Screaming Science Fiction

by Brian Lumley

  Goodwin: “I’m, uh, trying to look in through the window. It looks like glass or maybe crystal—it looks transparent, too—but isn’t. Maybe it’s frosted up. The glitter is blinding. Like a mess of diamonds. Can you come in a little closer? If we both use our torches together…”

  Rafferty: “Here I am. Move over a bit.”

  Goodwin, chuckling: “How come we’ve never got this close in atmosphere, like on board the UES?”

  Rafferty: “‘Cos it’s against regulations, that’s why. Ready with your torch?”

  Goodwin: “Okay. Lights, action, cameraaggghhhh!”

  END OF TRANSCRIPT

  Less than six hundred metres away from rendezvous at that time, (0030 Hrs), the copilot of Shuttle Two recorded what he could see of the contact between his colleagues and the alien vessel. Also, the camera on Shuttle One was continuing to function, and thus both observed and corroborated the facts of the matter. As Goodwin and Rafferty shone their torches in through the window, either a) the beams were reflected blindingly, or b) the vessel itself emitted an intense and all-encompassing light. This took the form of a single dazzling “flash,” as opposed to continuous illumination, and when the light returned to normal—which it did immediately—Goodwin, Rafferty, and the alien vessel were no longer there. Together with so-called “Anomaly 13,” the crew of Shuttle One had disappeared; their life support tethers were subsequently found to have been sheared through as by an incredibly sharp cutting instrument that left no marks or indication of forceful laceration.

  There was no debris, neither human nor artificial, as would be expected in the aftermath of a massive explosion; no detectable radiation; nothing to indicate the whereabouts of the vanished persons and artifice or explain their disappearance….

  Sir, I have stated as best possible the terrible facts of the matter. Now, as the Commander of United Earth Station IV—in the sure knowledge that without their shuttle’s life support systems Goodwin and Rafferty would have something less than two hours to live, and the fact that they have been listed “missing in the performance of their duties” for over seventy-five hours now—I take this early opportunity to request a) that Shuttle One be adorned with a commemorative plaque recording the names and relevant details of its crew and their demise, and b) that the shuttle itself be enabled to remain permanently in orbit as a most suitable mausoleum and monument to these most honorable astronauts.

  And I remain, sir—

  —Your Most Obedient Servant,

  Helmut W. Silberstein Jr.

  Comdr UES IV.

  5th Aug 2407.

  III

  From the Notebook of Michael Gilchrist,

  exobioecologist aboard United Earth grav-drive vessel

  Starspike Explorer, Earthdate 4th January, 2403.

  “Really must have words with the Captain, keep this bloody woman off my back! A vegetarian, vegan or whatever? God, but if she keeps this up she’ll be living on hay and water and nothing else! Why hay? Because on an untamed, unsettled planet where as yet there are no herbicides, combined harvesters or lawnmowers, namely Ophiuchus VIII, hay is grass that has died naturally and dried out in the sunlight, in other words, we ‘cruel exobioecological types’ can’t be accused of torturing it first! And come to think of it, I have probably just prescribed the perfect diet for the silly cow! And as for water—so-called ‘pure’ water—I’m tempted to point out to her that every time she takes a sip she’s sending countless innocent microscopic organisms to their soupy graves in her own acid-bath digestive system!

  “She has a problem, she says, with the wailing. Well I have a problem every time the Starspike Explorer wobbles into or out of grav-drive. I have a problem trying to understand how we can hook up on ripples in sub-space that have their source in stars that went bang billions of years ago. I’ve got neither the math nor the right kind of mind for it, which is why I keep the hell out of the engine-room: because that place frightens me just as much and probably more than the Ophiuchus foliage—namely the tree ferns—frightens her.

  “It’s the tree ferns, yes….

  “Well, actually, they don’t frighten her…it’s just that she’s sorry for them! But all of Ophiuchus’s greenery is weird. I keep trying to tell her it’s a young world, and Nature hasn’t quite sorted it out yet. We have plants on Earth that look like animals, and animals that look like plants; that’s just evolution, is all. And it’s the same here, except things are evolving somewhat differently. Here it turns out the flora and fauna are just a tad more like each other. But sentient? Hell no! No such thing. And man cannot live by bread alone, especially when he’s eighty light-years from a wheat field!

