Colony Lost

by Chris Philbrook

  She hit the access button and lifted the lever that opened the outer airlock of the first science unit and drifted through the passageway after the door slid open with a hydraulic hum. The outer door shut behind her and after a hiss of air, the inner door opened. She moved inside the first compartment with a gentle push. As white as the clouds they left behind on Pacifica, the low-ceilinged room served as kitchen, living room and storage. Centered and close to her was a round table with small, cushy chairs and a man reading from a white board.

  “Captain, privet,” a man she disliked said to her, disregarding his reading to make the greeting. He had a gray-laced beard that begged trimming and wore a sweater vest with a crisscrossing pattern over a light blue button-down shirt tucked into corduroy pants. He looked ridiculous dressed like that on her ship.

  “Doctor Balashov,” she said and pulled her way to his table. She noticed his belt holding him down around his lap.

  “Welcome to the science wing. I heard your announcement. Exciting times. To what do we owe this honor?”

  Leah found his accent as thick and tasteless as the pudding the cafeteria fed them every Friday.

  “I need to check on the status of the science team. Make sure they’re working on everything they need to so I can report to Major Duncan. Where is everybody?”

  “Da. They are in their respective laboratories to the rear of our humble boxes.”

  “Very good, thank you,” she said, and she pushed off the wall with her feet, gliding through the air past the scientist and to the airlock beyond.

  In the compartment past the man trying to be Russian she encountered the remaining science team supervisors. The dark and pretty Lima Rasima floated beside the weatherman Phillip Eckstein and the bookish Margaret Ford. Herbert Maine’s failing health had forced him to remain behind on Pioneer 3 as part of the home team.

  The three scientists were embracing in joy, speaking with vaguely slurred words spoken too fast for Leah to hear. On the fringe of the room, younger men and women were watching. They laughed with their leaders, but stayed aside. The message was clear; this was the adults’ table. The “adults” turned to her and grinned, beckoning her to join. Guess I get to sit at the big people table.

  “Captain!” Margaret held up a squeezable foil pouch filled with some kind of gelatinous food-stuff. “Come join us. We’re celebrating our arrival in orbit. I’ve saved some champagne for us.” She winked.

  “I’m on duty, Doctor, thank you. Have a second drink for me,” Leah said.

  “No,” Phillip said abruptly as if he were offended. “Duty or not, history demands a celebration of this moment, Captain. Please, join us,” he said. The meteorologist waved to her as the tiny Lima clung to his midsection with drunken fervor.

  “I appreciate the offer, really I do. I’ll make a deal with you; when we land on Selva, I’ll tip it up with you properly. There’s no way I’m drinking champagne out of a pouch. Reaching geostationary orbit around a new world isn’t enough for me to lower my standards that far.”

  Phillip cracked a smile and lifted his foil pouch in a toast to her. He slurped from the fat straw coming out of one end of it and returned to spinning in space with Lima. Margaret slowly drifted away, watching the younger scientists embrace.

  “Doctor Ford?” Leah asked.

  “Yes? Sorry. I was elsewhere,” Margaret said, snapping back.

  “I need to know that you’ll be able to ascertain a landing time within the next two days. Selvan days I should say. I need to report to Major Duncan about it, and I’d like something concrete to give him within the hour.”

  The scientist nodded rapidly, sending her body into a weird wiggle that only happened in zero gravity. “Why yes of course. We are already scanning the upper atmosphere and will be launching a weather satellite as soon as we are given permission to open the airlock. Do we get that from you?”

  “Yes. When I leave here I’ll inform my marines to help launch your satellite. Is there anything else?” Leah asked. “Anything pertinent I can pass on to Major Duncan?”

  “No I don’t think so,” Margaret said after a bit of thought. “We’ll be quite feverish with work shortly. The data coming in during the voyage wasn’t terribly useful, but now we’re getting excellent real-time information. Satellites, linking to the ground probes, will exponentially increase our real-time data. It’s a good time to be alive, Captain. If you’re a scientist.”

