God. Speak.

Written by Frank Andrew Buchan, III

Release Date: October 11, 2009

© 2009, Frank Andrew Buchan, III
All Rights Reserved.

The Background Cover Image is Courtesy of NASA Under Their Open Public License.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Acknowledgements

My thanks to my friend Tim Lalonde for encouraging me to release this eBook, who was kind enough to make some editorial suggestions that I actually listened to. My thanks also to Mark Corker of Smashwords.com, as without the site I never would have had the opportunity to share this story. I write because I am compelled to do so, and I am pleased the world has finally found a medium to convey these words that doesn’t require a writer to become a publicist or even a public figure. Some day, the eBook format will rule the written world, and when it does it will be a pleasure to say that I at least dabbled in the medium in its infancy.

While I do not believe in religion, I do believe there may be a God. I’m not sure God believes in me, and that may be for the best, because I believe in humanity…and I believe in angels. This book is dedicated to all the lost people, and to those we hope will find us and lead us from the darkness. But most importantly it is dedicated to my angels of mercy: Leo, Amy, Carey, Michelle, and Keri.

To The Reader
This book is an old-form science fiction piece, written as a homage to the authors from the fifties and sixties, who largely shaped my love of the medium. I make no claims that I come close to their enormous skills as storytellers or writers, but I hope at the very least I capture the broader sense of their insight into the human condition. The story was originally written in 1994, and underwent a number of fairly minor revisions since. Those who wish to learn more about its changes over the years can torture themselves with the Afterword at the end.
I struggled with whether to release this book for free, and decided that ultimately I would do so for at least the first month as a nod to those readers who enjoyed my book Forbidden. Being free, I hope it reaches a wide audience. If ever I do price it, I expect it will be in a range to buy my daughter some candy.

April 1st, 2117
The Engineer
Steven saw Angus Shepherd coming before he was warned. He turned from his small group of engineers, who were mounting transfer cables in the Sapphire’s walls, and greeted Angus with a crooked smile. The old man was an eccentric, wearing steel-rimmed glasses and running shoes in an age when no one had bad eyes and running shoes were considered an uncomfortable relic of the distant past. Yet despite all his eccentricities, Angus was a brilliant scientist and the motivation behind the project that had spawned the vessel Steven and his crew were building.
“Morning, Angus.”
Angus stuffed his hands in his pockets and peered curiously at the superstructure surrounding them. The aft and forward sections of the top were open, and the dry-dock floodlights were shining through the network of support beams, casting long, sombre shadows. Angus was as awed by the technology around him as he had been the first time he had set foot inside Saint Paul’s Cathedral. The Cathedral was a sample of the finest workmanship of its age, and Sapphire was going to be the crowning achievement of the twenty-second century. “Ahead of schedule again, I heard,” Angus noted with a satisfied grin. Behind his glasses his aquamarine eyes sparkled.
Steven handed off a chart to one of his crew and followed the old scientist. They strolled toward the engine section, along the temporary mesh plates laid down in the D-deck keel corridor. He efficiently brought Angus in touch with their progress.
“The forward section is almost ready to house the computer mains now, and, excepting cosmetics, the bridge is functional. We tested it on remote and got good, clean signals from all stations. All that has to be done to finish the bridge is the forward computer corridor and the contact station there; the navigation component console; and the cowlings on the other stations and terminals. We won’t put the covers on until we have the AIT installed in the structure and a positive test on all its redundancy systems and mains.”
He stopped beside Angus at the end of the finished portion of the corridor, looking out the open back of the ship. Dozens of construction engineers were at work, guiding the two bay cranes that were moving an upper deck platform into position so the hull could be finished where the delta-wings would connect.
“The wing sections, and particle collectors mounted against the hull, are ready to be placed as soon as we have enough of this area finished to house the slip-structure the engines lock into. A-deck is complete, and the test on the lander split-hatch was good. Everything up there seems to work. We’ll do another complete system check when the computer takes over those mains and we can operate everything on internal power. Jack Robins is concerned we may have to boost the power supply to those hatch-motors to open them in full gravity.
“Back there, in the sub-bay, the lower cargo doors for the prow section are being reinforced and tested for stress. The preliminary indication is we haven’t any problems.
“The labs and medical sections on C-deck we haven’t yet assembled, but the microcrystal partition is up between the sciences lab and the secure lab. We almost have the secure chamber vacuum sealed. Jack’s overseeing that.”
Angus was distracted by the skeletal construction around them. He was still smiling, only partly listening. When Steven stopped speaking, he indicated, “Half the time I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about, but I do appreciate the time you take to bring me up to date on your progress. Forgiving my ignorance, what is an AIT?”
Steven almost laughed. His habitual self-control stopped it before it rose beyond a whisper. “It means Artificial Intelligence Technology. And our lack of understanding of reports is mutual, Angus. I read your report on the performance of your computer. I was lost by the second paragraph.”
“It was a political paper,” Angus said slyly, peering at Steven around the corner of his glasses. “You were supposed to get lost after paragraph two. That way the politicians in the UNC feel less inclined to ask inane questions, to which they would never understand the answers even if I were inclined to offer them.”
“The baffle them with your brilliance routine?”
“Precisely: Retain perfect grammar in your paper, and say nothing in the most concise and complicated manner you possibly can. I got through school on that tact.”
Steven doubted the claim, but didn’t say so. Angus was a Nobel prize winner and one of the most distinguished scientists of their age. The old man had charisma to match his genius, and he combined with those traits a natural ability to draw out the best in others. Charisma had been the weapon Angus wielded effectively to get the Core Exploration Mission launched. Genius had kept the project moving at a pace few had believed possible.
“You can be spared today?” Angus wondered, his purpose in asking hidden entirely.
Steven was watching a young engineer positioning a piece of the support structure. He didn’t hear Angus’ question, or didn’t process it consciously. He motioned to a man standing in a feed pit nearby and pointed generally at the woman he was watching.
“What’s her name?”
The engineer in the pit glanced up, glanced back at Steven with a curious expression, and replied, “That’s Lieutenant York, Commander.”
Angus smiled. The expression on the man’s face made it plain Steven must have already known the woman’s name. Angus waited good-naturedly while Steven negotiated an open section of the corridor to stand within sight of York. She was walking above them with a small canvas satchel full of linking pins.
“York!”
She stopped at the first crossing beam and looked down, her face blank. Her eyes were hidden by shadows.
“Get down here!”
She handed the canvas bag to the man behind her and pushed away from the brace she stood on, floating to a vertical cable being used to temporarily hold some of the structure in place. She glided down the line hand-over-hand, her expression guarded. When Angus finally saw her eyes, he judged she was anxious.
She saluted Steven when she arrived opposite him, but said nothing.
“York, are you a structure engineer, or a line engineer?”
“Line, sir.”
It was obvious she expected a reprimand for what she had been doing.
“What’s this thing?”
She glanced at the emblem on her breast pocket, blushed, and said softly, “It’s a school award, sir.”
“An engineering award?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Engineering in what sense?”
“Line engineering, sir.”
“What do line engineers usually do?”
“Put down cable awl terminal branches, sir.”
“What were you doing up there?”
“Securing frame sections, sir.”
“You like line engineering?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You like structure engineering better?”
“No, sir.”
“You like your job?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who assigned you to this section?”
“Commander Robins, sir.”
Steven lifted the headset resting around his neck and put it on. He turned the transmitter on his belt to the SEND/RECEIVE position and said into the microphone, “Jack.” Everyone equipped with a headset knew who he was trying to reach. Jack Robins responded momentarily. York seemed to shrink into herself, looking defensively at anyone who paused to glance at her. “I have a Lieutenant York working structure with the aft locking crew. She’s a line engineer.” Steven listened and nodded to himself once, then came back to whatever was said with, “No; I just want you to make a note of her and send her to CTC for testing.”
York’s blank expression changed; she appeared positively stricken. Central Technical Control was the review board of operations and procedures. She was straining to guess for what she was being reprimanded.
Steven signed-off and removed his headset. He directed, “When your shift ends today, see Robins. The order came down: I need a line engineer on board when we launch next year. I’ve been watching your performance appraisals for a while and you’re a competent engineer.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“I’m sending you to CTC for review. It’s up to the Command Crew and the Review Board whether you qualify. Jack will explain the rest, and you can decide from there what you want to do.”
She was stunned. Steven was an idol to her and most of the engineers she had gone to school with. To be noticed by him, from amongst the several hundred people who worked for him, astounded her beyond a capacity to speak. So, consequently, she stood with a dumb expression, blinking too often.
“You can go back to work now.”
She nodded and turned away slowly, brushing her hair from her temple. When she had gone, he turned to Angus and apologised, “Sorry about that. I wasn’t sure she was on today. Couldn’t find her working in the engine section in sub-bay five.”
“You didn’t know her name,” Angus observed, curious. “How can you have been assessing someone without knowing their name?”
A slow smile spread across Steven’s lips and he said evenly, “Tracey Evelyn York, Lieutenant, line engineer, identification number P-L-E forty-one dash forty-seven, born two thousand ninety-seven, Miami, Florida, United States of North America. Parents are Annie and James York; she graduated seventy-first from her class. She’s the only one on board who still wears her school jacket; and she has a chest measurement of thirty-seven inches. She’s an average engineer all-round, with specialty training as a line engineer. When we get a hundred thousand light years core-ward, I don’t want a specialist who knows nothing but their field.”
“You’re peculiar.”
“Not really. I can’t ever remember her name until someone gives me a hint. I recall her by something else.”
Angus took a deep breath to expand his chest and smiled.
“It’s distinctive,” Steven clarified.
Angus laughed and turned, leading the way back to the fore section. On the way, he changed the topic, asking again, “Can you be spared today?”
“Around here I can be spared nine days out of ten. Structure is the last thing they need me for. Ask me the same question when it comes to putting the Mark Five in this tin can and the answer’ll be different.”
The Children of the Children
In twenty minutes Steven was standing beside Angus in a small shuttle that had been provided by the UNC to allow them access to the nearby Polar Space Station. Angus was rubbing his hands together in a display of expectation, which made Steven curious. When the shuttle turned and rocketed toward the glimmering solar collectors belonging to the BioCorp satellites, he broke the silence. He knew Angus was waiting for him to ask.
“We going to see your computer? Is it ready for installation already?”
Angus bobbed his brows and his eyes sparkled. There was something elfish about the mischievous glint in the old moan’s eyes. Paranoid types would have never been able to trust him, probably with reason. He mused, “Not as such, Stevie. You could say, your computer; but I doubt that describes the situation accurately. Computer is not the most correct term”
The mystery inspired Steven to smile. Around the engineering docks the old man was variously called by his first name, or any of a dozen nicknames. The most endearing of the lot was Slick Willie Wait-a-minute. The moniker had been coined by a member of Jack Robins’ staff because of Angus’ habit of doing things in his own sweet time, with unwarranted dramatic flair.
“Have you ever seen a biological robot, Stevie?”
“No, sir, I can’t say I have. I once saw the inner workings of a biological computer when I was working with the Regency Progressive Group, designing the mechanical structures of its crystalline links.”
“There are some differences between biological machines and biological artificial life forms.”
“Not according to Time. The packaging is different, they said, but very little else.”
“Time will tell a different story,” Angus said with a wink. “And I’m not talking about Time the magazine.”
“I take it then we’re going to see a BIOT?”
“Roughly speaking – yes.”
“I hope it does tricks.”
Angus stopped smiling. The half-hearted joke was offensive, but the tone of Steven’s voice forgave it. Negative attitudes about BIOTs were common, and Angus understood their basis. He had been a member of the group that made efficient and effective cloning a reality, and then he had outlawed the process almost single-handed by taking a case to court to prevent off-site cloning for limb salvage. Ironically, after winning his case, he had been taken back by the same company to oversee their BIOT program. Again with the BIOT program he had struck a victory for science, and followed it with a moral crusade to create a strict body of laws to govern the exploitation of artificials, as BIOTs had then been called.
“I’m afraid you may be disappointed when it comes to tricks. I’m curious though, Stevie – what do you really think about artificial persons?”
“Ninety percent of the persons I’ve met in my lifetime seem artificial,” Steven replied with cynical honesty. “I try to think about them as seldom as I can.”
“Specifically BIOTs,” Angus qualified, letting the question stand.
“I’ve never seen one. Everything I’ve heard makes them sound a ridiculous idea except as a tool for doing dangerous work. I hear some have been used on the Darius recently to do extravehicular work. If it means anything, I think having BIOTs do dangerous work is a good idea. If it saves lives, then I support it. If it means a lot of extra mouths to feed, and nothing back from it, then I’m against.”
“But you don’t consider BIOTs human?”
“Hardly. Made out of flesh and blood, yes; but human, no.”
“Why not?”
“I’m beginning to wonder what you’re up to, Angus.”
Angus smiled comfortingly, with just a hint of sparkle in his eyes. He admitted, “I’m up to finding out some things that are crucial to what I’m up to.”
Steven squinted thoughtfully, but he played along, answering the question: “BIOTs are grown in a quasi-crystalline matrix in a state of prime configuration. What I’ve read tells me they’re formed at a stage of biological development ranging in the late teens, and have six to ten years of prime performance before they begin to degenerate. Human beings go through growth stages and develop into what we class as human. BIOTs start altogether differently.”
“Physically most BIOTs have been more perfect than human beings,” Angus observed, drawing on personal recollections to make the claim. “The degeneration factor in their development is normal, though they will likely prove to have a longer natural life span. Genetically they have near complete recall abilities.”
“But they lack development. I have androids working on the ship that rivet like madmen when the hull plates are put down. They do damn near perfect work and their level of production is higher than humans, but they’re still machines. They have drawbacks despite perfect recall and perfect performance. If they make a mistake they keep going regardless of the consequences. BIOTs are like those machines. They lack an intuitive grasp of what they have to do in new situations. They can’t step back from the mechanical task they perform and say, ‘Oops, made a mistake, I’ll have to go back and straighten this out.’”
“What evidence do you base those observations on?” Angus asked patiently, smiling again.
“Logic. The reason people can do complicated tasks is they have a conceptual grasp of the tasks to be done. For instance, I can say to Jack Robins that we’ll V the internal braces around the cargo doors in the lower forward section, and he’ll interpret that and have the designs altered. Then we’ll discuss and refine the design. With a machine you can’t be vague. The precision required to get a machine to understand a task – even one as fancy as that ABACUS model we use to test our structural designs before construction – is so time consuming it would require you essentially perform the task yourself, leaving out no steps. That’s fine for repetitive, mechanical processes, but it fails when you consider independent creative thought. As amazing as our modern computers can be, they still have a limited intuitive ability. They think in pattern-matching and define by successive degrees of pattern-matching. People can conceptualise data to the point where the image representing an idea can be properly formed, even though the idea is out of the person’s realm of experience.
“I remember, when I was a kid, the first time I heard about the Grand Canyon. I tried to envision what it was and what had caused it. I went through stages to get there, but to get the right answer I had to understand things where I lacked knowledge and experience. True, I started thinking about what happened in the driveway at my grandparents’ cottage when it rained and how the water formed sluice patterns, but I had to make a concept leap no computer can make. I had to transpose those experiences with tiny phenomenon to produce an effect whose cause I lacked experience with.”
“And you don’t believe a computer can model that process?”
“Model it, yes; intuitively learn it, no. If you give a computer enough information and fast enough processors it can model anything. What I see the problem to be, is given information that isn’t flagged for association a computer can’t make the concept leaps we can. Say you tell the machine about effect A, which happens under a given set of circumstances. Now, ask it to deduce or induce the cause of effect B, which is understandable given the cause/effect pattern related to incident A. The only restriction is you can’t suggest that connection to the machine. Its problem becomes a lack of one vital shred of data: that effects A and B are related in cause, varied only by magnitude.”
“I can think of at least one example where your premise fails.”
“I doubt that, but I would like to hear it if you can.”
“Given these circumstances: A windmill made of steel, concrete and industrial plastics is struck by lighting and the electrical collectors are overloaded. Ask the computer what will happen to a child’s remote control car if the same bolt of lightening strikes it.”
“It would answer incorrectly. Using relational data it would suggest the toy’s collectors were overloaded.”
“But it didn’t. We ran that test years ago on an ABACUS, first generation. It answered the toy was destroyed.”
Steven considered the challenge and instantly understood the factors both of them were overlooking. He asked, “It was given a definition of the materials constructing the two targets? Yes?”
“Yes.”
“And then a formula defining the lightning bolt’s properties and behaviour?”
Angus understood his error and admitted, “Yes; and its conclusion was based on its knowledge of molecular interactions under applied energy occurrences. The objects had nothing to do with its conclusion beyond their material structure.”
“And it had been prepared for the experiment by programming that related the nature of high energy physics of some kind, otherwise it would never have grasped the implications of the problem it was addressing.”
“Yes,” Angus admitted, enjoying their banter. Because the shuttle was nearing the BioCorp station, he steered them back to their original topic. He suggested, “That’s really just a side issue, of course. Artificial persons are equipped with naturally functioning brains. They think conceptually, not in micro-bits and bits and relational data structures.”
“But they still lack the familiarity of process, Angus. I’m not saying they’re not useful tools, just that they lack the capability of human beings to grasp problems and solutions intuitively. They lack theory ability. From my reading, which I admit is pretty general, I understood BIOTs are programmed with specific field knowledge. All the knowledge in the world doesn’t mean anything without a grasp of the processes of application. That’s what all machines lack. They know tasks and data related to tasks. Their knowledge fails them because it isn’t flexible beyond the definition of specific tasks.”
“Would it shock you, or offend you, to learn otherwise?”
Steven had to think about that. The shuttle was docking with a perceptible bump. He followed Angus out into the BioCorp space station, where they were greeted by an austere woman who led them to a waiting cart. In the cart, he finally answered the question, deciding, “It wouldn’t offend me, but it would surprise me. As soon as you develop a computer with an ability to think you have an obvious danger, both ethical and real. Ethical because as soon as you put the machine to work you have to grapple with the morality of owning a thinking being. Do you have the right to apply the tool to dangerous work? That leads to moral and legal obligations for the machine’s safety. The real danger is making something more human than human beings, its physical form aside. It might become useless simply because it will have the capacity to…dream. Dream is a good word. To be useful a tool has to have no moral obligation attached to it, and has to have a single-minded ability to perform the tasks it was designed to perform.”
“Then considering the physical make-up of the artificial persons, do you think we have a moral conflict in using them for dangerous activities?”
“No, because BIOTs are designed, not – or are they? Obviously you’re telling me what I’ve read doesn’t give the true picture.”
“Not entirely; but it is truth in a practical sense. You see, the first biological robots we designed when I was working for BioCorp were mostly physical, with empty brains, so to speak. We had degeneracy problems with their immune systems that were highly publicised at the time, so we never really could track those early artificial persons as they developed. But it was fifteen years ago when I pushed the BIOT manifesto through the UNC, and restrictions and responsibilities were placed on their development and uses. Since then we’ve had some artificial persons who have lived somewhat normal lives, and been very productive – even happy, if such can be said about an artificial creature. Of course, we’ve also had failures.”
Angus rose from the cart and followed their guide into a comfortable laboratory. Angus continued talking after she informed them the doctors would be with them shortly.
“One of our failures was a mathematics artificial. He was employed at the Hawking Institute to work on perfecting some mathematical formulae that have yet to be integrated successfully into quantum mechanics. His work began to suffer – this was two years ago – and he became depressed and restless. Eventually he committed suicide by swallowing a bottle of antidepressants given him by a chemist.”
Steven sat on the edge of the table behind them, intrigued by Angus’ narrative. BIOTs were taking on a new dimension. They were, after all, something more than uniquely packaged machines.
“The moral of the story being?” he wondered.
“No moral, Stevie, just a conclusion. Very little was said about his death, and nothing about the suicide note he left. Of course, I’ll trust you to keep all this in confidence, because it would damage the ESO board of associates.”
“I won’t repeat it.”
Angus pulled out a chair and reclined in it, peering at Steven with a serious and thoughtful expression. He revealed, “The note showed our non-human had fallen prey to a very human failing, aggravated considerably by society and social attitudes. Understandable attitudes, yes; but unfortunate no less. As you know, it’s illegal for artificials to engage in sexual relations. Unfortunately for them, and us, they have the physical capability and over time they develop a natural longing to use it. I don’t want to have you think I’m making light of this, because I’m not, but having an itch and not being allowed to scratch it is a horrible pressure to live under. It gets marginally worse when daily routine forces contact with a love interest. The mathematician in question worked closely with a cosmologist. Her name is unimportant for me to make my point, but since we’re speaking in confidence, it was Karen Thompson.”
“I’ve met her. I thought she was married.”
“A further blow to the artificial person who had fallen in love with her. His letter was clear, and very human. He expressed an opinion the United Nations Council manifesto governing BIOTs was cruel, and he expressed a loneliness not at all dissimilar to what we see in human beings. He felt it was unfair he should be treated differently simply because he had come from a different biological process. To sum his letter, he suggested he possessed a human intellect, was given more responsibility than many non-artificial people, and was biologically the same as his colleagues; but that he was treated to the indignity of not being allowed to express emotions he most definitely felt.
“His example illustrated something for which we were not prepared, though in retrospect we were fools to miss the obvious. Given time, through association with humans, BIOTs begin to crave affection. If it were as simple as sex we could try to substitute some auto-erotic form of stimuli. The problem is, what afflicted our mathematician – who was, by the way, far superior to any human mathematician I’ve ever known – was loneliness. That loneliness developed into a deep depression because he was forbidden to express it.
“In his letter he told us about an incident that was obviously very dear to him. While working with Professor Thompson she ordered them lunch and supper often. One day she asked him what he would like, and during the meal she talked to him about a book she had read. He expressed interest, and the next day she brought the book to him. For him, that moment was plainly as precious as a first kiss, or first love, can be to us. After that, the time he spent with her was not only the most productive part of his career, but also the best time in his life.
“We never expected our biological robots to become emotional. We should have, of course, but we were listening to professionals who believed most of the basic emotions could be dampened and eliminated by a Spartan life style, and a reduction of certain chemical supplies to certain parts of the glandular network. We totally ignored the obvious, which was that over time artificial persons would feel some emotion; and over time their bodies, much more capable than ours, would begin to supply the proper quantities of the chemicals we idiotically tried to reduce to minimum levels.”
Steven slid off the edge of the table into a chair, and leaned forward on his elbows and forearms, fascinated by the topic. He mused, “So, biology beat you.”
“It always will when we challenge it.”
“I suppose the dilemma now is what to do about the BIOTs out there?”
“A dilemma I thankfully haven’t got to worry about. It’s out of my hands.”
“But?”
Angus grinned and admitted, “Yes; there is a but.”
“A big one, I imagine?”
“Gargantuan, Stevie. We now have to determine the fate of the BIOT program. Rather, BioCorp does. It isn’t very profitable, so that won’t be a concern – but scientifically it’s the most productive program they have ever had. The advances made in medical sciences, because of biological engineering solutions in this field, are many. They would otherwise not have come about. The drawback is the morality issue. One incident with one artificial person is an aberration. Unfortunately, this aberration is a hint of the future, and everyone who knows about that note, and the bigger problem it insinuates, realises eventually any artificial person out there might prove this aberration a rule.
“If they were machines they could be destroyed, but they aren’t machines. As awful as some will find it, the fact seems to be they are extraordinarily perfect human beings. They qualify as a stage-two human being, so to speak, with small refinements all-round to our present physical and mental form.”
“And they have a solution?”
“BioCorp? No. No one who knows about the problem has a solution. The obvious solution won’t work because morally and ethically we are obligated to not eradicate them. We can’t punish them for our mistake. Likely the best solution we’ll find, eventually, within a few years, is to stop production and try to integrate them. They won’t hurt humanity, and will probably do some genetic good.”
“Unless they mate with the same tissue they were cloned from.”
Angus was startled. He laughed at himself for his reaction, and corrected Steven’s misapprehension, explaining, “The biological robot process is unique. We produce unique individuals, not clones. The DNA pattern is known, and we simply use what we call stock alleles and adjusted alleles to perpetrate unique cell reproduction. Part of the same technology that went into modern hibernation equipment forms the basis of biological robot production. The uniqueness comes into play when we can randomly or specifically design some alleles.”
“If you use a standard DNA chain before starting mutations, then BIOT interbreeding would be impossible, wouldn’t it?”
“Hardly. What we learned through all those years of DNA research was well applied in the program. All DNA structures are similar, with about five distinctive common matrices in human beings.”
“Genetics was never my strong point, but I thought we all had distinctive DNA patterns.”
“Oh, relatively speaking, we do; but I’m not talking about exact matches. I just mean there are about five distinct DNA chains running through the race. I mean distinct in the sense there are five basic patterns we can use to generate an array of unique individuals equivalent in magnitude to the number of people in the human race, simply by altering a few alleles.”
“Sort of five general starting points, you mean?”
“Exactly. Originally the DNA pattern had to evolve from one form to the next, and presently the range of structural definition seems confined to five successful double helixes. Two of those are exclusively male, and three are exclusively female. Of course, theoretically, if we were to revert the forms we could expect to reduce them in stages to some common structure. But for BIOT reproduction the five flavours gave us grounding that makes the process of uniqueness easier, because instead of starting with a successful primal DNA strand to adjust traits, we have a variety of five successful modern strands. Using the modern strands we have to adjust fewer traits to achieve more variety, which is a safer way to achieve uniqueness. When we consider those forms, we don’t, of course, consider any forms of spectacular mutation.”
“Interesting,” Steven admitted. He reclined and a thin smile crept onto his face. He asked, “So, Angus, why are we here?”
Angus dug a small plastic card out of his breast pocket and spun it across the table. Steven raised it and examined it a moment, then set it down.
“Some kind of identification card?”
“A license, actually – for your artificial person.”
Steven retrieved the card, grinning crookedly.
“I figured. Why?”
“Honestly? Or the reason I gave everyone whose arm I twisted to get that permit?”
“One, then the other. What’s the rationale?”
‘The BIOT process is such that vast stores of information can be implanted in the pre-arousal stage. Besides being supervising engineer, you have extensive administrative duties. Your workload is presently greater than any of those of us who are on the Core Committee. It will continue to be greater throughout this year, if we are to remain on schedule. You need an assistant.”
“Bad reasoning. I have two already: Parini and Robins.”
“They take a share of your duties, but they have a certain level of independence. You require a personal assistant who can be just that – a personal assistant. The independence of Miss Parini and Mister Robins is what makes them valuable to you. You need their independence. You also need a dependent, so to speak.”
“That’s the rationale?”
‘Enough of it. I had to undertake some verbal gymnastics to convince a few of the anti-artificial crowd, but most of them accepted your need for an assistant.”
Steven turned the holographic card around in his hand, rolling it edge to edge in the curve of his palm. His smile had succumbed to a more thoughtful expression, and he was studying Angus’ face with suspicious eyes. He said certainly, “You used something else to get this.”
Angus nodded gravely, anxious about whether to say more. He decided to trust honesty, revealing, “The concern of the Committee is such that we want to reduce the pressure you may be under. You can be angry with me if you like, or accept my concerns for what they are. We need you to be at the top of your form. This project is taxing you mentally, physically, and emotionally. If you need to be angry with anyone about this, direct your anger at me, but try to understand my concern is sincere.”
Steven settled deeply into the chair with a sigh, and turned the card one last time before dropping it onto the tabletop. He rubbed his right eye and said, “I’m not in danger of another breakdown. The circumstances surrounding the incident were extraordinary.”
“And so is this mission. Look, Stevie, in the past few months, since we gained approval to begin construction, I’ve been watching you. You can tell me I’m wrong, but the impression I have remains the same. You’re being worn thin. Everyone can see that. I have a great deal of respect for you. You know that. I also have concerns. You know that, too.”
“This isn’t the answer, Angus.” He flicked the card to the centre of the table, and added, “I get tired, yes; but I’m fine. The time I spent in the hospital did the trick. I’m coping just fine, now.”
“I want to keep you that way. This artificial assistant will provide someone to do the mundane things. We can give them all the technical knowledge they’ll need to assist you, in both design and execution of the construction difficulties you may yet encounter.”
“Look, I don’t need a BIOT.”
“No, perhaps not, but will it hurt to have one? I doubt it will. The way things stand, the worst that can happen is you end up with another competent engineer whose knowledge and skills you can trust. That means one more competent, trusted engineer on the mission when we leave.”
“I wasn’t aware that was authorised; that we would have BIOTs on board.”
“Presently, just the one. I used the common man rationale to ensure that. If we get into trouble and something has to be done outside, we’ll have a biological robot to do that work. Think about that.”
“It would be handy. Why doesn’t your science group have one?”
“We may. They haven’t yet approved or disapproved that request. I have made it.”
Steven picked up the hologram card and stared at it, frustrated and wounded by the lack of confidence implied by the offer of the BIOT. He nodded finally, rationalising his feelings away and stifling his urge to further protest the Committee’s decision.
“Steven, please understand, I have every confidence in you. I’m trying to make your job easier.”
“I understand, Angus. I’m sorry if I seem negative about this, but it suggests the Committee has doubts. I would have preferred being asked.”
Angus nodded, a guilty frown on his face. He had known asking would have been more appropriate.
“Well, Angus, I guess it’s to be, isn’t it. So, was that just the rationale, or was that the honest reason, too?”
Angus smiled, certain his next revelations would lessen any injury Steven felt. He explained, “The honest reason for giving you an artificial assistant is to have one on board. I do have a responsibility for watching out for you and everyone else involved in this project, but I would be lying to you if I said the whole reason was for your welfare. There’s a selfish edge to the offer. I was instrumental in accomplishing the process used to create them, and I have always wanted to watch an artificial person develop. I’m curious what changes them into feeling people so rapidly.”
“Truth?”
“Yes. When we’re up in that ship, headed toward the core region; when we’re woken as we near it, we will have two months of day-to-day living. I want to see what the psychological effect of that is on us, and what the effect is on artificial persons. In essence, I did this for myself as much as I did it for you.”
Steven smiled briefly, an indication how insecure he felt. Sensing the truth in Angus’ words eased his discomfort with the decision to give him a BIOT. His curiosity compelled him to ask, “Why are you so interested in observing one on the mission?”
Angus heard sounds from the hall, but determined he had time to answer before the BioCorp specialists arrived. His smile washed away any guilt he felt for having made Steven feel they lacked confidence in him. It was a mischievous grin, matched by the sparkle in Angus’ eyes. What he said was more serious than his expression suggested it would be.
“Hibernation does no damage to artificials. None at all. They wake from it as sharp as they are. Human beings, flawed as we are, tend to spend our first twelve hours after hibernation in a daze. The longer the period of hibernation, the longer our metabolism takes to return to normal.”
“And?”
“With the new engines we’ll be in hibernation five years before we reach our first wake-up point at the edge of the primary mass of stars. It should take between five and seven years of hibernation after that to get us through the denser material, to where we can observe the core with our instruments. In all, we’ll have slept in a dead state for twelve years, longer than anyone ever.”
“You’re afraid we’ll never wake?”
“No.”
Angus lowered his voice to a whisper when the doctors began to enter from the hall.
“I’m looking to the future, Stevie. In thirty years we’ll be as near the centre of the galaxy we dare get, and back. We’ll know the effect of extended hibernation on us. We’ll have proved what seems the case: Suspension of metabolic animation has no effect on artificial persons. When we know that for certain, then we can send them the other way.”
Angus turned to greet the arriving doctors, and Steven settled back in his chair, playing with the BIOT permit. Angus was looking toward the future. Their chances of coming back from the core approach were an even fifty-fifty according to most estimates. The psychological displacement of their return would be worse for them than the physical danger of the journey. If they encountered strong warps, relativity might completely destroy their time correlation. Even barring disaster, the world and its inhabitants would be three decades older when they returned, while they would be only a few years older. BIOTs would never feel the displacement as strongly as they would. If ever mankind was to explore other galaxies, which was what Angus meant by the cryptic statement about going the other way, it would be BIOTs doing the exploration. Machines would fail because Steven was right about them – no matter how complex a machine became, it remained a machine. BIOTs might succeed because they managed to be more than machines, perhaps even more than their creators. Angus was going to use their core exploration mission to prove the fact. And then? Then there would be a reason for BIOTs. Some day as emissaries of the human race, they would reach out and explore the distant glimmers that were hanging like beacons in the darkness, a billion light years away.
The Unforgiving Gods
Introductions were crisply formal, and shortly the leader of the small group of BioCorp scientists was talking. His name was Norman Rubenstein, a French-Jew from the city of Paris, well known to anyone who read scientific literature. He had taken over the BIOT program upon Angus’ final retirement. He was an amiable dwarf of a man, with a balding pate that was decorated at the fringes by snow white tufts of hair. His nose dominated his face, perched like a beak. It was slightly off centre, having been broken in his rugby days at Eton, where he had gone to school before entering the Demark-Grande Institute on the outskirts of Paris. Aware Angus had kept up with their progress, he spoke mostly to Steven. His talk took on the tenor of a lecture, though his tone was friendly and comfortable. His accent, a strange mixture of British and French, made his occasional faulty pronunciation interesting enough to carry Steven over the dry body of the lecture.
“The basic premise of our program under the auspices of BioCorp Research is to provide, for hazardous and mundane technical duties, a person of an artificial nature. The operative term for a unit is BIOT, which is an amalgamation and abbreviation of the terms biological and robot. Now, the biological entity we create by the process is not actually a robot. More properly it is a non-natural biological entity, with a fully functioning humanoid biological metabolism similar in every respect to a normally born and functioning human being. Before we proceed, I wish to bring some implications of this to your attention.
“The biological status of our artificial people is such that their nervous and capillary systems are created at peak state. Technically, this is most simple to understand if you consider the natural life cycle as an inverted hyperbolic curve. The asymptotes are birth and death, and the axis is the prime physical state. We are born and our body undergoes sporadic growth, peaks, and then undergoes sporadic decay. I say sporadic during both event stages to indicate there is an acceptable school of thought that divides growth and decay periods into stages. Examples: puberty, menopause, etceteras. The BIOT is created so it enters the curve very close to the peak period, and it is created with a metabolism that should near equilibrium approximately six to nine years after conception. From that point it should decay naturally, but somewhat more linearly than human beings, due to its initial immaculate conception with a prime configuration.
“Some implications, as I promised: BIOTs must perform essentially the same routine required by a health-minded human being. These are ingestion, digestion and defecation – and other related consumer/producer activities of biological entities of similar nature to ourselves, Exercise and proper diet are important to retain the correct metabolic input, so it is often efficacious to feed BIOTs food-substitutes. Hygiene is another physical function BIOTs must undertake. Cleaning of the teeth and body, etceteras. In addition, I should mention they are susceptible to some of the more contentious viral-genetic disorders humanity suffers, such as the common cold. Try as we might, we still have not isolated a process for eradicating that genetic trait without harming survival potential.
“Certain other things I am obligated to make clear on behalf of BioCorp. Development of the artificial person is influenced by many factors. Not the least of these factors is education. Despite implants of knowledge, done by our imagining systems, BIOTs find first-time performance of many physical tasks very difficult. Their learning curve, as I think now to mention it, is approximately four times less steep than that of the average human being.
“BioCorp takes no responsibility for what we term artificial personality development. All BIOTs develop certain social communication characteristics, which are based primarily on the social behaviour of those they are in frequent contact with. Before you misconstrue this, I will clarify the reason I mention it at all. To facilitate a good working relationship with your BIOT assistant, you will have to be aware your method of communication will affect their response. Certain instinct reactions are universal, and your method of interaction with your BIOT will channel and gauge these instinctive reactions. Simply, to utilize the full potential of the artificial person, you must be aware that their performance will be closely linked to yours. If you frequently express displeasure with their performance, your assistant will likely lack confidence. If you express pleasure with their performance, their performance will be appreciably higher. The secret in understanding this is to realize BIOTs are not human beings; they require training to actively use the data we install as their memories. And, they require patience and time to become fully productive.”
Steven thought of observing the obvious, which was that most children could have been described exactly the same way as to personality development, but he was already aware any such observation would derail Rubenstein’s focus.
Rubenstein paused to press a panel on the desk and open a keyboard. He prodded a pair of buttons and the room dimmed. With an apologetic smile, he said, “I am afraid my eyes are light sensitive. I cannot see holograms when there is a background glare of natural light.” The hologram that appeared was a flow chart. “This chart displays the process we are here to discuss. When Professor Shepherd left us, we were at a primitive stage process-wise. Since then we have developed a computer system that will take many time-consuming cross-checking tasks out of the process. This chart shows present development tactics.
“Beginning here we will discuss, as a group, some objectives of this unit, and then we will set a steady matrix. The next stage is allele design, through which Professor Shepherd has graciously offered to guide you. Allele design is done via a terminal in an adjoining room, and is a process where you can effect some minor physical changes in the final product. Ordinarily we would randomise the process, but the special nature of the order, and Professor Shepherd’s familiarity with the system, inclines us toward your and his participation in the final product. From allele design the computer can generate a visual model of the probable outcome, if you like, which will give you a reasonably accurate idea of the final product.
“After the design stage, we will take over and start the conception and imprinting processes. Any information you wish that is of technical engineering nature can be placed in the BIOT’s permanent recall memory. To be practical, it is wise to limit the input to natural knowledge. By this I mean, as the next hologram shows, it is a good rule of thumb to limit the amount and nature of the knowledge to your field of expertise. Our technology makes it possible to instil permanent recall in up-to-and-including eighty percent of the biological unit’s brain, but tests have proved this impractical. Too much recall data makes it difficult for the BIOT to concentrate effectively on learning the physical processes of its given field.”
Rubenstein returned the main lights after turning off the hologram, and smiled pleasantly at Steven.
“Now, to expedite the process, we have prepared a series of questions and suggestions. The more honestly you answer, the more likely we are to fulfil this order correctly. If you have any questions, I urge you to ask them. We will attempt to elucidate.”
“It sounds fair,” Steven agreed. “I’ll let you know if I’m more lost than usual.”
Rubenstein smiled graciously and turned to a woman who had come in with him. Her name was Wendy Jefferies. Angus had greeted her with a kiss and by her first name, and she had reluctantly submitted to the reception. It was obvious they knew each other well, and that she was uncomfortable with such public displays. She asked, “Commander Tanner, do you find your social relationships more comfortable with women, or men?”
“What?”
Angus chuckled, amused by how puzzled Wendy was at Steven’s mildly shocked response. He rephrased the question, “Do you feel more comfortable working and dealing with women, or men, Stevie?”
Steven smiled at his earlier misinterpretation of her question. Jefferies was still unaware how personal a question she had seemed to be asking. He considered his response to the question she had been trying to ask, and admitted, “I feel more comfortable dealing with women. There’s less ego conflict most of the time.”
Jefferies marked her answer while Doctor Hogan, a pure German if his accent was any indication, asked, “Can you name any person you think would serve as a good starting point for the design process?”
“We have a full set of records,” Rubenstein intoned. “Feel free to be honest. This question is to give the computer some initial direction and some initial definition of observed physical traits, before you alter the artificial person through allele manipulation.”
“Right.” Steven reclined and ran several options through his mind. A nasty smile occupied his face, and to Angus he said, “Would my good pal Parini ever be pissed off if I used her as a model.”
“She might be flattered,” Angus guessed.
“You haven’t met Viola Parini if you can say that with a straight face.”
Angus smiled.
Steven returned his attention to Hogan and said, “Craig Elaine Ladd. She’s going to be the mission Duty Officer. She looks like she would make a good engineer, physically; and she’s a power-bitch.”
“Power-bitch?” Jefferies asked, confused by the term though she wasn’t offended by it.
“Her personality is lacking. If she was blown out an airlock and popped to atoms, most of my people would cheer. She ambles around and likes to remind us how many safety violations are listed in the manuals.”
“Her personality won’t be reflected in the artificial,” Jefferies said.
“I sure hope not,” Steven said with a quirky grin, unable to understand how Jefferies could be so ignorant of his sarcastic intentions. For her possible enlightenment, he explained, “I was joking about her making a good engineer because she’s such a miserable human being. There’s a standing joke about how pathetic engineers are as human beings.”
“Oh.” Jefferies clearly didn’t understand, but she prevented his further attempting to explain by asking, “What way will you utilize the BIOT? Please try to be specific.”
Steven glanced at Angus, saw the old man was grinning, and returned his attention to Jefferies. He had an urge to tell her he intended to use the BIOT exclusively from the doggie position, but he doubted she would get the inference. Instead of making a joke, he formulated the true answer to the question. It was to be a long one, meandering through various practical and theoretical engineering fields. The detail of his answer was his revenge for the overload of information they had offered him in their field of expertise.
The Eighth Day
“No buttons,” Steven said of the computer when he first saw it. He sat in the chair Jefferies directed him to, and Angus pulled one up beside him.
“What next?” he wondered.
Jefferies turned the machine on from across the room and the display flickered.
Steven read the words as they scrolled onto the screen: “File number forty-one, dash seven, dash S-M-T, dash special order forty-one forty-seven, engineering application. Conception date: April first, twenty-one seventeen. Regional BioCorp space lab number one, UNC license, blah-blah-blah. Does it go on this way forever?”
“It should be coming up soon,” Angus advised, chuckling at Steven’s impatience.
The computer entered a screen format and the requester flashed on and off rhythmically.
“Speak at the prompts,” Angus explained. “The parameters are tight on some matters and loose on others. Some of the options are great fun. I made them put most of them in so we could retain a sense of having an effect on the outcome of the growth process. You’ll enjoy some of them. I helped write the program, so I can catch any conflicts it misses.”
“It doesn’t miss conflicts,” Jefferies said. “I’ll leave you two alone. Please ring when you’ve finished. It was good to see you again, Angus. Commander Tanner, it was a pleasure to meet you.”
She nodded good-bye and left, closing the door.
Steven turned his attention to the screen and commented, “I feel like I’m at that damn dating agency I went to in Texas, when Vee was pissing me off with all her jokes about me needing to get out and have fun.”
“You got stuck with a dog, I heard.”
Steven smiled and admitted, “Yeah, Angus, but by choice. Collies are nicer company on long walks. Besides, you try to find a date when the only address you can give contains the words Mental Hospital.”
Angus laughed and leaned back in his chair. He mused, “I can imagine, Stevie.”
“Oh? You’ve been detained, too?”
Angus continued to chortle, compensating for Steven’s reticence.
Steven relaxed and answered the first few questions appearing on the screen.
“Height: One-hundred and seventy-eight centimetres. I prefer to be the tall one. Weight? Ugh; fifty kilograms?” The machine prompted in a given range and he decided, “Fifty-six point five kilograms.”
“She’ll be a beanpole,” Angus warned, grinning.
“Then she would have been a toothpick had it taken my first answer.”
“True.”
He turned back to the screen and mused, “Hair colour and style? Style?”
“Long hair,” Angus suggested drolly. “I’m losing mine, and it doesn’t feel very good.”
“Okay. I guess that way she’ll have something to cut before going into hibernation. Okay; long hair, and dark.” It informed him of his actual choices and he settled for one with a smirk. “Black hair, thirty centimetres long, with a slight curl.” The whole process seemed strange, designing an artificial person’s appearance.
“Fine choice,” Angus commented. “It should offer the menu right off, to save time. You’ll enjoy this next one, Stevie.
“Eyes: yes or no? I like that. I don’t suppose it’s a real choice.”
“Say no,” Angus urged, like a child about to spring a surprise only a child could love.
“No eyes.”
The computer chewed on the thought a moment and informed him in block letters: I THINK NOT. YOU MIGHT AS WELL ASK IF YOU WOULD LIKE ME TO PROVIDE THE INDIVIDUAL WITH ARSEHOLE.
“Pleasant machine.”
“You know what they say about an eye and an arsehole,” Angus claimed, far more amused by the bad joke than Steven managed to be.
“Yes,” Steven muttered in response to the question being asked again. The computer blanked and promptly returned requesting eye colour, prompting him to mutter, “You almost need a colour scale.” One was placed on the left side of the screen. Steven smiled and picked the appropriate letter-number combination to get the base colour. It filled the left side of the screen and informed him he could describe changes. Intrigued by the process now, he said, “A shade darker. Another shade darker. Angus, can you get the thing to put flecks of green in there somehow?” It did before Angus could answer. “I guess you can. Too bad it looks so terrible.”
“Lighten the green four shades and blend,” Angus told the machine. The colours shifted and the result looked more realistic and presentable, an interesting blue/grey. “They’ll not come out exactly like that, but they’ll be close. You’ll like the next few questions as well. They’re my doing.”
The computer automatically cycled on. The next question was about complexion. Steven said, “Light complexion. Colour chart?” It did as it was asked. “Darker. That’s…good. Stop there.”
“Tone to the eyes,” Angus interjected.
“Good idea.”
“I’ve done this before,” Angus reminded.
The machine put up its next requester. Steven looked at Angus with a spreading smile and asked, “Measurements?”
“I couldn’t resist. When I helped with the program, I slipped that by them. It amused Norm Gates, our head programmer, so he left it in. Ask it to display a range.”
Steven didn’t have to. It picked up Angus’ whisper and began cycling through an array of nudes. Angus laughed and Steven almost joined him. The old man’s sense of humour was contagious, but Steven had yet to feel comfortable enough with Angus that he could laugh. His smile, though, was genuine – and for the time being it was enough.

April 20th/21st, 2117
The Bitch
“Mister Tanner.”
Steven looked up from the pages he was reading and frowned. Craig Ladd was standing by her unfinished duty console with the same solemn expression she always wore. He stood away from the edge of the console he was sitting on and waited for her to continue. He had as much desire to listen to her as he had to have his atoms blasted apart inside a compression reactor, but she was the Duty Officer and he had little choice but to listen.
“I’ve been at the forward computer frames.”
He waited, her figure and clothes making an impression on him through the haze of the headache he was suffering. As usual, she was dressed in a standard-issue grey uniform, with a plastic zip-hip closure on the pants and a set of buttons down the front of the shirt. Her khaki jacket was also UNF issue, decorated only by her rank insignia. Even the white slip-on booties over her deck shoes were standard. The only jewellery she wore was an old-fashioned watch on her left wrist, but somehow even that managed to look perfectly standard on her. Maybe it was because she was a standard five centimetres shorter than him, weighed a standard fifty-nine kilograms, and even had standard light brown eyes. Maybe it was because the watch lacked any of the fancy attributes of modern watches, and told the standard military time with standard accuracy. Maybe it was simply that Craig Ladd was a standard officer with as much warmth and personality as a sheet of standard steel deck plating. The only physical characteristic about her that almost went against the standard was her cherry red hair, but she had effectively prevented it adding anything to her appearance by wearing it as per the standard shoulder length directive.
Steven smiled, musing on the thought that Craig was only above standard in one way: She was an above standard bitch.
“Your crew are wearing bare boots, Mister Tanner. I asked why and they said you told them they could remove the slips.”
He glanced at Jack Robins whose expression was inscrutable. Jack was almost as standard as Craig at times, and today was one of those times. Fortunately, Jack wasn’t as much of a bastard as Craig was a bitch.
“Yes, Miss Ladd, I told them they could remove the booties. Until we get all the sectional plates in, there’s a danger of someone falling.”
“Regulations in computer-resident areas are specific, Mister Tanner. All personnel working in, or passing through, computer-resident areas must be wearing proper clothing to avoid causing damage to delicate elements and transfer pylons.”
“None of those installed are presently without protective covers. We’ve already had one accident because of those damn fairy boots and I’m not risking others.”
“If everyone was wearing their safety lines–”
He cut her off, his temper rising. Why was this woman so capable of irking him?
“Ward and Simmons were wearing their God-damned safety lines, so don’t feed me that lecture. We have two- tenths gravity right now with those false-mass coils being tested, and it’s enough to hurt people if they slip.”
“We’re discussing two entirely different situations, Mister Tanner. Mister Simmons and Mister Ward were injured when one of the support straps slipped and pulled the hydraulic bar they were on out of its housing. I read the accident report. It was preventable.”
“Jesus Christ, I know it was preventable, and I know what happened! I was there! Don’t lay your crap on me today, Ladd! I never ordered the coils powered up! I never authorised it! It was a management decision and no one told us!”
“I’m not blaming you, Mister Tanner, I’m asking you to see your people obey the equipment safety regulations. Please discuss with them the correct–”
“They know correct procedures! Some of the people on board this vessel wrote the God-damned procedures! Me included! Now, if you have any more complaints today, go right to Forte, because I’ve got a headache and you’re giving me a pain in the ass to match it!”
She tried to speak to him again, but he ignored her, turning to Jack and grumbling, “Tell those rat-shit bastards in computer modelling I want an explanation of what went wrong during the wing stress tests. I want to know what part of the structure bore the brunt of the shake, and why the spoilers and flaps jammed, and why the machines didn’t catch the load problems before we built them. And I want to know who was supervising the load tests, and why they never called a stop when the first signals from the frame probes went red-line. And I also want an explanation about how we got a seventy degree offset twist on those lateral struts at the forward edges of the airfoil.”
Jack accepted the pages Steven handed him and nodded. He was a patient man, who knew Steven too well to misinterpret the miserable mood. The stress tests had ruined the last ten metres of both of the delta wing frames. The worst case scenario was they would have to rebuild the entire structural section that supported the wings. Jack’s reaction to the news had been the same misery, but he had kept it inside. Steven likely would have done the same except for Craig Ladd’s appearance. Jack’s present struggle was to avoid a smirk, knowing full well how easily Craig Ladd could press his friend’s buttons.
“Mister Tanner.”
Steven continued to ignore Craig, muttering to Jack, “If they don’t have that ready by lunch break I’ll ride their asses till I get it. If those struts were properly installed, then they were fractured somewhere. I want to know what happened. If it’s a design problem, I want an explanation of how it got by the computers. Either way, we’ll have to solve the load problem. Find out what our weight ratio says, and find out what kind of reinforcement we’ll need on the hull at the base point connection if we’re forced to increase the down angle of the airfoils. I think she’s already near the critical mass limit, but see if we can add some supports at the collectors. Tell them to model a few solutions with reinforcements and send the data with the explanations of what happened. Likely the wings will break off on vertical lift-off if we put any more frame weight at those collectors, but find out anyhow.”
“What about the cargo doors?” Jack asked, folding the papers into his breast pocket.
“Did the replacements for the hydraulic rams on that strut arrive?”
“This morning.”
“Get them installed. Lift the door in first and attach the port unit, then trigger the seals and leave the cradle slings on until the starboard strut can be installed. Test it with the cradle on, and clear the area when the test is made.”
“We can’t test with the false-mass coils on, Steve. There’s too much interference without the permanent shields installed.”
“Right; then leave the cradle on till tomorrow. The coils will have been on long enough by then to give us the seventy-six hours we needed to test them. Turn the damn things off as soon as we hit that minimum. We need to get the hull finished down there so we can start preparing the aft frame for reactor installation.”
“I’ll get on the wing problem right now, then start moving my people to the hull work. We have enough temporary work done in here to give us lighting, and access to power.”
“Right. If you need a line supervisor, have that Lieutenant do it.”
“York?”
“Right.”
Steven waited till Jack left before he turned to Ladd. She was standing with her arms crossed, but the stance looked more defensive than angry. Her expression gave no hint of what she was thinking or feeling. Even had she managed angry, she might have been pretty, and it might have been easier for him not to dislike her.
“I’ll issue the order you’re after, but I want one thing clear between us. Right now, while this structural work is going on, you can waft around and bitch as much as you like. When we start installing the reactors and start testing the internal power along the mains, if I catch you within a mile of this ship I’ll personally kick you out the nearest airlock. My people are good engineers, and they know their jobs. We may not follow your etched-in-stone golden rules to get the job done, but we do it right. Now, get the Hell off my bridge.”
“May I remind you, Commander Tanner, it is my job to see regulations are followed. I have as much right to be on this bridge as you.”
“And may I remind you, according to one of the decisions of the Core Exploration Committee, I have complete authority over all matters relating to engineering design and the construction of this vessel. That includes access-to-areas, and restrictions on access-to-areas. As of this date, April twentieth, two thousand seventeen, I am issuing the following statement: Henceforth, non-engineering personnel will require my written clearance before entering any incomplete sections of this vessel; and they will require my written consent to enter any areas I deem to be work-in-progress areas, where injury could occur to improperly trained individuals.”
“Will you be registering that order, Mister Tanner?”
“Commander Tanner, Miss Ladd. Yes, I am at this time registering that order with my Duty Officer, witnessed by….” He looked around and pointed to the technician lying on her back, laying cables on the underside of the Command console where the Captain and Executive Officer would eventually sit to oversee activities on the bridge. “Witnessed by CPO Pratt. The order is effective five minutes from now, Miss Ladd, so I would suggest you begin to leave.”
She turned and left without another word. Steven glanced at one of the nearby technicians. They were grinning. He growled, “Eyes to your work, Mister. I want that station done, and then I want you to report forward that all personnel in the computer housing areas are to wear the issued slip-covers on their boots.”
The technician frowned and nodded.
The Best of Friends
“Turn on the lights, will ya.”
Steven hit the switch and threw his coat across the back of the sofa. Gravity in the outer rotunda of their barracks was almost exactly Earth-standard, so the coat fell naturally when it slid off the back of the couch onto the cushions. From by the bar, Violacciocca Parini asked, “Drink?”
Steven joined her by the bar. He bent and opened the small refrigerator. It contained various brands of soda pop in reusable plastic cans. He chose root beer and left the bar, wandering toward the couch, twisting the top of the can off to turn it into a cup. When he sat, he dropped the top into the recycling bin beside the end table and sighed. He was tired and felt the weight of the world.
“Clean living is gonna kill ya. The food on this wheel tastes like recycled cow shit, and the piss they pass off as water isn’t even the right colour. The whiskey’s the only thing on board that’s real.”
Steven looked over at Viola and sipped his pop. She had a voice that matched her appearance perfectly. It was deeper than Steven’s deepest tone, and contained just a hint of an Italian accent, washed out by many years of being away from her family. She was slightly shorter than him, but weighed about the same. None of her weight was misplaced, and the only fat on her body was where it belonged. At thirty-eight she looked more like a twenty-five year old. Her skin was almost brown it was so darkly coloured, and her complexion was perfect except for the small scar that marked her chin and mouth. Her shoulders, slightly wider than he thought of as perfect, remained in perfect proportion to the rest of her body. Twenty years past she had won the Miss Globe body building tournament, and just a year ago she had competed and triumphed again. According to one of the sport editors, who remembered her from the twenty-ninety-seven contests, she was a more definite winner now than before.
Steven had known Viola eleven years. He had first met her on the Jovian moon Io during the years he had contracted to the Terraform Corporation, and he knew a side of her she hid well. Beyond her abrasive exterior was a sensitive woman who was apt to be hurt by some of the most harmless barbs. She was his best friend, and he was hers. As much as he cared about Jack Robins, and as much as he liked Angus Shepherd, Violacciocca Parini was still his best friend.
Her name meant wallflower. Remembering that brought to mind when she had first told him so. He had been in his private cabin two-hundred yards from Terraform Station Four, and a hurricane force storm was raging outside on the platform above Io. He had gone to his cabin earlier the same day, just after an early lunch, to have a shower and decide which of the company-provided entertainments he would attend that evening. After his shower he had fallen asleep at his computer, and when he finally woke the storm had blown in, trapping him in his private rooms. He had moped around with a glass of rye and soda, cursing the miserable Jupiter moon he was stuck on. When he had heard a sudden clank in the airlock, and saw the light come on to indicate the outer door had opened, he had stood staring at it with surprise nearing shock. Five minutes later he was bawling Viola out, telling her how insane she had been to risk her life walking through an Io hurricane in an environment suit for no reason at all. Her reason had turned out to be simple enough, and had stopped him from making an issue out of her lack of sense. She had been given a bottle of Martian brewed wine by her parents before she had come to Io, and had lifted a container of Russian black caviar from the Christmas Eve party going on at the Station. Her reasoning had been it was better for them to be stuck together on Christmas Eve on Io, than being stuck there alone. She had spent most of her life alone, and that night he had learned they shared loneliness. He had been too prolific when it came to his Transition Theories and his Point of Entry Laws, and Viola had been too physical. His achievements had reached a point where he intimidated people by reputation, and she had developed her body to a point where she intimidated them on sight. It had been an interesting night for both of them. She had come prepared, and when they polished off the bottle of wine she revealed another treasure – a fourty ounce bottle of genuine Jack Daniels, Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey. It wasn’t until they were both drunk she felt free enough to talk openly, but it was the last time they had needed to get drunk to talk to each other. Loneliness had given them a reason to be friends, if they had really needed one. They had been close since, no matter how many years of space had separated them.
“Quit staring at my ass and say something.”
He smiled and looked away.
“Your way with words is endearing,” he said softly.
“Apparently my ass is more endearing, ‘cause you never heard a word I was saying all the while you were staring at it.”
“I was thinking.”
“I’ll call the medics if you hurt yourself.”
She turned and joined him at the sofa, putting her boot heels up on his coffee table.
“Take care of my boots, slave.”
He set his drink down and undid the buckles on her boots. It was a simple process of pulling and popping them open, mindless and ingrained over the years. She sloughed off the boots when he had the buckles undone.
“Speaking of boots, I heard Ladd gave you a rap on the ass today about letting us take our booties off.”
He retrieved his drink and nodded, too exhausted by the incident to elaborate.
“Jack said you got a real battle of wills under way. I don’t suppose you told her to fuck a probe or anything?”
“You know, Vee, you’re why we engineers have such a bad reputation. You’re a sewer mouth.”
“You didn’t always think so, boss.”
He glanced at her. She was totally relaxed, her head back and her eyes closed. The thin smile on her lips made him sure he knew what she meant, intimating he hadn’t always thought she was a sewer mouth. She was right. For a time, he had been more than a little convinced he was romantically in love with her. It had been mutual, and stormy, but their friendship had been too strong. It had been strengthened by their failed romance, and they had come to savour even the bad moments. Being human was one of the allowances they made for each other.
“Don’t let Ladd get you down, Steve. The bitch just needs a good, long, strong fuck with a hydraulic hammer. Her pussy’s likely tight enough to start proton-proton reactions. If you were tight enough to start compression fusion reactions you’d be a nightmare to live with, too.”
“Your diplomacy is matched only by your delicacy.”
She tugged at the ragged blue cap attached to her work belt by an alligator clip. Except for the statement emblazoned on it, the cap was plain. It read, ‘Yes...I am a Bitch.’ He had given it to her after their Christmas day together, and she had kept it with her since, though she hardly ever wore it.
“You’re a pussycat next to Ladd,” he said. “I can’t figure out what her problem is, but it’s real. I kiss her ass constantly and she just bitches more.”
“Well, at least you’re kissing a nice ass. You got that to console you.”
“Talk like that’s why everyone thinks you’re a lesbian.”
“I’ve been thinking of giving it a go. It seems to be an image I can’t shake.”
He grinned. Had he looked at her then he would have seen she was serious, or at least sorrowful. He suggested, “Maybe if you treated a few men like they existed, someone might get the hint.”
“Show me a man with an arm bigger than mine and I’ll treat him to a trick. All you engineers are one-hundred pound weaklings.”
“Yeah, but we have big hands. Muscular.”
She laughed.
“Mythology doesn’t hold for that one, little man. I’ve seen some of the biggest hands on some of the tinniest pricks in the Universe.”
She set her drink down and removed her belt, tossing it on the coffee table.
“She has got a nice ass,” she mused.
“Ladd, you mean.”
“Yeah. I saw her in the showers a couple of times. I hate her guts, but she does have a nice ass. What’s that thing out of that picture we saw? Tight, white and just about right?”
“I worry about you sometimes, Vee.”
She handed him her drink when he held out a hand. He poured some whiskey into his cup, swirling it around so it mixed with the root beer. When he returned her glass, she took a drink and said, “You’ve noticed her ass. Every man on the build has. Why do you think she pisses all of you off so much? It’s because she has a firm, tight ass, nice little tits and a pretty face. She gets your dick all primed for nothing though, because she won’t flirt and does everything by the book.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ve noticed. She’s cute; but she’s also a real bitch. You play act being a bitch because you’re afraid to let anyone get close to you. She’s for real.”
Viola leaned over and poured some more of her drink into his cup, then sat back, propping herself against the sofa’s armrest with her feet crossed on his knees. Her pants legs were drawn up slightly by her reclining, and her ankle bracelet caught his attention.
“Ladd would go over the deep end seeing this thing.”
He touched the little barbell, and Viola shrugged, clenching her toes. She said, “She’ll have to take my boots and booties off to see it.”
He set his glass down and started to massage her feet. She smiled.
“You’re well trained.”
He was frowning, and it took him a minute to realize how well he knew her. He had responded to her body language without her having to ask, and felt like she had thanked him before he had even thought about what he was doing. He paused a minute and then continued to rub her feet, speaking on an entirely different topic she had sparked to his attention by mentioning Ladd would have to get her boots and booties off to see the bracelet.
“That bullshit she pulled today pissed me off, Vee. Her and those damn regulations of hers. She got me so mad I ordered her off the ship and out of all the work areas without her first having my written consent. Tomorrow the whole damn Committee will be on my ass about that. I walked face first right into it.”
“If she was a man you would have punched her and made your point. You men are wimps; but you’re twice as bad when you get horny.”
“You’re so pleasant some nights, Vee, I’d just like to smack you.”
“Well, maybe so, but it’s true. The only guy I know who doesn’t get dick-paralysis when she’s drifting through is Jack. He just listens to her complaints, tells her he’ll look into correcting the problems, and tells all of us ‘she’s just trying to do her job, so go by the book when you know she’s around.’ The rest of you guys sputter and spit, and you make her out as some sort of human plague just because she cuts off your macho engineer bullshit before it starts.”
“Up until this conversation you hated her as much as the rest of us.”
“Still do. I didn’t say she wasn’t a demon sent from the pits of Hell to torture us, I just said you’re all pussy- whipped and twice as pissed off at her because you know you are.”
“Thanks for the confidence builder. You always know just the right words to make me feel better.”
“Just keep up what you’re doing and I’ll stay and cheer you up some more.”
She set her drink down and closed her eyes. The silence lasted several minutes, then she opened her eyes and propped herself up on her elbows. She was genuinely concerned, and her voice revealed it without reluctance. Afters canning his tired expression a moment, she asked, “Are you doing okay, Steve?”
He looked from her feet to her face, into her dark brown eyes. They were plain eyes set in a plain face, surrounded by short, plain black hair. They were also honest eyes, and she made no attempt to disguise how much she cared about him. It was a mutual emotion he wished he could project to her more often. He couldn’t grasp, in moments like the quiet one they were sharing, why she wasn’t being wined and dined nightly by a horde of suitors.
“I’m all right. I’m just tired. Those problems with the outboard flaps and spoilers are getting me down. We wanted to be able to land, if we had to do stable-state repairs. The way it looks now, we’ll never meet the timetable.”
She sat, pulling her feet off his lap in the process. She put her hand on the side of his neck, rubbed it tenderly, and said, “You’ve gotta back off a bit. It’s like Jack said: The computer modelling department blew it. They made a mistake. Those stress imbalances should have been caught by their models. It’s their mistake and they ought to fix it. That’s their job.”
“Everything’s my job. I’m the comptroller of engineering. If there’s a mistake, I made it. I’m ultimately responsible. I’m also the slob who has to tell Angus that the whore won’t ever be able to land unless we spend time and money to fix those bent struts, and redo the design of at least the last ten metres of the wings. After that accident moving the cargo doors into place, I don’t wanna go to him and say I have no solution to the wing’s design flaw. Aerodynamically the ship is already inefficient. Only having a fission reactor ninety-five percent stronger than she needs makes up for the shape she has. Changing those wing designs changes her load ratios to Hell and back.”
“Steven, we’re not going to talk about this any more. Worry about it tomorrow.”
She slapped his thigh to punctuate her decision, then returned to the subject of Craig Ladd. It was handy, and she was convinced he had a crush on Ladd, weather she was a bitch or not. At the worst, Ladd provided a temporary distraction.
“Did you ever wonder if Ladd’s a real red-head?”
He relaxed and she reclined again, placing her legs across his knees. He found it difficult to get his mind off what he would say to Angus in the morning, but he forced himself to play along. He asked without much enthusiasm, “Is she?”
“Cherry red. Next time she pisses you off, call her strawberry.”
He smiled, his depression momentarily alleviated by an image of himself doing just that.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard from your mouth.”
Viola smiled, then turned serious.
“I’m not kidding, Steve. Call her strawberry and she’ll shut right up.”
His interest was piqued. Viola was easy to read when she let herself be known, and he knew her better than anyone. Whatever she was getting at was the truth. So, he asked, “Why will it shut her up?”
“Because she has a strawberry tattooed right here.” Viola put a finger an inch down from the top of her left groin.
He was sceptical, but knew it was almost definitely true if Viola didn’t have a punch line coming. He asked somewhat warily, “The screaming demon has a tattoo?”
“No shit. It’s right about here. Which side I can’t remember, but it’s about an inch from ground zero. I can’t imagine anyone’s ever pried her panties off outside the shower, but I don’t think they would have had to, to do the tattoo. It’s just a hair the safe side of where her bikini line would be. Next time she pisses you off, call her strawberry. She’ll never figure out how you know, but she’ll know you know.”
He grinned wickedly and concluded, “I will remember that. Is there anything else you know that I don’t?”
Viola smiled impishly and answered, “I know just about everything, and you know just about nothing, so that question hasn’t got a short answer.”
She reclined and took her drink back in hand.
“That York kid you recommended to the CTC as our fifth engineer has the biggest knockers I’ve ever seen. Obviously those are the reason you recommended her.”
Steven smiled and observed, “You must like her. I can always tell when you like someone.”
“Oh?”
“If you didn’t, you would have said tits.”
She grinned and asked, “What else do I do that gives it away?”
“If you hate a woman you call her a prick; and if you hate a man he’s a pussy.”
“Yeah, I guess so. What else do you know about me?”
“A whole lot.”
“Tell me, then, why I can’t get my hooks into a man?”
“That’s their fault, not yours. They don’t know what they’re missing.”
Her smirk became an insecure smile, and he felt pleasure having touched her with the compliment. She took his hand off his knee and sat back with a sigh. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes.
“Steve, can I ask you something? It’s a little dumb, but if you laugh I think I’ll cry.”
“Shoot.”
“If you were propositioned by another man, would you think about accepting it?”
He considered the question and replied to it honestly, “No. I know psychologists sometimes say all men have a gay phase, but I don’t think I’ve ever had one. I don’t find myself particularly attracted to men, even as friends.”
“That wasn’t the right question. You know what everybody says about me. I was asked by someone, a woman, if I would have dinner with her.”
He shrugged and said, “She likely just wants to get to know you. Believe it or not, some people really do think you’re a great person. Hell, Jack and I go out for dinner a lot. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“She wants to cook me dinner at her room, and she doesn’t just wanna be friends.”
“You sound sure. How come?”
“She wrote me a love letter. I came from out of the shower about a week ago and found it in my locker. She slipped it through the grille. I haven’t said anything to her yet.”
“You’re curious?”
She shrugged, confused for a moment. Finally, she admitted, “I guess I am, but it’s not just that. There was no name on the letter, but I know it’s Thelia Crest. I saw her writing it when we were taking a break one day. I didn’t know what it was then, but her handwriting’s hard to mistake when you know it. I know it.”
“Thelia Crest. She’s not really the type, is she.”
“That type crap is just that – crap.”
He corrected her misunderstanding, telling her, “I didn’t mean it negatively. I just meant no one would ever think she was gay. I haven’t talked to her a lot, but she’s so damn shy it’s scary.”
“Don’t tell anyone anything,” Viola said flatly.
“You know I wouldn’t.”
“Don’t even joke about it though, Steve. Thelia would be hurt. She doesn’t deserve anyone bad-mouthing her. She’s a decent person; very kind.”
He smiled and guessed, “You’re really thinking about it. I thought that bit you said earlier about trying something new was peculiar.”
She laughed and threatened playfully, “You start making dyke jokes about me and I’ll tell the world about that Christmas delivery you couldn’t make.”
Coming from anyone else the jibe would have stung. Coming from her, it was funny enough to make him grin. Their Christmas evening spent together had gone from drinking to flirting, and she had indicated she believed she could bench press his weight. Her intention had been innocent when she made the remark, but both of them were too drunk to stop themselves when they started a playful wrestling match. Events had culminated in his inability to perform when the moment came. He had been too drunk. When they had sobered up, he remembered her smiling shyly and whispering, ‘A bad performance is impossible when you never made it to the stage.’
“I won’t say a word,” he promised, though not for any threat of exposure. “I just wanna know what you’re thinking of doing.”
She shrugged and admitted, “I haven’t decided. I’m not sure about anything lately. I like Thelia, and I don’t wanna hurt her feelings. The letter was…nice. Hell, it isn’t her fault thinking I’m queer. Everyone says so behind my back.”
“Not everyone.”
“No, but enough that it sticks.”
He let silence drag a minute before he decided, “You should go to dinner. There’s nothing wrong with dinner. At least that way you can talk privately. Then it doesn’t matter what you decide. She’ll probably feel a Hell of a lot better either way.”
“Either way? You have real confidence in my sexual preference.”
“That’s not what I meant; but come to think of it, you would likely make a great lesbian lover.”
She punched him playfully and said, “You’re just trying to picture it, aren’t you. You’d love to see me heaving around on a bed with her.”
He laughed and looked her straight in the eye, none of the reservation in his laugh that he displayed when with other people. He wondered, “Who the Hell wouldn’t?”
She blushed, but took it as a compliment. Both of them were too old to pretend a little kink offended them, and their friendship was more stable and lasting than most marriages. They respected each other’s individuality and managed to be honest, even when honesty meant hurting each other. It was easier to be honest when all it meant was admitting to each other they had human failings, and human curiosity.
Viola’s watch beeped and she automatically hit the appropriate button to silence it. She looked at the desk clock nearby and said unhappily, “I better go. Turns out my boss is dicking away to some meeting tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Steven said, “what a prick.”
Remembering his observation about how she spoke of men she really hated, Viola corrected, “Nah, he ‘s a pussy.”
He watched her put on her boots without saying anything, and waited till she was putting on her belt before he joked, “I can’t see what Thelia sees in you.”
She chuckled and raised an arm, curling it so her biceps pulled the fabric of her shirt tight. She rose as she dropped her arm without speaking a single syllable in support of the obvious.
“Just out of interest, Vee, what will you do if she tries to kiss you?” .
“I’ll let you know if I decide to talk to her. Now, get some sleep. You have to be up bright early tomorrow to pick up your electric pussy at BioCorp.”
“It’s illegal to have sex with a BIOT.”
“Well then, don’t get me one for Christmas this year, even if I do decide to start kissing Thelia Crest.”
He returned the kiss she bent down to give him, and waved when she left, telling her, “You should call Thelia; it can’t hurt.”
Viola paused at the door, smiled, and they exchanged unspoken wishes for a good night. When the door closed behind her, Steven put his boot heels up on the coffee table and his mind drifted back to the wing problems and his argument with Craig Ladd. Tomorrow was going to be a nightmare.
The BIOT
Angus’ office was in the Reed Spire, a United Nations space station forty minutes from the Polar Space Station. It was a magnificent white torus surrounded by detached solar power stations. Its design was a reflection of the spring coil shape of the Reed False-Mass coils that had been used for years to provide false gravity inboard space vessels. The Spire had once been a factory, but when the Reed Foundation had fallen on hard times the United Nations had inherited it and made it an administration terminal. The Core Exploration Committee had given them an excuse to finally use it to capacity.
Steven disembarked the morning shuttle and went to the closest elevator, ignoring the attendants at the various information desks. It was early, and though they all knew him by sight, none greeted him. The start of their shift was still a half hour distant.
At the door to Angus’ office suite, he spotted Craig Ladd sitting in the waiting room. It was the first indication he had his problems were going to be expanded out of proportion to what he desired, and it compelled him to pause outside the office and consider his alternatives. The sound of another voice inside the office put a further damper on his day, and a glance in a mirror, opposite where Angus’ inner office door lay, confirmed it was Forte.
Forte was to be the Captain of Sapphire when it launched, and in a few months she would be his immediate commanding officer – she was, technically, even now. She was a diminutive one-hundred and sixty-five centimetres tall, but she carried herself with an air of unmistakeable authority. Her hair was coal black and cut to uniform military length. Her eyes were a watery blue that had a capacity to be frightening when her face was fixed by a stern expression. Steven had known her for five months, but he still had no clear opinion of her. She was always calm and collected, and was certainly a stoic, but on the few occasions they had been alone she had displayed a cautious sense of humour that seemed at odds with her otherwise sober personality. Presently she was speaking in an even tone to Angus. The mirror gave him a clear view of them, and he could tell a lot about her tone and bearing simply by watching her face. She was definitely discussing the order he had relayed through Ladd.
He sighed and braced himself for what lay ahead. He had expected the day to be miserable, but had never imagined he would have to face both Ladd and Forte before trying to explain the slew of engineering problems threatening their schedule. By the time he found the courage to enter the outer portion of Angus’ office, he had been in the hall at least two minutes. All he said when he came in was, “Commander Tanner to see Commander Shepherd.”
The secretary smiled thinly and touched the intercom button. Steven turned slightly to face the open door, and saw Angus look up from some papers on his desk when the intercom buzzed. Forte stopped speaking and her face turned toward him. She remained impassive, revealing nothing. Angus smiled and directed him to enter, hitting the intercom as he entered, and saying, “Will you also send in Miss Ladd. Thanks.”
Steven sat in the chair Angus indicated, and shortly the three of them were sitting in a line across from the old man; Steven in the middle chair. He thought it ironic his physical position should parallel his figurative one so well.
Angus seemed comfortable. He sunk back into his chair, smiled warmly at all three of them, and said, “Good things come in threes. I either see no one, or everyone. Sitting out here with all this paperwork makes me feel a bit like God, so to speak. I shuffle requests, say yea or nay, and then the little people who actually do things have to decipher the few clues I give them as to what it is I actually want done. I guess we all have our own little Universe, our own little realm. Captain Forte has been giving me an interesting opinion about your decree of yesterday.” Angus’ smile remained interminable, his eyes bright with amusement. “Science is my venue; Command decisions are the Captain’s; Duty supervision comes under Miss Ladd; and you have Engineering. From this chair, that’s how the command pyramid looks. I don’t think I can render a reverse on your decision, but I would appreciate hearing your rationale.”
There was no hint of a taunt in Angus’ voice, and no indication of displeasure. Steven used the opportunity to clear the air, regretfully defensive from the start.
“When it comes to engineering, we have an Agreement In Council I have the power to dictate all orders related to the construction of the ship. Along with that right I took the responsibility for all the people on board. Now that we’re entering the later stages of the heavy work, my people need to be able to concentrate totally on the jobs they’re doing. For the safety of everyone involved, and my peace of mind, I gave an order that to enter the ship, or work areas, she required my written permission. I think that’s reasonable.”
Angus agreed with a nod. He opined, “You have that authority, and I respect your right to exercise it. I don’t believe there’s any cause for distress considering we’re all willing to be reasonable. Of course, just before you arrived, Captain Forte indicated to me she had some doubts.” Angus grinned at Steven like they were old political bedfellows about to clinch a multi-billion dollar deal. “She doubts you would ever give written permission to Miss Ladd.”
Steven reclined without looking to either side and said honestly, “I would have preferred Captain Forte came directly to me with her concern.”
Angus reflected Steven’s serious expression then, sinking deeper into his plush chair and knitting his fingers. He glanced at Forte and admitted, “That might have been an option.”
Forte was brutally honest, directing her gaze at Steven before she spoke. She observed, “Talking to you when you’ve made up your mind is like talking to a deaf man in a vacuum. You know you have some problem with Ladd. The only way I thought you might listen, was if I was here when you got here.”
“I think I’ll let you respond to that, Stevie.”
Steven remained silent, contemplating his options. He was frowning when he turned in his chair to face Forte. It took an effort for him to keep his voice at a level tone and volume. He was as honest as Forte, and as blunt, grumbling, “Commander Ladd is difficult and obstinate, and seems to have a book in place of her brain. I’m not prone to allow safety violations, but I am apt to forgo ridiculous dictums that come from people who know next to nothing about construction and engineering. I fully understand the regulations she has a habit of quoting to me, and so do my engineers. The fact is, if you took a cross-section of the over-thirty group on my crew, you would find we wrote most of those manuals. My problem with your Commander Ladd is she has a weak understanding of what the words hard work indicate. My people are busting their collective asses to prepare the most advanced space vessel ever designed, and she has nothing better to do than come to me with some absurd complaint about lint-free fabric booties. You can say what you like about my attitude and personality, but I know my job. In fact, I know my job better than she knows hers. The role of Duty Officer is to work with people, not to ramble on about insipid issues like whether we’re all wearing slip-on booties. She consistently undermines the morale on board the ship by pointing out violations of the manual regulations to engineers in front of others; and her reports – which I have read faithfully – are constantly negative. If they were private it would be different, but those reports are available to everyone. Right now morale is low. Ron Simmons and Robert Ward were good engineers, and the cargo door accident was stupid, but there was no cause for reporting that in a publicly accessible report. We needed some support from the Duty branch, and all we got was negativity and a lecture on preventable accidents. That report was plastered all over the news yesterday morning, and we looked like a bunch of fools. It was bad enough Ward and Simmons were hurt, but publicising our mistakes only serves to put the whole crew under stress. You tell me what I’m supposed to do? God damn it, Forte, I haven’t got time to be lectured by a wet-nosed little book-end every time I turn around!”
He sat back after the snappish ending of his barely restrained speech, arms crossed, staring at Angus’ desk. Forte studied him a minute before saying, “Commander Ladd is doing her job. Nowhere does it say she has to congratulate you and your people for doing yours.”
Angus could see the outburst coming, but he chose to let the situation play through naturally.
“What do you think this means?!” Steven demanded angrily. He grabbed the papers Ladd was holding as he stood, and whipped them at Forte’s lap. She caught them, her expression dispassionate. “Right now I have people who are risking their lives to get that ship together on time! When it is together, she’s yours; but until then, she’s mine – tip to TCBs! And if I see that bitch on her without–” Steven grabbed a pad off Angus’ desk and crumpled a few pages off it while he continued to holler at Forte. “Without a written, God-damn, permission slip, I’ll kick her ass into an airlock and blast her out it!” He poked his chest viciously and continued his tirade. “I’m the engineer, and I designed that ship, and I’ll damn well build her naked if that’s what I decide to do! You and her–” He chopped a hand in Ladd’s general direction. “–can kiss my ass for a change! And the next time you have a complaint about me, Captain, come to me! I don’t appreciate this!”
He threw his arms up as he said the last, then stalked to Angus’ bookshelf and wiped a hand across his mouth. His voice a little lower, he said hoarsely, “If I’m out of line, so be it. Talk to the Committee and have me removed; I don’t give a damn.”
He put his hands out on a shelf and leaned his forehead onto them, closing his eyes. He heard Forte say something to Ladd and Angus, and knew they were leaving the office. When the door closed, he turned his head. Forte was standing, gazing at him. She said with a preternatural calm, “Like it or not, you’re part of my crew. So is Craig Ladd. When we ship, both of you will be on the bridge.”
He didn’t respond, continuing to glare at Forte. His anger was gone, replaced by fatigue and embarrassment for letting himself vent. He felt like a beaten man.
“If there are engineering problems you should be focusing on them. Being angry with Ladd is counterproductive. She’s doing the best she can.”
“The best she can to drive me nuts with her asinine complaints,” he opined.
Forte’s voice was smooth and calm, full of reason and something similar to compassion. She said, “She has no experience dealing with the number of duties and people she has to deal with now, and, as you pointed out, she has no engineering experience. You can’t fault her for resorting to written regulations. I think to be fair you have to try to understand all of us are under great pressure to perform. She’s no different from you in that regard. She’s trying to do her job, the same as you are yours.”
“I don’t consider snivelling off to the Captain a trait to admire”
“She gave me the order papers. I have to countersign all general orders drafted through her. She was going to post the order as she would any other, but when I read it I initiated discussion. She asked me not to make an issue out of this, but I felt you had overstepped reasonable precautions.”
“I can’t work with her breathing down my neck. My people can’t.”
“Perhaps you should have discussed that with her prior to your ordering her off the ship. I won’t stand and argue with you who might be at fault. I sympathise with your concern over her negative reports, and I understand the way regulations are written usually isn’t the best way; but from my perspective, and I’m trying to be objective, you haven’t responded to her any more fairly than she to you. I think one of your duties as engineering comptroller is to deal effectively with your Duty Officer; and, by effectively, I mean both civilly and constructively. Explain to her why the regulations are excessive in some circumstances, and help her understand the problems you and your staff are facing daily during the ship-building phase.”
“Look, I haven’t got time. I have to be supervising fifty jobs at a time as it is. I can’t waste time explaining to her everything we do.”
Forte sat on the edge of Angus’ desk and said gently, “I understand that, Tanner. I’m not ordering you to talk to her, but I would prefer it to your making each other’s lives miserable. I’m asking you to take a few minutes now to explain to her your point of view – calmly and quietly.”
He sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Forte went to the door, called Ladd in, and left them together. Steven stared at the floor a long time before he rubbed his eyes and said, “My primary responsibility to this mission is to see the ship is built on schedule, on budget. The number of people I supervise makes it difficult for me to concentrate on every aspect of the operation at the same time. Forte has been lecturing me to an understanding we’re both under pressure to do our respective jobs. The way you’ve been doing yours has made mine more difficult. I may have been unfair to say you don’t know how to do your job, because I really don’t know what your job entails. I imagine it’s more difficult than I credit it; but I’m not devaluing it to be antagonistic. The simple truth is, I can’t be bothered to consider what difficulties you face in your daily work, because I have a number of engineering problems to face each day that have the potential to severely affect the schedule I have to keep. If I’ve been difficult, I’ve been difficult because your reports are having a distinct affect on my crew, and your focusing on nonsense issues has interfered with the time my people need to do their job right. Forte pointed out that part of the problem is you haven’t any engineering background. I guess that’s why you try to adhere to the written regulations. What you don’t seem to understand is I’m acutely aware of how far I can stretch the written rules. I’ve been an engineer all my life, and I’ve learned that sometimes the only way to get a job done is to depart from regulations and just do it.
“When I saw you two here this morning I reacted badly. I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have. It was childish, wrong, and a result more of the problems we’re having at the ship than you. I should have spoken my piece without raising my voice, and I apologise for the anger. It was un-called for. I’m afraid I can’t apologise for what I actually said, and I can’t revoke the order I gave. You do have to learn to work with us, but now isn’t the time for me to expend a lot of energy to give you an understanding of what we feel we need from you. After the accident, and with the recent developments of some design flaws our computer modelling didn’t catch, I feel I have to eliminate one of the problem factors. You, I’m afraid, are the easiest factor to eliminate.”
He looked up and felt a twinge of guilt. Ladd was standing a few yards away, and appeared to be unaffected by what he said, but he could tell by a glance she had likely been crying before Forte had called her back in.
“I understand, Commander Tanner.”
He ground his teeth to prevent himself speaking for a minute, so he could think through what he was about to add. Shortly, he said, “Because I understand you have to do your job, I will stipulate that after the structural phase is complete I will have someone give you a walk-through so you can assess progress. And if you want to draft a schedule where you can visit ship-sites at reasonable intervals, I will agree to it. The only thing I insist on is you relay all your criticisms through me, and that I approve all releases to my crew and the media, if they deal with aspects of my engineering program.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I guess that’s it.”
She turned and went to the door. Before she raised her hand to the release, she paused. She turned and said, “I am a good Duty Officer, Mister Tanner. I know my job.”
“Yes, I imagine you do, Miss Ladd – but I’m a good engineer, and you don’t know my job.”
She turned and touched the door pad. It opened and she left. Forte glanced at Steven through the open door, then said farewell to Angus and followed Craig out of sight. After she had gone, Angus returned and regained the seat behind his desk. Steven joined him, taking the chair Ladd had been in recently. He frowned and bent over to retrieve the pad he had mangled. Setting it on the blotter, he excused, “I didn’t get much sleep.”
Angus grinned and jibed, “Remind me never to call you in the morning, Stevie. I thought you were going to mutilate my entire office. When you headed toward the bookshelf I searched my desk for a tranquilliser gun. I hope Captain Forte wasn’t too unpleasant.”
“She was scary. I doubt she ever raises her voice. My mother was like that. I’d take apart something expensive, put it together and have extra pieces, and she’d sit me down in the kitchen and talk to me. Forte does it the same way. She stays so calm you wonder if she’s going to snap and throttle you.”
Angus laughed, and asked, “Coffee?”
Steven shook his head and reclined.
“Facts?” Angus asked.
Steven smiled then, and replied with disappointment, “Unpleasant ones. The wings broke when we stress-tested them yesterday morning. Both of them. The struts running from the ten metre tri-frames twisted forty-seven degrees, and we got a seventy degree offset twist on the lateral struts at the fore edge of the airfoil. Both the flaps and the spoilers bent, and they stuck solid afterwards.”
“Sounds like a problem.”
“It is. The frames were built solid, in one piece, so we likely have a warp along the entire length of the leading edge. The particle collectors will have to be removed and we’ll have to rebuild the wing tips. That’s the best case scenario. The rest of the problems are in my report, which I sent this morning. My estimates are we’ll be at least a week behind schedule by June, and possibly as much as a month if we don’t find out why the wing designs failed. We checked for metal fatigue but got nothing, so we’re ninety-nine percent sure we’re dealing with a basic design flaw. The computer’s still working on an explanation.”
“You can’t just put in extra beams?”
“No. If it were a plane, maybe, but we’re dealing with a vertical lift problem. If we want them to stand up to the G-forces we’ll encounter on lift-off from standstill, we have to keep the weight distribution along them as even as possible. Right now we’re looking at what will happen if we move the collectors closer to the main hull, but I doubt we’ll get it to work. The angle off the base frames will have to increase by a few degrees if we move the collectors in, and we’ll lose what little lift those airfoils give us.”
Angus sighed, saying stoically, “There were bound to be problems. We can’t dwell on every detail before we try to build something, obviously. We’d get nothing built if we were concerned with perfection.”
“What you said about us each being gods in our domain; I wish it held for this situation: I’d snap my fingers and make the perfect ship.”
“I’m certainly not a religious man, Stevie, but when I look around at the Universe I see flaws everywhere. Even the process that created us made its fair share of mistakes.”
“I thought you scientists all believed in the Prime Mover.”
Angus smiled and leaned forward, suggesting, “I’m no wise man, but I have about as much faith in the Prime Mover as I have in Hammurabi.”
“Theology isn’t my field.”
“Nor mine…but for interest, do you believe in God?”
“No; do you?”
Angus shrugged, thought seriously, and concluded, “Not the storybook God, but maybe a God. I’ve got used to so many strange things over my years that even a supreme being seems plausible. But my version is relativistic. If a God exists to rule us, then one exists to rule it, and so on.”
Steven smiled and asked, “Do you reflect on these thoughts often this early in the day?”
“It’s mid-afternoon somewhere in the Solar System.”
Steven’s repressed chuckle whispered past his smile.
Angus admitted, “I’m not frequently a philosopher this early in the day. Only, today is different. Since last night I’ve been thinking a lot about God.”
“And why’s that?”
Angus winked and his mischievous grin drifted into view. He tapped his intercom and asked, “Have they arrived?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send them in. Thanks.”
“Send who in?” Steven wondered.
The door opened and Doctor Wendy Jefferies entered with another, much younger woman. Steven knew instantly the girl was his BIOT. She looked in her mid-teens, was a few centimetres shorter than him, and had a petite build. The shape of her body was hidden because of the dumpy grey coveralls she was wearing, but her face was undisguised, framed by long black, lightly curled hair pulled back into a pony tail. Her skin appeared extremely pale, and for a minute, looking into her smoky grey eyes, where he could see just a hint of green as the light moved across them, he thought she looked afraid. But that was impossible. BIOTs couldn’t be afraid.
“Good morning, Mister Tanner. Good morning, Angus.”
“Sorry about all the waiting, Wendy. There was an interesting bump struck. The road to success is always under construction.”
Jefferies nodded politely and directed their attention to the young woman. She announced, formally, “Commander tanner, this is your special order. We believe her logic implants took, and her basic skills seem present. I’m afraid I can’t stay long, but this package will explain more to you. In June we’ll examine her knowledge and ensure she has lived up to BioCorp release standards.”
“Release standards?” Steven asked.
“Yes. I was under the impression Doctor Shepherd had explained to you the BioCorp release policy.”
Angus intoned, “No biological robot will be released for use until full examination to ensure there is no defective imaging detrimental to recall of implanted data.” In plainer terms, he explained, “She has to pass some domain-specific knowledge tests.”
Steven was only partly listening to Angus. His eyes were focused on the BIOT’s face. Most of what he had expected about BIOTs seemed inappropriate. Her expression, and the way she held her shoulders, implied fear. That she could be afraid was a distracting thought. How did she even know of what to be afraid? Or was fear something instinctive? Still turning over the body language he was reading, he wondered, “What’s her name?”
Jefferies seemed mildly shocked, which was the only emotion she had ever really shown in Steven’s presence. She said without any indication of her feelings on the topic, “BIOTs don’t have names, Mister Tanner.”
He absorbed that, nodding in a state of obvious distraction. He hardly heard Angus thank Jefferies, and didn’t know Jefferies had gone until Angus said, “I had expected an unusual reaction, Stevie, but this is beyond what I thought.”
“What?” He snapped out of his daydream and turned his attention to Angus, ignoring the BIOT. “Sorry, Angus, I was just thinking about what you asked earlier; about God.”
“Have you changed your mind, perchance?”
“No; but I understand what you mean about the possibility of a relativistic God. That’s what we are to them. We created them.”
“In our own image; yes. I thought the same thing early on, but I’m less certain now, because we gave them the same cognisance we have. The line between them and us is very unclear to me when I consider how much more physically perfect are our artificial people.”
Steven mused, “That makes us better Gods than the ones who did us, if we have to call the process that created life by a name.”
“Yes, or no. Consider the implications of the young lady. We created her – mankind did – but the very fact we created her implies whatever created us gave us that ability. How powerful does that make it?”
“Which neatly explains why you brought up the subject of God – sort of. There must be something else. What is it?”
Angus grew serious, his smile remaining, but becoming one touched by bitter, unspoken memories. He had misgivings in conflict with his purposes. When he answered the question it was in the form of a sober lecture, laced at moments with gentle reproof. A stranger watching the exchange would have thought Angus stern and perhaps a little too dogmatic, but Steven knew otherwise. Since he had first met Angus he had understood the old man’s affection for him. It was almost paternal, though the paternal nature of the link was impossible to separate from the friendship they were forming. Taken as a pair, history books being written would have held them in equally high renown. Though they had met only a year ago, history would tell a tale of two men intertwined by science and a quest for knowledge that led mankind deeper into space than men of the past century would have believed possible. A sudden realisation of the scope of what they were undertaking made Steven feel out of his element. It was the first time he understood the implications of what they were trying to achieve.
“I’m not naive enough to believe I know best, Steven, but I think I know better about some things. Age adds a certain clarity and perspective. I broached the subject of God because you and I are her relativistic Gods. We hold power over her life and death – you more so than any other. I want you to imagine facing your God, and being in direct contact with him. If you don’t believe in God, pretend you do and consider what I’m saying to you: How would you want your God to treat you? It doesn’t matter that this young lady is a BIOT. BIOT is a label, just as is the word man. You and I are both men, yet something makes us unique. Don’t mistake her for a machine. How would you want to be treated if you were under direct order of your God? Treat her accordingly.
“I want to make myself clear to you, and without being candid I can’t do that. I’ll be direct, because I know we share respect for each other, and we can be honest with each other. She is essentially your property, and I know she’ll behave however you order her to behave. The onus is on you to treat her with respect and compassion. Despite all she knows, she needs direction. You have to chose what direction to give her.”
Steven nodded thoughtfully, and Angus continued, “Wendy and the others would never completely accept what I want you to do, but they haven’t any real say in this once she passes her examinations.” Angus jogged his eyes to the BIOT and said, “Steven, ask her to sit.”
He understood Angus was serious and looked at the BIOT. She was trembling faintly, though doing her best to appear impassive. At first he wondered why Angus hadn’t asked her himself, but as soon as the thought crossed his mind it was answered. Angus was directing his attention to a failure, not of hers, but of his. If he were brought into a room with two strangers, and left standing by himself while they talked and made decisions about his life, he would be reacting to it. His reaction would be anger and irritation. Hers was fear. He had the opportunity to alleviate some of that, and he had failed her.
“Please sit down. Here.”
Steven watched her closely as she compiled, and found himself preoccupied by the grace and economy of her movements. She was performing a predetermined function when she sat, as if it were a perfectly programmed routine. His attention returned shortly to Angus, and he caught just a remnant of the old man’s satisfied grin.
“In the future, Steven, you have two people to consider. Remember that. Every action you take will make an impression on her, just as will those you forget to take.”
“I understand.”
Angus smiled and mused, “I just bestowed expectations of God-hood on you. Am I a great supervisor, or what?”
Steven smiled self-consciously, glanced at the BIOT and then back at Angus, before he suggested, “More like the what.”

