Event Horizon

by Steven E. Mcdonald

  Suddenly done with his work, Smith straightened, rubbed at his face, and sat back abruptly, making his pilot’s chair wobble gently on its gimbal mount.

  He heaved a sigh.

  Miller, looking down, sympathized.

  Smith tilted his head back, looking up at the Captain’s position. “I can’t believe this. I haven’t gotten more than my hand in six weeks, and now this shit.” Miller saw Starck purse her lips at Smith’s remark. Smith liked to needle the navigator. “Why not Mars, Captain? Mars has women.”

  Starck looked around and up now, her dark eyes guileless. “Smith’s right.”

  Miller could tell what she was thinking there: isn’t that unusual? As much as Smith liked to needle her, she liked to needle right back. “Neptune? There’s nothing out there.”

  “If the shit goes down, we’ll be on our own,” Smith said. The pilot had a look of deep concern. Miller could not blame him for his feelings on the matter either. It was going to be goddamned lonely out there.

  Miller tapped a switch on the main operations panel of his chair and was swiveled around and lowered into the center of the bridge. He appreciated the visual effect of this setup, although he could not see it-for himself. He was not a small man by far; he might have done well if he had pursued football seriously, but he had chosen not to give in to the hints and coercion in high school, preferring instead to pour the contents of book after book into his brain. The net result of that was that he could not only strike terror into the hearts of those he wished to terrify, he knew enough in the way of psychology and strategy that he could have them running errands and doing his laundry.

  Coming down from the con had the effect of Zeus coming down from Olympus.

  Miller cultivated an intense, brooding look and a watchful air, the image of the dedicated warrior. He was not a particularly handsome man, but he kept and carried himself well. Belters tended to appreciate him for his no-nonsense approach, and a few even welcomed his dark presence.

  As the chair locked in place, Miller said, “You know the rules. We get the call, we go. Is the course locked in?”

  “Locked and cocked,” Smith said. The pilot turned back to his station, his back tensing up. Does he ever relax? Miller wondered. One of these days Smith was just going to explode on the spot.

  Starck glanced at her board, then back at Miller. “We’re past the outer marker. We can engage the ion drive whenever you’re ready.” Miller liked Starck’s intelligence, but had never gone so far as to express that to her, for fear that she would take offense. Starck had never been particularly approachable.

  Miller turned his attention to the other stations in the lower section of the bridge. The boards for the ship’s systems and mission stations were down there. Some folks referred to this part of the bridge as “the pit.” Miller had never approved of the term, and no one on his crew used it. Such terms tended to generate negative moods, and he wanted as few of those as he could get on long hauls. The crew instead referred to it as the “war room,” a term he let slide.

  “Justin?”

  Justin looked up, eyes shining. “Everything green on my boards, Skipper.”

  He waved a hand over his instruments with a casual air that Miller figured would be gone in another ten years. Justin was fresh-faced still, despite the pallor that the media liked to call Spacer’s Tan. At least Justin had some excitement about this mission. Everyone else was bitching about having to pull another long haul;

  Neptune. Better be something awfully important out there. Justin was waiting, watching him with the eager intentness of a puppy. He took another look at his own boards, then turned back to his bridge crew. “Start the countdown.”

  There was a bustle of activity. Readouts on several monitors changed to show a digital clock.

  Starck said, “Ion drive will engage in”—a pause, while she waited for status lights to change on her boards— “T-minus ten minutes.”

  “Let’s go.” Miller released his restraints and rose carefully from his chair. Below him, Justin was rising from his seat, clearing a space. Miller swung around onto the ladder that connected the two bridge sections, covering the distance in a fireman’s slide. Smith and Starck followed him down, Smith climbing in that stiff way of his, Starck sliding down.

  Miller ducked and turned through the hatch from the war room, his crew following him through the ship, into the main airlock bay. By that time they could have found it by following the sound of something akin to music. There was a jambox at the end of the tunnel, rather than a light, and it was jacked up to earbleed level, making the walls thrum in distressed sympathy with the beat. Along the walls of the bay was a row of extra-vehicular activity suits, stowed neatly, impervious to the pounding rhythm.