  “Ophiuchus VIII:

  “There’s a little less oxygen in the air: 20.2 percent, and a little less nitrogen: 77 percent; with swamp methane, carbon dioxide, argon, neon and the usual suspects soaking up another 2.65 percent, along with a smidgeon of krypton, zenon, and like that. And yes, I know I’m far too casual, too familiar with all of this stuff, but I’m never contemptuous of it; not like Laurilu Nagula when she takes it out on an inoffensive gravimonitor with a twelve-inch monkey-wrench in mid-drive!

  “Anyway, putting her out of mind if not her misery, which I might yet—

  “—Ophiuchus VIII:

  “It took us eighteen months to get here and when we’re done it will take us another eighteen months to get back. But that’s no big deal really, not when you come to consider it. If I remember my history correctly, didn’t it take Christopher Columbus just as long to get to America and back to Spain? He called his discovery the New World but it was never a new planet—and he certainly didn’t have to sail across eighty light-years of deep space in order to discover it! But there I go again….

  “My problem: I’m too easily distracted. I have a butterfly mind, or so they tell me. It flits hither and thither. Thither: a damn silly word. Say it often enough, quickly enough, it soon becomes meaningless. Thither, thither, thither.

  “See what I mean? So where was I? Ah, yes:

  “Since the discovery of the gravity drive ninety years ago humanity has been spreading out—but actually we’re spreading inwards, sideways, and up and down—throughout the Milky Way galaxy; more properly throughout our spiraling arm of the galaxy. But since the Milky Way is a hundred thousand light-years across, even with the propulsive energies of dead stars giving us a push we’ve a long, long way to go yet.

  “So why are we here—I mean out here, on Ophiuchus VIII?

  “Well, while stars like Sol are fairly common, planets like the Earth are few and far between. And the Earth is ecologically moribund, overpopulated, no longer able to supply its people with fossil-fueled energy or even sufficient good, clean food. In a nutshell and while yet there are such things as nuts, it’s way past time we moved house. Back on Earth the population can, must, will be controlled, and maybe in another hundred years there will be room to move and breathe again. But we cannot let mankind stagnate, go into decline, die; and out here, if we can find new planets to tame, settle, populate, then the human race can blossom all over again, explode throughout space, and eventually, even if it takes millennia, become literally universal.

  “Personally I’m of the belief that this was Old Ma Nature’s plan in the first place. I see the Earth as a nest and humanity as the nestlings. That’s us, what we’ve been: fledglings bumping about in our nest. And Ma Nature, the mother bird, has been trying to feed us as fast as our greedy little beaks could snap up the food she’s regurgitated. But the bigger and the stronger we got the more we bumped around, until we just about shook the nest to pieces. We shook it, shit in it and fouled it up generally, until it could no longer support us. And the mother bird, Ma Nature, finally said, “Okay you lot, it’s time to fly. I’ve been a good mother but now you must fly away and build your own nests, your own worlds.” And that’s what we’re doing.

  “But as for what I said about the home world—how maybe in a hundred more years it will be viable again—who do
I think I’m kidding? The fact is it’s done, burned out, finished…I was never so happy to get the hell out of it! And that’s why I became an exobioecologist; because the way I see it there’s no future in Earth ecology.

  “Okay, I realize that if I was an ecologist back on planet Earth I’d probably be burned at the stake for what I just wrote. But that’s because hope springs eternal and they’re all hanging on in there, hoping they can turn things around. Some hope! But me: I’m an exobioecologist, out here where Old Ma Nature intended me—intends us, humanity—to be, building our new nests on new worlds….

  “So then…why am I writing all this stuff when I should be finishing my feasibility study and working on a report? Answer: because a silly vegetarian bitch who worries about wailing tree ferns has irritated the hell out of me, that’s why! God, I should never have gotten into conversation with her! She understands as much about alien life-forms as I do about her gravity drive engines—nothing!