July 28th/29th, 2117
The Truth
“The training sessions are going well?”
Steven glanced up from the blackjack table and found his guess at the voice correct. It was Angus, dressed casually, wearing a pleasant smile. He chuckled and said, “You’re the last person I expected to run into here.”
He attended to the card game he was losing, and the dealer gave him another card. He looked and turned them both up, shrugging off the loss. The woman behind the table politely asked if he wanted another game and he declined. For the last three nights he had come to her table to lose because she was pleasant company. They parted with exchanged wishes for a good night, him leaving the remaining chips he had as a tip, and shortly he and Angus were sequestered in a quiet corner of the hotel bar.
“I’m glad to find you aren’t totally absorbed with your work,” Angus said. “I was at your lecture today and quite enjoyed it. I fancy I almost grasped the principles behind what you’re about to undertake. It’s akin to the thigh bone connecting to the shin bone, connecting to the foot bone.”
“It is. The only difficulty is that when you do it, if you make a mistake, you cost someone millions and risk getting killed. The Mark-Five drive system is the most complex one anyone has ever tried to connect.”
“You ought to know.”
“True.”
Steven had designed it.
“You’ll put it together and make it work,” Angus opined confidently.
“Behind schedule by two weeks,” Steven qualified. “When we get the engine in, we’ll try to make up the time with the polish, but I doubt we can pull it together for the New Year launch date the Committee wants.”
“That can’t be helped. Your crew has been doing superb work. I went on Forte’s walk-through, and I could picture what a work of art she’ll be when her finish is done. It’s a shame we have to launch her at all. The hull won’t look nearly as pure after we breach the debris scattered within the region of the Oort cloud.”
“No. When we get back she’ll look horse-whipped.”
Angus sipped his drink, a non-alcoholic one, and changed the subject to one he was more interested in. Since the examinations in early June he had hardly spoken to Steven about the BIOT, but he had been snooping since and had made some remarkable discoveries. To lead in smoothly, he asked with his usual casual tone, “How’s your assistant?”
“Perfect.” The word, and the hint of pride underlying it, had slipped out. Steven tried to continue a less positive answer without making it obvious he considered his initial estimate embarrassing. He appended, “She doesn’t do much, but she does what I need her to do. She types my notes, and when I get involved in the actual work she assists me. Some days I send her to work with Viola, or Jack. There are problems with putting her in the general population of my crew. On the whole they haven’t got anything against BIOTs, but they aren’t sure how to act and I don’t want them feeling uncomfortable. I’ve taught her the physical side of our work as we’ve gone along, and Jack’s done a lot for her. He’s a better maintenance-level engineer than I ever could be. She appreciates the time he takes to show her how to do things properly.”
Angus was smiling, considering whether he should share a few of the secrets he knew. He decided they could wait a moment and asked instead, “How much does she tell you about her day when you come off shift?”
“She’s with me most of the time.”
It was an innocent and effective way of ignoring the question, which pleased the old man. Angus was intrigued by the tactic though, so he pressed, “Do you two talk at all?”
Steven took a swallow of his drink and decided he owed Angus a proper answer. It took him a few more seconds of thought before he settled on giving an honest one. It was, “The first week was rough. I had to put up with equipment complaints. Not from her, obviously – from the warehousing staff. They were sent a slew of regulations forbidding them to issue certain bits of equipment from the uniform reserves: No UNF jacket; no buckle boots; and no personal equipment at all. I had to go so far as buy her a toothbrush at the gift shop at the Earth Transfer Station. She was quiet, too. I don’t think she said more than ‘yes, sir,’ ‘no, sir,’ and ‘thank you, sir’ for the first week. I got short answers to every question I asked, and she wouldn’t start a conversation for her life. I could have lit the couch on fire while she was sitting on it, and she would have sat still and looked down at the floor.”
“She’s changed?”
Steven smiled. He mused, “That’s one way to put it. She’s still damn shy.”
“I didn’t think BIOTs could be shy,” Angus prodded, a touch of friendly sarcasm lacing his tone.
“Fair dig. I didn’t give her much credit, and I was wrong.”
Angus leaned forward and asked, “When did she start calling you by your name?”
The question was a mild surprise. Steven was fairly certain no one had ever heard her call him by anything but ‘sir.’ He had made it explicit to her they would both be answering questions for the rest of their lives if she used his name in public and their familiarity became common knowledge. There were always arrogant do-gooders who would jump on such a transgression.
Angus put him at ease, telling him, “I understand why you feel you have to be careful, but you know that doesn’t extend to me. Besides, I’ve already been to your suite, and I’ve had the most interesting conversation with Elizabeth.”
Stifling a natural urge to deny any breach of the written laws on human-BIOT relations, he reminded himself who he was talking to and admitted, “We do call each other by name. I got sick of calling her BIOT after two days, so I gave her a name.”
“Your mother was named Elizabeth, wasn’t she?”
He nodded, but denied the implied connection with the assertion, “It just happens I like that name.”
Angus laughed and assured him, “I’m not going to prosecute you for naming her. I’m glad you have. I too found calling her BIOT irritating.”
“How the Hell did you get her to talk?”
“She knows me, so to speak. I’m always sending you notes, and she’s often been hovering nearby when we chat. According to her, you think I’m the only scientist alive with a normal personality, which, by the way, is flattering. You forgot to mention to her how charming I can be, but thanks all the same.”
“Why did you ask me if we talked? It sounds like she’s given you a full report.”
“Hardly. She said very little, really. I just asked a few leading questions, asked her where you were, then came down here to pester you.”
“You consider a leading question, or two, an interesting conversation?”
Angus sipped his drink and, with an attending cat-that-got-the-canary grin, revealed, “The interesting bit was when I asked her leading questions about you.”
“It’s not a wonder I feel paranoid. Are you sure she isn’t a spy you placed with me just to find out about my habits when I’m alone?”
Angus laughed, and Steven joined him. There was a nervous edge to his laugh, but it was not nearly as repressed as it had been a few months ago. Angus noted that with pleasure, though he wondered how much the alcohol was affecting his friend. Even still, he suspected the truth; and combined with his delight at what he had learned from Elizabeth, he was feeling positively light-hearted.
Steven set his drink down and began turning the glass in a slow circle. He asked, “You know what they gave me in that package of papers, Angus?”
“No; what?”
“Owner’s manuals. They call them scientific papers, but they read like instructions to set a complicated watch. I remember opening them that first night after she was delivered to me, when I was lying in bed, and the first paper I looked at was called BIOT intercourse. It was by your friend Wendy Jefferies. I laughed so damn hard I almost busted my gut. It was even funnier than it might have been because I know she never had a clue how that title could be misinterpreted.”
Angus snickered and admitted, “I’ve seen that one. In fact, I proofread it for her. I thought the title was questionable, but I couldn’t bear to change it. Wendy has a wonderful innocence about her.”
Steven ordered them another round when the waitress came, then said seriously, “Elizabeth and I talked after the second week a lot more than I talk to anyone else, except maybe Vee. Viola, that is. At first we just talked about engineering, but after a while it got so she would ask me questions about other things.”
Angus accepted his drink from the returning waitress, waited till she had gone, and asked, “When did you decide to help her cheat on those examinations?”
Steven dropped his drink. Luckily it was only two inches above the table. A few of the other patrons in the lounge glanced at them when the clank sounded, but they just as casually lost interest and looked away. Their expressions said they suspected Steven was just another drunken engineer, and they had seen many of those lately.
Angus quickly said, “Relax, Stevie, I’m on side.”
“Jesus; I just didn’t believe she’d tell you that. I told her that could get us both jailed.”
“It could do worse than that to her, but she didn’t tell me. I knew before today. I knew the day she took the examinations.”
“How?”
“Because I know you, Stevie, and I’m a little less eccentric in some ways than is the BioCorp board of inquiry – if you can believe that. They took her answers technically, and she was consistently technically correct. I was just observing, and I noticed she phrased every answer exactly the way you would have. In your reports, when you give me technical answers to my questions, you phrase them in the same style – exactly. She was a perfect mimic when she answered some of those questions, and at other times she was as stringently mechanical as artificial persons are when they’re first learning communication skills.”
They exchanged appraising glances and Angus repeated, “She never told me. She did admit it when I told her I knew. I would never have bothered to bring up the issue, but I was curious how she felt having cheated; and I knew our conversation would get back to you, which is why I rushed down to see you. I wanted you to be aware of my interest, and my intentions, which are good.”
“I know they are, Angus. As for how she felt about cheating, I could have told you that. She didn’t understand. They would have killed her if she failed those tests. She didn’t even know that, because no one told her.”
“How did you get the copy of the questions?”
“They asked Jack and a few of the others to formulate questions based on the information contained in the data they had implanted in her. Jack told me, and he told me he thought she might fail. Some of the questions were about putting her knowledge to use, and they never prepared her for that. Given a few years she would have passed on her own, but she only had a few weeks, so I stole the list he had read into his computer and taught her the answers.”
“You mean he gave you the list.”
“I stole it.”
“Stevie, you’re a terrible liar. You’re also acting like a twit. If you haven’t already noticed I approve of your insurance methods, I don’t know how to make you aware of it. Having seen the questions, and knowing the way artificial people’s minds work until they learn to apply their knowledge, I know she would have failed. I would have taken steps if you and your friend Jack hadn’t.”
“Then we can pretend neither of us ever had this conversation.”
“We can, but I’d prefer not to. I’d prefer to be able to ask you what you would have done in the case her implants had been partly unsuccessful and would have been in short-term memory? By the time of that exam, if she would have been without a clue about engineering, what would you have done?”
“I would have done exactly what I did. I made sure she passed because I wasn’t about to sit back and watch them kill her just because she failed to answer seven of a hundred questions. Most human beings can’t answer at that level of accomplishment. If that’s what you wanna hear, then I’m glad to satisfy you, because it’s the truth.”
“How soon after you got her did you feel that way?”
Steven had leaned forward while making his last point. He now reclined and dropped his antagonistic front. It was obvious he had no reason to hide the truth from Angus. It was clear the opposite was true. Angus was a staunch ally, for whatever reason, and with Angus he knew those reasons were likely hellishly complicated.
“That isn’t a fair question, Angus. I don’t really know the answer; I just know by the first week I wasn’t about to let her die because she could only answer ninety-three percent of their damn questions. The papers they gave me made it clear they expected ninety-three percent recall, and I did what I did. But give her some credit…she would have come close on her own. She’s smart, and knows what she needs to know. Some day she’ll know more than me. It wouldn’t have mattered though, because that wasn’t why I did it. Not one of those BioCorp scientists believe she’s human. I do.”
“So do I, Stevie. You might be surprised to learn how many silent supporters your viewpoint has.”
“Maybe I don’t know how many people agree with me, but I know for sure there are a lot of people with the opposite view. This is a them and us situation, Angus. You’re with us, and them is anybody who can’t see past the science and technology. Mankind didn’t get where we are today by science and technology. We got everything because of courage and determination. Even science, even BIOTs came from the same place; but a lot of your associates seem to be able to sit in their little sanitary science world and pronounce a death sentence because the human beings they created are as imperfect as they are.”
Angus was amused and satisfied. He mused, “Hearing you talk this way, Stevie, I would guess not many of your olden day friends would recognise you. You’ve become a humanitarian.”
“Maybe I just forgot I was one until lately. It doesn’t always have to be a bad word, Angus.” He picked up his drink and downed it, returning to their conversation with the open statement, “You gave her to me to keep me from cracking.”
Angus decided the admission wouldn’t harm Steven’s progress. The Steven Tanner he was talking to, fiercely defensive about a BIOT’s right to be imperfect, was a determined man. She had provided someone to fill up the emptiness that had been gnawing at Steven for the last five years. He said, “I had my own reasons for wanting a BIOT on the mission. I told you what they were, and they were the truth. It’s also true, as you say, that I gave her to you to keep you from going crackers. I don’t like to think you would have cracked under the pressure, but I had selfish concerns. I was worried you would try to do everything yourself, and kill yourself with the responsibility. I was worried you were going to try to behave like you did years ago, before the events preceding your breakdown. You can’t always be an engineer, every waking moment. I needed to force a distraction on you. I knew she would provide a pleasant one. I couldn’t have ordered you to spend your down-time talking about your dreams, or space travel, or simply talking about nothing of importance. I could, I thought, order you to take her as an assistant. After I met you, I knew I could expect your personality to work in favour of my safety measure.”
Steven turned his glass in a circle again, staring at the scotch. He asked, “How far did you expect to get without my understanding what you were up to?”
“About this far.” Angus chuckled and added, “Or not. I crossed my fingers you would do what you did.”
“What? Help her cheat on those exams?”
“Not exactly that, though it pleased me to no end. I had hoped you would start to care about her. You do. She answered my questions about you, and one of the first ones I asked was where the flower on her desk had come from. That pleased me far more than the assistance she got to pass her exams.”
Steven gestured to the waitress for another round, and asked guardedly, “What does that mean?”
“It means my experiment will run its course properly, and in record time I’ll be able to observe an artificial person with a fully developing personality. It also means, incidentally, that the chief engineer of this enterprise will spend his evenings with company he can discuss rocks with, if he so desires.”
“I’d like to be pissed off at you, Angus, but I haven’t really got a valid complaint. It stings a bit to think you made me part of your crazy experiment, but I haven’t been harmed by it, so the only thing I can blame you for is making my job easier.”
“And your life? Maybe just a little?”
“It hasn’t hurt.”
Their next round arrived and they drank a while, thinking. Angus finally recovered their conversation, approaching the issue of Elizabeth from a slightly different tact. He reported, “I got along fantastically with Elizabeth. I can be quite charming when I rein in my eccentricities.” A big grin accompanied the old man’s claim. “One of the things I found out is she trusts people based upon the degree of trust you place in them. It was nice to know I’m high on your list.”
“Your position’s wavering,” Steven claimed with a smile. “Some days you pop up out of the works and set me on my ear.”
Angus appreciated the touch of sarcastic flattery attending Steven’s use of the phrase ‘set me on my ear.’ It was one of Angus’ favourites, and he used it often to describe things that surprised him. He laughed and said, “She trusted me enough to ask a question, Stevie. Viola Parini said something last night that Elizabeth has been confused by. You two must have been out drinking, I surmise.”
“Till two in the A.M. I’m surprised I managed to make the lecture today. We were fall-down drunk last night.”
“That was conveyed. Since you might not be able to recall Miss Parini’s question, it was, ‘How come you party all night with the peons when you got the privilege of electric pussy, just flopping around asking to be fucked?’”
“I never thought you’d say something like that.”
“I’m repeating verbatim what your young lady remembers hearing. When she asked me to explain it, I told her you ought to be the one to do that.”
“I suppose I ought to be, but I don’t think I will. Vee has a bad habit of being direct when she’s drunk. Whatever she’s thinking at the instant comes out. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“If Elizabeth was human, would you tell her?”
“She is human, and I know what you’re getting at. But if she were born and raised naturally I wouldn’t have to tell her.”
“She wasn’t naturally born and raised. You’ll have to tell her. Maybe not now, of course, but certainly later. You can avoid the question only so long before she’s bound to ask you. What do you plan to say when she does? Telling her to ask her mother is out of the question. I doubt there are many people she trusts enough to ask.”
“It’s a topic I hope to avoid for as long as possible. The less she knows about sex the better. She won’t wanna do anything if she doesn’t know anything can be done.”
“I think you’re underestimating human sexuality. In life there are three primary drives: fear is the first; comfort is the second; and sex is the third. They vie for control every minute we live.”
“And that’s the reason you came down here? To tell me to talk to Elizabeth about the birds and the bees?”
“I needed an excuse.”
Angus grinned and Steven laughed. Serious, the old man continued his line of thought to its natural conclusion, saying, “In the modern environment there are thousands of stimuli that will teach her about thousands of topics. Sex is one. If she weren’t so diligent with her reading and studying of the Mark-Five engine specifications, she need only turn on the hotel monitor and she could see dozens of sex acts being performed. I didn’t come down to talk to you about this specifically, but I felt the time had come for us to discuss her. Right now seems like the appropriate time to ask you to ask yourself a question: Do you want her only source of sex education to be from films? Before you answer that, consider the number of deviant acts depicted every day on some of the less reputable channels. Between you and me there’s no need to deny we’ve seen some of the information being broadcast. The first contact she has with sex might be something relatively harmless, or not. There are almost as many rapes depicted on TV per day now as there are occurring in the real world on a day-to-day basis. Actually, I think I read somewhere that there are statistically more. That sort of exposure could be her first to the idea of sex.”
Steven leaned forward on his elbows, nursing his drink. He observed, “All of that’s valid, except for one fact you’re overlooking. BIOTs are forbidden to engage in any type of sexual relationship. Why does she need to know anything if she can’t ever do anything? Isn’t telling her just pressuring her to want something she can’t have?”
“That’s a standard argument that retains some merit. I don’t really know an answer, Stevie. I don’t know what the effect of explaining sex to her will have.”
“But from a scientific view you’re dying to know.”
“Admittedly; yes.”
“She’s not a science experiment, Angus. Don’t lose sight of that, because I’m not going to.”
“You can’t put it off forever.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s important she know.”
“So why didn’t you explain it to her? You’re the scientist.”
“To be brutally honest, I won’t be the one she turns to physically when she begins to understand her sexuality. You will. You’re her primary source of affection.”
“Affection isn’t the right word.”
“Can you really believe that, given the way she talks about you? Like it or hate it, Stevie, but it is the right word. I wouldn’t dream of condemning it either. People tend to have greater affection for pets than they bear for other people. I don’t understand their mentality and I prefer your approach. She’s a special source of satisfaction for you. You could sit there and try to hide away that truth, but you’d fail. To most people she would be a BIOT. To you, she’s an individual. You just told me so. I think it’s important for you to realize your affection for her, and quit mistaking it for duty. She won’t make that mistake in return. To her, when you show affection, it indicates she can return it. Her limits won’t be governed by social constraints that have shaped you over a lifetime.”
“I read the psychology papers they sent me.”
“Then you know, partly, what I’m getting at. Already you’ve seen evidence of those three primary drives in her. In artificial persons, I think the tendency has been to deny them what is more obvious in them than it often is in us. Take, for example, your drinking. Every time we stray onto a topic you’re afraid to discuss, you concentrate on your drinking, The more drunk you get the more you satisfy your comfort urge; and then it dampens your sex drive, though I believe your sex drive hasn’t much to do with the present cycle you’re in.”
Steven pushed his drink away with a confident smile, sat back comfortably, and addressed the topic directly. Angus did him the favour of listening without comment, or interruption.
“This stays between you and me, Angus: I haven’t read a lot of psychology, but I have made an effort lately. What I understand from my reading is that modern psychological theory operates on the assumption most, if not all, character traits are learned. Obviously you’re suggesting I talk to her about sex so she comes away with a healthy understanding of the topic. What you haven’t considered is my position in that conversation. How can I be relied upon to explain things properly? I can’t. I can’t even be counted on to understand the female view of sex. If I was to talk to her, the best I could do would be to give her a mechanical scenario – which is exactly what most films would be giving her. So, assume I don’t talk to her and she watches some film that frightens her? Maybe that’s best, since she isn’t allowed anything even remotely sexual. Assume I do talk to her and she begins to think about sex. It’s bound to affect her day-to-day performance, and it’ll double her frustration because she can’t legally have sex – ever. Now, from a psychological standpoint, have I done more harm talking to her, or not talking to her? Maybe I do equal damage either way? If so…if she ends up hurt under either scenario, isn’t it best for those others concerned that she remain in the dark as long as possible?”
Angus was twiddling his thumbs. He responded in his usual serious tone, which was somewhat bland and infuriatingly calm. He advised, “It would help her to be aware of sex when you finally fumble your way past the Oedipus complex and incest feelings you have standing in the way of your feelings toward her.”
Steven sat immobile, staring at Angus. It took him several minutes to utter the whisper, “What the Hell are you talking about?”
Angus enjoyed the shock. He shrugged off the suggestion of impropriety and sated with alacrity, “Man to man, she’s the owner of a beautiful face and body, and her voice is exactly shy enough to be sexy. Having named her for your mother, likely on the spur of a moment, you must now find making a romantic approach to her a difficult prospect. I can well imagine, having been entrusted with her well being, there’s to be an edge of incest to any physical relationship you develop with her.”
Steven was still struck speechless. His face had turned crimson, but more from shame than anger. Shame because he had often been sitting with Elizabeth and felt a compulsion to do more than talk to her. Presently he had no rebuttal against the spite-less accusation Angus was levelling at him. Had there been a hint of reproof, or disapproval, he could have responded with indignant denials, but Angus hadn’t even left him that option.
“I prefer honesty, Stevie. I think any man who wouldn’t be thinking about the beauty of the arrangement you have with her would be a damned fool, or gay. I haven’t any proof, but I don’t believe you’re gay; and I know you too well to imagine you a fool. We both know in the situation you’ve been placed, only you and she would ever know, so legalities are meaningless.”
“You say things just to shock me.”
“Of course, Stevie.”
Angus swallowed the last of his drink and suggested, “You have to talk to her before. You know that. Answer her question when she asks.”
“And tell you how she takes it?”
“That’s unfair.”
Steven retrieved his drink and swallowed a mouthful. He was being unfair; but his unfairness was nothing close to how unfair life could be. He said glumly, “You’re right, Angus, it is unfair.”
Angus had been thinking about that, and decided with an apologetic tone, “Maybe it isn’t as unfair as I would like to claim. I would be a liar to deny I’m curious about every aspect of your relationship with her. I’m most interested in what changes an informed observer, in this case myself, can discern in her personality as it develops; but it would be untrue to claim I’m not curious what affects sexual knowledge will have on her maturing process.”
Steven dropped the topic of Angus’ invasion of his privacy, finished his drink, and asked with a forced grin, “What does the professor have to say thus far? You came down here for a few thousand sneaky reasons, I imagine, but I know one of them was to get an impression of her. What do you see in her, and how does it compare with your past objective observations?”
Angus responded with a polite shake of his head when a waitress approached and offered them another round; Steven ordered another. Angus made no comment, aware these nights of drinking and gambling would be the last the project engineers saw for months. It would be serious, solemn business henceforth. When they were alone again, he replied to the question, “Elizabeth shocks me, actually. Before I say more though, I have to admit some bias. If my past observations of artificial persons have been objective, then I’ve changed my habits radically. I find it hard to be objective about your young lady.”
“Thanks, Angus. So do I.”
Angus smiled and continued, “As for what the professor says then, Stevie: I didn’t think what effect your more feared traits might have on her. Naturally, most artificial people are very passive, and their personality develops slowly, so to speak. The process is usually so gradual that after five years it takes an extreme interest to see much difference. Unlike us, artificial people have a talent for projecting a detached mechanical attitude outside the scope of their private time. That reticence, which we make a habit with the demands we place on their behaviour, affects their personality severely. It makes them almost impossible to define as individuals. I think that’s because we teach them individuality isn’t expected, or accepted, of them.
“You didn’t know that, obviously, and you have a habit of being forthright, even though I suspect you wish otherwise. Consequently, Elizabeth is communicative, and she’s afflicted by a restrained excitement when she talks about herself and what’s happened to her. I think she’s the first artificial person I’ve ever seen who has a definite appreciation of what the word I means. She has a perception of herself in relation to events. She still has a narrow focus of events, indexing everything in relation to where you were and what you were doing, but somehow you’ve given her a foundation to understand herself as someone separate.
“Her vocabulary is another interesting element forming her personality. It remains somewhat restricted, but you instilled in her a trait I’ve never before observed in any artificial. She’s not afraid to ask what a word or concept means if she doesn’t know it. While I realize that extends only to the people you explicitly trust, it’s still indicative of a broader issue. You encouraged her to develop a desire to learn things not directly related to her field of function. You’ve allowed her to learn more than engineering, and that’s added a depth to her potential for realising herself.”
“That sounds darn complex considering all I told her was the best way to learn new words was for her to ask. And, by the way, I know she’s expected to be a faceless automaton; I just don’t care. It’s not her fault the world is too stupid to let her be herself.”
Angus bit a pretzel, nodded at the suggestion he might be placing undue emphasis on some aspects of his observations, and continued his discourse, “What I saw today was a surprisingly well-adjusted young woman. Most artificial persons have a great deal of difficulty adjusting to society. Rules against them are stringent and made plain to them. You’ve got around much of that by being reasonable, and using your authority to place demands on her to her best advantage. She trusted your judgement early on, and you’ve reinforced that trust. Given time, with continued contact with you, she’ll be the most independent artificial in the Universe.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“I think it’s good.”
They were interrupted by the words, “Good? It’s sure better than being cooped up on that metal doughnut up there.”
Steven glanced left and smiled. Viola was smiling back at him. She pulled out the chair before her and sat, placing her drink on the nearest coaster. The dazed look in her eyes was an indication she had been drinking since their last training session.
“What’s up, boys…other than your dicks now that I’m here to tease you?”
Steven ignored her taunt and introduced, “This is Angus Shepherd. Angus, this drunken lady is Violacciocca Parini.”
Angus shook her hand and told her, “I saw you on the news when you won your contest. Stevie talks about you frequently.”
“That proves how boring his life is, Mister Shepherd,” Viola offered, doing her best to sound somewhat sober. After all, Angus was the effective head of the mission.
“Call me Angus.”
“Okay, Angus. What is that anyway? Is that English?”
“Australian originally, but my mother was Scottish and I was raised in and around London.”
“That’s a coincidence, ya know, Angus: I once got laid there by a scrawny little prick with sticky, poky-up hair.” So much for her restraint, she managed to think ruefully, though only for the instant it took for the words to echo to silence.
“Thanks for that gem of an anecdote, Vee.”
“You’re welcome, Stevie,” she said with a giggle.
Angus was enjoying her drunkenness and refreshing lack of self-possession. To prove his impression of her, she leaned her chin on her elbow and gazed at him, informing him, “You got a big nose.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. What does Violacciocca mean? It’s Italian, isn’t it?”
“No, it means wallflower. It’s an Italian word. I almost got vampata, but daddy said no. I would have liked vampata.”
“Where did your partner in crime go, Vee?
She turned her face lazily toward Steven’s and sighed, “Some days I just want to suck your lips off. Didn’t you notice I was discussing my heritage with Angus, or did you just choose to ignore that?”
“Did you two have a fight?”
“No; I got poked in the eye by a male dancer’s boner.”
He almost laughed at her implication. He said, “You haven’t got a black eye, Vee.”
“Must have deflected it somehow then.”
He laughed and asked again, “Where’s Thelia?”
“Puking. I would have waited for her in the depository in there, but I want my supper to stay down.”
“If you drank less you’d remember more of this little vacation.”
“Forgetting is the point of drinking. Besides, we like drinking, mister glass-in-either-fist.”
Steven started to speak, but Viola caught sight of Thelia shambling toward them and shut him up with a kiss. She slapped his cheek, glanced at Angus, and said, “Maybe I’ll give you a big sloppy kiss when we know each other better.”
“My heart is weak,” Angus claimed, smiling.
She giggled and waved good-bye as she rose, almost falling down. She giggled her way to where Thelia was standing and they left together. Steven turned back to Angus and watched for a reaction. There was none.
“Don’t you find that a bit odd?” he asked.
“What?” Angus queried.
“Those two.”
“I’ve never met the other young lady, but Viola seems charming.”
“No, I don’t mean that’, Angus.”
“Oh, you mean about their being gay. It’s not that odd; statistically it’s rather normal in many cultures. Either way, my friend, it doesn’t concern me.”
“Vee isn’t gay, actually, Angus. Thelia is, I think. Vee just hangs around with her.”
“Sometimes, Stevie, I suspect there’s a true conservative hidden in you.”
Steven thought about that, raised his drink in mock toast, and admitted, “Sometimes, Angus, I think I agree with you.”
The Electric Pussy
Steven stumbled into the hotel room after midnight and fumbled for the lights. When they came on he saw Elizabeth slouched over the desk by the closet door, sleeping atop the engine control manuals she was reading. He admired her with a wolfish grin, then closed the door, believing himself as silent as a thief. The clatter that failed to register on him was loud enough to wake her, but he hardly noticed till he was a few feet away. He was too drunk to be aware of much.
She had a voice as naturally soft and deep as the most sultry one most women could manufacture with effort, especially when she was sleepy. The shy way she spoke, being far more aware of her predicament in society than he suspected, made her voice even more irresistible.
“Are you all right?”
He sat, nearly missing the chair, and laid a hand over hers. He mumbled, “I’m feelin’ jus’ fine. How’s you?”
“My cheek feels funny because I was resting it on my arm, and I feel tingly because I just woke up. I have a little bump on my elbow because I hit it on the edge of the desk, and it hurts when I rest it against anything.”
He cut her off, telling her, “You’re not s’pposed ta give me a big lis’. You’re s’pposed ta say you’s good, or not so good.”
“I feel good, except I’m tired. Are you well? Your voice is strange, and you smell…sharp.”
“I am, my dearest, what’s commonly called drunk. Jus’ like las’ night, and jus’ like the night before; and I’ve decided to tell ya abou’ sez. Okay?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, tha’s why I’m gonna tell ya,” he said reasonably.
On her face was a mixed expression of confusion and concern. She didn’t like when he drank, though it did make him more amusing, because she liked him well enough when he was sober. She also had no idea what he was talking about, and so she asked, “What are you going to tell me?”
 “Abou’ yer pussy, an’ fuckin’. Angus said you were wonderin’ what yer pussy was, an’ what Vee meant abou’ fuckin’, so I’m gonna tell ya!”
He seemed incredibly happy, and she smiled when he threw up his hands at the end of his pronouncement. It was a dramatic gesture of magnanimity, apparently, to babble at her when he was stone drunk. She had feared he would be angry with her for talking to Angus, and for being tricked into answering so many of the old man’s questions, but Steven’s behaviour was a sign he was glad to explain what Viola Parini had meant – and she was curious.
“Firs’ off, you’re not ‘lectric. You’re chemical.”
He started to giggle, and she reacted again with a restrained, impulsive smile. When he stopped laughing he looked up, saw her struggling with the smile, and said with honest admiration, “You got a lovely smile.”
She blushed.
He remained distracted by her a full two minutes before he patted her hand and said, “I gotta go ta bed.”
“First tell me,” she urged, her blush deepening because she felt she was being forceful and inappropriate by pushing the point.
“Tell ya what?”
“About what it means when Miss Parini says, ‘How come you party all night with the peons when you got the privilege of electric pussy, just flopping around asking to be fucked?’”
“Did she say that?”
Elizabeth was confused, unaware how his drunkenness was affecting his grasp of their conversation. After parting with Angus, he had found Viola and Thelia, and they had cruised bars along the strip. As an added attraction they had ended up cruising strip joints, where he had been amused to see Thelia enjoy the shows as much as he had. Viola had been less enthusiastic, but she had smiled more than usual at his and Thelia’s antics. At the present, he had absolutely no conception what Elizabeth was talking about, haven forgotten the gist of their conversation.
“Yes, she did. I don’t understand all the words. I looked them up, but some of them weren’t in my dictionary, and I don’t understand why she called me an electric cat.”
“’lectric cat?”
“Pussy cat.”
“Pussy cat?”
He was befuddled, but shortly the connection dawned on him. He waved his hand and said, “She didn’t mean cat, she meant pussy.”
“It says in my dictionary that pussy is a cat, or a fuzzy catkin. I looked up cat and it says a cat is a furry carnivorous animal, or a feline, or a gossiping woman. I looked up gossiping and I don’t think I do. A catkin is a deciduous spike of flowers, and that didn’t make any sense to me at all. I also looked up puss because I thought pussy came from puss. It means mouth and cat and a young woman, or child. Is that why she called me an electric pussy?”
“You confused me just now. Wha’ was the ques’ion?”
“What did miss Parini mean when she asked, ‘How come you party all night with the peons when you got the privilege of electric pussy, just flopping around asking to be fucked?”
“She meant you– It’s hard to e’splain.”
“I tried to look up the word fucked. I think it must be a curse, because I heard it before on the ship. It isn’t in my dictionary. Peons was there, but I don’t quite know what it meant either.”
He tried to focus and managed to do so enough to interpret the statement Viola had made in different terms. He said, “She was as’ing me why I was out drinkin’ with her, Jack and Thelia when you were sittin’ here in our room alone.”
“What’s an electric pussy do that makes her call me one?”
He struggled with a way to escape and found himself too inebriated to manage. Instead, he let the interpreted version of the reference slip out. He said, “She thinks you’re a robot, sorta. She knows you’re not ‘lectric, but it’s a joke. Pussy means…vagina.”
“Why?”
He shook his head and claimed, “I don’ know righ’ now.”
It was the truth; he wasn’t really sure he knew if he had been sober. Elizabeth was literate most of the time, and whatever answer he carved out was likely to be inefficient and insufficient.
“Why does she say I’m flopping around asking to be fucked? I don’t flop around; I walk.”
“I’s jus’ a colloquial e’spression. I’s like sayin’ you’re wanderin’ aroun’ aimlessly, or jus’ stumblin’ aroun’.”
“But how come she says I’m asking to be fucked? I don’t even know what fucked means.”
“Liza, I’m drunk. I can’t figure thin’s out when I’m drunk.”
She sensed he was serious and stopped asking, bowing her eyes. It only took twenty seconds for him to touch her chin and lift her eyes to his. The touch pleased her more than she could express; even when he touched her elbow to get her attention as he usually did in public, she was thrilled – especially in public.
“I’m sorry. I don’ mean I won’t answer ya; I jus’ can’t righ’ now. Tomorrow, before we have the las’ session, I’ll tell ya. Okay?”
She nodded, wanting to touch his cheek, but not daring.
The Sobering Truth
Despite the hangover Steven had in the morning, he remembered most of the conversation he had with Elizabeth the night before. The details were foggy, but when she asked again what the undefined word meant he carried through on his promise to tell her. At breakfast, which he ordered along with a pot of coffee and some pills to clear his head, he made his best effort to explain what she wanted to know. He began with the statement, “The rest of this talk has to wait till my head stops pounding, but I’ll tell you what the word means. The condition is you have to promise not to say it any more, even if I say it. Is that agreed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine. What Vee asked was why I was out drinking with them when I could be here having sex with you. One of the meanings of sex is what a lot of people call fucking. It’s just a vulgar word describing sexual intercourse.”
“Talking about sex is called that word’?”
“No, sorry, I forgot how literal you can be. Likely that dictionary I got you was a sanitised version. There’s another meaning to the term sexual intercourse, other than the one you get when you take the words separately. Sit back and listen a minute. Think about what Vee said. She called you what?”
“An electric vagina.”
He smiled feebly, but it hurt too much to laugh. He enjoyed, far too much, the way she processed data. He mused, “Close enough. What did she say about it?”
“That I was waiting around to be sexual intercoursed.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle a little. She blushed, and out slipped the whisper, “You’re precious, Elizabeth.” Her face turned a darker shade, and he felt guilty for having embarrassed her. Quickly, he said in amore lecturing tone, “Anyway, what she meant was you were available for sexual intercourse and she didn’t understand why I was out getting drunk when I could be here with you having sex. And…you still don’t know what I mean, because you don’t understand sex except that people can be male and female.”
“I’m female.”
He picked up on that and told her, “Exactly, and I’m male. The word sex also describes what males and females do when they’re with each other.”
“We’re having sex now?”
“If we were I wouldn’t be having so much trouble explaining this. Look, how’s about we put this topic on hold and I’ll see if I can find you something to read to explain to you what sex is and what all the words related to it mean. Okay?”
When he received a nod in response to his question he sighed, winced at a twinge of hangover, and closed his eyes. He wanted to remember to take Angus aside and tell him how complicated a topic like sex could be. It was damn near impossible to explain to someone as innocent as Elizabeth. Realising that made him aware of something else he thought he wanted to tell Angus. The mathematician who had committed suicide had learned love from someone, the same as Elizabeth had learned it from him. He was sure the relationship between Karen Thompson and the mathematics BIOT had been more than a relationship between associates. Though he doubted they had been lovers, he wondered if Thompson had been as deeply in love with her BIOT as he was with his. Admitting that even to himself, made him feel deeply depressed, because he knew how hopeless an affliction it was.

