Event Horizon
Steven E. Mcdonald
2046 A.D.: Seven years ago an experimental space vessel disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Now the ship has been found orbiting Neptune. When a salvage team is sent to investigate, they encounter the ultimate horror that lurks behind the Event Horizon.
Paramount’s major motion picture will be released in August [1997] and stars Sam Neill, Laurence Fishburne, Kathleen Quinlan, Richard T. Jones and Joely Richardson.
Steven E. McDonald
EVENT HORIZON
A Novel
Based on the motion picture written by Philip Eisner
For my Dad,
Edward Charles “Ted” McDonald,
January 7th 1933-March 26th 1997
He handed me the keys
to time and space.
and
For Sylvia, Cherry, and Jim,
who believed
and would not let
“he then sadly fell silent”
be the end of the story.
Prologue
Space is deep.
Floating down through night, this thought came unbidden, shot across confusion. The darkness was impossible, filling the universe, pouring down and through, overwhelming. Beneath the cloak of reason rose mindless fear, a chilling wave that subsumed everything that constituted rationality and intelligence. Vertigo followed, the non-world spinning, passing by in an unbearable rush, no beginning, no end.
Space is deep.
The darkness faded, blurring. All movement and starlight flared. There was no warmth to be drawn from the brightness, nothing but cold that could eat through to the soul, cocooning it in ice. The scientific mind could find a loophole in the terror by speculating about this phenomenon, feverishly working to reduce it to a set of statistics. Of course it was cold: out here in vacuum the temperature would barely be above absolute zero.
Space is deep.
That whisper again, seeming to fill the universe. Floating, turning in this unreality, protected against cold and vacuum. No control, no volition, turning against will. Blue filled the starscape, coalesced, became a glowing blue orb.
Far away and then closer in the mind’s eye, close enough to see the patterns of mighty winds. Neptune stood against the starscape, blue majesty in the starry bowl of heaven.
This was nightmare, then, not dream; terror rather than release. This was something to be accepted more easily these days, now that time had dulled sensation and numbness was a way of life. The slate had not been erased, but there was no longer a need to feel anything, and that was good.
More movement now, plunging helplessly towards Neptune, drawn in. Again, the scientific mind attempted rescue, considering atmospheric components, wind speeds, planetary mass. The silent stream of facts and figures did not cause the terror to recede this time, and a scream rose, only to be lost in the cold silence of space. A fragmentary rational thought: this was normal, this was the way it should be.
Once again, movement ceased. Painfully blue, rife with the energies of its monstrous winds, Neptune filled the sky. This had become a familiar image, from a time when a hole had been torn in the heavens and lives hurled into it.
No sacrifice seemed enough to propitiate this angry god.
There was a dark spot against the blue. Drifting, turning, moving closer now, close enough to make out the outlines of a vessel, sharp and clear, another familiarity in this unfamiliar terrain. Angles formed of titanium, steel, and plastic. Not a small ship, this drifting spacecraft; it had never been intended as a compact craft. A Gothic complexity from end to end, it reflected the passion and strangeness of its designers and builders, the inner world of its primary creator.
The forward motion did not relent now. Closer and closer, then into the metal, into freezing darkness and then into blue light that washed through windows that had no need to be there. There was no gravity, no life-support, the only light coming from the cold brilliance of Neptune. Lights flashed and twinkled bluely all around, moving slowly and gracefully through the air, slivers and splinters of metal, glass, and ice released by some unknown catastrophe. This was the Gravity Couch Bay, lined with tall glass and steel containers, modern Man’s version of Sleeping Beauty’s coffin. No one slumbered in those coffins now, nor were any of the myriad instruments operational.
In a dark blur, motion continued. Flashing red scattered the overwhelming blue of Neptune. This was the bridge, crowded with instruments, the air filled with particles of dust and ice. Neptune filled the thick quartz windows, illuminating the corners and crevices. The only relief from the frozen blueness consisted of a single red light, flashing on and off, a bright, bloody interruption, the sigil of an emergency beacon at work.
Other lights flickered now, as though the ship were aware of an intruding presence aboard. Shadows chased around the bridge, vanished again, washed away by the glare.
There was something else here. The lights flickered and cast shadows, but one of those shadows was not stationary. Floating.
Space is deep.
Turning without volition, without control. There was a figure at the helm console, hung in the microgravity, tumbling gently. A man, in a flight suit that seemed absurdly rumpled, the sleeves pushed back, indistinct darker spots marring the fabric. The man’s arms were flung wide, frozen in place, as though his last act had been to fend something off… or, perhaps, to hold on to something that refused to be held in place.
Gracefully, the frozen figure spun around. The man’s face blurred from shadow to Neptune’s harsh’light. He had been perfectly preserved in this environment, of course, that was one detail that could not be overlooked.
The eyes were gone, torn away, the eye sockets somehow blackened, as though by cauterizing. Death had been traumatic and swift, the victim caught and frozen in the act of screaming. Turning, the corpse drifted closer, the face recognizable enough despite the mutilation.
Space is deep.
