And just like that, it’s all gone.
“Now leaving Saturn orbital aphelion,” the computer says.
And once again, there is only blackness, the dark void. And there’s the Sun again, a pin of angry blinding light.
“Oh, f— me . . .” comes someone’s voice in the general silence. “That was—just wild! How fast are we going?”
“¡Madre de Dios, sálvanos!”
“I don’t know, but I just crapped my pants!”
People start giggling and cussing and chattering, in various languages, which seems to be the normal human reaction to stress and to anything kind of mind-blowing. And then someone points to an area of space slightly below the Sun and off to the right.
“Look! That tiny bluish thing—is that Earth?”
Once again we grow silent as we strain our eyes and stare at something that’s not quite a star.
“Wow . . .” a boy says behind me. “It’s the Pale Blue Dot. It’s almost that size now, isn’t it? That’s our home! Damn. . . .”
And as he says it, I remember the world-famous old photograph taken fifty-seven years ago by the Voyager One space probe leaving Earth. It turned around and took a final picture of Earth, and our planet was the size of a pixel captured in a fractured ray of sunlight, to paraphrase the classic astronomer Carl Sagan.
This is what it looked like.
But wait, no! I recall. No, it did not—not quite.
The original “Pale Blue Dot” was photographed somewhere about six billion kilometers away from Earth, beyond the orbit of Pluto.
This, our present location, is similar the other Pale Blue Dot photo—actually the third-ever selfie taken of our planet—and this one’s the Cassini spacecraft version, taken twenty-three years later by NASA scientist Carolyn Porco who wanted to improve on the original. That famous stunning mosaic of images taken from the shadow of Saturn, with the grand panorama of the Rings and the tiny dot of Earth, is called “The Day the Earth Smiled.”
And that’s what Earth looks like, right effing now—from just over a billion kilometers away.
Except, today no one is smiling there.
It’s close to 10:00 PM, and the crowds on the observation deck have thinned out. All barracks and dorms adhere to the 10:00 PM lights out, so most people want to get back in time for bed after a very long first official day as Civilians and Cadets.
A few, such as myself, linger, gazing into the dark cosmic panorama outside the ship’s array of floor-to-ceiling windows.
I stand and breathe and look. Moments float away in silence.
As an Aide to the CCO, unassigned to any standard shipboard group, I don’t really have to be anywhere. I have no lights-out in my small private cabin—the lights go on and off based on my activity level.
It occurs to me, how strange my personal situation is, compared to the others on board this ship. In some ways I am even more isolated and lonely than I imagined I would be. At least during Qualification I was a Candidate like the others. But now, I’m somewhere in the surreal halfway position between being an Earth refugee and an Atlantean crewmember.
Neither here nor there. An aimless nobody, out of place.
I don’t belong.
The strange depressive thoughts haunt me. At the same time my mind is numb with the new awareness of the nil chances that my parents have for rescue.
I don’t know how much time passes, as I stand, staring out at the black cosmos outside. Fifteen minutes at least, maybe half an hour. In some ways it’s calming to stare at the void. . . . Stare and think.
The illumination of the observation deck is soft and low, a kind of permanent twilight. The floor plasma lights supply just enough light to move around safely. I suppose it’s intentional, to allow those who choose to be here to meditate upon the view of the universe.
At some point, I am pretty much alone for real. No one else is here on this portion of the deck; everyone has gone to bed. An occasional Atlantean crewmember on duty passes the corridor, but that’s it.
There’s just the Earth and me.
Hungrily I stare at it—the faint dot of blue—tiny, infinitesimal, precious, vulnerable, even now receding beyond my eyes’ ability to see. It is my last anchor, my one and only point of connection, of familiarity, of sanity. Even so, a few more minutes, seconds, incalculable moments, and I begin to doubt if I’m looking at anything at all.
And after what might be another quarter of an hour . . .
“Good-bye, little Pale Blue Dot,” I whisper. But silently, stubbornly, I tell myself, This is not good-bye. No, I do not accept it. Somehow, I will come back.