  “I don’t think you need the scientist title to qualify that Doctor Ford,” Leah said. “Thank you for your time. Please hail the bridge as soon as you have anything concrete to give me.”

  “Absolutely. Thank you for a safe voyage. Despite the boredom, it was still exciting. Really, I mean that.”

  “Life aboard ship is about boredom. We like to pretend it’s just routine. And don’t thank me. Thank my helmsmen team, and the navigators. And save that thanks for when we’re safe on the ground below. We’re close, but we aren’t there quite yet. Your science people will determine whether or not we manage a landing at all, so I suggest you do all that’s needed for us to do what we came here for.”

  Margaret blinked several times, then drew a mouthful of champagne out of her foil packet’s straw. After swallowing, she nodded. “Yes, Captain. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Thank you again,” Leah said, and left the science compartment with a spring from her legs.

  Chapter Ten

  High orbit above Selva, aboard TOV Beagle

  16 August 163 GA

  It’s incredible how cramped a large space can become when it’s the only space you’ve got, Dustin thought. I’ve described this cargo bay as cavernous at least ten times and right now, it feels like a coffin.

  On short trips hopping from Sota to Phoenix, or Pacifica to Ares, the passenger and cargo bay of Beagle felt spacious with its relatively high ceilings, second tier forward cockpit, a mess hall big enough for six people and a bathroom with two stalls. The ship could be considered a palace when you knew you were getting off soon. But today, on the twenty-seventh day of being canned inside it like a fox in a trap, Dustin itched and sweat as the metallic and plastic space closed in around him. He’d chew his leg off soon.

  To alleviate the feeling of claustrophobia–and to see some new faces–Captain Dan Aribella (the commander of TOV Beagle) and Lieutenant Pasha Richards of TOV Clarity performed a routine orbital coupling of their vessels. Normally the maneuver was reserved for moving freight or passengers from one ship to the other without landing but in this case, the cause was social. The commanders aligned their vessels, synchronized their port airlock doors and an accordion-like boarding passageway linked them.

  Aboard Clarity were the nearly manic members of Alpha Squad, one of the units in the infantry platoon that would provide labor and security on Selva’s surface. A-Squad had twelve infantry marines and three flight crew to Beagle’s six marines plus three crew, which meant when the second tier space became available the A-squad troops flooded into it like water busting through a dam.

  After the salutations and celebrations–no champagne, beer or liquor as apparently that was a luxury reserved for people who could do calculus–the men and women of the two ships killed time with millennia-old activities. Cards, darts, farting on one another, and seeing who could insult each other the best. Only the finest of military traditions were allowed. Strongly built young men and women with short haircuts and macho Type-A personalities hung from the ceilings, walked on the walls, and drove each other crazy. It was the perfect medicine for their transit fever.

  Dustin preferred to spend as much time with Melody as possible, but the strict no-fraternization rule aboard space vessels prevented them from doing more than sitting beside one another in the mess and stealing kisses in the shadows of the stuffed and musky cargo bay. With the infantry Marines running roughshod over Beagle he had no opportunity to spend time with her at length.

  At present, Dustin broke his own rules and held a hand of cards as he sat around the
circular mess hall table with three of the infantry marines. Gambling hadn’t been something he enjoyed on the regular, though he did love to strategize. He and his opponents were playing an ancient and still popular form of poker; Texas Hold ’em. Dustin had a considerable advantage in the game; the lowly infantry marines worshipped him.

  Floating in the corner of the mess hall, reading a book about the rebirth of Christianity in the wake of finding life on other worlds, was Hauptman. The lean and shaved-headed lieutenant seemed disinterested in the game at the moment, but he’d won a game earlier in the day, and Dustin knew his commanding officer liked to quit while he was ahead. The book was Hauptman’s adventure now, and he seemed utterly relaxed and focused amid the chaos of the younger troops aboard the ship. In the air near him reading magazines and chewing on the candy from a military-issued meal packaged before they were born were Remy and Ping-Pong. They watched the game now and then.