  “But on the other hand…well, some of the things Laurilu has said have sort of stuck in my mind. And once again if I was a Green—an ecologist on Earth—I would probably agree with certain of her arguments. Hell no, I know I’d agree with them—it’s just that they’re a few hundreds of years too late, that’s all!

  “Okay, okay, let’s put her out of mind, but definitely, and try to work up some notes toward my feasibility report….

  IV

  RESTRICTED! RESTRICTED! RESTRICTED!

  CLASSIFICATION: EXTREMELY URGENT!

  ANOMALY 13: Secondary Report.

  By: Helmut W. Silberstein Jr,

  Comdr United Earth Station IV.

  Dated: 12th Aug. 2407,

  Time: 1032 Hrs.

  To: Security List “A” only.

  Retrospective:

  Sirs, see my preliminary report, dated 5th Aug. 2407, in particular my request in re honoring the crew of Shuttle One out of UES IV.

  While this was under consideration by Higher Command, I was ordered to recover Shuttle One into a secured bay aboard UES IV where a series of exhaustive tests were to be carried out by an investigative team out of Space Central Arizona. The investigative team would launch today at 1400 Hrs and rendezvous with UES IV at 1540 Hrs.

  In the light of further developments—made specific in the report which follows—I now respectfully request that the investigation be held in abeyance and that a medical team replace the investigators. UES IV does have its own doctors, of course, but we lack a) a forensic pathologist, and b) a qualified psychoanalyst….

  REPORT

  Sirs, I have to report that:

  About one hour ago, at approx 0930 Hrs, the automatic alarm in Shuttle Bay Five—the secured bay where Shuttle One is held in isolation awaiting inspection and investigation—was activated by a then unknown agency.

  Despite that the UES’s sensors had failed to indicate any impact, and at first suspecting a hull breach, probably of meteoric origin, in accordance with Station SOPs I ordered a team to suit-up in order to enter the bay and investigate the occurrence. However, when it was observed that the computers had not registered any abnormal loss of atmosphere, I belayed the suit-up order and instead sent in the UES’s Rapid Reaction Team as a precautionary measure. All of this in just a few brief minutes.

  Then, even as the seals on Bay Five’s hatch were removed, a garbled communication in the form of an SOS—a cry for help on a space-suit’s frequency—was received from within the bay; in fact from the vicinity of isolated Shuttle One. Patched through to me by the Station’s Radio Op, the voice was unmistakably Jim Goodwin’s. We do have a recording; suffice it to say that shuttle pilot Goodwin’s message was barely coherent and punctuated by much foul language. Also, he sounded utterly exhausted.

  Within Bay Five and close to Shuttle One, both Goodwin and copilot Susannah Rafferty were discovered naked and in a mutilated condition. Their pressure suits lay nearby; pilot Goodwin had used his to make the call for help. Rafferty was dead, in a state of rigor mortis, and Goodwin was unshaven and hysterical. Moreover, the mutilations that the pair have suffered, of which Rafferty would appear to be the principal victim, are grotesque in the extreme. On that subject I cannot find words to properly express my feelings; the visuals that accompany this report may explain my reticence in this respect, also the urgency of medical/psychological assistance.

  Sirs, I can offer no reasoned explanation for anything that has occurred here, other than to stake my reputation as a Commander of the Space Agency on this being the work of inimical ET intelligences.

  And at 1047 Hrs, 12th Aug. 2407, I remain—

  —Your Most Obedient Servant,

  H. W. Silberstein Jr.

  Comdr UES IV.

  V

  Journal of Laurilu Nagula,

  2nd Engineer, United Earth grav-drive vessel

  Starspike Explorer. Earthdate: 5th Jan. 2403.

  “Hateful though I find it, still I couldn’t resist it. So today I went out again to watch them—if only for a minute or two—at their work. ‘Them’: Mike Gilchrist and his crew. Exobioecologist Gilchrist, who styles himself ‘a 25th Century Darwin, but far more important than the original.’ His reasoning: Gilchrist is not so much concerned (he says) with cataloging a multitude of species as with preserving one in particular—mankind! Egotistical bugger! But…I suppose in a way he’s right. That is why we’re here.