And then, I see it no more.
The Earth has dissolved into the darkness, has been swallowed by the cosmic grandeur all around. Only Sol is outside the window, our Sun—and now it alone remains an anchor point of visual reference.
A sudden “space vertigo” strikes me, a recent replacement for my one-time fear of heights. My head is swimming, and I can barely stand upright.
I stagger, taking a few steps to right myself, put my hand out toward the nearest corridor wall behind me, the inner wall of the deck opposite the windows. I am shaking. . . . And without knowing how it happened, I realize my face is now wet, is streaming with tears. . . .
In that moment, I get the strange sensation that I am being watched.
Someone, in the shadows of the observation deck, is staring at me.
With a burst of inexplicable panic I look around, and then my breath hitches.
There is someone. A man is standing in the narrow dark place between two window panels, just off to the side. How did I not see him?
In the faint light all I can distinguish is the pallor of his long hair, and the faint glimmer of unblinking intense eyes, trained upon me. He is motionless and silent. Has he been there all this time?
How long?
I take in a deep shuddering breath, while a sudden burst of anger strikes me. How dare this stranger intrude upon my moment of privacy?
I take a step toward the windows, toward him, acknowledging his presence.
In the same moment he separates from the shadows and comes forward toward me.
It is Aeson Kassiopei.
“Oh!” I exclaim, feeling an immediate embarrassment. “Command Pilot, I’m sorry I didn’t see you.” And I hastily wipe my eyes. But of course he’s seen me bawl for the last ten minutes, so it’s not like it makes any difference.
But he says nothing in reply, only continues to look at me. What is he doing here?
“It’s really late, I know, I should be getting back . . .” I mutter.
“Go . . . get some rest,” he says quietly, speaking at last.
Now that I can see his face, his features in the twilight illumination of the deck are rendered softer, sharp lean lines turned to shadows, so the focus is all on his eyes. . . . In that strange moment, they are the eyes of an angel.
“Okay . . .” I whisper, while a swell of mindless feeling surges through me.
But he only nods, turns away from me, and walks quickly in the direction of the interior of the ship.
I get back to my own cabin, and there’s a message from Logan. It’s time-stamped with 9:53 PM.
My pulse pounds and I play it immediately, feeling weird guilt for not being there when he called.
Logan’s handsome serious face comes on the screen, with the background of noisy barracks of ICS-1, the Fleet flagship. The ambience is no different than Gracie’s or Laronda’s barracks. But Logan’s demeanor is hard and businesslike.
“Gwen,” he says. “I really need to talk to you. Wherever you are, please give me a call as soon as you return, regardless of time. We have lights-out at ten, which is in a few minutes, but it doesn’t matter. No one around here will sleep immediately, and we can whisper in the dark.”
And the screen goes blank.
I frown, wondering what could be so important that Logan needs to talk to me after lights-out.
So I cal
l him.
This time the screen goes live with darkness and the hum of near-silence in the background, and Logan’s face is lit only by the glare of the video screen in the wall of his bunk.
“Gwen!” he says in a whisper, and a smile warms his face.
“Logan! What’s going on?” I whisper to match him.
“How was your day?” he begins, throwing a brief glance behind him in the dark.
“Crazy, but survived!” I smile back tiredly. “And you?”
“Same here. Cadet training is as brutal as Qualification. And here on ICS-1 they don’t mess around. Everything is competition-based. Everyone wants to be the best, to stand out, to please the Commander, to get noticed—”
“Hey,” I whisper. “I don’t think you called me so urgently just to talk about your training? What’s really up?”
Logan’s lips curl up into a flirty smile. “Can’t a guy just call up his girl in the middle of the night to tell her he misses her?”
At the sight of his smile, his expression, I can’t help feeling a warm wave flow over me, so I grin. “I miss you too. But seriously, what’s up?”
But Logan continues to smile. And then he whispers, “I need to see you.”
My cheeks flame briefly. “Okay, didn’t you guys just get that same sex talk we did? You know, the one about not doing anything beyond kissing?”