  “Raise.” One of the slick-faced marine kids slid a few of the magnetic chips across the steel table. The piles of chips clicked together. He’d doubled the pot in one motion, and put himself in a precarious situation.

  Dustin looked at the cards in the flop and didn’t see anything that could develop against him. He can’t afford another two big blinds. I’ve got a pair of eights. That’s the highest pair unless he’s got pocket something. I doubt that. “Call. I’m gonna push you all-in. You’re full of shit,” Dustin said to him as he counted chips to make the bet, studying his face for a reaction.

  He got one. The kid forced a smile and nodded like he’d trapped Dustin in a clever ruse. Dustin had seen him do the same thing twice on shit hands against Hauptman.

  “Let’s see it, sucker,” the kid said as his unit buddies got excited.

  The marine flopped pocket sevens into the air just above the table then danced his eyebrows up and down, happy about his chances. Dustin flipped over his eight and his jack, holding them down against the steel of the table and then watched the already pasty color of the kid’s face dilute further.

  “Are you serious?” the kid said, defeated. “Do you fucking exped guys ever lose? A-squad hasn’t beat you at anything yet.”

  “Not true,” Hauptman said from his zero-g reading nook. “Your sergeant beat Waren off a few minutes ago. That’s like winning for both of them.”

  The room roared in laughter, and the bad beating at Dustin’s hand slipped into the void. It didn’t matter; they weren’t wagering real money.

  A chime sounded, alerting those on board that a message from the flight deck was imminent, and the laughing paused. Dustin recognized the voice. It belonged to Captain Aribella of Beagle.

  “Ladies and gentlemen I just received word from Major Duncan about the Selva landing.” He paused, and the marines gathered reached out for one another, giddy and frightened all at the same time. “Weather boy reports that we have clear skies, a fifth probe shot at the landing site confirms the atmosphere is breathable and temperate, and we have been given the go to put Beagle down to begin colonization. Landing preparations should commence as of now, so get your gear ready, boys and girls. Tomorrow we’re going where no human has ever gone before.”

  Another chime ended the announcement.

  Hauptman and Dustin looked at one another with pure satisfaction as the remaining marines went wild with celebration. They leapt off their seats and soared into the ceilings, bounced off the walls and generally acted as much like monkeys as humans. Their rapture was contagious and wonderful.

  “So which one of you steps on Selva first?” one of the younger marines asked, looking from Hauptman to Dustin to Remy to Steve.

  “Well, I would imagine that honor would go to the marine of the highest rank. Lt. Hauptman.”

  “I’d run out off the ramp as fast as I could if I were you tomorrow, then make a dirt angel on that green grass. They’re not going to court martial you for that. There’s no way,” he said, grinning wide.

  His friends high-fived him and they laughed.

  “You say that assuming I don’t respect my commander enough to appreciate the importance of allowing him to do something he’s earned. First Expeditionary Marines are a little different, Private. We do things the right way the first time, because if you don’t in our business, there is no second time.”

  The private seemed taken aback, but became thoughtful. Twenty year olds did that.

  “Besides,” Ping-Pong said with a sly grin, “we’ll still be the first people of millions to set foot on a planet and we’re doing it for almost minimum wage in incredibly dangerous conditions.”

  Steve spun in the air in a circle with his hands extended in a shrug pose.

  Hauptman dog-eared the page of his book.

  “Everybody out. We’ll be de-coupling soon enough. We have to prep for the landing. Start cleaning your mess up, ya heathens.”

  The heathens roared, and did what the lieutenant told them.

  Chapter Eleven

  Entering the Selvan atmosphere

  17 August 163 GA

  Melody had both hands clasped on the yoke in front of her. To her left in the captain’s chair the commander of Beagle had the helm but if something happened to him, or if he needed to take a hand off of his control . . . she had to be ready. A split second’s hesitation could be catastrophic and no computer existed that could replace a human in this situation. Her grip was firm but she yielded to his miniscule adjustments.