  Miller came through the hatch looking like angry thunder, his entourage behind him. Before he had even focused on the sole live occupant of the bay, he was snapping, “Kill it!”

  Cooper, tall, black, and bald, barely missed a beat, swinging around and stowing a freshly wrapped safety line in a storage locker. He high-stepped to another storage locker, hitting the power switch on the jambox that had been built into the top. No wonder the damned thing was so loud, Miller thought, as Cooper fell in with the others; the jambox speakers were using half the ship as a resonant chamber.

  “Time to play Spam in the can,” Cooper said, grinning ear-to-ear at his captain’s back, his tone sarcastic.

  Miller did not waste his time looking back. “Don’t start with me, Coop,” he snapped, and smiled inwardly as he heard the tone of Cooper’s footfalls change. Cooper had smartened up immediately, unconsciously adopting a military posture and gait. Miller was glad he could count on his crew to maintain standards when necessary.

  They continued onward to the crew quarters. Everything had been stowed for docking, bunks folded up, chairs and tables put away in their cubbies, the vid units locked down, even the galley cleaned up and cleaned out. They had been restocked for this mission, but had not yet had time to get things into the usual state of a long-haul galley, a situation that was a relief to Miller, who only tolerated the mess because it was particularly bad for morale to be thoroughly iron-handed. As long as they played the game according to the unwritten rules, cleaning up after themselves every couple of days, he was content to let things slide.

  Peters was crouched down at floor level, an access panel pulled up and placed to one side of her while she worked, loading carbon dioxide scrubbers into the ventilation system backup. That had been part of the restocking situation too. When the orders had come down from On High, the maintenance crews had been redirected and all efforts aimed at a fast resupply.

  “Captain Miller…”

  Miller turned his head at the sound of Bill Weir’s voice. The scientist was standing to one side of the crew quarters, looking as though he would prefer to be hiding in the head. Miller glared at him, his jaw set.

  Weir was not about to be cowed that easily. Staring back at Miller, he tried again. “I just wanted to say—”

  “The clock is running, Dr. Weir,” Miller said, ice and steel in his voice.

  He took two steps toward Weir, almost closing the distance, keeping his body language as non-threatening as possible otherwise. Weir tried to flinch back, but had nowhere to go. “If you’ll follow the rest of the crew, they’ll show you to the gravity tanks.”

  For a moment, it seemed as though Weir was going to insist on talking to Miller, and never mind the consequences. Finally, he closed his mouth and swallowed hard. The rest of the crew had passed behind Miller by this point, Cooper stopping and half-turning in the hatchway that lead out toward Medical.

  Miller waited for the inevitable smart-ass comment from Cooper, but it never came; instead, he gave Weir an impatient look.

  Weir sidled away from Miller, then turned and followed Cooper out of the crew quarters. Miller stood for a moment, listening to the noises of his ship, the little creaks here and there, the hums, the high-frequency hissing of blank gray
monitors. Space was supposed to be silent; spaceships never were.

  Vibrations traveled from the hull plates, resonated through the ship, manifested as sound from the bulkhead.

  Miller turned back to Peters, looking down at her. “What’s the holdup?”

  “Just loading the last of the CO2 scrubbers,” she said, smoothing her dark hair back. She looked up at him, gave him a smile. Miller relaxed a little.

  Peters did not seem concerned about anything here, so he saw no reason to worry. Peters had somehow taken on the role of den mother to his crew, giving them a warm presence they could confide in, changing all the rules when it came to the dynamics of crew relationships. She did not affect his authority; instead, she reshaped its effects while providing him wholehearted support.

  They were a better crew for it, as far as he was concerned. The Belters were crazy about her too.

  Peters finished her work and closed the access panel, securing it. She brushed her hands together and stood up, following Miller out of the crew quarters and down to Medical.

