Jury Duty (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  “I am so far out of my depth.”

  “We all are.”

  “You don’t understand,” he says. “I mean like—I shouldn’t be here. I really shouldn’t. You could literally pick anyone in America and they’d make better decisions than me. I’ve—let’s just say, I’ve made my fair share of fuck ups.”

  Bear nods but doesn’t say anything.

  The snowcat runs on four independent sets of tank treads. Nick’s used to seeing bulldozers with oblong treads on either side, but the treads on the snowcat are triangular. Bear begins removing the sheet metal covering the cogs that drive the treads. He tosses them aside.

  Nick says, “I know nothing about outer space. How the hell am I supposed to make decisions about extraterrestrials?”

  “You’re afraid you’ll make the wrong decision,” Bear says, moving around behind the snowcat to work on the far treads.

  “Yes,” Nick says rather emphatically, as though such a conclusion should be obvious.

  “It’s not a coin toss,” Bear says. “There are no right or wrong decisions—just decisions. I mean, think about it like where you’re going on holiday next year. It doesn’t matter if it’s Florida or Canada, right? Hawaii or Italy? You make your decision based on the moment. On whether you want pineapple or goat’s cheese on your pizza.”

  Nick nods.

  “And you won’t be alone. You’ll be part of a team—a jury.”

  “I still don’t get why they need a jury to make decisions.”

  Bear stops for a moment, crouching beside one of the treads and looking up at him.

  “It’s to stop arguments. Say China wants to remove a component for analysis, but the US says it should be left intact until we understand its function. Both sides will present their arguments, and you guys decide. You look at the pros and cons. Or say the scientists want to drill through a bulwark, but the military says no—you guys make the call.”

  “And if they agree?” Nick asks.

  Bear laughs.

  “It’s a green light.”

  “Seems like a flaw,” Nick replies, taking one of the panels from Bear and laying it aside as they move on to the front tread.

  “How so?”

  “What if everyone agrees on a really bad idea?”

  Bear laughs.

  “You can’t get these guys to agree on the weather. Hey, can you hand me that screwdriver?”

  Nick grabs a long flathead screwdriver and gives it to him. Bear digs around behind one of the panels, clearing out some gunk.

  “Honestly,” Nick says, “When I think about going down there and making decisions on stuff I barely understand, it makes me feel sick.”

  “I think you’re going to make good decisions.”

  “Why’s that?” Nick asks.

  “Because you doubt yourself.”

  “And doubt is good?”

  “I’d rather someone that doubts himself than some asshole that’s convinced he’s always right.”

  Nick nods. Bear’s got a point. The only thing is, up until a few days ago, the asshole Bear’s describing was Nick. Sandra wouldn’t trust Nick to pick out a dress from her own closet, let alone decide on alien tech. And as for that goddamn football game Nick was so intent on watching when she left—hell, he’s worried he’ll be provoked by something equally dumb down in Antarctica. Everyone’s reasonable until they ain’t.

  Wasn’t it Pavlov’s dogs that heard the dinner bell and came running? Pavlov described saliva dripping into empty bowls. Yeah, ring that damn bell and Nick will be there, panting with excitement. Will someone down there figure out how to punch his buttons?

  Not much scares Nick. He’s never been afraid of the dark. Horror movies are a bit of a laugh. Oh, sure, the jump-scares get him, but mostly because he’s been surprised. This, though, this scares him. On Friday nights, whenever Sandra would ask what he’d like from the local Chinese takeout, he’d be fraught with indecision. More often than not, he’d go with an old favorite. He’s predictable. Lame would be a better term, and he chides himself for being so damn soft.

  Nick takes solace in one point—the multinational team of scientists, engineers, and military support have been doing this for almost eighteen months. For over a year, they’ve been able to make this work. He only hopes he doesn’t embarrass himself.

  Storm

  An alarm sounds in the dark of night.

  Nick opens his eyes, feeling disoriented. Something’s wrong, but it’s not a fire. There’s no smoke. A rucksack slides across the floor, slamming into the far wall. Dmitri tumbles after it, still in his sleeping bag. Rather than rolling, he falls toward the wall. Jazz is awake. She has her arms wrapped around the bunk support. Her pillow tumbles past, while her legs fly out in the same direction.