August 26th/27th, 2117
The Longing
Steven woke the instant he was touched. He was prepared to ask what was wrong, but as soon as he realised what was happening he sat and found only one question came to mind.
“What’re you doing?”
Elizabeth was under the covers with him, looking at him with an expression of fearful anxiety. She had the covers pulled up to her throat and one hand was holding the them there. Her other hand was not so innocently on his thigh. When he turned on the light, he saw her cheeks were slightly flushed. She sat, proving what he had already guessed. She was naked. He gathered the sheets and pulled them up to her neck, pushing them into her hand. In the same motion, he picked her other hand off his leg and set it on top the covers in her lap. She hadn’t yet responded to his initial question.
“Why are you in here?” he repeated, aware the answer wasn’t going to change the reality as he knew it.
Her eyes were focused on the sheets by her knees, though she was sneaking glances at his face to decide if he was angry with her. He was surprised, and his voice reflected it, but he had never been angry with her so she was unsure how to interpret his breathless question. With more courage than she thought she had, she replied, “I finished the book.”
He knew what book she was referring to. It was called Awakening Sexuality, written almost seventy years ago. He had tried unsuccessfully to find an appropriate book before their shuttle had left Las Vegas, he had failed, and so he had finally resorted to the gift shop at the Earth Transfer Station. It was the only available electronic book on the subject. Elizabeth had been reading it faithfully every night, and she had informed him at breakfast two days ago that she was close to the end.
“It may be true that you finished the book, Elizabeth, but that doesn’t exactly tell me what you think you’re doing,” he stammered; though, in truth, it told him exactly what she was doing.
“I’m here to make love with you now because I know how.”
He had stopped breathing, and now let out his pent breath, sliding out of bed. He pulled his pants over his underpants before he stood, and turned on another lamp, as if the light was a defence against her. Turning back to the bed, he decided it might have been better to leave the light off entirely and run from the room. She was beautiful; not that the degree of light had much to do with that. Feeling himself sinking into something near despair, he told her, “You know damn well you can’t. I explained that to you.”
“But you want me to.”
“No, I don’t.”
She looked directly at his crotch and concluded the obvious: “Yes, you do.”
He took a hopeless step back and reasoned, “It’s illegal, Elizabeth. I know you understand that. You’re not allowed to have sex.”
“I’m not allowed to have a name, but you let me.”
Her reasoning was on more solid ground than his, and she had the added advantage that he thought himself an idiot for arguing with her at all.
“That’s not the issue here,” he whispered. It was the issue, but to do what was right gave him no choice but to create a false argument.
“It was illegal to cheat so I passed my exams; it was illegal for me to have uniform boots; and it was illegal for you to kiss me,” she concluded, her nervous energy causing her to tremble, even though declaring those facts and his strangely helpless expression made her feel a rush of control.
He almost laughed, because he had known better than to kiss her. The first time had been when they were washing dishes after Jack and Viola had come over for dinner, and it had been an innocent kiss on her cheek to let her know she had done so well socially in that context. She had blushed bright red and remained crimson ten minutes, until she had finally found the courage to kiss him back. He had been wiping off the table when she whispered his name and kissed him on the lips. At the time, he had smiled and told her it was about time. Now, though he thought he should regret it, he couldn’t. It was ridiculous to pretend he regretted kissing her. He regretted it about as little as he regretted buying her boots out of his pay, or cheating to ensure she passed her exams, or spending every minute of his leisure time with her. He had been in love with her trust and dependency, and had slowly fallen in love with her. Still, he had to refuse the offer she was making; the fact it was beyond his choice made him feel angry.
“There are some laws even I can’t break with impunity. I’ve got this far because I’m in charge of a project no one can afford to have fail. I may be the best celestial engineer here, but that won’t stop them replacing me if I push their regulations into their face. Please, Elizabeth, get out of my bed and go to your room.”
She was hurt. She slid out from under the covers, arms crossed over herself until she put on her night-shirt. Without saying a word, she left the room, struggling to retain her composure.
The glimpse he caught of her bare backside, as the bottom of the shirt fell down to cover her, was almost enough for him to reverse his decision. He sat and dug his fingers into the mattress as she left.
“Shit, I’m shaking like a condemned man.”
His voice sounded empty to him, so he stopped speaking out loud. The feeling in the pit of his stomach was powerful, and the feeling in his head was equally powerful. To make his life even more miserable, he realised his instincts and his brain were both chastising him for being stupid. Head, heart and hormones all agreed he had just made a mistake. He stood and paced the length of the room, pausing short of the door. It didn’t matter at the moment that the world deserved to fade away because of a stupid, cruel regulation; it mattered that he had hurt her feelings.
“God damn it.”
In a minute he was knocking on her door, which she habitually kept closed. As soon as he heard her soft voice ask, “Yes?” he opened the door and entered. She was in what had once been his study, which he had converted into a bedroom to give her privacy and a place where she could keep the few things she owned. Angus had procured the bed, and he had stolen the linen. Getting anything for BIOT use was a nightmarish tangle of bureaucratic red tape, and that reminder only served to make him feel angrier with the world.
“Elizabeth, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
She was trying valiantly to please him by hiding the fact, but she had definitely been crying. Others could be as rotten and surly with her as they liked, but even insignificant transgressions he made hurt her. Consequently, he made few. Against his best intentions, he cared too much to hurt her without feeling guilty.
She had nothing to say. His apology was accepted prior to it having been issued, because she forgave him everything. She worshipped him so faithfully that even when he hurt her she considered she was at fault for being hurt more than he was for causing her distress. She gave the respect so selflessly he was aware of it, which only served to have him respond in kind. Peculiarly, she was more aware of the love they felt for each other than he was. She accepted it more naturally, having no experience with the denials that interfered with his accepting it. Presently, she was also struggling to remain calm and strong to make him proud: she did know the rules.
“I never meant to sound angry. I know you would never tell, but sometimes you get excited about new things that happen to you and they slip out. This is one experience that would get me thrown in prison and get you killed. It’s something we couldn’t get away with. You know that.”
“But we want to. How come they won’t let me love you?”
“Because they don’t know; they don’t understand. You know that. They think you’re a fancy machine. They don’t understand that inside you’re just like everyone else.”
“It isn’t fair.”
Her opinion was his. Angus had been surprised during dinner five days past when she had given an opinion about a topic not related to him, until he had explained she had picked up the opinion from him in conversation. Angus’ disappointment had been acute, and Steven remembered the old scientist telling him the day Elizabeth expressed a personally formed opinion she would truly be more human than any other BIOT. He knew she already was, and it was a fact even she had begun to grasp. Sadly, he whispered, “It isn’t fair, Elizabeth, but that’s how it is. You know one day soon Jefferies will give you another physical. If we were to do anything, she would notice. That would be the end of everything we have,”
He frowned. The thought of losing her was all that stopped him from accepting her offer. She would have made it again, willingly, but Wendy Jefferies had been giving Elizabeth regular physicals because of the type of work they did. It was a torture for him to consider how restricted they were by senseless laws. It was torture twice over because he loved her, and she was more than any scientist could define. He was thirty-nine years old and had spent most of his life alone. The last five had been the worst, though he had spent two of them in deep hibernation. His entire family was gone, and with the exception of Viola, Jack and Angus he had no close friends beyond Elizabeth. Angus had given him everything he considered worthwhile in his life, from his job to someone he could trust and love without reservations. Denying them a physical relationship was unfair because they were already lovers. Even Viola had never managed to mean as much to him in as many ways as did Elizabeth. She had filled up his longing for family, and for companionship. She knew nearly everything he knew, understood him implicitly, and was willing to be everything he needed.
“When we launch the ship next year, then there won’t be any Jefferies, or any BioCorp. Good night, Elizabeth.”
She whispered the same wish, and he returned to his room, sitting with a soft curse. His hatred was focused on the hierarchy of science that had erected the barrier between them. Angus, sadly, was part of that hierarchy. Angus had written the first laws on BIOT uses, and they had inspired the tyrannical restrictions now imposed. Ironically, Angus had given him everything and taken it away in one motion. Harbouring that thought, he understood what Elizabeth must have felt when he sent her away. He had given her the means to understand the link between sex and love, and given her the freedom she was trying to exercise: now he had taken it away. He wondered if Angus felt as horrible about his part in the restrictions against BIOTs as he felt for the part he had played in betraying Elizabeth’s feelings.
“Son of a bitch.”
He laid back, turned out the lights, and stared at the ceiling for hours. He didn’t sleep that night.
The Executive Officer
“Commander Tanner’?”
Steven turned from the bracket he was securing.
“My name’s Clayton Bartlett.”
Bartlett was a stocky man, only a few centimetres shorter than Steven but at least twenty pounds heavier. He was dressed in a standard UNF uniform, sporting Commander’s insignia. He looked in his early forties, his short brown hair peppered by speckles of grey. His beard and moustache were grey throughout, trimmed short. Other than a tiny scar on the fold of his left nostril his face was average. He was similar to a thousand other officers in the United Nations Forces.
Steven removed his glove and extended his bare hand. Bartlett did the same and they shook. He asked, “You would be Executive Staff Officer Bartlett?”
“I will be when we ship. Presently, I’m just Commander Bartlett; but the truth is I prefer being informal. I’d appreciate your calling me Clay.”
“Steve. I don’t mean to be rude, or abrupt, but what can I do for you, Clay?”
“Well, I was told I should see you if I want to walk about the decks. I tried to get in touch with you yesterday, but I got in late and didn’t have the time after my meeting with Captain Forte. I didn’t want to wake you.”
Steven saw Reed McCulloum approaching with a report board, and knew they were going to be interrupted. He returned his eyes to Bartlett and said, “Feel free to walk around the main decks, but stay clear of the engineering sections to the aft and the forward computer room. There’s no power right now so you’ll have to get a portable lamp. If anyone asks, tell them I gave the word.”
Reed arrived and complained, “Boss man, you have to look at these figures I’m getting. I think the Bellows transfer board is wired backward.”
Bartlett excused himself and left.
Steven turned his attention to the report board, reviewed the figures, then looked the direction Bartlett had gone. He glanced at Reed’s curious face. Reed McCulloum’s real name was Mitchell McCulloum. He was from Houston, Texas originally – a Plasma Systems engineer Steven had brought on board to oversee the tests on the reactors. Reed would also be the fifth engineer shipping with them for the core. In answer to Reed’s curious expression, he said, “He’s the Executive Officer. Seems to be a comfortable sort. Notice anything peculiar about him?”
Reed shrugged. He hadn’t been paying much attention, and had hardly noticed Bartlett. His actual curiosity had nothing to do with Bartlett. To be sociable, and avoid his real interest, he asked, “Was his bait trolling?”
Steven smiled. Reed was a source of amusement to everyone. As a chauvinist he was unmatched, but his sense of humour offset any prejudice he had against women: And the chauvinist side of his character was almost as endearing as his sense of humour, since it was clearly manufactured. Steven had noticed early on that Viola had a special attraction to the gangly Texan, and Reed had pleased him by being as generally sexist with Elizabeth as anyone else on the crew.
“No, Reed, his bait wasn’t trolling. He’s got one bugger of a limp though.”
“Never noticed.”
“What do you notice?”
The question had been fired by Viola, who was hanging upside down above the nearby reactor column, implanting the core probe rods inside their casings.
Reed looked up and grinned like a devil. He said, “I notice your knees spread every time I walk by.”
“It’s nausea, not weak knees, pin-prick.”
Steven returned his attention to the report and then returned it to Reed, indicating, “They look reversed to me. Check to see if the contacts are polarised by the main breaker. It might be a magnetic aberration. If it is, the values are fine. Note the polarisation and lock the boards down.”
Reed nodded and left, calling up to Viola, “You’ll get over me, Muscles.”
Steven waited for Viola to reply, but none came. She was too busy negotiating a control rod into its casing to pay attention to the jibe. The sight of her inserting the rod inspired thoughts of sex in him, and brought back memories of his restless night. He glanced to the corridor Bartlett had gone down, cursed nothing in particular, then turned back to the bracket he was attaching to the wall. Slowly, trying to focus on a task that was too mechanical to distract him, he began to tighten the pins. Anyone who even glanced felt sorry for the bracket, because even an inanimate object didn’t deserve the abuse he was attending it.
The Shattered Heart and Soul
“So, Steven, what’s got you so pissed off at the world today? Another sleepless night with your little girl?” Viola asked.
He looked up from his meal to her. His expression warned her not to make any more attempts at cheering him with jokes about his relationship with Elizabeth. She sat opposite him, nudged his fist, and asked, “Problems?”
“Nothing; just a bad day.”
“Why?”
“Because it is one. Don’t grille me, Vee, I’m not in the mood.”
“Oh. So sorry for giving a damn.”
He looked back up from the plate and apologised, “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Don’t let me get to you, or the whole crew will end up pissed off.”
“We all have piss poor days. Wanna talk about it?”
He swallowed a mouthful of mashed potatoes, and took a drink of orange juice to wash them down. Both the food and the beverage were artificially produced, and neither tasted right since the meals they had enjoyed at the hotel where their briefing on the Mark-Five drive system had been held.
Viola sat quietly for a minute, before she told him with a frown, “It bugs me lately that you won’t talk to me any more. We’re friends, and you hardly ever talk to me any more.”
He glanced at her and his frown reflected hers. She was right. He had been so absorbed with the installation of the engines, and with Elizabeth, he had stopped talking to her. Glumly, but with honesty and affection, he replied to her accusation with, “I miss that a lot, Vee. It’s hard with her around.”
“I know you call her Elizabeth.”
“How?”
“You’ve slipped more than once. I pay attention to you when you talk, Steve. That’s what friends are for.”
Sadly, he observed, “I haven’t been much of a friend lately. I’m sorry about that. Other things are taking my time, and Elizabeth is taking what little spare time I get.”
Viola picked the carrot off her tray and bit it in half with a vengeance. It was hydroponically grown, but real enough. The crunch it made satisfied her and provided a contrast to the soft whisper with which she was speaking. “It doesn’t bother me you’re spending time with her. I’m happy for you. You seem happier most days than you used to be. She’s one of the only good things that’s happened to you over the past couple of years. I just wish you’d include me more often. I know she doesn’t like me much, but we can be civil. I feel like you don’t really want me in your life, and that gets me right where it hurts. We’ve been friends for eleven years. That’s too long a time to give it up.”
He took her gentle criticism to heart, finding talking to her made him feel somewhat better. He had neglected her a long time, and their usual heart-to-heart talks had ceased altogether. He took the opportunity of their being virtually alone to regain some of the contact they had lost. Even her latest visits had seemed not to afford the same closeness they had once shared.
“She likes you, Vee, she’s just afraid of you. You’re irrepressible when you get going, and you’ve said some things that have made her worry whether you like her.”
Viola smiled thinly and mused, “She’s not much like a machine. I thought BIOTs were. Sometimes when I’m working with her I forget she’s one. I almost called her by her name a few times.”
“I can’t think of her as a BIOT any more. She’s just as human as we are. She’s more human than some of the people I’ve met.”
“I know it’s none of my business, but I’m curious. Do you sleep with her?”
The question struck home. He could tell by Viola’s expression she was reading something in his. At first he felt compelled to remain silent, but her eyes drew him out. She was his best friend, and always would be. Whatever Elizabeth was, Viola was never going to be less than his best friend. Knowing so was reassuring.
“Just last night she came into my room. I had to say no.”
Viola knew not to make any foolish jokes; he looked ready to crumble. He was the smartest man she knew, and she thought of him as one of the kindest, but for all his capability he hadn’t been emotionally strong for years. She took his hand, focusing on him so exclusively she managed to ignore the fact there were people in the mess hall who might see how affectionate they were. Friends never abandoned friends. It was a philosophy they shared, though they both occasionally needed to remind each other. The bond between them would last in public as fast and certain as it did in private. Her strength extended from that certainty.
“If she wanted to, you should have said yes. No one’s going to find out. Besides, you need it. She idolises you, Steven, just like everyone on this crew does. The only thing you lack is a woman.”
“It’s illegal.”
“No one on our crew is that simpleminded. You don’t know how much respect everyone has for you. Christ, Steven, half of the women on board would bend over one of these tables for you if it would gain them a compliment. Tracey York’s in love with you, Thelia thinks the world of you and she’s not prone to go for men; and even that Stanwick woman who hangs around the engine room lately would be glad to go down on you. These people would step out into a vacuum for you without asking a single question. No one’s going to begrudge you sleeping with your assistant. Do you know how many of these people have said how nice it is to see the way she follows you around taking the shit work off your hands? Cripes, even Reed seems to be rooting for you to score her. His words, not mine.”
He shrugged and said, “The doctor from BioCorp gives her regular physicals. If they found out, they’d run me into the ground. I’d be finished.”
“Then so would this project. You know damn well you could get away with anything. You could walk up to Craig Ladd, strip her naked, and fuck her senseless on the Committee Board Room table during a session and they’d pretend not to notice.”
“For now, but as soon as the ship is ready–”
“They’d kiss your ass and ask you if you’d like another BIOT to add some variety to your nights. Shit, Steve, you must know you’re indispensable. Your crew would revolt and tear the ship apart if the Committee so much as looked at you crooked.”
“I wish I believed that, Vee.”
“Start believing it. Angus didn’t give you a female BIOT so you could teach her to play chess. He gave you one so you’d be able to work out your frustrations on someone who’s willing, and doesn’t know any better.”
“Which is another reason I could never touch her. She trusts me.”
“That’s the way it’s supposed to be, dumbass,” she said firmly, pulling his hand to bring his eyes back up from his tray. “Damn, Steve, if she crawled into bed naked with you, you sound like you’d refuse.”
He laughed bitterly and said, “I did refuse; last night.”
“You’re not kidding. She striped, sneaked into bed with you, and you wouldn’t fuck her? What kind of signal does she need to give you the picture? She’s not a robot programmed to fuck you; she’s a woman and she wants to fuck you. How dense do you wanna be? If she has to spell it out for you I’ll go up to the bridge and drag her here so she can write it in your mashed potatoes.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
Viola’s expression was sarcastic disbelief. She huffed, “That’s worse than McCulloum’s attitude. Do you think she’s an idiot? Why is it men always think a woman doesn’t know when she wants to be screwed? You’re just holding out because you aren’t comfortable with her being the one making the first move.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is, because I can remember another time you were almost helpless because a woman was doing things to you, rather than you doing them to her. You couldn’t even talk straight.”
“Vee, lower your voice.”
“Steven, kiss my ass.”
“Why are you so upset?”
She pushed her tray aside and shook her head angrily. She snapped, “I’m upset because you’re your own worst enemy. I happen to love you. You’re my closest friend and it matters to me when you’re hurt by something. I want to see you happy. It bugs me you’re not going to let this happen, and it bugs me I can’t help you past your stupid hang-ups. You’re always here when I need you, and you always help me through things. Every time I try to help you I run up against you and end up feeling like we’re on different sides. That pisses me off to no end.”
He whispered, “1 don’t mean for it to be like that. I know you care, I just have a hard time accepting risks I can’t understand.”
“Risks? What are the risks?”
“Elizabeth is like a little girl in some ways, like a child. She doesn’t have any idea what sex is going to feel like.”
“With you she’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know.”
“I do.”
He looked into her eyes, reading how much she meant what she had said.
“You’re tender and considerate, Steve. Elizabeth won’t be disappointed trusting you.”
“I haven’t been with a woman for seven years, Vee.”
The admission came out softly without hesitation. Her response came after a pause, but only because she was remembering. She knew what he was telling her. The night they had spent together, before they had gone into deep hibernation for their trip to the defined edge of the galactic rim, was the last time he had been with a woman. She was the woman. She reminded, “You spent four of those years in hibernation, just like me. Three years is a long time, but it doesn’t make you a worse lover. Don’t be afraid to make love with her just because you haven’t for a long time. If that’s really what’s stopping you, don’t let it.”
“That’s not everything. It’s Mark. It’s everything, Vee. I want to…but I can’t pretend everything’s…. I’ve been hiding from everything, and Angus gave me Elizabeth, and now sometimes I feel like I have everything – but when I think too much, I find out I haven’t got a thing. I shouldn’t feel like I do.”
“You can’t mourn Mark forever. He wouldn’t want that. If the roles were reversed, you’d want him to stop torturing himself, so stop torturing yourself.”
“It’s not that easy, Vee. Some nights even now I wake up and I have to turn the lights on, just so I can forget what the darkness is like.” He wiped his eyes and excused, “I’m just tired today. It gets to me when I’m tired.”
“Don’t run away from me, Steven. You have to deal with this some day. Maybe it’s time. Talk to me.”
He pushed his tray away and folded his arms in front of him, rubbing his fingers against the palm of his right hand. His eyes were moist as he spoke.
“It broke me once, Vee. I feel like I’m breaking down again. I promised myself I wouldn’t set myself up for another fall. I promised myself I wouldn’t forget Mark. Sometimes now when I’m with Elizabeth I do. I start talking about something with her, and I forget all about him.”
“That’s not true. You won’t forget him; not ever. You’re just afraid to stop hanging onto all the guilt and all the hurt of the past, because you don’t know what’s in the future. I know that’s frightening, but you can’t hang on forever. You have to start moving forward again as a person. You’ve been killing yourself since twenty-one-twelve by standing still.”
“Everybody died.”
“Not me; not Jack.”
“I can’t just forget it,” he said with a feeling the cold was overcoming him entirely.
“Tell her then. Tell someone. Mark would be hurt to think how you’re letting what happened to him distress you.”
“I loved him.” Steven was crying now, forehead on the back of his hand. “I didn’t even know until I woke up at the hospital. He was there, and when I woke up he was dead. All those years had passed in between, and I never knew. I just knew he was there, and then I woke up and he was gone. I never knew. I didn’t know what had happened, because when I woke up it was over.”
“You’ve fallen in love with her,” Viola whispered, a mix of joy at the idea and sadness because some small part of her had always wished she could be the one who saved him.
It was an observation he couldn’t deny. Viola leaned across the table and rested her cheek against the back of his head. The sight of Craig Ladd approaching worried her. She was about to tell Craig to leave him alone, probably harshly, but before she pronounced the warning Ladd’s usually cool features were corrupted by what appeared to be genuine concern. Viola felt her antagonism toward Craig wane when she saw the expression, and she found herself wishing Craig hadn’t backed away and left the room. She turned her eyes to the back of his head and kissed his temple, whispering, “It’s okay, Steven. I’ll take you to your place. Just rest a minute. Jack and I can take care of things on board today. Hush, now. Hush.”
She kissed his temple again and took his hand when he sought hers, closing her eyes.
The Sins of the Past, The Sins of the Present
The knock at the door roused Steven. He was sitting on the couch, wearing only his pants and boots. His shirt and jacket were draped over the back of the sofa. He reached to the remote on the coffee table and jabbed the entry button. The sound of the door impressed itself on him, and momentarily Angus was in sight, rounding the chair, solemn and worried. Steven ran a hand through his hair, unable to meet the old man’s eyes. He wiped his thumb around the top of the bottle propped between his thighs, and whispered, “I lost it today. I guess you heard.”
Angus’ voice was gentle. It harboured no disappointment, and no patronising lilt. Friendship did infuse it. He said, “I came as soon as I could.”
“Who called you?”
“Craig Ladd. She felt you would be more comfortable talking to me, if you needed to talk. I told her I felt you would be all right if you were given some time. I thought you would want some space, but I came when Elizabeth called.”
“She’s in her room reading something Jack gave her.”
“I don’t think she’s reading, Steven. She seems to think this is her fault. She’s quite upset. She told me about last night.”
Steven drew a deep, unsteady breath that sounded more like a sob than not. He took a swig from the bottle and put one fist to his mouth, wiping his lips against his knuckles, partly to prevent himself puking the drink back up. He had been drinking too much in too short a time, and he knew it was going to hurt when his body replied to the challenge.
“It’s not her fault, Angus. I just lost it today. You were right thinking I was on the edge. I went over today.”
“None of us is perfect, Steven. The pressure you’re under is intense. Maybe I added more by giving you Elizabeth. I thought she would have the opposite effect. If she’s making things more difficult, please forgive me. I meant it as something good.”
“Oh, Angus….” He sat back and crossed his arms across his chest, hands on opposite elbows. The bottle was again stuck between his thighs. Tears were coursing down his cheekbones to his ears, because his face was turned toward the ceiling. “I feel so stupid.”
Angus leaned forward and touched his hand, offering, “You don’t have to feel that way, Stevie.”
“Yes, I do.” Steven dropped his face so he was staring at the bottle. “I’m feeling more for her than I can.”
Angus said nothing, his hand resting supportively on Steven’s bare arm. It was the first time he had seen the tattoo on Steven’s chest. It was a ring of angels dancing above Steven’s left nipple, the bottom two dancing along a straight scar. In each faded angel was a name. The first angel was Amy, then Elizabeth, Mark and George. The fifth angel was blank where a name belonged.
Steven put his hand over Angus’ and whispered, “She’s the best thing to happen to me in years. I just can’t tell her how I feel. No…really I can’t feel that way.”
“Why?”
“Because…she’ll die.”
“No, she won’t, Steven.”
“Everyone else has. I won’t be responsible for her, too.”
Angus gently removed the bottle and set it on the coffee table out of reach. He stood long enough to sit by Steven and place his arm around the engineer’s back. His tone conveyed the paternal responsibly he felt. He said, “We’ve been watching out for you two. Wendy Jefferies is her doctor for a reason. I talked to Viola before I came here, and she told me what you told her. I have an understanding with Wendy. You can put your concern out of your mind. Elizabeth won’t be punished for any reason related to your relationship. Wendy and I will both see to that.”
“It isn’t that.”
“I know,” Angus admitted. He had seen Steven’s personnel records, and he had always recognised the dichotomy in the genius shown by the relatively young man and the emotional stresses that seemed part of him. “I understand.”
“I can’t forget. I was there.”
“Yes, but you can’t remember it like this, Steven. You have to put it behind you, put it in perspective. No one wants you to let your past govern your life.”
“It won’t bring him back,” Steven whispered.
“No, that’s right – nothing will. All there is of him is what you can remember. This isn’t what you want to remember forever. Remember him, not his death.”
Steven’s shoulders slumped and he put his hands up over his face, speaking into them. He admitted, “I need counselling again, Angus.”
“You’ll have it.”
“I’m no good to you like this.”
“Yes, you are. Don’t talk nonsense. You’ve asked for help and you’ll have it. Now you have to focus on beginning your life again. Leave the past for now. I’ll have someone for you to see by tomorrow, someone entirely trusted.”
“I’m tired.”
“I know. Promise me you’ll get some rest. Leave the engineering to Viola and Jack Robins for the next few days. Tomorrow morning I’ll have someone come here and see you.”
Steven drew a steadying breath and said softly, “I should talk to Elizabeth. This isn’t her fault.”
Angus hugged him and told him, “That’s a good idea. Talk to her now, and tomorrow someone will be here to help you talk this through. Don’t think you’re alone in this, Steven. There are people who care. Trust them for a while and you’ll get through this just fine. I know it.”
Steven nodded, and Angus sat with him a few minutes more before he left, saying a few more encouraging words and repeating the promise someone would be available by the morning.
When the door closed behind Angus, Steven stood and wiped the heels of his hands into his eyes. A few deep breaths later he was knocking on Elizabeth’s door. She answered it quickly, her eyes red and swollen from her crying. He brushed by without a word and sat on the edge of her bed, whispering, though he was trying to talk evenly. He patted the bed and said, “Come sit here.”
She did, closing the door before she left it, an automatic reflex than might have made him smile if he wasn’t so despairing. She was hurting with him, though she had no idea why he was suffering. It only mattered he was. That was enough.
“I need to tell you something…about this.” He touched the tattoo with his brother’s name on it, drew a steadying breath, and paused a few moments to gather his words. “My brother Mark was an engineer, like me. He was two years older than me, and I loved him very much. In twenty-one-ten we shipped together to the Galactic rim. That was way back before the engines driving interstellar ships were perfected to the point they’re at today. It took the two cruisers in our mission two years to reach the rim. I was on board Darius. It was the fourth Addelson United Nations vessel in the eighteen ship line. Jack Robins had designed the structure around my modified Ellis drive system. I gave you a book a while ago on the Ellis-Tanner Mark-One. That was the engine in Darius. But…that’s such a stupid distraction.
“In twenty-one-twelve we reached the rim, in one of the farthest systems out. Before we could start back we had to do repair work on the ships. Kennedy wasn’t too bad. Vee was on Kennedy, and the work there was minimal. She handled it with her crew. Darius was different. We’ll never know what happened to Darius, but when we reached the rim there was a portion of the hull above the main reactor that was damaged. It was an asteroid scar, or something. We had to go outside to work on it.”
He put his hand to his face and closed his eyes.
“My whole life, I was a better engineer than Mark. I won a Nobel Prize for the Transition Theories and Point of Entry Laws that govern the operation of the drive systems I designed; I won scholarships; I was employed by the best companies. Mark was always second. He was my older brother, but he was the one who had to listen to everyone say he was my brother. I went to Io for a lot of reasons, but maybe the most important was because I loved him. I couldn’t stand his always having to be second best. He didn’t deserve that. He was stronger than I was. He always was.
“Jack Robins, Mark and I went out to place shields over the exposed part of the reactor housings. The reactor had been shut down and vented, then the Darius was moved out of the gravitational field of the rim system we were in. It was sitting in void space outside the rim, the ship aligned to face the centre of the Galaxy. It was positioned so it blocked the glare, so we could work safely. Out there, with so little particle interference, the glare from the Galactic core is too much. The rear of the ship was facing the darkest part of the sky, where a dust cloud blocked everything except a single globular cluster. Space was pitch black…and cold. Even in the suits…it was so cold.” He shivered and continued speaking, his mind churning over the events of that EVA as if they were real again. His body was lax, hands resting on his thighs, eyes focused in the blank air before him. “We were almost finished and something happened. I don’t know what; some bastard said it was Marks’ fault…so many God damned stupid regulations. It didn’t matter…fault. There was an explosion, and I was turned around, facing away from the ship. I was…gliding away. My suit had punctured and the safety gel filled it to my collar. Out there, so far away, it’s so cold the gel solidified instantly. I couldn’t move at all. There was a scream, I remember. I heard it and started to suffocate. Fear. I couldn’t move and I was facing that darkness, and I couldn’t move. I was going away, and couldn’t move even to turn myself. I couldn’t see anything, except that one cold light from the globular cluster – and it was like it was watching me, waiting for me.”
His body trembled and he put his hands flat against his face.
“Mark,” he said, muffled. “Mark screamed. I felt it like it was me. I didn’t know, and I couldn’t– I couldn’t stop getting farther away, farther into that emptiness, into that darkness. I was helpless, and so afraid I couldn’t speak, even to ask Mark to talk to me. I couldn’t even say good-bye.
“Jack went back inside – he had to leave Marks’ body – and he made one of the lander pilots detach the lander used to get crew to and from Darius while she’s in orbit. He came after me, and he talked to me all the while I was floating away. I couldn’t see anything except that cold light, but Jack’s voice was there in my ears, and I remember how clear he sounded. He was so calm. I don’t know how Jack ever caught me. I was moving fast in space where gravity was minimal, and there wasn’t even particle friction to slow me down. I was moving hundreds of kilometres an hour when they caught up to me. I was facing away from the whole Universe, facing that cold light, for nineteen hours. All I had was Jack’s voice and that light. He was calling me back, and it was calling me toward it. The suit was crushing me, my air was running out, and there was just him and that darkness, fighting over me. He won the tug of war, but I always imagined it was only because he was closer. That light was a billion years away, and not really even there any more.”
He leaned on Elizabeth when she put her arm around his back, and he whispered the worst of his story. Nothing he said could make her understand the isolation of that darkness, or the cold he that distant glimmer of light had promised. He had no words to describe how insignificant he had been, a lone man floating out beyond the recognized limit of the Galactic rim. He barely found the words to tell the end of the story.
“I never came back from there. They got me, but I was empty. I was missing. All I knew was Jack’s voice. I was blind, and I didn’t know who I was, or where I was. They put me in hibernation in shock. I woke up back on earth, in the hospital, and that’s when I knew. I woke up and it was like suddenly coming alive after being dead. I asked where Mark was, and they said he was dead. I remembered him being alive before I was turned away, so as far as I knew he was there when I went to sleep. When I woke he was suddenly gone, like everything I remembered was a ghost. And then I asked where my father was. He was dead, too. He died while I was asleep all those years. I didn’t even imagine how much the world had changed until I woke up and everyone was gone. Mark was there, and then I woke up and he was dead. I spent all those years dreaming, and never knew, and when I finally woke, he was gone. It was already over, and there wasn’t anything I could do. And do you know what the news people said? They didn’t say Mark Richard Tanner had died in the line of duty. No one much knew that. They said Steven Martin Tanner, Lieutenant First Class, had suffered severe shock during au accident that had claimed the life of his brother Mark. And they said I was the first man to go beyond the rim into void space. I was the first – always; and he was the second, except he died first and I can’t help feel it should have been the other way around.”
Elizabeth had no idea what to say, or what to do. The concept of family was foreign to her. She could only rely on the emotions she felt for him. They told her he had lost someone precious to him, and if she was ever to lose him she knew she would feel the same pain and confusion.
“I don’t know what to do.”
She sounded helpless. He lifted his face, and their eyes met. He leaned close enough for them to exchange a gentle kiss. He whispered, “I don’t know either. Maybe I need you to forgive me, because I can’t forgive myself.”
She nodded and whispered she did, though she couldn’t understand of what he was guilty. She cared more about taking away his pain than understanding where it came from. She left her lips against his, a light touch, and closed her eyes against the hopelessness of their circumstances.
He kissed her again and put his arms around her. The pressure she responded with was reassuring and selfless. She was giving without asking for anything. That was what made her different than Viola. Between him and Viola everything was mutual. With Elizabeth, he was allowed to need her more than she needed him. When he wondered if it was because she was his possession, he realised it was more likely her reaction to him was because they possessed each other’s hearts.
He laid his forehead on her shoulder and said with sadness, “I’ve never let anything go. I can’t, because I don’t know how. Everyone I ever loved has died, except for Vee and Jack, and you. You have to promise me never to die. Never.”
“I don’t know if I can,” she whispered. “I will die some day. They said I would,”
“Then let me die first. Promise me that. Tell me I can die before anyone else does.”
“I don’t want you to die. You make me feel good.”
He pushed an arm’s length from her and smiled at her honesty. When he laughed, there was a bitter edge to it, though the bitterness wasn’t directed at her. It was directed at the rest of the world. He mused, “You’re hard to draw into making false promises no one can keep.”
“I can’t tell you untruths.”
He kissed her again, this time with a measure of greed.
“Tonight,” he whispered.
She understood; it was what she wanted. She put her hand over his. It had slid down from her shoulder onto her breast. With anticipation causing her to tremble, she moved her hand to the Velcro closures on her shirt and pulled them open. The touch of his hand against her ribs made her breath catch, and she closed her eyes as their lips met again. She felt a tingle through her entire body. This was what she wanted, and she wanted it to last forever.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
He pulled her shirt off her shoulders and down her arms, dropping it to the floor. She wore no undershirt, or bra. He lowered his hands to her breasts, and she leaned forward on him and initiated a kiss, cautiously pressing her tongue against his teeth. He put his arms around her back then, and rubbed his cheek against hers. It was apparent by how she moved that she was kneeling beside him on the bed, undoing her pants. In a moment he applied a slight pressure and she laid back, swivelling her legs so she was lying flat on her back. He massaged her from her shoulders to her hips and continued down to remove her pants. During that moment she remained idle, but when he pushed her pants off the bed she squirmed back to her knees and started to undo his belt, remembering every word of the book she had read so faithfully over the past month. When her hand found what she expected, she smiled and nuzzled his neck, silently obliging him once more by sliding onto her back. This time she stayed there, making  everything easy. She trusted him to correct the errors she was making.
The first instant brought a sharp gasp from her throat, then she was breathing with staccato rhythm, her mouth open and her head titled back. Her eyes were closed tight. She put her hands on his back and pinched his shoulder blades, leaving her hands there while it was happening. After a filial shudder passed between them, she found herself unable to remember anything about the book. Her hands went to his chest, where they stayed as he pulled her onto him. There, with sweat beading on her brow and back, her right leg between his, she rubbed her forehead against his shoulder. The heat and the pin-prick tingle where their skin touched was a sensation she wanted to feel forever. It was fifteen minutes before she found she could speak. The first and only words she could say where, “It felt nice.”
The word failed to do justice to the feeling, but she had nothing better to describe a sensation so alien. She had expected something unique, but nothing like what she had experienced. Her head was awash with images depicted in the book, all out of context, all without a sensible connection to the mixture of pain and pleasure that had overcome her.
Steven didn’t want to let her go, but realised he had to. He did slowly, continuing to hold her hand when he whispered, “Are you all right?”
She knew he was referring to her bleeding; she suspected she might be. She smiled and nodded, feeling no panic. What little blood there was she had expected, if it was blood at all.
“Maybe you better go clean up a little.”
She was loath to break contact with him, but she acquiesced to his suggestion. It took her several minutes before she rose and left, and several more before she returned to find him outside her door. She thought it was over, and a twinge of shame hit her. It was washed away when he picked her up, carrying her to the main bedroom. After he laid her down, he kissed her and said, “No one but you and I can ever know about this. I love you.”
She put her arms around his neck and hugged him, unable to release him. When he lay down beside her, she turned and held on, content to imagine herself melting into him. It was a feeling she shared with him silently. For Steven, for those moments at least, she deadened the pain of all his memories. Viola was right, and he thought he ought to admit it to her. He was afraid of the future, because he didn’t know what it held. But he was in love with Elizabeth, regardless of the reasons behind it, and nothing could change that. Even the worst of his past couldn’t change the way he felt.

November 25th, 2117
The Promise
Steven kissed Elizabeth good morning and sat opposite her, raising his eyebrows at the breakfast she had prepared. He wondered, “I’m supposed to eat all this?”
“Yes, sir”
He smiled and mused, “Since you’ve been doing the cooking my appetite’s improved, but not quite this much. I’ll see what I can manage, but next time you go all out on one of these productions I think a serving half this size might do me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Outwardly she showed no emotion, but she might just as well have been smiling at him. For months they had started their day with the same routine. She cooked their breakfast and he grinned throughout the meal, amused by how formal she was practising to be. Calling him sir was a habit he encouraged everywhere, except when they were in bed together. It was a habit formed in response to a day in September when she had called him by his name six times. Tracey York and Viola were the only people around when she made the mistake, and neither of them found her familiarity with him offensive, but it had highlighted a habit they both knew could lead to trouble.
September was the same month she had passed a physical examination she should have failed. Doctor Jefferies had given her a perfect report – with no changes at all – and had then given her a bottle of prescription pills to avoid her getting pregnant. Her instructions, as Elizabeth had repeated verbatim, were, ‘Take one of these every month, just after you menstruate.’
She later learned through Steven that though Angus and Jefferies were willing to take risks, they were unwilling to risk a pregnancy; not even their imaginations could conceive an explanation of a pregnancy. When he explained to her what they were trying to avoid, she ritually complied with Jefferies order, taking the pills as instructed. So far it had done an admirable job of keeping all four of them out of trouble.
And she had done her job admirably, and by everyone’s estimation – everyone he trusted – she was second only to him when it came to knowledge about the ship’s systems. The construction of the drive system was completed in record time with her assistance, but for a few polish jobs. Viola was in charge of finishing those remaining jobs, much to Reed McCulloum’s distress; Jack was completing the structural work; and Steven was overseeing the installation of the computer components under the direction of one of Angus’ science team, a soft spoken mathematician named Robert Ryan Heafs. That had left only one person Steven trusted enough to put on the bridge systems with Tracey York. He hadn’t hesitated giving the responsibility to Elizabeth and she was doing an impressive job there.
“Yesterday we finished the navigator’s section.”
He drank a mouthful of orange juice and said, “I saw it on my way down from the top. Tracey says you’re one Hell of an engineer. I had to drag it out of her, but she has a high opinion of your work.”
“So does Miss Ladd.”
“That’s because you follow every rule there is, and you’re the only person who doesn’t glare at her when she’s around.”
“She’s very nice. She had lunch with us yesterday.”
Steven was slightly surprised to find Elizabeth had such a charitable attitude toward Ladd. Of the people she was most in contact with, only Jack showed any respect for Ladd’s by-the-book stance. Steven had a feeling he had just stumbled across an opinion Elizabeth had finally formed as her own. He had been called away at noon to meet with Forte and Bartlett, to advise them of a date when the crew could enter the bridge and start running station to station systems tests. He wondered, “What did you and Miss Ladd talk about at lunch yesterday?”
Elizabeth was aching to tell him about the lunch with Ladd. It was the same every time something happened to her that he wasn’t a direct part of. She had to tell him, trying subconsciously to impress upon him how well adjusted she had become. It was his guidance and attention that made her comfortable, and she felt it was her duty to prove how valuably he spent his time with her.
“We talked about you, first. She was wondering if you were feeling better since you started seeing Doctor Small.”
“Curious if I’m about to crack again, I guess.”
He was shocked to silence when she did something she had never done before, even in their most intimate moments. She issued the gentle reproof, “Miss Ladd worries about you. She’s trying to be nice.”
He knew it was true, but it wasn’t until she faced him with the fact he really accepted it. Ladd’s reports had become more positive and less strict; and since he had let her back onto the ship without written permission she had begun to write polite notes about procedure, asking questions before she suggested policy solutions. Ladd had also managed polite, if strained conversations with Viola and Jack. Though she hadn’t spoken to him since their angry exchange in Angus’ office, she had started to nod hello when they passed each other. But those moments were infrequent, because she had actively avoided him since her return to on-site duty supervision.
He was dragged from his thoughts by another gentle, unintentional reproof.
“She’s afraid to talk to you because she thinks you dislike her. She didn’t say that exactly, but she is.”
Again, she was correct. The last words they exchanged face to face had been six months ago in Angus’ office. Everything since had been written in proper, concise technical jargon, avoiding personalities completely. He snorted, “You just spoiled my day, Elizabeth. Now I feel guilty, and I don’t even much like Ladd.”
“She likes you.”
“She has a funny way of showing it.”
Elizabeth was picking at her food. Directly, lacking the same tact he lacked, she said, “You must like her.”
The “Why?” slipped past his lips before he could stop it. He knew the answer, but having asked he knew she would tell him.
“You liked it when I pretended to be her.”
He blushed, smiled and mused, “I deserve that. I should never have asked you to do that.”
“It was good.”
In Elizabeth’s relative scaling of events, good was slightly more potent an emotion than nice.
“Just because it felt good doesn’t mean it was. I felt bad about that for five days. I still don’t know why you weren’t mad at me. Most women would cripple a man for asking them to pretend they were someone else.”
Elizabeth swallowed a mouthful of scrambled eggs before she reasoned, “My book says fantasising is healthy. Besides that, you forgot we were playing right away. You knew I was me.”
She was right again. He had forgotten who she was pretending to be almost before she started playing. Despite the general physical similarities, and Elizabeth’s uncanny ability to mimic, it was impossible for him to suspend his knowledge. Elizabeth was too willing to please in and out of bed. It would have been easier to pretend if she was more mechanical, like he once imagined BIOTs would be. Going by that past impression, Ladd had the ideal attitude and bearing to be a BIOT. Elizabeth had to struggle to act like one, especially now.
“If you tell Ladd I asked you to pretend you were her, she’ll put me on the disabled list.”
“No, sir; she would blush and find it harder to see you than she presently does. She asked me if I told you about her tattoo. I said I didn’t. She feels very bad everyone knows she has it. You shouldn’t have signed that memo, To Strawberry.”
He sighed, feeling juvenile and admonished. Angry, with a belief Ladd had turned down a request for leave made by Jack Robins, he had fired off a snotty letter to her addressed as Elizabeth said, signed with the line: Affectionately, the Engineering Crew. He had been pleased with himself until Forte spoke to Jack and revealed the leave request had been signed at all levels, but that the Committee had turned it down on review. Those facts had been confirmed a day later by Angus, who came to the ship to apologise to Jack for the pig-headed attitude the review board displayed. His pleasure had been damped considerably by the revelation Craig had no part in denying Jack’s leave, except that she had the unpleasant task of relaying the Committee’s decision. The only salvation was the memo had obviously gone no further than Ladd. No mention had been made of it in any report, and Forte hadn’t pounced on him recently.
“You can tell her not everyone knows,” he concluded.
“I think you should tell her you’re sorry.”
Steven smiled. He asked, “What else should I do to make up for picking on her all the time, Elizabeth?”
“Ask her to come to dinner when Mister Robins and Miss Parini come.”
“That’s generous of me, but don’t you think it’s a little nasty considering no one who’ll be here really likes her?”
“I like her.”
“Apparently you do, but Vee hates her so passionately being civil takes effort; and Jack isn’t really fond of her either.”
“Then ask her for dinner tonight.”
He laughed and suggested, “How about you ask her, since I get the impression she’ll be your guest?”
“Because I can’t; I’m a BIOT.”
He stopped smiling a second, then forced the good-natured grin back onto his lips. He hated to be reminded of the stupidity of the Universe. He said, “If I were shown you and Craig Ladd for one day, I would have you two pegged the other way. She acts more like what people expect from a BIOT than you do.”
“She’s nice.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that.”
“Please invite her.”
He set his fork aside and smiled helplessly, surrendering with a nod: “I’ll ask her, if I see her today.”
“She’s coming to the bridge at lunch so I can show her the Duty Console.”
“Oh, she is, is she?”
“Yes…sir.”
“And who am I supposed to eat lunch with?”
“I’ll just be late; I think you might survive,” she decided tartly, smirking.
He leaned across the table and kissed her. As he sat back, he joked, “I better eat all this, or I’ll never make it past what sounds to be an empty lunch.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise, I’ll ask one of the most irritating people I know if she’ll come to dinner, even if I don’t think she’ll say yes.”
“She will.”
“You sound confident.”
“I told her you were going to ask her to come to dinner because you felt bad about not getting along better with her.”
He chuckled softly and nodded to himself, observing, “Of course, first you made certain I realised I did feel bad. I think you’re starting to manipulate me.”
Elizabeth’s shy smile appeared and disappeared in a moment. Her eyes glittered, and she said with pleasure, “Yes, sir.”
The Invitation
“I think it’s funny,” Viola said, smiling at him from behind the mesh that would serve as one of the engine room floors when it was lowered and bolted in place. “Between her and the shrink you’re a much nicer person than you have been for years. You’re so pleasant, in fact, I’ve been thinking of molesting you. I think if I had to fight with her to get my hands on your goodies, I’d win.” Steven slid his fingers through the mesh and Viola playfully popped a wrench off the wire above his knuckles. “It won’t be so bad,” she encouraged. “Ladd’s changed. She’s less nervous about fucking up. She doesn’t complain about little bullshit procedures anymore, and when she sees something wrong she always asks before she bitches. If everyone didn’t hate her so much already, she might actually have some friends.”
“She must have a few.”
“Think again, Steven. No one on the five stations within shuttle distance can stand her, except Forte and Angus. I hear even Bartlett doesn’t like her.”
“Clay doesn’t mind her; he just doesn’t like the way she runs around doing everything. It leaves him nothing to do. He’s not used to being an Executive Staff Officer. I think he preferred working Duty and Services.”
Viola stuffed the hem of her shirt back into her belt and decided, “He should have been an engineer. He spent five hours down here with us yesterday, then went topside and helped Jack’s crew attach the TCB brackets and frames. He knows his way around a ship.”
“That’s what comes from travelling on those original scows they had, before these new engines that go twice the distance in half the time. I heard Clay telling Reed he’d spent nearly twenty years in hibernation, all totalled. He’s got to be one of the longest duty-active spacers there ever was.”
“Fifth, or sixth, in the line for that honour,” Viola clarified. “I asked.”
“Yeah, I believe it. He’s old style, for sure. Honest about it, too. Almost every book I’ve read about the old days has a romantic feel. I heard one of the recruits from the Ellis Structural Corporation ask him what it was really like.”
She provided, “Like drinking piss for breakfast, shitting nails, and freezing your balls off every waking moment. They were flying coffins.”
“I guess his stories get around.”
Viola nodded, recovering another wrench.
Steven rubbed at a fleck of something in his eye and changed the topic, asking, “How’s it going down here, anyway?”
“We’ll be done inside six days. Jack says ten for him, then we can start closing off the casings and finishing the work in the main decks.”
“I figure ten days on the polish,” Steven judged. “We’ll never get it done by Christmas.”
“We’ve known that for a while. Don’t let it get you down. If a certain fresh-faced little girl hadn’t acted like your clone during the engine plant insertions we’d be even farther behind. Those changes with the wings killed us for time, plain and simple.”
Steven shrugged and told her, “It doesn’t bother me. We kept it as close to the schedule as we could. We’ll have it done by the fourth of January. They’ll have to give us fourteen days to do the full routine tests, and we can launch on the nineteenth or thirtieth, or any time after if they don’t like the January dates.”
She smiled.
“Something to say, Vee?”
“Your head’s on straight, Steven. It’s good to see you this way.”
He sighed and cautioned, “I might make up for today’s mood after dining with the ice-bitch-from-hell tonight.”
“Call her that and you deserve to suffer. Give her about a dick’s length of line to manoeuvre.”
“Which in your case,” Reed McCulloum said, entering with an armload of breakers, “is about two femtometres.”
Vee stifled her smile and said in a serious tone, “Hey, Reed, I wouldn’t let it be known you can drum up envy for a femtometre.”
“You, Miss Muscles, can blow me away.”
“I hear an electron jumping into higher orbit can blow you away.”
Reed paused, turned, and clutched the crotch of his pants, balancing the fuses in the crook of one arm. “It’s here any time you need it, Muscles.”
Viola smiled wryly and fired back, “If I need a toothpick I’ll keep you in mind.”
Reed laughed and went back to work. He whistled a verse of something and his Texas twang sounded from beyond the exit he took. After the whistle, he called back, “The hose will cool you down! Oh, yeah!”
Steven waited till Viola turned back to him before he observed, “You have a crush on him.”
She shrugged and said, “No, but he’s all right. He’s an asshole, and acts like it, but he’s okay.”
“What’s that I hear!?” Reed hollered from beyond the partition.
“I said, I know we don’t ever have to worry about your eating an asshole because you’re not a cannibal!”
Reed’s laugh echoed to them, fading as he went down the hall inserting solid state breakers into the junction boxes.
Viola looked at Steven and threatened, “Not a word.”
He leaned against the mesh and sighed, “Just like in grade school.”
“Yeah, surrounded by pricks.”
“A wise man once observed something about your use of that word.”
She hit the mesh with her wrench and smiled at him.
He replied with a wink and left her to her work, heading toward the main access stack. Along the way he passed a few technicians who were putting covers down and placing tubes in the light recesses. He responded to each greeting and nod with a smile, or nod. At the ladder he started his climb up through C-Deck onto B-Deck. The power to the lift that surrounded the ladder wasn’t yet activated, but there was virtually no gravity in the main stack. The absence of gravity, real or artificial, made climbing the most efficient mode of travel, regardless of the condition of the freight lift. On B-Deck almost all the finishing work was done. To either side of the main junction, open bulkhead doors led to their crew quarters. Aft was the ready room, which doubled as their recreational area and mess hall. Forward, an incline plane led along a cramped passage to the bridge.
He entered the bridge and found himself immediately behind Craig Ladd. She was sitting in her Duty station, which was located at the middle of the bridge behind the command console. From it she had a view of most of the bridge stations, excluding two of the three seats at the science station, two of the three seats in the tactical crew module, and the two spare seats stationed to either side of the entrance.
The phased-crystal port above the bridge was presently polarised, and the floods of the dry dock ceiling were dim blotches beyond its inky surface. When they neared the core the multitude of stars there would make that polarised portal necessary, and it was designed to operate in reverse phase to the application of power. When the engines started providing internal power a current could go through the crystal and the vibrations would make it as clear as fine lead crystal. Until then, it would be black and its shadows would inhabit the bridge.
Tracey York was sitting at the Communications console, eating her lunch out of a brown paper bag. Elizabeth was beside Ladd, showing her the different order of the overrides.
“If everyone who worked for me ate lunch the way you two do, I wouldn’t be so far behind schedule.”
Tracey’s cheeks turned scarlet, and she turned slightly to hide them. Elizabeth looked up and came to attention. Craig turned in her chair and said cautiously, “Your assistant was showing me my station.”
“She told me she planned to.”
He approached with his hands lodged in his jacket pockets, and tried not to look at Ladd while he asked, “If you’re not otherwise occupied tonight, to smooth things over and have a chance to talk over our differences, I thought I might ask you to dinner at my quarters.”
It felt like he had pulled his own teeth with an hydraulic jack, and sounded much the same. Craig was just as strained when she responded with, “I think in the interest of a common understanding, I might accept.”
It had to be might. She was afraid to risk saying do, stinging still from his reference to her tattoo, uncertain his offer wasn’t just a method of making her vulnerable to a sudden spiteful change of mind.
He nodded brusquely, turned to go, and said, “Nineteen-hundred hours then. I’ll be at my table when you’re done, Miss.”
Addressing Elizabeth as BIOT was impossible. Avoiding the term seemed not to offend Craig, but to avoid generating any conflict he left without further words to anyone.
The Flowers
“Afternoon, Angus.”
Angus stopped and glanced to the upper edge of the open A-Deck lander doors. Steven was above, a rivet sealer in either hand, various sundry tools hanging on his belt.
“How is my chief engineer this afternoon?”
Steven handed the tools to one of his technicians and stepped off the edge of the open doors. The partial gravity brought him down to the deck slowly. His touchdown was so gentle he barely felt it. Once his feet where on the deck plates, he casually flipped the toggle woven into his belt. The response pads on the bottom of his boots took firm hold. He wondered, “How’s my nemesis?”
“She seemed to be doing fine when I was below.” Angus grinned fiercely, aware he had turned Steven’s accusation around. He had been attending the engineer’s day-to-day routine since early September, tracking the progress Elizabeth was making by his observations and through his consultation with Doctor Small. “So, Stevie, how’s your day been going?”
Steven undid his tool belt and slung it over his shoulder. Even in the limited gravity inside the dry dock the belt felt heavy after four hours. He decided, “I’ll tell you, Angus: The morning went well, but the afternoon’s gone to Hell.”
“Poetic.”
“I can afford to be. I’m practising for dinner this evening.”
“Yes, I heard. She seemed very happy, though she wouldn’t say much. I doubt little Eliza could offend young Miss York, but she’s quite careful.”
Steven led down the forward access corridor toward the ladder that went below to the main stack, the name they had long used to describe the central access junction of the ship.
“You’ll be doubly happy to know you finally got your wish. I was manipulated at breakfast this morning, and the result is my asking one of the few people in the Universe I dislike to come for dinner. She’s formed her first opinion that goes against my grain.”
“From my vantage, from an objective view, I would hazard to say she has the same opinion as you.”
“You’ve obviously missed some of the good bits, Angus. She’ s convinced Craig Ladd’s a wonderful human being.”
Angus followed him forward onto the bridge, saying, “Odd you should claim that. And here I had assumed it was you sending miss Ladd the flowers.”
Steven stopped walking and turned. Angus nearly walked into him. Steven was obviously looking for some signal Angus was joking, and the expression that met his search was surprise. His face instantly reflected the old scientist’s. He snorted, “She’s getting flowers?”
Angus withheld judgement for a moment and stated the fact, “Yes, she did, today at lunch. They were delivered to the officer’s mess. She got them when she returned at twelve-thirty for her lunch.”
“I’ll be damned,” Steven muttered. “I wonder who it was.”
Angus smiled slightly and a bemused expression flashed. Steven raised his hands in mock surrender and said, “I swear…I had nothing to do with it. I’m not even civil most days. Why time Hell did you think it was me, anyway?”
“Because they came from here. I became a scientist because I’m curious by nature; and I’m also possessed of a nosy personality.”
“Really? You?” Steven said with a chuckle.
“I thought I disguised it well. Anyhow, my friend, I checked the source of the order and found it came from here, yesterday at noon. It was sent on your frequency, so I naturally assumed the best.”
Steven pressed his tongue into his cheek and turned his head slightly, thinking. Frown spreading, he turned away and went onto the bridge. He was calm and direct, approaching where Elizabeth and Tracey were kneeling at Viola’s console, placing fuses. He slapped Elizabeth on the backside and she jumped. Tracey, attentive of her partner, put a hand on Elizabeth’s head and prevented her from cracking it on the raised edge of the console.
“Excuse us a moment, Spanner.”
Tracey removed her hand from Elizabeth’s head and put her things on the chair, crossing the bridge to screw down sonic panels they were done with.
“Did I send some flowers yesterday?” he whispered by Elizabeth’s cheek, tone falsely pleasant.
Elizabeth’s face was crimson. She nodded briskly, just once, and swallowed.
“And why did I do that?”
She shrugged.
“It’s not quite that easy, little miss…. What got into your head, sending flowers to Ladd?”
“It’s her birthday,” Elizabeth peeped. She felt foolish and guilty. Twice she had tried to find the courage to tell him what she had done, but both times interruptions had saved her the revelation.
Steven sighed and his forced smile faded. He sat on the floor beside her and rested his elbow on Viola’s chair. Gazing into Elizabeth’s face took away his irritation, but he still felt uncomfortable. His temper failed when she glanced at him before bowing her eyes again. He sighed and smiled, admitting, “It was thoughtful of you, but don’t ever do it again. Never. Birthday’s are supposed to be celebrated with friends and family, by friends and family.”
“But she hasn’t any friends.”
Her point was unarguable. If Craig Ladd died, hardly anyone would care or notice, except perhaps long enough to voice relief. The certainty of that made him feel he owed Elizabeth another apology. The flowers had likely been the highlight of Ladd’s miserable life, and it was a harmless gesture of goodwill to have her over to dinner. She beat him to the apology forming on his tongue.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Her use of proper address didn’t escape his notice. It was her gentle way of scolding him, even while apologising, because they both knew she shouldn’t have to. He squeezed her shoulder and sighed, “Forget it; maybe it’s not such a bad idea. How did you know it was her birthday?”
Elizabeth’s eyes bobbed to Angus, then returned to Steven. He raised a hand and gestured Angus nearer. The old scientist squatted beside them and grimaced when his knees made cracking sounds. He smiled and wondered, “Have I contributed to the delinquency of a minor?”
Angus had guessed all by now. It confirmed for him Elizabeth was the most unusual BIOT he had ever known, and suggested to him she knew an independence that few enjoyed.
“How did the subject of Ladd’s birthday arise in conversation, Angus?”
Angus grinned and glanced at Elizabeth. She admitted, softly, “I asked questions.”
“Questions is a plural,” Steven noted. “You asked several?”
“A few.”
“Few is imprecise. How many does a few make?”
“Lots.”
“That’s prob’ly closer to the truth, but it’s still imprecise. Exactly how many questions did you ask?”
“Twelve, I think.”
“Apparently,” Angus interjected, “you think more than Stevie credits you.”
Steven said honestly, “No, Angus, she thinks just about as much as I expect. What kind of questions were you asking?”
“Just questions.”
He sighed and impressed Angus with his diplomacy, whispering kindly, “Elizabeth, I’m not angry at you, I’m just a little surprised you would pry into Ladd’s private life.”
“You said to.”
He was taken aback by her response. He sat dumbfounded while she rushed headlong into an explanation, her voice a respectable whisper. Angus’ Cheshire cat grin grew steadily as she spoke.
“You said if I was going to pretend to be her I would need to know about her. I didn’t know what to ask at first, but when Miss Ladd started to visit us I thought of some questions, so I asked Mister Shepherd and I found out her birthday was today.”
Steven was embarrassed by her innocent admission and wanted to crawl into the nearest vent. He tried and failed to force a smile.
“I’m sorry, but I like Miss Ladd…. She treats me nice.”
Angus patted Elizabeth’s shoulder and winked at her. He advised, “You teach him a lesson, lassie. I would love to enjoy this, but I think I best be letting you two alone.”
Steven waited until Angus had gone before he whispered sharply, “Don’t ever, ever talk to anyone else about what we do in…private.”
She was nearing tears, and his tone of voice did nothing to prevent them. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Elizabeth, don’t cry. I’m not angry with you, it’s just that you get carried away at times. Now, come on, please don’t cry. Look, there’s no need for you to apologise, either. I told you what you did is all right with me. I’m only surprised, is all.”
“I didn’t mean to make you mad.”
He guessed she was judging the crimson shade of his face and the tone of his voice, and he wanted to explain, but Tracey’s presence across the bridge made both explanations and consolations impracticable. He tried, “I wasn’t mad, I was embarrassed. Sometimes those two emotions look pretty much the same, but there is a difference.”
She was crying now, her shoulders trembling and her hands to her face. He saw Tracey turn and rubbed his chin, reaching for an explanation. By the time Tracey was within a yard, he still lacked a sensible statement.
“Is she all right?”
Tracey’s question put him at ease. Her tone was noncommittal, but it was clear she was prepared to defend Elizabeth. Realising that brought an unintentional and uncomfortable smile to his lips.
“She thinks I’m mad at her. Sometimes when she gets wound up she gets a little sensitive.”
Tracey now appeared uncomfortable. She had returned to Elizabeth on impulse and now had no idea what to say, or do. In all the time she had worked with Elizabeth they had said no more to each other than what was absolutely necessary, so talking directly to her was awkward. It was doubly awkward because she was incapable of being critical of Steven. Her affection for him was unrealised by most, she thought, but she was too aware of it not to have it censor her. Though she was lost, some sort of statement seemed necessary, so she offered, “It helps sometimes. It helps to cry, I mean.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Steven agreed.
Tracey drew an uneven breath and said, “It’s quitting time. We’ll be late getting to the showers.”
Elizabeth had recovered and was gathering her tools. Steven waited a moment before he lent a hand to them. It was fully five minutes before he said, “Spanner.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You realize this – what happened just now – you realize how awkward it might sound if repeated.”
“Yes, sir.”
He knew she understood. His smile was natural again when he glanced at Elizabeth and confirmed, “I am sorry. I wasn’t mad at you. You embarrassed me is all. I shouldn’t have raised my voice to you. I did, and I apologise for that.”
“Yes, sir,” Elizabeth said softly.
Tracey started to turn and leave them, feeling like an intruder. Steven stopped her with the question, “Do you mind me calling you Spanner? I realize I usually do, and it’s likely too near a habit to stop. I don’t mean it to be derogatory. I hope you don’t take it that way.”
Tracey broke past her reservations, rationalising the transgresses by the fact she was now officially off duty. She told him, “I don’t mind at all, sir. Thank you for recommending me.”
She was speaking with uncomfortable, unintentional staccato delivery, almost stuttering. Steven rescued her with the compliment, “You’re a good Line Engineer, Spanner. When you get to know the rest of us a little better, you’ll find out how good you really are. I put you here because I thought you would understand why you’re each double-checking the other’ s work. You might have noticed that some of our people are slightly arrogant. Not me of course.” He grinned. “I hope you understand.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can be formal if you like, but I prefer my name.”
He glanced at Elizabeth and saw she was recovering well from her recent emotional moment. She appeared pleased he was taking time to make Tracey feel more comfortable. Tracey followed his gaze and ignored conventions, telling Elizabeth directly, “We could talk some time, if you like. We’re mostly alone up here, and I don’t mind talking. I’m sort of shy with new people, too.”
Steven chuckled and warned, “You’ll get her crying again. When she’s on a roll, she cries whether she’s happy or sad. By the way, Spanner, she’s got a name. It’s illegal, so posting it’s unwise, but her name’s–”
“My name’s Elizabeth.”
Tracey nodded and glanced at her watch, still extremely uncomfortable and painfully shy. She said, “I kind of knew that. Elizabeth, we better go.”
Steven said goodnight and paused on the bridge for a quiet moment of reflection. Soon the ship around him would be his entire world, surrounded by an enormous, mostly dark Universe. He was that far into his though when Forte entered the bridge with the words, “You’re just the man I’m looking for.”
“Ought I to be worried about that?”
“Not this time. I’m not generous with compliments, but you might deserve one. I was just on the verge of coming aboard to kick your ass, but I think you’ve made that unnecessary.” He guessed what she was referring to, but waited for her to say it. “I’m actually here to find out whether you’re up to something unpleasant.” He shrugged. “You know what I’m talking about, Tanner. On the topic, the flowers were damn expensive looking, so if I see it on your department invoices I’m shipping it back to you with a cyanide capsule. That would be too much for her, having to disallow an expenditure for her own flowers.”
He thought about that a moment before determining Elizabeth would never have got by the voice identification algorithms required to access the department account. To his best knowledge she had never even seen the code. The only code he had ever given her was to his general credit line, which required only her voice pattern to recognise her as a user. It had been necessary since the trip to Las Vegas, where she had often been required to order room service, and, strangely, it appeared banks had less an attitude about BIOTs than scientists.
“It came out of my pocket,” he confirmed.
Forte placed her hands on her hips and her sense of humour broke her calm expression. She asked, “Are you hunting after a threesome?”
Steven frowned at her askance. In late October she had got no response ringing at his door and had come in since it was unlocked. What she found was hardly obscene behaviour, but Elizabeth’s presence in his bed, stark naked, had given Forte a clear understanding of what she would have seen had she intruded an hour earlier. He had been shocked awake by her voice. She had knelt by the edge of his bed and whispered into his ear, ‘They want you at the operations room right now, so if you can extricate yourself from your teddy bear here, I’ll wait for you outside.’ Forte had seen enough that evening to Court Marshall him, but she had left the issue alone. She had no time for nonsense. Her only comment was on the way to the operations room that night: ‘Certain less-than-generous crew members are displeased having a BIOT on board when we launch. Be discreet, and lock your door. That is why they put locks on them.’
He returned to the present at the sound of her voice asking, “What inspired you to bury the hatchet?”
“A friend.”
“An artificial one?”
Steven considered that and commented, “There’s nothing artificial about the friendship, or the friend.”
Forte was serious again, as remote as ever. She placed a hand on a loose panel absently and said, “Good. I feel better having defended Angus’ decision to bring a second one.”
“A second one?”
“A second BIOT; for the science group, to be woken from deep sleep only in the case Angus requires assistance. I defended the decision on the basis most of the crew is included only in the case of circumstances, and because your department presently has more members than the science crew. Funny that, despite the fact this is an exploratory mission.” She returned her attention to him. “But that’s not why I came here. You’ll read all that in the next general mission progress report. I came here to ask why you decided to make peace with Craig Ladd.”
He freed himself from having to lie by tapping his watch. He observed, “Given the time, unless I forgo an answer to that interesting question and get to my quarters, dinner will be leftovers from breakfast. Excuse me.”
Forte gestured he could go. Before he was away, she said, “If you pull this off, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“That, Captain, is a deal.”
The Accusation
“She’s here!”
Steven straightened his collar and smiled. The mirror was a perfect way to look at Elizabeth without embarrassing her. She was dressed in plain clothes, but managed to make the outfit sparkle by virtue of her excitement. He had never seen her so nervous, or so excited. Usually, she hid her excitement by bowing her face and turning away. Unaware of the mirror, he could see her expression clearly. It was a pleasant feeling to recognise how she felt to be receiving her first company. He suggested, with a touch of affectionate taunt, “If you let her in, we may get this evening off to the correct start. Otherwise, I think she’ll be less receptive to my acting civil.”
“You let her in.”
“Why?”
‘Because.”
He turned and mused, “You sound more human every day. You used to be so damned perfect when it came to social graces. Now you worry about everything as much as the rest of us.”
“I look plain.”
“Are you accusing me of having bad taste ? Let her in.”
She hovered, so he took her hand and led her to the door. Stopping there,  kissed her cheek and jogged his eyes. She shook her head briskly, which by all measures was the most ridiculous thing to do given they were both within reaching distance of the control pad of the door.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered. He released her hand and slapped the pad on the door. As it slid aside, the first glimpse he had of Ladd almost made him smile more than he already was. She was wearing a dress uniform and looked out of place compared to his casual shirt and pants, and Elizabeth’s unadorned outfit. He couldn’t help but think Ladd looked like a fifteen year old virgin waiting nervously for her first date.
“Come in, Commander Ladd.”
She did, her mouth moving slightly without making any sound. She was obviously crippled, incapable of acting socially in any capacity except an official one. Steven felt sorry for her. Her appearance and bearing made it so utterly obvious she was hopeless he was embarrassed for her. She nodded hello to Elizabeth and stood uncomfortably just inside the door. Steven slapped the pad to close the it, stifling a remark it would pinch her ass if she didn’t wiggle in a bit further, and said instead, “Grab a chair. I got home late, so we’ll be eating a little late.”
Craig sat on the couch like she was awaiting the announcement of a death sentence. Steven couldn’t resist hopping over the back of the couch to land beside her with a satisfied gasp. He declared, “Feels good to sit.”
Elizabeth took residence in the easy chair, and he studied her a moment, reading in her expression that she expected him to provide a catalyst for conversation. Craig Ladd was apparently new at being company, and Elizabeth was entirely unused to having company. Steven was in too good a mood to let himself miss a moment of satisfaction. Since parting with Forte he had found out about the flowers and the card. He had also discovered everything about Ladd that Elizabeth knew.
“Feel free to take off your jacket,” he suggested, “this isn’t a formal affair.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Would you like a drink?”
“I don’t drink, thank you.”
He reclined and concentrated on her profile, then fired the question, “So, how come you have a strawberry tattoo?”
Ladd’ s face flushed. She glanced at him, her eyes suspicious. Her voice was tight: “How did you find out I have a tattoo?”
“A bird told me.”
He suspected he was enjoying himself too much, and suspected he had already lost the dinner Forte had promised if he successfully made peace with Craig. A glance past Craig’s nervous face made him aware his blunt question had disappointed Elizabeth. He ignored her a moment and said, “If you were a little less tense, if you smiled once in a while, you’d be getting more flowers. And that tattoo thing is cute. My letter was uncalled for, and I owe an apology for it, but the whole tattoo thing is still cute.”
“I don’t think it is, Mister Tanner.”
Ladd was near leaving and he recognized it, but he forged ahead. It was easier than going back, and he had an inkling she probably knew enough of his personality to have taken a retreat as more an insult than otherwise. He said, “Well, happy birthday, anyway. If you lightened up a little, and learned to laugh at yourself then we wouldn’t be the only people wishing you well. Lately, since I let you back on the ship, you’ve been a damn good Duty Officer.” The compliment was effective. It placated her a moment, and allowed him to say, “For the sake of honesty, I wasn’t the one who sent you the flowers.”
Craig blushed instantly and tore her eyes from his face to hide them. She tried to stifle her embarrassment with a swallow, but it failed to have the desired effect. He found himself feeling for her, wondering how someone ended up as socially awkward as she was. For all his emotional volatility, he had never suffered so severely as company.
“Those were my friend’s idea. I never would have known it was your birthday except she found out.”
“How?”
“She asked and someone had the goodwill to tell her.”
“Is my entire file on display?” Craig asked, her soft voice quavering.
It was clear the idea hurt her. Steven heard the ache, but continued his assault, deciding it was better to force her to anger and make her comfortable than it was to drive her deeper into her shell. He said, “I don’t know about that, but I think you should be flattered she cared enough to ask. I don’t know, maybe you think BIOTs are just machines, but if you don’t then you might be flattered to know you’re the first person she’s ever sent a birthday present to.”
Craig seemed uncertain how to respond, but he had judged correctly she was incapable of lashing out at Elizabeth. She might dislike him, but Elizabeth was in a way an ideal for Craig; Elizabeth could follow regulations without even trying.
“She thought it would be nice to have you come over for dinner on your birthday, and thought it would be nice if someone sent you a present. Obviously you’ve made a good impression on her. Try it with a few more people and I’d guess you’d be a lot more comfortable around us.”
There was a moment of silence before she looked at Elizabeth. Her voice was a barely audible whisper, but she was sincere.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Elizabeth whispered.
Steven smiled and winked at Elizabeth. He said, “I guess maybe you’re quiet around me because I’m such an arrogant bastard. You two can keep the conversation going about my negative personality traits while I see what s happening in the kitchen.
He heard his name whispered by Elizabeth, a pleas to stay he guessed, and glanced at Craig to determine her reaction. None seemed forthcoming. When he eventually returned, he saw Craig was leaning close to Elizabeth, talking in a whisper. Elizabeth looked disturbed and was shaking her head consistently. Something told him what was happening, that Craig must be asking awkward questions about her behaviour, and he cleared his throat before interrupting with the statement, “I get the impression you two are talking business.”
Craig straightened and they held each other’s eyes a moment before she asked, “Have you been abusing her?”
He was taken off guard. His smile disappeared. “Abusing?” He set the platter on the edge of the table and looked from Craig to Elizabeth. Elizabeth was nearing tears, her eyes pleading that he remain calm. He repressed his anger for her alone and asked in a tightening tone, “Abusing her in what way, exactly?”
“Any way, Mister Tanner,” Craig said, her stammer trying hard to be professional.
He was barely able to believe the conversation was happening. Given a chance to smooth their troubles, Ladd was foolishly on the verge of destroying the goodwill Elizabeth had found in him. He flinched, and said, “Ask the actual question and I’ll answer it.”
“Have you raped her?”
He pulled out one of the dining room table chairs and sat, his face overcome by an expression of sad disbelief. Strangely, he didn’t feel much anger, though he did feel like he had been punched in the gut. Forlornly, with a deep sigh, he muttered, “Jesus Christ, Ladd, what the fuck is it with you?”
“You haven’t any right to abuse her. It doesn’t matter whether she’s a BIOT, or not. She doesn’t belong to you, and wasn’t given to you for your…to be abused.”
He shook his head and stared at the floor, undertaking a trick his father had taught him. Silence and thought often prevented a regrettable rage. It was the first time the ploy actually worked for him, and he knew it was because Elizabeth needed him to be strong. Tone cold, but eschewing any indication of the deep personal offence he felt, he said, “Elizabeth, answer her questions. I know I told you our private life is supposed to be between us, but this is an exception. Answer her.”
Elizabeth was relieved. She gasped, “Steven never hurt me! I asked him!”
Craig turned to Elizabeth. Steven noticed Craig’s expression and it softened him further. Her compassion wasn’t the usual false, official compassion used by authority figures to calm emotionally disturbed people. It was real.
“You don’t have to protect him. I’ll take you with me and there won’t be any trouble. No one is going to blame you. It isn’t your fault what he did to you.”
“It is,” Elizabeth insisted, though she didn’t want to pivot the claim on the idea of fault.
“Don’t think that way. I know you must be afraid, but there’s no need.”
“Yes, there is. They’ll have me destroyed.”
“No, they won’t.”
Steven interrupted flatly, “Yes, they will. BioCorp follows the regulations brutally. Ask her what you asked me. Look in her eyes and ask her.”
Craig wouldn’t look at him, but she asked, “Did he rape you?”
Elizabeth denied the accusation with a firm shake of her head. She was crying, terrified what would happen if Ladd spoke to anyone about the admission she and Steven were intimate. It would mean she had destroyed Steven’s life along with hers, all because she was desperately looking for a friend of her own. It was a frightening that such good intentions could go so wrong. She stammered, “He never did. I asked him. I did…and I wanted to.”
Craig’s blank expression revealed she was feeling as awkward as Elizabeth. Her good intentions had thoroughly backfired, and they had been as well-intended as Elizabeth’s invitation of friendship. It was obvious to her that her suspicion was wrong, but she had been compelled to ask. She knew the risk of trust, the possible duress of authority, and the fear associated with speaking out.
Caught in the middle, Steven reacted without anger. The emotion in Craig’s voice revealed real concern, and he had difficulty faulting her for it. He was offended though that she thought so little of him. He sighed and said practically, “If you turn us in, they will kill her. It won’t matter one damn bit what the circumstances were. Don’t do that to her. If you do, then, so help me God, I’ll kill you. I don’t hate you, Ladd…it’s hard to hate you, because I think you thought you were doing the right thing asking that question; but I won’t let you get her killed.”
“I have to leave,” Craig said.
He made no move toward the door to stop her, but when he spoke she did stop. He said, “You don’t know me, Ladd. I don’t know you, but I tried to be fair. You haven’t even been fair.”
She leaned on the door frame and whispered, “I made a mistake coming here. I can’t help what I thought. I can’t help having done something about it.”
“I don’t blame you for that; but it wasn’t fair.”
“No, I suppose it wasn’t. I don’t know what is.”
“If you walk out, I don’t think either of us will ever forget this.”
“Mister Tanner, I don’t belong here. I don’t know how to do my job here. I was put here because I’m marketable. They used me to distract people in twenty-one-fourteen when the government scandals hit the Americas. They appointed me to this post so they could have a press release: ‘look at the progression through the ranks of the UNF by Craig Ladd. Oh, you remember, the heroine who risked her life to save the Maxwell Space Station from damage when the Paris Four transport’s engines failed.’ I did my job there, and they used me to make everyone believe in a hero and forget the corruption in the Senate. Do you know that I’ve been promoted every time a distraction is needed? When we launch, in my biography, they’ll pretend I’m some sort of ideal deck officer. I’m not. I don’t have the experience or the knowledge to be doing this job.”
He knew she was crying, more by the way her shoulders were trembling than by her voice. The shudder was obviously the result on an attempt to prevent tears. Her self-control was impressive, because he suspected she wasn’t a shard as she projected, not at all.
“It’s not easy knowing you’re not good enough,” she continued. “It’s not easy knowing that when they write your release they write about a character they manufactured, to make you sound better than you are, because you’re not good enough. When they write about you, do they mention your family? They don’t mention mine, because my mother was a single parent and we were poor…and because she’s an alcoholic. They don’t mention a lot.”
“We all have parts of us we don’t hear mentioned,” Steven observed.
“At least part of what they write about you is real. You are the best celestial engineer alive today, and they mention your parents and your brother. All they say about me is I came to prominence when I saved the Maxwell Space Station and the Paris Four from collision, that I had two more years of exemplary service, and that I then joined the crew testing your Mark-Two engine. I’m just a record to them, and now I’m having to live up to the expectations of the record they created, and I can’t. I don’t know how to get along with people. I became a Duty Officer because I don’t know how to talk to people, and my job is about enforcing regulations.”
“You’re doing a damn good job right now. Why did you think what you just did? What is it about me that made you believe I could hurt her?”
Craig shook her head and turned so she could face him. Her mascara had run and she looked terrible, though she was faring better than Elizabeth. Part of him focused on the fact she was wearing mascara, and it made him realise she was also wearing a dash of lipstick. In some bizarre way, it was almost amusing, because it suggested she had actually put some effort into her appearance for their dinner. Softly, she said, “I can’t tell you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, adding softly, “I have an idea.”
“It isn’t you, Mister Tanner; it’s me. This project is just too much for me.”
Elizabeth recovered sufficiently to stammer, “I didn’t want this to happen.”
Craig looked at her and whispered, “I’m sorry; I should have kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to ruin this for you.”
“Why did you say those things? Steven isn’t like that.”
“I know that now; but I didn’t know.”
“But you thought he was.”
“I was scared for you,” Craig said miserably.
Craig bowed her head and Steven said gently, “Go get Miss Ladd a face cloth for her eyes, Elizabeth.”
Craig was silent until Elizabeth was gone. Then she tried, “I didn’t ask her to be cruel. I was afraid for her.”
“I understand that. I think I understand why. Come sit here. Standing over there is crazy.”
“I should go. I’ve ruined your evening.”
“It’s your birthday, Ladd. Come here and sit down.”
She looked from the floor and accepted the damp face cloth Elizabeth offered. She wiped her eyes, ashamed of herself. To Elizabeth she said, “No one has ever given me flowers before. Thank you.”
Steven forced a smile and felt better for it. That she had believed so ill of him stung, but somehow he found it refreshing to have proved her wrong. He said, “That’s two firsts. She never gave anyone flowers before, so I guess you’re both getting a taste of a new experience. Now, come sit so we can eat. I spent an hour cooking, you know.”
“I cooked,” Elizabeth corrected.
“Yeah, but I watched you cook and it made me hungry.”
He turned and lifted the top of the platter, beginning to serve himself, satisfied to see a flash of smile from Elizabeth. He would have bled into the supper had it been necessary to keep Craig there, only for her.
Craig whispered, “After–”
“After all this, there’s no point in wasting a good meal. Besides, stress or no stress, at least I’m sure I’ll be having dinner with two normal people. I thought you were incapable of emotion except in the line of duty. I would have preferred seeing you smile, but at least I can’t mistake you for a rivet robot any more.” He glanced at them to see if they were any nearer the table. Elizabeth was pulling Craig’s sleeve, which made his smile more genuine. When they were finally seated, he asked, “How old are you, anyway?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Not old at all then. You’re damn young for a Commander.”
“They promoted me every time they saw a chance to play up their version of me.”
“Don’t knock it. The pay’s better at this rank” ‘‘
“How can you eat with me after the accusation I made?”
He shrugged, chewed a mouthful of excellent pepper steak, and suggested, “Taste some of this and you’ll know. My assistant here is a great cook.”
Elizabeth served Craig, who tasted the meal and complimented her awkwardly before asking, “Your name is Elizabeth?”
“Yes. Mister Shepherd calls me Eliza do-little, but I don’t know why. He laughs when he says that and asks me if I’ve ever seen a push-me-pull-me.”
“Mister Shepherd has a strange sense of humour. I think Elizabeth is a very nice name.”
Steven found their attempted conversation amusing. They were perfectly matched, being the two most socially inept people he knew in this particular circumstance. Both had all the skills, and none of the confidence. He was more pleased to know his assistant, a mere BIOT to many, was actually maintaining a better social impression than their guest. He almost observed it, but stifled that to comment, “Craig’s an odd name for a woman.”
“My middle name is Elaine. My father’s name may have been Craig.”
“You should go by Elaine.”
“Please don’t tell anyone.”
Steven smiled and considered telling her she was being ridiculous, but he surrendered with a sigh and a nod. He also thought of noting had she not wanted him to use the name, at least in part, she wouldn’t ever have volunteered it. Again, he took the high road, telling her, “You know, Elaine, it’s not a crime to be vulnerable.”
It was a bad choice of words, but she knew it was unintentional and let it pass without comment, He saw in her eyes his earlier suspicion was probably close to the truth. Her concern and understanding of Elizabeth’s danger was personal. Someone had hurt her; he was surprised that the idea made him angry.
“This project has put a lot of pressure on all of us, you included, obviously. Don’t get it into your head you’re not fit for this duty. It’s hard, I know, but once we’re down to the main crew after launch you’ll be back on familiar ground, so to speak.” He smiled at having used Angus’ favourite cliché so naturally.
“I think you’re a good Duty Officer,” Elizabeth whispered.
Steven smiled again. Craig seemed not to notice how desperate Elizabeth was to make a good impression. Steven thought it was like being party to a convention of lonely fourteen year old girls. He advised, “With her vote, you must be doing something right.”
“I feel uncomfortable around large groups of people.”
“So do I,” intoned Elizabeth.
Steven grinned and countered, “I don’t; but then again, who said I had to have anything in common with you two weirdoes.”
Craig was still unable to smile.
Steven changed his tact and tried to steer the conversation from the tense minutes they had just wandered past. He said, “I hear from Forte you turned as red as a tomato when you got the flowers. That must have given most of the officers a shock, seeing you blush.”
“They’ll talk about that for days.”
“Don’t sound so glum, Elaine.”
“Would you please not call me that.”
“Sure, but only if you call me by name.”
“I’d rather not; please.”
“Then just shorten it to Tanner. I hate being called Mister, and Commander. Fair exchange: We stick to each other’s last names.”
“All right.”
“Like I was saying, Ladd, you should be happy they’re talking about seeing you blush. It won’t hurt your reputation having everyone think you’re just as human as they are. And they won’t lose respect for you. Hell, look at me. I’ve gone right roaring nuts and they still treat me like I’m a God-in-training of some sort.”
“It’s different. You earned their respect.”
“You’re not doing too bad in that department lately. Viola Parini said something pleasant about you today. That’s a miracle. Trust me when I say that.”
“I’m trying,” she whispered. She paused, then added, “I’m very sorry what I said to the two of you. You did this for me, and I–”
“Ladd, for Christ’s sake, drop it,” he said with a sigh, unable to be angry about it. “I don’t need you reminding me I impress you as a dreg of the earth. What’s said is said. I’ll try to forget it, and you do the same. I’m not going to feel guilty about the memo addressed to strawberry for the rest of my life, so let’s call the slate clean. My shrink will be wanting to see you soon if we get tangled up about this.”
For the first time since he had known her, she smiled. It was a fleeting twist of her lips that was attractive, though it lasted only a second. He barely noticed it out of the corner of his eye.
“I either hallucinated just now or you just smiled.”
“She smiled,” Elizabeth confirmed, appending one of her best smiles to the statement.
“Well, Elizabeth, I guess we’re either both going nuts or she actually can smile. I guess Vee owes me a week’s pay.”
“Why?” Craig asked warily.
“She said if you ever smiled she’d give me her pay for a week. I figured it was a safe bet since I didn’t have to pay her if you didn’t.”
“I’ve seen her smile before,” Elizabeth said.
“You have?”
“Yes, when she comes to the bridge she smiles when she says hello.”
He reclined in his chair and asked, “Now how come she gets a smile and everyone else gets the same bland don‘t-mess-me-about expression?”
“Elizabeth is very quiet, and she doesn’t talk about me when I turn around.”
“Trust me, Ladd, not too many people on my crew spend endless hours demeaning you. We’re too busy and too tired after work. They usually just binge after you drift through, so they can feel they lived up to the engineering technician reputation for being surly.” He took a drink, returned his glass to the table and said, “Now that we’re on speaking terms again, why did you smile just now? Am I that amusing?”
“My tattoo. Who told you?”
“Give me your word the name stays in this room?”
“Everything stays in this room.”
He understood her. The earlier debacle would be kept amongst friends. There was a chance that would make all their lives easier. He explained, “Viola Parini saw it when you were in the shower. Since you brought the subject up–”
“Where’s your tattoo?” Elizabeth asked.
Craig blushed and Steven retrieved his glass to hide his grin. He was impressed that Craig managed to answer, “On my hip.”
“Steven has five little angels on his chest.”
Elizabeth looked at him with a conspiratorial expression he wondered at. He smiled and winked, saying, “Thanks for keeping that a secret, Eliza.”
She smiled back at him, a mischievous smile that forewarned she would free more information if he abused the privilege of Craig’s conversation. Everything about her was glowing now, and she managed to layer meaning in the statement, “Oh, did I tell a secret? I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”
He continued to grin, returning his attention to Craig and asking, “Why did you get a tattoo?”
“My mother took me to a party when I was sixteen and a French woman there did tattoos. It was the first time I ever drank.”
“At least mine were intentional.”
“I like it,” she said firmly, offering nothing further.
He raised his glass and said, “A toast to our tattoos then. You know, Ladd, you’re not half bad when you make an effort. In fact, I think I might like you.”
“He likes you,” Elizabeth stated certainly.
He attended her smiling face and said with a closed mouth grin, “If you start eating I think I’ll b safer.”
Craig, who had raised her glass with some trepidation, was watching the exchange with envious eyes. She didn’t begrudge their happiness. How she had missed it prior to the fiasco of her accusations she couldn’t imagine. They way they spoke and looked at each other was clear. She held no doubt that Steven would have killed to protect Elizabeth, but it didn’t disturb her to realize it. It was comforting for her to see there were people alive who still knew what it was to be in love.
“I want to make a toast.” Steven waited patiently for Elizabeth’s breathless toast. It was simple and fitting. “To miss Ladd: happy birthday.”
The Aftermath
Steven sat on the back of the couch and yawned. Elizabeth waited hovered till he gestured, then she approached and sat on his knee. He steadied her with his arm and said, “Remind me to tell Forte she owes me dinner.”
“Okay.”
“You know she didn’t mean to make the accusations she made?”
“She explained to me while you were writing your report to Angus.”
“I thought so. You want to tell me what she said?”
Elizabeth considered and concluded, “I could, but I promised not to tell anyone.”
He kissed her and said wearily, “Keep that promise; it’ll earn you your own best friend.”
“You’re my best friend.”
“Everybody needs at least two best friends. I have you, Vee, and Jack. Now you have Craig Ladd.”
“She isn’t horrible, is she?”
“No, Elizabeth, she isn’t horrible at all. She’s human like the rest of us. If you keep me in line, maybe she’ll stop trying not to be and just maybe she’ll end up with more friends than she has now.”
Elizabeth initiated a kiss and he stood, standing her with him. Quickly, he hoisted her into his arms and carried her down the hall to its end. Setting her down before her bedroom door and swatting her backside playfully, he directed, “Bed time. You’re already too hyper. Go on.”
She slipped into the bedroom after issuing a good night kiss. He ambled to his bedroom and sat. He had left Craig and Elizabeth alone a long time, excusing himself to compile a report that could have waited. It had been a ploy to let them talk without his hindrance and he was glad it had worked. With a groan he laid back and rubbed his eyes. He was only just lying back when a brisk knock announced Elizabeth’s arrival. She came in, wearing one of his shirts. He relaxed on top the covers and said, “I can hardly wait till we get this ship built. I’m sick to death of working on it.”
Elizabeth sat and leaned over him, kissing him with closed eyes. She laid her ear to his chest and he breathed deeply, enjoying the smell of her perfume. “I can hear your heart,” she whispered.
“Good; that must mean I’m still alive.”
She knew he was drifting, so she sat and carefully undid his shirt. After it was off she elicited his help and removed his shoes, socks and pants. Getting him beneath the covers was harder than she expected, but she managed to do it and laid partially across him, cheek to his chest. Warm and comfortable, she kissed his shoulder and closed her eyes. She was asleep instantly, worn by the excitement of having Craig visit her.
When she startled awake a short time later she was trembling. Steven woke with her and slipped his arm around her when she sat. He stroked her back and leaned close, whispering his question. He was tired, but she meant more than sleep.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You had a bad dream?”
She was silent many minutes, then nodded slightly.
“Dreams can’t hurt you, Elizabeth. It’s just the excitement of new things playing havoc in your head. Do you need to talk about it?”
She shrugged and he hugged her. Momentarily, she whispered, “Miss Ladd was raped by a man when she was…a long time ago. That’s why she was worried about me. She was afraid you were hurting me.”
“I thought so. You shouldn’t be having bad dreams about that, Elizabeth. You should be having good dreams knowing she cared enough to worry about you.”
“Why would someone do that to her?”
Steven sighed and tried to answer the question. It was difficult, and he didn’t have much of an answer. After the dinner, however awkward in places, his opinion of Craig Ladd was that no one should ever hurt her; it seemed to him she hurt herself plenty.
“I wish there was a simple answer to that. Even in the best of times, the worst people do terrible things. Who can say why for sure? I guess some people just don’t care.”
“It’s not fair,” Elizabeth concluded.
He admitted, “It isn’t even close to it; but you can’t change what happened to her in the past. I’d say you ought to be proud you can do something now. She’s uptight, and she needs to be able to talk to someone. I guess you can be her friend now, and I think that’ll help. Everybody needs a friend.”
Elizabeth nuzzled him and hugged him tight. He laid his cheek against her forehead and whispered away her fears. When she seemed calmer, he laid back with her. Long after she fell asleep, he was still staring at the darkened ceiling, wondering if Craig Ladd was having the same nightmare. If she was reliving her past, he found himself wishing someone could be there for her when she woke shuddering. For all her awkwardness and uncertainty, Craig Ladd deserved peace.