His smile deepens into a wicked grin showing his healthy white teeth. “Why, what did you have in mind?”
“Logan! Jeez!” In my smiling outrage I exclaim his name loudly, so that he points his finger to his lips in a hush gesture.
And then I sober up. “Bad news,” I say suddenly. “They told us about the hormones and the ages for rescue and how older people cannot survive the Jump. So that means my parents—”
As I am talking I see his expression grow serious.
“Gwen,” he interrupts me gently. “It’s partly why I need to see you. We need to talk—in person. So you need to find a way to get me on your ship—as soon as possible. Tomorrow.”
“What do you mean?” I say. “Okay, now you’re scaring me. What? What is it, what did you learn?”
Logan takes a deep breath. “There are things I need to say in private. To you—and to your CP.”
“What?” My jaw drops. “You want to talk to Aeson Kassiopei? Why?”
“Not now,” he says. “Not on a call like this. Just—promise me you will get me on board your ship first thing tomorrow, under any pretense. It is urgent. I’m certain your commanding officer will appreciate what I have to say.”
“I don’t know—I don’t know if I can manage it—”
“I know you can. Just do it.”
I frown. But he looks at me so earnestly that I cannot help nodding. “Okay. . . .”
“Good,” he says, exhaling in some relief, as though he’d been waiting for me to make this decision. And then he adds, “Because your parents’ lives, and the lives of everyone on Earth, depend on this.”
Chapter Twelve
It’s pretty much impossible to sleep after that. I spend an hour lying in bed, with the cabin lights dimmed due to my inactivity, agonizing about what Logan said, what I need to do in the morning. What in the world is going on? What can be so important that would require him to show up here on this ship and talk to Command Pilot Aeson Kassiopei in person?
I have no memory of falling asleep. But when the 7:00 AM daylight alarm engages, I am pulled out of a stress-dream in which I see Gracie and Gordie and myself running through some kind of dark dripping tunnel, with George somewhere far ahead of us, calling us after him. . . .
About twenty minutes later, I head out to the Officers Meal Hall, where I eat Atlantean breakfast food without tasting anything. I watch the officers eat in a hurry, and at some point I see Pilots Keruvat Ruo and Oalla Keigeri walk in, and head to the food bar.
Oalla Keigeri is a beautiful Atlantean girl about my height, with a perfect hourglass figure, slim and powerful. Her golden hair falls to her shoulders framing a gorgeous face of stunning beauty—the kind of face that made Earth guys drop their jaws and salivate, when we first had her as our Yellow Quadrant Combat Instructor back at the Pennsylvania RQC-3.
Now I am more used to her stunning looks, used to seeing Oalla as a real person—not just a merciless taskmistress, but as a tough and fair instructor, and a loyal friend to Kassiopei.
According to my schedule, I have a class with her today, in fact, later in the day.
I consider getting up and walking over to their table. . . . Only—what will I have to say? I am still not entirely comfortable being in the Officers Meal Hall, and even though I know both Keruvat and Oalla, I would never presume to impose on them, because they are high-ranking officers, Pilots in charge of two of the Quadrants on this ship, Blue and Yellow.
But a crazy thought comes to me. What if I just flat-out asked them for a shuttle ride to go pick up Logan? There’s got to be someone on this huge ship who’s getting on a shuttle to get to ICS-1 today. Maybe I can hitch a ride? After all, Keruvat did bring me here in the first place.
As my brain churns through these partially crazy ideas, I look up from my barely eaten food and see Gennio Rukkat and Anu Vei, my two fellow Aides, heading toward my table.
“Good morning, Gwen,” Gennio says, putting down his tray comfortably next to mine and sitting down. “We thought we’d eat here today. Anu says they have better rigavi rolls here than in the Cadets Meal Hall.”
“Well, they do,” Anu says in a grumpy, sleepy voice, without even nodding at me. He places his tray on the opposite side, so that he is facing both me and Gennio across the long bench table. And then he goes back to the food bar to get drinks and some kind of crispy waffle thing that’s colored orange with streaks of green.