Plunging back to darkness, and then to gray reality, awake, sweating, whimpering. Grasping, he found his handhold on reality in the shape of his name: Dr. William Weir, disgraced creator of the lost Event Horizon, the stuff of his nightmares. The name of the eyeless dead.
Chapter One
Dr. William Weir opened his eyes and gazed upon a gray universe. Once more vented into pale reality without argument, vented into a mundane world that was, in its own dreary way, as bad as the world that lived in his dreams.
Lying on his bed, sheets rumpled around his slender body, he stared at the dimly seen ceiling of his studio apartment. This part of awakening had become ritualistic over the years. The ceiling was his icon, his mandala, so lacking in features that he had discovered that it helped him focus. Over the years the ceiling had helped him find his way to one idea after another. Many mornings had been spent lying awake, images and solutions tumbling through his overactive brain while Claire…
He turned his head, frowning as beads of sweat trickled into rivulets and found their way into the lines and crags of his face. The dreams took their toll on him, even when he failed to remember anything more than a sense of unease. Once awake he could push the unease, even the terror, to the back of his mind, burying it there beneath facts and figures.
He pushed himself up slightly, enough to reach the bedside light switch, flicking it with his thumb. The sudden brightness of the halogen light made him squint. The outlines of the apartment came into focus and he winced, trying to deny the sharp jab of pain that always came when he turned on the lights. The pain would pass; it always did.
Framed photographs covered the nightstand, leaving no room for anything but the lamp. His glance over the pictures had become part of his morning ritual as certainly as staring at the ceiling and br
inging himself into focus. The pictures were all that he had left, unless he counted the apartment decoration. He had had very little to do with that, unconcerned with the details as long as he was comfortable for the little time he spent there.
There was one more picture on the nightstand, this one unframed. He picked it up, lying back in the bed, ignoring the cold places where he had sweated into the sheets. He stared at the image, trying to place himself there, next to her, next to Claire. She had looked ill when the photograph had been taken, her skin sallow and waxy, aging before her time. She had smiled bravely for the camera despite the way she had felt, despite the depression. She had always been strong, willing to fight her way out of the corners Life sometimes shoved her into.
He closed his eyes, pressing the photograph against his forehead, willing time to turn back, willing things to change, wishing that their lives had turned out differently two years ago, ten years ago, from the beginning.
“I miss you,” he whispered, and his shoulders shook.
He put the photograph aside, opened his eyes again. Nothing had changed, nothing ever changed, nothing ever would. The rules of his physical world did not permit such things and would not permit him to turn back time. In his world there was no higher power than the laws of physics.
He pushed the sheet away and eased slowly from the bed, trying to stretch, ignoring the little signs of age in his back, his joints. Denial of the process of aging—more an act of ignoring the physical in favor of the cerebral—had led, for a time, to an obsession with the gradual degradation of his body. That had eventually petered out, leaving him only with periodic e-mails from the gym about renewing his membership and an occasional pseudo-concerned note from his homeopath.
He walked into the bathroom, habitually making a quarter-turn to go through the narrow doorway, not bothering to close the door. A quick leak in slow motion, then a quick bodywash that sloughed away the traces of sweat along with any accumulated grime.
He set out his shaving kit, filling a shaving mug-with scalding water. He foamed his face carefully and picked up the pearl-handled straight razor, opening it out with a slow, careful movement, reflecting slivers of his lined face. He turned the razor slightly in his hands, saw the hard, cold reflection of his eyes.
Dismissing the image, he looked up into his mirror and applied the edge of the razor to his face, shaving in smooth, even strokes. This method of shaving was an anachronism, seen as an affectation, tolerated or ignored by those who knew of his proclivity. Once upon a time Weir had preferred it; these days it was no more than habit. Shaving this way had been another enforcement of precision, another element in the plan shaping his life. As with so much else in that plan, it had assumed the air of reflex.
Drip. Startled by the sound, he lifted the razor away from his face, his breathing stilled for a moment. He clearly heard the sound of air whispering through the ventilator grill in the bathroom. Drip. He looked to one side of his reflection, focusing on the bathtub tucked into a corner of the tiny bathroom. Drip. Slowly, he turned around, staring.
He felt very cold, but knew that the temperature had not changed.
Water oozed from the faucet, coalescing into a large, ungainly bubble of water before giving way to the demands of gravity. Odd, he thought, that gravity demands so much of us that when we rest we fall asleep.
Drip.
He turned back to the mirror and resumed his shaving, slowly, precisely, and smoothly. He splashed water into his face, toweled himself dry, throwing the towel over the rack when he was done. The bathroom needed cleaning, he noted, but he could not be bothered to stoop to the chore often these days. He picked up his comb and swiped carelessly at his hair, pushing it back into place. He was a scientist, and no one really cared how a scientist looked.
Just deliver the super-bomb, Doctor, and we’ll overlook your breach of the dress code.
From the bathroom to the closet, and a change of clothes, half-heartedly smoothing out wrinkles. Dressed, he went into the kitchenette, opened the tiny refrigerator, and stared helplessly into its disorganized interior. New forms of life were being generated in there, he was sure; in the “meantime, the examination yielded only the usual archaeological data. One of these days he was going to have to put something fresh in there or arrange for a biohazard team to remove the fridge.
