Gibraltar Earth

by Michael McCollum

  “Get a shot of that,” he ordered Ensign Grimes, his copilot.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “After you get the body, do a slow pan. Show them the extent of the damage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  While Grimes took care to document the alien ship, Frees looked for a place to dock. The alien ship’s slow tumbling motion was a problem. They would have to latch on and use their own drive to halt it before anyone could explore. Otherwise, there was too much risk of an accident.

  Frees found what he was looking for and gently nudged the scout forward. He became conscious of a strange stink in the helmet of his vacuum suit, and then realized it was his own fear producing the odor. He wondered if Grimes smelled the same thing inside his own closed environment.

  Scout Two made contact without incident. Two minutes later, they secured their ship to the derelict with a cable. Five minutes after that, they had the tumbling motion halted.

  “You have got the conn, Mister,” Frees ordered as he unstrapped. “If you see anything other than us moving about in there, blow the explosive bolts and run like hell for the ship. Got that?”

  “What about you, Lieutenant?”

  “Don’t mind me or anyone. Anything with four arms comes into view, you get out of here.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Frees moved to the after compartment where the rest of his boarding party waited. The three were sealed inside vacuum suits and looked slightly ludicrous with a collection of weapons strapped to their chests. Firing a gun in microgravity was a tricky business. The recoil could send you caroming off in the wrong direction, not to mention the possibility of a ricochet puncturing a suit. Nevertheless, considering what had happened to Scout Three, the captain had ordered the boarding party armed.

  “I’ll lead the way,” Frees told Able Spacers Goldstein, Valmoth, and Kurtzkov. “Monitor this frequency and the emergency one at all times. Everyone set?”

  He received several clenched fists, the gesture that substitutes for a nod in a vacuum suit, in response. After checking to see that Grimes was prepared in the cockpit, he turned the valve that spilled cabin air directly to space. This was one time, Frees reasoned, when they might not have time to cycle through the airlock in the normal manner. When both inner and outer doors were latched open, each man floated through the short airlock tunnel and entered the alien ship.

  They encountered corridors that were two meters square and lined on two sides with equipment lockers. This confirmed that the ship was designed to be spun to produce artificial gravity. In ships designed for microgravity, the lockers would have covered walls, deck, and overhead. During fifteen minutes spent exploring the dark, they discovered several members of the crew. There were more of the four-armed beings that looked like beetles with fur. Another species had bulging eyes and thin manipulators that seemed to have evolved from something like a lobster’s claw. Whether the bulging eyes were natural or the result of explosive decompression was not immediately obvious.

  Frees was examining one of the dead when a radio call came echoing to him through the metal corridors. “Come look at this, Lieutenant. We’ve found a section with air behind it.”

  “Stand by.”

  Frees pulled himself hand over hand to where the able spacer shone his light on a closed pressure door. The door was similar to that found on a human spaceship, although the proportions were different. So, too, was the control inset in the door’s face. It glowed in a script composed primarily of dots and swirls. Kurtzkov braced his legs against a ledge that stuck out into the corridor and tried to lever the door open with his own strength. The hatch did not budge. That was hardly surprising if there were air on the opposite side.

  “Are you sure it isn’t jammed?” Frees asked as he floated to join the two spacers.

  “Don’t think so, Mr. Frees. None of the other hatches we came through was.”

  “Right. Valmoth, get back to the ship and break out the portable airlock. We have atmosphere on the other side of this bulkhead.”

  Rigging the airlock took twenty minutes. The biggest problem was finding a point to anchor the lock in order to control the blow-off load when it was pressurized. The lock was just big enough for two men in vacuum suits. Frees and Kurtzkov crowded together and let the other two seal them in before getting to work on the hatch. A quick flash of light from Kurtzkov’s drilling laser and the airlock filled with air.

  As soon as his suit collapsed around him, Frees reached out to touch the hatch control. Pressing one contact had no effect. He tried the other. The pressure door swung silently back on its hinges.