  Medical was a little more open and spacious than most areas of the ship, if only to allow the ship’s doctor some elbowroom. Everything here was modular in format, allowing swift reconfiguration in an emergency. The walls were full of surprises: there was equipment here that major earth-side hospitals would go crazy to get. Gravity Couches, tall, broad tubes built for human occupancy, stood against the walls, anchored in the deck plates. Each of them had been opened and activated, waiting only to be filled.

  Miller looked around, and found DJ, the ship’s doctor, over with Smith, preparing the pilot for his time in the tank. Smith gave DJ an angry look, to no avail. DJ swabbed Smith’s arm with an alcohol pad, then, in a flash, jabbed a hypodermic needle into the pilot’s arm, pressing the plunger down a bit harder than required. Smith shook DJ’s hand off, turned, and climbed into one of the tanks, closing his eyes.

  Great bedside manner, DJ, Miller thought. DJ turned, looked for a moment at Miller, nodded, dropped the used hypodermic into a biohazard box, and went on to Cooper. Cooper, as usual, had dispensed with even the smallest display of modesty, standing before his gravity couch with only his sassy attitude and a pair of dog tags to keep him warm. Cooper, grinning, offered his arm to DJ, who did no more than frown, swab, and impale.

  To one side of him, Peters kicked off her boots and started to shuck out of her flight suit, going to hang it up in a storage locker. Time was moving; the ion drive would not wait for him. He pulled off his own boots and unzipped his suit, stripping down to his regulation underwear.

  Done with Cooper, who went to let it all hang out in his Gravity Couch, DJ

  moved over to Justin, frowning for a moment at the silver pentacle hanging around Justin’s neck with his dog tags. DJ could not raise an objection, however. Just as the dog tags were permissible in the tank, so was religious and matrimonial jewelry. There had been instances of people dying in a Gravity Couch, and woe betide those who thought to deprive them of their comforting icons.

  DJ swabbed, stabbed. Justin winced, followed up with a pained smile, went to his tank, and laid down.

  “Captain Miller…”

  Miller turned his head, his expression darkening. Weir was approaching, an almost pleading look on his face. He had stripped down to black bikini underwear.

  “Not now,” Miller said, sharply. He looked around, found Peters, gestured to her. She walked over. “Peters, show Dr. Weir to his couch, please.”

  Weir shut his mouth. Peters took the scientist’s arm, gently, leading him away from Miller. The Captain was pleased to see that Peters’ mothering abilities were effective even on someone as relentlessly single-minded as Weir appeared to be. The last thing he needed was an insistent passenger getting in the way. Weir, unfortunately, had been trying his best to be underfoot since coming aboard at Daylight Station. As far as Miller was concerned, the scientist was nothing more than a nervous, fidgety pain in the ass.

  DJ approached, intent on Miller. Making sure I get the point, as Cooper says.

  Miller offered his arm.

  Peters kept her light hold on Weir’s arm as she led him over to an unattended Gravity Couch. Weir was not sure whether he should be offended or complimented by this very specific treatment, deciding, in the end, to have little or no reaction at all, blanking everything out as usual.

  Weir looked the Gravity Couch over, uncertain. His name was written in black marker on a piece of masking tape stuck to an open area on the operations plate. The tube was lined with padding, the gel feeders almost invisible.

  His chest tightened, and he had difficulty breathing. Peters’ hand tightened slightly on his arm, reassuring, but it did not make the anxiety attack cease.

  She looked at his face, smiling warmly at him as he tried to regain control. “First time in a grav couch?”

  Weir swallowed hard, and found that his throat was dry. “Yes.”

  Peters checked over the Gravity Couch with a practiced eye, inspecting the seals and checking the lining. Taking Weir’s arm again, she helped him to get into place inside the tall tube.

  Over at the other side of the medical bay, DJ, was administering a shot to Captain Miller. As DJ withdrew the needle, Miller straightened his arm out, flexing the muscles, making the dark skin ripple. Silent, Miller climbed into his Gravity Couch and closed his eyes.