  In the fog of Nick’s groggy mind, it’s as though the cabin has been upended, but that makes no sense. It’s only then he realizes he’s suspended in midair. Rather than resting on the mattress, Nick is in motion as well. His head buckles as he hits the end of the bunk. Nick’s back arches as he crumples, colliding with the empty bunkbed above him. Jazz is shouting something, but he can’t hear her. Warnings sound over the speakers in the ceiling, but Nick can’t make out individual words, just a haze of noise.

  Dmitri is on his feet with his legs spread wide. He kicks with one foot, trying to free himself from his crumpled sleeping bag. He’s holding onto the wall by the sink, swaying like a drunken man, barely able to stand.

  Nick swings his legs over the edge of his bunk, holding on to the upper bunk. As he was hot, his sleeping bag was unzipped, acting as a blanket so he doesn’t get tangled like Dmitri.

  Jazz has her hand out, signaling for him to stay where he is. The door to their cabin swings open, slamming into the bulkhead.

  Out in the corridor, an ensign yells, “Everything is fine. Everything is going to be okay. Stay where you are.” Only he’s standing almost sideways in the hatch, clinging to the upper rim of the door as the Te Kaha rocks. He sways as the rucksack slides back beneath Jazz.

  Dmitri’s bleeding from a split on his forehead. He staggers over toward Nick, pushing a hand towel against his temple. Nick finds himself sliding along his bunk, naturally making room for him.

  “Oh, that smarts,” Dmitri says, sitting on the edge of Nick’s bed.

  Nick’s bunk runs along the side of the hull while the others are set on the back wall. Together, they form an L-shape. The cabin door has swung open into a catch, preventing it from swinging back. Light spills in from the corridor. Sailors run past in the hallway.

  “Stay here,” Jazz says, running for the door. She pushes past the ensign who’s pleading for her to remain in the cabin. To hell with this, if the Te Kaha is going down, there’s no way Nick is waiting around for the icy cold water to rush in. He slips on some trousers and chases after Jazz. The deck beneath him surges, pushing against his feet as the warship rides up a wave. For a moment, it’s like being in an elevator rushing skyward. The waves they’re riding must dwarf the vessel for size.

  The ship rocks, swaying in a storm. Rather than running along the corridor, Nick finds himself pushing on the wall as he chases Jazz. Water drips from hatches as sailors work to close the upper deck. The internal ladders are all set well away from the external hatches. Seawater must be flooding in from somewhere.

  A couple of sailors push along the corridor wearing cold water immersion suits. Although these look like wetsuits, they’re bright orange and baggy. Thick black zippers. Reflective patches. Black rubber boots. But with all that, it’s the flag that’s incongruous. Mentally, Nick knows he’s on a New Zealand frigate, but seeing a pure white flag with red stars and the Union Jack in one corner makes him uneasy. He’d rather see the Stars and Stripes. Regardless of how competent the Kiwis may be in antarctic waters, Nick would feel at home with the US Navy.

  Jazz rushes up the ladder to the bridge. Nick follows close behind her.

  Rain lashes the windows. Lightning ripples through the
darkened cloud banks.

  “Now is not the time,” Commander Simonds fires off at Jazz. She’s holding on to a rail, leaning beside one of her officers. He points at a wave towering over the Te Kaha. The pilot works with the helm, facing into the monster.

  Nick assumed it was night, but the clouds are backlit by a cold winter sun. Visibility is less than a mile, but he doesn’t need to see far to know what’s coming.

  Whitecaps stretch along an aquatic ridge line. Far from being waves, the Te Kaha is riding mountains in the ocean swell. A wall of water sweeps down toward them. The gun-metal grey bow of the warship plunges into the massive wave. Spray explodes from the hull. The forward gun disappears beneath the ocean as the deck is swamped. The Te Kaha is driven on by its massive engines. It rides up and out of the wave. Windshield wipers sweep across the windows, desperately trying to clear the spray.