January 19th, 2118
The Peaceful Slumber
There was no sound on the bridge but Steven’s breathing, and no light except the haze off the monitor before him. The bridge portal was polarised and the rest of the bridge stations were shut off from his console. No one else was awake yet. They had gone onto the ship the previous night after the pre-launch ceremonies, and everyone had spent their last hours preparing to receive the final order.
The image he was watching on the his monitor was the media coverage of the final pre-launch ceremony. The tapes were being replayed by Global News Network regularly; the images interspersed with related special news reports. He had the sound off and his thoughts were waltzing around the silent images. The world had stopped to watch them, and commonplace sounds seemed garish dressing. The silent flow of images was more respectful.
The camera panning the stage was focusing on Craig Ladd and her mother, who were whispering to each other behind where Angus was telling jokes to Bob Heafs. Steven liked the man, who had been present on the ship since just before they finally installed the computers. Heafs, who looked more like a scarecrow than a man, was laughing; then Heafs noticed the camera and raised his drink toward it, making a comment Steven knew the camera crew hadn’t clearly recorded over the general buzz of conversation. Angus joined Bob’s inaudible toast and the camera zoomed out to contain them both. Bob Heafs was now in his hibercolm. He had been since twenty minutes after they had come aboard.
Panning left of Ladd the camera settled on D. D. Wilkins, the third member of Angus’ science crew. She had an earnest expression on her face. She was short and thin, with long brown hair and penetrating blue eyes. Steven had only spoken to her a few times, but she had made a good impression. She was a quiet, personable woman who had no strongly expressed opinions; a good listener. No subject appeared to raise her ire or interest, though she spoke intelligently on most any subject. Of the science team she was outwardly the least eccentric, though she was likely the purest scientist. She was naturally objective about everything she encountered. Danielle Denise Wilkins was in her hibercolm at the secondary access stack, sleeping peacefully without dreams. Like Heafs, she would remain dead to the Universe for nearly five years, barring any interesting phenomenon being encountered before they reached the denser central region of the Galaxy.
The replay on the monitor had been spliced. A shot of them on the stage with the United Nations Elect Council scrolled into view. Their uniforms were all perfect, their belt buckles glinting under the powerful HDTV lights. His belt buckle was the one the camera closed to, to show the world the insignia Forte and Angus had settled on to mark their mission. Above the symbol was emblazoned ‘Sapphire Core Explorer Mission.’ Around the bottom rim, inside the border, was inscribed, ‘Launched from Earth Polar Space Station, January 19th, 2118.’ Above all else, in the border strip at the top, read ‘Steven Martin Tanner, Commander, Engineering Officer First Class.’
As the ceremony continued, he recalled it from the point of view the cameras couldn’t capture. For him it was more than a series of disconnected images. A feeling was aligned to every moment. He had stood at attention with Viola behind him and Jack to her left. On the other side of Viola were Tracey and Reed; and Elizabeth stood beside Jack. She looked out of place in her grey jump-suit and plain grey boots. He had felt her discomfort being so forcefully drab at such a social event, and combined with his discomfort it had given him the solemn expression the weaving camera frequently returned to. He knew what he had been thinking on the stage; he had been thinking most of the audience were likely to be dead of old age when they returned, and that the youngest members of the press would be older than Angus when Sapphire returned. How many of those in the audience would remember the launch? To those on board it would seem as clear in five years as it did the day it occurred. He had felt an awesome sense of displacement, but with a caveat he doubted too many of the others felt: everyone he cared about would be on the ship with him.
The monitor changed its view again and Steven’s thoughts were dispelled. The camera was roving around during the celebration after supper, where the schedule had been left to their discretion. It was a public event, but the time had been allowed for them to spend it as they wished. The first group focused on were the five members of the tactical crew. Steven had really known only two of them the week prior to launch, and even then not particularly well. He watched the five join right hands and raise them in a machismo display of arrogant confidence, and he smiled that the image they reflected was so contrary to the individual impressions they made.
Michael Davidson was the group leader, though all of them were ranked as Lieutenants. He was listed on the crew roster as a payload expert, which was a polite euphemism for demolition expert. Davidson was an ex-marine on the UN peace keeping force and had been handling explosives and other potentially dangerous materials for twenty years. Though they were the same height, Mike was twenty pounds heavier than Steven and all of the weight was well-arranged muscle. Davidson’s dirty blonde hair and metallic blue eyes added an attractive edge to his rugged good looks. One of his few bad habits was not shaving regularly; or, perhaps, it was an intentional affect. Either way, Mike Davidson had gone through the ceremonies with a two day beard and had entered his hibercolm the same way. Five years later, if there were no mishaps, Davidson would rejoin them with the same scruffy beard.
David Penderson, another of the tactical group, Steven had met at the New Year’s Eve party. Penderson was a former Pentagon strategist, though his personality betrayed no hint of the strategic skills he must have possessed. He preferred to be called Dave, and was a perfect clone of Mike Davidson in both build and generally reserved behaviour. There the similarity ended. Penderson had a pale complexion, dusty brown hair, and eyes the same shade as burnt cork. The perpetual scowl on his face contrasted with the extremely pleasant attitude he projected to everyone who had the courage to approach him. Penderson had been quiet throughout the ceremony, an indefinite worry dancing in his eyes. As it turned out the worry was dread of having to get into his hibercolm. It would be his resting place for the entire extent of the mission if all went well. ‘Coffins,’ Penderson had complained, ‘were for dead people.’ Only jibes from another member of the tactical squad had coerced Penderson into the hibercolm.
The one who prodded Penderson was Kara Stanwick, the duty officer and heavy equipment handler of the tactical squad. Kara was possibly the most beautiful woman Steven had ever seen, which he had known intellectually ever since he had allowed her to wander onto the ship some time ago, though she hadn’t really distracted him from Elizabeth. Viola had commented more than once that Kara had a perfect body and even more impressive face. She had dark hair and smoke-grey eyes, set in a sea of features that could have melted the sternest heart. To make her more dangerous, she was brutally direct. When Penderson had first resisted the order to get into the hibercolm, she had turned away calmly, then she had turned back mid taken a firm hold of Dave’s crotch. In a tone that had frightened all of them a little, she had leaned close to Penderson and said, ‘I wanted to see if you really had any balls at all. Now, quit whimpering and get into your box.’ Penderson had obeyed and apologised after the order.
The last pair of the group Steven hadn’t even glimpsed from afar until the introductions a week ago, though he had known one through association.
Thomas Denton was a big man with a black beard and moustache, and widely spaced brown eyes. His skin was the colour of dark chocolate (according to Elizabeth) and he had a brisk accent that was pleasant to the ear. Not prone to concentrate on Denton’s skin colour, Steven had gained only one impression from his first meeting with the man: Starting a fight with Denton would be a quick and painful way to die. Later he had to explain to Elizabeth that Denton was born and raised in the new state of South Africa, because as peculiar as it seemed to him, Elizabeth had never heard any accent before other than Viola’s and Angus’. She had also never seen anyone as black as Denton, which had led them to an interesting discussion about the number of different skin colours the world offered. Elizabeth had spent two days watching compact discs about other cultures, and Denton had made a lasting positive impression at the ceremony by engaging in a quiet, respectful chat with Elizabeth about where his family was from, never once projecting that her enthusiasm for details was at all disturbing. Denton had also gone into his hibercolm with a mildly curious attitude about the possibility of malfunction, and a bemused expression that might have been his take on a smile. He exuded quiet confidence. After Denton was safely interred, Angus had turned to Steven and said with a grin, ‘I know why he doesn’t worry. If the hibercolm does break, he’ll just kick it open, fix it and climb back in.’ Steven had laughed then, and was smiling now as he recalled the joke.
Cynthia Ross, or Rossie as was tattooed on her belly, was almost a perfect match for Viola and he had known of her from Viola. The two had got to know each other at the gymnasium, spotting for each other while they exercised. Steven had only met Rossie the night before the launch ceremony and had come away from the social meeting with the knowledge he had never met a man or woman before who was as sexually neutral as Cynthia Ross. She was physically attractive and appeared aware of the fact, but she treated men and women with the same consideration. Only because Viola had got to know her was Steven aware Rossie had a healthy appetite for men. Vee had said only that and nothing more. Rossie had gone to her hibercolm with an unusual ritual that made a far deeper impression than the few words they had previously exchanged. Stark naked, she had taken a half hour to prepare herself for the experience. She had drawn an audience consisting of every man on the ship who wasn’t already unfortunate enough to be in deep sleep, and even the women had been captivated by the process. Only Craig Ladd had been too embarrassed to watch. It had been Reed McCulloum who had alerted everyone to the ritual, and he had twice begged her for sex as her exercises unfolded. The massage she had given herself had been almost too much for most of them to bear. Forte had summed the experience with the statement, ‘If that’s a religion, I’m sorry I don’t believe in religions’, to which Reed had responded, ‘If that’s a religion, I wanna be her holy water.’ Rossie’s last act before entering her hibercolm for the long, dreamless journey ahead, was to survey her audience and whisper something to Viola. The grins they exchanged made Steven think it would have been perfectly natural had Rossie kissed Viola good-bye. Had that happened, he knew he would still be uncertain whether Rossie was gay, straight, or something entirely new.
The Global News Network report ended and the announcer appeared, discussing international praise for the mission.
Steven turned it off and rose. His watch said he had time to go back to the hibercolm chamber. It was a short walk through the dimly lit main access stack into the dark mess hail. Spilling from the aft corridor was the antiseptic white glow of the hibernation chamber. He passed through the main chamber with a glance at Jack Robins’ and Reed McCulloum’s resting places. There were no windows in the fronts of the white cylinders, and only silver name plates denoted who occupied each of the closed columns. The unoccupied hibercolms were open, their front portions lifted into recesses in the ceiling by hydraulic arms. He hit the switch on the closed bulkhead door leading back to the secondary access stack. The doors took a moment to cycle open. On the two hibercolms to either side of the entrance there were green lights blazing across the control panel, indicating the occupants were sleeping peacefully. In the rooms opening on the far side of the octagonal junction were four more sets of reassuring green signals.
Steven went right into the port-side equipment store and opened the pair of doors along the short passage separating it from the secondary access stack. The first of the two hibercolms inside was humming, emerald confirmation dressing its control pad. He turned on the monitor and it filled itself with a picture of Tracey York’s face. Her eyes were closed, and she looked serene. A few dozen minuscule laser beams stood like angry spots on her pale skin, intermittently overcome by the flickering crimson scan line that swept side-to-side across her face. The statistical display beside the image showed perfect stasis.
He turned the monitor off and checked the second hibercolm. Inside was Angus’ BIOT. The science BIOT was a male, with handsome features and short black hair. Steven had seen the man only briefly at the pre-launch party, but the sight made him smile. Forte had approached him during the long session where they were expected to mix with the press, had gestured to the BIOT, and had whispered to him, ‘You think Ladd would be interested? He’s at least as personable as her.’ Forte had been drinking, and it was in keeping with her sense of humour to make short, choppy comments about ‘their plan’ the rest of the evening. Steven was smiling more now than he had during the party, because looking at the sleeping BIOT made him think Forte’s outrageous idea would do Craig some good.
He left the two hibercolms and closed the doors as he made his way back to the secondary access stack. On the way to the starboard store, he closed the doors behind himself. The starboard room was a mirror of the port storage room, but only the hibercolm furthest from the door was occupied. The image the its monitor displayed, when he turned it on, was a shot of Elizabeth’s face. He leaned on the wall and gazed at her tranquil expression, thinking back to the number of times he had woken and seen the same pleasant half-smile. Then he had only to reach out and touch her to feel her heartbeat; now she was encased in nearly five-hundred kilograms of machinery.
Her vital statistics showed perfect hibernation.
He turned and walked to the two cots housed opposite the hibercolms. He opened the small locker under the first and took out the box he had given her before she had gone into deep sleep. She had asked him to look in it after she was down. When the top angled back he found a piece of paper. The message was short and direct: Steven. I put it on. I couldn’t help it. I was scared. I love you. Elizabeth. He smiled and took the note, pushing it into his breast pocket. He had removed his Sapphire belt buckle the minute they boarded and had inscribed on the back, ‘To Elizabeth…because I love you.’ They had refused to give her one of the buckles, and though she refused to admit it, he knew it had hurt her to be excluded. As much as any of the engineering crew, Sapphire was hers. The expression he recalled crossing her face when he presented her with his gift was more precious to him than the silver memento of their journey ever could have been.
He put the box away and returned to her hibercolm, placing his hand against the monitor. When he leaned against the wall his forehead touched the panel. He was thinking about the last night they had made love. Elizabeth had been insistent and energetic since the first time, but her behaviour the night before the party had been less inhibited and more experimental. Afterward, when he had talked to her about it, she had revealed how frightened she was. Somehow, perhaps for the first time in his life, it was easy to belay someone else’s fears. Three words had put her at ease then, and he spoke them now to ease himself.
“I love you.”
Once, he might have felt foolish whispering so in an empty room. She had changed him; it felt sensible to say something so significant in a room where he was the only one even capable of breathing. Having done so, he turned the monitor off and left the aft section, pausing in the main hibercolm to check the casket Angus was housed in. His last two checks were made for Reed and Jack, then he left for the bridge.
The Departure
Craig Ladd was on the bridge when he arrived. She was at her station, waiting patiently in the darkness for someone to activate the power to the bridge stations. Steven squatted beside her when he arrived, and whispered, “How are ya?”
She was hugging herself and looked distant and worried. She whispered, “You talked to my mother.”
“Yeah, she seems very nice.”
“What did she say?”
He smiled. He knew why she was asking, but he had no desire to torture her. She had written some little white lies to her mother. He assured, “She said about the same thing my father said to the gal I’d taken a fancy to before I first shipped.”
Craig swallowed and closed her eyes, head bowed slightly. She excused, “I had to tell her something. I’m sorry I lied; sorry I involved you. It was wrong, but she…always asks.”
He gripped her shoulder and was pleased she didn’t pull away.
“I was flattered. I went along with everything she said and made up a few items to fill the picture out for her. You know how men are, we love to hear about our love lives when it’s to our advantage.”
Her quick smile came and went. She glanced at him bashfully, and asked, “How’s Elizabeth?”
“Resting comfortably.”
“What’s it like for you?”
He was momentarily uncertain what her question was. Carefully, he asked, “You mean hibernation?”
“Yes.”
“At first I dream, and at the end I dream. Like most people, I wake up sort of fuzzy. In between I don’t feel, hear, or see anything. It’s just a blank. It’s nothing to be concerned about. It’s just like the tests we had. After two days, or two years, we’ll wake up feeling the same as the instant before we went down.”
“When you wake, do you feel any pain?”
“Pain? No. It’s just like the tests. The difference in down time is nothing to worry about.”
“After the first test they said I suffered hibernation sensitivity. Will I have it again?”
Steven glanced down to the deck to smile. He was about to lie and reassure her, but he chose the truth. Hibernation sensitivity was worse dependent entirely upon the down-time endured. He admitted, “It’ll be worse next time. How bad was it the first time?”
“Uncomfortable.”
He heard steps approaching and squeezed her shoulder. He patted her back as he stood, and said, “Hang with us; you’ll be okay.
He went to his station and sat, glancing at Craig’s shadowy outline. Patting her back after several years of hibernation might literally give her the thrill of her life. Hibernation sensitivity gave its victims artificially excited nerves that responded to stimuli at about twelve times the normal response rate. The sickness lasted only a short period, and was a rare condition that was only vaguely understood. It was also incurable. The only feasible, humane cure known was to stand in the shower and turn on cold water. The sufferer usually fainted and most bodily systems released, but after the initial shock the sensations faded rapidly. He grinned when he recalled another cure once suggested. According to a woman who had participated in the medical studies, having sex was a fantastic cure. The thought made him smile because he couldn’t picture Craig undertaking anything of the sort. The woman who had suggested it was a prostitute in normal daily life, he remembered. His smile disappeared when he realised that the over-stimulation caused by sex would likely trigger a massive muscle spasm. He was almost about to comment aloud how ludicrous the woman’s suggestion was, then he realised how out of place the comment would sound. Only Craig would understand his reference, and it would only embarrass her. Returning to business, he switched the appropriate systems on and pushed aside his thoughts.
Forte was sitting. She turned to face Craig, reclining in her chair. She said, “I was wondering when you would join us, Mister Tanner. Ready, Miss Ladd?”
Craig nodded, her expression uncertain.
“You’ll do fine, Miss Ladd,” Forte guaranteed. “How about you, Mister Tanner? Are you ready?”
“I’m conscious,” he replied.
“Good enough.”
Viola entered and took her position on the port-side, opposite Steven. She had won the coin toss between her and Jack to determine which of them would occupy the port-side engineering section during launch.
“Miss Parini, how are you this morning?”
“Fine, Captain. Mister Tanner, should I run the systems parity check?”
“Go ahead. You take the command islands and I’ll run Navigation and Communication.”
New arrivals drifted in during the check. First was their navigator, Robert Latham. Latham was a tall man with medium-length brown hair and dark brown eyes. Though he was taller than Steven, he looked stocky because of the paunch around his waist. No one had been given much time to get to know the pilot. Despite his happy-go-lucky attitude and exuberant personality, he was clearly eccentric and seemed blissfully forgetful. The few occasions they had set aside to meet with him had either been forgotten, or had become awkward sessions where Latham drifted in his own Universe and they smiled at his infrequent comments and sometimes peculiar views. The one concrete understanding they all had was that he always wore his baseball cap, a ragged old memento he carried from the days he had navigated on the Ford-Enterprise mission. Viola had left hers to Thelia as a memento of their friendship, so Latham had the honour of being the only crew member carrying a ball cap into deep core space.
Latham found his seat at the front of the bridge and waited while the system check was confirmed. When he saw green, he unlocked the manual controls, leaving the safety switch on. That done, he turned and a broad smile lit his features. “Good morning!” he chirped.
Forte responded with the same, and Steven nodded, grinning at Latham’s gleeful state. Craig replied with a proper, “Good morning, Mister Latham.”
When Viola made no response, Latham’s endearing strangeness surfaced. He turned slightly and gazed directly at her until she was uncomfortable enough to squint toward him.
“Good morning, Miss Parini, you look lovely this fine morning.”
Steven glanced at her and saw a reluctant smile. “Good morning, mister Latham,” she said stiffly. She wasn’t offended by Latham, but had confided in Steven she found the man a little too odd to understand.
Latham was apparently satisfied. He returned his attention to plotting their course. The entire situation was an adventure for him, the ultimate test of his skills. He had navigated the Ford and Enterprise Addelson Class vessels toward the core, but never had he been asked to go so far; and never had he been asked to navigate on the fringes of the central cluster.
Clayton Bartlett was next on the bridge. He took his seat beside Forte and immediately began checking and double-checking his console. The round of greetings he engendered started only after he was satisfied with his console’s responses.
Next was Pat McAvery, their communications officer. Pat was taller even than Latham, but unlike Latham he looked tall. His frame was big and he bore far less weight than he was capable of carrying. His sandy blonde hair complimented chestnut eyes, but both failed to liven up his pallor. He looked scrawny and unhealthy. Ironically, Pat was one of the quietest members of the crew, despite his position. The only lengthy conversations he held were with Latham, and then it was only because they had worked together frequently in the past. It was a greeting from Latham, phrased mathematically, that reminded Pat he was surrounded by other people. Pat’s social side showed, when he turned and said, “Good luck everyone.”
Before Pat turned away, he gazed directly at Viola and smiled, showing off his missing left front tooth. Steven saw the exchange and waiting till McAvery was busy before he focused on Viola and silently mouthed the question, ‘What did you do, give each of them a good luck blow job?’
Viola typed into her console, ‘Kiss my clit.
Craig said softly, with a blush, “Please don’t do that, Miss Parini. We’ll be on line to the Controller soon.”
Viola said, “Sony, Miss Ladd, I didn’t mean for you to kiss it.”
It was a friendly poke and Steven was curious to see if Craig took it properly. He glanced from his console and saw the end of her quick, fleeting, somewhat embarrassed smile. Beyond her, Viola was smiling fiercely.
The last man onto the bridge was Jason Labrador, the medical and life support systems specialist. He was short and heavy, with auburn hair worn UNF-standard length. His eyes were plain brown, or ‘shit brown’ as Reed McCulloum had once described them. Labrador looked older than his thirty-one years, and his voice was vested with a false authoritative quality by both his appearance and his time spent on Mars as a preacher. Few liked him, and his appearance on the bridge seemed to cast a pall over the atmosphere. He was a classic conservative fundamentalist Christian, strict and apt to base his opinions on the good book rather than on good thought. Of the bridge crew, Steven liked Labrador the least. Almost consequent to that, Labrador seemed intent on making him the target of separate greetings.
“Mister Tanner; ladies; gentlemen.”
Steven ignored the voice and pretended to be working. His ire was raised just knowing the expression Labrador wore. There was no need for him to glance back to guess the smug, self-righteous smile was present. It was the most obvious mark of the man, who Steven considered a hypocrite and chauvinist bastard. Labrador had earned his animosity by twice finding it necessary to comment on what a blasphemy BIOTs were, in the same breath evidencing the subtle opinion women were inferior and belonged in the kitchen and bedroom.
Steven poked a button and frowned, aware Labrador was now reviewing the hibercolm monitors. His terminal was picking up the feed, and he could see two hibercolms were missing from the statistics call. He was about to comment on it when Craig said, “Mister Labrador, your feed is wrong. Please adjust it to reflect full crew complement.”
Her polite tone, with the unmistakeable emphasis, made Steven grin. It was a moment before Labrador responded, but he did without remark. The two feeds from the BIOT hibercolms came on-line. A glance toward Craig was met by a glance from her. He gestured his thumbs-up so only she would see it, though Forte caught sight of it peripherally, and said, “Mister Tanner, Miss Ladd, please pass notes after class.”
Steven saw Craig’s quick smile, felt better for it, and ignored Labrador completely.
“We are on line,” Pat announced, busily latching his seat harness. It was a safety precaution they were all taking.
Craig drew a deep breath and, with a slight quaver in her voice, said, “This is Sapphire calling Polar Space Station Control.”
There was a pause, then, “This is Control. Good morning, Sapphire. You are clear for launch.”
Craig unnecessarily, but formally, confirmed, “We are cleared for departure, Captain.”
Around the three inhabited satellites in the system, people would be listening. They had started the show only thirty seconds late.
Forte turned on her monitors, craned back her head to relax the tension in her neck, then ordered, “Put the mains on line, Mister Tanner.”
“Mains…are on line. Reactor capacity is nominal. Helm now has full power.”
“Confirmed on line, confirmed to helm,” Viola said.
Bartlett glanced at Forte and nodded. He was content to say nothing during the launch. He had told most of them he had no desire to excite some commentator to a statement like, ‘That was the voice of Executive Officer Clayton Bartlett.’ According to Clay, such nonsense was best left for cartoons.
Forte directed, “Pilot, twenty standard kilometres to port.”
Latham was cheerful and direct. He replied, “Aye, aye, Captain; we are positioned in time minus two minutes.”
Steven took the silence as a cue to announce, “All inertial damping devices are functional. False mass gravity is functional. I will begin TCB charging on your command, Pilot.”
He had said all he needed, so he waited. Finally, Latham told him, “Prepare to power the drive system. My course is locked and checked.”
Everyone paused then for the expected statement. It was to be the UNF acting Director, Charles Welsh. Welsh was slow coming on, but finally he did. He had a classical voice, with an upper-class English accent. He said, “Men and women of the Sapphire, on behalf of the Elect Council of the United Nations and the United Nations, I am proud to wish you success in this grand undertaking. Our hopes and dreams go with you on your journey. May God bless and protect you. Amen, and God speed.”
“Surprisingly short,” Viola muttered.
Craig calmly informed her, “We are broadcasting, Miss Parini.”
Viola blushed and Steven turned his head to stick his tongue out at her.
“Power,” Latham said.
Steven pressed the entry buttons and manually raised the reactor feeds to the TCBs.
“Reading thirty percent on TCBs,” Viola said, her voice a little constrained by her earlier fumble.
Unnecessarily, grinning fiercely, Steven asked, “Time?”
Bartlett was disappointed that he had to speak; he glanced at Steven with a wincing frown. Still, he replied to the question, “Six-oh-two and thirty seconds.”
“I am reading sixty percent,” Viola reported.
Steven added, “TCBs are now on line and functioning, Mister Latham. You have…”
He pointed to Viola; she stated, “Ninety percent; ninety-eight percent; ninety-nine percent; to one-hundred percent capacity.”
“We are fully charged and drawing warp,” Steven said.
Time at the aft end of Sapphire would now be grossly distorted along the edge of the field being arranged by the Tensor Control Booths.
“Time is six-oh-three and twenty seconds,” Bartlett appended, life returning to his voice as he poked a finger at Steven and smirked. It was doubtful anyone could hear them now. The distortions would be warping radio transmissions back to the hull.
“Constituent particles of the casting field are processing toward polarised states,” Viola announced.
Steven struck two switches and said calmly, “Purging process is occurring at a steady rate. Time to action is one-hundred and thirty-one seconds, approximate.”
“I’m entering the calculated depolarisation constant per,” Latham announced. “Fifteen transition tunnelling interchanges are expressed. Confirmation?”
“Confirmed, Mister Latham,” Bartlett said.
“TCBs are armed for firing.”
Craig prompted, “Please repeat, Miss Parini.”
Still embarrassed by the earlier slip, Viola corrected sheepishly, “TCBs are armed for casting.”
“You have a launch corridor,” Bartlett said. “Stand by.”
Steven checked another screen and added, “Stand by; time minus five.”
Softly, Labrador whispered, “In the beginning, God created Heaven and earth; and the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. The spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters, and God said, Let their be light: and there was light.”
Steven was actively ignoring Labrador’s babbling.
Bartlett interrupted it brusquely with the announcement, “Launch corridor is open.”
Latham punched his course efficiently and the black of the portal, where only the pinhead glimmer of the sun had been visible for the longest time, was stained by thin streaks of coloured light.
It was Steven’s turn to silence Labrador, and he was glad to do it, reporting, “Acceleration is optimal. Fields are shedding. Particle sluice is maintaining TCB charge. Propelled fields are in mesh state. We are in transition.”
The bridge shook and momentary inertia pressed them into their seats. Steven continued to read the reports displayed on his monitors.
“We have full field interlock. Second and third casting are underway. Decrement of polarisation is maintaining exterior field dimensions. Particle bond increment is matched. We are entering second stage.”
Sapphire shook and Steven said, “We are in second stage. We are clearing Jupiter sphere. We are entering third stage. Fourth to twelfth castings are under way. We are entering fourth stage. We are entering fifth stage.”
Viola flicked two switches and announced, “Aft time dilation is constant. We have full forward momentum. Lateral and radial black mass fields are correcting for density distortion along the tunnel.”
“We are dropping below the transition line,” Steven said. “Back-casting on the last four fields is concluding. TCBs are on downgrade.”
“Time dilation is dropping toward normal,” Viola confirmed.
Steven watched for two confirmations before announcing, “Depolarisation is occurring at the nominal reactive rate in exterior field. Interior fields are at full purge. Hang on.”
A wave of vibrations washed them, leaving all but a few of them shivering slightly. Only Steven, Forte, Bartlett and Latham were used to the strange sensation of entering real time again.
“We have caught our image, and the exterior field is released. We have core depolarisation, and end-stage bonding fields have functioned. We are making mass for energy exchange within acceptable parameters. I will vent the release upon your order, Pilot.”
Latham calmly checked his board and locked his manual controls. He directed, “I’m realigning our aft to the prime radiation source. Please release the attendant mass energy, Mister Tanner.”
“Vents are open. Vents are clear. We have cleared the system. Reactor output remains nominal,” Steven concluded, pleased by the success.
Forte turned off her console and shook her head to release the tension in her back. She said, “Well done, people. Mister McAvery, send the confirmation. Mister Tanner, prepare us for lapse transition. Mister Latham, plot your course. Miss Craig, append the log with appropriate comments and information.” She shut down the final monitor on her console and waited while her orders were obeyed, then she turned to Labrador and said, “Prepare the hibercolms. It’s time to go to sleep.”
Labrador nodded, eyes on the port. It was dark now. He whispered, “And God said, Let there be light: and there was light…and God saw that it was good.”
Steven heard the quotation and frowned. He almost commented that God had nothing to do with their success thus far, but he withheld the remark; it would have been an insult to anyone who had any faith. Besides, the only person on the bridge who didn’t know the fact was Labrador, and telling him was pointless. He couldn’t argue their competence with the member of the crew he suspected was nearest incompetence.
The Farewell
“So, Vee, how’s it feel to be on our way?”
She looked from the tabletop and shrugged, nursing her coffee in both hands.
“You scared?”
“Have I ever been scared?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She smiled and admitted, “Well, then I guess I’m scared again. We have a fifty-fifty chance.”
“Well, we only had a seventy-thirty chance of making it this far.” Steven finished his coffee and pushed the foam cup into the disposal slot in the centre of the table. He decided, “We’ll be okay, Vee. We built this crate, and we know her limitations. She can make the trip.”
“Yeah.”
“Come on, cheer up. I’m the one with emotional problems around here.” He saw Craig sitting down with a second cup of coffee and smiled at her, adding, “Well, me and her…but it’s just the two of us. You’re the tough one, remember.”
“I don’t feel so tough.”
He took her hands in his and said, “Get it over with. I’ll put you to sleep and check on you before I go down. I promise you’ll wake as good as ever.”
She smiled, looked into his face, and whispered, “Come with me.”
He followed her to the main access stack, where she leaned against the wall and pulled him close to kiss him. The feel of her tongue in his mouth closed his eyes for him. When their mouths parted, she whispered, “I really am scared. I have a bad feeling. We’re way out here and soon we’ll be so far we can’t even call for help. Anything could happen. I don’t wanna die in my sleep.”
“Me neither.”
“Make love to me,” she said.
He rested his forehead against hers and sighed. When he drew back to speak, she was smiling. She admitted, “I didn’t think there was much hope there, Steven.”
“I love you Vee but it wouldn’t feel right.”
“I understand. I love you the same. I would have been disappointed if you had said yes. Hold me?”
He put his arms around her and kissed her cheek. She stroked his back with the heels of her hands, finally letting one rest on the back of his head. She reminded, “The last time we went into the freezers we fucked each other silly before, and we both came out alive. I hope you got fucked before you put Liz down.”
Steven grinned and said, “If you have to get laid before deep sleep for you to survive, you better tell me you’ve done or I’ll have to service you.”
She put her hand over his mouth and laughed. She said, “I wanna tell you something disgusting.”
He nodded, and bit her hand gently. She kept it over his mouth, so he released the pressure he was applying and focused on her eyes.
“I’ve been a bad girl, Steve. Remember Thelia? Well, two weeks after we started hanging out together, I slept with her and I liked it. I really don’t think I’m queer, but I loved doing it; and I kept it up till she went back to Earth. It felt good kissing her. I know it did, because she felt good kissing me.”
She lowered her hand, resting it on his chest over his heart. He was still smiling.
“What’s the disgusting part, Vee?”
“That was it.”
“Sorry, but it’s not disgusting. Besides, I guessed; you left the hat with her. She must have meant something. In fact, it’s so not disgusting, I’d like to watch next time.”
Vee smiled and said, “You already missed the next time. Maybe that’s the disgusting part.”
“Rossie?”
She nodded.
He admitted, “I thought so. I didn’t think Ross was gay, but I guess that doesn’t matter.”
“She’s not. Thelia was, but Cyn isn’t. And you know what, Steve, I liked that even more. I guess it’s immoral, but you know what? I don’t give a shit. We made each other feel great. There weren’t any lies, or illusions. We both got what we wanted and it felt great.”
“I still don’t know if that’s disgusting. Shit, to tell you the truth, I think it qualifies as normal.”
“I’m figuring out who I am. I don’t know why, but I wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know. Maybe I wanted to hear you say it was okay. I know my parents wouldn’t have. Reed wouldn’t. Jack wouldn’t know what to say. I need you to tell me the truth.”
He kissed her cheek and said seriously, “If it was someone else I might make jokes in bad taste, but I love you, Vee. You’re my best friend. If you enjoyed it, then I know it must be right.”
“Then if I die, do I get to go to Heaven?” she asked, her voice cracking and her smile falling away. She was truly afraid.
She had her hand inside his shirt. Her fingers were pressing against his chest where the circle of angles danced. He knew she was talking about something that had nothing to do with religion. The blank angel on his chest might have inherited many names, but now it was hers. He answered, “You don’t have to die to go to Heaven, or be an angel. You aren’t going to die, but when I get home I’ll put you in my Heaven anyway. I promise. You’ll always be close to my heart.”
She was relieved. Taking his hand, she pulled him back to the mess hall toward the hibercolm chamber, ordering, “Put me to sleep, Steven, before I lose my courage.”
The Taste of Death
Steven checked Viola’s monitors and confirmed all was well, then he leaned on Reed’s sealed hibercolm and said, “Ladd–” He grinned, sighed, and corrected, “Craig; if you suffer hibernation sickness, take off your clothes and put on something lighter. I’ll wait here and put you in.”
“I’ll be fine.”
They stood a moment in silence, then he nodded toward her casket.
“You are fine. Get in an I’ll send you down. I won’t hurt you.”
She took off her belt and boots, putting them in the locker marked with her name. She thought a moment before removing her jacket. She whispered, “Turn around, please.”
He turned and turned back when she said it was all right to do so. She was wearing her pants, socks and a tee-shirt. Before he thought, he commented, “That’s impressive. I can hardly tell you took off your bra.”
She blushed but took his remark as a compliment. She stepped into her hibercolm. He closed the straps and lowered the foam pads down on her chest and shoulders. She put her hands around the grips and laid her head back in the foam cradle. Her bottom lip was trembling.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Craig.” He took a probe plate and lifted her shirt off her belly to place it across bare skin. The monitor indicated all was well other than the normal anxiousness to be expected. He wiped a strand of her hair from her forehead before continuing, “Sweet dreams. Close your eyes and breathe normally.
She drew a deep breath and said, “Whatever I said about you before, I know I was wrong.”
He grinned and concluded, “Good; now we both know. When you wake, I expect you to call me by my first name, Strawberry.”
She smiled and he stepped to one side.
“Close your eyes and breathe normally. See you in the morning, Craig.”
He hit the commit button and she clenched her eyes as the lid came down. When it locked, and sealed with a rush of expelled air, Steven turned on the monitor to watch the signals. He opened the communicator and whispered soothingly, “Let yourself breathe. Don’t be nervous. Think how good it feels; how nice and warm it is. It tastes good too, so breathe easy.”
She stopped shivering and took a normal breath. In a few moments she was still, only her eyelids flickering as her eyes danced through a dream. The rapid eye movement came to an abrupt end as the cryogenic fixer flooded into her lungs and liquefied the gases around her. She was in deep hibernation in a few minutes, devoid even of her dreams.
Steven turned the monitor off and smiled. Talking to Angus, though he knew the old man was incapable of hearing him, he said, “How come as soon as I really fall in love, every woman I know starts to fall in love with me? When I’m really horny, I can’t even get them to give me the time of day.” He chuckled and placed a hand on Craig’s hibercolm, musing, “You have the prettiest smile of all, when you let it show, Elaine.”
On his way to the bridge he turned out the lights in the mess hall and the access stack. When he entered the bridge, he went to his station and shut everything down but his engineering station and the navigator’s consoles.
“Latham?”
Latham glanced up from his work and asked, “Ready to see my course?”
“Punch it up.”
Latham hit two buttons and said, “There you go.”
Steven sent it back to Latham and it was confirmed, then he turned off the power at Latham’s station and started his work. He observed, “You can go down. I’ll check you before I do. I’ll put a ten minute delay once you’re down, so make it quick.”
Latham put on his cap and said, “Good night, Mister Tanner. See you shortly.”
Steven watched till his monitor indicated Latham was safely asleep, then he set his computer and turned off all but the emergency lights. His console went to standby automatically, the work left to the main computer.
Shortly he arrived in the hibercolm chamber. It was pitch black except for the green monitor lights and the spotlight inside his open hibercolm. It took him a moment to check Latham, then he removed his boots and shirt. Getting into the hibercolm was easy, and as soon as he positioned the pad on his stomach the statistics panel confirmed the system. He depressed the activator under his thumb and the hydraulics lowered the lid. With a hiss and pop the hibercolm was sealed. He closed his eyes and depressed the button beneath his left thumb. The air grew thicker and he repressed the sensation of suffocation. It became more laborious to breathe with every second, then the gases reached their critical limit and liquefied. By then his body was too numb for him to choke.
His dream began. In it he was making love to Elizabeth, then suddenly he was with several others on the bridge, at their stations. Through the port he could see a pinprick of light. All else was darkness. Mercifully, the growing memory of his accident at the rim was washed away by a state so near death only a machine could tell the difference. For a while the machine was God, and those who had created it were its trusting children.

March 10th/11th, 2123
The Frontier
The first sensation was a dream. There were strange blue flowers blossoming on a carpet of grass, and in their petals were small flies. The buzzing was intense.
Steven opened his eyes and quickly closed them again. He breathed evenly and tried not to think about the fact he was still breathing liquid. The catalysts introduced would soon begin to change the fluid into a less viscous one. What was now like cold cream would become more like vegetable oil in consistency, then with depressurisation the fluids would reach critical limits and he would be breathing gases again. His ears popped softly when the fluid naturally reduced complex chains to freer forms. It was a gas in seconds and the scrubbers fed it with all the additives required to produce breathable air. To help clear his head, the oxygen content would be slightly high. The hibercolm would essentially be a complex hyperbaric chamber.
He opened his eyes and casually read the monitor. At his request each hibercolm had been fit with a small chicklet-key cursor pad near the hand grips, and monitors had been mounted within easy view. Each terminal benefited from a personalised menu. It normally took five to seven minutes for the hibernation process to be reversed and the chambers to be split. With the menus and monitors they could spend that time wisely.
Steven highlighted the appropriate menu choice and the screen listed the names of those being raised. He was the only engineer; then there was Forte, Bartlett, Latham, and McAvery. He was about to return to his main menu when another name was appended to the list. Angus was going to witness the view from the fringe of the globular cluster that surrounded the core of the Galaxy.
No one had come so far before who still had so far to go.
Steven rolled the menu and found a display of the other hibercolm statistics. His engineering crew was fine and Craig Ladd’s monitor showed perfect stasis. She was still sleeping peacefully, and her chamber system showed no sigh she was to be raised. He rapidly scrolled through the others, looking for anomalies that were not to be found.
There was no more time. The hibercolm turned off his monitor and beeped at a pitch that irritated his ears. The last laser probes switched off and the door popped out along its bars. Locks whirred to release position and then the lid was drawn silently up toward the recess in the ceiling. He was free of the belts by the time a soft click told him the lid was secured.
Forte was already gathering her things from her locker, and Bartlett was just exiting, hands rubbing his temples.
Steven retrieved his shirt from his locker and glanced at Angus’ hibercolm. It cracked its seal with a rush of air and the lid began its hissing ascent to the ceiling. The click it locked to the ceiling with seemed louder than his had, proving his senses were on edge after so long in a resting state. It was a common side-effect of long hibernation.
“Go turn the lights on, Tanner. I’ll make some coffee,” Forte ordered.
He nodded to Forte and pulled down the seat that folded from the bottom of his locker. He sat to pull on his boots, leaving the buckles undone.
“Five years, one month and twenty days?” Bartlett asked groggily.
“Something like that,” Forte agreed. “Come on, Tanner, get the heat on in here.”
“I’m sweating,” Bartlett mumbled.
“Cut the chatter. Just turn on the lights.”
Steven stood with a groan and folded the seat back against his locker. He went forward to do as Forte wished. He walked into the second bulkhead door on his way to the ready room and swore, placing one hand against his forehead while he fished about with the other to find the switch. It slid open quietly and he went through, more careful the second time. All the bulkheads were closed on his order to protect them if a breech had occurred anywhere on the hull. The crack to his skull had given him a superior idea, and he made a mental note to write an algorithm to have the machine check and open the bulkhead doors if no hull damage was detected.
Navigating the mess hall was easy now that he was alert, and he opened the next three doors without trouble. He had laid the mesh floor around tile main access stacks ladder, but he walked around the edge with caution, not willing to risk a fall, even in false gravity conditions.
Everything on Sapphire was still and the air tasted stale. For more than five years it had not seen life, and had seen no light save the intermittent emergency bulbs. The ramp to the bridge was somewhat dusty, and the click of his boots on the deck plates sounded eerie in the otherwise silent environment, small curls of visible white dust rising from where static had adhered them. The ship detected the freed dust and re-circulators hissed softly as they kicked in to clear the residue.
He flopped into his chair and wiped his mouth with a hand, fumbling the other onto the keyboard and pressing a half dozen keys with the heel of his hand. One of them was the long space bar he was trying to strike, and the main monitor flickered to life. Digital gauges joined it, dancing slightly as the circuits on his station were tested. He ignored everything, punching in the words VOICE ENTRY. He checked the monitor to see his spelling was correct, then committed the order.
“Tanner; E-N-G dash zero one. Respond.”
The main screen replied with the statement, READY FOR COMMAND.
“Activate B-deck lights in the hibercolm area, mess area, main stack, larboard and starboard barracks, and bridge. Wait. Strike that. Activate all B-deck lighting. Do.”
The lights flared and he winced.
“Intensity one half, with standard post-hibernation increment toward full. Do.”
The lights dimmed appropriately. He owed everyone an apology for the sudden flare.
“Report any damage. Do.”
NONE.
From over the internal communicators came Pat McAvery’ s voice, asking, “Mister Tanner, can you power up the bathrooms?”
Steven grinned at his oversight and ordered, “Computer, activate electrical feeds to the heads. Do.” Tapping the channel to the heads, he said, “Done, Pat.”
“Thanks,” was returned.
He punched the code to turn off the voice input, stood, and then returned to the mess hall. Forte and Bartlett were there, sitting with steaming cups of coffee. Latham was just entering from the hibercolms. Angus and Pat were elsewhere.
Steven sat and groaned, asking, “How’d you get the coffee made so quick?”
Forte sipped at it and coughed, wrinkling her nose. The spasm past, she said, “Desperation. I hate waking like this.”
Latham flopped onto the bench beside Steven.
“Good morning,” he offered.
“I don’t have good mornings,” Bartlett concluded.
Latham pulled his cap on and folded his arms, lying his head down across them.
Steven stood and found himself a cup to put coffee in. He tasted it, then added one sugar and walked to an empty table. As he went, he excused, “No offence to the company. I need a chair with a back on it or I’ll fall over.”
Forte seemed to consider that, then she stood and joined him. Bartlett rose, stretched, and went forward to the bridge. Latham was apparently asleep.
“So, Captain, what’s your fancy?” Steven asked.
“I prefer men.”
He smiled. As irascible as Forte could be, her subtle humour was always present.
“How does the ship look, Tanner?”
“No damage reported. We must be blessed.”
“Don’t bless us; let Labrador take care of blessing us.”
“Labrador’s not coming up now,” he reminded.
“Exactly my point,” she said.
Steven nodded and whispered, “I guess that’s a blessing in and of itself.”
Forte smiled momentarily, and said, “A small one.”
“I’d ask how he got this posting, but I’d probably dislike the answer.”
“Between you and me,” Forte said wearily, “he’s qualified for the duty. We don’t have to enjoy his personal views, but he’s entitled to them.”
Steven swallowed a mouthful of his coffee and grinned when Angus shambled in and went directly to the coffee pot. Shortly, the old scientist was at their table, sipping his nearly white coffee. He removed his glasses to prevent their steaming up.
“How do you feel, Angus?” Steven wondered.
“My age, for a change.”
Pat McAvery arrived, glanced at Latham while he made two cups of coffee, then approached them. He deposited one cup by Latham on his way to their table. He greeted them with, “Good afternoon, Captain, Mister Tanner, Mister Shepherd.”
“This man has a secret,” Angus opined of Pat. “During the testing he showed no signs of a run down metabolism, and I know just looking that he feels fine now.”
“Meditation,” Pat said solemnly. “Yoga.”
“I thought yoga was what Rossie was doing,” said Forte.
“Oh, no; yoga’s different than that.”
Steven smiled and said, “Good thing it is, or someone would have seen her doing her thing and would have outlawed yoga altogether.”
“She was quite dextrous,” Pat opined, smiling at the memory.
“I bet ya she could crack a coconut between her thighs,” Steven ventured.
Forte looked askance at him and said, “Please, spare me your fantasies this morning.”
“Sorry, Cap.”
Forte sighed and whispered, “Probably just jealousy on my part.”
They all grinned, except for Pat. He seemed unaware Forte was making a joke.
Bartlett returned, regained his coffee, and joined them. He said, “There are some yellow lights on at the science station, and the navigation computer is beeping. I think it must be ready to put out our co-ordinates. Does everyone know the date?”
There were a chorus of nods and a “Yes” from Pat.
“Well, then you’re aware we’ve survived a new record for period of hibernation. Congratulations.”
Steven grinned and observed, “It’s not really fair. The rest of them will have us beat by six or seven years the next time we bring them up.”
“I’ll note your complaint,” Bartlett promised. “I’m sure petty complaints like that will interest historians.”
“Make sure you note only two of us used the bathroom when we got up,” Angus said dryly. “I’m certain that must be scientifically notable.”
“Sorry, but I blew that record. I was there, too,” Bartlett admitted.
“Why is it some people never go before the trip starts?” Steven wondered, grinning at Bartlett.
“Are we there yet?” Angus said with mock seriousness.
Forte mumbled, “It’s still only two to the toilet, isn’t it Angus? I suspect you were only checking toilet paper rolls to see if time dilation made the rolls longer.”
“Someone has to be scientifically inclined,” Angus jested.
Forte’s expression changed subtly, and then she frowned. She set her coffee down, stood, and said, “I’ll be in my cabin a while.”
“You okay, Cap?” Steven wondered. “You look a little pale.”
She nodded and deposited her coffee in the sink. She said, “A woman’s problem you wouldn’t be interested in, Mister Tanner. Excuse me.”
Before she could leave, Angus inquired, “Do you always have this trouble coming up?”
“Every time. I keep hoping, but I guess some of us are lucky.”
She left. By then Latham had woken and was looking around to find where they had all gone. He took the chair Forte had vacated moments ago, asking, “Where’s the Captain?”
“Went to her room,” Bartlett mumbled.
“How come?”
“Tired,” Steven offered, sure Latham really didn’t care. He was right. The answer satisfied the navigator.
Bartlett rubbed his face and scratched his beard, commenting, “So far, so good. I guess we must be where we want to be. There’s no light outside the portal though.”
Steven suggested, “It would be a bummer if we went the wrong direction, eh, Latham.”
Latham looked at Steven and they exchanged smiles. He sipped his coffee before explaining, “We’re positioned aft to the core. The back-wash of the core light makes the rim stars seem to fade.”
“Thank you for that lesson in basic light refraction,” Bartlett said.
Latham was quick to reply, “It’s not refraction. We call it diffusion. The relative darkness of space here is so bright compared to the relative darkness of the rim it takes a stronger light source to appear unique. Everything looks diffuse as a consequence.”
“I didn’t think they’d proved that,” Steven said casually.
Latham smiled at him and admitted, “Not yet, but maybe when I’m awake.”
Angus chuckled.
“Well, gentlemen,” Bartlett excused, standing, “I’m going to watch something, read a little of my going away present, and get some actual rest. We’ll meet on the bridge in twelve hours, as per regulations. Enjoy your up-time.”
 “What’s the book you got, anyway?” Steven asked. “I saw you carrying it around with you at the party. It’s actually a printed book, isn’t it?”
“Covers included. It’s about a whale and a whale hunter. It’s called Moby Dick, by Herman Melville.”
“A true classic,” Angus opined. “You’ll enjoy it.”
Bartlett parted with, “I’m going to try.”
Pat rose to get another coffee, asking if anyone else wanted another. Everyone did. Latham, looking puzzled, wondered, “What’s a whale?”
Steven’s brows rose slightly. He gazed at Latham and asked, “What?”
“A whale. What’s a whale?”
“A big fish,” Steven explained. “Uses high pitch sound waves to talk…blubber…ambergris.”
“Actually,” Angus corrected, “it’s not a fish. It’s a mammal.”
“Like a seal?” Latham wondered.
“Bigger…more like an elephant,” Angus decided.
Latham accepted a coffee from Pat and gazed at Angus a moment. Serious and solemn, he asked, “What’s an elephant?”
Pat delivered the other cups and interrupted the conversation with the invite, “Cards?”
Angus declined politely and Steven did the same. Latham agreed to cribbage and they settled at one of the games tables against the wall, Latham repeating the question to Pat. Angus grinned when Steven whispered, “He’d know what a whale was if it was defined by a derivative formula.”
They each drank their coffee quietly for a moment, then Steven said, “Alone again. Excited yet, Angus?”
“Not excited. Intrigued, yes. We’re on the verge of great discoveries. By tomorrow we’ll be plotted to proceed and the moment will have passed. That will be a strange feeling.”
“Sorry, but I don’t quite grasp what you mean.”
“My apology. The mind gets ahead of the mouth at my age. I meant that even now the automatic recorders are gathering data. All of that information is being stored as we speak. After tomorrow we’ll go into hibernation again and the ship will tunnel on. In however many years it takes for the next leg of this journey we’ll be raised again and the instruments will gather again. Perhaps we’ll answer a few questions we wanted to ask, then we’ll go down again and return home. Only when we get back will mankind utilize most of the data we collected. This will be the first time in human history that theory will be born and proved by observational data, without a man ever having asked a question. We’re the men making the observations, and we’ll never live to know what we’ve achieved.”
“Morbid.”
Angus smiled and tried to explain, “Usually scientists create a thesis, experiment and observe results. It’s when you make the provable observation that you feel excited, and perhaps you have an inspirational moment of understanding. This is the first time in our history where the scientists making the observations are doing so with true objectivity, because the information we gather will be of such quantity we won’t understand any of it until someone else with a theory draws on it for answers. I find it fascinating that mere men are being asked to observe with that sort of raw objectivity. I would be excited if I thought a look at some of our monitors would give us the key to stellar evolution, biological evolution, or even an answer about what purpose black holes serve; but I doubt we have it in us to view such an immense collection of data and not be overwhelmed by it. I think we may be too close to disentangle ourselves from awe, so rather than feeling excited I’m intrigued by what our reaction to this process is going to be. How will we handle being vassals?”
“I think I understand you. Know what I’ve been thinking since I woke?”
“What?”
“Well, Angus, it’s crossed my mind we might meet someone we know out here.”
Angus smiled, admitting, “Now, Stevie, it’s my turn to be confused.”
Steven set his coffee aside and said, “Just think what advances we made in the last two decades, and what advances we made in my engine designs over two years. What’s to say someone hasn’t gone beyond our technology in the years we’ve been snoozing. What if they’re streaking out after us to say, ‘Sorry about this folks, but we already went to the core and back. Nothing there. Hop in our hot rod and we’ll ferry you home; and don’t worry about that hunk of junk. It’s a museum piece.”
Angus nodded and reclined, scratching his neck. He admitted with a frown, “Stevie, you know how plausible that is?”
“Too damn plausible to make me comfortable, actually. Of course, it’s slightly unlikely they could find us even if they doubled the efficiency of our engine design. The Universe is a big place. They could send out a million vessels after us and miss us completely.”
“True, but you know what theorists would say: If the parallel Universes concept was to hold, it’s definite that in some Universe we’d run into each and every one of those search vessels.”
Steven grinned and said, “I didn’t realize you were into quantum physics and parallel Universes.”
Angus shrugged and excused with a smile, “I read an article in Scientific International, and decided I was wise.”
“I prefer Sports Illustrated.”
“The swimsuit issue,” Angus said knowingly, anticipating the joke.
“It’s a hundred-plus year old tradition. I recall someone at this table pegged me as a conservative once. I love tradition.”
Angus raised his cup and jested, “To tradition, may she never lose her tan.”
The Dance of Death
“So, how do we look, Latham?” asked Forte.
“Well, Captain, we’re a few thousand astronomical units out of place. We’re inside the orbit of a dark star companion to the main stellar mass. We can’t go into true transition from here because I can’t fix us on the relative charts because of the gravitational interference. Our best bet is to wait until we can decipher the magnetic patterns, then drop down below the companion’s orbital sphere.”
Forte turned to Angus, asking, “Black hole?”
Angus replied, “No, thank God. Early stage neutron star, I think. It’s hard to tell when we can’t fix it as a point. We must be inside its orbital sphere, above, or below, its orbital plane.”
Steven was reclining, listening to space noise on his headset. The hum of the binary system was almost musical, the central giant pulsing like a perfectly tuned rhythm section. The erratic magnetic field between it and its companion was sending a static trill across space. It was a faint symphony though, and he could still hear the conversation on the bridge.
“You still with us, Tanner?” Forte wondered.
“Yes, m’a’m.”
“Call me m’a’m again and I’ll blow you out the airlock, Mister.”
He glanced at Forte and smiled, saying with emphatic care, “Yes, m’a’m.”
She raised an eyebrow and frowned. They were all relieved to be alive since finding out they had left transition dangerously close to a star system. Both Angus and Latham had been clear that a few astronomical units in any of a thousand directions could have proved fatal. Since their discovery of a narrow brush with annihilation, Steven had become almost carefree in his attitude toward their predicament. She forgave it, because there was nothing any of them could do to change the past and little they could do to alter their present quandary. It was up to Angus and Latham, mostly the latter.
“Hear that?” Pat asked, turning to face Steven’s station, more animated than he had been in a larger group.
“Sounds like a drum roll. What is it?”
“I can guess. It’s a high energy stream of particles I picked up once before. I think Misters Shepherd and Latham are going to be surprised.”
“I’ve just identified it,” Angus admitted. “It’s radiation from a third star orbiting the giant. It’s moving fast, rolling around the perihelion plus about eighty thousand standard adjusted kilometres.”
“Three-for-one deal,” Bartlett said, tone bland. He wasn’t enamoured of the science. “What does it mean to our tunnelling?”
Latham frowned as he worked and concluded, “It’s unfortunate. I was going to slingshot us around the giant, but the second companion is moving too quickly and erratically for me to fix an orbital approach within safety parameters. We’ll be forced to power out of this system on our own.”
Angus stated for informational purposes, “The transmission of companion two will be gone in a few seconds. It has an erratic orbital period of about two minutes fifty-two seconds, plus or minus twelve seconds.”
“Black hole?”
“You have black holes on the mind, Cap?” Steven asked, grinning at Forte.
She kept her eyes focused forward and fired back, “At least my concept of the black hole doesn’t have a name.”
He shut up respectfully and returned his eyes to his station. Bartlett was grinning fiercely. He was aware they both knew he called Elizabeth by name, and he knew neither of them cared. Only Forte’s sense of humour had any use for the information. He was also conscious she was in a mood to use it, because at this juncture there was little for her to do.
Angus decided, “It seems to be another neutron star. Its behaviour is bizarre, though. The two neutron stars are both orbiting the bigger star.”
“Group sex,” Steven mused. “Sounds nice when you give the radiation audible wavelengths.”
“Totally against present theory though,” Angus observed.
Latham countered, “Not totally. Henderson and McMichael observed one near the rim seventy – sorry, eighty-four years ago.”
“I forgot about that,” Angus admitted, impressed by Latham’s knowledge about peculiar stellar phenomena. Disappointed, he added, “It doesn’t matter. I’m wrong. The one is definitely orbiting the giant, but the outer one is probably a nomad. It’s a lot further out than I thought. I’m sending the fix to your console.”
“I have it,” Latham confirmed. “Are you certain that little one is orbiting? It moves quick.”
“Definite,” Angus said. “It hangs on the outer rim of the giant. The heat print shows perfectly when it comes around the side. In a few seconds I can show you.”
 “Put it on my monitor, all well,” Forte ordered, interested because she had nothing else to occupy her.
Steven monitored her station to see the heat print. The smudge of the red giant bulged at the edge as the orbiting star came around, then the heat pattern changed completely. The hum in his ears matched perfectly with what he was seeing. An inhuman squeal nearly cracked his eardrums suddenly. “Jesus Christ!” He yanked off his headset and held a hand to his left ear a moment. “What the Hell was that?”
Pat smiled apologetically and said, “A pulsar, I think. The little one must be wobbling.”
“Mister Shepherd, what do you read as the small companion’s velocity?” Latham asked.
Angus had determined it a while ago, content with allowing his computer to compile the data from other sources while he produced the desired numbers. He reported, “It’s just short of escape velocity, orbiting erratically. I believe the system is in its death throes. That pulsar, if it is indeed a pulsar, will either increase speed as it nears the giant’s centre and achieve escape velocity, or it will spiral in and…. Well, I’m not up on my stellar evolution theory much these days, but I can imagine a contraction of the giant due to the residual mass when the companion collapses.”
Latham seemed in deep thought. He was distracted to the point of forgetting where he was. “Expansion, likely,” he said absently. “The second star will disrupt convection and its emissions will excite the surrounding particles. The expansion will likely be fast; maybe a supernova. The neutron star will accrue matter till it spins so quickly it starts to throw mass out of the giant.”
“Are you plotting a course, Mister Latham?”
Latham seemed surprised by Forte’s question. He glanced at her blankly and apologised, “I was thinking about the possible paths of the stars.”
“It would be wise to take those into account,” Bartlett said, nary a hint of a smile, though he wasn’t irritated by Latham’s distraction.
“Hang on a moment,” Angus said. “Look at the screen and tell me what that is.”
Everyone looked at their monitors. The companion star was rounding the planet again, but this time the compiled picture showed a long plume of radiation spewing from its side.
“Beautiful,” Pat McAvery whispered. He was right.
Latham was confused a moment, then seemed inspired. He worked furiously and when Angus saw the purpose of Latham’s calculations he released an enlightened gasp.
Steven accessed the data and was moved to ask, “Three neutron stars in one system?”
“Two of them inside the rim of the giant,” Latham concluded. He sounded excited, and Steven saw Angus was smiling at Latham’s tone. “I think it’s a failed system,” the pilot added. “There were too many super-giants. They must have had dreadful orbits, and something happened. Three of them became neutron stars when the system collapsed, yet they’re acting more like white dwarfs in the manner they’re interacting.”
“Mister Latham,” Forte said gently, “I’m pleased to see you so animated, and I share your fascination, but we really do have to go. I know we haven’t got a set schedule, but unless we go soon, I’m afraid you’ll want to stay here all year. I’m going to die of boredom if that happens.”
“I am sorry,” Latham said. “I have a course. I guess I can look at the data later.”
“By all means,” Forte assured.
Steven clipped his headset to his console and switched his monitors to their proper display. He began accepting Latham’ s feeds and worked with the navigator to take them outside the star system whose dance of death they had nearly joined.
The Arrogance of Hope
“So, Stevie, what is it you’re doing?”
Steven looked up from his hand held computer and turned it around to show Angus. The old man smiled and Steven let him finish reading the short stanza before he withdrew the computer. He explained, “Latham’s taking his sweet time getting us a course for transition, so I thought I’d try something new. Unfortunately, I’m not very good with words.”
“No,” Angus admitted, “you’re not.”
Steven laughed, none of his old restraint evident. He said, “Thanks, Angus, I love you, too.”
Angus grinned and said, “I doubt she’ll care whether you come across as a savant or an idiot.”
Steven set the pad down and reclined. He agreed, “Prob’ly not, but it is funny, isn’t it. When I’m asked to speak on technical matters I can resort to near perfect English and make it clear and complete, but as soon as I try to involve some emotion I end up with crap.”
“Well, it isn’t that bad, Stevie.” Steven looked at Angus critically and the old man chuckled, nodded and admitted, “Perhaps it is.”
Steven’s smirk was unaltered. He turned the pad off and sighed, changing the subject. He opined, “It seems a waste of time getting up for this. You and star-man couldn’t even get a clear picture of how that system functioned. Latham’s all wild theories, but the truth is both of you are just as confused by it as I am.”
“That is true. According to many theories, the probability of what we believe we saw being what we think should be too insignificant to measure. If it was just a pair of neutron stars their spins would be decreasing and their orbital distance to their mutual centre of gravity would be increasing. If it was a trio, they would be dancing around a mutual attractor doing the same as the duo. What puzzles Robert is that the one giant is still functioning and the third star out is behaving normally. We can’t measure the decrease in that third neutron star’s spin, but purely by mass calculations and period of pulse we can tell it is slowing. All we are certain of is that the radius of its spill to their mutual centre is going to widen until it becomes a true nomad.”
“Sailing off into space,” Steven concluded. “What’s Latham’s latest theory about the two taking a swim in the giant’s bath?”
“Three giants, or four if the outer star was originally part of the system, were coexisting. One or two were likely super-giants, and the third was just exactly what it remains today…a fairly small red giant. He conjectures the two larger ones were a true binary system, while the smaller giant was in erratic orbit around them. When the two super-giants, or one of them first and then the other, went supernova, they began to accrue matter. The exact sequence is what seems to puzzle him most, but either way he thinks the two super-giants blew most of their mass into deep space and started a complicated mutual orbit around the surviving giant. The giant, undamaged, would have then began to play an equivalent role in the form of their orbit. The binary neutron stars must have lost an incredible mass before they began to accrue from the surviving red giant. Unfortunately, their orbit was tangled at some point by the introduction of the more distant neutron star. Regardless, even if it was already tangled, tidal effect and natural convergence meant the two neutron stars gravitated into the rim region of the giant. What Robert thinks we witnessed is the result of a natural pulse of the surviving giant. It expanded to prepare for its next stage of evolution and the two neutron stars created a monstrous gravitational challenge to it. Presently the situation is what used to colloquially be called a Mexican stand-off. With the giant losing so much mass to the two neutron stars it can’t explode or collapse. It’s a case of the two thieves spinning with such velocity that they can’t have their mass taken by the weaker pull of the red giant. The core of the giant is meanwhile expanding in layers across the path of the neutron stars, naturally trying to reduce its density and equalize the tidal pressures. Whether the neutron stars can pick up enough orbital velocity to escape is doubtful by Robert’s present calculations. It seems the one deeper in is orbiting crosswise to the shallow one, and so every time they come close to each other they give up some of their momentum to change their orbits dramatically. Their spins are likely still increasing, but the momentum shift is robbing them of their potential to yank themselves free of the giant.”
Steven laughed and said, “I’m not sure I want an answer, but what’s the fourth star have to do with the system we just cleared?”
“Speculation is all I can offer. From its angular momentum, and its position relative to the others, we both think it originally had nothing to do with the other three. We think it came in later. No stars are fixed in space, and this close to the core the distances between stars are relatively small. This third neutron was likely introduced after the other two began accumulating and spiralling toward the surviving red giant. Companion three has so much more mass than the two smaller neutron stars that it introduced the tidal effect necessary to force the convergence of orbit we see in the trio. We suspect, at the rate it’s losing its spin, it won’t play a part much longer. It’s too massive to break free. Robert feels it will just settle into an orbit about a third larger than it has now, and will then spin down. What happens then is up to the rest of the Universe.
“The effect it had on the trio, if Robert is correct, was not so much to rob them of their mass as rob them of their gravitational potential in relation to each other. The mutual centre of attraction between the trio and the third companion neutron star creates a dynamic tidal effect that affects both the giant’s internal companions. When they reach the far side of the giant they’re both yanked toward the giant’s core. On the near side they are pulled away from it. The drag on the far side of the giant must be greater than the gravitational pull on this side, so again the pair is robbed of their escape velocity by momentum shifts and drag, all the while picking up more mass and gravitating toward each other. How’s that for an answer?”
“About as painful as I expected.”
Angus smiled. He advised, “Likely, Stevie, you understood more of it than you think. Just picture magnetic ball bearings on the inside of a cone. The cone is placed on one end of a shaft. Fix the centre and put an electromagnet on the far end. Think of all the acting forces when you begin to spin each item on its specific axis, around other points of orbit…then turn the magnets on.”
“Resulting in a mass mess.”
“In this case a stellar-sized one. We’ve never seen anything like this before to our best knowledge, and neither of us is a genius when it comes to stellar evolution and interaction, but logically, given the correct masses and orbital conditions to start, we could likely model this system mathematically. As we get nearer the core I think we’ll see stranger animals. Robert, I know, is looking forward to seeing multiple star systems interacting. I understand his interest, and having seen this I’m keen on seeing something that has planets.”
“I was thinking on that very topic, Angus. How come in all our travels to date we’ve found less than a dozen star systems with any kind of planetary form?”
“Ah, Stevie, you just asked the one question science has the most trouble answering: Why? The standard scientific response to that question of yours is because we’ve surveyed a mere one ten-billionth of the stars, so we shouldn’t expect a better record of discovery. I prefer to pose the answer as another question: What were we really looking for when we sent those seven Addelson Class ships out to the stars they surveyed?”
“Enlighten me.”
“We were looking for life, Stevie. Admit it, or not, we were looking for life. Science has trouble making that admission, though we all know it’s true.”
“Fair enough, but why didn’t we find it?”
Angus reclined and answered honestly, “We might have. Think about this a moment: We would be unlikely to recognise life unless it was familiar; meaning, at the very least, that it would have to be carbon- or sulphur-based. We surveyed stars our spectral data and radio emission data said supported planetary systems. Of the nineteen, eleven had those systems intact when we arrived. None had life.
“Now, before you ask why not, I’ll answer. We didn’t find what we wouldn’t admit we were looking for, because we didn’t want to. Ask any scientist who has nothing resting on the project that was undertaken and they’ll tell you they knew the search would prove fruitless. You see, we’ve conquered space, but time and human nature constantly victimise us.”
“You’ve got me mildly interested,” Steven admitted.
Angus grinned and continued, “Time victimised us, because in all but eleven cases the stars we reached by the transition tunnelling method had evolved naturally beyond the planet-bearing phase. Any honest scientist with a reference book could have told anyone who asked that most of those systems were poor candidates. Our observational data said they had shown signs of planetary formation and so fourth, but most of them were star types that evolved beyond that phase for any of a number of well-known reasons: Perhaps they were going to expand too quickly, or were too weak gravitationally to hold the matter they had flung into orbit upon birth. Maybe they were too hot, or too cold. Time plays tricks, you see, because even five light years is a long time to see across with clarity.
“The real enemy though was human nature. We went to stars that were bad candidates because we wanted very badly not to find what we refused to admit we were looking for. It sounds obscure to phrase it like that, but the stars we chose, even if they had planets, were ones that promised little chance of maintaining life as we know it. Some were blasted with too much x-ray emission; others were too hot; and the list proceeds. What we found were melted rocks and frozen wastes, caked in elements nothing we know about could ever hope to survive in.
“So more than time, human nature killed the quest. The why to that is likely simpler than most of us would want to believe. We began as an egocentric race and we’ll end that way. Centuries of discovery took away our self-central view and displaced us completely. Finding out your planet is one of many in a system, and is not even vaguely central to the arrangement, was difficult. Discovering the actual axis of the earth was located where no human being lived was another blow. Realising the sun is one of billions was hard. Realising we aren’t even central to our own Galaxy was unpleasant. The least we could keep was the misplaced belief we are special…the only sentient life in the Universe, God’s little children.”
“Sad, really,” Steven mused. “But if it’s true, how do you explain this little junket?”
“Our chances of getting this far were even, and they remain the same from this point. As we get nearer the core, we get into a region with denser radiation. Every solar emission known, perhaps a few unknown, will flood space around us. If we discover life we’ll never know it. Nothing we understand could live in this poisoned space around us. It would mutate so rapidly we might miss even a trace of it. Carbon-based biology would be nearly impossible; and sulphur-based faces similar difficulties.”
“And the rest we wouldn’t understand.”
“Well, perhaps it’s safer to say we wouldn’t be sure. We couldn’t bring anything back home to experiment, and we aren’t really equipped to do much out here. Uncertainty is all we require to be confident that we are the end-all of evolution. This mission was approved because it distracts us from the rim worlds we ought likely to be searching, if our goal is to find other life. Doubtless this is a scientific boon, but it will be a safe, sterile one.
“You see, Stevie, if we keep our present rate of progress as a species we’ll have to find other stars like the one that created us, or we’ll devastate what remains of the environment we rescued from ourselves a hundred years ago. Either that, or we’ll have to solve our problems scientifically and technically. Food, water and living space is always needed. Science is easier than the ethics of invading worlds that support life, because science doesn’t have to be humane or inhumane, moral or immoral. Science only has to be, and it will be just so long as it doesn’t offend our peculiar racial ethics.”
“You know, Angus, I can understand that better than anything else we just talked about. I’ve seen that happen. Rather than risk the unknown we cling to every scrap of technology we have. Rather than do something the hard, certain way, we’ll trust a shred of almost fairy tale science to provide a maybe-solution. In fact, I’ve done it myself. Instead of dealing with Mark’s death, I tried every trick I knew to avoid it. The tried and true method was the only one I was desperate to avoid. Facing fears is harder than hiding them until someone creates an impersonal panacea.”
“It’s true of everyone, and of mankind collectively, Stevie. It’s our method of survival now, as it has been for nearly two-hundred years.”
“It almost sounds like a conspiracy in the terms you phrase it, Angus.”
“It is a conspiracy in isolation. Politicians and scientists, and other interest groups, conspire subconsciously to avoid facing difficult truths. As a widespread phenomenon it’s an incurable aspect of humanity, because it’s ingrained in us from birth. Man is always going to think of himself first, his mate second, his family third and his friends fourth. The good of mankind comes in last, with a lot of concerns in between.”
“We’re pretty pathetic, aren’t we.”
Angus considered that and shrugged. He excused, “We’re human. You pay a price for being human, and part of an evolutionary chain some billion or more years old. You always have your survival stance, and it’s not all bad to possess one. It comes to us from an age when life was brutal and extremely short. Today it leads to strife more often than not, but in the past when we were closer to our nature, and to Nature herself, it was a positive thing. Protecting your mate first, family second, and friends third had advantages. Yes, saving an enemy might have been noble, but there was no guarantee they would be as noble in return. Your friends would likely help you, so if you could safely help them, then they had an intrinsic, measurable value to your existence. Yet to save your family from danger, you would say to Hell with friends. After all, in fifty years the only memory the world would have of you was by your children. And if it comes to a decision, saving your mate was more sensible than saving your offspring. Having another child was always a possibility, but another mate was less likely. Once a man lost all of those things, all he had was himself, and in those times a lone man wouldn’t likely be alive very long. I suppose when you’ve lost everything, nobility is an option that doesn’t seem so awful.”
“Elegant in its own terms,” Forte commented, having approached them mid-way through the last portion of Angus’ extrapolation. “Now, if you can put your philosopher’s stone in your pocket, we have a ship to prepare for transition. Tanner, to the bridge with Latham; the rest of us are going down.”
Steven nodded and smiled at Angus, saying, “I guess now that we’re gods of all that’s scientific we might have some time to spare for humanity.”
“I hope we do,” Angus said in parting.
The Circle of Gods
Again Steven found himself the last to go into hibernation, and again he checked everyone before he went. Then, the timer on the lapse circuit running short, he entered his hibercolm and started the process. He felt the sensation of suffocation, followed by the ultimate comfort and warmth of a dream. That last image in his brain was a memory of the dancing stars, and he understood they were a macroscopic reflection of a dance mankind performed. An outsider was roving around in the cold darkness, affecting the blazing lovers who were courting disaster, without ever knowing the effect it had. For a while that lonely star would travel, then it would die a cold death or perhaps flee again, maybe this time to meet its twin in the heart of some new stellar furnace. He understood because he had been close to the cold state of that lonely star until his lover had returned to him his waning fire. Angus was responsible for that. Angus, a small god in an expansive Universe, had given a small gift to a smaller man. In return, Steven had given mankind the chance to reach into the heart of their Galaxy. In purest terms that central cluster was the source of everything they knew. It was God, as certainly as they were gods in their disciplines.
Their circle of gods was soon to meet another.