He opened a cabinet, extracted a box of instant oatmeal, added milk powder, water, salt, and too much sugar, irradiating the compound result in the microwave until it was suitably unappetizing and had developed a texture akin to wet, sweetened sawdust. Spooning a mouthful of this unwelcome body fuel into his mouth and chewing morosely, he went to the window. Another mouthful of too-sweet mush, then the last part of the morning ritual.
He reached out and opened the blinds that covered the window. The starscape blazed in at him, giving color to his gray world. The stars were the main attraction in this habitat section of Daylight Station—Earth lay below them, beneath the “south” side, and all that could be seen from his quarters was a cheerful glow at the bottom edge of the window, if you leaned forward in just the right way. Weir never bothered to try and catch the glow, and he never really looked at the starscape, never had, his mind always being on something else. These days his mind was usually empty when he looked out this way, voided in dreams and nightmares. Even so, nothing came to him now, only the hard clarity of too many stars seen through vacuum.
He finished his oatmeal, retracing his steps to the kitchenette, putting the bowl into the dishwasher. Several others, crusted with varying amounts of decaying oatmeal, already occupied the top rack. He closed the machine carefully and poured himself a glass of tepid water.
The videophone buzzed angrily, startling him. He placed his glass on the kitchenette counter, and made his way around to the phone. He could barely remember the last call he had received—no one called him unless they needed something. Most of the people he knew or worked with tried to avoid needing anything from him.
The videophone buzzed again. He tugged at his bottom lip, frowning at the blank-screened instrument. He scanned the nameplate—Microsoft-NYNEX—absently, then, as the third buzz began, waved his hand over the call pickup sensor.
“This is Weir,” he said, and was surprised at how dusty and unused his voice sounded. Take a note, Billy Weir: you need to socialize more.
The screen lit and cleared. Weir was not surprised at the face that appeared—he could not think of a reason why anyone other than Admiral Hollis’ adjutant, Lyle, would be calling him. Station Maintenance, perhaps, but they responded only to service calls, and he had made none of those for a while.
Lyle’s face, attractive, dark, too young for the sort of position she held in the ranks of the United States Aerospace Command, gazed at him, guileless, composed. She was making an effort, then, because Lyle never took pains to conceal how tolerant she was when talking to Weir, never let Weir forget how precious every moment of her time was. Lyle sat at the right hand of God.
Hollis had never done anything to disabuse his adjutant of this notion.
Composed, smooth, Lyle managed a smile and said, her voice coming tinnily from the videophone speaker, “Dr. Weir, Admiral Hollis would like to see you as soon as possible.”
Weir closed his eyes for a moment, blotting out Lyle’s face. He knew.
Beyond any hope of rational explanation, he knew. Hollis should have taught his assistant not to make an effort to hide secrets behind a diplomat’s mask.
He opened his eyes, nodded coldly, and waved a hand over the call hangup sensor. As soon as possible was not more than MilSpeak for now, so to hell with Lyle if the adjutant had a problem with his manners.
Chapter Two
The traverse through Daylight Station could not have been quick enough for Weir: He doubted that it was quick enough for Admiral Hollis either. Hollis was not used to waiting for anything he wanted.
The tube walls blurred by outside the station transport, but Weir, strap-hanging in an empty car
, paid them no attention, preferring to spend his time rooting around in the recesses of his mind. He had hoped before, but this time it was certainty, cold and clear, knowledge transmitted to him in the form of a dream. The mechanism was unfamiliar, something he might have rejected without thinking twice before he began to explore ideas that delved into ways of rejecting or reconfiguring the laws of space-time.
He had found a was down the rabbit hole into Wonderland, and he had been encouraged relentlessly, with money, material, and facilities, until everything had gone horribly wrong. Even so, they could not take the truth from him: he had found the rabbit hole and he had shown the way.
The transport disgorged him at his destination in the USAC Command section.
People flowed around him, intent on their own business, paying him no heed. No bosun’s whistle meaning boffin on the bridge, just the odd dismissive look here and there and otherwise blind ignorance. He doubted that many of those in the Command area knew who he was. He glanced down at his security badge once more, making certain it was properly in place. All he needed was some overzealous security thug taking a dislike to him.
He knew his way around in Command, had for years. He glanced up at the wall displays, barely absorbing the images, taking note of the date and time.
August 23, 2046. Seven years since… There was a cold feeling deep in his gut, as though mercury had pooled there.
He walked slowly into the main reception area. He started to introduce himself, but the unsmiling man at the desk ignored him and stabbed a finger at the vid terminal near his right hand. Weir stood uncertainly in the center of the USAC seal that had, in a flagrant waste of taxpayer’s money, been printed into the synthetic-fiber carpet. Symbols and seals and codes by which men lived. So many things to despise, so little time to do anything but sell your soul for a shot at the main chance. The military mindset would not allow a good man to sink completely, but there was always one procedure too many to go through when it came to sorting out the mess.
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