  “Anyway, decked out in boots and protective clothing I went out into the forest to where the tree ferns flourish. From some two hundred yards away I could hear them beginning to wail, and I knew that Gilchrist and his gang of—but no, I shouldn’t say it, shouldn’t call them butchers; there, I’ve said it anyway—knew that they were stripping a tree.

  “The wailing…makes my flesh creep. Mournful? It’s quite literally a dirge! Yet despite that I’m caused to cringe at the sound I’m reminded of the squirting cucumbers and of that shrub back on Earth with the heat-sensitive leaves. They are not—I mean definitely not—sentient. So why should I feel so passionately for the tree ferns? Or could it possibly be that I’m more truly ecologically-minded than Gilchrist?

  “Damn! But there I go again, torn two ways. We’re here, and we must eat. Not us especially, not the thirteen-member crew of Starspike Explorer, but those who will follow us to settle Ophiuchus VIII, which of the several worlds we and our four sister ships have visited so far is by far the most eminently suitable for colonization. So says Michael Gilchrist, and of course he’s right. No terraforming necessary, or very little, and plenty of fresh water. At 30.9 ft per sec2, the equatorial gravity is just a touch less than Earth standard, and we have an acceptable atmosphere. Also—and most importantly—the soil will support a good many terrestrial trees, cereals, and other food crops; which in turn will support plenty of animal species. As a result, the barest minimum of terraforming that’s required will be achieved ‘naturally.’ And yet more importantly—far more importantly—there already exists an ample supply of food here….

  “…Which brings us back to the tree ferns.

  “Gilchrist was sitting on a rock well back from the action, outside the range of the javelins. Actually, they are more like darts or small arrows; it was me who dubbed them javelins after the definition from my antique dictionary: ‘javelin, a throwing spear.’ And for a fact the tree ferns do throw them. I was just in time to witness that for myself when one of Gilchrist’s crew fell victim to the fact. He was standing arms akimbo within the radius of fire, from which location he watched three colleagues at work, when suddenly he yelped, jumped six inches in the air, and fell on his backside clutching his right knee. And:

  “‘Shit!’ the squat, bearded Gilchrist grumbled. ‘See that? Took a javelin in the knee. That’s another man in the sick bay, knee swollen up like a puffball for at least a week, maybe ten days. Three down and three to go. Shit!’

  “I was surprised because Gilchrist’s man was wearing protective clothing—his ‘armor’—no less than me and Gilchrist. But as his man came stagge
ring and cursing, the exobioecologist explained: ‘The barbs on the tips of these things are flexible, a sort of cartilage. Instead of bouncing off this light-weight armor they slither along it into the first available joint.’

  “‘A typical example of non-sentience?’ I lifted an eyebrow at him. I knew that I wasn’t only wrong but that I also exacerbated matters by enjoying all of this, of course. Indeed, that was the point of my remark: it pleased me to irritate him.

  “‘A simple response to stimuli!’ He snapped. ‘Also, it’s a typical example of exoevolution. These little armadillo things that chew on the tree ferns—these rat-sized woodlice—they are armor-plated too. Now answer me this: why do blackberries have thorns, eh?’

  “‘Earth brambles?’ I shrugged. ‘To keep the birds off?’

  “He shook his head. ‘Birds eat the fruit, carry the seeds, shit them out miles away so propagating the plant. No, in point of fact the bramble favors birds like flowers favor bees. The thorns are to ward animals off—including men—and keep them from trampling the vines. Much like your Mediterranean, squirting bloody cucumbers.’

  “‘So what do I know?’ I said. ‘You’re the ship’s exobioecologist!’

  “‘Would be,’ he said, ‘if people would stop interfering and bloody well let me get on with it!’

  “Pale behind his visor and limping quite badly, Gilchrist’s wounded man reached us. ‘Goddamn thing shot me!’ he said unnecessarily, staring at his leg where five or six inches of tufted javelin protruded from his armor’s knee joint.

  “‘This may hurt a little,’ Gilchrist told him, and without pause stooped to yank it out. The barb was stained red but the javelin was already wilting, drooping like a piece of wet spaghetti. The injured man shuddered and went paler still.