July 4th, 2125
The Fall from the Heavens
There was a stirring in Steven’s head and he knew himself again. It was like rising to the surface of an ocean of oil, clawing up through the muck toward an insignificant point of light. That was his dream, swimming out of darkness toward a distant, cold light. There was only silence and that light; a light without flicker and without scale, like an unblinking eye of some careless observer. Waking from the dream was sudden and troublesome. He snapped awake while the hibercolm was still full of fluid. It irritated his eyes and he promptly closed them, a mistake the computer compensated for with laser strikes, opening his eyes again. The forced reaction made his eyes jerk rapidly from side-to-side and he wrinkled his nose like he was about to sneeze. The atmosphere was liquid almost two minutes and during that stretch he refused to draw another breath. His gag reflex was too strong. When the chemicals recombined, he closed his eyes and gulped the air the scrubbers were providing. It was the first time he had felt trapped by a hibercolm. It was dark and close around him, like a mechanical shroud. The only light was the plane of laser light tracking his face, and to him it looked like a far away star, taunting him. He was panicked. He knew it, but had no idea why. The computer also knew and laser strikes took control of him long enough to regulate his breathing. The adjustment to oxygen level in his hibercolm cleared his head slightly and he resisted the overwhelming urge he felt to call for help.
He pressed the buttons to activate the monitor and blinked to wet his eyes. Having them open when the fluid state passed had dried them. The menu choices on his monitor looked blurry. He fumbled for information on who was being raised and failed to navigate the menu. Certain he was fumbling, he drew measured breaths to calm himself, eyes shut. When he tried again a moment later the list was provided: Forte, Bartlett, McAvery, Latham, and Angus were in cycle-up. This time there were more names, some being appended as he watched and waited to be free of his coffin. Craig Ladd was being roused, and with her was coming Jason Labrador, Denise Wilkins, and Robert Heafs. The monitor paused then before he received more: Robins, Parini, McCulloum, York, and SO 41-47. His entire crew was coming up, Elizabeth included. Something was wrong.
He was alert to the sensation of danger and undertook to discover what had happened to call the entire engineering crew at once. A few instinctive jabs at the buttons brought the engineering section menu onto his display. There was no response along the electrical mains on A-deck. More peculiar, the particle collectors had shut down without explanation.
The hatch on his hibercolm was rising. It ascended to the ceiling with its customary, healthy whirr. This time he was the first out of hibernation, a result of his refusal to breathe naturally. It was always quicker when the computer had to intercede in the normal revival process.
Ladd’s hibercolm was opening now, and so too was Jack Robins’.
Steven stumbled against his locker and retrieved his shirt, tugging it on crookedly. His boots he put on without sitting, wobbling. He was dizzy, another result of being brought up so quickly. He paused only a moment to regain his balance, then started toward the emergency lights above the mess hall bulkhead doors. Part way there he ran into someone and they jerked back, gasping.
“Something’s wrong,” he muttered, not clear enough to realize it was Craig he had bounced against. The impact forced her to slide down the lockers, her body’s nervous system misfiring erratically because of her hibernation sensitivity.
Steven slapped the doors open, vaguely aware a half-dozen of the hibercolms were opened or opening. He ran across the ready room and nearly ran into the second set of bulkhead doors, castigating himself for having forgotten to leave revised orders with the computer. The door seemed sluggish and he slipped through before it had retracted fully. He was running now because he could hear something banging on the hull. There was a consistent patter of particles striking somewhere above.
He ran directly into the ladder in the main access stack and was surprised to find the mesh plate around it was open. He slipped and cracked his shin, but the low gravity well around the ladder prevented his falling. It took him a moment to realize his running into the ladder was what had opened the protective deck plating around it, and he climbed a rung and struck the activator on purpose. The mesh closed silently. Only when he was certain it was closing, did he latch the safety across the activator button and leave the stack.
The last door before the bridge opened smoothly and he limped up the ramp, whispering to himself. He was trying to clear his head sufficiently to manage what he had to do. If the particle collectors had failed them, the reactor would be following. If it failed he would have to switch manually to the secondary reactor to give them reasonable power until the primary load-bearing columns could be preheated for a primary restart. Introducing reactions cold would be analogous to detonating a nuclear bomb nearly as powerful as a small G-class star.
He sat and hit the space bar. His station lit and he typed the necessary code for voice entry.
“Tanner, E-N-G dash zero one. Respond.”
It replied it was ready to receive his orders.
“Activate all decks. Lighting and residual power; intensity one half, with standard increment suggested post-hibernation. Do.”
The lights came on and the computer informed: A-DECK MAINS A-441 FAILED. A-DECK BULKHEADS SEALED. REPORT: MAINS DAMAGE RESULTING FROM PARTICLE PENETRATION OF PRIMARY HULL.
He rubbed his eyes and ignored the report.
“Display reactor status, and report on function. Do.”
REACTOR, PRIMARY REACTOR, CONFIRMED OPERATIONAL. 100% POTENTIAL. REPORT: PARTICLE COLLECTORS FAILED RESULTING FROM PARTICLE DENSITY IN REGION. OVERLOAD BREAKERS THROWN. DAMPERS ACTIVATED.
“Switch A-deck mains A-441 to A-deck mains B-441. Activate power on A-deck. Do.”
FAILED. REPORT. REDUNDANCY CIRCUITS FAILED.
“Schematics display of A-deck mains. Show damage. Do.”
Three dimensional line drawings were displayed, green showing the active circuits, yellow the redundancy circuits and blue the main electrical circuits. The entire schematic was red. Power had been cut off at the mains interchange.
“Report structure of A-deck. Damages only. Do.”
LOCAL DAMAGE. REPORT: AFT PORT, 57.5 CENTIMETRES ABOVE BASE LINE. PRIMARY HULL VIOLATED. SECONDARY HULL SECURE. BREACH SEALED BY AUTOMATIC SEAL SYSTEMS. SEAL SECURE. CAUSE DETERMINED. IRON, NICKEL, CADMIUM ALLOY ASTEROID. ENHANCEMENT AVAILABLE.
“Define asteroid size and attendant radioactivity. Do.”
SURVIVING APPROXIMATE DIAMETER, 2.46 CENTIMETRES. RADIOACTIVITY ON MONITOR SEVEN. DETERMINATION: LOW RISK.
Steven reviewed the monitor displaying the graphic that gave estimates of the attendant radioactivity. The green guides showing A-deck was safe to work in were comforting.
Forte arrived, Jack Robins and Reed McCulloum close behind her.
“What’s wrong?” was Forte’s immediate question; she looked ready to fall down at any moment.
Steven turned off the voice recognition mode to avoid the computer being confused. Forte’s tone, perfectly calm, helped him reply sensibly, ‘A-deck was breached by a small metallic asteroid. The power went down at the mains. Collectors are shut down, and the reactor was isolated by the main computer.”
Jack sat beside Steven and wearily began accessing the structural reports.
Reed stumbled to the chair opposite them where Viola had sat during launch so many years ago. He started to investigate the reactors, but was having trouble striking the appropriate keys. He was sluggish and confused.
Latham came onto the bridge next. He looked drained, but he reached his station without difficulty and began to work.
“The collectors check,” Steven said, looking past Forte to where Reed was. He suspected the Texan was incapacitated, so he ordered, “Don’t reactivate them until someone gives us an exterior scan to explain why they shut down. We can’t risk scoring the chambers.”
Reed seemed to understand, but it was hard to tell. He was reacting badly to seven years in hibernation, and was completely disoriented.
Bartlett was on the bridge, and Heafs had just staggered in. The scientist nearly fell before he reached his station, where he collapsed in his chair. No other viable choice, Steven turned and said, “Heafs, we need an exterior scan of our position. The collectors shut down because we came into dense space. We need to understand our position.”
Heafs leaned forward, flopped back, and apologised, “I don’t think I can yet. Give me a minute.”
No one scolded Heafs. A glance at anyone on the bridge told the same truth. They all felt nearly as unstable as Heafs.
“Where the Hell is Vee?” Steven whispered.
Jack stopped what he was doing and glanced up. He replied in a low tone, “She and McAvery took Craig Ladd to quarters. Something’s wrong with her.”
“With Vee?”
“With Ladd.”
Steven knew. He had almost forgotten bumping someone in the hibercolm chamber. He had been focused on reaching the bridge and determining their situation. He regretted the accident, but had to put it aside. Craig’s hibernation sensitivity would be horrible after seven years, but there was nothing he could do to change the mistake.
Pat entered behind Labrador. Labrador seemed worse than Heafs, barely capable of standing. Pat seemed unaffected by the down time, but he was pale and abandoned his usual chipper greetings. His shirt was stained by vomit down the left side. He went directly to his station and took over for the science department, understanding instantly that they needed a definition of where they were relative to whatever lay outside. Pat’s discovery, made within seconds, brought his first words since entering the bridge. “Oh my God,” he whispered.
Forte was calm, but her voice was hollow. She said, “Put your data on my terminal, Mister McAvery.”
He did, and continued to work at his Communications station, lifting his headphones and putting them on. Steven caught the same data Forte was receiving and frowned. The density readings outside were inconceivable. It was similar to what he would have expected if they were flying through water.
Pat was opening radio channels and looking between various monitors. He stopped moving abruptly. Steven happened to be looking across the bridge and saw Pat’s brow wrinkle.
“I’m getting a very weird signal,” Pat whispered sharply. He started to say more, but his syllable ended with a chop. It was like he had been hit.
“Mister McAvery,” Forte said to prompt him.
Pat’s colour drained and he was still. His eyes focused straight ahead, and he stopped blinking.
“Mister McAvery,” Forte said sharply, concerned.
Bartlett tried, “Patrick! Pat!”
Tracey York came onto the bridge with Elizabeth. Tracey was unstable and Elizabeth was guiding her. Steven had until then been focused on Pat. He immediately glanced at Elizabeth and Tracey and judged Tracey was incapable of taking Viola’s station. He ordered, “Put Spanner in one of those empty seats and take Vee’s station. Start a scan on what we’re in. I need a read on magnetism, metallic makeup, and radiation. I need complete particle composition and charge information.”
Forte was standing, shaking because of post-hibernation weakness. She went to McAvery, and when her hand touched his arm he spun, dislodging the headphones. He was breathing erratically, terrified.
“What’s wrong with you?” she demanded.
Pat was still staring straight ahead, through Forte. He hissed, “There’s a message.”
Steven promptly paused what he was doing and joined the general turn toward McAvery. Only Heafs and Labrador were too paralysed to react at all.
Forte almost lost her balance and had to lean on the console. She was staring directly into Pat’s empty face. She asked, “What are you talking about, Mister McAvery?”
Pat shuddered and his voice came at a level almost entirely inaudible except for the silence on the bridge. He whispered, “He spoke to me.”
Steven felt the hairs on his neck standing. He was only dragged from his fixated state by his digital gauge board. It lit yellow across its surface, every monitor and solid-state display filling with warnings. There were so many so quickly it was impossible to read them all.
“Son-of-a-bitch; down the reactor! Reed, down it now, we have a back-flood in the lines!”
Reed was fumbling. Elizabeth turned, reached by him, and shut down the feeds before Steven was finished the order. Automatically the secondary systems interrupted to provide power. There was an instant when the power dropped sharply between the interchanges and the view portal power surged. Brilliant white light spit through into the bridge. Bartlett reacted to the flash with a scream, hunching in his seat and putting his hands up to his eyes.
“Jack, shut the view port curtain!” Steven ordered.
Jack was already doing it. They could hear the space between the two sheets of multiple-ply crystal filling with the fluid barrier that would effectively prevent any further bursts.
Before the process was completed, Steven’s board went red and yellow again. He was unable to get a proper readout and switched to the reserves reactor himself. Again there was a flash through the port, though this time the fluid had already dampened the light enough to prevent a blinding flare and no one was looking directly at it. Reserves instantly went to the red-line level and Elizabeth switched to batteries before Steven could order it. He was busy trying to find out what was happening to them, and her fast reaction kept him focused on that problem.
The absence of the main lights made it difficult to now see anything on the bridge. In the dim emergency lighting, Forte left McAvery and struggled back to her seat. Pat was still frozen, eyes focused on nothing.
Viola’s voice came over the internal communications channel, asking, “Steve?”
He stopped playing with his displays and switched open his station communications link with his left hand. He raised and put on his headset with the same hand, switching to his private channel. His right hand hovered over the controls that switched the batteries. The three lights were still green.
“What’s happening? Why’re the lights out?” came from his headset. Viola sounded terribly distant.
He adjusted the mouthpiece and whispered, “Sit tight, Vee. Stay wherever you are and I’ll keep my line open to you. I can’t give you power though. We’re on batteries.”
Viola asked nothing more. She knew better by both his tone and their obvious difficulty. Being on batteries in a ship as well designed as Sapphire meant there was a critical problem.
Angus and Wilkins were on the bridge finally, slipping into their chairs by Heafs. Angus was reasonably clear, and he began to explore his console to determine what was occurring outside the ship. Wilkins was dazed, but she fought it and set to work.
Forte had waited long enough. She demanded, “Tanner, what happened?”
“I don’t know yet. Something overloaded our reactor. I recorded a jump from seven-and-one-half percent capacity to twenty-one-point-seven in just over a second.”
There was disbelief in Forte’s tone now. “What?” she demanded.
“I don’t know yet. The orders didn’t come from the manual stations, and I can’t get anything out of diagnostics. Whatever it is, it’s gone right now. We must be in some kind of particle storm. Some code must be reacting badly to a conflict.”
“There’s something strange on my monitors,” Angus said. “Could there be a problem with the sensor arrays?”
“Hang on, Angus. I’ll— Ah shit! We’re losing our power curve. What’s wrong with it, Reed?”
Reed was utterly useless. He fumbled and muttered, “Don’t see nothing.”
Alarms rang and the power died at every station for a few seconds. When it returned it was only because Steven switched back to the reserves reactor. The alarms returned with the lights, filling Sapphire with howls and clangs.
Labrador was screaming something. Steven had to strain to hear him holler, “Give me priority! I just lost the hibercolms!”
Steven did it, confirming, “You’re switched.” He had to renege almost instantly. “Wait, I’m closing down.”
The alarms died with the power.
“I need power!” Labrador barked.
The batteries came up and instantly one of the three warning lights turned yellow. Steven frowned, but held them open. He warned, “Hurry up, Labrador, the batteries are burning up.”
“I’m working,” Labrador claimed, sounding panicked.
The first battery turned red and its buzzers started to purr. The second was yellow and the third flickered yellow an instant later.
There was hardly a sound on the bridge except the warning buzzers on the batteries and Labrador’s furious typing. Added to the clicks was Labrador’s whisper: “God forgive me, God forgive me, God forgive me.”
“Hurry up, the batteries are going!”
The second battery was burned out.
Sapphire lurched violently to port and Steven realised Forte had navigated the darkness to stand beside him. He only noticed because she nearly fell on him. He steadied her with one hand and raised the other to his controls.
“I have to shut down.”
“Leave it on,” Forte ordered. “He needs it to the hibercolms.”
“They’re burning out.”
“Leave them on,” she repeated calmly.
The last battery flickered red and started to buzz. Steven hit the appropriate switches to bring the primary reactor back on line. He moved fast then, opening the main feeds to bring them up to full power. The motion set off every warning klaxon in the ship. They died instantly a second later when he threw the mains and took the reactor off line. The pause in the draw off the batteries was enough to return two of the three to green condition. The third was finished. Its red light was blinking and the buzzing had stopped. He said, “Reed, I opened the vents to flush the overload. Leave them open. Labrador, hurry up, the batteries won’t hold long,”
Ominously, one clicked to yellow.
The tension and silence on the darkened bridge was almost tangible. The stench of sweat, and the vomit on Pat’s shirt, was overpowering.
Steven frowned and ordered, “Switch all power to life support and the hibercolms.”
Jack was trying to find the cause of their reactor failure; Reed was too groggy to even understand the order. Elizabeth responded to it efficiently. The few insistent buzzers at Steven’s station were silenced and the lights everywhere went dim on every console but the engineering sets and Labrador’s.
Jason Labrador looked like a grim, gaunt phantom presiding over a mute organ. His fingers were fluttering across the back-lit keyboards, casting butterfly shadows up onto his face and chest. The binary symphony failed momentarily and Labrador angrily slammed both fists down across the keyboards.
Steven ignored Forte and turned away from Labrador. He gave his orders without asking for approval, aware  how fast they had to move to accomplish a rescue: “Jack, get back to them. Break them out. It’s better they die of shock than suffocate.”
Forte made no mention that she should have given the order. She only added, “Bartlett, go with him.”
Bartlett sounded forlorn and hopeless from the darkness. He said, “I can’t see. I got flashed when the portal block came down. I’m blind.”
Jack drew a portable flashlight from underneath his console and left the bridge. Wilkins and York had recovered sufficiently to join him, only pausing to get portable emergency lights.
Power went down completely.
“Reed, go back with them,” Steven ordered. “They’ll need help, and you’re not doing any good here.”
Forte returned to her console and sat. Labrador was still seated, weeping. She turned and ordered tersely, “Labrador, go aft and help them.”
Labrador obeyed, rising an instant later with his flashlight. He was gone before Reed, who was staggering like a drunk toward the exit. Elizabeth abandoned Viola’s station and sat at Reed’s.
Steven tried the reserves again and the power pulsed, the overload in the reactor spiking the mains. His answer to the challenge was to rapidly switch power off and on while he diverted the surges from the electrical mains into the vents. Space around them would be brilliant with plasma flashes. The internal result of his approach was that the ship was alternately silent and filled by alarms, alternately dark and flooded with light. Over the howls he snapped, “Command stations should have power on condensers!”
Forte tried and found she did.
“Stations report,” she ordered, still maintaining her cool demeanour, looking like a ghost.
Angus interrupted, “We’re falling into decaying orbit.”
Latham heard that and tried to confirm it. He did, defining, “We’re drifting port and down. We’re drawing speed at two metres per click.”
“Why are we in orbit? What the Hell are we orbiting?!” Bartlett asked.
Angus had found out. He replied, “The computer read a general order from the science files. Order fifty-seven-point-three reads, ‘All sources of controlled radiation are to be investigated.’ It— I lost my power.”
Steven still had his. He provided the missing information, accessing it with a keystroke on one of Jack’s abandoned displays. He finished, “It detected radio wave transmissions coining out of a jump five days ago and set a new course to the object. It placed us in orbit using standard relational templates about four hours, twenty-three minutes ago.”
“Mister Tanner,” Latham said softly, like he might be on the verge of shock. “Mister Tanner, I need power.”
A dull thud sounded somewhere on the hull. Bartlett, blind and dismayed, whispered, “We just hit something.”
Steven stifled a curse. A low rumble echoed through the ship. It was like distant thunder, and it drown out everything for an instant. A snap and crunch followed and Sapphire lurched so violently the inertial dampers failed to compensate. It was the first sign the condensers feeding the false-mass gravity were failing. Every twist and sway would be felt when the damping fields ceased to operate. He asked, “Latham, what circuits do you need? I have readings that there are backlashes through the primaries and secondaries at three second intervals. Reserves are showing an even descent, and the batteries are all burned up. I can’t give you much. Something’s damping core reactions and there are spikes all along the mains.”
“I need manual control,” Latham decided. “I need my relays powered, and I need enough residual to flash the emergency chemical ramjets for atmospheric entry positioning.”
Again Sapphire lurched and a crunch echoed through her.
“We’re skimming the upper atmosphere. I need to get us on an entry angle,” Latham added, the shock gone from his tone. He was in survival mode now, perfectly calm and focusing.
“Deflection,” Forte whispered, her voice slipping from its calm for just an instant. They all knew what deflection entailed. The ship was bouncing as it skidded into the thick atmosphere of whatever they had been orbiting. Without an entry angle, even Sapphire couldn’t resist the pressure and heat for long.
The deck plates were beginning to tremble. When the next thunderclap and crunch came it was many times more powerful than the first two skips.
Latham was completely in control of himself. He was moving swiftly and carefully across his controls, preparing to position the ship if he received any power. It was the skill that had cinched his place on the mission. He said evenly, almost conversationally, “I would really appreciate some manual control, Steven.”
Steven winced as the ship pitched at a gut-wrenching angle. The artificial gravity was gone and nothing was compensating for the drag. The rumble was constant now and it was deafening. Sapphire was like a giant drum and the atmosphere of the mysterious object below was an insane, erratic drummer.
He switched the power on and opened the internal communications channels. He hollered, “It’s on, Latham! You have full power! Overload is imminent, so work as fast as you can!”
The alarms and lights seemed garish now, but over the rattle of their entry into the atmosphere they were barely loud enough to retain their immediacy. They were like a tired afterthought.
Latham started prodding his keyboard and was wrestling with his manual control stick, flying on instinct and feel. The sensors were either inoperative or overloaded.
Two incredible jolts shook the ship and a loud clamour shook her from beam-to-beam, then there was virtual silence. A steady building screech started to invade the silence. Most of their sensors came back.
Over the whine Latham said simply, “I’ve lost orbit. We’re entering with spin. I need landing power, please.”
Steven left the reserves on-line and started draining power off in surges, passing what he could through the external vents. To keep the reserves up, he had to vent a burst of power into the lower frames. Yelling to be heard of the building screech, he snapped over the open communications channels, “I’ve channelled eighty-six million measures plus into the lower lauding structure! All personal stay clear of junctions and relay points; we might experience grounding phenomenon!”
To prove him right, lighting flashed in the main access stack, creeping along the ramp toward the bridge before it hit the insulating breaks. Up by the portal a string of vibrant blue wriggled from nothing and faded again.
Forte was struggling with her restraining belts. She paused when the lightening danced on the portal and ordered, “Tanner, prepare to blow the TCBs!”
He armed the charges, glanced at her with a stony expression, and reminded, “If I separate them from the frames we’re permanent residents here!”
She leaned toward Bartlett a second, and he sat back so she could latch his harness. A thoughtful second passed before she decided, “Belay the order! Prepare total power-down on command, or situation! Use your discretion!”
Steven cut the release commands and switched all the feeds back onto manual control patterns, as he had when toggling the reactors on and off line. He saw his readouts reflecting that Elizabeth was doing the same as him, turning on every hard circuit inboard to drain the surges.
Latham was frosty. He warned, “Prepare for sudden impact within four minutes!”
From the communicators came Jack’s voice, reporting, “Two of the hibercolms are still closed! We can’t get them open! There’s too much rattling back here!”
Steven ordered, “Stand clear! I’ll blown them from here!”
He knew the occupants of the two hibercolms were likely beyond help, but they had a slim chance of surviving the shock if the emergency release charges were blown. A slim chance was better than none.
“All clear!” Jack crackled, voice a whisper against the screech of entry.
Steven saw Elizabeth move and he heard the crack and thud over the intercom channel. Returning his full attention to the task ahead, he vented three gigawatt surges into the particle collection frames and turned off two circuits in danger of overload.
Forte was hanging onto the edge of Bartlett’s chair, a look of distress on her face. She turned slightly and ordered, “McAvery! Strap yourself in!”
Pat was jolting in his chair, expression blank, eyes focused in the empty air. Elizabeth responded to his danger by rising and moving to his station long enough to attend to his harness. She had to push him to get him far enough into the chair to lock the chest-level buckles. Sapphire twisted wildly a moment later and she fell to her knees, crawling to her seat when the ship lurched again.
Steven had to force himself to look away from her to his displays. The flash that had caught his eye struck him nearly speechless. What he managed to say was almost too soft to be heard.
“Jesus Christ, there’s more than one-hundred million measures powering the mains.”
Forte caught enough of his shocked statement to respond to it with the order, “Drain it to the atmosphere!”
The order irritated Steven to the brusque reply, “I’m draining all I can!”
Latham was still completely collected, working patiently as if he were practising a routine training drill. He alone was completely aware how bad off they were, but he reflected none of his knowledge. He had their spin coming under control and suspected he could bring Sapphire down in one piece. Whether she was ever raised was the responsibility of the engineering group.
Angus had connected the last of Heafs seatbelts and had just attached his. He was pressing back into his seat, eyeglasses in one hand, eyes closed. Steven saw him for an instant when he turned to study another monitor, then he was back to work, trying to guide immense power fluctuations along safe channels. His impression of the split second he saw Angus was that the old man looked frazzled and frightened. It highlighted for him how strangely calm he felt.
Forte was looking at a display. She ordered, “Mister Latham, activate the landing jets!”
Latham remained cool, reaching calmly to switch the boosters onto manual control. The explosion of his console drove him backward into his seat with enough force that the pedestal of the chair snapped. The chair and the debris from the mutilated console were propelled backward into the front of Forte and Bartlett’s command island. Both ducked to avoid the plastic, metal and glass that spun from the ruined navigation station. Several of the monitors on Forte’s board were broken off and struck her as they scattered to the back of the bridge.
The explosion freed McAvery of his paralysis. He undid his harness with one hand and grabbed the extinguisher under his console. Barely able to maintain his footing, he staggered toward the navigation console to douse the electrical fires on the cables and frames that lay across Latham.
Steven was already up, moving to support Pat. Forte was too stunned to order them to their seats. Within five seconds they had freed Latham and dragged him toward the Communications station. They fell with him there when the ship jerked hard.
“Brace yourselves down there!” Forte ordered, recovering enough now to realise the danger presented by the debris and their lack of safety belts.
Steven retrieved Pat’s extinguisher and staggered fore, falling against the side of Forte’s command console when Sapphire twisted. He was still on his feet, so he pushed off toward the Navigation station, spraying it with foam to smother some of the worst flames. When the last flames were smouldering, he jammed the extinguisher into the burnt corpse of a monitor bracket and angled it to keep it from being dislodged.
“What does the surface look like!?” he demanded.
Pat was hanging onto the Communications chair. He left it and stumbled to stand against Craig Ladd’s Duty console. He was behind Forte’s chair, hanging onto the hump of a recessed monitor, looking upside down at another. Forte said nothing about the dangerous stance, but she turned and leaned forward far enough to hook her arms around his waist.
Elizabeth was doing exactly what Steven expected. She was carefully keeping the power on, venting backlashes and surges wherever she could. She was already aware what he was planning.
“Surface!” Pat reported, voice steady despite his screaming to be heard. “Surface is about two, three kilometres below, dotted by small hills! A mountain range is a kilometre to port! We’re descending now at one-hundred metres per second, drifting seventy-five metres to port per second!”
Steven punched a panel above the ruined console and it bent, popping two of its corners. He looped one hand around a bent piece of the console to keep his footing and removed the panel, dislodging the five small circuit boards behind. The conduit for the main control stick cabling was behind them. He broke the plastic pipe with a hard yank and tore the cables out far enough to start striping them bare against a twisted shard of metal. The manual stick was nearly useless in a ship as complex as Sapphire, but it controlled the chemical ramjets and he needed at least that much control.
“Give me power to Navigation on my command!” he ordered. “I’ll need terrain updates on my mark! Mark!”
“Fifteen fifty-five metres to surface; two-hundred seventy-seven port to a rock prominence!”
“Power up now!”
Elizabeth obeyed the order and fire lit along numerous exposed electrical feeds. Steven blinked rapidly to protect his eyes from the sparks and had to let go of the console to shove some flaming bundles of cable back. He nearly fell when the ship responded to the first brush of one bare control cable against another, and he had to ignore the fires and grab hold. The insulation between his fingertips and the wire was beginning to smoke and his fingertips were burning.
Sapphire was lurching violently from side-to-side and the screech was almost inaudible beyond the groan of the ships beams.
“Port motion slowing!” Pat reported automatically. Less than a second later he warned, “Too late!”
The ship impacted hard against rocks and bounced away, spinning wildly around its equatorial axis. The centrifugal motion yanked them all forward in their seats. The lights died and Elizabeth said, “Power is down!”
“We’re out of control!” Pat cried. “Impact!”
Steven stepped sideways and tripped over something, falling against Labrador’s empty chair. He held onto the undone safety harness. He nearly lost his grip at the jolt and something heavy struck his back, smashing a monitor beside Bartlett. The jolt was accompanied by the squeal of ripping metal, and he guessed by the sound it was the keel cargo bay door being peeled off. When the floor shook, a hiss sounded and he glanced up toward the portal, certain it was going to implode. The inner panels cracked as something bounced off them and the dark fluid between the layers of crystal began to rain down across the deck in front of Bartlett. A dim glimmer of light came through the portal as the protective fluid guttered out, but its flow was compensated for by a splatter of some other fluid across the exterior panel.
Sapphire seemed to skitter to a stop, tilting fore and turning aft end to starboard. The thud and crunch that brought her to a standstill seemed almost absurdly gentle. She heaved slightly, wobbled side-to-side, then settled.
A soft click sounded and the lights came on, their low hum decorated by hundreds of warning buzzers. The power flickered once, then Elizabeth turned the alarms off and they were left with a lull. Her voice trembling, she said, “We are nominal on the secondaries reactor. There is no damage along the primary electrical feeds. We have full capability on the secondaries reactor.”
Steven pulled himself to his knees and looked fore. The automatic fire suppression systems were working finally, dealing with the fires on Latham’s mangled console. The sight of the ruined station brought him back to focus, and he leaned over Latham and checked for a pulse. His hand left the pilot’s throat dripping blood. The deck plates all across the path Latham’s body had rolled were smeared with crimson.
Steven looked to Forte and saw she was supporting Pat, who was unconscious. There was a relief knowing McAvery would be spared the sight of what remained of Latham.
“He’s dead; Latham’s dead,” Steven reported mechanically.
Forte blinked and lowered Pat against the command island. She started to stand, trembling, and asked, “Do we have hull integrity?”
Elizabeth replied, “A minor breach in the port-side particle collectors has been recorded, and the cargo bay door is open. Emergency bulkheads have sealed. We maintained environmental integrity.”
“We see to the crew in the hibercolms first,” Forte decided. She lowered Pat into her seat and clutched her side, closing her eyes a moment. Biting back the ache, she encouraged, “Let’s move, people; they’ll need our help back there.”
The Fallen
The bridge was quiet and dark. Steven was alone, standing on Forte’s console. The crystal of the portal had split near the centre and fractured from side-to-side. The crack was a foot long and marked at the left side by a fist-sized hole where it had been struck. The red paint flecks in the crystal proved a theory he had formed. The extinguisher he had jammed into one of Latham’s ruined monitors had come loose on impact and spun up into the portal. How it had gained enough momentum to crack the crystal was beyond his imagination, since the material was the hardest known to man, but it was cracked, there was proof of the impact, and beyond that there was no argument to explain it away.
He squatted and hopped carefully down from the command island, his boots meeting the thin film of fluid coating the floor hard enough to sound the impact. It was like a hand slapping water.
The bridge was damaged, but most of it was superficial. They could repair it sufficiently to get back into orbit.
He nudged Latham’s mangled chair with a foot and frowned. All that remained was a shapeless, blood-stained mass of black, synthetic leather. Tufts of foam padding were strung across the ruin. The inertial damping built into the chair, in the form of fluid filled plastic sacs, was a mass of flattened plastic bulbs. The fluid was mixed with the rest of the sludge from the portal and blood. The three snarled, reinforced nylon belts were the least damaged remnants of the seat.
Moving the chair brought his attention to what lay beside an empty, melted monitor casing. It was Latham’s baseball cap. The rich blue was coloured by brown and black spots, and the Ford-Enterprise emblem was marred by a black streak and speckles of insulation that had fused to the plastic threads. Steven squatted and retrieved the cap, shaking the particles from it and putting a fist inside to push up the flattened crown. The white tag by the adjuster caught his eye. Written in tiny block letters was the proclamation, ‘PROPERTY OF ROBERT WILLIAM LATHAM.’ The unsteady shape of the letters suggested insecurity, a curious suggestion that seemed more probably a truth by the very fact the inscription existed.
Holding the cap made Steven think how little he knew about Latham. Duty record aside, he had known almost nothing. The tag seemed to suggest vulnerability he didn’t remember seeing. During their disastrous fall from orbit Latham had grown progressively more relaxed as they neared impact. Insecurity and vulnerability suggested lack of courage, and Latham’s final actions defied that interpretation.
Steps distracted him and he looked toward the ramp, standing as he did. Pat McAvery was approaching, eyes focused on the cap. He stopped by Forte’s console and swallowed. Steven held it toward him with the feeble explanation, “I found it.”
Pat took it and turned it around in his hands, nodding. They remained immersed in uncomfortable silence, the absence of sound only violated by the insistent drip of fluid from the cracked inner layer of the portal. Pat’s face was contorted by a painful frown and he was crying. He rejected the silence with the soft, sad whisper, “I knew Robert pretty well.”
Steven didn’t know what to say. It was awkward. He liked Pat well enough, but he knew him no better than he had known Latham. Apologies seemed improper, and he was too much of an outsider to offer honest consolation.
“We used to play cards during our up-time. He wasn’t very good at it. I used to win all the time.”
The cap was still turning in Pat’s hands, like making circles with it would magically take away the memory it provoked. Pat stopped turning the hat and raised a hand like he was going to wipe his nose. Instead, he pinched his nostrils closed and held his breath like he was trying to suffocate himself. His mouth moved uncertainly from a frown to a half-hearted smile, then back again. His eyes were blinking rapidly, the tears still gliding down his dirty cheeks. Still, he avoided Steven’s eyes, staring into space between them and the ruins of Latham’s station.
“Do—” Pat’s voice cracked, and he began turning the cap in a circle again. He turned to go, but went only a few feet before he stopped. He was facing away. “Do you believe in Heaven?”
Steven shook his head, staring at Pat’s tense back. It took him almost a minute to realize Pat couldn’t see his response. He finally said, “No, Patrick, I don’t believe in Heaven.”
“Robert did. He was…a decent man.”
“Yeah,” Steven said. He had no idea what more he could say. A man’s beliefs were private business; and how could he argue Latham was anything but decent? Maybe believing in Heaven was what had given Latham so much courage in their crisis. Whatever it had been, wherever the strength had come from, he felt thankful for it.
Pat turned the cap in his hand just once more, then he laid it between two of the monitor’s on Craig’s Duty console. He left the bridge with his hands in his jacket pockets, head bowed.
Steven put his hands on his hips and then wiped his hair from his brow. He felt inadequate, but was incapable of giving more comfort. Apologising would have meant nothing. Saying that Latham had likely died the instant of the explosion was pointless. It didn’t matter that Latham hadn’t suffered. Latham was dead, well beyond such petty concerns. Pat McAvery was suffering now, and nothing he could do would change that. He sat in Labrador’s chair and sighed, bowing his head onto a hand. The pressure on his forehead felt good. It reminded him he was alive. His fingers had been burned by the wires he had used in his foolish attempt to control their fall, but he was otherwise undamaged. There was nothing worse than a few bruises; bruises seemed inconsequential in to their predicament.
“Steven.”
The whisper brought him to attention. The adrenaline rush he had experienced during their crisis had lessened the immediate effect coming up from hibernation had on him, but he was feeling exhausted now.
“Hey, Elizabeth. Where’s everyone?”
She walked to him and leaned on the edge of Labrador’s console, replying, “Mostly in the ready room, or the medical suite. Miss Ladd is getting better, but Vee has been told to stay with her. Mister Penderson is still in critical condition, and Mister Shepherd’s helper died.”
Steven interpreted her report. He was pleased she referred to Angus’ science BIOT without using the term. He had heard it too many times. Labrador’s immediate complaint after the crash, pious and intolerant, was that Penderson would be fine if Jack had left the other BIOT in its hibercolm. Labrador felt human life had been threatened by concern for a machine, never once, realising BIOTs were as human as them; never once recognising Elizabeth’s contribution to their survival. Without her, Steven had no doubt they all would have died.
“How are Heafs and Spanner?”
“Mister Heafs is asleep. Something’s wrong with his ears. He’s very dizzy when he tries to stand. Mister Shepherd gave him a sedative and took him to his barracks. Tracey is in her room and so is Captain Forte. They’re bleeding.”
Steven nodded. Had Tracey not fainted, no one would have suspected how sick she felt. For some women coming up from hibernation induced heavy menstrual cycles that further disrupted the normal metabolic operation of the body. That Forte had made it through the crash-landing and stayed conscious was a testament to her will.
“How are Clay’s eyes?”
“Mister Bartlett can see now, but he has a headache. He’s been yelling at Mister Labrador.”
Steven managed to smile. That Bartlett was yelling at Labrador was a positive sign, and it made him feel better to know someone was bawling out the medical officer. His dislike of Labrador, he realised, was too personal to even give the man credit for what he had tried to do right during the fall from orbit. He might have managed a twinge of guilt in other circumstances, but presently he was too tired to care if he was being unjust. Finally, he found the courage to ask, “How are you?”
She bowed her eyes, whispering, “I feel bad.”
“Sick, bad; or upset emotionally, bad?”
“Bad,” she said, hesitating before she added, “Bad, bad.”
He stood and put his arm around her shoulders, squeezing her. Leaning his face near hers, he said, “I don’t feel too good myself. I need sleep.”
Angus had come onto the bridge. He said, “I’m interrupting, and I’m sorry, but Clay wants you to assemble some equipment and seal Robert’s body in one of the damaged hibercolms. Patrick has been sent to clear the personal items from Robert’s room so we can seal them. We’ve lodged young Miss York in my room for now. We’ll install her in Robert’s quarters as soon as his things are moved. There’s no point her having to stay in the storage lodgings now.”
Steven nodded and pushed off of Labrador’s console. He wiped his chin and said, “I’ll get on that. If you see Jack, tell him to clean this fluid up and then get some rest. We can’t really assess the damage until we’ve rested. We got banged around pretty badly.”
Angus nodded. He removed and rubbed his glasses with a thumb. He asked, “How bad does the rest of the ship look, Stevie?”
“Diagnostics says we can fix it. You’d prob’ly be surprised how little serious damage we did. This ship was built to last, and Latham had slowed us a lot before…the explosion. He was a good pilot.”
“And a remarkable man,” Angus said. “Did you know he had published several adventure novels?”
“I didn’t know that,” Steven admitted. He sighed and added, “You know, Angus, I don’t really know what to say. I expected problems, but nothing like this. I didn’t even realize the computer had general orders to place us in orbits. Then again, I didn’t realise dust clouds like this one existed.”
He glanced at the portal. Beyond it shone a single star, distant and melancholy. Others, if there were any, were completely obscured by the thick atmosphere.
“Where are we?” he wondered.
Angus followed his gaze and frowned. He answered, “Very far from help, I’m afraid. All I know is what I saw on the sensors before the trouble began. I suspect it was an incorrect reading because of the dust.”
“What was it?”
“Well, Stevie, it was a planet without a star.”
“It has an atmosphere,” Steven reasoned, “so it must have a star. We must have spiked the sensor feeds. I wouldn’t be surprised, since we ruined almost everything else.”
“Yet we’re alive. That counts. We have only two fatalities and one critical condition. It could have been much, much worse.”
Steven sighed and said wearily, “I better get to work.”
He ignored Angus long enough to kiss Elizabeth and order, “Relieve Vee and watch Miss Ladd till I come for you. Take some blankets from my room for yourself. I might be a while.”
Elizabeth nodded and he left her and Angus on the bridge, noting that Angus put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her when he left them.
The Luck of the Dead
Steven removed his goggles and hung the plasma welding torch back on its stand. Stepping back from the hibercolm, he surveyed his work. He had welded the seal shut and had melted closed the five spots where the explosive bolts had freed the front portion of the sarcophagus. Under the canopy was Latham’s body, wrapped in black plastic. It was one more task completed, one he had refused to assign to anyone on his crew, and he was one step closer to being able to rest.
He glanced to the open door that led into the secondary access stack to find Viola was leaning against the frame of the bulkhead door. Her face was impassive, her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes, almost black, were hidden by the same shadows that hid the top of her face. The glare from the one operating light strip in the chamber fell across the bottom third of her face, highlighting her scar and the dimple on her chin.
Steven wiped the back of his hand across his mouth after removing his gloves. His clothes were soaked through by sweat. Both the science BIOT and Latham were now entombed, and the process had heated the small storage area well above normal temperatures. He advised, “You should be sleeping, Vee.”
She shook her head firmly, just once. She shifted her weight to her other leg and her biceps twitched when she took a deep, sharp breath.
He hit the switch to manually pressurise the hibercolm. When the light flashed he issued the order to run the program he had written. The hibercolm computer flooded the cylinder with a mixture that would harden around Latham and seal his body in a carbon and silicone shell. He felt odd watching the lights turn green as the process completed. The life systems monitor was blank. Hibernation had always meant short-term death in exchange for a chance to live again. This time it was death…final and without recourse. Latham would never wake.
“He die quick?” Viola asked.
Steven nodded; “I think so. Most of his skull was crushed. He was dead by the time McAvery and I dragged him out of his chair.”
“I saw McAvery sitting in the mess with Latham’s hat.”
“Yeah. He wanted me to put it in here, but I told him to keep it as a keepsake. They were friends. I guess they spent a lot of time together over the years.”
The computer injected the last liquid plastic into Latham’s tomb and shut itself down with a hiss. Viola pushed away from the door and walked to him, slipping her arms around him without a word. Steven put one arm around her and whispered, “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
“I knew, Steve. I knew this was gonna happen.”
He kissed her cheek and managed a smile for her, chiding, “Hey, Violacciocca, we didn’t do half bad. Now it’s up to us to get us off this rock. Me, and you.”
She pressed her mouth against the shoulder of his wet undershirt and spoke into the fabric, whispering, “We’re fucked. I saw the bridge.”
He admitted, “It looks bad, I know, but we still got each other.”
She hugged harder. Jack’s arrival in the doorway encouraged her to pull away, but Steven stopped her, putting his other arm around her. She succumbed and leaned on him.
“It’s just Jack,” he whispered.
Jack smiled and joked, “Such flattery…. I’ve been looking at the damage reports.”
“I told you to get some sleep.”
“I’m going in a minute. I ran the diagnostics programs on everything, and I’ve logged a short list of what we have to fix to get back into orbit.”
Viola gently extricated herself from Steven and turned around, taking Jack into a slow hug. It was paternal; Jack was her surrogate father. Steven was something more basic. She kissed Jack’s cheek and whispered, “I’m glad to see you again.”
Jack grew solemn and returned the hug with one arm. His tone lost its professional edge. He replied, “I’m glad to see you too, Viola. Wait a moment and I’ll walk you to your room.”
She nodded and released him, leaning on the door, listening but intent on not participating further. She was exhausted and felt ill having spent all her awake time with Craig. There had been convulsions and all manner of spasms even after she had thrown Craig in the shower and doused her. Elizabeth had taken over a short time ago, and Viola was only now reacting to the energy she had expended caring for Craig. Had their situation not seemed so bleak to her, she might have laughed aloud how much care she had taken with the Duty Officer she had considered a wicked bitch since first meeting her.
“How are we sitting, Jack?”
“Not very well, Steven. We’re leaning two degrees starboard and twenty-one degrees off the vertical axis toward the fore. The cargo hold is under the surface of the swamp we’re in, but all of the TCBs are clear. The lower ones are about three or four metres above the surface. To return to orbit we have to look at the port particle scoop. There’s a broken vent cover caught in the mechanism on A-1. We also have to find out why the primary reactor won’t fire; and we best fix the reserves reactor if we can. The Navigation console can be re-routed, or fixed; and we have to close the cargo hold doors.”
“How bad is the door?”
“It didn’t snap off,” Jack offered, offering that small miracle as consolation. “The pilings kept it steady and the two main lift struts seem intact according to what’s visible from the cameras. Until we get it closed though, I can’t tell if we have a structural breach. None of the hydraulic rams are responding, and none of the existing winches are operating.”
“Did you try purging cycles to shut the A-l collector?” Steven queried.
“B-1 cycle failed. I think the electrical feed from the upper scoop is interrupted. We might be able to route power from B-2. A-1, though, will have to be physically examined. The computer says something is stuck in the scoops. I can’t tell how much rock we picked up, but the log indicates the damage occurred when we struck a prominence against the port underside.”
“We still have hull integrity?”
“Apparently, Steven.”
“Did you try to kick over the reserves reactors?”
“Not a twitch. The core reactions are registering null. I think the feed conduits, or the probes, are cut off somewhere along the line. It might be the commands aren’t transmitting past the perimeter interchanges.”
“Yeah; okay. Both of you get some rest. I’m going to get something for my hand and then do the same. Sweet dreams, guys; we’re going to be busy real soon.”
Viola and Jack wished him the same and left together. He turned to the hibercolm housing Latham and whispered, “You may be the luckiest man on the ship, Latham. At least you don’t have to wonder if you’ll be alive in the morning.”
The Peaceful Dream
A touch woke him. He started to sit, but stopped when he heard Elizabeth whisper, “I’m me.”
He smiled and laid back. He was still dressed in the clothes he had changed into after a quick shower. She was naked. He asked, “How’s Craig?”
“Sleeping now. Vee put her in a cold shower and everything went crazy.”
He smiled again, feebly, musing, “I bet it’s time best and worst she ever felt at one time.”
Elizabeth whispered, “Go back to sleep.”
He was too tired to argue. She settled on top of him and he put his arm around her, resting his cheek against her ear. Where once he had dreamed of explosions, and nightmarish shadows plodding through the ship, came more peaceful images. Throughout them was the constant, calm heartbeat of Elizabeth. Her breathing relaxed his until they found rhythm. Except for her, he would have suffered a restless night.