  “You shouldn’t be up here,” the commander yells as the ensign following them scrambles onto the bridge.

  “I—I have to see this,” Nick says from behind Jazz. She turns, only now realizing he’s followed her.

  Jazz is about to say something, probably wanting him to return to the cabin when Commander Simonds says, “For fuck sake, if you’re going to be up here, strap in at the back!”

  The two of them rush to the seats behind the navigation desk and buckle in.

  The Te Kaha clears the top of the next wave, giving them a broad view across the ocean swell. The depression before them opens out like a valley. The crest is capped with smaller breaking waves, while the hollow in between is smooth by comparison. The ocean is streaked with white spray. It’s only when the warship drops into the trough that Nick’s heart rises in his throat. This is a rollercoaster running out of control, plunging into the depths. Not only is the Te Kaha rushing down toward the base of the next wave, it’s swaying with the wind.

  Waves crash over the sharp bow of the warship. Salt spray explodes from the hull, racing out across the water.

  The next wave isn’t as large, allowing the warship to ride back up and over it without any trouble. From the crest, though, several other waves come into view. Nick clenches, seeing what’s coming.

  A wave the size of a high-rise looms before them. Within seconds, it’s towering over them, blotting out the sun. When the bow of the Te Kaha hits, a wall of white spray shoots out across the sea. The forecourt of the vessel disappears beneath the ocean along with the cannon. This time, though, it’s not just the spray hitting the windows. For a moment, the bridge itself is submerged by the wave. The superstructure of the frigate shudders under the impact.

  Looking out the windows, all Nick can see is the emerald green of the deep sea. Then, as suddenly as it came, the water recedes. The Te Kaha drives up, cutting through the surface. The windows are lashed with spray. Finally, the horizon appears through the torrent of water rushing off the roof of the bridge.

  Commander Simonds holds onto the bulkhead above her.

  “Yeehaw!”

  She could be riding a bull at a rodeo.

  “Damn, that was big!”

  The Te Kaha comes thundering back down on the other side of the wave. Yet again, the bow of the warship stabs at the ocean, cutting through the dark water. Simonds is busy, talking with her crew about weather patterns, wind speeds, wave heights, and the angle of attack.

  The storm is relentless.

  The Te Kaha faces up toward the sky before plunging back into the depths. It’s all Nick can do not to vomit. He has to keep his mind busy or he’s going to paint the floor yellow.

  Radar images sweep across consoles stretching along the bridge. The crew are wearing fire suits not unlike those used by Formula One racing drivers. Their hair is hidden beneath white fire-retardant material. Thick headphones cover their ears. Throughout it all, they’re unwavering. The Te Kaha might be taking a pounding, but if the crew have any misgivings, it doesn’t show. They speak calmly into microphones positioned just inches from their lips. That’s when it strikes Nick. Far from being driven by just one or two people, the entire crew is working together to ride the storm. He overhears discussions about ballast loading, equalizing fuel tanks, displacement pumps, and the communications array. In that moment, it strikes him that the Te Kaha is alive. Despite the ferocity of the storm, everyone’s working together as one.

  Even the commander is calm. At first, Nick mistook her passion for anger, but she’s directing rather than controlling her crew. She talks with them rather than yelling at them, discussing options rather than demanding a response.

  Commander Simonds moves between stations, bracing a split second before each thundering impact as waves crash over on the warship. At one point, she steals a quick glance at the two of them and cracks a slight smile. Damn, she’s enjoying this way too much.

  The wind whips spray across the deck as another wave submerges the frigate’s main gun, but Nick’s relaxed. He’s found his rhythm. The calm, methodical actions of the crew have put him at ease.

  “Are we having fun yet?” the commander asks, moving back beside the two of them. That they’re the last of her concerns doesn’t go unnoticed by Nick.

  “I’m good,” Jazz says, but the way Jazz grips the armrests suggests otherwise.

  “We’re doing fine,” the commander assures her. “We took a freak wave from the starboard side, but other than that, we’re okay. We can ride this out.”

  “H—How?”