  Miller dealt with, DJ came toward Weir, who felt his chest tighten again.

  Scientist or not, he had been terrified of medical procedures since childhood; needles were the worst. He had never even been able to tolerate local anesthetics for dental work—one look at that hypo of Novocain and he was fleeing for his life.

  Distracting himself, Weir said, “Your captain seems to have some sort of problem with me.”

  Peters smiled again. He liked her smile. Irrationally, it made him feel they could actually be friends. “Don’t worry about him,” she said, the undertone of her voice suggesting to Weir that she thought Miller was just a big old teddybear under all the gruff authority. “He loves having complete strangers on board.”

  Very reassuring, Weir thought.

  DJ was at his side, now, Peters giving way to him, going off to prepare herself. Silently, focused on his work, DJ took Weir’s arm, swabbing it with alcohol. The treatment was not particularly kind, verging on painful. Weir did not feel singled out for special mistreatment, however—even Miller had been handled brusquely.

  Still, he disliked the process. Trying to keep his mind of what was to come, he said, “Is that necessary?”

  DJ gave him a measured look, not answering for a moment. Trying to decide if I’ma complete idiot or just blowing smoke, Weir thought, uneasily.

  An eyebrow raised, DJ said, “When the ion drive fires, we’ll be taking about thirty gees. Without a tank, the force would liquefy your bones.” The doctor’s tone was patronizing, and Weir bridled at this.

  “I’ve seen the effect on mice,” Weir said, more sharply than he had intended. The ship, he knew, also had inertial dampers that mitigated the effects of acceleration.

  DJ shook his head, sighing, and Weir knew that he had failed whatever sort of idiot test DJ had. He closed his eyes and held his breath, wishing himself to some other, kinder, place. Once again, his prayers were not answered. There was a sharp pain in his arm as DJ jabbed a needle into his arm, followed by a worse pain as the doctor injected the medication into him. Weir winced, bit his lip. Liquid warmth spread from the injection site, up and down his arm.

  He opened his eyes again, to see DJ disposing of the hypodermic and the swab. The doctor turned back, reaching for the Couch door. He saw Weir’s expression, took stock of the scientist’s tense posture. “Claustrophobic?”

  “Very,” Weir said, grateful that someone was at least paying a little attention to him. He was even more grateful for the warm lethargy that was beginning to steal over him.

  Unbidden, lines from Coleridge’s unfinished “Xanadu” drifted across his mind: For t
hey on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of Paradise.

  DJ slammed the Couch door. There was the sound of the door being dogged shut, somewhere in the distance.

  Weir faded.

  Weir dreamed.

  Chapter Five

  Fifty-six days out of Daylight Station, with Neptune looming close, the USAC Lewis and Clark responded to its own inner voices. Its crew slept on, entombed in the heart of the spaceship, but it did not need them, not right now.

  For fifty-six days the Lewis and Clark had answered only the call of its own electronic mind. Now it followed a new compulsion, approaching its target.

  Maneuvering thrusters fired in sequence, first correcting pitch and yaw, then, stability ensured, firing delicate bursts at just the right vectors to cause its lumbering bulk to slowly roll forward.

  Head over heels, the Lewis and Clark turned to face back the way it had come. Thrusters fired again, stopping the roll. A silent countdown followed.

  The ion drive ignited, a brilliance that, out here at least, shamed the sun. Fusion fire roared silently in the vacuum, slowing the ship.

  Inside the heart of the vessel, another countdown began. When it was done, the sleepers would awaken.

  The Lewis and Clark flew on.

  Chapter Six

  There was a voice, somewhere, calling him. The world was dark, formless.

  Somehow, he knew this place. He was a blind man, a deaf man, his senses cut away, leaving him void.

  The voice came again, but now it deepened, thickened, became a swirling mass of noise, the massed choir of the damned pouring under and over. Humanity tangled with inhumanity in that terrible knotwork of sound, abrading him as it passed, leaving him bleeding at the edges of his soul.