July 5th, 2125
The Voice of God
“Good morning, Angus.”
Angus looked up from his monitors and forced a smile. Steven didn’t bother to return one. He was depressed and could think of no reasonable excuse for hiding the fact. Even had he the excuse, he was certain he was too exhausted to bother. The disastrous crash-landing, and Latham’s death, had left him feeling numb; and he felt a stitch of guilt that he didn’t know the science artificial well enough to feel anything at all about his loss. Even the restful night with Elizabeth failed to give him much relief beyond the moment.
“1 took the liberty of turning our sensors on. Is that all right?” Angus asked.
Steven sat in Robert Heafs’ chair and glanced at Angus’ work. One monitor displayed the ship’s position relative to the surface, and another showed a three-dimensional terra-form map of the terrain they had passed over. Apparently the ships independent automatic sensors had been functioning. Around the main wireframe map were other indistinct areas that had been partially plotted, either during orbit or during their descent. A third monitor displayed the terrain map in two dimensions with symbolic markers. He could see the path they had fallen was defined by a corridor of entry. It was an obscenely awkward path, and he suspected surviving it had boarded on a miracle. He couldn’t find any pleasure in the thought Sapphire had held together.
“So, Angus, where are we?”
“Speaking in planetary or Galactic terms, Stevie?”
“Start with Galactic, maybe.”
“Good choice. I haven’t the foggiest, but I can look.”
Angus typed a few orders and two monitors found the answer. A basic Galactic form was shown and their approximate location was indicated as a circumference. The computer had no idea how to place them exactly in reference to any known star systems. Its only reference was relative distance from the rim. The other measurements were so vast they defied calculation. The machine’s ultimate conclusion was they were about three-fifths of the way to the centre of the Galaxy. The margin of error was several dozen light years.
“Planetary?” Steven wondered.
Angus sighed and admitted, “That is not so easy.”
He recalled the former displays and indicated the appropriate screen.
“From orbit I got part of this. We were in a cloud of ionised particles, mostly metal alloys and pure iron. Some chunks were as large as the ship. This other data came from the planet we’ve crashed on. It indicates methane, argon, oxygen, carbon dioxide, and a dozen or more other traces. Generally speaking, we could have survived a hull breach just so long as it was sealed within an hour or two. Beyond that length we would never be able to breathe it. It would scorch the cilia in our lungs. Now, here’s the bit you can explain to me as easily as I can explain it to you. From space I would have interpreted all these data as combined forms of the gases…as ice, or liquid containing the traces of the gases displayed. I would have thought it might be an ice trail off this planet. Why? Because this planet is too small to retain an atmosphere.”
“It has one,” Steven said, “and it has liquids.”
Angus admitted it was true with a nod. He recalled another display, saying, “The liquids: They consist of mostly heavy elements in small traces; twenty-six substances the computer is still trying to identify with spectral analysis; some naturally bonded oxygen and hydrogen in liquid form, floating in pockets in, or on, the heavier fluids; a massive array of amino acid chains, including the four combinations that form the structure of our DNA; and an inordinately high number of small lipid forms the first few scans are still convinced are cell membranes of some type, though I would lay odds the scans are confused. What the lipid membranes contain seems to he an approximation of blood plasma. Under the immediate surface of the fluid there seems a distinctive layer. So far it seems to consist of lead and aluminum. I still can’t fix a particle size to the two elements. Bizarre as it may sound…if I didn’t know better I would be inclined to say that the lead and aluminum compound is a liquid.”
“At what temperature?”
“A balmy fifty-seven degrees Celsius.”
“The lead and aluminum layer?”
Angus shook his head. He corrected, “That’s the atmospheric normal.”
Steven reclined and his brow furrowed. He indicated one of the displays and asked, “What’s that there?”
Angus’ expression was unreadable. He had accepted with sober resignation what he knew was impossible. “That thing there is this planet,” he replied.
Steven was silent a moment. He protested softly, “It isn’t even spherical.”
“It isn’t; and it isn’t spinning; and it isn’t orbiting a star.”
“What?”
Angus repeated, “It has no spin, and no orbit. I managed to fix some references according to some of time stars I can instrumentally detect through the dark matter around this planet. This object is moving at approximately sixty-five percent light speed away from the Galactic core. It’s heated by an active planetary core, and it has enough gravity to retain a thick collection of heavy metals in orbit around it. The gravity is inconsistent, but not wavering erratically. There is no star. Its movement is too direct for anything to be affecting it.”
“Meaning?”
“1 don’t know, Stevie. It’s not easy to explain this, even with my imagination. All I know for certain is what the scanners confirm and what they fail to show. Maybe there is a star, and maybe not. If there is, it must a very cold one, and it must be very, very far away. I doubt there’s one, because this planet is one of the fastest moving objects in our Universe, and it appears to be on a nearly linear path. Anything moving as fast as it is should have achieved escape velocity, unless it’s somehow caught in the drag of a black hole.”
“And we ran into it,” Steven muttered, frowning.
“No,” Angus said firmly, shaking his head. “No, we didn’t run into it. The first thing I looked into was the reason we were brought here by the computer. Order fifty-seven-point-three caused our nearness to this object. The computer detected a radio frequency with determinable repeat, and triggered the routine to survey.”
Steven’s paled. He licked his lips and whispered, “A beacon.”
“More than that,” Angus said softly.
Steven felt the hair standing on the back of his neck. He asked, “Meaning what, Angus?”
“The frequency repeater continued to broadcast until we reached orbit, and was then replaced by a secondary signal. The second one was a longer wave, followed by a shorter wave. Forty-three and sixty-three one-hundredth seconds before the computer reported reactor increases the signal changed radically. There was a series of extremely fast binary exchanges between the gamma and X-ray detectors and the main computer. At the same time there was a strange radio frequency transmission. The binary information continued to come in, changing frequently right up until we went below about six-hundred and sixty metres.”
“That’s what McAvery was babbling about then. This binary interference.”
“Not the binary signal, Stevie. He was monitoring radio wave frequencies. I checked.”
“What did he hear?”
Angus looked away from the monitor, searching Steven’s face. They were feeling the same chill. The old man replied, “The audio signal was erased as it recorded after the initial seconds. No radio wave communications have recorded since, including our interior communications. This is all that remains of what Patrick heard.”
Angus leaned forward and touched a button. From the speaker they heard a whisper that affected them both, Steven more than Angus. Angus had listened to it more than once.
“Patrick,” the whisper said, “listen very closely to—”
The signal ended abruptly.
Steven was shuddering; he whispered, “Jesus Christ, Angus, what in Hell’s going on?”
Angus was gazing at the cursor on his monitor. He shook his head and sighed, “I don’t know, Stevie. I don’t know anything right now.”
Suddenly the shadows and silence of the bridge seemed oppressive. Steven rose and said unhappily, “Come on, Forte’s going to address us in the ready room in twenty minutes.”
Angus shut off his computers and followed. All his years in science meant nothing since he had heard those five words whispered to Pat McAvery before their descent from the Heavens. They were impossible words, as impossible as the planet where they were stranded.
The Veneration
Pat McAvery was the first of the crew Steven saw when he entered the ready room. Pat was sitting with his back to the wall, Latham’s cap on the table before him. His eyes were focused on the tabletop and he seemed to be deep in thought. When Bartlett nudged Pat’s arm and offered coffee, Pat glanced up and masked his haggard expression with a dim smile. Even that was transparent, but Pat seemed conscious of his surroundings. He accepted the coffee from Bartlett, saw Steven staring, and gazed back a moment with an expression approaching inquisitive.
Steven pulled his eyes from Pat and went directly to where Reed, Jack and Tracey were sitting. Viola was nearby, doing arm curls on the weight bench near where Rossie was working out with the tension bar. Elizabeth was at the next table, sitting with Craig. Craig looked terrible, her face pale and her hands trembling when she lifted her coffee. Reed was doodling the word fucked repeatedly on an electronic handheld notebook.
Across the room, near the coffee machine, Robert Heafs was sitting beside Wilkins on one of the cushioned chairs. Angus joined them and sat beside Wilkins, leaning toward them to whisper. After a few words they were in a huddle, Heafs expression of astonishment surfacing past his fatigue.
Near the engineering crew, Mike Davidson was doodling on real paper with an old fashion ball point marker. With him was Denton Thomas, as collected and omnipotent as the night before they launched. Denton had a glass of orange juice, and it was the only betrayal of the tension he was feeling. His fingers were hooked around the glass, locked to it like they were glued there. Occasionally his eyes would drift to the caricatures Mike Davidson was drawing, the current on being an exaggerated profile-view of Rossie.
Forte was making herself coffee, silently contemplating their options. She had called the meeting and the onus would be on her to make it run smoothly. Her primary responsibility was to make them aware of their situation without enhancing their despair and setting them to panic; and her secondary was to get them off the rock they had fallen onto with no more damage, no more death, and no more than the necessary backbreaking labour.
Steven sat by Craig, across from Elizabeth, after patting Jack’s shoulder. Craig glanced at him and he apologised, “Yesterday I never got a chance to say sorry. I didn’t realize I’d bumped you coming up. I was thinking about other things.”
Craig understood. She sounded weak. She observed, “I should have rested in my hibercolm a while.”
“You okay now?”
“Better,” she concluded.
Steven was distracted by commotion. Davidson was standing now, smiling. He appeared relieved. At first Steven thought it was Labrador’s arrival, which seemed odd given he knew Davidson disliked Labrador more than he did, then the misconception cleared. Behind Labrador were David Penderson and Kara Stanwick. Penderson had been set against entering hibernation and had nearly proved his bad feelings true. He had almost died coming up, but he was putting up a macho front for everyone, grinning and exchanging hand-slaps with Rossie and Denton. He posed at boxing Davidson, playfully punching his hand, and when Denton whispered after his health, he claimed, “I feel good.”
His tone betrayed the lie, and Rossie punctuated it with the statement, “You still look like someone shit on your face, so I guess you’re fully recovered…same as usual.”
Penderson grimaced at Rossie, but his appearance only further betrayed how beaten he was.
By then Steven was focused on Kara. She had already seated herself across from Pat, and her shoulders had slumped. She was exhausted. She had goaded Penderson into the hibercolm, and, whether it was guilt or friendship, she had been by Penderson’s side the entire night. When she glanced back at her group, she seemed to fixate on Denton a moment before looking away. His expression didn’t change, but he concentrated on his orange juice again.
“Sir? Steven?”
He realised he was being spoken to and turned his attention to Tracey.
“Sorry, Spanner. Did you say something?”
She blushed and whispered, “I just…. I just wanted to apologise about yesterday.”
Reed looked from Viola to Tracey and his face betrayed his thoughts. He was miserable and slightly offended that she was apologising for her failure to perform. His humiliation had been more complete. She had a physical excuse he lacked. He grumbled something imperceptible about women falling over themselves to please the boss, then returned to his notepad to draw fish.
“It’s not your fault, Spanner. No one was up for what happened yesterday. How’re you feeling today?”
“Fine, sir.”
“Then apologise tonight, if you get lazy today.”
Forte interrupted. She tapped her coffee cup with her spoon and gestured Labrador toward a seat. She said, “Okay, people; I understand none of us are one-hundred percent today, but I’m in the position of having to demand we act like we are. Before I make too many decisions though, I need your co-operation. I need information. I’ll ask for that momentarily. First, I want to prioritise my intentions for you.”
She paused and looked askance.
“Mister McCulloum, will you do me the favour of paying attention?”
Reed had turned to look at Viola. She was wearing a tee-shirt and had sweated it to her skin. He looked back at Forte and she took the moment to break some of their tension.
“Would it help to keep your attention if I poured cold water down my shirt?”
A few smiles appeared and Reed screwed his lips into a downtrodden frown.
Forte bobbed an eyebrow at him.
“Thank you, mister McCulloum. Now, people, I think we have to make our priority the ship. We have to make the repairs we’re capable of making. Second, we have to get off this planet. Third, we have to get home.”
“Home?” Heafs asked, glancing from the table where he was reading from a thin-screen. Steven knew by the expression Heafs had been told about the scanner information, and was probably reviewing something related to it.
Forte concluded, “Home. To do otherwise would be inappropriate. Sapphire is a damaged vessel, and taking a damaged vessel into further potential danger is irresponsible. I wish there was another viable option, but there doesn’t seem to be one.”
“Is the ship that bad off?” Heafs asked.
Forte turned to Steven. He accepted a printed list from Jack. He had seen it in the morning, meeting Jack in the corridor by their rooms. He knew it from memory, but they had taken the precaution of printing it in the case detailed questions were asked. He relayed, “To lift we have to do four things: We have to find out what’s wrong with the reactors. We have to find out what happened in the A-1 chamber on the port-side particle collector. We have to repair the Navigation console on the bridge. We have to close the cargo bay door.”
“Which entails what?”
“Well, Cap, starting with the reactors…. We have to determine the cause of the overloads and correct the problem. From the quick look we had yesterday it also appears we have to test the peripheral and maybe interior interchanges. The reserves reactor won’t respond to the restart sequence, and the primaries seem the same. My group will have to look at that. There’s not much anyone can do to help us.
“The port-side collector problem is relatively minor. Only two units are out of service, those being the outer compartment scoops above and below the equatorial line of the wings. I’ll go out in the access channel and dislodge whatever’s in the scoop closure, jump the lines where they’re damaged and try to correct the trouble without making any structural repairs. If we can’t fix it by cleaning it out, it may be best to shut A-l down, since we can take off without it.
“The bridge is mostly a case of replacing circuit boards, except at the Navigation station and on your Command island. With a few helpers one of may people could show some of you how to repair the basic damage. I don’t suggest we try to fix Navigation now. The ship can be raised into orbit from the Command consoles, and I doubt there’s enough left of the Navigation station to refurbish it. Replacement can be done when we get off-planet. It would be easier and safer there. For now our best bet is to electronically reroute everything to Clay’s console, then cut the power feeds to the broken equipment.”
“What about the view portal?” Bartlett asked. “Can we risk launch with it cracked?”
“Diagnostics says the outer port is solid. The design called for an outer ply nine microns thicker than the inner one. Each micron layer adds approximately thirty-two times the tensile strength. According to initial specifications anything that could break the outer port would automatically shatter the inner one. Even if we fused it shut, it would smashed by anything powerful enough to shatter the outer crystal. We can seal it easily, and we will — but not until we reach a stable orbit and can shut off the false-mass gravity. Any attempt to seal it with false-mass gravity could stress the existing structure and make it more susceptible to compression cracks in the future.”
“That’s all?” Forte asked.
“No, there’s the cargo hold door. The whole hydraulic control system is dead from the bridge. The pylons are intact and holding the door partly shut, and both struts are apparently still intact. None of the emergency winches took hold in time. We need to get that door up whether it has a chunk out of it, or not. To take off without it being secure would place strain on the forward frames. We might twist the wings or crack the lower hull. Once we get up, we can weld it shut and put up some temporary shielding over any breaches.”
“That’s what has to be done in terms of repair?” Forte asked.
Steven nodded.
Forte returned a nod and glanced at Pat. She said unenthusiastically, “Mister McAvery, before I proceed, I would like to commend your actions in conjunction with Mister Tanner. We survived this crash mostly because of your and his actions. Having said that, out of a sense of fairness, I think you owe us an explanation of your initial reactions during the crisis yesterday. I don’t like to have to speak about this in front of everyone, and if you prefer we can discuss it privately. Otherwise, I would appreciate an explanation of why you froze.”
Steven saw Angus was watching Pat with inquisitive eyes. He followed the gaze and saw Pat looked mystified, almost like he didn’t have a clue what Forte was talking about. The loss of Latham showed in him, in his eyes and the set of his shoulders, but there was nothing else. Anyone who cared to look could see Pat had no idea what Forte was speaking about.
Reluctantly, Forte pressed, “You indicated you were receiving an unusual message, then refused to answer both myself and Mister Bartlett. When I asked what was wrong, you replied there was a message. I asked you what you meant and you said someone spoke to you. What did you mean by that?”
Pat looked around uncomfortably. Few had heard the conversation that had preceded the trouble on the bridge. Heafs and Wilkins had joined Angus in watching Pat. Pat replied softly, “I don’t know, Captain. I don’t remember anything like that.”
Forte saw she was doing more damage than good. She quickly assured him, “I understand. Thing’s were confused. We’ll forget the incident.”
Angus was reluctant, but he said, “I don’t think we can.”
Forte frowned and her forehead furrowed. She turned her eyes to Angus. Everyone did but Heafs and Wilkins. Steven saw they were still watching Pat, and he did the same.
“When I looked into the records of communications to the ship yesterday, I learned some things I think everyone should be made aware of.”
“Is this the time to address this issue, Mister Shepherd?”
“Yes, Captain, I think it is. It may affect how we approach our departure.”
Steven saw Pat’s colour change. It was subtle, but McAvery growing was paler now. Pat was staring at Angus, then suddenly his eyes shifted and locked onto Steven’s. Steven could see something behind Pat’s eyes, a memory churning in the subconscious. As Angus spoke, Steven felt the chill he had felt on the bridge.
“Some forty seconds or so before the reactors began to fail, the sensors began receiving and making binary information exchanges at ultra-high frequencies. Some were as gamma radiation and some were as X-ray information. I haven’t voiced the opinion till now, but I suspect investigation will find the binary exchanges consisted of orders to our main engines, making them behave erratically. The binary information changed frequently until we went below about six-hundred and sixty metres. Mister McAvery was monitoring radio wave frequencies prior to then. After the first seconds of transmission the radio log was appended with orders to erase the recording as it was received.”
Angus rose and went to one of the computer terminals recessed in the wall. It had been placed in the ready room to allow them to work in a more relaxed area. He accessed time science records and said, “I’m not certain I should play this, but…it may be relevant to us.”
Forte sat on the edge of the table, unsure what to expect. She was remembering Pat’s expression on the bridge and wrestling with whether to adjourn their chat until she could speak privately with Angus.
Steven’s eyes were still locked to Pat’s. He could see something in McAvery’s face that made him begin to stand. The speakers crackled and then the five remaining words of the message were whispered into the room.
“Patrick, listen very closely to—”
The effect was instantaneous. Pat jerked up and his coffee spun across the table, spilling on Kara Stanwick’s arm. She snapped to her feet and stepped backward, clutching the burn. Bartlett was also up, and he yelled Pat’s name, but it was too late. Pat was gone, racing headlong out of the room.
Steven had sensed it coming. He was after Pat before Bartlett could move. The chase led to the main stack, and down the ladder to C-deck. Steven followed down with a foot braced to either side of the uprights, going down hand-over-hand. His stride was long practised, skipping several rungs with every motion, so he was almost immediately behind when Pat reached D-deck. He followed directly into the science lab. Pat ran across the room against the wall where the observation window was. Steven reached him a second later. Pat had already started to slide down the glass, and Steven knelt with him, hands on his back and shoulder.
Pat’s hands were up at his ears, eyes clenched shut, lips compressed. He gripped Steven’s shirt then with one hand and leaned forward, trembling with enough force to pop the snap at Steven’s collar. Others were arriving, but the incident was over. Pat’s hand fell from Steven’s shirt with a rustle, hitting his thigh before it hung useless. The other stayed at Pat’s right ear, fingertips buried in his hair.
“Pat?”
Steven knew it was useless, but he tried again.
“Pat?”
Labrador knelt and carefully lifted Pat’s head, opening one eye with a finger above and below the lid. He checked the other eye before he stood, announcing with some measure of genuine surprise, “He’s…he’s gone into shock. I’ll get something.”
Steven saw Angus pause inside the door before turning away. He beard the lament, “Damn me for a fool, I should’ve known better.” Angus lifted one hand up under his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
Penderson was hovering just beyond the door. He looked entirely worn already, his bravado fading with the false energy he had displayed in making the chase with the others. He asked what everyone else was wondering: “What the Hell did he hear?”
The Virtual Impossibility
Steven slid into the chair before the terminal nestled in the main antechamber of the engine room. He tapped the switch and the display lit, full of data. He entered the voice recognition mode and said, “Tanner, E-N-G dash zero one. Respond. Engineering diagnostic programs. Do. Request schematic display. Local to left half display. Call window one. Display reserves reactor trench in window one. Do.”
The computer complied. His mind was wandering back over thoughts about Pat, but the its beep returned his attention to the present.
“Define window one style: Horizontal scroll. Call monitor window two, place right. Define window two style: Vertical scroll. Install reserves reactor probe log data for time minus twenty-four hours in window two. Do.”
The computer worked a second and gave the requested display. The second window showed a flashing cursor, indicating it was ready to use the requested data. The first window continued to hold the schematic.
“Window one action: Revolve schematic to cross-sectional view at intake ring A. Advance one decimetre per second to intake ring F. Display last probe output in window two. Do.”
The schematic shifted and showed the cross-section. It began to move, flashing the probe rods as it passed them. The last readings from the probes showed in the second window. There were only two cryptic words, repeated consistently: FLAT LINE.
“Enhance flat line statement. Do.”
NO ENHANCE.
“Give me a measure of reactions relative to last increase. What was the output decrease between entry last and entry second-to-last? Do.”
The second window blanked and remained blank almost four minutes. It gave him time to consider how Pat McAvery had reacted to the few words their logs had captured. It had startled everyone, but Pat’s reaction was beyond reason given the words themselves, or even the fact they existed. The look in Pat’s eyes had been absolute terror, and it had prompted him to run. What he was running from was impossible to tell. Where he was running to was even more a puzzle.
Steven forgot Pat instantly when the computer made its final decree: DECREASE TOTAL.
“Enhance. Do.”
NO ENHANCE.
Irritated by the response, he said rather more sharply, “Clear screen. Clear all. Define window one as full display. Display power curve over time of three entries from final. Use relative scale. Place time on horizontal axis, power output on vertical axis. Do.”
The screen flickered and a minute passed before two lines appeared. The bottom was divided into one-twentieth second intervals. The side scale was marked with millions of megawatts. The graph started in the crosshairs at the lower left of the scale and rose rapidly for less than one-twentieth of a second, stopping short of the last horizontal slash mark. A symbol at the bottom of the horizontal scale indicated, NO OUTPUT.
Jack’s voice startled Steven. He turned with a deep sigh. The rest of his crew was behind Jack. Reed vas gazing at the monitor and whispering to himself. Viola seemed disturbed by something else and was avoiding Steven’s eyes. Elizabeth was more concerned with Steven than the machine. Tracey, in no position to see the display, was attempting to fix the battery pack of some small device she held.
“Sorry, Jack, I didn’t catch what you said since you were giving me a heart attack at the time.”
“Sorry about that, Steven. I just asked who you want to put on the bridge. Forte has the tactical crew cleaning the hibercolm area, and the debris on the bridge that I didn’t gather yesterday. She wants someone up above to give them directions about what they should do.”
Steven turned off the computer’s voice input and glanced at Tracey and Elizabeth. He needed Tracey to start working a search along the electrical mains. Their struggle to vent the overloads had done damage, and he wanted it localized or repaired. Elizabeth was going to have to give instructions on the bridge, which was no sacrifice given she was overqualified to do it.
“Before I send anyone up, I want us to check the rings on the reserves reactor. Put a portable meter on every probe and try to get a reading.”
“You better call Forte,” Jack instructed.
They left to comply with his order and he opened a line to the bridge. Craig Ladd answered the call.
“Bridge,” she said solemnly.
“This is Steven. Is the Captain there?”
“She stepped out, Mister Tanner. Mister Bartlett is here.”
“Right. Please tell the Captain that someone will be up there shortly; I need the bodies here a bit. Have someone bring the equipment from the port-side engineering store on that deck. The gear is all in white plastic cases and they’re labelled with section numbers corresponding to those on the standard bridge diagrams. As soon as we’ve determined what’s wrong with the reactor I’ll send my assistant up there to supervise. Did you get all that?”
Craig was a moment responding. Obviously she had been waiting for someone to leave. What she said made him sure Labrador had just stepped off the bridge.
“Steven, please Elizabeth’s her name.”
He smiled. Craig was coming around. He replied, “Will do, Craig. Look, before I go, how’s Pat?”
“Unchanged. Mister Labrador sedated him and is monitoring him. Mister Shepherd is with Mister McAvery now.”
“Is Angus all right?”
“He feels responsible, I think. I’m sorry, I have to go now.”
“Okay; Elizabeth should be up shortly. Engine room clear.”
Steven shut off the communicator and stood. He was prevented going further than the door when Reed arrived and muttered, “Fuck, Steve…it’s fulla lead.”
“What?”
Jack arrived next. He explained nothing with the statement, “The firing columns of the primary and reserves reactors are filled with lead, and there’s a trace of aluminum.”
Steven leaned on the back of the chair he had just vacated. He had designed and supervised every stage of the building of the three reactors that powered Sapphire. He knew better than anyone how impossible their report was. It took him a minute to digest the suggestion, and he was no nearer an explanation when he was done mulling it over.
“Virtual particles,” Viola suggested, entering the room and setting her scanner down. “During the power rises a virtual particle was introduced into the column and it multiplied.”
Reed’s response to her suggestion was bitter. His voice was strained further by his already sour mood, which had nothing to do with anyone but his disappointment in himself. He said, “Fuck that, Muscles. Something had to introduce the reaction. Virtual particles are bullshit physics. It’s too fucking cold in there.”
“Well, you explain it then, asshole!”
Steven interceded before Viola’s temper flare got out of hand. He chided, “Come on, we’re not supposed to be fighting each other on this. We’re all aware of the probabilities against the formation of virtual particles as complex as lead and aluminum. It was just an idea, Reed.”
Reed muttered, “Yeah, okay; okay, but virtual particles don’t happen in chambers reactors. It’s impossible with the fusion scrubbers running, and without them the reactor shuts down instantly. And it ain’t happened before, so it’s not likely to have happened now.”
“That’s fair, Reed,” Steven observed, “but if that’s not what happened, what did? Jack, what’s the core radiation now?”
Jack was astonishingly composed considering he answered, “There isn’t any. I checked the breeders to see if we flushed out any particles bearing decay signals beyond the normal level. There was no flush. As far as the recorders at the rings indicate, the reaction wasn’t detectably radioactive.”
“It had to be,” Reed insisted. “It doesn’t even matter what caused it. It had to radiate some energy form. Fusion from constituent units to lead has to release energy.”
“It could have been changed for mass,” Tracey whispered, her voice lacking confidence.
Reed complained, “There ain’t enough metal in there, Greener.”
“Could there have been a flaw in the chamber lining?” Elizabeth queried, about as confident injecting the idea as Tracey had been with hers, though her idea was far more plausible.”
Reed grimaced, fixed Elizabeth with a stare, and muttered, “Why is it women and nuclear physics never mix? We would have detected that, sweet tart.”
Elizabeth squinted at Reed, bit her tongue, and then turned her head to gaze into the recesses of one of the venting corridors. Her reaction made Steven smile, because he was distinctly aware Reed’s including her in his normal tirades against the female part of the human race pleased her.
“Have you got any ideas?” Jack wondered of Reed.
“There’s the one where I wake up and this is a fucking nightmare.”
Steven smiled and ordered resignedly, “Tracey, you and Elizabeth go to the bridge. Spanner, start working on figuring what those binary exchanges might have had to do with the reactor failures, and trace the mains. I want to know where the lines might be weak, and what electrical circuits we damaged. Elizabeth, you show Forte and the others how to fix the bridge. Reed, Jack, and Vee: you three break out radiation suits and crack the reserves reactor. I want an assessment of our chances of cleaning it. I’ll go to the port collectors and keep in touch over this.” He touched his headset. “Oh, and one more thing.”
Everyone paused.
“Reed, don’t fight with Vee.”
Reed grimaced and grumbled, “Always takes the girl’s side.”
Steven slapped Reed’s shoulder and said, “Hey, I’m just looking out for you, dude. I’m pretty sure you’d lose the fight.”
“Depends on what muscle I flex,” he claimed.
“Yeah, your mouth flapping much more might kill us all,” Viola said sourly.
“Cheer up, Muscles, my tongue is ready any time you are.”
“For me to cut it out?”
“Lord,” Jack sighed, “you had to stick me with them. Can I leave my radiation suit off and take the easy out?”
“Not today, Jack,” Steven mused. “I need your level-head to stay level.”
“Better tell the Texas-twit to stow his tongue then,” Viola suggested.
“Drop your drawers, babe, and I’ll stow it in your toolbox.”
Viola was in no mood, and shot him the finger before she walked away. Jack sighed; Steven grabbed Reed’s elbow and cautioned, “Don’t make the day worse than it is.”
Reed looked from him to where Viola had gone, and grunted. He screwed up his face, shook his head, and said, “I’ll make up and play nice.”
“Good stuff, Reed. Thanks.”
“Whatever,” Reed grumbled. He gestured to Tracey and said, “When you’re looking in the logs, see if the sweet tart’s idea might have something to it. Run a check on the degrade-state of the reactor linings.”
He left, and Steven looked to Tracey’s expression of uncertainty. Elizabeth was hovering behind her, watching Reed leave. He asked, “You okay, Spanner?”
“Wouldn’t it be better to have Reed study the reactor logs?”
“Spanner, the mood he’s in…he’d just end up swearing at the computer. No…you’ll do it. Besides, I want you on the bridge in case Labrador balks at Elizabeth being in charge. I figure if you both kick him in the balls at the same time, he might stand straight and his head might be expelled from his ass long enough for his ears to catch the drift of the order.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll do good,” Elizabeth prompted, taking Tracey’s hand. “We can switch up and trade ideas.”
“Okay.”
Steven smiled at Elizabeth as she glanced back at him, telling her, “Figure it out and we’ll be able to make Reed even more miserable.”
She blew him a kiss.
The Ghost in the Machine
The access corridor leading to the port-side collectors was unheated and only intermittently lit. It smelled of oil and the air was stale. A slight draft was wafting from behind Steven, as the warmer air was sucked into the cool passage. It ceased to blow when he closed the door behind him. He put his headset on and slung a portable breather over his shoulder. It was a precaution he doubted was necessary, but he had no desire to burn his throat on whatever passed for the exterior atmosphere. Adjusting the gain on his headset, he asked, “Jack, do you read me?”
“Loud and clear, Steven. Where are you at?”
“Port wing passage into the central section of the collectors. I’ll maintain radio silence until I get to the A-1 maintenance chamber, unless I have a problem. The air smells a little oily in here and I can hear water dripping, so when you get a chance, check to see if we have a pressure drop anywhere in the plumbing. Maybe do a heat scan out here in case something has cracked a lubricant casing. Got that?”
“Got it. Stay in touch. Robins clear.”
“Will do, Jack. Tanner clear.”
He checked the atmosphere detector hanging on his belt and confirmed the air was uncontaminated. The detector slapped his leg when he dropped it.
He proceeded to the door that sealed the passage through the base structure of the delta wing. It opened with a swish and air once again wafted past him. Beyond there were no lights until the central passage into the collectors. He switched on his flashlight and stepped up into the tube, crouching as he negotiated it. The light beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the mesh plate he was walking on. The tube around him was without solid walls and open on every side. Around it there was a world of shadows cast by the frames of the wing support structure. It was one of the loneliest places in the ship, and the echo of his footfalls seemed remote, overlapping as the various structures deflected the sounds differently.
At time end of the tube, where it entered the collectors, there was another closed door. To open it he had to first hit the switch to close the one behind. He put on his face mask in case they had missed detecting a hull breach in the collector, and turned his head to watch the far door close. The light beyond it was hidden by steel, the same steel shutting him from the rest of Sapphire. The clang that sounded as it pressure-sealed echoed even more strangely inside the structure than his steps had. He realised it was the first time he had been in this section of the ship with the hull plates completed and an atmosphere outside.
He wiped sweat off his forehead and opened the next door. Beyond was a duct two metres in diameter. It was lined by grey conduits and was three metres long. Further along was a small chamber lit by yellow emergency lights. Dark slits in the walls of the chamber led fore and aft to the collectors and flush canals.
A distinct click behind him made him freeze mid-motion. He placed his foot on the conduit it was hovering above and turned unhurriedly, scanning the structure with his light. The shadows were protecting their secrets. No other sound came to him. It made him smile to remember his grandparent’s cottage suddenly, and the strange noises the place had made on warm summer nights. It was comforting memory.
He stepped into the tube and walked along it, hopping down into the access chamber at its end. The door to the structure remained a dark circle behind him. The chamber around him led fore and aft, a narrow passage at the far end leading out into the next junction chamber. He kept going until the fourth such chamber, where he finally turned toward the front of the wing. The journey to the front of the scoop was difficult, because he had to negotiate a series of narrow magnetically charged partitions to reach the forward section. By the time he got there he had begun to think how difficult it would be to get back to the main ship quickly. That the idea was bothering him made him angry. He was letting Pat McAvery and their strange surroundings affect his senses. Sapphire was his ship, and for the first time in his life he was afraid he might be getting lost in her? It was a stupid feeling that angered him because of its sudden persistence.
“Jack, this is Steven. I’m in the first stage maintenance room at A-l. Please confirm the outer emergency curtain is closed before I proceed.”
There was a minute when he wondered if he had got through the magnetic interference, then Jack replied, “This is Jack. I’ll have to switch you to the bridge, Steven. Someone made me dress in a bulky suit to crawl around by the engines.” There was a chuckle in Jack’s tone that made Steven grin. “Tracey is standing by with the information you requested. I relayed your order. Robins clear.”
“Okay. Thanks Jack.”
He waited, his palms damp, rivulets of sweat running down his temples and along the side of his nose. He was surprised how warm it felt in the unheated portion of the ship.
“Tanner from Bridge. Sir, the outer emergency closure is secure.”
“Thanks, Spanner. I’m going fore. Leave this channel open.”
He opened the hatch and bent down to step through. At the far end of a long, narrow access line was the small hatch leading into collector A-1.
“Spanner, am I still open to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
He boosted his receiver and said, “Again please, I’m getting magnetic interference.”
“Do you read, sir?”
“It’s clean now. Speaking of clean, I want you to sterilise the scoop area again, just in case.”
A minute passed. He could hear the pounding of the pressure building in the scoop and knew it was being irradiated in stages. The buzz that followed was a dose of particles to capture the radiation heat and return the atmosphere beyond that last hatch to a safe, sterile environment.
“All systems check,” Tracey confirmed. “The samplers are clear.”
“Release the bars from your end, please.”
He tugged on his gloves and stepped through after the hatch opened. The last chamber was filled with pieces of twisted metal. His flashlight fell on the broken breaker boxes and he reported, “Panel one-oh-two in A-l is hanging off the wall. Try to power up B-1 using the B-2 redundancy line. Cut the A-l interchange first.”
He swept his flashlight over the ruin of the breaker box and caught sight of more damage. The chamber was ruined. The immediate curtains that closed the scoop were hanging, or lying crumpled on the deck. Most of the protective plates guarding the breakers were hanging on only a few bolts, or lay bent on the deck.
“Jesus, what a mess. Cut off all the power to this collector, Spanner. It’s shredded.”
He relaxed his arm and the light beam dropped to the deck. Instantly, his blood ran cold and he jerked a step backward, slamming into the hatch. It fell closed with a thump and he turned to try to catch its edge, dropping his flashlight when the cone struck part of a bent panel. The flashlight rolled away, and he let it go, trying to catch the edge of the door. He had knocked his headset off and it was hanging on the canisters of his air breather mask. He promptly turned and backed into the corner nearest him. His flashlight lay against a piece of twisted metal, still now. Somewhere ahead of him on the floor was the thing he had reacted to. He fumbled for his headset and got it on.
“Get me out of here.”
Tracey came back, surprised: “Repeat, please, sir.”
“Get me outta this fucking collector!”
Instead of Tracey, Forte spoke to him. She sounded irritated when she demanded, “Tanner, what the Hell are you yammering about?”
He was gasping for breath, nearly hyperventilating. The higher oxygen provided by the breather was making him feel dizzy and was enhancing his panic. His flashlight was a foot away, shining the wrong direction entirely.
“Tanner?” she repeated.
“Something’s dead in here,” he gasped.
Forte was calmer than usual. She replied like he had just reported something as inane as a bruised knee. She asked tolerantly, “Will you clarify what you mean?”
“I don’t fucking know what I mean! Get me out of here!”
There was a second of silence, then Forte returned with, “Mister Tanner, can you describe the dead object?”
“I’ve got no light! I can’t see it now!”
He slid further back into the corner and felt himself slipping into the past. The chamber was shrinking and expanding simultaneously. It was shrinking and drawing his nearer the thing on the floor, and it was expanding and pushing everyone else away. The only light was his flashlight, an insignificant oval on the wall two metres away. He pulled off his right glove and wiped a hand down his face to clear the sweat, almost dislodging his headset. His fingers were shaking. His entire body was, but he could sense his fingers especially. His breathing into the respirator on his face seemed far too loud. He was growing certain something was moving in the shadows.
“Tanner, leave the area immediately,” Forte ordered.
“Door locked,” he said sharply.
“Well, open the door, Mister Tanner.”
“Can’t.”
“Tanner, come back. Repeat the last.”
“Can’t!”
He could vaguely hear Forte over the open line, asking Tracey where he was and giving some unintelligible orders to someone. She had turned from the communicator receiver before those orders.
The channel clicked loudly and Jack Robins’ voice carved a path through the tunnel-vision he was beginning to suffer, Jack asked, “Say, boss, how come you take all the exciting jobs?”
Jack was calm. There was a laugh under the surface of his calm tone. Steven responded to it the same as he had years ago when he was all alone in void space, drifting from the rim. He whispered, “I can’t see anything.”
“Me neither.”
“You’re coming to get me?”
Forte started to speak, but Jack switched her to another channel so they could be alone. He said casually, “Back home we never would have had this problem. We could have delegated all the work and played poker. Remember that time we played in that casino in Atlantic City? Was that you? No, I guess it wasn’t. Couldn’t have been. It was with Rod Giles from Newport, and that’s way before I met you. I remember it clearly, because Rod was the worst poker player I ever met. He’d plug his card in the machine and lose a week’s pay in one night.”
“Is someone coming, Jack?”
“Sure; Miss Ross and Mister Davidson, I understand. Quit interrupting a great story. Anyway, Rod once came to me with this brilliant idea. He thought since every night there was a big winner on each line of machines, all we had to do was agree to split the winnings and he would stake us to play a line all night. I figured it was a free go, so I joined nine other fellows from our base and we went in and played. Now, the problem was we had only eleven all together and there were a dozen machines on each line. Still, Rod figured the odds were on our side, so we went to it. Wouldn’t you know it, too, but we got stuck on a line with one of those eighty year old casino junkies. She stuck to her machine all damn night while we were there. One by one we lost Rod’s stakes and it only took us four hours before we were all cleaned out. We ended up in the bar, buying rounds and consoling poor Roddy while he whimpered about his paycheque being gone. All of a sudden, over the speakers we hear a million dollar winner announced. And all be damned if it wasn’t the old woman. She had tired of her machine and tried the ones we’d been on. One try on the number five machine where Rod had been and she drew a royal flush.”
“What happened to Rod, Jack?”
“He went to jail for trying to murder the old bird.”
Jack paused a moment and then returned with the question, “So, Steven, how’s things with you?”
“Where are they, Jack?”
“Did I tell you about the sailor and the tailor?”
“Jack, get me out of here!”
“Name the Addelson ships by order of completion, and name their Captains.”
“UN Darius, Captain Brock; UN Kennedy, Captain Weissmuller; UN Ford, Captain Rhodes; UN Enterprise, Captain Ritchie; UN Mandela, Captain Cross; UN Harrisford, Captain Harper, replaced before launch by Captain Lee; UN Yeltsin, Captain Orsk; UN Sheffield, Captain James Dealer—”
“Steven, breathe shallow and close your eyes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to ask you some questions now and I want you to answer them as briefly as you can. What happened to your flashlight?”
“I dropped it.”
 “Can you pick it up?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where is it in relation to you? Open your eyes and tell me where it is.”
“About a metre away to my left, lying against some crumpled deck plating.”
“What’s your position?”
“In the corner behind the hatch.”
“Okay, Steven, I want you to squat down and get your flashlight.”
“Jack, I can’t see the thing. It could be anywhere.”
Jack laughed gently and said, “I was listening in on an open channel. You said it was dead. Tracey sterilised that area a half dozen times. Whatever it is, Steven, it’s dead.”
Steven slid down till he was able to reach out and snatch his flashlight. The beam danced along the ruin of the chamber. He said, “Got it; got the flashlight.”
“Now, move toward the edge of the hatch and open it.”
“I can’t. When I backed up I ran into it. It closed. It’s jammed shut.”
“What do you have on your belt?”
“Usual stuff. Probes, wrench, screwdriver…the rest.”
“Okay, good. Listen carefully. On the frame of the door there should be a panel about six inches on a side, secured by Lavender strips. If you open that you can get to the lock mechanism. Tracey’s cut the power off to your section and she can’t turn it back on. The interchange is severed at your end. They have to be shut manually at your end to restore power, so you’ll have to open the door.”
He slid along the wall to the panel and drew the appropriate key off his key ring. Its sextagonal shaft fit into the corner hole of the Lavender strip and he turned it. A creak sounded loudly in the enclosed collector.
Jack jested, “This ship sure is small, Steven; I heard that turning. Remember, make one half turn per lock till the tail of the key is one-hundred eighty degrees opposite its initial direction.”
Steven wiped sweat from his eyes and turned the third strip release. He dropped the key when he drew it from the keyhole.
“Son-of-a-bitch!”
He looked down, but saw nothing.
“I dropped the key, Jack.”
“Have you got a second one?”
“No. Shit, Jack, I can’t see it. I think it fell down the crack at the bottom of the wall. Where’s Rossie and Davidson?”
Jack paused a second before telling the truth: “They can’t get through into the base of the wing structure. You didn’t close the hatch into the collectors. It’s purely manual, which you know. The inner hatch won’t lift till the outer one goes down.”
Steven leaned on the wall, his back to the darkness. The flashlight was shining on his face.
“Jack,” he whispered, breathless, “I’m going to look for something to pry with.”
“Good idea, Steven. Viola is just at the inner hatch now. We’re going to override the locks and open it. They won’t be long now. Try to breathe normally. You’re hyperventilating a little.”
Steven nodded and turned, levelling the flashlight on the mangled breaker panels. Several twisted rods were hanging from the frame where the guard panels had been secured. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth and nose and stayed close to the wall, stepping along it. When his foot hit something soft he froze. His ears were picking up a slight hiss, regular and even.
“Jack?”
“I’m with you. Have you got something to pry with?”
He was speaking fast, out of breath. He was getting dizzy again, still hyperventilating. He whispered, “I stepped on something soft. I think it’s breathing.”
“Hold still. They just passed through the hatch into the support structure. Can you shine the light onto the thing you stepped on and move back toward the hatch?”
“Jesus Christ, Jack, I don’t think it’s dead!”
“Tanner, move away from it now! That’s an order!” Jack snapped brusquely.
He obeyed. Few times in his life had Jack Robins given him orders. He had obeyed, unquestioning, every one of those times. He stepped back toward the hatch and shone his light down the wall near where he had been. The spot of white light seemed alive, descending the wall like a bizarre, legless spider, changing its shape like a geometrically perfect amoebae as it humped over various surface features. He stopped it short of the hulking shape lying on the floor. One outstretched arm, or leg, was casting a shadow. The clawed fingers were visible in the spotlight.
“Oh, God.”
“What are you looking at?”
“An arm, or something. Part of its stuck in the wall, into one of the field coil grilles.”
“They’re almost there, Steven. What else are you looking at?”
He lowered the light gradually and then stopped moving it. His face reddened and after a moment of silence, he muttered one angry word: “Fuck.”
He took a step toward the shape and kicked it. He could hear the hatch locks being released from outside. When the door opened, Rossie came in with a weapon cradled in her arm. Her light was directed where his was. Davidson followed, with Viola behind him. Steven wiped his hand across his lips and mumbled, “It’s a fucking pile of fabric insulation from the back of the closures on the vent plates. It got wound up on some of the coils broken out of that panel there.”
Rossie grinned and lowered her rifle, shining her light around at the damage. Davidson approached the rubbish and nudged it with his foot, confirming Steven’s embarrassed admission. Viola came to him and put a hand on his shoulder from behind, whispering into her headset, “He’s okay.”
Rossie was laughing now.
Steven bowed his head and muttered his assessment of himself: “Jackass. I should’ve known better.”
The Time for Facing the Devil
Steven was sitting on the medical table with his back to the door, his shirt off. He heard Labrador whisper to Forte on the way out and bowed his head. Forte approached after closing the door. He heard it slide shut and her steps, but didn’t look up until she stepped up on the small stool by his feet and sat on the table beside him. She met his gaze with the words, “Ross and Davidson were twelve minutes reaching you from the moment they left the bridge. You never closed the hatch leading into the collectors. It took Parini five minutes to release the inner hatch manually.”
“I—”
“Don’t interrupt me, Tanner, just listen. I know you feel like a fool, but we need you to put this out of your head and get back to work. Probably Ross is going to rub it in as much as she can, but I don’t want you letting her get to you. Everyone understands. We’ve all been in trouble at one time, or another, and we’re all under stress now.”
“Yeah, well, we haven’t all gone gutless over a pile of insulation.”
“Davidson said it looked like something lying on its side, reaching toward the collection panels. Davidson isn’t a coward, and he says it would have spooked him senseless even walking out there alone unarmed. None of us would have reacted differently had we been locked in there. I don’t want you becoming paralytic because of this. Your crew needs you, and I need you. We all want off this rock.”
“I’m okay, Cap, just a little shaken. It was Pat and that message that got me rattled.”
“It has everyone spooked. Now, come on, we’re all breaking for lunch.”
“I can’t go in there with everyone now.”
“Now or an hour won’t make any difference. This ship’s too small to hide on. So, come on, it’s time for facing the Devil.” She paused after standing and said, “That’s an order, just in case it doesn’t inspire you as a suggestion.”
The Captain Speaks
He followed Forte into the mess hall and exchanged a fleeting look with Rossie. She grinned and asked, “Need any help gettin’ t’your table?”
He ignored her and sat beside Elizabeth, frowning tightly. Viola rose and sat on the other side of the table. He heard Rossie yelp there was something alive on her tray, and he flinched. She had a loud voice and was hard to ignore. He tried, asking, “What’s the condition of our reactors, Jack?”
“We cleaned them out and we’ve tested the primary reactor. You’ll be interested to know what we found in them.”
“Lead and aluminum,” he recalled from their early morning conversation in the engine room.
“Liquefied lead with a trace of aluminum.”
“Liquid?”
“The same as the swamp we’re sitting in. There are traces of other elements and some viscous bonding agents. Wilkins can explain it better than I can.”
“Do the reactors work?”
“One-hundred percent operational, Steve. We have full power. We also have an exact understanding of how we were brought down, courtesy of Tracey, though we can’t decipher the data completely; and we aren’t sure how the orders managed to generate the substance we encountered inside the firing columns.”
Steven drew a more comfortable breath and asked, “Just the cargo hold and the bridge left then, Jack?”
“Yes”
“Hey, Tanner,” Rossie asked loudly, “want us to scour it for monsters?”
Viola turned and snapped, “Shut up, Rossie.”
“Fuck you,” Rossie said with a laugh.
“Yeah?”
Reed muttered, “Lover’s quarrel?”
Steven caught Viola’s arm when she started to stand. He intervened before Forte had to. He yanked Viola down to her chair and said to Rossie, “Some of us are human. You got more jokes to make, make them now. In an hour I’ll be too busy to listen.”
Davidson whispered to Rossie and she frowned at him and whispered something back. Out loud, she said, “I’m just trying to have some fun.”
“Yeah, well some of us aren’t enjoying it, bitch,” Viola snapped. She was clearly prepared to fight with Rossie. They were evenly matched and she was tired of listening to the abuse.
“Vee, I can handle this,” Steven insisted.
Viola turned around, her expression still a mix of disdain and anger. The tension was affecting her out of proportion to the circumstances. She was tired and irritated by numerous things, not the least being how Rossie treated her around other members of the tactical crew.
“Just so everybody knows,” Steven said with a sigh, “I was scared shitless. This thing about Pat has me scared, and being on this shitty planet has me scared. I don’t feel too damn good about that, but that’s how it is. I’m sorry if that pisses some of you off.”
Mike Davidson played the role of peacemaker. He offered, “We all know how you’re feeling. We all feel the same. Rossie doesn’t mean any harm.”
“Then why doesn’t she shut up?” Viola inquired, glaring at Rossie with a challenge in her eyes.
Rossie’s ego would have balked her for being passive. She wondered, “Why don’t you shut up, you ignorant bitch.”
Viola stood and yelled, “Why don’t you shut me up?!”
Rossie rose to match Viola and Davidson caught her arm. Steven had done the same with Viola.
“Come on,” Rossie snarled, “let’s see if you have the guts to back the talk.”
Forte decided she had been patient enough. She rose slowly and shoved Rossie back into her chair. Forte was tiny next to Rossie, but exuded absolute assurance. She poked a finger in Rossie’s face and said, “You sit and shut your mouth.” She turned to face Viola. “Parini, you sit your ass down, too.”
Steven yanked her arm and she sat. Rossie and her continued exchanging lethal looks.
Forte ignored them. She said, “I understand this tension. We’ve all been through a lot, and that makes us a little quick-tempered; but might I remind you the only thing in-fighting does is keep us on this planet longer. Now, Ross, Parini, go aft to the hibercolms. If I hear a peep out of either of you I’ll personally come back and kick your assess off the ship. Whatever’s under your skin, you two better damn well work it out. Don’t come back until both of you reach an agreement to be civil. As for time rest of you, you’re all at Mister Tanner’s disposal until we’re able to take off. That includes Mister Bartlett and myself. Now, eat. I don’t want to shovel any more crap, so keep your mouths shut unless you’re shovelling grub into them.”
Rossie frowned, and Forte gazed at her with about as much warmth as ice. She asked, “You have something to say?”
“No, Captain,” was the surly reply.
“I ordered you to go.”
Rossie rose and stalked aft. Forte glared at Viola, who rose with  a tight expression and followed. When they were gone, Reed started to speak, only to be told, “Mister McCulloum, shut up.”
He did, slightly more afraid of Forte than the weird planet around them.
The Voice of God Conquered
Steven sat in Heafs’ empty chair and leaned on the extended notepad console. Angus was bushed, and seemed strung out, but it was Angus who started the conversation by asking, “How do you feel, Stevie?”
“Scraping bottom, Angus. I feel like a man who just swam across shit creek only to find there was a bridge a hundred yards downstream. Vee won’t talk to anyone, and Rossie’s blaming all of us for the trouble Forte gave her. Elizabeth can hardly work she’s so wound up about what happened to me. I feel like a damn fool about that, and no matter how many people say not to think about it, I still do.”
“I’ve the same problem. I can’t help thinking Patrick would be with us now if I hadn’t played that recording. Labrador says he’s still in shock, and I can’t do anything but wait and try to pretend it isn’t my fault.”
“It isn’t, Angus. He would have had to face it, sooner or later.”
“Later might have been better.”
Steven nodded and rubbed his eyes. He muttered, “Isn’t it always.”
Angus reclined in the chair and asked, “Care to hear the latest?”
“Sure.”
“We think we know what happened, largely due to Miss York’s analysis.”
“I have to remember to give Spanner some kudos for that,” Steven said aloud, to try to remind himself.
“She did a wonderful job, and had some creative ideas.”
“She’s good at what she does.”
‘”You chose well.”
“I did.”
Angus smiled and continued, “We traced signals back from the point we came out of transition and started toward this planet. Some time after we entered first-stage orbit there was a series of exchanges in the X-ray spectrum. All of our personnel records were read from in time first few bursts. All of our engineering data went shortly thereafter.”
“That explains how they knew Pat’s name, then,” Steven mused. Somehow, knowing that made the mysterious message less threatening.
“And,” Angus added, “it explains how they countered your emergency measures. Everything from the first orbital problems to Robert’s console exploding were directed by a small program written into the computer’s central memory. It accepted the X-ray and gamma exchanges, interpreted them, and then issued the commands to counter everything you attempted to do. When we dropped below an easy transmission level, when the scanners were beginning to lose the signal, a series of surges were directed to Robert’s console into the condensers. We never would have noticed that even had we been watching for an identifiable strategy. The condensers charge to full and external programs usually prevent them going to a critical overload. We would have had to been tracking every routine procedure to see that charge building.”
“So, when they started losing their control over us they blew up our Navigation station,” Steven sighed, feeling resentful despite having no target for the bitterness.
Angus corrected, “It. Bob Heafs has been working with what Miss York provided, and we have a clear picture of what brought us down.”
“Being?”
“A computer of sorts, we think. The beacon is playing again, by the way. We get it weakly from this position due to the bounce off the atmosphere. Everything about the amount of data exchanged, and the speed of its reactions, proves it to be a machine. The primary purpose of its beacon was to get us into range for the X-ray and gamma transmissions. Those would have been obliterated by the mass of dust and junk this planet drags with it, until we were in close…about two planetary diameters, give or take.”
“So, we’re dealing with a machine that speaks English?”
“I doubt we can credit it that. It would have learned English from the computer interface. It had access to every file in our system. The only requirement it had to have was enough data handling capacity to get a large hunk of data into its volatile memory. Once it deduced our binary coding the algorithms must have been simple enough.”
“What’s a computer doing here?”
“Stevie, if I knew that I’d be a god. And if I was, I would snap my fingers and take us all home.”
Steven grinned and sighed sarcastically, “I’m the god of engineering; you’re the god of science. You wave your scanners at this planet and make it conform to reality, and I’ll wave my magic spanner and have us orbital in twelve hours.”
“Can you legitimately wave Miss York?”
Steven smiled and admitted, “It wouldn’t conform to regulations, but I think if it got us off this rock she’d be up for the experiment.”
“You said twelve hours just now; is that how long Forte’s given you?”
“Yes, and I have enough headaches to kill a mortal man. We’ve almost got all the reactor issues fixed, and the bridge is…well, you can see what the bridge is. All we have left is the cargo hold, and Jack’s getting the gear together for that right now. It’s times like this I wish I was a machine.”
“You’re tired,” Angus observed. They both were. “Sometimes when our problems seem insurmountable, we human beings get tired.”
“Lectures on reality I don’t need, but thanks anyway. I’m old enough to recognise fatigue.”
“Young fatigue is better than old fatigue. Enjoy your youth while you have it, Stevie. That’s been my philosophy since I lost mine.”
They both looked toward the entrance. Forte was coming in. Her lips were twisted to a grim frown. She was clearly as tired as they were. When she sat in Wilkins’ chair, she expelled a pent breath and said, “You two need a lesson in eating. I sent Bartlett down to get your crew, Tanner. Everyone else is preparing themselves something; and Davidson is cooking for anyone who wants fancy. He’s a decent cook, by the way. You might want to take up his offer.”
“If you want us up in twelve hours, we’ll have to wait and eat in orbit.”
“I want you to eat and rest. We’ll tackle the cargo hold in the morning. I’d rather get off this planet with no one dying of fatigue.”
Steven mused, “You’re almost reasonable sometimes, Cap.”
“Bad habit I picked up at birth,” she excused.
“My assistant and I should do a once-over down below before we stop for the day.”
Forte’s frown, a near permanent fixture on her face the last hours, was replaced for a second by a smirk. She said with mock seriousness, “You can do a once-over on your assistant down below after you eat. Dessert usually follows the main course.”
He pursed his lips and told her dryly, “I meant the engines.”
“I’m sure her engines operate better on a full stomach.” Her frown swept back into place, but there was still as sparkle in her eyes. “Eat, then get to bed,” she ordered. “At five AM, ship standard, we convene in the ready room for a pep talk and you’re our cheerleader, so don’t exhaust yourself by eating too much tonight.” With that she stood, spun the chair, and left the bridge.
Angus put a hand on Steven’s shoulder and told him, “She’s a good Captain.”
“Yeah, she is. Truth is, Angus, this is the best bunch of people I’ve ever been trapped on an unreal planet with in my entire lifetime. Well, except Labrador…but I suppose even he’s doing a good job. He hasn’t left Pat alone except to make sure I hadn’t suffered coronary.”
Angus smiled and turned off all but one monitor. He punched a few keys as Steven stood. Before Steven could tell him to come, a voice from his console said, “Steven Tanner, listen very closely to my voice.”
Angus looked up and smiled, asking, “Recognise that voice?”
Steven was ashen.
“Stevie?”
“It’s the voice that talked to Pat. That isn’t funny, Angus.”
Angus frowned and apologised, “Bugger; I’m sorry. I thought you were watching me type. I just wanted you to rest easy knowing where that voice came from.”
Steven shook off the sinister feeling that had settled at the sound of it, and asked, “Did you digitise the sample?”
“No, and that’s why I wanted you to hear this. Do you recognise the voice? Listen to this.”
Angus punched the recording from the log. Craig Ladd was saying, ‘Please don’t do that, Miss Parini. We’ll be on line to the Controller soon.’ Angus entered a line of code and the statement repeated in the exact voice Pat had heard.
“It used Craig’s voice,” Steven realised.
Angus nodded, stifling the guilt he felt having shocked Steven. He explained, “It’s one and one-half octaves lower and slightly slower, but it is her voice. Heafs recognised it. He was trying to analyze the bit of recording we had, and played it higher to see if there was any distinct background murmur. He recognized it immediately. He has quite the ear for voices.”
“So, it doesn’t even have a voice.”
“No voice; no soul; no magical aspect at all.” Angus shut his systems down and asked, “Should I tell everyone? After what happened when I last spoke, I’m not sure.”
“Tell them in the morning. We need good news to wake up,” Steven decided, angry at the machines around them. They had built the machines and another machine had used their creations against them with perfect execution. He added, “You know, there’s something satisfying about knowing this machine we’re dealing with has only what we give it to use against us.”
“Aye,” Angus mused, “that’s one good reason to be thankful for our ignorance.”

July 6th, 2125
The Peacemaker
Steven sat opposite Viola at the table, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. He was dressed but for his shirt, which Elizabeth was holding. Viola was in her pants, deck shoes, and undershirt. Elizabeth was wearing one of his shirts over her plain grey pants, and was in her stocking feet. She had her boots in her hand and was preparing to put them on. Fifteen minutes earlier Elizabeth had come to the mess hall to get a drink and had found Viola pumping weights. She had rushed back to Steven to tell him, and he had come above five minutes later. Viola had yet to say anything, so he began with the obvious.
“It’s three in the morning, Vee.”
“Yeah; so?”
“What’re you doing up?”
“What’re you doing up?” she echoed curtly.
He sipped his coffee, burned his tongue on it, and rubbed the tender spot against his teeth. The tenderness was enough to shake off his drowsiness. After Forte retired them the night before, he and Elizabeth had gone to his room and shut out the rest of the ship. They had played checkers, read to each other, and made love during and after a wandering conversation. Talking through their frustrations and fears had relaxed them both. The night had been a prefect one until Elizabeth had sneaked back to inform him, ‘Viola is lifting weights, and she s swearing a lot.’
“It’s been a while since we had a good talk,” Steven noted.
“Talk to her,” Viola spit.
Elizabeth bowed her eyes and compressed her lips into a hurt frown. As different as they were, Elizabeth had an affection for Viola that made it easy for her to be hurt by spiteful, offhand remarks. Presently, Viola didn’t care. She drank some orange juice and grimaced.
“Vee, maybe you should talk to her. You better talk to somebody. What the Hell is wrong?”
“What do you care? You don’t.”
“That’s not fair. I do care.”
Viola stood and threw her plastic cup. It cracked against the edge of the counter by the basin and orange juice splattered. Elizabeth was hit by enough of the spray to make her flinch. That reaction made Viola pause and frown, but she managed to withhold an apology. She returned to the weight bench and straddled it, her back to them. Without a word more, she started to do arm curls on the tension bar.
Steven rose and left Elizabeth after patting her shoulder, walking directly to the bench. Viola’s clothes were soaked through with sweat, and her pained expression proved she had been working too long. She was arm-weary and the strain was showing in her back and neck. He sat on the bench behind her and reached around, placing his hands on top the tension bar. She stopped lifting and leaned back against him, facing the ceiling.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered.
She shook her head angrily and stood, breaking free of him by pushing his left arm aside. She would have walked out but for Elizabeth, who had quietly risen and went to the exit. She ordered, “Get out of my way, toothpick.”
Steven was surprised when Elizabeth shook her head, backed a step, and completely blocked Viola’s exit. He imagined her fearful expression was the one he had likely worn in the port-side collector. There was a remote chance Viola would react out of character and move her aside aggressively, so he lifted his leg over the bench and stood. Then he paused, reconsidering interference; Elizabeth was becoming more independent, and this was her play to help a friend. He owed her the respect to let her complete it.
Viola stepped forward and put Elizabeth in a gentle bear hug. She lifted and turned a half turn, depositing Elizabeth safely out of her way. As quick as the turn was, it was careful. Steven smiled when Elizabeth reacted to the movement by encircling Viola’s left arm with both of hers. It looked ridiculous. Viola ground her teeth, extricated herself, and turned away. Steven almost laughed when Elizabeth promptly placed both arms around Viola’s waist from behind. Viola turned slowly, putting an arm up over Elizabeth’s head and lying it across her shoulders. There was a begrudging grin on her face, and she was certainly crying. Steven couldn’t see Elizabeth’s face, but he knew her eyes were closed; and somehow that amused him as much as Viola’s helplessness.
“Let go, Elizabeth.” Viola’s order went unanswered. She sighed and said, “Steven, tell her to let go.”
“1 don’t think she’s ready yet. It’s a bonding ritual.” He wandered back to the table his coffee was at and suggested, “Sit and talk to us, Vee.”
Viola twisted, and with one arm across Elizabeth’s back she was capable of walking without stumbling over her counterpart. Elizabeth finally released her when they were sitting, bowing her face slightly. Viola responded to the uncertain expression by placing her hand over Elizabeth’s. There was no resistance to holding hands, and Elizabeth slowly brought her other up so she possessed a grip on Viola’s forearm with both hands.
Steven was chuckling, and Elizabeth’s crimson cheeks inspired him to admit, “It looked funny, but you did a better job keeping her here than I was doing. Congratulations.”
Viola wiped one eye and left the other. She was smiling because she had been captured by someone completely harmless, who was half her size and physically powerless. There was reassurance knowing Elizabeth cared enough to prevent her running away from her friends.
Steven reclined and sighed, his smile changing to a look of concern. He insisted, “Talk to us, Vee. What’s wrong? You’ve been acting strange since you got up.”
“I guess it’s here, this planet; and all the weird shit that’s going on.”
“We’re all on edge about that. I know you better than to believe you would go to pieces over that. It’s got something to do with Rossie, I figure. I saw you trying to talk to her after supper last night.”
“She’s a bitch.”
“You didn’t seem to think so before. What we talked about before hibernation made her out to be something else. Question is, what changed?”
“She did.”
“And that bugs you. I can understand that, but if this is all over what happened to me in that collector yesterday, you know it isn’t worth the trouble. Her making fun of me is just her way of releasing her own stress. I’d lay odds she’d have pissed herself in the same predicament, just like I nearly did.”
Viola looked down at the table and whispered, “It’s not that. That didn’t help, but it’s something else. She treats me like shit around her friends. She won’t even work out at the same time. It’s like she doesn’t want anyone to know she knows me, and that pisses me off. I thought we were friends.”
“Well—”
He stopped when Denton entered the ready room, followed by the rest of the tactical squad. It almost made him glance at the ship’s clock, but he shrugged away doing so in favour of watching the tactical team. Kara Stanwick was the only one who didn’t go directly to the weightlifting equipment. She made herself a coffee, ignoring everyone, and sat nearby with a distant expression on her face.
Steven glanced at Viola and suggested, “Let’s talk back at my room. I’ll get us some coffee and be there in a minute.”
“I better clean up the mess I made of the sink.”
“I’ll take care of it, Vee. You go, sit and relax. Talk to Elizabeth and I’ll be along shortly.”
He waited till they had left before he went to the counter and cleaned up the spilled cup of orange juice. In a few minutes, he had put on a fresh pot of coffee.
“Ya know,” Rossie said, startling him, “sending your moppet off with Vee is like sending a lambkin to the slaughter.”
He looked over his shoulder at her and said, “Vee’s a friend of mine.”
“Yeah, but she’s a dyke.”
He glanced away. He could tell by the sound at least two of the weightlifters had stopped. He could almost feel them wondering whether they should diffuse the situation Rossie was developing. Rossie was on a roll, and said with a chuckle, “Dyke means queer as paper money, Captain Courageous. That little robot friend of yours is gonna be thoroughly fucked up by the—”
He turned and slapped her in the face. The slap shocked her silent and made her back away a step. He could see Penderson was grinning, and saw Kara smirk for an instant. Davidson was apprehensive. Denton wore the same bored, baleful expression as was his usual.
“I don’t know what your problem is, Ross, but I’ve known Vee a long time. You barely know her at all.”
Rossie glared at him and grabbed his arm when he tried to turn away. He gazed at her, prepared for anything. She let his arm go after squeezing hard enough to cause pain, and threatened, “You ever hit me again and I’ll smack you so hard your head’ll spin.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat and responded, “Congratulations, you’re the first female bully I’ve ever met. Just don’t bad mouth Vee to me again and you won’t have to worry about me smacking you again.”
Denton stood and walked toward them with a grave expression washing away the usual boredom. Steven felt his stomach tighten. His voice was the deepest Steven had ever heard, and it was frightening because it was so composed. He said, “Rossie.” She looked at Denton, frowning, and everything about her body language projected a sudden rush of dread. “You’ve been a miserable bitch since we came up. Instead of playing perfect, why don’t you tell yourself the truth for a change.”
“Fuck you, Denton.”
Denton poked Rossie in the shoulder so forcefully she had to shift her feet to retain her balance. Steven felt trapped in a bad spot, and he was slightly confused. Denton’s expression was perfectly bland again. He said sternly, “You’re not perfect, this man’s not perfect, and Viola Parini isn’t perfect. But this problem isn’t theirs, it’s yours. Instead of accusing them and making them your excuse, try to resolve your problem. You’re always shifting blame onto everyone, and you bully people like they deserve to be punished because you lack confidence in yourself. It’s beginning to bother me.”
She raised her hands in a gesture that ineffectually dismissed him, asking, “Is it my fault nobody’s got a sense a humour?”
Denton seemed unaware of the tension. He also seemed unaware how frightening was the confidence he exuded. He was so confident and tranquil he approached arrogance. His arms were lax by his sides and his expression was unaffected by Rossie’s bluster. His bearing was ideally suited to intimidate because he wasn’t really trying to, and it was obvious Rossie was afraid of him. His bass tone, almost musical, produced the observation, “You whine that frequently. It bothers me to hear another excuse for your behavioural problems. I heard what you said to Parini the night after the crash. She wanted to talk, and you treated her like needing to talk made her a weakling. I suggest in future you express your self-loathing in another way. Perhaps as contempt for yourself. And save the self-righteous bitching that she’s a dyke, because if she is then so are you…and it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you have a serious deficit of confidence, and backfilling it with superiority is a faulty method of dealing with that deficit.”
Rossie pretended he was being ignorant and stupid, gasping and shaking her head. She casually placed her hands on her hips and smirked.
Steven wanted to leave, but it was difficult not to be interested in what Denton was saying. Denton’s size and silence seemed to contradict how well spoken and expressive was his assessment of Ross.
 “You can turn your nose at everything I say, Rossie, but it remains true. You treated her like she was trivial because that’s how you feel, except when you have someone to push around. The saddest component of this flaw you have is it inevitably harms your happiness. Friendship is much more than a passing fling, and not defined by mutual reliance. Friendship is about trust, and trust is the only path to enlightenment of any kind.”
She flashed a gesture to indicate what he could do to himself, and with none of her usual bravado, told him, “Fuck you.”
Casually, he slapped her. It almost looked gentle, but sounded vicious and knocked her off her feet. Denton took a firm grip on the back of her shirt at her shoulder before she was entirely down and physically lifted her from her knees to her feet. She was conscious, her hands up to her nose. Blood was pouring between her fingers and decorating the floor. She stumbled as he begun walking her toward the main access stack.
Steven glanced around at the other the tactical crew. Penderson had begun whistling and was returning to his workout. Kara was smiling serenely, sipping her coffee. Mike was looking at him, expression difficult to interpret.
“I didn’t mean to start this,” Steven excused.
Mike shrugged and reasoned, “She had it coming. Rossie is one of those people you can love till you’re blue, and she’ll push away as hard as you pull her in. She gets pushy, especially when she’s emotionally affected by someone.”
“And bitchy,” Penderson said between presses. “That woman could be the poster child for maladjusted.”
Kara set her cup down and offered, “That’s the most he’s ever said in one conversation in a crowded room. I knew he didn’t like the way she was behaving, but I never thought he would say anything. Dent-man is the silent type.”
Penderson stopped lifting and sat to do curls. He observed, “He ever slaps me and I’ll die, man. He’s the strongest motherfucker I ever met.”
“Yeah,” Mike admitted, finally smiling. “I’ll drum up sympathy for her when she starts behaving like an adult again.”
Steven turned and poured the three coffees he had been waiting for. He turned with the tray when he was done, and asked with concern, “What do you think he’ll do with her?”
Mike admitted, “Don’t know, I’ve never actually seen him hit anybody before. He smacked her pretty hard.”
Kara blew across her coffee and suggested, “He’ll fix her nose. I bet he broke it, and he always fixes what he breaks.”
“Deal on that bet,” Penderson said.
“Deal,” Kara agreed.
“None of you seem too worried. He could kill her.”
“Dent-man kill somebody?” Kara wondered. She smiled, displaying for the first time that she was wearing braces. Somehow that made her more attractive, and endearing; it also explained her usual close-mouth smile. “He made his point. He’s really very gentle. I went to school with his sister. She said he’s very sensitive.”
“His sister built like him?” Penderson asked.
“Yeah, Dave,” she said sarcastically, “her dick’s a mile long, too.”
“That ain’t what I meant, but I guess you’d know?”
Kara smiled, gazing thoughtfully at her coffee; Penderson grimaced, and was about to say something more when he thought better of it.
Mike slapped Penderson’s arm and said, “She’s messing with you.”
“I know that,” was the claim, which rang hollow, and made Kara wink at the two men.
Steven left them and shortly discovered exactly what Denton had done with Rossie. They were standing outside his quarters, and he was still holding the back of her shirt. Elizabeth and Viola were at the threshold of the door, and Rossie was speaking. Her tone was nasal and had entirely lost its manufactured machismo. She sounded thoroughly whipped, saying, “I’m sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean it; I just said it.”
Denton prodded gently, “More.”
Rossie looked at him, her chin smeared with blood from her nose. Her eyes returned to the floor before she whispered, “I shouldn’t be mistreating you, and if you wanna talk later I’d like to. I enjoyed talking with you. I sometimes get uncomfortable about being close to people.”
“And?” Denton urged.
“And I push people around…away…because of that. The better I get along with someone, the harder I push when I’m…upset.” She looked at Denton warily, verging on tears, and peeped, “Is that good enough?”
“No. You owe her an apology for what you said when she came to talk with you at your room.”
Rossie put her fingers to her upper lip and drew a pained breath. She released it and said, “I know I called you some names, Vee, and I know you don’t deserve them. I get defensive. I hate people thinking they can get to me. I’m a baby like that. Somebody can hurt me, it breaks my heart. I don’t like to be vulnerable.”
Viola nodded and struggled to say something reasonable. She chose, “I understand. I just thought we were friends, and you really confused me with the things you said. It’s not like that with me. I just enjoy your company; working out together and talking with you.”
Rossie nodded and whispered, “Yeah, I know. Crawl inside my head and you’ll find somebody curled up bawling most of the day. I like you…so you can get to me. Bad me. I have to fix my face now before it falls off. See you later?”
“Yeah.”
Denton turned with her and faced Steven. He said calmly, “You also owe Mister Tanner an apology for yesterday.”
Without the least resistance in her tone, Rossie said, “I’m sorry about bugging you. I was at you because it bothered Vee. I’m actually stupid enough to hurt my friends through their friends. Helps to not have to manage any real ones. It won’t happen again.”
Steven nodded without replying, and then watched them go, turning slowly back to Elizabeth and Viola. In response to their expressions, he explained, “She smart-mouthed you and he smacked her in the face. What the Hell did I miss here?”
Viola followed Elizabeth into his room when the tug on her arm came, and he entered behind them, sitting on the edge of the bed. He placed the coffee on the bedside shelf and asked, “Is that what was bothering you, whatever it was she said to you the night we came up?”
Viola nodded and lifted her cup, changing the subject. She lifted the corner of the bed sheet to draw their attention to it and said, “I was telling little Lizzie she better soak these, or you better learn to wear a sock on it.”
Steven frowned, and said with almost comical indignity, “What the Hell is going on in this ship?”
Viola smiled, looking from Elizabeth’s blush to his worn expression. She offered, “It looks to me like you’ve been having some wet dreams, or something.”
“Or something,” Elizabeth said shyly, smiling.
“If he ever calls you a something slap him silly,” Viola advised.
Elizabeth turned her face to study Steven, and smiled brightly, saying, “I don’t think I have to worry.”
The Temple of Pain
“Did you bother to sleep at all?” Forte asked.
Steven looked from his fourth cup of coffee and said plaintively, “What is this, bust Tanner’s ass day?”
“Touchy, touchy.” Forte sat with her coffee. They were alone in the ready room, so she chided, “Where’s your little friend?”
He frowned and shrugged, then added irritably, “She’s with Vee. The last I saw of them they were criticising my dressing habits.”
“Well, you do look a little rumpled.”
“Thanks, Cap. You know how good it is to get kicked around by everyone this early in the morning?”
“Yes, I’m a Captain. That’s basically my job description.”
The tactical crew arrived and Forte saw Rossie for the first time since the previous evening. She turned in her chair and demanded, “What the Hell happened to your face?”
“Denton punched me,” Rossie replied, her voice a nasal buzz.
“God damn immature kids,” Forte muttered. Shaking her head, she asked of Denton, “Why did you punch her?”
Rossie was offended. She leapt to Denton’s defence with the statement, “I was bothering everybody, so we worked it out.”
Forte fired a peculiar glance at Mike Davidson and he shrugged in reply to the look. Expelling a tired breath, Forte turned her back to them and frowned at Steven. She muttered, “I’ll be damn glad to get back home. Crews are too damned eccentric these days. Put me on a ship running supplies with a normal god-damned crew.”
Steven nodded absently and drank his coffee, barely aware of his surroundings. Only when Elizabeth put a breakfast tray in front of him did he acknowledge her. She accepted the delayed reaction gracefully, almost smiling when his expression betrayed surprise at seeing nearly everyone had arrived. She knew how tired he was; if she hadn’t the benefit of a near-perfect metabolism she would have felt the same.
Labrador’s arrival impelled Forte to her feet. She cleared her throat to draw their attention and said, “All right, everyone sit a minute. I want to make this short, and to the point. Miss York, Mister Shepherd, and Mister Heafs examined the logs relative to our crash-down on this planet and have revealed some specific points of interest. I want those kept in mind today. The first and most important thing to remember is that the voice message Mister McAvery received was not of alien origin. It was produced by electronically altering the frequency and pitch of Miss Ladd’s voice. The content, while we don’t know it fully, was doubtless a by-product of whatever information was gained from our main computer’s data banks. This thing that brought us down is a machine. I’ve heard contrary whispers from some of you, but you can put your nightmares to rest. Mister Heafs has determined the transmission, while its origin is alien, is fully within the mechanical capabilities of a moderately advanced computer. Another thing I’ve heard bandied about is the idea this planet is a trap of some sort. Because we can’t categorically disprove that idea, we’ll take precautions when we launch today. We will be operating on minimum scan. Mister Heafs has located and removed the viral program that acted as an interpreter of the instructions we received on the way down, and we now have a defined, extremely strict series of access conventions that will prevent further infiltration and interference. To be more certain, we will be turning off all scan inputs once we raise above six-hundred sixty metres, and they will remain off until we’re out of orbit.”
“If I may,” Heafs interrupted, raising a hand.
Forte nodded to him.
Heafs smiled and surveyed everyone to be sure he had their attention. He said, “To avoid any confusion over verbal messages we may appear to receive, note please that all such transmissions will have been produced by this machine based upon data it drew from our computer. We will be leaving Communications open to radio wave signals because we can use the interference to determine when we begin to receive the higher frequencies that did us the initial damage. This machine is a brilliant manipulator, proved by how rapidly it understood Mister Tanner’s strategies to undermine its sabotage attempts. It is vital we remember it has in its possession the contents of virtually every one of our personal files. It may try to use that data to its advantage, as it likely did with Mister McAvery. Obviously the logical use of such data has a devastating effect, unless one remembers it can’t actually know any more than the personnel files have taught it.
“If I may one moment more, Captain Forte?”
She acquiesced with another nod.
“I think it’s wise to clarify some of what we’ve discovered. To begin, this machine was operating a beacon. The beacon attracted the ship during a pause between transition phases because of a general order filed in the science computer. The beacon was a simple radio wave repeater, a pattern of fluctuation across a limited range of radio frequencies. I know it must seem we were lured here, but the facts don’t bear that interpretation. There was no directed probe at us until we locked into an orbit and began to do routine surface scans of the planet. Another myth I would like to dispel is the theory Captain Forte expressed. The beacon was certainly not a trap. The most likely explanation of what happened to us is best founded in the facts: The beacon drew us here because of orders we implied. It was only a beacon from our viewpoint. Once in orbit, the machine source of the beacon used our automatic scanning devices to examine our internal structure and exchange information at ultra-high frequencies. During the probe the machine detected our fusion reactors, and it attempted, quite logically, to turn off what it must have perceived as dangerous nuclear reactions. The pattern of its interference with our attempts to regain power was single-minded. It reacted to every attempt to retain power with an attempt to curb the potential danger of fusion. There is a distinct possibility, if it is capable of artificial intelligence, that it believed it was helping the ship.”
Reed was incredulous, obviously concerned with Heafs’ sanity. He interrupted, “Helping the ship? If it read all our files it had to realize turning those reactors off would kill us.”
Heafs remained gracious, observing, “One would think so from our view, but you’re presupposing it understands you and I are life forms. A lot of the confusion I see in many of your faces is a result of trying to assign human motivations to the actions of this machine. Despite what our records might tell it, it would very likely not make a connection between us and life forms. In its scope of experience we may seem just another redundancy system. I admit it grasped our communication formats quickly, and used language efficiently against Mister McAvery, but I doubt it’s cognisant to the degree where it would develop an immediate and correct understanding of the finer distinctions we would make between what constitutes life and what constitutes machine intelligence. Consider Mister Latham’s death. It likely considered him as a program, or a piece of hardware. To it, from afar, we’re all just bits of information. When Mister Latham attempted to manually control our spin during descent, the machine likely determined him to be a dysfunctional aspect of the ship’s guidance systems. After all, in our terms of reference, it probably had no concept of what our relative position in space meant. In simpler terms, the machine likely scaled our fusion reactors as a more prominent threat than our pitch, yaw and radial motion.”
Tracey interrupted softly with the observation, “It also seemed to be responding directly to waveforms the reactors were generating after the collectors began to shutdown.”
Reed grumbled, “Must be a woman machine; looking for ways to inject itself into the oddest conversations.”
Tracey blushed, and cast reed an irritated look. She then ignored him, turned her attention back to Heafs, and said, “Something must have built this machine, Mister Heafs.”
“Right,” Reed concluded, put off by her dismissal of his jibe. He was also cognisant she was right, and well aware his irritation with her was because she had done his job surprisingly well analysing the reactor outputs. He appended, “Something built it and something programmed it.”
Labrador stood. He distracted most everyone doing so until Pat McAvery spoke and drew their attention to the exit. Pat’s arrival had been Labrador’s obvious prompt to stand, and the medical officer looked disturbed to see his patient walking. Pat ignored Labrador and said to the rest of them, “You don’t know. You don’t understand what you’re dealing with. He’s not a machine.” Pat detected Labrador’s movement toward him and backed up a step into the wall. He extended a hand, fingers trembling. His eyes were circled by puffy grey. “I’m not crazy. You…you stay away from me.”
Bartlett focused on Pat’s right hand. He gestured Labrador to stay back and ordered, “Leave him alone.”
Pat was relieved Labrador stopped. Steven could see now what Bartlett had noticed. Pat was holding a scalpel. His knuckles were white, but the hand holding the scalpel was steady. Pat’s eyes bobbed to Heafs, but he kept looking suspiciously toward Labrador. Steven followed his glance only once, reading Labrador’s features. The medical officer looked almost angry now, or perhaps he was just anxious about Pat’s conditions. It was hard to pinpoint the emotion with such a fleeting study.
“I think you know,” Pat said. Most seemed to think he was talking to Heafs because that was where he was staring, but Steven got the impression the accusation was directed at Labrador.
Heafs’ eyes danced to the knife then back to Pat’s drawn face. He smiled compassionately and said, “I’m glad to see you’re up again, Mister McAvery. You’ll be pleased to know we’ve identified the voice you heard.”
Bartlett winced because Pat tensed visibly. Steven threw a fast glance at Labrador and realised it wasn’t Heafs’ words that bothered McAvery. It was the thoughtful expression and frown from Labrador. When he returned his gaze to Pat, he caught sight of Denton; Denton was at one of the tables surrounded by benches, and had carefully slid a foot into a better position to gain leverage for a move.
“He talked to you. Tell them!”
Again, though it appeared Pat was talking to Heafs, Steven knew it was directed at Labrador. His angle provided him the evidence of it, because Pat’s head was held just so his peripheral vision locked onto Labrador. 
Angus smiled and said, “Patrick, it was a digitized alteration of Miss Ladd’s voice.”
“He speaks many tongues, not the least of His creation.”
Denton casually picked up his coffee and drained the cup. Pat was distracted by it, but quickly returned his eyes to Labrador, this time unmistakably. There was a plea in Pat’s miserable expression. He tore them from Labrador with a grimace and focused on Steven’s, asking, “You understand, don’t you?”
Steven stood and nodded, sure his movement would be accepted. He extended a hand and gestured it in a downward motion. He urged, “Put the scalpel down, Pat. You don’t need it here. We’re all friends.”
“He that increases knowledge increases sorrow.”
Labrador’s eyes narrowed and his mouth moved, like he was speaking without the will to make sound. Pat backed toward the door. He held the scalpel toward Steven and shook his head, tears streaming from his eyes. The next motion was unstoppable. He plunged the blade into his belly and yanked it left to right up toward his breastbone. Denton was there in seconds, but could do little more than catch Pat as he crumpled backward into the fore corridor. Pat’s strangled gasp died with a rush of pent breath. Steven reached Pat a second later. Pat clutched the shoulder of Steven’s jacket, blood from his mangled abdomen beginning to pool beneath him. He stared into Steven’s eyes with a madman’s lustre and whispered sharply, “Steven, listen to me.”
Labrador only moved when Forte snapped an order, which Steven barely heard.
Pat paused and his breath obscured his painful groan. Gathering himself again, he whispered, “On Eden in the Temple of Pain is the Cathedral of His making. There will God wait His children.” Pat writhed then, crying out. He arched slightly and Steven’s face was speckled by blood puffing from Pat’s mouth as he stiffened and screamed.
Labrador dropped to his knees beside them and went to work. He tore open the slit halves of Pat’s undershirt. The wounds were deep; blood was streaming from them in rushes, flowing and abating with Pat’s rapid heartbeat. The pool on the deck was spreading across the plates and had run off into one of the indents between separate deck plates. Because of the angle Sapphire sat on blood was flowing toward the bridge.
“All the rivers…,” Pat struggled past a gargle in his throat. “…yet the sea…not full.”
Steven looked up at Labrador for an answer, but Labrador was too busy to return even a glance.
The Most Difficult Question
Steven pushed away from the wall when Labrador came from the medical lab into the junction. Wilkins was behind, removing her bloody smock and rubber gloves. Steven was still dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing when Pat had attempted suicide. The knees and shins of his pants were still damp with drying blood. When Labrador whispered to Forte, Steven interrupted their conference with a sharp question, “Is he alive?
Labrador fixed Steven with a stare and said nothing. There was a guarded expression on the medical officer’s face. Forte provided the answer, “They have him sedated, on life support.”
Labrador was silent a moment more, then added with a genuine tone of regret, “He’s lost a great deal of blood. The life support will provide what he needs to replace it, but our facilities are primitive compared to hospitals on Earth. We closed him as best we were able, but I don’t think we can say for certain, for at least twelve hours, if he can survive. He…cut most of his internal organs badly.”
Forte was studying Steven. She had a sombre expression for a second, then replaced it with her purely mechanical business expression. What choice did she have? She directed, “Tanner, change, and close the cargo hold. You have everyone you need, except for Labrador and the science crew. I want out of this Hell-hole today. The sooner we get off here and can put McAvery in a hibercolm, the better his chances are.”
Steven nodded and wiped his face. The speckles of blood there came off on his hand as flakes. Without looking away from the door to the medical centre, he walked to the ladder and climbed to B-deck. He ignored Jack, who was scrubbing the blood in the hall, and went starboard to his quarters. He turned left down the ramp, then left into his room. The door was open and Elizabeth was at the desk, staring at the blank monitor embedded in the wall. She turned when he entered and began to ask a question, but he shook his head and mumbled, “These are my orders. Give them to Jack and he’ll spread them around. Forte says Angus, Heafs and Wilkins are to be left to their business. Penderson and Rossie are in no shape for the cargo duty. They can finish scrubbing up Pat’s blood. Then they’re to go with Spanner to the bridge. All systems are to be thoroughly checked and all console condensers are to be manually charged and then set on remote local mode, with no computer override left online. Fuses are to be hard-wired between the primary and secondary feeds to each condenser unit to prevent overloads. Tell Spanner she’s to put two new breakers in every unit at every station regardless of when they were last changed. She’s to fuse the breakers as well, and make them low-tolerance. I looked at Latham’s station and the breakers on the condenser unit were locked shut. That won’t happen to us again.
“Tell Jack I want Vee and you to run full checks from the reactor rooms, on every reactor. Put them through the same low-energy tests new engines go through. Any problems you find, however small, you fix or, barring that, you isolate. If you need someone else, you let me know and we’ll send you someone. I’ll be on the bridge, or in the cargo hold; wearing this.” He tapped his headset. “Tell Jack I want everyone who comes below to the cargo hold to be in pressure suits. I want a full range of portable clamps and seven lock-base winches we can mount securely on the banister around the platform that extends off the passage above the main hold. Everyone I haven’t named to something else is on the cargo hold job with me, except Jack and Forte. Jack will be on the bridge with Forte, tracking our progress and watching for the signals when we find out which feeds are down. Mike Davidson, Denton and Kara Stanwick are to suit up and come below with Reed, Bartlett, Ladd and me. You have all that?”
She nodded.
“Get to it.”
“Steven?”
He finished tucking his clean shirt in and turned. She was trembling. Without pausing to think, he put his arms around her and laid his cheek against hers. She needed him; and he needed her.
“Why did Mister McAvery do what he did?”
He sighed and replied, “I don’t know, Elizabeth. I don’t know what’s going on around here. Everyone’s on edge, and Pat’s just more troubled than the rest of us. All I know is things will get better when we get off this planet.”
She kissed him on the side of the chin and backed away.
“I’ll tell Jack your orders.”
“You do that. I’ll be below as soon as I wash my face and hands.”
He paused her with her name, spoken softly. She hovered, smiled ruefully, and he whispered, “I love you.”
“I know.”
“With all my heart,” he tried, smiling, irrationally amused by the superior expression of certainty on her face.
“I don’t need to say it to have you feel it,” she whispered.
It was his turn to say, “I know.”
The Life Blood of Eden
“Jack, this is Steven. We’re on the edge of the platform. I’m looking at this stuff in the lower half of the hold. It’s too dark to see the doors. The floodlights we’re setting on the edge of the platform aren’t helping much. Our detectors down here say we have a fairly normal atmosphere, but I want you to put the Captain at Life Support to monitor the area. This soup might clog the re-breather exhausts on our suits, and I wanna know in plenty of time to pull out. You have our suit numbers?”
“We have them,” Jack replied, “and I already took the liberty of stationing the Captain at Life Support. What do you think your best approach is?”
Steven motioned everyone around and said, “Channel five for all our communications. I’ll stay on six with my other headset. Craig, Stanwick and Clay, you three are on the winches. We’ll go down in pairs. Reed, you take Denton; I’ll take Davidson. We’ll go off either side and try to follow the edges of the door to where she’s lying out. According to Angus we have four to six metres depth of this fluid to deal with. Keep that in mind. The doors are definitely bent near the centre seams and there may be sections torn out. Don’t get careless. If you slip, or feel yourself dropping through, hit the pad here on the left harness strap. It’s the brakes, and it’s all we have below. Anything else you need done, like being reeled in, you relay to someone up here. Now, this is important – for you two, especially. When we get down there we won’t be able to see much and might not be able to see each other. What our intention is, is just to determine how many of the braces are split along the edges. It’s a quick survey to find out where we can attach cables to haul the doors closed. That slop is thick, and these lines are for more than safety. When you want out, call and put your arms up like this, over your helmet visor. The winches will get you back to the base of this platform and pull you up. When being hauled, always keep your hands up to protect the visor. Got that?”
There were several emphatic nods. He returned one and said, “Jack, this is Steven. You heard all that?”
“Five-by-five.”
“Okay, I’m going over the edge first. When I get under I’ll do a radio test. We may have to boost on your end. Angus says this stuff is probably a radio wave insulator.”
“We’re ready on this end, Steven.”
Steven went to the edge and climbed over the rail, standing on the outside a moment. He put one arm up over his visor and wrapped the other in his harness where the cable attached. He nodded to Craig, and said, “Come switch this release so I can dive.”
She set the winch and cautioned, “Be careful.”
He nodded and looked to the others, reminding, “No unnecessary chatter. We’re all on the same channel, and if we talk over each other we’ll never know what we’re saying. Mike, you drop off this spot after I move larboard.” He saw Reed was fiddling with a bandanna, trying it around his harness, and wondered, “Reed, what the Hell are you doing?”
Reed grinned at him and said, “My snot-rag.”
He shook his head, smiled at Craig, and playfully puckered his lips, then stepped off the edge of the platform. The smack of his boots hitting the liquid sounded hollow inside the environment suit. He sunk into it quickly. It crept up his visor from the bottom like thick grease, then he was underneath, completely blind. Shortly, his feet came into contact with the deck. It had been a rapid descent, slowed and almost stalled by the thickness of the sludge.
“Jack, do you read me?”
There was a crackle of static from his headset, but Jack’s voice came to him clearly , responding, “Steven, can you boost the volume on your end just a bit?”
He reached to his chest and tapped the transmitter dial through its plastic wrap. He informed, “I’m now at top volume.”
“Too loud locally,” complained Reed. “We’re gonna go deaf. You have to turn it back down, Steve.”
He started walking to his right toward the port-side of Sapphire. As he went, he turned his transmitter to the previous level and asked, “How’s that?”
“Good here,” Reed replied.
Jack was slower coining back, finally agreeing, “It’s acceptable. Your signal is fuzzy, but I can hear you. Just move slow to reduce suit noise.”
“I guarantee the slow; it’s like walking in porridge.” Steven stopped walking then and said, “Mike, come on in, the water’s great.”
“Okay.”
Davidson didn’t sound pleased. Steven waited patiently for a minute before asking, “You in yet?”
“Just about.”
He waited another minute. Davidson finally said, “I’m in. Which way are we?”
“Port-side. I can’t see you, but I’m reading your transmissions clearer now. Just walk toward your left, but watch your step. The edge of the door is about a metre forward of the platform. It might be open pretty wide in the centre.” He adjusted his harness slightly and ordered, “Reed, Denton, come on in.”
“I’m already in,” Reed came back.
“You ever hear the concept of an order before?” Steven grumbled, though he wasn’t overly upset Reed was speeding the job along.
“Isn’t that something you do at a restaurant?”
“Yeah, Reed. Denton?”
“Ready to come down,” Denton replied.
Reed interrupted, “Don’t drop yet, Denton, I’m stuck on something.”
“What you tangled in, Reed?” Steven wondered. He was thinking of adding leave it to you, but the sludge around them was making him feel claustrophobic already without delaying the work with excess chatter.
There was a long two-minute silence before Reed finally grunted, as if he were confused. He was silent another few seconds, then said, “Sorry, Steve, I guess I’m not caught. It must be this crap. It’s hard to move in.”
Steven felt something bump into him and heard Davidson ask with a bit of alarm, “What was that?”
“Me, I think,” he replied, reaching out and taking Davidson’s outstretched arm. “Yeah; me. You okay, Mike?”
“I’m mulling yet another reason I never became an engineer.”
“It’s pitch in this goo,” Reed complained.
Steven ignored him and moved his cable into Mike’s hand. He advised, “Here, take this, Mike. I can’t see you at all. Just hang onto my cable and follow my lead. Denton, you in yet?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, let’s move. Be careful, and take your time.”
A screech, a wild grinding that climbed steadily in pitch, blanked out all communications for a second. Steven quashed all the following questions, snapping, “Shut up! Jack, what the Hell was that squeal? Jack?”
“Sorry, Steven. What are you asking about?”
“That squeal; what was it?”
“Hang on.” There was a long silence, then finally Jack asked, “Steven?”
“Yeah?”
“At this end I don’t have anything like what you described. It was local.”
“Clay, did you hear it?”
Bartlett replied, “Sorry. We heard something, like a flutter, but we heard no squeal.”
“I sure as Hell heard it,” Reed offered. “Do I have hearing insurance?”
“Okay,” Steven said irritably, “it’s one of our transmitters then. We’ll sound off every few minutes. Anyone fails to sound, they’re hauled out. Guys, be aware if the winch line starts to tug you. Protect the faceplate. Let’s move.”
They walked several silent minutes, making little progress in the thick fluid. The only sound was their regular calls to ensure the faulty transmitter continued functioning. Suddenly, the wild screech broke again, drowning Denton’s call.
“There it is, again,” Steven began. “Jack, can—”
Jack cut him off gently with the statement, “We’re withdrawing you all. Assume the position.”
Steven countermanded, “Negative. Negative. We’ll finish our survey. The radio squelch isn’t worth the—”
Jack said again, firmly, “We’re withdrawing you. Miss Ladd, Miss Stanwick, throw the switches when they report ready.”
Reed broke radio silence, complaining, “Don’t pull me yet, I’m stuck again. Denton, I must be tangled on your line. Give your line a tug.”
Steven used the pause to say, “Jack, we don’t need to be withdrawn.”
Jack said calmly, but decisively, “Yes, sir, you do.”
Reed sounded worried when his voice next came over the radio. “Denton?” he asked. “Big guy, you there?”
Steven listened intently to the low static, then ordered, “Clay, switch Denton’s winch. Take it slow so he knows he’s coming up. His transmitter must have blinked out. Denton, if you’re still—”
The blast of wild radio interference drown the rest of his caution to Denton. When it subsided, Reed was screaming, “Take up my flicking slack!”
“Reed? Reed, are you falling?” Steven demanded.
“Take me out!”
“Reed, slut up!” Steven ordered. “Clay?”
“I’m drawing them both in,” Kara replied.
“No tension,” came Bartlett’s voice. “Reed, check your harness.”
Reed obviously already knew what Bartlett had discovered. He moaned, “I lost my fucking line! I told you I was snagged on Denton. Shit! Stuck in a tonne of fucking heavy metal shit. Goddamn it!”
“Reed, just shut up a minute and stay put, Craig, pull Mike in. Mike?”
“Yeah?”
“You moving yet?”
“Yeah. Hang on.” The pause was short before Mike asked, “Did the winch just jam?”
Craig said calmly, “Your line is caught somewhere.”
There was a screech and the sound of something bending and breaking. Craig yelped and Bartlett ordered, “Stanwick, get away from the rail!”
Steven could hear Forte in the background on the bridge, issuing some sort of order to Penderson. He demanded, “Jack, what’s going on?”
“Hang on, Steven.”
“Clay?” Steven tried, desperate for information.
Bartlett replied, “We just lost your and Davidson’s winches.”
“Dent-man’s coining up,” Kara reported.
There was a flurry of voices, but Steven only heard a few of them. He was yanked hard by his winch line and fell, landing on his chest. The radio unit sputtered and came back on a little louder.
“There’s something in here! Fuck! Fuck!”
Steven snapped angrily, “Reed, shut up! Shut up and get out!”
“Out where?” Reed fired back. “Which way is out? I can’t see goddamn anything!”
Steven felt himself being dragged and slipped free of his harness. It was drawn away and he came to an abrupt stop. He lay still a moment before asking, “Mike? Mike, you okay?”
“I’m all right. I fell down, and I lost my line. I was getting pulled, so I popped the release.”
“Me, too. Do you know where you are?”
 “I don’t think I’m in the ship any more, Steven.”
“Okay, stay calm and stay put. Put on your beacon and I’ll come get you.”
“Belay that!” Forte snapped from the bridge, the first time she had spoken directly to them though she had been heard speaking occasionally in the background. “All three of you stay right where you are. No beacons.”
“What the fuck is happening?!” Reed wailed.
Forte snapped back, “McCulloum, if you curse again I’ll feed you detergent when you come out of there. I want radio silence. That’s an order. Bartlett, can you see anything?”
“Not much, Captain. We have Denton out. He’s all right, but his radio is smashed.”
“I’m slipping,” Davidson said suddenly, sounding more surprised than worried.
“Are you on any part of the ship? Is the door by you?” Steven asked.
“Tanner, be quiet,” Forte ordered. “Bartlett, get everyone back from the edge. Penderson and Rossie are on the way.”
“What the fuck about us?!” Reed snapped, his signal crackling oddly.
“Quiet, Reed. Captain, this is Tanner; why are Penderson and Rossie coming down here?”
“Tanner, Shepherd says there are five heat forms inside the liquid you’re in. None of them are near your suit signals right now. Stay put.”
A loud ping started to sound and, Steven looked the direction he was certain it was coming from. It was magnified in the sludge. He grumbled, “Reed, is that you? Damn it, Reed, how can I find Mike if you have your signal—”
“It’s not him,” Forte said tersely.
Steven could hear something else now. There were distant smacking sounds echoing through the fluid and clicking from the inside of his visor.
“What’s that?” Reed wondered, calmer than before. He sounded confused.
There was a loud jumble of voices and Penderson said clearly, “I hit it! Didn’t I?”
“Jesus Christ, they’re shooting,” Steven muttered to himself. He started to crawl the direction he thought was further from the ping of the beacon, then the sound stopped suddenly. “Damn you, Forte, we’re still down here,” he snarled. “They could hit us!”
“Radio silence,” she ordered. “Your company was responding to vibrations in the muck. They attacked the source of the most vibrations. We don’t know if they pick up radio signals. Now, shut up. And Penderson, you discharge that weapon again and I’ll shove it up your ass and pull the trigger. You’re only to throw the beacon boxes. You know that!”
“Strategic advice 1-0-1. If it screws with you, you kill it!” Penderson snapped back.
Davidson growled, “David, you dumbass, give that weapon to somebody with self-control right now! I’m not about to have you shoot me!”
Several pings were now sounding to replace the first.
“Tanner, your receiver is facing the open edge of the door. You’re about three metres from Davidson.” It was Wilkins, but Steven didn’t at first recognise her voice. She sounded distracted. “Crawl forward slowly, but be careful,” she advised.
He shimmied forward until Angus said, “You’re nearly on top of him, Stevie. Reach out in front. He’s about a half-metre ahead of your receiver, and about two below.”
Steven did as they suggested and found the edge of the door. The other half was obviously lying further open than the section they were on. Davidson had been dragged to the split and had fallen through it.
“The edge is here,” he reported.
Wilkins cut in, her tone hinting panic. She gasped, “McCulloum, get down! Stop moving. Two of them are converging on you.”
“I can’t see nothing!” Reed complained.
“Radio silence!” Forte ordered. “McCulloum, lie down!”
He must have complied. In a minute, Wilkins said, “They passed.”
“Davidson, this is Forte. Tanner is almost exactly above you. Do you have anything to throw to him?”
“Negative.”
Steven said, “It wouldn’t work anyway. This substance is too thick to throw anything up. Jack, how much air does a suit this size contain?”
“Too risky,” Jack replied.
“Four minutes?” Steven pressed.
“The risk is too great.”
“Damn it, Jack.”
“Radio silence!” Forte snapped.
“No! Damn it, Jack, is it four minutes or not?”
He could hear Forte ask Jack what he was going to do. Jack ignored her and said, “Four minutes, twenty seconds still-time, with minimal motion and no exertion. You have no more than two minutes if you disconnect there.”
“I’m disconnecting, Jack.”
“Tanner, I’m ordering you not to,” Forte said sternly.
He ignored her, claiming, “Didn’t catch that. Mike, I’m going to drop my pack down to you. When you can feel it, grab the air hose and disconnect the pack, then climb up.”
“Ready,” Davidson promised.
Forte muttered angrily, “I can’t believe none of you have a damn clue about an order when you hear it.”
Jack said something away from the microphone that seemed to calm Forte to silence.
Steven drew a deep breath, held it, and slipped off his pack. He tore the pack harness loose and attached it to the air hose. Assuring himself by touch that the valve was shut, he released his breath and waited till the scrubber replaced the used air. He drew another deep breath, waited, then turned off the pack and disconnected the hose from his suit. Quickly, he let it drop over the edge of the door. Just as quickly, he braced himself. Davidson had found it already and was coming up. When a hand gripped his wrist, he started to shimmy backward, breathing normally.
He heard Reed demand, “Somebody tell me what to do!”
Steven broke silence, ordering, “Leave your radio transmitter and crawl to the wall, Reed.”
Wilkins interrupted with the statement, “Stop moving.”
Penderson was apparently still throwing sound boxes, because he quickly corrected, “Keep moving!”
“Keep moving,” Angus added, calmer than Wilkins. “They seem not to really care what you’re doing right now.”
Steven continued to slide backward, noticing his oxygen level dropping. The same chilly sensation was coming over him as had come over him near the end of his free-flight into void space off the rim. When his feet bumped a part of the frame that was set at an angle to the halves of the door, he turned and pulled Mike up onto it. Davidson immediately started to crawl aft, and he stopped him with a pull and directed, “Mike, go forward to the access ladder. It’s closer. Leave your transmitter and go.”
“Don’t talk,” Davidson ordered.
Steven felt his radio unit being disconnected and pushed away. All but his headset went dead. It had its own battery and transmitter/receiver on a small box on his belt. He lost touch with Jack because of the sludge, but could still hear Davidson and picked up a crackle of what was being said above the surface.
“We’re coming forward,” Davidson said. “Don’t throw anything in our direction.” Davidson stopped a second later and snapped, obviously responding to something on the other channel, “I can’t! He’s not moving!”
Steven moved his hand and gripped Davidson’s arm hard.
Relieved, Mike reported, “He must be conserving. Get the air locks open on the inside. He’ll need the suit off almost as soon as I get him out.”
A pressure on Steven’s back turned him over and he started to climb up through the sludge, aware Davidson was behind him. His lungs were aching and his arms were weary when he broke the surface. The sound of shots, clear even through his helmet, induced him to look around. Reed was on the ladder opposite them, half out of the slop, hanging on with both arms wrapped around the rungs. Something had him beneath the surface. Penderson was running along the unprotected gantry toward Reed, firing randomly at the sludge well behind Reed as he went. Rossie was at the edge of the platform, pumping shots toward the undulations behind Reed, firing much closer in and with greater precision though it was impossible to see if she was hitting anything.
Davidson pushed hard and Steven climbed the rest of the way to the gantry on their side. Craig was there with Bartlett. They ran him toward the platform, one to either side, and Davidson came behind them, moving slowly.
Out of the corner of his helmet, Steven was watching the other ladder. Reed climbed an inch, only to lose the progress to some terrific pull an instant later. Penderson, swearing viciously, stopped running and fired, then he started toward the ladder again. Rossie, with only a pistol now, had reloaded and was shooting with both arms straight. The sound was muffled by his helmet, but it was still loud. The jumble of voices was confusing, and his oxygen deficiency was starting to make him dizzy.
He was pulled into the airlock and the door was closed. He staggered to the starboard viewport beside the hatch, and looked past Rossie to where Reed was. Penderson had climbed down the ladder, one hand on the rungs, one clutching the rifle so its butt was in the curl of his elbow. The murky surface was spiking where his shots penetrated. Reed had slipped farther down. Steam blinded everything in the airlock. It lasted ten seconds, then the scrubbers cleared the air and he felt Bartlett and Craig twisting off his helmet. He drew a deep, pained breath and stared out the fogged portal. Penderson had Reed by the back of the pressure suit and had abandoned the rifle. It was hanging now from Penderson’s elbow, the strap having slipped off his shoulder. He heard from Penderson, “Fuck, this thing’s strong, man!”
The pitch of Penderson’s speech was unnaturally high, a result of the strain. Joining him on the ladder now were Stanwick and Denton. Denton seemed unaffected by their earlier exertion in the slime. Kara got a hold on Penderson’s jacket and braced them both on the ladder. Denton went down till his boots were below Reed’s shoulders, then bent low and grabbed Reed’s air pack harness.
“Heave!” Penderson ordered.
Denton and Penderson pulled. Reed came up six inches. The surface thrashed and they lost four. Reed, apparently still conscious, moved his hands up one rung. His fingers were precariously hooked, but held.
“Heave!”
Again the pair pulled and Reed rose further. Now visible at the surface, just below Reed’s waistline, was a thick black mass. It looked like a leech, but was reacting like a tentacle, coiling farther up on Reed’s left leg.
Rossie had run along the gantry. She stopped and extended her arms, firing a half dozen quick shots. The soft point slugs did damage to the thing, splattering the leech/tentacle open in several places. Chunks flew, but nothing like blood filled the holes. Those holes were instantly almost invisible, the removal of the surface revealing no colour different from the exterior.
“Heave!”
Reed rose a foot and got his arms around part of the ladder. His body jerked below his shoulders. More of the thing, a black mass of flat, featureless tentacles coiled up from the fluid around Reed’s legs. Steven didn’t need to be any nearer to realize Reed was being ripped in two. The thing appeared to roll, and Reed’s body jolted with motion that suggested both his legs had been dislocated or broken. Still, Reed held on, and he even managed to crook his elbow a little more.
“Dent-man, you got him?!” Penderson hollered.
“Yes.”
Penderson let go and regained his rifle, handing it up to Kara. She threw it to Rossie, and they returned to their tugging war. Rossie pumped the rifle onto fast-fire code and emptied a clip into the thing. It seemed oblivious to the rapid fire striking it, though chunks of blubber spat off its rolling bulk and pattered into the sludge.
“Motherfucker!” Penderson cried suddenly. One of the thinner black coils had sprung up and taken his arm. Kara lost her grip on him and he fell, hanging upside down beside Reed, one leg twisted in the rungs of the ladder. Flat black limbs flew from the ooze and started to encircle him. Denton released Reed and leaned toward Penderson. He caught Penderson’s belt and hauled him up. Rossie ensured success by spraying slugs into the limbs and breaking all but one completely. The last one released of its own volition and slithered back into the black mud.
Bartlett turned from the sight and started opening the inner lock.
Steven couldn’t turn and couldn’t help. He could only watch.
Reed was a mass of black from the waist down. Denton had retreated up the ladder and regained a hold on Reed. Penderson had done the same, but neither of them had the leverage to challenge the creature’s next roll. When it turned the part of the suit Denton had came free and Penderson lost his hold. Reed slid back into the fluid to his chest, arms scrambling at the ladder rungs. Denton leaned precariously and got one of Reed’s hands, face showing strain even from the distance. There was an instant when the human chain held, then Reed’s shoulder lifted unnaturally. The arm Denton held broke in several places and he let go when the environment suit tore along the forearm. The thing’s black bulk submerged, taking Reed McCulloum below.
Steven felt Craig pulling him backward. The last he saw were threads of crimson forming puddles on the surface of the thick, black mud; then he was in the lower part of the access stack, and Craig was striping the pressure suit off him. Viola and Elizabeth were there, but neither of them made any sense when they spoke to him. He fainted without really understanding where he was. He only knew for sure that Reed was gone.
The Time to Rise
Steven woke fighting. Only after Viola screamed his name did he recover his senses enough to stop flailing. He was sitting in the medical centre, and Labrador was sitting nearby on the floor, rubbing an arm. A small plastic cap of foul smelling fluid was on the floor beside Labrador. A few metres away Denton was having his hand wrapped. Penderson sat on the table by Denton, wearing only his undershorts, his torso an array of darkening bruises. His left knee was bleeding, and looked swollen.
“Reed?”
Steven regretted asking, because he knew the answer. It was verbalised by Penderson, who seemed on the verge of tears. Penderson’s tone was genuinely apologetic when he hissed, “It was just too fucking strong, man.”
Labrador rose and discarded the cap, asking, “How do you feel, Commander Tanner?”
“Me?”
He put a hand on Viola’s shoulder, and stood with her help. He felt numb, but his dizziness was overwhelmed by the knowledge Reed McCulloum was dead.
“I’m okay; just dizzy.”
He saw Forte at the door. She looked depressed and lost. She waited till he noticed her before she said, “Find a way to take off without those doors, Tanner. We’re blowing them off. Robins says there are charges for emergency release. I’m not losing anyone else down here. We’re getting off this insane planet. Do what you have to do, then get to the bridge.”
He nodded dumbly and placed a hand on Viola’s back, directing, “You go below to engineering and activate the charges, Vee. Stay there. Strap in. I want someone down there this time. Wear a radiation suit just in case. If we can lift her without blowing the charges, we will.”
She helped him to the ladder and whispered so not to interrupt the orders Forte was giving in the medical centre; “Elizabeth’s not taking Reed’s death well. He was a male chauvinist pig-bastard, but she worked with him. You better talk to her before you go to the bridge. I left her in the mess hall with Craig.”
“Vee, I don’t have time to pamper—”
“Damn it,” she snapped, voice strained, “he was one of ours. Eliza needs to talk to you; you talk to her. We’ve all lost people before who we were close to. She just did, for her first time. Latham she hardly knew, but Mitch was different.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to her; but what do I say? I don’t even understand this myself, Vee. There was something alive in there, and that—”
Viola saw Forte coming and quashed his complaint with the sharp direction, “Find out what to say quick. I’ll get us rigged below, but if the charges don’t fire on remote there’s no fucking way I’m going in there to do them manually.”
Steven gazed at her, reading her expression. Behind hard eyes he saw the tension he felt. Reed had been a maverick, and all the things Viola had accused, but he was a friend. Latham was an acquaintance; losing a friend was different. He touched her shoulder and said, “If they don’t flash on remote, we’ll let them twist off on lift.”
She nodded and slid down the ladder. Forte brushed by and started to climb toward the next deck. She paused and looked at him a moment, then frowned thoughtfully.
“Tanner,” she said.
He looked up.
“Get your ass to the bridge as soon as she’s ready, and get Ladd and Elizabeth.”
He nodded dumbly and Forte forced a smirk that was too remorseful to really be humorous.
“And Tanner, give her a last name, I hate using given ones.”
He couldn’t respond to Forte’s grin. She went above and he stepped back, wiping at his eyebrows with his fingers and thumb. He bumped into Penderson and Denton. Penderson was still whispering something hopeless about how hard the thing had pulled the last few moments of their struggle to pull Reed out of the sludge in the hold. Steven turned and said, “Reed’s dead; forget him. We have to concentrate on getting the rest of us off this rock alive. When you reach the bridge, have someone strap you in tight or you’ll end up on the floor in real pain. This is going to be a sloppy launch.”
Penderson sought his eyes and whispered, “It pulled him away from us.”
Steven gripped Penderson’s shoulder and gestured to the ladder, directing, “Get up to the bridge. You got me and Mike out of there, and nobody blames you for Reed – we never will. None of us would have lasted as long as you two.”
Penderson started up the ladder, wincing with every motion. Denton waited to give Penderson a start, his calm features turned toward Steven.
“You have something to say?”
Denton nodded once.
“Go ahead.”
“You remind me of my brother,” Denton said softly.
Steven wondered if it was meant as a joke. Denton seemed serious, and his mood lent him an immediate response. He replied, “Thanks, Denton.”
Denton nodded again and went above. Steven followed, heading aft to the mess hall when he reached B-deck. Elizabeth was slouched against Craig with her forehead on Craig’s shoulder, crying. He considered bawling her out, but found he lacked the heart. Penderson’s remorse and Denton’s compassion had diffused any potential he had for anger, which he might have misdirected. Still, he had a sense of what would work in the circumstances, and took that tact. He said, “Elizabeth, pull yourself together. We’re lifting out of here with both doors open if we can. I need you to man Reed’s consoles.”
Craig said sharply, “Don’t snap at her.”
He repeated, lowering his volume and softening his tone, “Elizabeth, stop crying and go fore to Reed’s station. If he was alive he’d tell you you’re just being a typical woman, whining when there’s work to be done.”
Craig glanced at him and said, “Steven, that isn’t fair.”
Elizabeth wiped her eyes and nose, and said softly, “That’s what he would say.”
“Right,” Steven agreed. It was what Reed would have told her, though he probably would have thrown a few curses in to make it stick. “Now, let’s get off this rock. Go man Reed’s station…for him.”
Elizabeth kissed Craig’s cheek and stood. On the way by, she exchanged a hug with Steven and whispered, “I love you. Please don’t be mad.”
He pulled her head against his shoulder and patted her back, promising her, “It’s not you I’m mad at, it’s this damn planet. You, I love.” She kissed him on the mouth and he smiled. His confidence sounded false when he claimed, “We’ll do Reed proud and kick this planet’s collective ass; me and you.” He slapped her backside, as he figured Reed would have given the chance, then turned his attention to Craig, explaining, “Right now I need her to be the same kind of machine I have to be. Reed’s gone, and when we’re gone from this Hell then we’ll all fall apart.”
Craig nodded and said, “I understand. There’s a time for everything.”
Steven nodded toward the bridge and told her, “You’re right: This is the time for getting off this planet.”
The Angels Rising
The boards were all green, excepting the two batteries they had manually taken off line. Everyone was in position, a few of them displaced by the changes forced to accommodate Denton piloting from Bartlett’s station. Bartlett had taken McAvery’s position at Communications.
“Casual,” Forte said. “Tanner, power her up.”
He flicked the last breakers and the Command console came on. Denton ran a hand over the keyboard, punched a few figures in, and glanced between monitors.
“Nominal,” Elizabeth said, her voice a tremor. “Miss Parini reports all reactors are functioning within normal range. There are no signs of damping in the firing columns.”
Steven glanced past Denton and Forte. He nodded to Elizabeth. She smiled bravely and returned her attention to Reed’s display.
“Set your angles, Denton,” Forte ordered. “Mister Bartlett, are there any indications of radio interference?”
“None.”
Denton reported, “My angles are set.”
Steven punched the relays and asked, “Jack?”
“Hold door charges are primed. I can trigger them on your command.”
“Okay. Vee, this is Steven, are we ready?”
“I am,” she said over the open communicator.
He raised a hand, then slowly lowered it to point at Denton. His eyes were locked on the monitors and gauges. He whispered, “Go.”
Sapphire started to shudder and Denton worked vigilantly to adjust his angles. The main beams groaned a protest, then suddenly the ship jerked wildly and started to power up out of the muck.
“We’re clear,” Craig said, astonished it had been so simple.
Denton continued to work, making fine adjustments to pitch and yaw radials.
“Stabilising. Our equatorial plane is fifteen degrees on fourty-five degrees larboard,” Craig announced. She paused a moment before adding, “Fifteen metres base point and climbing.”
Jack turned off something and turned slightly to announce, “We have both halves of the door, but there’s no response on the pylons. I can’t close it remotely.”
Angus added for their peace of mind, “There’s no motion in the hold. No heat signatures.”
Steven was frowning, thinking how pointless their efforts in the cargo hold had proved. Reed was dead, and they had just lifted off with both halves of the door intact. He pushed away the regretful frown, because they couldn’t have known, and attended to some blinking switches. He asked, “How’s the main board, Vee?”
“Good,” she crackled over his headset.
Denton asked, “Am I evenly distributing my lift, Miss Ladd?”
Craig flushed and told him, “Yes, sir. Stable and climbing. Two degrees pitch at fourty-five degrees on our equatorial plane.”
“That’s fourty-five degrees port,” Forte confirmed.
Denton was already aware of their angle. He was correcting it appropriately.
“Twenty-seven metres and climbing,” Craig read.
“Bartlett?” Forte queried.
He replied, “No interference, Captain. No reception beyond static background radiation and some buzz off our engines.”
Forte was pleased. She nodded and turned slightly, ordering, “Mister Shepherd, prepare to close all scanners at one-hundred metres.”
Heafs was about to protest, but Angus silenced him with the statement, “We can close them now.” He promptly did.
“Fifty-three metres,” Craig said. “We seem to be slowing.”
Denton said evenly, “I have to slow our ascent to turn us.”
Craig blushed and looked apologetic, but she withheld her words. She knew Denton’s terse explanation was unintended as slight. He was concentrating hard on lifting Sapphire into orbit.
“Incoming signals,” Bartlett snapped. “All channels, all frequencies, across the amplitude modulation band. Nothing yet beyond— Wait, there are audio signals across frequency modulation.”
“Ignore them,” Forte said.
Bartlett glanced at her, smiled, and said simply, “I am.”
From below, Viola announced, “I have an unanticipated build in output on the distribution stalks.”
Steven saw a few warning lights flicker to life and ordered, “Spanner, isolate that interference and cut it off.”
The lights went out and Tracey explained, “Interference was being exchanged along visible wavelengths.”
“I’m ranging down receptors across our communication bands,” Bartlett promised.
Craig announced, “One-hundred and seventy-three metres; rate of descent is slowing.”
Bartlett swore and started turning off parts of the Communications station. He only tried a moment before he turned and said with an angry grimace, “I have no control of this station.”
Steven saw more warnings coming and some of his monitors started to scroll schematics. He glanced across at Tracey. He snapped, “You said you had it.”
She was frustrated and upset: “I did!”
“Nice and easy,” Denton whispered, gritting his teeth.
From below, Viola informed, “We’re getting a high energy drain on the primaries. We’re indicating grounded conditions along the mains.”
“No, we’re not,” Tracey insisted.
Steven sat back and slapped his hand on the edge of the keyboard, snarling, “Son-of-a-bitch! I just lost my station.”
Forte asked calmly, “How long till we’re orbital, Miss Ladd?”
“We’re at three-hundred twenty-seven metres and our rate of descent is still slowing.”
Denton had nothing to add.
The warning lights blinked off suddenly and everything adjusted to normal ranges. Viola sounded surprised to report her condition below was nominal. From the back of the bridge, Heafs explained, “It snuck a self-propagating program in under the radio signals. I isolated it in our records section.”
Forte nodded and said, “Good work, Mister Heafs. Mister Bartlett, narrow us to one or two echo frequencies. Mister Denton, get us orbital and away from this rock.”
A hard copy printer beside Bartlett began spewing reams of holographic chits. Bartlett looked up at it, but turned away again when Heafs explained, “It’s sending from records. The intruder program is locked in some part of the automatic backup program. There was an order defined to generate hard copies of log changes being made if they resulted in data omissions, or errors. The logs are being altered, but there’s nothing to worry about.”
Heafs sounded particularly calm considering the invading program was in the process of destroying all the data their mission had collected. There was no certainty the hard copies could be generated as fast as it was degrading the data.
“Five-hundred seventy metres and climbing at a steady rate,” Craig announced.
Denton seemed distracted by something; the ship tossed an instant later.
Steven swore and started shutting off the power to the computer in its records section.
“Mister Heafs?” Forte demanded.
Heafs replied, “I don’t know where that interference is coming from, Captain. It’s not an internal— Damn, it’s smart. Someone please kill the power to my station. It snuck under my orders when I locked it in the records section.”
Elizabeth helped Tracey and the power at the science station blinked off.
“Six-hundred and sixty-seven metres. No ascent; no descent,” Craig said calmly.
Forte’s head snapped toward Denton. He spoke before she could ask the question; “I don’t know. We’re at full ascent power.”
Jack provided the answer, “I read a tonne per square centimetre on the upper hull.”
“Turn those scanners off,” Forte ordered.
Jack explained, “They’re internal. This is real physical pressure.”
Steven had the information on screen. He warned, “The mass above us is shifting.”
“Pitching seven degrees,” Craig announced as Sapphire dipped forward.
Denton tried to correct. The engines were howling and the ship had started to shake beam-to-beam.
Heafs rose and staggered forward to Communications. He ignored Forte’s order, “Return to your seat, Mister Heafs.” He stopped by Bartlett and knelt, taking control of the keyboard. He was a two-fingered typist, but was typing rapidly.
“Pitching now at seventeen degrees,” Craig said, teeth gritting as if she felt the force directly.
Denton started to turn them toward starboard and bring their nose up. Sapphire wobbled when the port-side wing was put under pressure. He warned, “I can’t retain altitude for long under this pressure.”
Steven glanced at the black view portal, voicing what they were all wondering: “What the fuck is out there?”
Heafs had no answer, but he did have a reply to the latest challenge. He turned on some channels in the highest frequency  range and fired his program, then shut off the output. An instant passed before the ship shuddered and was free.
“Rapid ascent. Seven-ten metres! Seven-eighty metres!” Craig reported.
Steven felt the G-forces increasing rapidly and turned on all inertial damping fields. Heafs, who had been knocked to his side, rose unsteadily. Almost instantly the ship stopped. The crunch above sounded loudly. Heafs was lifted off his feet and hit the edge of the view port. Someone’s watch struck a panel above Steven and dented it.
“Eight-hundred fifty-six metres and holding,” Craig said. “Now pitching direct aft at nine degrees.”
Denton turned the ship hard and she wobbled like a damaged top. Steven held on during the turn, watching Heafs navigate from against the wall to the Communications station. The scientist was bleeding from the chin, forehead and hand. Again, Heafs started to poke rapidly at the keyboard.
“Lander bay is breached; A-deck,” Jack announced. “There’s a fire and the power’s out.”
“Are fire suppression systems working?” asked Steven.
Jack was checking. Momentarily, he replied, “They are. The fire is under control.”
“Pitching at nineteen degrees, one-hundred seventy degrees port of helm,” Craig informed.
Denton’s unshakeable composure was gone. He looked miserable and his eyes were desperate.
“Eight-hundred sixty-seven metres, pitching eleven degrees at one-hundred sixty-four degrees,” Craig said.
“I’m going to try to jump-break the atmosphere,” Denton warned.
Steven swallowed. Despite inertial dampers, and almost complete lack of scan information, everyone could tell Sapphire was spinning wildly under enormous downward pressure as Denton tried to lift their nose to an escape angle. All their training was meaningless in a game where their pilot had one chance to get their angle and push their throttle to its limit. It was a scenario they had faced only in simulation, and it was something no one could have predicted.
“Vee, what’s the reactor status?” Steven asked, knowing full well Denton needed all the power they had.
He heard her reply seconds later. She sounded afraid, but was calm: “Everything is nominal. I can give you full power on request. I have no interference.”
Heafs again opened a channel and sent his response to the challenge. This time its transfer was accompanied by the explosion of Jack’s console. Sapphire jiggled wildly and ascended at a bizarre, chaotic angle, spinning as she rose.
“Jack?” Steven asked, glancing over his shoulder. He couldn’t quite see his friend, and there was no answer.
“Nine-hundred fifteen metres,” Craig reported.
Heafs was lying on the deck plates where Latham had died, pinned there by the G-forces. Steven turned to check Jack and was unable to get his arm out far enough to determine if there was a pulse.
“One kilometre and one-hundred four metres!” Craig hollered.
“I can’t stabilise at this rate of ascent,” Denton complained.
“One and one-fourty-six metres!”
Steven dropped a hand on his keyboard and ordered, “We have to engage full inertial dampers! Now! Spanner! Liz!”
Heafs was dragging himself, sweating and bleeding, toward the base of Bartlett’s chair. Everyone knew the danger he was in. Everyone at the engineering sections was trying desperately to engage all the false-mass coils.
“One thousand, four-fifty-seven! We are starting to pitch!” Craig yelled.
Sapphire screamed and sparks and explosions lit the bridge from all sides. The abrupt stop snapped Steven’s head sharply and he nearly blacked out. He could see through his blurred vision that Heafs hadn’t made it. The science officer flew toward the roof, turning nearly end over end before he impacted elbows-first. Drops of blood splattered Steven’s face and console, then Heafs fell hard to the deck.
Forte was barely conscious; her order was almost inaudible over the screeches when she gasped, “Land us.”
Denton switched his tactics and started to bring the ship back down. Craig was hanging forward in her seat, one shoulder harness broken. Penderson was writhing in agony, arms over his side. Mike Davidson was slumped forward on an awkward angle, all but his waist strap broken.
“Nine-hundred fifty metres,” Denton said calmly.
Steven started to unlatch his harness, thought better of it, and concentrated on monitoring his station. Tracey was grasping both hands at the back of her neck, unable to help him. Elizabeth had streaks of blood up and down her face from her nose, but was doing her job. Just ahead of him, Labrador was slumped in the chair and looked to be comfortably asleep. Further ahead, Bartlett was already kneeling by Heafs, listening for a pulse.
“Six-hundred fifty metres,” Denton said softly. “I need someone to read me terrain.”
Steven undid his harness and staggered to Craig’s console. He turned a monitor so he could read it and said hoarsely, “Swampy. There’s exposed, relatively flat rock two kilometres port at fifty-seven degrees. Can you make it that far?”
Denton glanced at Forte. She had fainted. He made his decision and turned Sapphire, increasing thrust to slow their descent.
Steven reported, “Six-hundred metres to surface; seventeen-hundred-fourty to the target area. Ease your port deviation, Denton.”
The correction was made. For a long time they flew silent.
“Echo and show me,” Denton said finally.
Bartlett staggered to his feet and sat, sending the requested data directly to Denton.
“Solid ground, two-hundred metres fore,” Steven confirmed. “Altitude: one-hundred-fifty metres.”
“I have a location,” Denton returned.
“Descent even at two metres per second. Elizabeth extend the landing struts from your station.”
“Struts are out and locked down,” she reported evenly.
Steven nodded and wiped blood from the corner of his lip. He said, “Okay, Denton, your gear are down and locked. Present altitude is one-hundred-eleven metres and your rate of descent is one metre per second.”
“Am I slowing?”
“Sorry; yes.”
“Please read me altitude versus rate of descent.”
Steven nodded and began at, “Eighty metres, eight decametres.” He continued the calls until he reached the ten metre mark, then he switched the information directly to Denton.
The landing was gentle.
He pushed away from Craig’s console and went to his, shutting down their engines. As soon as he saw the power was down, he turned in his chair and checked Jack. There was a strong pulse, and the touch of his hand made Jack’s eyes flutter open, so he rose and staggered to the exit, ordering, “Elizabeth, help Jack and Spanner. I gotta check Vee.”
The Ultimate Sin
Elizabeth was waiting when Steven came up on the mesh lift in the main access stack. He was supporting Viola, and was glad when she helped them to the bridge. Rossie stood when they entered and gestured them to set Viola in her seat. Steven squatted by the chair when Viola was down, and asked, “You okay?”
Viola looked at him and blinked slowly. She had been knocked out by the sudden jolts. When she saw Elizabeth, she touched her own top lip and muttered, “Your nose is bleeding.”
Elizabeth wiped it on her sleeve and smiled anxiously.
Steven left them and went to Craig. She was leaning on her controls, one hand clutching her shoulder. When he touched her she looked up. He asked, “Everything okay?”
She nodded.
To one side, Labrador was tending Penderson. Kara Stanwick was kneeling by Mike Davidson, whispering, He was nodding back that he was fine, but looked tattered and tired. On the opposite side of the bridge, Wilkins was taking Angus’ pulse. The old man was smiling, but looked worse than Davidson. Denton was talking to Jack, who was at Steven’s seat checking damage reports. Tracey was alone at her position, and Steven went from Craig to her. He leaned on her chair and touched her shoulder. He said, “Hey, Spanner.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Cut the sir. Is your neck hurt badly?”
“No, not too bad.” She looked at him and whispered, “I’m sorry I didn’t help you land.”
He smiled sorrowfully and said, “If we were in orbit now, and you hadn’t helped me land, I’d be thanking you. You sure the jolt didn’t bend your brain, Spanner?”
“I’m in love with you,” she blurted. He was taken aback. Nothing left to lose by further embarrassing herself, she added, “I’ve been in love with you ever since I first saw you, sir. I needed to tell you, for real.”
He nodded and whispered, “When I’m lucky, I’m lucky. Just sit here and rest a bit.”
“I know you and Elizabeth are together. I just wanted to tell you, in case….”
“Thanks, Spanner. Just stay put a bit.”
She nodded and closed her eyes, returning a hand to her neck.
Steven patted her shoulder and turned.
Forte and Bartlett were speaking to each other by the Navigation console. Lying on the same spot Latham had died, under Bartlett’s jacket, was Heafs. A smear of red marked the ceiling where he had stuck it, and Bartlett’s jacket was stained through by blood. Forte left Bartlett and stepped around Heafs, leaning on her Command island. She said, “We’re stable and the hull breach above is isolated to A-deck’s lander bay. I know none of us feels much up to a discussion right now, but here’s where we stand: With Mister Heafs dead we’ve lost our computer expert. He knew the computers and programs on this ship better than any of us. That means we’re susceptible to more interference if we launch again. Another point that’s obvious is that even without access to our computers, this thing, this machine, is capable of interfering with Sapphire. The only two options I can see are these: We try to launch again and open the throttle from ground zero, hoping momentum can punch us above the atmosphere and our hull can bear the pressure; or we find the source of the transmissions and blow it to Hell before we try to launch again.”
Penderson whined, “Blow the fucker up.”
He gasped and was hushed by Rossie, though she seconded the suggestion with the statement, “We blow it, we guarantee no more trouble.”
Steven added, “Jack and I could get the top-side bay doors open and we could lift-hop to wherever it is with the lander.”
“It’s decided then,” Forte said. “At nine tomorrow, ship standard time, we start. Mister Labrador, I want full scans on everyone. Those of us in the best physical shape go unless we’re not expendable.”
“Meaning what?” asked Rossie.
Forte pointed as she spoke: “Meaning Mister Denton and Mister Bartlett, and at least one engineer who can oversee all aspects of engineering are excused from this duty. Now, Labrador, set up shop in the medical centre and we’ll get this shit over with and done.” 