  Inside, Frees swept his flashlamp around the darkened room. In one corner, a figure lay huddled in a tight ball. At first, Frees thought it another corpse. Only after a moment did he notice the unblinking yellow eyes that stared at him and the quick panting breath.

  “Tell the captain that we have a survivor,” he told the two spacers still in the vacuum portion of the ship.

  Slowly, carefully, he moved toward the shivering mass of flesh. The being jumped and whimpered when Frees reached out and touched it on a pointed shoulder. Slowly, gently, Frees and Kurtzkov unrolled it.

  “Damn, Mr. Frees. It’s a monkey!”

  #

  Chapter Two

  Moira Sims was all any man could ask for in a woman. Long of limb and svelte of form, she was beautiful enough that men sometimes walked into walls as she passed. Her dress of black gossamer set off her pale skin while emphasizing her full figure. Her jewelry was understated and expensive, her coiffure perfect, and her voice that low, throaty purr much prized in holo actresses. She was poised, a witty conversationalist, and had a sparkling sense of humor. Yet, Mark Rykand was becoming bored with her.

  “Let’s go back to your place, Markie. I am tired of this party.”

  Mark glanced toward his companion who was sprawled beside him in the lounger on which he was perched. She had slipped a finger under his cumber bun and was kneading the little roll of fat that he worked so hard to keep under control. He tried not to frown despite the fact that she had interrupted Gunter Perlman, his fellow solar racing enthusiast, and the skipper of the yacht on which Mark occasionally crewed.

  He made a conscious effort to swallow his irritation as he turned to her. “In awhile, Moira. Gunter and I need to settle this bet before we leave.”

  “But solar racing is such a bore!”

  “Then why not go get yourself another drink? We’ll be through in a bit.”

  “Oh, pooh!” He was conscious of her warm body as she slid off the lounger and stood up. Gunter watched as she straightened the dress hiked up by the maneuver. Her answering smile showed that she was aware of the attention. For some reason, that irritated Mark even further. The two of them watched her sway her way past the string combo toward the bar.

  “Why do you do that, man?” Gunter asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Why do you treat her like furniture? She loves you.”

  “Moira loves my money.”

  “Even if true, that’s no excuse. If you are not careful, she is going to leave you the way Carol did.”

  Mark’s answering shrug felt callous, even to him. “There are a lot more fish in the sea.”

  “At the rate you are going, you just might do a full-scale ecological count on this particular ocean.”

  Irritated with the way the conversation was going, Mark asked, “Look, have we got a bet or not?”

  Gunter smiled. “You still think Price is going to beat Hoffman in the cis-lunar, do you?”

  “Why not? His yacht just had a sail replacement and the word is that he has lightened his life support system by twenty percent.”

  “Doesn’t matter. When Niels Falon quit him, he lost all hope of winning the trophy this year.”

  “I think Price’s advantage in equipment will overcome any experience loss from Falon’s departure. In fact, I’ll put a thousand on it just to make it interesting.”

  “Eve
n bet? No distance handicap?”

  “None.”

  “Then you have got yourself a wager, Rich Boy. I just hope you aren’t too drunk to remember this tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll show you who’s drunk,” Mark hissed as he stood. Suddenly, the room began to revolve slowly. He reached out to steady himself on Perlman’s shoulder. “Maybe you’re right. I think I’ll find Moira and call it a night.”

  “Don’t forget that I am having a practice session aboard Gossamer Gnat in a couple of weeks. I would love to have you crew for me if you have the time.”

  “Sure, sounds like fun,” Mark said. “Nothing I like better than smelling myself after being cooped up in a vacuum suit for a solid week. Call me in a couple of days and we’ll arrange it.”