  “Trajectory is good.” she said, confirming what he already knew. Her voice sounded tinny and electronic over the ship’s communication system in her helmet. The one thing she had to do and do perfectly was measure Beagle’s angle of approach and the temperature of the nose of the small landing vessel. To be wrong on the first would send the second into dangerous levels and, much worse, like a stone skipped on a lake’s smooth surface their ship could bounce right off Selva’s thick atmosphere and their attempt to land would be ruined.

  “Thank you.”

  Through the clear plastic of Dan’s faceplate she noticed his brow had become covered in a thin layer of sweat. Every landing–no matter how routine or seemingly-simple–came with anxiety. The number of variables on a good day was staggering but this seemed so out of control. Chaotic and wild. Melody couldn’t imagine the stress he felt. She shifted her focus back to the multitude of small screens and gauges that saturated her with information. She felt her own growing weight in her seat as Selva’s gravity began to exert its will on her body. They had been weightless for a month, and within minutes, all of their weight would return. Another element of danger to monitor.

  I hope this isn’t affecting the baby. This was foolish of me. Why did I think of doing this? I should’ve been thinking of the kid, not the crew, or myself, or Dustin. Damn.

  The ship’s angle had drifted off by a single degree.

  “Down a hair.”

  “On it. How’s our nose temp?”

  She looked at the digital readout that told her how the reentry friction affected the craft. The ceramic plates covering the ship were hot, but not abnormally so.

  “We are sitting at 1,800 Celsius. Atmosphere is thick as porridge at this elevation. It’s closer to a Pacifica style entry and landing than we thought.”

  Melody noted that Dan had adjusted their decline already. “We’re good again.”

  “Thank you,” he said, eyes fixated on the windows and the light beyond. The atmosphere boiled and cooked just a meter away, hot enough to incinerate their bodies.

  Then, the storm of combustion and steam faded. The earthen colors of grass and trees popped through the reds and blues of waning flame. The oceanic shades of turquoise and navy appeared in small swaths, getting larger and larger through the viewports. Lakes, seas, and eventually the edge of oceans appeared. Thirty seconds of shaking and baking soon settled, and the flames died away. As violent as childbirth, Beagle and her occupants had entered the world called Selva.

  Selva in all its ways ran over with glorious beauty. Each d
irection was full of natural wonder. The waters could run poisonous and the trees could eat them alive like monsters but at 10,000 meters and descending the planet couldn’t appear more lush and welcoming. Like a biblical Eden, the planet looked idyllic beyond measure, like a paradise unfound, wild and without the shackles of man’s constructions. Man’s presence.

  Melody realized that her body felt weaker. She looked to the ship’s gravitometer. “Gravity is checking in at point-eight. We’re a smidge lighter. They were thinking point-eight-three. Interesting.”

  As Melody scanned her panel filled with gauges for clues of danger, she looked out of the corner of her eye at the quiet and focused ship commander.

  Dan had relaxed. The captain’s brow no longer trickled with sweat and his hands gripped the yoke with less intensity. His knuckles would last for at least another flight. The atmosphere conquered, Beagle soared through the sky, slicing through thin clouds and the thinner air the puffs of moisture floated in on its triangle-shaped wing. The ship’s engines grumbled and whined as it processed the atmosphere into thrust.

  Melody hit the switch that activated the ship’s intercom. After it dinged live, she spoke. “Two minutes from touchdown. Skies are predominantly clear, ambient temperatures are in the mid-thirties. There should be a slight rain at the site according to the clouds and what we’re getting from Titan in orbit. We should expect minor turbulence. Stay in your seats, boys.”

  She flicked the switch turning the intercom off, and returned her full attention to the task at hand.

  I bet Dustin is grinning a kilometer wide. I hope he’s the first to step on Selva. I’d love to tell our kid that.

  Her hand almost came off the yoke to rub her still flat tummy but she fought the urge. She couldn’t afford a mistake with her pregnancy this early.

  Beagle rocketed over the seas and land, slowing down as it passed over forests of deciduous trees that had to be a hundred meters tall with leaves the size of dinner tables. White clouds the consistency of spun cotton candy hung in the sky, casting shadows like thrown blankets on the ground below.