  “How long?” Commander Simonds says, completing a question Jazz could barely manage. “It’s going to be a long day, I’m afraid. But don’t let this worry you. The Te Kaha is an ANZAC class frigate. She’s built for days like this. She can take one helluva beating and still keep rocking.”

  Waves crash over the forward gun, spraying the windows yet again.

  “This is all perfectly normal,” the commander says as the warship rides up and over the ocean swell before that familiar sinking feeling hits yet again. Four thousand tonnes of steel plunges back down into the sea.

  Jazz is pale.

  “We have sedatives,” the commander says, gesturing to the ensign to come over. “I can have the ship’s doctor give you an antiemetic to help with nausea.”

  “Yeah,” Jazz says, timing when she gets out of her seat. The ensign helps her down the stairs, bracing as another wave strikes.

  “And you?” the commander asks.

  “I’m fine,” Nick says, surprising himself with how he’s perked up. “Being able to see what’s happening helps.”

  Commander Simonds laughs, shifting her weight as the Te Kaha rocks with the impact of another wave breaking over her bow.

  “Okay. Well, if you need anything.”

  “Oh, you’ll be the last person I’ll bug,” Nick says. “You’ve got your hands full.”

  The commander smiles and makes her way back to the helm.

  For Nick, there’s something strangely satisfying about the way the Te Kaha refuses to surrender to the relentless onslaught of the squall. It’s the mastery of nature. As small as their vessel is within the vast open ocean, as immense and powerful as the storm is along with the thundering impact of each wave, somehow humanity has prevailed.

  Nick is riding upon the triumph of several thousand years of engineering prowess. A single wave could kill him—kill all of them—and yet the waves can’t get to them. They’re protected by more than reinforced glass and thick plate steel. Their salvation lies in the design workshops and architectural drawings of yesteryear.

  Someone thought about this exact moment decades before it occurred. Someone calculated the force they’d be hit with and decided, hell yeah, we can tame this beast. Did they ever actually ride a frigate in a storm like this? Hah. They didn’t need to. They’d seen it in their mind’s eye. With over forty thousand horsepower being produced by the diesel engines, they knew they could conquer even these immense waves.

  “There you are,” a voice whispers from behind Nick.

  Bear slides around and into the seat Jazz
was in, tightening the buckle as another wave pounds the Te Kaha. Salt spray rushes at the windows with a rhythm Nick finds strangely reassuring.

  “Thought you might need this,” Bear says, slipping a small steel water bottle from his jacket and handing it to him.

  “What’s this?”

  “Antifreeze.”

  Mana

  After three days, the storm becomes the new norm. Actions that would have seemed insane when they first left South Georgia are now somewhat habitual. Walking down the corridor toward the galley requires an utterly alien level of coordination. Sailors pass each other with their arms out, ducking and weaving through the passageways as they keep their hands up, ready to tap against the walls, countering the sway of the frigate. They’re pinballs bouncing around a rickety old machine.

  Nick loves the rough weather. As the warship rises, riding over a wave the size of a luxury hotel in Vegas, the floor drives up beneath his feet. Then there’s a lull—a brief moment when the vessel begins to fall as it crosses the crest of the wave. At that point, his sense of weight fades. His feet skip across the grating. The deck drops away. His outstretched hand prevents him from hitting his head on the steel ceiling. And he rides down with the warship. Then the dance unfolds again.

  The Te Kaha rolls with a steady rhythm, making this bizarre form of walking somewhat predictable. To his surprise, it’s enjoyable. His reactions have become somewhat autonomous. Life onboard the Te Kaha is abnormally normal in the midst of an antarctic storm tearing through the Southern Ocean.

  Drinking coffee is all about timing. Nick has learned to sip on the up-stroke, just after the warship dips into the trough of a wave. Coffee tends to slosh when going down in the ocean swell, but not when rising up. If anything, it’s strangely calm at that point. Going over the top of a wave with a full cup, though, is an invitation to be scalded by hot fluid. Nick finds it funny seeing everyone drinking at once, and then not drinking at all in a surreal sense of unspoken coordination.

  Ensign Temuera has lightened up and occasionally swings by to check on Nick, but he’s no longer shadowing him.