” she said. “Now, explain why you think those disks would warp space.”
I stepped forward, adrenaline surging. “Rotating mass distorts spacetime—Einstein’s frame-dragging effect. Superconductors amplify it, graphene handles the stress, black phosphorus tunes the field. Spin them fast enough, and you’d bend spacetime into a reflective curve. Neutrinos hit it, they bounce. It’s theoretical, but the math checks out—at least on paper.”
Evelyn nodded, her smirk widening. “Good enough to start with. Meet your team.”
The lab buzzed with activity. A wiry engineer—Lila, according to her badge—rolled over in a chair, peering at me through augmented glasses. “You the helium guy?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “Carter.”
“Cool. Your disk idea’s nuts, but I like it.” She spun a holo-model on her screen—a stack of shimmering disks, equations swirling around it. “We’ve got a fusion mock-up running. Wanna help me break it?”
Before I could answer, Kessler shuffled over, clutching a coffee mug that read “E=MC²—Deal With It.” “Carter, right? Your report’s already at Home Office. They’re rerouting a dark satellite to scan the Southwest DUGC—higher res, neutrino focus. If your shield pans out, we’ll retrofit their reactors first.”
“Retrofit?” I echoed. “You’re in contact with them?”
“Intermittently,” Evelyn cut in, joining us. “They’re autonomous, but we’ve got tight-beam comms. They’ve been cagey about their tech—probably don’t trust us not to steal it. Your helium find forced their hand.”
Lila grinned. “Sixty years underground, and they’re outpacing us. Bet they’ve got toys we haven’t dreamed of.”
“Like neutrino shields?” I ventured.
“Or better,” Kessler said, eyes glinting. “Your job’s to catch us up. Starting with that disk.”
Weeks blurred into a haze of simulations and prototypes. The Southwest DUGC—officially “Colony Gamma-7”—sent us scraps of data: reactor schematics, helium vent logs, nothing on shields. They were hiding something, but the helium kept rising, a beacon we couldn’t ignore.
Late one night, I sat alone in the lab, tweaking a disk model. The holo spun lazily, its spacetime curve glowing blue. A ping broke my focus—a tight-beam message, encrypted to my clearance. I opened it, heart pounding.
“Carter,” the text read. “Gamma-7 here. Saw your report. Disks are close—too close. Meet us halfway. Coordinates attached. Bring coffee.”
I stared at the screen, then at the holo. Halfway. They weren’t just watching—they were testing me.
The next day, I briefed Evelyn. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. “Take Kessler and Lila. And the coffee.”
We flew out at dawn—black helicopter, no markings—landing in a desert canyon miles from anywhere. The coordinates led to a hidden hatch, steel and sand-scoured. It creaked open, revealing a tunnel lit by faint green strips.
A figure emerged—tall, gaunt, gray-haired. “Carter?” he rasped, voice rough from disuse. “I’m Jonas, Gamma-7 Lead. Nice guess on the disks.”
“You’ve got them?” I asked, handing over the coffee.
He took a sip, grimacing. “Not quite. Come see.”
The tunnel descended into a cavernous city—towers of alloy and glass, fusion reactors pulsing like hearts. Jonas led us to a lab, where a massive rig spun silently: disks, layered and shimmering, warping the air around them.
“Reflects fifty percent,” he said. “Not enough. Your math’s better—help us finish it.”
I exchanged looks with Lila and Kessler. The future wasn’t just above ground—it was here, waiting.