“Hi,” I say, smiling lightly at Gennio. The Atlantean radiates such pleasant calm that suddenly I am glad for the company.
And then, before Anu comes back, I take the opportunity to ask a blunt question. “Gennio,” I speak quickly. “I just remembered something from yesterday. Can you tell me how is it that older Atlanteans such as Instructor Mithrat Okoi, or Commander Manakteon Resoi are able to withstand interstellar travel? Unless I’m missing something, they’re not teenagers and don’t fall within the ‘safe’ age range. So how will they survive the Jump?”
Gennio is busy chewing, entirely preoccupied with the contents on his plate, but my question seems to affect him. He pauses and swallows, and looks up at me with his big brown eyes.
“Oh!” he says. “Interesting observation. Let me see if I can explain the circumstances briefly. You see, for people who are of an unsafe age for the Quantum Stream and the Jump, there are cold storage capsules. When the time comes, they will be placed in the capsule chamber and put in stasis, so their micro-cellular activity is minimal, basically stalled, and they sleep through the dangerous portions of the trip—”
“Who? What?” Anu returns to the table, interrupting Gennio rudely. He’s carrying two glasses, one piping-hot, and giving off a sweet aroma reminiscent of pastries and a bakery.
“Oh, I was just explaining to Gwen about cold storage chambers for those who require it for Jump safety.”
“You were?” Anu sits down and puts a stirring utensil inside the hot drink. The Atlantean utensil looks like a cross between a stirring stick and an Earth spork, slim and narrow with a two-pronged end. If you turn it right side up, you get a two-pronged trident, the kind that belongs to the Ancient Greek God Hades.
“What’s that?” I say, pointing to the utensil. Not sure why, but I want to distract Anu from our present conversation. I’d prefer to talk to Gennio on this subject that’s so important to me, without Anu’s latent hostility and oddball interruptions.
“What—this?” Anu raises one brow and glances at the drink. “This is lvikao. You drink it, like your Earth coffee or tea. But much better.”
“No, I mean that stirring stick thing.”
“Stirring stick thing
is a kipt.”
“Okay.” I nod.
Meanwhile Gennio takes another huge bite from his plate and chews with satisfaction, forgetting what he was saying. In some way, Gennio endearingly reminds me of my brother Gordie and his absolute blissful abandon when chowing down.
But Anu is not giving up so easily. He pokes Gennio’s hand with the hot dripping end of his kipt that he just took out of the glass. “You were saying?”
“Oh!” Gennio resumes. “The cold storage capsule, yes. They have them on all the ships for those who are underage or over the age of safety.”
I resign myself to the fact that we’re having this conversation with Anu present. “So, is this a common thing? Why can’t they just put all the Earth adults and small children in those capsules and rescue them too?”
“I am sorry to say, but there are not that many of these capsules, not even on Atlantis,” Gennio says. “I think, there’s only ten on each ship. They are very expensive and very high-tech. We don’t have that many available. Only for VIP use and emergency use. They are a kind of quantum state life boats.”
“I see.” I pause and exhale, as all kinds of enthusiastic ideas circulate through my head. Suddenly I feel so much better about things in general, including my original plan for saving my parents.
No matter how much of a long-shot it is, there’s hope! They can survive the Jump!
As I mull over this new information, Anu says to Gennio, “So are you coming with me to pick up You-Know-Who from ICS-1? I need a co-pilot and Baritei is stuck on a shift at Hydroponics.”
I freeze, with my fork halfway to my mouth.
What? No. Way.
This kind of coincidence cannot be real.
“Are you going to fly a shuttle to the flagship?” I say, staring at Anu.
“No, I am going to walk on my knuckles,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Of course I’m taking a shuttle. It’s for your own damn Court Protocol Class at 3:00 PM tonight. What’s His Name hates to pilot in the Quantum Stream, so he needs to be ferried across like the Imperator Himself.”
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