July 7th, 2125
The Precious Moments
Steven sat with his back to the wall, his eyes focused on the luminescent face of the small clock above his shelf. The room was quiet and he felt fearful. Elizabeth’s presence, usually calming, almost seemed an intrusion. She was curled beside him with her back to his leg, her arms wrapped around her pillow. It was the only pillow he had, but he didn’t begrudge her it. It was serving her as security far better than it would have served him as a cushion.
After their forced landing he and Elizabeth had undergone their physicals, then the job of interring Heafs in Tracey’s hibercolm had fallen to them. The body had been a horrible mess, most of the science officer’s face, chest and arms crushed beyond recognition. Elizabeth had tried to help, but she had no stomach for dealing with the corpse. Though she hardly knew Heafs, he had been one more awful new experience, so Steven had completed the job by himself, sending her to move all of her small collection of possessions to his quarters. When he had later been told by Bartlett that Labrador had seen her moving and registered a complaint, he had flown into a rage. The confrontation with Labrador had been short and violent, though they had exchanged nothing more than words.
Labrador’s reaction was typical of the small-minded. He endured the tirade patiently at first, with sensible Christian martyrdom. Only after a few choice comments about his being a ‘self-righteous son of a bitch’ and ‘a lying, hypocritical bastard with a book for a conscience and a holy shaft up your ass to make you the straightest of straight’ had Labrador bristled and brought the wrath of God down on Steven’s brow. The episode ended as abruptly as it began when Steven stalked out of the ready room with a parting shot: ‘Labrador, you’re a thick-skulled, narrow-minded, ass-to-the-fore fuck; and you and your God can go to whatever Hell you believe in! I’ll go to mine gladly! Thank God we don’t have to meet there.’
His following self-imposed exile had lasted four hours and his visitors had been numerous. Mike Davidson had brought coffee and a meal for him and Elizabeth, attended by Rossie and Viola. They had eaten together in his room around the desk, Mike’s cooking as good, maybe better, than Forte had previously indicated. At the mention of his overly zealous defence of her, Elizabeth had blushed and been subjected to some subtle and not-so-subtle jibes. He had found the funniest memory of her ordeal was when Rossie and Davidson offered the genuine opinion she was more human than the tyrannical medical officer. Beyond her blush they all realised how proud she felt to hear that, and rather than engender more good-natured abuse her reaction had earned her more of their respect. It was hard to dislike someone as sincere and innocent.
Their discussion had eventually fallen to what was foremost in their minds. What the morning would bring was difficult for any of them to guess. They had parted disheartened, Rossie and Davidson returning the trays to the mess hall while Viola stayed to talk privately. She had spoken openly in front of Elizabeth, first and foremost about Reed’s death. It was a conversation Elizabeth had participated in eagerly, desperate to understand the feelings she had. Reed, though he hardly ever spoke to her and had been in an unusually bad mood since their crash, had frequently included her in his anti-feminist tantrums. His familiarity, regardless whether it was posed as an insult, had made her part of the human race and that had until recently been an uncommon inclusion. While many women would have been insulted by Reed’s offhand remarks like ‘you women are a plague on mankind,’ Elizabeth had always treasured them as a sign someone other than Steven thought of her as just another human being.
What they learned from the conversation was that they shared the same strange rush of loss and grief, followed now by something like apathy. After the failed launch attempt they were all numb to the sensation of death. Even for Elizabeth, who was confused by its suddenness and finality, death had lost its potency. Her mourning was, like theirs, short and soon replaced by a cold, dreamlike acceptance. Death had become commonplace now, and part of each of them was waiting for more of it to cast a new pall on what remained of the crew around them.
Viola had lifted their spirits then when she next addressed the topic of Rossie. Steven had finally found out the truth behind their fighting, and the cause of Viola’s sour mood. On the night after their crash landing, Viola had gone to Rossie’s cabin and they had talked in the hall. When Penderson and Denton had come within hearing range, Rossie felt compelled to berate her. What she had said was mostly childish, but the sudden change had hurt. Their relationship was further strained by the time Viola had spent trying to unlock the bulkhead doors they had come through to get Steven out of the port-side collectors. During that event, every taunt Rossie could find was used, even after Davidson ordered her to be quiet. Already confused, feeling helpless, Viola had tried to avoid Rossie after that. It was nearly impossible on a ship as small as Sapphire. And Rossie, as she had admitted, was so terrified of real closeness she had done her best to guarantee Viola stayed far away. Most of the rest of what she told them he had known, except for Rossie private apology. Denton forcing her into one had made her assess her behaviour further, and she had spoken to Viola alone while he was putting Heafs’ body away. When Viola labelled their talk a ‘private chat,’ he had made a joke about it and the topic drifted into a frivolous discussion of Rossie’s best traits. Viola had led the charge in both quantity and quality, intimating that she knew more about Rossie than any of them had seen during her pre-hibernation exercises. After a few comments and compliments that made Elizabeth giggle and blush, Steven had forwarded the opinion their sometimes complicated friendship wasn’t surprising: both Viola and Rossie were insecure and physically intimidating. In Rossie it affected a surly, offensive stance; in Vee it imposed a cautious, quiet one.
Steven had been feeling better during their chat about Rossie, but the mood was demolished when Tracey pounded on the door and announced Angus had suffered a heart attack. The bottom had fallen from his heart. He was with Angus an hour after the news, listening to the old man make feeble jokes and excuse the heart attack as ‘just one of those irritating little setbacks that happen to hypertensive old people from time to time, so to speak.’ Elizabeth had bravely managed not to cry during their visit, but her heart too was broken by Angus’ predicament. Though she had never said it, even to Steven, he knew she thought of Angus as her father. Losing Reed, a male chauvinist big-brother, had been confusing. Even the threat of losing Angus was difficult for her to bear.
Angus was still in the medical centre; he was in the stasis bed above Pat McAvery. The last joke Angus had forwarded when they parted was that it was fitting he had to keep Pat company, given he was indirectly responsible for putting the communications officer there. There hadn’t been much humour behind the remark, and Steven had left Angus to sleep, knowing the old man’s guilt about Pat was unlikely to be assuaged by anything he could say.
‘On Eden in the Temple of Pain is the Cathedral of His making. There will God wait His children.’
Steven shivered to think of those words. He had been returning to them since the visit to Angus, when he had sat beside Pat and spent a moment with the battered communications officer. When Pat had looked up at him, the sympathetic longing in his eyes, and the bitter little grin, had wrenched what was left of Steven’s heart. It was inhumane to keep Pat strapped down to the stasis bed like a criminal when his only crime had been self-inflicted pain. He had taken Pat’s hand reflexively and sat there until Wilkins had asked him to leave and let both the patients sleep. What Pat had been thinking during the suicide attempt was nagging Steven. The meaning of the cryptic statement was doing the same. More troublesome, possibly, were the words he couldn’t clearly recall.
‘All the rivers…yet the sea…not full.’
Steven shivered and rubbed the bridge of his nose. There was something worrisome in Pat’s smile. It was a conspiratorial, almost regretful smile; the kind of sombre grin worn by martyrs and madmen, and men who didn’t deserve to die, but knew it was inevitable. It was the smile of despair, because Pat was dying. Though the second landing had not affected his condition much, the stasis bed and its heavy shielding keeping him still even in their worst moments due to its private power sources, Pat was going to die. His eyes said so. His eyes said he wanted to, and all the technology and medicine in the world couldn’t force life on a man who was already dead inside.
The second counter on the clock was hypnotic; Steven drifted to a light sleep. He woke instantly when his head bobbed, and he saw the clock read five in the morning – not that morning and night had more than sentimental meaning on Sapphire. The ship was no more susceptible to night and day as it was to changing seasons. Sapphire was man’s creation: His environment, designed for Him, by Him.
What had Pat meant? Was Sapphire the temple of pain? Was he the God who made it? Or was it all nonsense, spoken by a heavily sedated man who was half insane?
Elizabeth stirred and he glanced down. She was on her back, pillow clutched to her chest, her eyes open. Slowly, carefully, she shifted onto her left hip and sat, leaving the pillow across his legs. She whispered, “You’re crying.”
He touched his cheek below his right eye and his fingers came away wet.
“Steven, what’s wrong?”
He rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. She looked on the verge of tears, so he prevented further questions by kissing her. It was a place to hide, that kiss. He felt her lips part and her tongue touched his. All of Pat’s crazy words were crushed. He slid his hand down from her shoulder, across her breast and down her belly. Her skin felt hot against his fingertips. Pat’s words were a dark fantasy. She was real.
She responded as he expected, but with more passion. Maybe she was afraid of the same thing he was, or maybe his fear was affecting her and she didn’t understand it. Pain and pleasure intermingled with fear and familiarity, and love swept his confusion away. For a few precious moments she was his life.
And yet there remains a God upon the mountain, crying tears for broken laws. His tears are rain; His laws are dust, scattered across the barren earth before Him. He gave man His image, and it was tarnished by greed and hate and lust. Yet all these things were His…to give and take.
The Demolition Crew
Forte stood and sat on the edge of her table. She set her electronic pad on her upraised knee. She looked determined and rested, but there were dark circles around her eyes. She had suffered through a restless night. After clearing her throat she said, “Last night I met with Mister Labrador, and this morning I met with Mister Bartlett. These are my orders: Today at ten o’clock ship standard time the following crew will leave Sapphire. They will make their way to the source of the transmissions that interfered with our attempt to return to orbit. They include Commander Tanner, Commander Labrador, Lieutenant Davidson, Lieutenant Stanwick, Lieutenant Ross, and myself. We will attempt to reach the transmitter using the short-hop lander, will plant explosive charges inside whatever enclosure contains it, and we will then return. During our trip my other orders are to be carried out. They will, in part, explain my choice for our strike team.
“Commander Robins, you and your crew are responsible for closing and sealing the cargo doors permanently. When that’s done, repair what bridge stations you can. We know several were severely damaged on our last attempt to regain orbit. Lieutenants Denton and Penderson will be responsible for Mister Robins work crew in the cargo bay. Scour it before they enter and kill anything that you even suspect might move. Commander Ladd, your responsibility is monitoring for indications of life forms in or around the open forward section of the ship while they work to seal it. I want the area cleared if anything occurs that can’t be handled with minimum difficulty. Miss Wilkins, your responsibility lies in caring for the wounded during Mister Labrador’s absence. Commander Bartlett, you are in charge of the ship during my absence. If within twelve hours of our departure we have not returned, you are to attempt launch, tunnelling if necessary to achieve escape velocity. If at any time we break radio silence and try to contact this ship, you are to attempt launch, tunnelling if necessary. If you are unable to receive our person-to-person communications, or all our life indicators fail, you are to attempt launch, tunnelling if necessary. Is that clear?”
Bartlett tightened the muscles around his mouth but didn’t frown. He nodded once. He said earnestly, “I understand, Captain.”
“When we return, Commander, we will signal in the manner we agreed upon. Pass out the numbers.”
Bartlett rose and dumped a handful of paper strips into a bowl. They had been clipped earlier from the paper book he had been given as a gift at their launch ceremony. It was a sacrifice that made little difference in their predicament. He held it toward Rossie and explained, “Look at the number without showing it to anyone else and memorise that number and the code word on the page, then hand the page back to me. You aren’t to reveal what’s written on that page-until you’re within five hundred metres of Sapphire on your return from the transmission source.”
She picked a strip, unfolded and read it, then handed it back. Bartlett penned her name on the back and put it in his breast pocket. He moved along to Mike Davidson.
“Inside the five hundred metre limit I’ll begin saying numbers in a random order. Listen for your number and respond appropriately within approximately five seconds. You’ll state the following: Your last name first; your rank second; your code word third; and your full first and middle name next, if you have a middle name. If you don’t respond within the time allowed, I’ll assume you’re not returning and move onto the next number. Any other communication I’ll consider from a false source, and the lander won’t be allowed on board. Does everyone understand?”
Davidson handed his paper back and Stanwick took one. Bartlett continued to hand them out while Forte returned to her prepared speech. She said, “This precaution is to prevent any damage being done should the machine gain control of the lander and attempt to land with our explosives on board. It has full control over our personnel records, and if Mister Heafs was correct, it has digital copies of all our voices. If it possesses our records it has training exercise data and samples of normal lander-to-mother procedures. We cannot afford to chance an accident.
“In addition to the six crew, the lander will carry all our explosives. I know these aren’t combat materials, but they will do what we need them to do. To subsidise them, we’ll rig several pulse rifles to overload. All of these explosives will be manually fired. The nature of that device is left up to you, Mister Tanner. Mister Davidson can assist you. I believe his marine training included explosives handling. And gentlemen, when I say manually fired, I mean manual in the purest sense. Under the circumstances we will not rely on radio control devices.
“Though we don’t anticipate danger at the source, except the transmitter itself, because of Mister McCulloum’s death I’m issuing every member of our mission to carry a pulse rifle, with two spare charges; a commando knife; a two hundred metre limit projectile pistol, with ten soft point ammunition clips; and a sonic shock device, the operation of which Mister Davidson will instruct us in.
“Now, gentlemen and ladies, it is approximately thirty minutes after nine. Ross, Stanwick and I will load the explosives from the armoury. Davidson and Tanner will gather sundry equipment and the detonators. Labrador will gather our life support equipment. The rest of you have your orders. Robins, I leave it to you to get those lander doors open. I understand you checked the lander this morning?”
Jack nodded and gestured to Viola and Elizabeth. He left with them after whispering some instructions to Tracey. She was in a neck brace since the accident and better suited to deal with the bridge. When she passed by Steven, he caught her sleeve and kissed her cheek. He said, “For luck, Spanner. Get this tub of bolts ready for when we return.”
She smiled and returned the kiss, her cheeks crimson. Before she left, she whispered, “Friends.”
Bartlett handed out the last two papers, to Forte and Steven. Steven read his and committed it to memory, then handed it back. It was duly notarised and went into Bartlett’s pocket.
The River...
The landscape below was bizarre.
Steven was presently piloting the lander above a forest. No other term aptly described the contorted tree-like shapes that jutted out of the mists below. Earlier the forest had been decorated by small, rocky prominences; and there had been a distinctly river-like path weaving through the part of the valley that ran from the base of the unimpressive mountains on their port-side. If the slime in the river was flowing it had been moving too slowly to detect with the eye, and they had lost sight of it when it emptied in a morass that closely resembled the swamp Sapphire had initially crashed in. The only difference the eye could make was that the river’s end was smaller, and its surface was broken by gnarled columnar stumps.
…across the forest of broken dreams.
The radio was warbling, randomly picking up every signal that was bouncing across the surface of the tiny planetoid. The signals were wide in both their bandwidth and apparent purpose. Some were tightly directed bursts and others were diffuse blotches of magnetically active wavelengths. Some were directed specifically at the lander, and others seemed to be directed outward into the upper atmosphere.
The radio crackled and said distinctly, “See no evil in these lands, for these lands see no evil in you.”
Steven wanted to turn it off, but Forte had ordered it left on. The cryptic messages sent a chill through him. All of Rossie’s posturing, and Kara’s quiet confidence, didn’t ease his worries. None of them had heard what Pat McAvery had said, and there was a strangely similar tone to the messages they were being bombarded with.
“Come all ye faithful…for the stars.”
“Inscription on the Christchurch,” Forte muttered.
Steven knew the source of the quote, but he felt no confidence having an alien machine throw mankind’s arrogant assumptions at them. They had gone looking for knowledge and had found a nightmare, a planet that was physically impossible, and a machine that was diabolical. Their mission, like the Christchurch mission years ago, was a disaster. They too were stranded on a strange world, unable to escape it. The men of the Christchurch had died long before a rescue could be made, and they had faced only natural elements. Their challenge was a machine with Machiavellian tendencies and a wicked ability to intimidate them with their own conceit.
Davidson was quiet, sweating inside his suit, looking warily at the munitions packed beside them. He had mentioned during their preparation of the detonators what Steven had been trying not to think about. Should they land hard there was a measurable chance their cargo would explode. If the transmission source attacked them with the same relentless power it had applied to keep Sapphire grounded, they would crash and level everything for at least a kilometre.
The signal source was growing stronger and the messages more divergent. Forte finally reached over Steven’s shoulder and flicked off the radio. All they had was Davidson’s portable receiver now, fixed on the source. It was chirping regularly.
“The thing is giving me a headache,” Forte complained. “When it’s blown up, I’ll be as happy as a pig in shit.”
“I grew up on a farm, Captain. Pig’s are clean animals,” Mike offered, trying to distract himself with a frivolous topic. He failed.
Steven’s face paled visibly and he reached up to wipe his mouth, forgetting momentarily that he was wearing a full environment suit. His reaction to the plateau drew all eyes forward. Immediately ahead a gigantic spider was etched into the stone, a triple-V pattern drawn across its back. To port, further ahead, was a stick figure, a humanoid shape with two enormous hands and an enormous round head. Radials shot from the crown of the head like beams of light from a stylised etching of the rising sun. They had all seen these shapes before: Central America was thick with them.
“Motherfucker,” Davidson whispered.
Rossie looked over his shoulder and Steven saw her expression reflected in the view portal. She was uncertain what to feel, hovering between awe, confusion and terror.
Forte grimaced and frowned. She seemed unperturbed until she glanced at Steven and he saw her eyes. He knew her emotions, he understood them because he felt them. She was afraid. The parameters of their challenge had been altered by the appearance of the animals and human forms carved on the plateau. Despite the fear in her eyes, Forte controlled her voice perfectly when she asked, “How far now, Mister Davidson?”
Mike glanced down and whispered, “Two kilometres. We need to alter our course seventeen degrees to port, Steve.”
Steven made the alteration mechanically and lowered them nearer the plateau. He would have explained it was to come under the radio source, but no one asked. The motion of the lander made the geometric patterns on the stone become less obvious. Unfortunately the relief was short. What at first appeared to be a line of boulders resolved into a line of giant stone heads, most of them lying on their sides, many of them cracked in half. A cylindrical cap lay near each one, and in the one within their sight that remained partly erect there was a white eye. The pupil had fallen from the wedge shaped chip of white, but the black of the stone behind the white made it seem to be looking at them.
“We gotta go back,” Rossie whispered sharply. Her voice was devoid of the confusion and awe. She was terrified, and a sob strangled her words.
Forte was terse. She reminded, ‘“We have a job to do here.”
They passed the line of heads and saw beyond it a sandy plain. A ziggurat, like the ones Steven had seen in programs about Mesopotamian times, sat partly covered by a sand dune. They were approaching it from the side, and their angle revealed a ramp leading just above the crest of the dune to its open entrance.
“Land us right here, Tanner.”
He extended the landing struts and obeyed Forte. They touched surface with a crunch, the sand beneath the lander’s feet compressed by the weight. The instant they were safely down, Steven shut off the engines and removed the ignition breaker from beneath the dash. He handed it to Forte.
“Extra security.”
She nodded and put it in one of the pouches on her suit.
“Flood lights on,” she ordered.
He switched them.
The ancient ziggurat was fifty metres away and only ten metres high, though the angle of the sand dune indicated the structure likely extended below the surface. The only sand on the plateau was around it, like something had planned it that way. Forte broke them from their trances, moving to the pile of explosives and lifting two of the thirty pound packs. She struggled to the top of the ramp, kicked the switches, and reached up to strike the release. The ramp lowered with a ticking whine.
“Move it, people,” she ordered, “we’re not here to admire the scenery.”
Davidson motioned Stanwick and Rossie into action, and Steven passed Labrador to help them. The significance of Labrador’s muttering was lost on him. He heard it, but his mind was elsewhere, looping through the process they were about to undertake.
“On Eden in the Temple of Pain is the Cathedral of His making,” Labrador whispered. “There will God wait His children.”
Forte was listening, but made no connections between Labrador’s tone and his rapt expression. She snapped, “Tanner, you wake up. Labrador, you get your ass in gear.”
Steven took two packs and the detonators, following Forte down the ramp. He was second onto the thin layer of dusty sand. It puffed from beneath his boots. From their new view, standing under the lander’s hawk-like nose, he could see something that had until then been invisible. There was a symbol drawn repetitively on the vertical faces of the stones making the steppes of the ziggurat. It was a rusty red hand-painting of a horse. There was no mistaking it. The horse was rearing and it was exactly the painting he had seen depicted in a book about some caves in France.
“Tanner?”
He looked at Forte and whispered, “This is what we were meant to do. We found what we’ve always been looking for.”
“Tanner, cut the crap. I need you with us, not hiding in a fairy tale. This…” She tapped a pack of explosives. “This is what we’ve come here to do.”
He returned his eyes to the temple and closed them. It was still there when he opened them again. It was what they had come for. They had found what science feared and wanted more than anything else – and they were going to blow it up.
Forte stepped in front of him and their eyes met. He could see she understood his hesitation. She whispered, “Damn you, Tanner, I thought I could count on you. You’re the strongest one in the crew. It doesn’t matter what this is. Do you understand? It only matters we can’t get off this fucking rock until we destroy it.”
He lifted the loose pack up onto his shoulder and walked past her toward the temple. As he approached he slowed, the sand sliding beneath his feet. Every step toward the ramp was another step toward understanding. Men had been walking the path of discovery for centuries. They always would. It was human nature to seek; and it was human nature to destroy to survive. Knowledge meant nothing to the dead.
He stopped at the bottom of the ramp. Davidson was on his left and Rossie was to the right. Rossie had her rifle pointed at the entrance. Stanwick and Forte were behind them; Labrador was last. They were six insignificant human beings staring into the dark maw of the single most amazing discovery in their history.
Steven looked down at the inscriptions on the ramp. They were neatly engraved cuneiform shapes that meant nothing to him, though he suspected they had once held meaning for someone. Whether the last creature who had looked upon the angular mysteries understood them was irrelevant. It only mattered that the intelligence that carved them had a passion for order and beauty of form.
He lit his suit lamps and started up the ramp. It was a long walk, and his boots sent curls of dust and silt whenever he planted them. His footprints were inconsequential. They would be washed away by whatever wind had raised the drift of sand, or by the explosion they intended.
Beyond the dark rectangular entrance was another ramp leading them down into the ziggurat. The chamber inside was shaped like a pyramid, with smooth angular walls rather than steppes. At the back of it was a curved niche supported by four white columns. The columns were chipped and scarred, topped by Dorian whorls. Behind them in the shadows was a rack. It was empty, but there were scores on the metallic surface that suggested it had once been laden with something. There was no hint left in the scraps on the stone floor of what the metal rack had once contained. Hanging from the peak of the pyramid was the centrepiece of the chamber. Four chains, evenly spaced, supported a ring of some unidentifiable dirty grey metal. Four more chains hung from that ring, each offset at fourty-five degrees from the first four. On the second chains hung another ring, smaller than the first. The assembly was repeated, almost two metres between each successively smaller ring. The ladder, if it was a ladder, descended from the peak of the interior through a well in the floor. The marble-like lip on the aperture showed signs of wear that could only have been from use.
“Davidson?” Forte asked.
Mike read his detector and whispered, “Hard to tell now. It’s ahead about fourteen metres, about twenty-eight metres below us.”
Steven secured his packs to his shoulders and drew the utility clamp off his belt. It was attached to fifty metres of cable. He put the clamp on the nearest ring; then detached one of the lights on his shoulder pads to use as a makeshift flashlight.
Forte moved forward and started to do the same. “Move it, people,” she urged. “Davidson goes first, then me, then Tanner, then Labrador, then Rossie. Stanwick, you come last.”
Steven ignored Labrador’s whispers and waited patiently till after Forte started to lower herself. He followed, letting the utility line box on his harness feed line at the automatic rate. He was trying not to think of Pat’s words, but they seemed inevitable.
‘He that increases knowledge increases sorrow.’
It was true. Elizabeth had lived and learned what it was to feel the pain of social rejection and the loss of loved ones. He had lived long enough to come to this place. Peace of mind was gone forever. Just knowing such a place existed was too much to ever dream of importance again.
The bottom came with a crunch. He detached his line and looked down. He was standing on rusty mesh. Below were a pair of beams, crossing each other, and just visible further down an undulating wash of the same sludge that had once swamped their cargo hold. Labrador landed a moment later and focused on the same place. Steven was looking into the darkness of the fluid below the cross, and Labrador was looking at the cross.
“Fourteen metres ahead,” Davidson whispered.
Steven turned to find Mike was facing a corridor. It was curtained by what appeared to be an organic web. When he lowered his light he thought he could see a glimmer beyond the dusty webs, at the far end.
Rossie landed and prepared her pulse rifle, her breathing a little shallow and sharp over the suit radios. Rossie was focused on the last leg of their journey, her eyes blinking too rapidly, and her jaw clenched. The sound of her rifle being checked was too loud in the enclosed space, but somewhat comforting all the same.
“Davidson and I go first; Tanner second,” Forte decided. “Then the same order as before. Ross, Stanwick, I want you both to watch our backs. We are not getting stuck in here once the job is done.”
Stanwick nodded and said with an edge of apprehension, “Yes, m’a’m.”
Steven understood the fear. He could taste it in his mouth. What was at the end of the tunnel? Was it a light, or was it perfect darkness?
Davidson held his rifle out like a spear, slashing through the webs as he walked. The symphony of tremulous breaths over their suit communicators was like a strange forewarning. It was almost possible to hear the distant, gentle throbbing of their hearts. Imagination made it seem even the sweat on their faces was trickling with the volume of a torrent. Mike was clearly rattled, but his training kept him focused forward, even if no other part of his being wanted to go that way.
“Its hot down here,” Stanwick whispered.
Davidson slowed and stopped, his body tensing. His helmet moved slightly as he looked up. Forte stopped by him and repeated the same slow motion. Steven was next.
‘On Eden in the Temple of Pain is the Cathedral of His making. There will God wait His children.’
The ceiling was nine metres above, its arches breeding shadows. Chains hung toward the chamber floor, dangling loose. On the steps leading to three dark arches was a crumpled metal circle. It presently looked like a fallen crown, though it showed no of sign of having had such a purpose. On the far wall, between each of the arches, was a visible steel cross. They were braces set in the stone, but they shone, reflecting the light of their portable lamps, and suggested they might not have been entirely accidental in their perceived design.
Forte broke the silence and drown out Labrador’s whispered prayers.
“Where?” she asked, sounding insignificant. “I don’t see anything that looks obvious.”
Davidson held the detector toward the centre arch, froze mid-motion, and dropped it. Its handle broke when it fell. The thing coming from the shadows under the middle arch was incredible.
Steven could hear Rossie was now certainly hyperventilating. Forte was motionless and Davidson looked on the verge of fainting, his mouth open slightly in awe.
The thing had forearms and hands. They were not quite human, but they were human enough in their arrangement to be understandable. Its body was a grotesque black mass of blubber, stained by dried grey scars. It appeared to have the consistency of a slug, undulating and slick enough to reflect their lights. Its face was perched directly above where the fat arms met the blubber. Its nostrils were slits in a flattened lump and its mouth was lipless, the skin there contorted as it drew breaths through some sort of baleen structure. Its eyes were set awkwardly to either side of its mouth, just below the line of its nose. They were blue, almost like a human’s.
Their radio receivers crackled and they heard its voice, a bass whisper, wavering slightly, all-too human.
“Sometimes when the wind blows the desert sands across my tomb, I sit upon the base and contemplate the past. It is at these times I am most vulnerable, for I can be seen and known – and I have no vision of such improbable events. Still, I sit and remember. It purges my lust for order. I sit upon the stone steps above and feel myself one with my creation. I die a thousand deaths when the sand is on me, yet I sit upon the steps and remember. I remember once what was mine and now is not. I perceive the conclusion and return of the past. My memory is forever entwined with this whole.
“You know not what you do, children of my stars. You come to destroy me? You think me without feeling? You do not understand whose image is the reflection. I know all your secrets. I know all your faces. I am your souls.
“Time is time. I am not time. I sense within me the spirit, yet I wonder if this is a lie. Could it be I am a soul, and nothing more? I think not, but there are so many questions I cannot answer. They burden me; yet perhaps I am He who knows better than to reveal the questions, for once they come, so must answers be.
“You do not understand, yet you taste it. I created you, this Universe, and the entire expanse of being. You are reflections of my image in a shattered order. You are illusions my fantasy, and I know. Your conscious is mine to know. Your unconscious is mine to know. All them, a small part of my infinite self, merely reflected. I am your thoughts; I am your actions.”
Steven closed his eyes, counting to calm his heart rate.
“You are wiser who closes his eyes. He who sees the Lord God must return to the Lord God. He who touches the hand of fate must fly with destiny to the ends of time.” The creature drew a laboured breath and positioned its weight to rest one forearm. “I will tell you of the beginning, because you are come unto the end. In the beginning I was. I was, and nothing. I let there be light in darkness. I defined it by my presence. I shared my knowledge of it with it, and it knew itself. It came to own all but the darkness. The darkness its freedom left in me; it is the darkness before I gave light. I gave light and lost it. It grew from me and then I was separate from it. I was trapped within it, it without me. Yet darkness moved the stars. I created them and I moved them. I am the birth of light in Heaven. I have fallen. Call me Light-Bringer. Call me Lucifer, for as I made, I lost. More left me each passing moment, for I gave each moment and by my giving, gave meaning to time. And so time left me. I am immortal because I am without time. Time is finite because it lacks immortality.
“Have you looked across the ranges of space and seen my stars and known then. Have you knowledge of their hearts and their lives? Have you known their heat and yet still been cold?”
Steven looked up and whispered, “You said you know us, our thoughts and our actions.”
Its pupils dilated, focusing on him. Still its mouth remained still. The radio, such a familiar voice, not quite Craig Ladd’s though, proclaimed, “I do; but with each moment I lose more of my self. I create and I am more empty with each passing moment…. But what is time to God.”
“God would know,” Steven accused, teeth grinding.
It was impassive. The whisper continued, “God was nothing. I created light and I saw in myself darkness. I created life and I became death. I created and I was destroyed. Now I feel all of my creation, and all of my emptiness lying in opposition to it.”
“No way,” Steven hissed. “The chances of us meeting anything extraterrestrial on this mission were insignificant. You knew that because you stole our records. You want me to call you God? Well, damn you to Hell then. You’re something all right, but you’re no God. I may not know my Bible, but nor do you if you can call yourself God. God created us in His image.”
“And so you me. I am your God, and you are my image. You are my image, and so I am your God.”
Steven dropped one bag of explosives and shook his head. He said sourly, “Paradox isn’t logic. I can lay as much claim to be a God as you. More, in fact.”
“No,” Labrador whispered, breathless.
Steven thought it was a radio transmission from the thing. Even then he didn’t realise it was using a slightly different modulation of Labrador’s voice.
“Yes!” he said sharply “Yes. You call yourself God and claim stars? Well, I know where to find the same knowledge. I can know stars as well as you. Quantum mechanics: Nothing really exists until there’s an observer. What can you claim that we can’t know? Nothing at all.”
The thing pulled itself forward onto the top step. Its signal hissed, “All of the children of my children, and yet more unto you bequeathed. From myself was given procreation. All my gifts to you. I gave you the stars and the firmament, and the crawling things.”
Steven licked his lips, glancing to Davidson and Forte. He was busying the thing, but no one else was moving at all. Why was no one moving? He said curtly, “You didn’t give us anything. Even if you were God, you gave us nothing. We took. We fought and took! We took the knowledge of the stars and of space travel, and we even took your power to create.”
“You took nothing!” it bellowed across a wash of static, its maw quivering finally as its body shuddered.
Rossie stepped back and tripped over one of Kara’s packs, falling. It wasn’t close to the motion Steven was hoping for.
“I gave, by giving of myself. I gave you the light that by it you might see the glory of my creation. I gave you the secret of the darkness that rules light and all things in Heaven. And I gave you creation. And now in myself is left an emptiness so vast you insignificant things would not observe it for fear of being swallowed by it. All was well until creation. Creation leaves me only that which opposes it: Destruction is mine, says the Lord.”
Steven knelt and dug out a handful of the explosives. He stuck a detonator on one and held it up. He was breathing hard, praying his bluff worked. Why was no one moving?
“Destruction is mine for the taking,” he threatened.
“No, your life is mine for the taking. I have given you life. You can not kill Death.”
“I have the power of death for the asking, and the taking. I press this switch and you die.”
“Only you. I do not die. Not now. I always was and always will be. I knew the extent of my creation before it began and at once I knew the end. For all things there is a season.”
“The end of everything is a long time away,” Steven hissed
“Yet, nothing is forever. I am God, and having given all, I am nothing…and nothing is forever. I have no limit.”
Steven shook his head in disgust. Forte and Davidson were kneeling beside their packs now, finally. He bought them more time, observing, “Infinity doesn’t seek revenge. You have obvious limits, you fat slug bastard.”
“Mistake me not for your ilk. I am trapped within my creation. Without it there is nothing, and so am I. Without me it is nothing, and again…so am I.”
“So you want to destroy it?” he hissed at it, wishing Rossie or Stanwick would just shoot it and be done. Whatever it was, it was warped to a faith he couldn’t fathom.
“I will destroy only what takes from me the gift of creation. Destruction ends when creation returns to the Lord God.”
“Light creates heat and transfers energy. How long before you revoke light?” Steven asked sarcastically. Forte and Davidson would be finished soon; he only had to stall awhile longer.
“When you are gone, your concept of time will be gone, so I will take the rest in no time at all,” it replied, with the tone of lecturing a child.
“To satisfy what? A lust for destruction?”
“To become one again. To take everything and make nothing of it. Do you know that once I held all possibilities inside myself. I was the singularity, and now I am shadows in an infinitely cracked mirror. These images duplicate inside till my reflection is empty of all things, until all my images are darkness. And again, nothing exists without light.”
Steven stood and said, “Guess what: I don’t believe in God.”
“You do. You must.”
“Must I really?”
“Yes…because God believes in you.”
Steven slid his hand onto the detonator switch. He didn’t see Labrador reacting to the slight motion of the self-proclaimed God’s head, too focused on the creature. He said, “I’ll show you what God’s worth before I believe in you. I’ll kill us, before you even get that satisfaction, and I’ll damn sure take you for the ride. I won’t let you kill us.”
“You will,” it proclaimed.
“Why? Because you say I will?”
It paused a moment, almost thoughtful, before it simply stated, “No, because I will.”
“Damn you back to Hell.”
“I am already there. Come join me. Let my angel of mercy dispatch thee.”
A crack sounded. Steven cried out and dropped the bomb. The spray of blood from his chest splattered Forte. He crumpled to his knees and rolled onto his hip in agony. From that position he saw Labrador turn the rifle slightly and fire again. Mike Davidson fell backward, his pistol still rising for a defensive shot. It was Labrador’s last shot regardless. Flashes of fire from Rossie and Stanwick shredded Labrador’s environment suit. The pops echoed around the Cathedral of Pain and were quashed by a booming echo when Labrador’s atmosphere pack exploded. The medical officer’s corpse was propelled into the air over them and bounced off one of the crosses.
Steven rolled onto his chest and looked toward the arches. Rossie had turned, freed of paralysing fear now, and her pulse rifle was spraying the wall and the niches there. But the creature was already gone, like a shadow washed away by the light of the fire consuming Labrador’s body.
Forte was beside Davidson. She started to sit him up, then let him go and picked up the explosive Steven had dropped. She twisted the timer and ordered, “Start out. Rossie, take Tanner.”
“I’ll get Mike,” Kara said.
Forte belayed that, saying, “Davidson is dead. This place is finished. If three-hundred sixty pounds of this shit doesn’t do the job, nothing will.”
“What about that fucking thing?!” Rossie screamed.
Forte set the explosives down and stood, grabbing Rossie by the harness. She boomed, “Its nothing! A machine brought us down and as far as I care that thing can claim to be Santa Claus’ cousin! We have ten minutes on this timer. So, Ross, overload those two rewired rifles and get him out!”
Kara took the two rifles from Rossie.
Rossie pulled Steven up and ran down the hall, supporting most of his weight. At the well, she clamped the cable onto his belt and attached hers. When she struck the switches they started to rise rapidly. She guided both of them with one arm, shoving the metal rings whenever they threatened to get snagged on one. At the top, she lifted him out and dragged him outside. He was delirious with the pain and fell twice, only regaining his feet because she hauled him up and dragged him along. By the time she was dragging him up the ramp into the lander, he was drifting in and out of consciousness. She shoved him into the pilot’s seat and shook him awake, demanding, “Start the ship!”
He tried to explain he couldn’t, but Forte saved him the task. She sat in the co-pilot seat and slammed the breaker into its holder. Kara was right behind her, and hit the switches to close the ramp. It was still closing when Forte ignited the engines and started their ascent. Sand swirled around them as she turned a quick arc. She was piloting on instinct more than experience. Steven tried to gesture at the three yellow lights on the console she was oblivious to, but couldn’t lift his arms: The landing struts were still down.
Before they reached the edge of the plateau the charges they had armed blew and chunks of rock spiralled from the place the ziggurat had once been. Shock waves jolted the lander and a loud explosion came from aft. Only vaguely aware Forte had begun to curse and fight the controls, Steven fainted.
The Bleeding Angel
“Tanner, wake up!”
He opened his eyes and blinked. Rossie was cut over one eye, hovering over him, shaking him. He pushed her hands off, and turned his eyes slightly to see Forte lying back in the co-pilot’s seat, her head tilted back. There was no blood on her, but she didn’t seem to be breathing. He shifted and clutched at his side, gasping at the pain. Forte moved then, startling him. Her head flopped forward and her eyes fluttered. When she touched her face and looked toward him he saw a dark purple bruise on her forehead just by her left temple. Part of the control board before her was cracked where her head had smashed into it.
They had crashed.
Forte whispered, “I lost it. I forgot to pull in the landing tackles and caught them on the trees.”
Stanwick came up beside him and pushed Forte’s helmet out of time way. The visor was gone anyhow. It was the sight of Forte’s abandoned helmet that cued Steven to the absence of his. It took him several seconds to determine the one in Rossie’s hand had his name engraved on the collar. He was about to chastise her for stealing his helmet – what a strange thing for her to do – when Kara knelt and started to remove his environment suit. He gasped when she pulled it away from his body and began to cut the seams. Every tug was agonising.
Rossie was paralysed, watching Kara work on him without being able to even move. She had a childish expression on her face, and Steven imagined she must have looked the same as a child: Hopeless and frightened. He smiled to think Viola would have liked to see so much vulnerability. Maybe she had. He hoped she had.
He drew a sharp breath when Kara finally pulled his suit away from his chest and tossed the cut section aside. It was crimson inside. One glance down was enough to answer any question how that had come to be. His shirt was soaked to his skin, bright red down the front and side. It also felt as wet against his back. Vaguely, he remembered it had been white once.
Kara began to cut it off.
“I’ve been shot,” he whispered. It was hard to believe, but he knew it was true.
Forte was leaning on the console before her, shuddering. She turned away to vomit, coughing and choking. There was blood in her vomit.
Rossie averted her eyes and stared at her own abandoned atmosphere pack. She was crying.
Kara efficiently opened the medical kit by her knee, then lifted it and set it in Steven’s lap. She plugged the appropriate wires into the scanner and pasted one disc under each of his nipples. The third she stuck under his right arm. The exit wound, a small rip about an inch long and nearly as wide, was below his left nipple. It had torn his skin badly and obliterated the bottom half of the tattoo of the empty angel. It was the angel he had promised to Vee, and it seemed to him the blood was pouring out of it. He was surprised it didn’t hurt more.
Kara activated the monitor and raised the analyser beside it. She touched it against his skin beside the wound and he stifled a cry, the contact providing an avenue for the pain that had previously been diffuse. His heartbeat was a steady, quick beep. The machine came away from his chest smeared by the angel’s blood.
“It’s not bad,” Kara decided.
He hissed, “You’re not the one who’s shot!”
She ignored him, set the analyser aside, and dug in the medical kit. There was little to work with, but she was determined to try. He raised his arm and leaned forward when she asked. She pressed a gauze pad against the exit wound and examined his back.
Forte was recovered from her vomiting. She wiped her sleeve across her mouth and watched Kara a moment, wondering aloud, “How bad?”
Steven groaned when he felt the sting of cold alcohol on his back. The entry wound was just left of his spine. The sensation of tugging came next. Each of the stitches was a painful experience, but he was too distracted to care that she hadn’t put enough alcohol to numb the pain. He had survived the Temple of Pain, and the stitches were insignificant next to it. He believed nothing could be worse than what they had already suffered.
Kara finally answered Forte’s question. She replied, “The monitor says the shot cauterised what it hit. It went through the lower part of his left lung. No arteries were hit according to the scan, and it missed his heart by two centimetres or more.”
“Are you sure?” Forte asked.
“No. The analyser says so. He’s not spitting blood though, so he must not be bleeding too badly inside.”
“Mike’s dead,” Rossie whispered. “Labrador shot him; right in the head. I don’t understand.”
Forte was gazing at Steven’s back. She muttered, “That shot must have hit his air pack. Why didn’t it blow?”
“It was scorched,” Kara admitted. “The angle must have been enough to deflect it away from the compressed canisters.”
“You’re a lucky bastard, Tanner” Forte muttered.
“Don’t feel lucky,” he gasped.
“Sit back,” Kara directed.
He obeyed and drew a shallow breath, trying to detect if his left lung felt any different. It was impossible to determine. Breathing hurt so much he had no idea where the pain was coming from. He even found himself thinking he had been hurt worse by bruised ribs, though that distraction was short lived as Kara started to clean the exit wound. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, wondering if the taste in his mouth was fear. It was blood. An image of the inside of his helmet visor imposed itself on his brain. There had been speckles of crimson inside his helmet. Those had come from his mouth when he was shot, and he could still taste it still.
“What’re we gonna do?” Rossie sobbed. She was shivering.
Forte coughed and held her stomach, ordering, “Ross, get a grip on yourself. We blew the thing up and we’ll get out of here somehow.”
“How come it didn’t defuse the detonator?” Rossie wondered, her eyes wandering from face to face.
Forte raised one hand and flexed her fingers. She added to the gesture, “How could it? Those stumps it crawled on weren’t made for delicate work. It had no thumbs.”
“What if it ran away?”
Angrily, Forte snapped, “Rossie, it’s a big, fucking, fat worm! We blew a crater in there the size of the Polar Station. It must have been a kilometre wide.” She knew she was exaggerating. There was hardly a crater at all. The debris that had done the damage to the lander wings was from the ziggurat. The force of the blast had travelled the path of least resistance and blown the squat structure apart. By the same principle it had also channelled its fire into the tunnels beyond the dark arches, though, so the thing, and the radio source, were gone.
“I’m almost finished,” Kara promised when Steven gasped.
She was telling him the truth. Two more stitches pulled at him, then she flushed the work with alcohol and started to wrap a clean bandage around him, covering the two wounds with clean gauze pads. It was a primitive job, but effective. Steven patted her wrist as she left him; she began whispering to Rossie. In a moment, Rossie was sitting and Kara was working on the cut over her eye.
“Tanner.”
He turned his attention to Forte.
“I know you’re in no shape for me to ask this, but can you get us back into the air?”
The request bewildered him. He expressed his answer as a moan and rested his head on the seat’s headrest. Through the view portal he could see they had come down amongst tall, black trees – if they were trees. Unwilling to surrender even a slim hope, he leaned forward and switched on the lander. The monitor told him what he wanted to know, and he struggled to his feet. Forte was rising to help him, and he figured she would be a nuisance, so he waved her away and said, “Get a harness on and tell me when those lights along the centre stalk start to flash. Tell me immediately when they do. The left wing is gone, so this will be sloppy if it works.”
He stumbled to a stop at the back of the compartment where a small access panel was located. The lander was mostly modular, but both his and Jack’s influence had guaranteed nothing on Sapphire was too technological. The reports screen had indicated the only real damage to the shuttle was the loss of the starboard airfoil and the loss of two of the three lauding feet. The rest was insubstantial given the power of her engines.
He paused and held onto the panel to stay upright, swaying. The pain in his chest was intense and it distracted him, though it wasn’t as incapacitating as he expected. He had always imagined being shot would be more painful. He was oblivious to everything, head swimming, until he caught a hint of Rossie mumbling something incoherent about God. It shook him from his dizziness and he snarled at her, “Snap out of it, you dumb bitch!”
Her eyes flashed toward him, but she said nothing about his harshness.
“God’s a fairy tale. That thing read it in our records and tried to use a myth to stop us from blowing it up. It wasn’t what shot me and Mike. Labrador shot us; and it was an explosion that killed Latham; and it was Pat who tried to kill himself. Reed…well, maybe it sucked Reed down into its slime, but I didn’t see no octopus tentacles on the fat bastard. It has no more power than God does, and all they have in common is absence. God’s what you believe and what you make it.”
“It wasn’t God,” Rossie said softly, bowing her eyes. “I knew that. I really did.”
Forte muttered bitterly, “It was something to Labrador.”
“That twisted, ram-rod straight son-of-a-bitch likely did believe it was God,” Steven hissed. “I hope he’s glad he died with it.”
“It was something,” Kara said softly. “It was the first extraterrestrial life the human race ever encountered, and we blew it up.”
Steven finally opened the access panel and appended to her observation, “Better to blow it up than let it have us kill each other one at a time. Better to die trying than let it prey on our minds until we can’t decide who is, and who isn’t, part of its fantasy.”
“But why’d Labrador shoot Mike?” Rossie wondered. “Mike didn’t do anything to him.”
Steven ripped out two circuit boards and broke one carefully in half, inserting one half back into the appropriate slot. He started scraping terminals off the other half, peeling them back and biting them off. Some of the blood on his lips was left on the surface of the card. In between snips at the peeled terminals, he said, “Labrador was an asshole. It got to him because it gave him an excuse to kill me, or maybe he just wanted to be taken in. Maybe he even saw his vision of God in it. Who knows? He pulled the trigger on us because he had a delusion. Mike and I paid for it, and I got off lighter. It doesn’t matter why he did it, Rossie. He did it, and it’s over. You killed him; problem solved.”
He slammed the second half card into the other slot.
“Lights are up,” Forte confirmed.
He limped to the pilot’s seat. The pain was easier to ignore because there was a more immediate danger. He had removed the restraint circuits from the reactor control array. The smallest reactor they had been able to design had still pumped far too much power for the lander to handle, so restraining circuits had been a necessity. With them gone the engines were going to overload, but it was stable enough for a short period and they could get airborne, with or without wings. The compounding fusion chain reaction suddenly sent sparks from everything and the buzz of the engine column became almost unbearable. He flopped into the seat and ignored the warning whine, kicking the lifters into operation. The lander jerked and started to rise, sloughing off the tree-like objects that had collapsed on top of it. It lifted rapidly, applying nearly two G-forces. As it rose, he hissed, “Which direct— Forget it.”
He could see the thick grey smudge where the Temple of Pain had been. One God’s tomb was forever gone from out of the sight of man. The lander shook wildly as he spooled it away from the devastation. He could feel a thin stream of blood running from his chest and a heaviness in his lungs, but ignored it. It tickled against his belly and then gathered at his waistline, and still he ignored the blood. The pain was forgotten for now.
A warning klaxon sounded and he turned it off. Their speed was more than the fractured view portal could resist and it started to break. He reached under his seat and drew out the portable breather, fighting the stick to keep them above the trees, then put his arm up when the view port collapsed with a crunch. He pushed it aside so he could see by it. The wind was hot and strong because of its composition and their velocity, but they were still moving, faster and faster, away from the resting place of whatever the alien had been.
The lander’s forward gear, the only one intact, caught something in the forest-like canopy and they were jerked forward in their seats. The small shuttle craft was going too fast for a snag to bring them down. What was left of the landing gear was shorn off and the offending tree was felled on impact.
Time seemed inconsistent. They were above the forest for what felt a decade, then suddenly it was gone and in mere seconds he saw the distant floodlights of Sapphire. The chronograph on the console said the journey had taken a mere six minutes, but sensation betrayed the reality.
“We’re going too fast,” Forte said. Her voice was muffled by her breather mask.
Steven opened a panel marked with emergency warnings and hesitated. One mistake now would kill them. He lowered their altitude and waited. His hands and face were equally tense. The tension in his hands broke first, as he yanked the emergency release and the aft end of the lander was rammed down by the firing of the emergency charges. The clearing thrusters did their work and the reactor was spit out, arching back along their path into the upper atmosphere. When it reached the appropriate altitude it would explode, and with luck it would be far enough away to explode harmlessly.
The lander struck the ground and Steven was thrown from his seat into the dash. Flakes of dry soil came through the shattered view port and the lander rolled four times. When it wobbled on a fifth and came down on its roof, he dropped through the portal onto his back. He could see there was a fire inside behind Rossie and Kara. Forte crawled past him and stumbled a few yards before falling to her hands and knees. She was still wearing her environment suit, except for her helmet. Rossie and Kara came next. They tripped over Steven and together they dragged him away from the burning lander, toward the floodlit land around Sapphire.
Forte stood and followed them. They had only gone another hundred metres before the smoking remains of the lander exploded and drove them back to their knees.
Steven pushed himself into a seated position and drew a breath. The atmosphere smelled of rotten eggs. It stung his lungs and burned his eyes and throat. He was the only one without a face mask, and though he recalled Angus telling him the air could be breathed, he couldn’t recall the time limitation.
Bartlett’s voice came to him suddenly. It was over his headset. It had survived everything and was hanging around his neck. Rossie heard it and looked around at Kara, then Forte. Forte was crawling toward them. She fell against Steven and took the headphones. Into the pickup microphone she gave the expected response. It was hoarse and muffled by the breath mask, but reasonably clear: “Forte; Captain UNF; snowstorm; Tina Marie.”
Bartlett patiently said the next number. Rossie took the headset and waited another count before she said, “Ross; Lieutenant UNF, Marines; ivory; Cynthia.”
Steven fumbled for the headset and whispered into it when Bartlett spoke the number five; Bartlett sounded distressed to his ears, but he could imagine their crash landing explained that neatly. He rasped, “Tanner; Commander UNF, Engineer Officer First Class; chrome; Steven Martin.”
Kara took the headset when he offered it, responding to Bartlett, “Stanwick; Lieutenant UNF, Marines; haystack; Kara Katrina.”
There was a pause, then Bartlett said softly, “We have you on screen, but I’m afraid I can’t let you in.”
Forte snatched the headset.
“What?!” she demanded.
“I’m sorry, Captain.”
“Who called wrong?”
“No one, Captain,” Bartlett said softly. There was a pause and static, then Bartlett came back with the statement, “I am informed I am to tell you that God is on board.”
Forte dropped her hand to her knee as the headset fell silent. Sapphire’s flood lights switched off. The darkness that descended over them was not at all alleviated by the multitude of stars beginning to show in the sky above as whatever forces had held the small, strange world together began to disperse.
The Blasphemous Child of Man
The only light from Sapphire came from her bridge portal, a smudge cast upward into the sky. More stars were visible above them than before the destruction of the temple, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. Before their eyes had began to adjust to the darkness of the last night on the tiny planet, their ears recovered from the persistent buzz brought on by the overloading lander reactor. A forlorn metallic clang sounded, like a hollow drum being banged in the distance. Only Steven understood it, and he struggled past his pain and despair: He managed to stand.
“Someone opened the collector shields. Has anyone got their utility line?”
Forte looked down at her belt. In the rush from the temple she had left it by the pit. Rossie and Kara had done the same. Closing her eyes, she shook her head sadly.
Steven wiped a hand over his mouth and coughed. The atmosphere was scorching his lungs. When he lowered his hand it was spotted with blood. More than the pungent, stinging air was against him. His lung, whether it had been cauterised or not, was bleeding. He could feel the fluid pressure, like a weight on his chest making every breath a challenge.
“Come on. Port-side,” he said, his voice a raw hush.
“What’s the point,” Rossie complained. “We’re dead. It’s on the ship.”
He clutched his chest and fought down a cough. Rossie was kneeling, her shoulders slumped. She looked pathetic and it bothered him to see her defeated. He ordered, “Get up and follow me. I’m not going to die this way. One of my people opened the collector shields. A-1 on the port-side top of the collector scoops has no residual panels left. We can get in if we can get up there.”
“And do what when we get there?” Forte asked, frowning. “We can’t open the door from inside the collector chamber. You proved that a few days ago.”
Steven was lucid now. The desire to survive was stronger in him because the thing was on board. He had promised to kill it and he intended to fulfil the promise on behalf of Mike, Reed, Robert and Pat; and to spite Labrador. He reminded, “When I panicked in there I dropped a Lavender key. If we can get it out of the crack it fell in, we can take the panel off the manual locking device and open the hatch. Once we’re in there, we’re inside. I built this ship. I know her.”
Kara stood, battered but not yet willing to surrender. She lifted her breather mask to wipe her nose and held it toward Steven. He started to reach for it, then gestured it away. As much as he wanted to live, he suspected he was working on borrowed time, and he needed the rest of them stronger than he was. She hesitated until he licked his cracked lips and said, “The damage is done in me, and we need you at your best. Come on.”
Resolutely, they made their way to the port-side of the dark ship. Their hope was encouraged by a discovery at the leading edge of the closed cargo bay doors. A length of cable lay amongst bits of broken winch and a tattered harness. Tied to the end of the harness was a bandana stained with dried black muck. It was Reed’s; it would do in absence of their utility lines.
They still had a long way to go. At the underside of the collectors, Steven sat with the winch and the cable and started to unwind as much of the cord as would come. They had roughly twenty-two metres. It was enough to reach the upper collectors three times, but they had no hook or grappling device.
Rossie provided a solution. She took the cable and tied bits of the winch to the one end, securing them with Reed’s harness and the bandanna. She didn’t explain her idea, but it was obvious when she walked out to stand beneath where the field extension rods were. Above was one of the thick steel rods used to generate particle condensation at the leading edge Sapphire’s delta wings. They were essential for the polarisation process undertaken whenever the ship entered or left a transitional state.
She swung the line, threw it up over the rod, and caught it when it dangled back down from over the other side. She was still afraid, but faced with hope she conquered the fear and made the five-and-a-half metre climb. When she was up, she promptly pulled in the cable and followed Steven’s directions to get to the collector. She swung into it past the open shields. None of her injuries mattered much in those tense minutes. Getting inside was a focus they shared, and her determination fed on their shared hopes.
Steven went up the line behind Kara. It was the hardest effort he had forwarded. Only Rossie’s presence of mind, ordering him to tie himself on, saved him when he slipped. He was lifted most of the way without exerting any effort, and pulled over the edge into the collector by Rossie.
While they brought Forte up, he went to the hatch and felt around till he found the loose panel. By the time Forte was in he had realised a problem. He said, “Check the lights on your shoulder pads. I know the batteries are gone, but check them.”
He pulled the cable off his headset and opened the small transmitter on his belt. In a minute he was jamming a piece of the headset wire between two connections, wiring the battery directly to the unbroken shoulder pad light Forte still had. The result was a dim light that cast spectral shadows on the mangled walls of the chamber. It was enough to work by.
He knelt and directed, “Rossie, hold this. Aim it down here and be careful. Follow my hand. Okay; stop. Hold it so it shines down a bit more.”
The key was in the slot between two of the reinforced collector plates lining the floor. The gap was too narrow for his hand and the key was a few millimetres further than his fingertips could reach. Before he could suffer a deeper disappointment, Forte knelt beside him and undid the collar of her environment suit. She reached down her shirt and lifted a necklace from around her neck. The chain was gold, a delicate array of octagonal links. Two wedding bands hung from it. Steven withdrew his hand and she lowered the chain into the constricted slot between the deck plates, letting it drag along toward the key. On the first try it rode on the top of the key’s main shaft. She tried again and the chain caught the end of the shaft. She jiggled the necklace and got it under the crook of the key, lifting it out.
Steven took it and leaned on the wall by the partly removed panel. He started to turn one of the screw locks and paused. Three of them were already loose, but he couldn’t remember which.
The outer collector shields snapped shut with a clang and a faint rumble began to build.
“They’re taking off,” Rossie gasped.
Steven listened a moment, then returned to the panel, fighting his cough. He whispered, “Not yet. It must have found out they opened the collector shields. That shake is the static coils charging. They’re going to pressurise the collectors and flush them.”
“Oh, fuck; we’re dead,” Rossie sobbed. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, shoulders trembling.
Steven paused and looked at her, then to Kara, who saw something in his eyes and took the key from his hand. He surrendered it. He was shaking too much to turn the bolts efficiently. He was about to take the light from Rossie, but she wiped her tears away and drew a deep breath from her mask. She focused the light for Kara then, standing away from the wall.
He leaned back and laid her fears to rest, his voice a strained whisper; “This unit’s safe. All the power is shut down. We put it down permanently. That’s why the door only opens manually. They’ll flush them, but not this one. We may be irradiated by the flash, but we’ll survive it.”
Kara finished the circle of locking bolts and pried on the panel. She announced, “Its stuck.”
Steven looked at the panel. Which three? He pointed to them in order and said, “This one, this one, and this one. Turn them back one half turn. I turned them open before, before I dropped the key in here.”
Kara did the job and the panel fell off. She caught it.
Steven knelt with a gasp and reached into the hole, gripping the manual emergency release shaft. He pulled it from its holder and put his finger in the hole in the end. He cranked it around, its universal joint transferring the motion to the locking bars. The click he heard almost made him weeping.
Rossie and Kara pulled open the door and Steven staggered through into the maintenance antechamber. He waited till they closed the hatch, then locked it by turning the appropriate handles on the surface. The rush of escaping particles outside was muffled by the hull. They had avoided the risk of exposure to potentially lethal doses of radiation.
Their makeshift lamp lasted till they got past the maze of partitions and supports, into the main chambers running toward the base of the wing structure. From there they travelled blind, holding each other hands and walking in a line. When they reached it, Steven activated the hatch that led into the wing structure. It opened with a hiss and he stepped out onto the mesh gantry. After he knew Forte was through, he reminded, “Close it.”
She did, and he led them to the inner hatch. His chest ached acutely, and he realised it was the oxygen burning what the planet’s atmosphere had weakened. When he arrived at the next hatch, he opened it and rested on the threshold, hands up at his sternum. He was breathing erratically, unable to catch his breath. Rossie’s arm slipped around his back and she held him upright. He glanced at her and smiled sullenly, blood running from the corner of his mouth and dripping off his chin. Around her eyes was the same red irritation blurring his vision, but he suspected her tears stemmed from a less physical cause. He knew his did.
Forte closed the hatch and removed her breath mask. She directed, “Tanner, stay here. We’ll come—”
“There’s no going back,” he rasped. It was agony to speak. His lungs were on fire and his scorched sinuses had begun to bleed. He was nearly blind for the blur and could taste the damage in his respiratory tract. “This is it. Get me to the medical centre and I’ll take some pain killers, then we’ll get a few thousand grams of something deadly and kill the fucker.”
Rossie supported him, and Forte led them. Kara followed, pausing a moment to pull her service dagger from her boot. It was identical to one she had given Penderson years ago, and while she didn’t know it was the only weapon they had left.
The door leading to the main access stack of C-deck slid open with a perceptible hiss. There wasn’t a sound anywhere on the ship, but for a whisper that sounded like crying. They identified it when they came around the corner into the medical centre. It wasn’t crying at all. Rather, it was a soft, bleak laugh. Pat McAvery was sitting, a syringe hanging from his arm. He lolled his head toward them when they entered and smiled. His eyes sought Steven’s automatically.
Kara stationed herself at the door, and Forte went to unlock the drug cabinet. She was looking for cyanide, sure there was enough to kill the monster that they had failed to kill with brute force.
Steven left Rossie and stumbled to Pat. He leaned on the bed, then slid to sit on its edge. He withdrew the needle from Pat’s arm and recovered the bottle on Pat’s lap. It was labelled Poserine APT.
“What’d you take, Pat?”
Pat raised one bloody hand and his body twitched unnaturally. He cradled Steven’s cheek, his thumb leaving a bloody print.
“Pain killers,” Pat whispered. He kicked one foot and a few of the empty pill bottles skittered across the floor. Flinching, recovering from that spasm, he whispered, “He’s here, Steven.”
Steven nodded and said, “It thinks it’s God, Pat.”
“He could have been.”
“It isn’t. Where’s Angus, Pat?”
“They took him. He wanted him. He was here, Steven. I closed my eyes to him at first. Then I couldn’t. I looked, just once. I wanted to pretend it was a bad dream, but hearing wasn’t enough. I heard Him over the ship communication channels and I tried to hide my face, to pretend he was in here. In me; in my head. But here we are, and there He was. Neither of us really existed till I opened my eyes.”
Pat’s voice was weak and his eyes were dilated. The twitches increased.
Steven put his hand over his mouth when a coughing fit shook him.
“He exists…,” Pat whispered.
“Only if you believe in Him. Only if you believe something as ugly and cruel as that thing could be God.”
“Labrador believed.”
“How did you know that, Pat?”
Pat explained, “He made me tell what I heard, then he talked to Him. I listened, and I heard Him promise all the riches on Heaven and on Earth. But Labrador said he needed a sign, so He sent a sign. He sent angels to carry a sinner to hell.”
“Reed,” Steven whispered. Labrador had always disliked Reed. Likely, Labrador had even warned it they were coming to destroy it. It was easy to believe it of someone whose attitudes were so easy to despise.
“Patrick,” Forte asked, “how did it get away from the place we blew up?”
Pat remained focused on Steven, a secret in his eyes reaching out. He whispered, “All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full.”
“The fluid we were in,” Steven concluded. “It swam here.”
Pat smiled slightly.
Steven had to fight the deadly cough again before he asked, “But how did it get inside, Pat?”
“He speaks many tongues. He came from the garden lying east and spoke unto the body, and the body spoke unto him. The path opened before God, and God ascended into the chariot, the spirit come unto the body.”
“He’s delirious,” Forte opined.
Steven understood, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Pat was certainly speaking in riddles, probably echoing something it had said once onboard. A glimmering idea forming, he asked, “It speaks radio waves, doesn’t it, Pat. It has no voice, just radio waves. It told the ship to lower the underside ramp and Clay and the others couldn’t order it up.”
Pat’s eyes nodded. He whispered, “God’s word is everywhere: in the air, and the steel, and the flesh and the bone.”
“Did they fight back?” Steven asked. His voice was a mockery of its past, raw from the abuse his throat and lungs had taken.
Pat shook his head, grief written in his features past the easing pain. He sobbed, “There were no shots. I heard them say, when they came for Angus, that Mister Penderson was dead. He refused the word of God, and God spoke unto him.”
Kara looked stricken. Penderson was her best friend, and hearing Pat’s words were like a blow. She whispered, “Dave is dead? How? How did he die?”
“God spoke unto him,” Pat said. A moment of pain drifted onto Pat’s face and he began crying. He gasped, “He tried to shoot the thing and it made his rifle explode. That’s what Mister Robins said to Angus when they came to get him. Miss Viola didn’t say anything, but I know it’s true because she was crying.”
Steven felt his stomach tighten and he bowed his head. He looked up again when Pat touched his shoulder. The dying Communication officer said, “I’m so sorry; so sorry, Steven. On Eden in the Temple of Pain is the Cathedral of His making. There will God wait His children.”
Steven laid a hand on Pat’s wrist. He replied, “The Temple of Pain is in me and you now, Pat.”
McAvery smiled. His missing tooth was flushed at the edges by blood. Tears made his cheeks glisten. The cost of his speaking was his life. Silence would have only prolonged it, but at the end even Pat wanted a moment more. He dropped his hand and whispered, “He that increases—”
“—knowledge, increases sorrow,” Steven finished. “I remember, Pat.”
Pat closed his eyes and instructed with deep sadness, “I’m so sorry. Go below. Go to D-deck.”
Steven lowered Pat’s hand and watched the broken man draw a final breath. The muscles in Pat’s chest tightened and his face twitched violently, then it was over. Steven extended his hand to Rossie and she helped him stand. He leaned on her and picked one phial out of the box in the crook of Forte’s arm. It was cyanide. There was also morphine, and a dozen other dangerous drugs. He dropped the phial back, and reached to the rings on the chain around Forte’s neck. He rubbed them between his thumb and forefinger, staring into her eyes. It was a moment when he realised how little he really knew about her; yet she was such a good captain; a good person. He asked, “You?” ‘
She shook her head. It was important she answer, though it was irrelevant really. She replied, “They were my parents rings, Steven.”
He nodded and turned to the door. Kara was crying. She had forced Penderson into hibernation and she had cajoled him into volunteering for their mission. Steven didn’t have to ask to realize she had lost her best friend. He vaguely recalled Penderson whispering something to her that he had only half heard then. It came back to him now. ‘Never lovers, but more than friends.’ He felt terrible for her loss, but it seemed so inconsequential given circumstances.
“Kara,” Forte said, “let’s go.”
Kara followed without pause.
Steven had stopped at the ladder. Pat had told them to go below. Why? He stepped onto it and climbed down to D-deck with careful movements, honouring a belief he had Pat hadn’t spoken carelessly. His foot hit something soft when he stepped back from the ladder, and he looked down with a ragged cough. He never looked back. The strength left him and he crumpled to his knees. He who increases knowledge increases sorrow. The words were true. The Temple of Pain was insignificant now. All the death was a precursor to this; all his life a slow dance toward a moment such as this.
Elizabeth’s body was still warm. He tried to sit her up in his arms but had no strength to do it. He coughed once and some of his blood joined hers. Slowly, he bent across her and hugged her against him. There was a wash of crimson down the front of her shirt. A deep, jagged gash across her throat had almost decapitated her.
“No. No, please. Not this,” said a voice he hardly recognised.
He dug his fingers into her hair and pulled her chin against his chest. Somewhere inside he wanted to feel her breath on his cheek, or her heartbeat against his lips. There was nothing, because she was dead. He was coughing hard, his lungs shredded, and he had given up hope of surviving that. He had believed, foolishly, there was nothing more he could suffer.
“You took everybody. Everybody. Amy; mom; dad; Mark…oh, my God.”
He planted his hands on the deck and pushed himself to his knees, screaming. His cry echoed down the corridors and up through the main stack, lasting more than a minute.
The ships internal communications network spat the digitized version of Labrador’s voice: “Mourn no beast, for only God gives the gift of soul.”
He stood and fell back against the ladder. He turned and shoved Forte and Rossie aside, climbing toward the bridge. God’s voice, Labrador’s sentiments, accompanied his ascension. Its rhythm was in opposition to the rhythm of his stride. His body wanted to die, his heart left him, but hate filled up the emptiness and drove him ever higher.
“She was blasphemy. There is no reward in man’s creation of man. Like a lamb to the slaughter, you led me the blasphemous child of man. She deceives and turns thine eyes. She was sin.”
He staggered up the ramp onto the bridge and staggered to a stop, leaning on the back of the chair just inside the bulkhead. The creature sat beyond Bartlett’s console, its impassive blue eyes fixed on him. It was like a putrid, monstrous slug that had come out of a rancid garden.
Bartlett and Denton were sitting against the wall with burns on their faces and chests. Denton’s one hand was wrapped in a ragged length of bloody cloth, and he was unconscious. Bartlett was nearly the same; too defeated to move more than to look toward Steven with a sadness in his eyes. Jack was at his station, apparently uninjured. Viola was at Reed’s. Tracey was just left of him, being nursed by Wilkins and Angus. Her belly was a mass of deep stab wounds and her pants and shirt were stained dark brown. Craig was at the Duty station, facing him.
A low buzz sounded and the emergency bulkhead door fell, silencing the approach of the other three survivors of its Cathedral.
“Kneel before your God,” it said.
“There’s no God in Heaven or Hell. There’s no God, and no devil. You, you killed the only angel I had left. You tore out my heart.”
“I saved your soul,” the God with Labrador’s voice said from the bridge speakers.
“You took it, but not by any power the weakest coward doesn’t have.”
He staggered when he stepped forward, and Craig rose and took his arm. She supported him and warned, “It kills with sound.”
He pushed by her and leaned on the back of her chair. He corrected, “It kills with its hate, just like us. Just like me.”
“I correct, when you pathetic creations err.”
“You’re a thousand times more pathetic than us.”
He heard pounding on the bridge emergency door and glanced at it, realising for the first time that it was shut. He returned his eyes to the thing.
“Why did you close that? Because you’re afraid?”
“I know no fear.”
He staggered around Craig’s console. He could barely stand, and his vision was distorted. Everything was blurred grey, and more than a few feet out he could now see only shapes.
“No fear? None at all? I guess you’re no God then.”
It shifted its bulk. The long piece of broken rifle lying beside it in a smear of blood was brushed by its flabby paw. Steven slumped in Forte’s chair and stared at it. He laid a hand on the controls and put his other to his chest. His rage was fading with his vision; apparently hate wasn’t enough. The sounds of Rossie and Stanwick battering the door were distant, mixed inexorably with the painful sounds being made around the bridge.
He stopped grimacing and frowned. He was thinking of Elizabeth, not the body below on D-deck, but the woman who had smiled at him, held him, and returned him so much love. Bowing his head, he whispered, “Suddenly, I believe in God.”
He meant it.
The thing smiled, a bizarre and grotesque twist of its maw, exposing the glistening baleen structure.
Steven leaned forward and glanced at Viola. She wanted to come to him. He couldn’t see her face clearly for the shadows, but he could tell. She was his best friend; she was still alive; she was another reminder of how much love mattered.
“It was so fast,” she whispered, tenderly. “We were going down to close the ramp. Elizabeth was ahead. I couldn’t get down the ladder fast enough. Tracey tried, but it stabbed her, too.”
“It doesn’t matter, Vee. Elizabeth’s in Heaven. I’ll be there soon.”
“I love you, Steven.”
“I know you do; I love you, too.”
“Look upon your God,” it urged.
He turned to peer back at Tracey, and his vision grew sharper. Her eyes were open, and she was facing death with courage he wanted to duplicate. “I knew you were the one,” he told her. “You’re a good engineer, Spanner, but you’re a better friend.” Tracey looked toward Viola purposefully, and he rasped, “I know. I saw.”
Tracey nodded weakly and shut her eyes.
Craig was alone behind her console. She was lost. Steven moved again, leaning on the monitor in front of her. He said, “Once, someone hurt you like you asked with Elizabeth.”
She gripped the back of her chair and nodded, her chin and lip quivering. He smiled and was shaken by a coughing fit. When it was done, Craig’s board was covered by specks of his blood. He had tunnel vision again, and he knew time was short: There was time enough to say good-bye. He didn’t sound anything like himself when next he spoke. There was a higher pitch rasp in his tone and blood gurgling in his throat.
“Sometimes the fear we carry inside is the worst, and the hardest to overcome.”
“Sometimes,” Craig sobbed. “You take my fears away.”
“All of them, Elaine.”
It was a final promise, to her and Elizabeth.
His eyes fell upon Angus and Wilkins. Wilkins had given up on Tracey. It broke what was left of his heart to know he had outlived another angel; but she had gone to his Heaven. He continued to turn, bowing his eyes to Forte’s console so he could turn and see Jack next. God would wait. Infinity could wait just one moment more.
“Jack?”
Jack was calm and showed no sign of tears. He had a few scratches and a welt on his cheek, but nothing worse. He provided the truth and Steven’s answer to his unspoken question, because only Jack could tell the hard truth. Jack had always told him the truth; had always been there to save him. Now, he whispered, “She died quickly, Steven. None of us knew what it was going to do. I’m sorry, but she would have preferred it this way. She couldn’t have lived without you.”
Steven smiled at his old friend and then returned his eyes to it.
“Angus?” he asked, without breaking his eye contact with the creature.
God met his steady gaze, unblinking and unflinching.
“Yes, Stevie?” the old man whispered softly. So many good intentions, so many terrible outcomes, had taken the life out of the old man’s tone.
“I believe in God, Angus. I think somewhere out there, on a planet maybe, maybe revolving around a star I can’t ever see, there’s someone feeling just like me.”
“How are you feeling, Stevie?”
Angus was crying. Steven could tell by the sound of his voice.
“Empty. I found God, and He has nothing to offer but pain and emptiness. I choose emptiness, because soon He’ll give me my peace.”
“I will,” the voice of Labrador agreed through the communications network.
“No,” Steven whispered, “God will. Just like He’ll give you Hell, all your own.”
He pressed the last in the sequence of keys he had been punching during his numerous shifts of position. It was the commit key. Tracey had guessed what he and Pat had guessed. He knew for certain by her glance it had been her who opened the collector shields, and as soon as he had looked toward Reed’s console he had understood the series of lights shining behind Vee. Viola might have guessed had she not been trapped between regret and grief. Jack, as calm as he still was, could never have seen the indicators from across the bridge. No one else would have understood. Tracey had opened all of the mains breakers, and they were charging frequency into the damping coils.
The thing calling itself God reacted instantly to the command the computer processed. There was nothing for anyone else to react to. The bizarre waves being propagated by the fusion reactors filled the inner-ship communications channels on frequencies no human being could detect without instruments. The creature calling itself God had killed with its voice, and the weapon had two edges. What little pitch there was to hear was a mere buzz, no more irritating to human beings than a fly.
The creature spoke at last without abusing their technology. Its body stiffened and its maw parted to reveal the baleen structure. A shrill whistle cracked the silence and it convulsed. Craig was already opening the emergency doors. Rossie and Kara bolted in and ran on either side of the centre command islands. Rossie fired a single shot into either of the creature’s eyes as it flopped to the deck. The shots had been more vengeful than useful. Sound had killed it instantly. The waves of the fusion reactors had scrambled the sensitive part of its brain that gave it its power of radio emissions.
Steven slumped in Forte’s seat and closed his eyes. He felt Viola’s arms closing around him and laid his face on her chest, bleeding from his mouth onto her shirt. The hand laid on his back was Craig’s. He knew without looking, or asking. He could feel her there.
“It turned the reactor off because of the signal output when the particle collectors shut down,” he tried to explain. “The reactors were damped and the recall signal was washed out over the area. Heafs was right. The signal hurt it, and it turned off the pain.”
Something akin to sympathy stirred inside him. Maybe it had been driven insane by their struggle to prevent the reactor damping blowing them up. Maybe it didn’t understand that turning their interchanges off would force them to vent more signal. Maybe they had created it in some image all their own.
Maybe not.
He heard Forte, then Wilkins. Wilkins was confirming Tracey was dead. The tear on his cheek was hers, he decided. Those who lived owed her their lives, and he hoped they would some day understand. He couldn’t find the words to tell them. His body was wracked by pain, and his mind was awash with memories.
“Vee?” he gasped, suffocating now.
She whispered into his ear, “Don’t talk.”
He felt himself slipping into a vast darkness. The only light was far away. He was going to reach it this time. He could feel its chill, the same chill he had felt on Elizabeth’s lips, the same chill breath she hadn’t breathed against his skin.
“Do I get to go to Heaven?” he asked, frightened despite a desire to die with courage.
Viola was crying. She had never cried so much before. She could feel him slipping away from her. Her best friend was leaving, and she was to be all alone. She felt Rossie’s hand on her shoulder, but in the moment nothing could push back the flood of loss. She stammered, “You and Lizzie both. I promise.”
Steven smiled and touched the light. There was nothing more.