  #

  The lights of the Phoenix-Tucson metroplex were a brilliant carpet of diamonds strewn across the dark desert floor as Mark Rykand’s air car wended its way west. In the intermediate distance were the ribbon-like communities that lined the banks of the Colorado River, while on the horizon; the sky glow of San Angeles was just becoming visible. Within the sky car, the only illumination came from the blue glow of the instruments.

  Mark scanned the horizon, searching for other aerial traffic while Moira snuggled close, her left arm draped around his neck and her head resting on his chest as she emitted soft, snoring sounds. There was a reason for his vigilance.

  Three years earlier, Mark’s parents had been traveling this same flyway when a drunken pilot had chosen Blythe for his next drink. It had been a busy Friday night and traffic control had refused changes in flight plans all evening. Rather than take the chance that his maneuver would be disapproved; the drunken flyer had illegally switched to manual and started a long sweeping turn to the right. Part way through the turn, his car had encountered that of Mark’s parents.

  The drunk had paid for his mistake immediately. His car’s right side impellers had been smashed, robbing him of half his lift. The resulting asymmetry had turned his car over and sent it diving into the ground some twenty kilometers east of the river. Mark’s parents had been marginally luckier. With most of his active flight controls smashed, Hugh Rykand had fought his car into a semblance of stability and headed for the ground. He’d let down to land on a stretch of Old Interstate 10 only to discover a small hillock, invisible in the dark, loom in the beams of his landing lights at the last second.

  Moira stirred. “What’s the matter? You are shivering.”

  “Sorry. The liquor must be giving me the twitches.”

  “Oh, poor Markie! Your heart is beating a kilometer a minute,” she said as she burrowed her head into his chest. “Is there anything Moira can do for her Markie?”

  “No,” he said more sharply than he intended. “Go back to sleep.”

  He had been a student at the time, studying to be a computer specialist, with a minor in astronomy. Life had been good. As the son of rich parents, he had lacked for neither money nor clothes and had more than his share of female companions.

  “Are you Mark James Rykand?” the taller of the two police officers that called at his apartment door had asked.

  “What have I done, officer?”

  “Nothing that we know of, Mr. Rykand. We are here about your parents. There’s been an accident.”

  The knife that had entered his heart had been ice cold. “How badly are they hurt?”

  “I am sorry, but they’re dead.”

  The news had not really sunk in until Mark had gone to identify the bodies. He had managed to identify his father’s battered corpse without breaking down, but when he saw his mother lying naked on the cold slab with no obvious injuries; it had been too much. The feeling of being alone had been overwhelming. Despite his many friends, he’d felt that only one person could remove the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. That was his sister, Jani, and unfortunately, she was exploring some nameless star system out in the deep black.

  Over the next several weeks, he had wondered how he would break the news to her when her ship finally returned. Like a trip to the dentist, the anticipation of the event had proven worse than its reality. In fact, he had not had to tell Jani at all. The Stellar Survey took care of that as soon as her ship materialized somewhere beyond the orbit of Jupiter. Jani had nearly three weeks to compose herself before her return to Earth, and then she barely stayed a week. She had visited Mark just long enough to have a good, long cry with him and to sign over her power-of-attorney, giving him carte blanche to manage their mutual inheritance. After that, he had accompanied her to the spaceport, kissed her good-bye, and watched her disappear back into the endless vacuum overhead. Her whirlwind visit had done nothing to alleviate the gnawing feeling of loneliness.

  Three years later, the feeling was still with him. Mark often awoke to find himself wrapped in perspiration-soaked bed sheets, shivering, fists clenched around an invisible control column as he struggled to gain just the few meters of altitude that would have saved his parents. In the aftermath of such episodes, Mark often wished that he had followed his sister’s example. Better a life among friends in the midst of vast emptiness than a life alone among Earth’s teeming billions.

  #

  Moira was the first to notice the blinking notice on the screen in the den. They had been home ten minutes and were preparing for bed.

  “You have a max priority message, Mark,” she said as she entered the bedroom, head cocked as she removed one of her earrings.

  “From whom?” he asked with a start.