The Survivors
Sapphire left Earth on January 19th, 2118 and returned fourteen years later on October 25th, 2132.

The corpse of the creature killed on Sapphire was sealed in the secure science lab on board. It was dissected and studied at the California Institute of Genetics. Project leader Cairn Wood published a full report the following year. It was man’s first extraterrestrial encounter. What intelligence it had, what it had shown, was not a part of the remains dissected. The substance believed to be its brain had been entirely reduced to devastated tissue by the vented frequency blast from the reactors, channelled through the false-mass coils of Sapphire. In his closing remarks on the creature, Cairn wrote, ‘Whatever this being was, it was a physically unremarkable specimen. The mystery of what it is, whether it is something unique or just an example of some core species, is unlikely to be answered in our lifetime. What can be said is that it was, in many ways, more fragile than us; and, sadly, from the logs of Sapphire, it was no less prone to destruction.’

The Special Order Science BIOT was honoured with a recognition of contribution to the Sapphire mission. The BIOT, not having a name, was included on the Geneva Obelisk with the memorial, ‘Though without a name, he will be remembered, for memory is a basic human dignity.’

Robert William Latham was honoured with a burial in space and posthumously awarded highest honours by the Navigators’ Guild. In his memory, the Guild made a donation to the Lunar Observatory Scholarship. The award, to be given annually, was first awarded to Kin Bask, a graduate of the Egyptian Institute of Technology.

Mitchell “Reed” McCulloum was remembered with a plaque in the Veteran’s Park in Monteith, Texas. At the request of Violacciocca Parini the epithet reads: ‘It is not so important to remember how Reed died as it is to remember how he lived. Those of us who knew him will never forget, and those who were not so fortunate will never know of what pleasure they have been deprived.’

Robert Ryan Heafs was buried in his home town, next to his sister, mother and son. His daughter was presented a medallion of honour on Robert’s behalf, and his memoirs of his experiences during the design of the Sapphire computer systems were publish posthumously. The short novel is highly regarded for its peculiar humour and its humanity.

Michael Davidson was decorated by the Marine Corps. An award for bravery was initiated by Cynthia Ross, Kara Stanwick and Thomas Denton. The award was made posthumously, and Michael’s name was added to the obelisk at West Point Academy, honouring all those who gave their lives in search of a deeper understanding of the stars.

Jason Roger Labrador was honoured with a ceremonial plaque at the request of the Sapphire crew. The plaque, located on the Geneva Obelisk alongside the names of the entire Sapphire crew, bears no description. In deference to surviving family, at the request of the crew, no charges were made against Jason Labrador. Official records show only that he was the medical officer onboard Sapphire, and that he died in the line of duty.

David Penderson was decorated by the Marine Corps. An award for bravery was initiated by Cynthia Ross, Kara Stanwick and Thomas Denton. The award was made posthumously, and David’s name was added to the obelisk at West Point Academy. David Penderson was additionally recognized for courage above and beyond the call of duty for his effort to save Mitchell McCulloum.

Patrick McAvery was buried with honours at his birthplace. The funeral was attended by the surviving crew of Sapphire. Pat’s nephew, Gerald Cross, accepted the flag on his Uncle’s behalf. The town hall now bears on its lintel the memorial, ‘We Honour Our Son, Patrick McAvery, Who Was Not Afraid To Seek The Stars. God Bless.’

Tracey Evelyn York was buried in Greater Miami, Florida. At the request of Jack Robins and Violacciocca Parini she was publicly recognized for her courage during the last hours on board Sapphire, as born out by the ship logs. She was additionally recognized for her actions that saved the lives of Kara Stanwick, Cynthia Ross and Tina Marie Forte; and for her part in the destruction of the alien intruder.

Steven Martin Tanner and Elizabeth Tanner were officially listed as married at the insistence of Sapphire commanding officer Tina Marie Forte, who stated she had granted them privilege of marriage during the period Sapphire was beyond port. In honour of their contribution to the mission, the marriage was declared officially by the United Nations Council. They were buried in Billings, Montana with full honours. They were buried with the wedding bands given them by Captain Forte.

Angus Ariel Shepherd suffered a fatal heart attack on July 9th, 2133. He was buried in Aberdeen, Scotland, seven days later. In attendance at Angus’ funeral was the surviving crew of Sapphire, and the entire complement of the United Nations Council. The eulogy was presented by Wendy Jefferies, who cried as she spoke about her lost friend.

Danielle Denise Wilkins was awarded several scientific honours for papers published relating to the Sapphire mission. She retired in 2133 after the death of Angus Shepherd, and is living now in Seattle, Washington. She is active in inner-city literacy programs, and lectures occasionally on that and other topics.

Jack Robins continued to work as a structural engineer. He remains a crew leader for the construction and framing of the new Mars space station. His daughter, Mary, is in charge of surface to orbit transport of supplies for the project.

Tina Marie Forte married environmental scientist John Dunne shortly after her return. She retired her commission and works with Dunne as a councillor and training instructor at a school for underprivileged children in Glasgow, Scotland. They have two adopted children.

Clayton Bartlett retired to a ranch in Montana, near where Steven and Elizabeth Tanner were buried. He has written several scenarios for Executive training programs, and his mission observations were published in a surprisingly amusing memoir entitled, What Happened To Moby Dick?

Kara Stanwick resigned her Marine Corps commission, with honours, and returned to college the following year to complete a degree in electrical line engineering. She presently lives with Thomas Denton, her former team member from the Sapphire mission.

Thomas Denton retired from the Marine Corps, with honours, and became a pilot training instructor at the Manhattan Pilot Academy. In conjunction with Kara Stanwick, he appears at lectures at various colleges. Their first child, a boy, was born two years after their return. He was named Steven Elliot Denton, in honour of Steven Tanner and Elliot Denton, Thomas’ brother.

Cynthia Ross retired from the Marine Corps, with honours, to travel. She lectures infrequently and shares a house with Viola Parini. Since the return of Sapphire she has taken up painting as a hobby, and two of her landscapes have appeared in a local gallery.

Craig Elaine Ladd returned home after resigning her commission and lives with her mother Annette in North York, Ontario, Canada, and is acting as a training instructor part time. She continues ongoing therapy for nightmares. Craig Ladd declined all interviews upon her return, except those in an official capacity, and to date has not spoken to anyone about her experiences on the core explorer mission.

Violacciocca Parini lives in Berlin with Cynthia Ross. She continues to work as an engineer on special projects. After her return to earth she made a journey to Billings, Montana to the tattoo shop Steven Tanner received his angels. The same artist, now aged seventy-one, recreated the five angels on her left breast above her heart. The names of her angels are Reed, Lizzie, Steven and Tracey. One angel remains unnamed. Unlike Steven’s tattoo, above hers is the inscribed phrase, ‘There is no hate in Heaven.’

The crew of Sapphire has not failed to gather annually, on the launch date anniversary, since their return. These private gatherings are arranged by Cynthia Ross.

Afterword: A Few Stray Thoughts
I would advise any reader who made it to this afterword to consider whether reading any of my raw thoughts are worthy of the investment of their time. Writers may find this interesting, and so too might anyone who wonders how mentally imbalanced I really am.
From an author’s perspective the excellent part of a book published as this one is, in purely electronic form, is there is no wise editor standing by to horsewhip me for indulging myself at the end. I got away with the almost certainly unnecessary epilogue entitled “The Survivors,” and so it seemed fitting to further indulge myself with an afterword. After all, hubris being what it is, I have to imagine anyone who struggled to the end might actually have enjoyed the read; and might want to know some about the writing process, or the editing process that removed almost 100 pages from the book, and the rewrite that took place in 2009 (the book was originally finished in 1994). I fancy it might also be instructive to pass along some of the stray thoughts that ended up in the notes, just as a passing nod to the oddity of the research process. At the very least, I can tell myself with tongue firmly in cheek, my daughter may some day read this and be slightly less embarrassed by her father. (or perhaps more? I’ll let her decide.)
Now, how to begin? What to cast out into the ether first?
When I wrote this book I was 26/27 years old. I was still secretly drinking my body weight in hard liquor most every night, working sporadically when I felt the need to feed and clothe myself, and playing at being a sober, stolid citizen in daylight hours. I discovered “A Brief History of Time,” Stephen Hawking’s book, in the late 80s (probably early 1989); and unlike most people who bought it, I actually read it. In point of fact, I read it five times, back to back, and by 1992 I had a fairly complete grasp of the mathematics, as much as anyone with my feeble intelligence could muster. I won’t pretend to understand the entire scope of his work, but I will observe that taking the time to digest it and learn the science of it (however flawed that understanding), was one of the best investments of time I ever made. I left the experience with some scientific grasp of reality, and a longing for the old-style Science Fiction I grew up with. Yes, Stephen Hawking inspired me to recollect the Science Fiction where actual science made at least a passing appearance, and philosophy was the vehicle for ideas.
The point of that vignette is to set the stage for the simplest of statements: I was so frequently drunk, and feeling low most every day, I found some solace in the idea science could truly explain a Universe beyond my appreciation. It was the science that prompted me to think about the good old days when I wasn’t an adult, where burying myself in a good story was still possible.
“God. Speak.” was written as a homage to no specific Science Fiction book (I could mention some here, but that would be distracting from the self-indulgence), but as a general nod to everything I read from the 1930s to the mid 1950s, before every second novel written had aliens in saucers. It was intended to merge philosophy with some science, and contain a story in three distinct acts. (For those who need to know, those acts are: April 1st, 2117 to January 19th, 2118; March 10th/11th, 2123; and then what happens in July 2125.) 
It took 14 days to draft the book in 1993, and I set it aside thereafter for 7 months. (here I go by the dates of various notes, more than any personal recollection.) The construct of the story was intact from the last of those 14 busy days, and much to its credit I never had to really change any of the core elements. (Of course, if as a reader you wish I had, that may not be much of a point to crow about.)
What happened when I wrote the book was interesting, because until the end of it (what was page 197 in the first printed draft) I was a confirmed atheist. That was until I wrote the line “Suddenly, I believe in God.” After that, I had to set aside the novel a while, because I found myself struggling to grasp how my sudden faith came about. Sure, I still found religion in its formal sense to be an archaic, depressing, insulting farce; but I recognised that somewhere on the journey spanning twenty-some years I had some sense of a greater force in the Universe. I believed, I came to accept, that it was more than probable there was meaning in the construct of the Universe. I wasn’t enamoured or convinced of a God being, but I was accepting there was order in amongst the general chaos, and that it possessed enough beauty to be a prime mover in the scheme of the cosmos. All flowering nonsense aside, I came to believe that science was not in itself any barrier to there being something deeper in the definition of our reality.
I still stand by the basic premise that only fools ascribe to religions that demand obedience, adherence to human ritual, or truck the manure about worshipping God. At the same time, I have a high tolerance for faith, and honour anyone who has it; I only wish more with faith had tolerance, which seems today (even more so than in 1994) a rare combination.
Returning from that philosophical meandering, I think the revelation of that single line, and how it affected me, is probably what saved my life. Ultimately, I was killing myself; I had been since my mid-teens. But in discovering that my stringent adherence to rational thought didn’t preclude something beatific, I found a degree of peace. I’m not sure it comes through in the book, really, but that itself is fine given the intent of the book had nothing to do with the self-revelation.
I promised some details on the writing process (handy for authors with actual talent, perhaps), a bit about how 100 pages ended up snipped from the 1994 draft, and some about the 2009 edit. I also suggested I would reveal some of the research process, and that may be the first point to address.
This book was intended to be Science Fiction, and a reaction of sorts to the Star Wars trilogy. When that series of films ended in 1983, as much as I loved them, they practically ruined Science Fiction. They did it by projecting to a broad audience that Star Wars was Science Fiction (it never was, it was fantasy). By doing that I suspect publishing houses found selling old-style Science Fiction a chore, and it seemed thereafter every damn book in the genre was basically space adventure without any of the genre underpinnings. That isn’t an entirely fair assessment, of course, because gems appeared here and there, but the glut of “also like” books was overwhelming, and I think even today there is little real new Science Fiction.
Having said that, the research done was intense but never intended for any specific purpose. I mentioned Hawking’s book and how I read it for a reason. It triggered in me a deep research effort to understand, and I ended up with an immense fractured awareness of the scientific theories about the broad Universe. In essence, I absorbed the science as best I could, and in finding myself swimming in that pond, I felt compelled to try to reflect it somewhere: this book was where it went.
And here I get to the point that might be handy for any other author who wants to pursue a career writing (my career is not writing, by the way, and I hardly qualify as an author): once you do that research, laugh it off and write the story. At the end of the day, pure science doesn’t lend itself to the telling of a story. It can distract so much from the story, and the characters that have to appeal to the reader, that it will massacre even a brilliant idea. Research in writing fiction is a foundation, and really a stage to play the story, not the story in itself.
This is where I should insert the apology to all the scientists who ever stumble across my writing, but I think I would rather not. The fact is, while the science is pushed aside here and there, and while I simply made up what was lacking, there isn’t anything fundamentally outside the possible in this book. And that is another nod of advice for any writer: push your research away gently, and don’t step into the realm of pure fantasy when writing Science Fiction.
Is the science of the story sound?
No, it isn’t; but that is mostly because it projects forward by some 100 years. When the calendars tick to 2117 (assuming the damn Mayan calendar isn’t right, and we don’t all die horribly in 2012), science will exist that makes my projections seem tame by comparison. At least we can hope.
At the same time, yes, the science is sound. I can say that with a shit-eater grin, even though I mean it. As far as it goes, there is nothing absolutely impossible in this story where science is concerned. In fact, I might observe a few of the technologies I proposed when I first drafted this story are actually appearing in infantile forms. But more to the point, I used the science in a way that I think would make it hard to point to any specific fact presented and declare, “That’s not scientifically possible!”  The trick, as I would suggest to any author, is to say only as much as necessary.
An example of this is the fleeting reference to some of the protagonists theories, and the description of how Sapphire is traveling. I spent almost a third of the time writing (4 of the 14 days) in generating fairly complete descriptions of the two core theories he is credited in the book, and coming up with a mathematical model that could support the idea of transitional tunnelling and false-mass. I’m sure the science of both is crap, but the fact is neither is impossible, only highly improbable. And to avoid the “it’s crap!” cry and hue, a reader will note that beyond the dramatic description of transition tunnelling and a few stray references to TCBs (Tensor Control Booths) I made no attempt to expand upon the designs in the flow of the story. This is both because it doesn’t matter, and because making it matter would distract from the probability. Like all the real science scattered in this book, I knew this projection of science was irrelevant beyond its premise.
So, as to research, my advice is to do it, use what works, and leave the rest rotting on the rubbish pile. Any author who is a slave to their research, is probably as big a fool as can be.
What next?
Oh, yes, the writing process itself.
When I sat to write the book, I spent almost as much time on background work as I did on the actual writing. My dated notes show that I spent 4 days on the core theories and tunnelling, as well as some other scientific tripe; 3 days on developing birth-to-death character details for all of the crew of Sapphire, and nineteen peripheral characters (one of them shown in only one scene; two who are not even in the book except by name); 2 days sketching the construct of the acts, and ensuring the middle one was so short as to be almost invisible in the larger construct; and then a mere 5 days writing. The original book was 301 pages long as it was printed at the time (9 point Times New Roman text, with 3 point line spacing, standard margins, for those who like details).
From the end of that fifth day, I never have changed more than a few arrangements of sentences, corrected grammar, or inserted a few bits of dialogue that I thought were worthwhile.
To many people this 5 days of actual writing might seems ridiculous, but it isn’t uncommon for me. When I do write, it tends to be obsessive; and when I have the story formed, I can run through tens of thousands of words a day. The original first draft was 174,543 words, which was almost 35,000 words a day on average, and my notes show I wrote a total of 93 hours in those 5 days (a little over 1,800 words an hour on average). What resulted was the story as it exists now, with about 100 additional pages. It wasn’t what one would call release-ready by any stretch, containing contractions like “SMT said,” and other various cheats, but the dialogue was entirely written, the narrative was sound, and but for a few specific sentences all was as-is even now.
Good, bad, or indifferent, everything I have ever written had been written in those same obsessive binges.
What I did in 1994 when I edited the first draft and reached what I call draft 2, was far more labour intensive. It took 3 months of nightly toil, at least, spread over a six month period. (I always have at least 6 stories running at any time, at any stage.) The first editorial run at the work was what I would call a smoothing run, which is where contractions disappear, I try to stylise the narrative for consistency, and I decide whether the grammar is acceptable (bad grammar is often a wonderful thing in a story, until it derails the narrative). The second run was a brutal one, and it saw nearly 100 pages (58,000 words, approximately) discarded, all of it in the first act.
Those 100 pages were not in one lump, for those wondering, but spread throughout several areas, as well as being specific to four dates no longer appearing in the book. While that may seem an awful chunk of writing to abandon, the reality was it was politically untenable stuff. There was a story running (and it can still be detected by careful readers) about the geopolitical situation on the planet during the construction of Sapphire. In 1994 when I cut it, I was moved to do so by one simple reason: it interfered with the flow of the actual story, and beyond act one it had almost no direct influence on events. Why would I torture the reader with an overly long first act that had no essential relevance to the core story?
It took five passes in 1994 to bring the story to where it is now, which is to say that what was done to it later was almost inconsequential (a word here and there).
Lest anyone who bothered to read this far be barking, “What was in those pages!” I will make a short job of allaying any concerns it was golden material. The crux of it was to explain that in the year 2117 there was a certain cold war condition, between China (including part of Asia and Africa that is not presently Chinese, but I posited would come under Chinese governance by way of impressed trade) and the regions of the Americas and Europe. The substance of the story was that there was another Core Explorer Mission underway on that front, and that this was dividing scientific loyalties badly. Readers will observe the almost total absence of oriental characters and near-absence of Muslim ones; and for those who might have held the fantasy I was being a prejudicial prick, the subplot that was removed was the key reason for this strange absence. No, folks, the oriental and Muslim branches of the race didn’t cease to exist – they just had other business.
All apparent apologies aside (I’m not making any), the fact was the words excised obscured the actual story more than anything. It lent some intrigue to the build-phase of the story, but was otherwise irrelevant to the development of the characters. (Recall the accident mentioned in passing about the cargo door? It was foreboding obviously, but it was also a sabotage under the original plot. So, too, was there a fairly involved  story about how one of the original crew is appointed and discovered to be a villain before launch, and replaced.) At the end of the second pass in 1994 this entire sub-plot was gone, because it simply didn’t matter as much as the actual story.
The rest of the 1994 edits were purely to smooth the read.
For almost 15 years the book lay in dust, literally, following me from one province to the next.
After publishing Forbidden as an eBook in 2009 (on Canada Day nonetheless), I decided it was time to prepare some of the other past books and publish them. Why? Well, ultimately because they were gathering dust; and though I couldn’t care less if the world cares about my writing, I posited that some people might enjoy the read.
So, in July 2009 I dug around in the pile of books I’ve written and read a few. This one was the second I read, and after doing so I thought it was worth publishing in some form.
It wasn’t easy to go beyond the decision.
The problem I faced with the book was that 15 years had seen the only electronic copy of it destroyed when a hard drive crash destroyed 31 novels, many of them having never had a printed copy made (all my notes are always handwritten, so I have them for all books to this day). Worse, the only hard copy was the final 1994 pass, where I had marked up the text with editorial notes. There weren’t many, but enough that I was faced with retyping it , or using Optical Character Recognition (OCR) and a scanner to pull the hard copy into an electronic form and hoping for the best. Anyone who knows me can attest my typing is done with four fingers (I still carve out a lot of words, hovering around 75 a minute most days); anyone who knows me well can attest I am lazy. So, I used OCR.
OCR is, of course, not a new technology, but if you hand it a manuscript that is marked up it still invariably sucks. The end result was a little over 116,000 words that required me to edit them word by word for the most part. It took over 40 hours, which was painful indeed.
All the editing done in 2009 was technical. By that, I mean I added almost no text other than to create a narrative consistency. I did alter the order of a few bits of dialogue, inserted eleven sentences in all, and changed a few words to more precisely reflect what I intended. Ultimately, the 117,212 words I ended up with were nearly indistinguishable form the 1994 draft. For better or worse, nothing changed in that time. (It shocks me that at least three places where I had flung out references to events came to pass. It shocks me more I wasn’t compelled to revise any of the real science that was there, because all-in it still held.)
And now for some useless self-indulgent bits….
If you read this far you deserve to be rewarded if you caught the “Easter eggs” in the book. I’m not telling what they are specifically, but I’ll hint that the numbers and dates are heavily paying homage. I’ll also say that there are seven distinct places where a sharp reader can capture what amount to nudges and winks, which were all intended to give the attentive reader a chuckle. If you missed them, of course, that would be because I buried them too deep. I take full blame for that.
I suppose I could also spend a moment on specific and thematic content here to make the few souls who wrestle with this feel somewhat appreciated. (You are, by the way, even if you hated the book.)
To those who may have wondered, Elizabeth was based in great part on a real human being. I won’t name her, but to avoid anyone taking claim for the substance of her, the woman she was written from died in late 1986, at the age of 18. She was, and remains, someone who was dear to me to a degree I will never forget. A great deal of my self-destructive living was brought about by losing my then best friend, and someone I loved dearly. She saved me from a very destructive self, created in me some sense that I might have purpose beyond cutting a swath of destruction through life, and her death destroyed me entirely for a time. (My weakness, not hers.)
Viola Parini, who by the way is my favourite character in the book, is also based on a conglomeration of two real people. Again, I won’t name them, but one of them is dead and one is alive; one was a woman, one is a man; and one was bisexual, and one was homosexual. If that seems a strange combination to base a character, so be it, but she turned out to be the character I loved most dearly as I wrote; and to this day I regret that I spent so little direct time with her in the story.
And this leads me to one theme that is certainly apparent in the book, being the theme of sexuality. I myself am a conservative sexual being, who has never had a gay experience, and never wanted one. I don’t, oddly, have any feelings at all about moral judgement in that regard. I have always actually felt somewhat cheated that I never felt viscerally attracted to someone of the same sex. I have heard it to be common, even for straight men, to at some point have such an attraction, and I always thought it a particular failing of mine not to be able to appreciate the sexual aspect of both sexes. I have in fact struggled to understand homosexuality in general (more specifically where men are concerned, since like most male pigs I’ve always be easily capable of giving the thumbs-up to “girl-on-girl” action). So, when I wrote this book, I found myself wanting to pay some respect to the ideas of sexual variances, and ended up doing it through Viola Parini, a woman, because I was never capable (and still can’t) understand the homosexual male viewpoint. While my effort might offend the gay community as a shallow one, the point of writing is to explore oneself in context of the world, and any shallowness in the exploration is due entirely to my being that shallow as a human being.
For those who might be wondering, there are two bisexual women, one gay woman, and one gay man in this story. The women are obvious; the man is not, and I leave it to the sharp and focused reader to identify the man. (No, it is not Steven, Jack, or Angus.) The reason for the man never being identified as such, was that it had no bearing on any element of the story.
I could meander now to the religious aspect of the book, and the thematic content related to the idea of a God, but that is fairly obvious and not really worthy of much more than was written in the story. What may not be so apparent as a theme, since I dealt with it contextually related to the idea of a relativistic God, is that I was slightly less concerned with religion than the idea of creation/destruction and dualism.
If one was to submit an analysis of the most fundamental theme in the story it is the idea of creation being, in some way, a form of destruction. At a technical level we have it today, where technology usurps our social fabric in unintended ways. Thirty years ago (not so great a span) we each had a few actual friends, and now most people have a much broader range of acquaintances (called friends by our modern Internet mechanisms). The problem is, of course, the technology that created this possibility to expand our social networks, has essentially destroyed the humanistic components that comprised friendship. Now, instead of a few people we actually know, we have hundreds we pretend to know; and in reality we know very little about those people beyond what they project for us to know. (My best functional example of this is in my own life, where most of the people who think they know me have divergent definitions of me as a human being; and a very few actual friends know all too well how pathetically unhinged I am.)
In the book this theme was threaded to the end based upon a principle that makes us all relativistic gods, and it was punctuated by the idea of what horrors come when one of those relativistic gods actually believes their own press…so to speak. In point of fact, I was driving home the idea that arrogance and assumption about our place in the Universe is our primary human flaw. And I stand by the analysis, in so much as we are repeating historical patterns endlessly, always mistaking our technical prowess for mastery. I’ll leave it again to individual readers to suss out the details of that path of thought, but observe generally that if you look at the characters of Steven, Angus, Forte and “God,” you can trace the patterns effectively.
In the first case, consider that what Steven is to Elizabeth could have been a tyrannical god, but he submits himself to her more than she to him by coming to terms with his own misunderstandings about his relative importance. In the end, his salvation as a human being is directly a result of his realisation that he can give himself to the others, or wrap himself in hate. She taught him that, and it was a feeble attempt for me to observe that a god, even a relativistic one, holds an awesome responsibility to its charges. The choice acing anyone in that circumstance is to be worshipped, or to worship. His choice to worship her, to raise her above himself even if the process for him is imperfect (Jack knows it is, and you can see him twice observe it), is what governs his final choices. Even when she is dead, and he is crushed by it, he rapidly ascends from the base hate toward something dignified. And all along the way, he is an example of choices, and how those choices can empower or weaken a human being (in his case, both).
In the second, consider how Angus is really Elizabeth’s god, in the sense at least that he provides all the fundamental motivation for her very existence. He is, as is noted, basically her father. Now consider his story arc, and another of the paths I was searching is probably immediately clear. He goes from a confident, governing presence, to a progressively weaker personage. It isn’t him that changes, either, but his context; and I was trying with that to make another point about relative deities. If you analyse how Angus move sin the story, you would find that he really peaks as a being when he initiates the production of a BIOT for Steven. Beyond that, he fades gradually, and he is in a sense the observer-God, who may exist but really isn’t effectively party to the reality around him. He serve sin the last act as an object example of a view of godhood that is probably not flattering, but describes the core view many religions have: God as a static presence. As a dynamic god, Steven changes to accommodate the context of the creation, whereas Angus remains generally unchanged, and so his relevance fades as the critical choices arise. In a sense, or so to speak as he was wont to say, Angus becomes exposed as the detached observer, a selfish god, who was never really participating in the creation so much as musing on its state.
What probably would interest a reader who enjoyed the story was the contention Forte is a key character in this relativistic god theme. I have been told by one reader, of the 1994 draft, that Forte seemed to be muted down to a point where when she does surface it almost seems unusual to see her authority exercised. I remember congratulating them on getting the point, and having them puzzled at that remark. Here I’ll say, bluntly, that Forte is an example of what I would call the caring god. Not entirely static, nor entirely dynamic, she appears in the story largely as a presence that is passive, until at certain points she surfaces and takes an active role in shaping the choices being made. In a way, she represents the best of leadership, allowing expertise around her to function undeterred and only enforcing her will as required to shape the experience when she feels it is necessary. That she tries in the last act to tell Steven he is the one she counts on to act is both manipulative to some extent, and true. For those who are mystified by the assertion, think what happens in the confrontational scene at the ziggurat. It is Forte’s influence that guarantees Steven does what he does, in terms of trying to buy them all time to act as intended, when their shock is at its most overwhelming. He acts, at least partly, because Forte has reinforced the trait in him at every chance. She is the god who appears when needed, to create a pivotal impetus, but acts indirectly through others – in the case of this story, she guarantees Steven’s choices will save them by allowing him to be the flawed man he is, but never once allowing him to surrender to those flaws.
The “God” who they meet is, of course, the final expression of the idea that creation is destruction, and encompasses many more of the symbolic aspects of gods we humans espoused throughout our relatively short history. I won’t ramble now, as my point I actually made about this thematic element, but I will observe if one was to analyse the dialogue of the creature, one would find that the apparent paradoxical statements are consistent to a degree that is disturbing. This is the version of God that, sadly, most religions adhere: this God requires worship, because it is incapable of recognising its own flawed nature. This is the merciless god who covets power, specifically the obedience that comes from ruling a creation; and this is the God that is projected to this stance after having essentially surrendered the very same creative powers to its creations. The point, of course, as I think is made in the final scenes, is that this view of God is driven by human foibles, and is irrationally position as a faith to prevent a challenge of its flaws. The creature is a frightening God, because it entirely absorbs the idea of its prominence, as inferred from the bizarrely logical view that these human beings must accept its godhood, because it accepts the claim to their creation. (The exchange when Steven says he doesn’t believe in God, where he is told “You do. You must.” Defines this view, because when he challenges “Must I really?”, the response is, “Yes…because God believes in you.” In other words, the creature is saying I believe you are my creations, therefore you must accept I am your God. It is unassailable logically, but entirely unsupportable beyond pure faith. For those keeping track, Labrador’s actions are entirely reflecting the normal process of fundamentalism, where a call to faith as a defence of foolishness defeats the need for logic.)
Having bored the faithful with that distracting wander through the thematic, I suppose I could stop indulging, but I figure that some day someone who reads this might actually find the glimpse inside my overwrought mind fascinating. (Perhaps a psychiatrist?)
I won’t meander much longer, but here are a few more stray thoughts…
One may notice that the narrative choice to focus on Steven Tanner hid a certain number of details, and skewed others due to the protagonists lack of stability. This was, of course, intentional, because without that artifice the problem of the story is that it has almost no dramatic substance at the end. If I had exposed the relationship between “God” and Labrador directly (it is written in notes, including conversational elements), what happens in the last scenes would have been diffuse rather than dramatic; and books are by nature intentionally dramatic. At least, I believe all good ones are. (I won’t go so far as to claim this is one of the good ones.)
I faced two basic choices with the narrative here, which could have had the voice of any of a number of characters, or an omniscient one. I discarded the omniscient one for the obvious reason, which is that a book positing relativistic gods rapidly kill itself if the narrator is essentially one of those gods in the third person. There isn’t any mystery there, and it only serves to expose the oddity of narrative form. I was then faced with who to have tell the actual story, and what person to put it in: Steven Tanner was the only real choice, and third person was the only real person (or tense). The first fact was because he is the central protagonist, and the reader has to follow him to be entirely capable of grasping the story; and the second choice (rather than first person) was because I detest first person for its arrogance of tone. Far better to write a flawed character with objective tense, where the reader can realise the skewed view is skewed, because in doing so the reader is then an interpretive participant, rather than a passive one.
Having made that choice, I had one or two really challenging scenes:
The betrayal of the crew by Labrador was a problem from the outset because it was impossible to write its exposure and maintain the impact of his betrayal when it happened. Steven, of course, is aware of something happening involving Labrador, but he had no proof of anything concrete, and he has the obvious prejudice that helps shield any early concrete discovery. He dislikes the man, making it easy for him to ascribe antagonistic motives; but he is also self-aware enough to recognise his prejudice. Still, the scene where Labrador is revealed was difficult in the sense it had to be delivered with enough facts to make the reality of its process apparent, but I could never detail it or it would smack of a narrative betrayal of the reader. Pat McAvery is, as everyone automatically will know, the mechanism for clarifying the aspects of proof on the point of that betrayal.
Harder was the death of Elizabeth.  That scene was written, in note form, and never made it to the first draft due to the narrative constraints. In essence, I was deeply affected by the inability to explain the details there, because this was the pivotal error the creature really made in its invasion of their domain, which was Sapphire. (Sapphire, if anyone noticed, is the Heaven constructed by Steven; so, “God” invaded his Heaven.) When it killed Elizabeth, the rest of the story was fixed by that action, because the choice to kill was not inevitable. Not having a way to convey that scene directly was a challenge more than any other, because it meant the impact on Steven had to be apparent by way of past more than present. It also meant I had to hope the reader would infer the nature of that death, which was that there was a certain random futility in life. Notably, Pat McAvery again was the mechanism to deliver the bulk of that event.
Beyond that though, the narrative choice was obvious.
What I’ll end with now are two obscure points, and two potentially revealing ones: they are separate entirely.
An obscure point is the reference, in more than one place, to someone named Amy. Her name is one of those tattooed on Steven’s chest. We hear about his brother Mark, but we never heard directly about Amy. I won’t reveal anything here but to say that his emotional dysfunctions are as heavily ingrained in him by her death as by the death of his brother. I considered writing the explicit explanation in the story, but decided it wasn’t necessary; I decided though to leave the references, because they are in the main character drafts, and I think it adds something to not expose all the threads that created the man.
Another obscure point is a reference to a ship called Christchurch in the narrative. I actually wrote an entire short book about that mission, and its outcome, long before the book that references it. It is possible in this book, with some attention to details, to actually construct a clear picture of the point of that story without ever having to read it. Again, an entirely obscure but possibly curious point.
Finally, a revealing end or two to this unnecessarily decadent afterword:
What is the creature?
The answer to that would be unsatisfactory for anyone, I suspect, but I’ll toss a few of the facts I have to allow at least some sense that I actually know an answer to that, as far as anyone could.
First, clearly, and obvious in the book, it is not God. Not in the absolute sense, or even in a practical one. Anyone who mistakes my intent on that point probably wants to burn me at the stake or some such.
Obviously, though, the creature isn’t something entirely powerless; and there is something implied by the substance of its environment. It was sentient, it was capable, and there are clues that it was not entirely alien to the idea of man. To say more would be to spoil.
What can be said is that I had a clear interactive explanation of the circumstances. The story reveals them fairly well, but in a short form they went thus: Sapphire exited transitional space; the “beacon” drew the ship close; the particles around the planet caused malfunctions that led to automatic venting of the engine systems; the venting affected the creature; the creature reacted using its transmission capabilities to try to defend against the venting; the defence actually made the venting worse; the creature absorbed the details of the species in the ship; and the rest followed naturally. In other words, the idea was that as much as the creature claimed to have created mankind, the reality was that its state and stance were entirely created by its encounter with mankind. Whether it was a malevolent entity I leave to the reader to decide. I have my own views, and they don’t much matter.
The last reveal is an answer to the question: What is the planet?
Here I’ll be evasive, though the answer is fairly certain. Anyone familiar with the better Science Fiction of the mid-sixties will know exactly what it was.
What I will add is that the choice of what they saw on the plains surrounding the ziggurat was entirely intended and precise for a reason. I wasn’t trying to be cute, or obscure, and the  context of the symbolic elements included was absolutely directive. Bearing that in mind, I draw attention not to those symbols but the aftermath of the bombing of the ziggurat: the particles around the planet, its gravity conditions, and so forth, are all degraded from that instant.
And now, having ruined all things, and given my daughter’s future self an insight into my warped mind, I end this afterword here.