  “Doesn’t say.”

  He muttered under his breath as he padded in bare feet to the den. Sure enough, the diagonal red stripe designed to draw instant attention was blinking on the screen. He cleared it and called up the message. The face was that of no one he had ever met.

  “Mr. Rykand, this is Hans Cristobal, duty officer at Stellar Survey Headquarters,” the recording said. “Please give me a call when you return. It’s important.”

  The sober expression and matter-of-fact delivery was enough to shock Mark sober. A call from the survey duty officer could have only one meaning. All that was left was to find out just how bad the news was. Mark punched out the numbers at the bottom of the screen with shaky fingers and waited an eternity until he was looking at the same face as had been in the recording.

  “Yes, may I help you? ... Ah, Mr. Rykand. Good of you to call back.”

  “What’s happened to my sister?” he asked without preamble.

  The officer blinked, not knowing how to react to the direct question. The hesitation told Mark all he needed to know. He had seen that look before, on the face of the police officer that had delivered the news about his parents.

  Finally, after a lag that was nearly four times that required to get a message halfway around the world, the officer said, “I am sorry, Mr. Rykand. It is my sad duty to inform you that your sister was killed in an accident three weeks ago.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “We have few operational details at this time. Perhaps we will know more when Magellan docks. All I can tell you now is that we have received official confirmation of her death.”

  It was the recurring nightmare about his parents all over again. Mark felt the cold hand grip his heart again, just as it had three years earlier. If anything, it was worse this time. He barely heard his own voice as he asked, “When will you be shipping the body home?”

  The duty officer hesitated. When he resumed, his words gave no comfort. “I am afraid there is no body. We will, of course, arrange a memorial service for Miss Rykand at the time and place of your choosing. There is also the matter of her standard insurance policy. I believe you are the beneficiary.”

  “Damn it, I’m not interested in her insurance. I want to know what happened!”

  “As I said, sir, I don’t have that information at this time. Perhaps in a few weeks—”

  The screen rattled on his desk as he slammed his fist onto the cutoff plate. He sat trembling before the d
arkened screen for nearly a minute before Moira came in to see what the noise had been.

  “What’s the matter?” she hissed upon seeing his expression.

  “Jani is dead.”

  “Oh, no, Mark! It can’t be true.”

  “It is. That call was from survey headquarters. Sorry to inform you, Mr. Rykand. No, we do not know anything else, Mr. Rykand. Sorry, but the body will not be returned, Mr. Rykand— ”

  Mark’s voice evaporated as his body was wracked with sobs. A moment later, he found himself cradled in Moira’s arms. She stroked his hair and cooed to him softly. It did not help. The old foreboding was back. He could not shake the feeling that this time his loneliness was permanent.

  #

  Mark Rykand watched the endless procession of vineyards sweep past as the bullet car soared between successive electromagnetic accelerator rings in its usual gravity defying flight. This part of northern Switzerland was especially beautiful with its green hills and whitewashed houses slipping past at an easy 200 kph. Normally he would have been enchanted by the view. Not today. This morning he felt drained – emotionally, physically, mentally, morally. The human body has only a finite capacity for strong emotion and he had used up his full quota in the previous twenty-four hours. The only trace left was a pale anger, a mere shadow of the rage that had threatened to consume him during the dark hours before sunrise.

  The bullet car topped a rise to reveal the blue expanse of Lake Constance in the shallow valley below. White sails were silhouetted against the dark blue of the lake. The view was a brief one. Soon the car dipped behind a low hill as it followed its line of pylons and accelerator rings. The lake flashed into view one last time. On the far shore, the glass-and-steel pyramid shape that was the headquarters of the Stellar Survey seemed as large as the distant Alps. The building fluoresced gold as early morning sunlight reflected off the eastern flank of the pyramid. A moment later, the lake, its boats, and the pyramid on the far shore were gone as the car hurtled into the black maw of the tunnel that would take it across to the far shore.