“Iskra...” he stammers, scooping her limp body up into his arms. Pressing her hard against him, he rocks her back and forth. “Moy-ah kra-see-vai-yah... moy-ah kra-see-vai-yah...”
He holds her tight for a long time, supporting the back of her head, desperately wishing she would hold him back. She is so cold against his skin. So cold…
Sniffing hard, he lays her down and places her hands over the holes in her chest. Her expression looks less pained than it did before. The small difference matters greatly.
Realizing he is going to be missed by the others soon, he reaches for the edge of the sheet and draws it over her face. When his hand passes in front of him, he sees the blood all over it. He holds both of his hands in front of him and stares at the palms…at her blood, at her life, that was stolen from him.
The Rest of Us
The counselor arrives at the door Thompson and Argo had requested access through, but it is already open. A slight wisp of smoke still rises from the panel beside it, the locking mechanism bearing a semicircular cut. He shakes his head and proceeds through.
The room beyond is dark, and the counselor’s footsteps echo through the cavernous expanse. He strides to the breaker panel and activates the lighting. To his surprise, Thompson and Argo are not far away, inspecting a column of metallic cylinders. Once the lights reach full brightness, the operators deactivate their infrared vision and stride to meet the counselor.
“What’s in these cylinders?” queries Thompson.
“The rest of us,” answers the counselor, “cryogenically suspended.”
“Some of these are room temperature,” notices Argo. “Did they fail?”
“No, those are for the duty crew. We have a rotating schedule of two years.”
“Looks like you have enough for about eighty rotations,” Argo deduces. Scrunching his expression in thought, he observes, “That would mean all of you have had over twenty years on duty. How is it that you have crew so young?”
The counselor smiles. “We've had some additions to the crew in flight.”
“You have an incubator? May I see it?”
The counselor laughs. “No, no. They came naturally.”
Argo’s interest vaporizes. “Viviparous reproduction? Bah! Natural childbirth is dangerous! It puts unnecessary health risks on the carrier and removes them from effective duty. Plus, there is no control over the characteristics of the fetus. How can you plan a community when so many variables are permitted?”
The counselor opens his mouth to speak but cannot fathom where to begin a response. Instead, he chooses discretion, allowing the smile to return. “It’s clear we have much to learn from each other.”
“What is your mission?” asks Thompson. The counselor throws his head back recalling the information.
“We were employed by Soshiba Varicorp as agricultural colonists.” The counselor pauses mid-thought, seeing in the confused faces of his audience he has already lost them. It drives home how much vocabulary is going to affect communication.
“We worked collectively for an organization that was named Soshiba Varicorp.” He pauses to make sure his audience is still with him.
“Okay, go ahead,” Argo urges.
“This organization identified a distant star of proper spectral class and confirmed the existence of orbiting planets. One of these planets showed the organic molecules methane and carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, so off we went. One hundred eighty years later, we arrived and began our initial tests of the environment. There were basic forms of life there, but…”
“But what?” Thompson begs, leaning closer.
“The crust of the planet had very high concentrations of radioactive isotopes. Rad levels were so high it’ll be thousands of years before it’s habitable. Captain Keller declared the mission a failure and ordered a return home. That’s when we heard the first of the reports.”
“Yes? Reports about...?” Argo fishes.
“About an overwhelming alien force sweeping through our defenses. At first, the broadcasts were frequent and numerous; but as the aliens destroyed every life they encountered, there were fewer and fewer people to broadcast. We monitored the reports as they dwindled, and the last ones were the terrified and desperate reports of Earth’s attack. Then there was nothing.”
Argo stares with his mouth open. “You witnessed the annihilation?”
The counselor nods morosely. Thompson assimilates the information, but there is an element he did not understand.
“What is this ‘Earth’ you mentioned?”
The counselor looks at Thompson queerly. “Are you serious? Earth was our planet...our home.”
Thompson and Argo look at each other profoundly, learning the answer to the great secret no one would answer in their adolescence.
“You really didn’t know?” the counselor asks, dumbfounded.
Thompson looks seriously at him, shaking his head. He shifts his stance, ignoring the disbelief carved in the counselor’s face. “Could there be other colony ships like this one?”
“No,” the counselor replies sadly. “Our mission was the only one approved by Congress at the time, and this was the only ship flight-ready during the attack.”
“Con-gress?” wonders Argo.
“Our leaders back on Earth.... We traveled on, trying to find a planet we could settle, but this ship wasn’t designed to explore. Our sensors can’t see a tenth as far as Earth’s best telescopes, and we don’t really know where to go. After a thousand years, we haven’t had any luck.” The counselor looks thoughtfully at the two men, suddenly curious. “How did your group survive?”
“I don’t know,” Thompson admits. “We know that we endure, and we must continue to do so.”
“Don’t you ever wonder about it?”
Thompson ponders the question briefly. “There was never the time.”
“So how do you stay hidden?”
“We're careful,” Thompson relates. “We allow no transmissions from base with a range greater than two hundred thousand kilometers and we adhere to strict behaviors which ensure anonymity.”
“What are those?” the counselor probes.
“Attack swiftly, control vessel, eliminate crew, and return. If overwhelmed, self-detonate.”
“Self-detonate?”
“Our ships and persons are equipped with high-yield incineration devices,” Argo explains. “Our bodies, ships, and equipment will vaporize along with whatever they're close to.”
“And you’re wearing those devices on you now?”
“Of course,” Thompson states flatly.
The counselor feels the urge to back away, but he suppresses it, his curiosity still getting the better of him. “Have any of you had to... ‘self-detonate’?”
Thompson and Argo look hard at each other.
“Yes,” the big man says. “The enemy adapted to our methods recently and set an ambush. To evade capture, our operators self-detonated... We lost half of our corps in that instant.”
The psychologist inside overwhelms tact, and the counselor cannot help but ask, “How did that make you feel?”
“Feelings are a liability!” Argo snaps. He spins on his heel, marching off to another part of the bay.
Thompson watches his friend leave and turns to the stunned counselor. Fretting, he steps closer. “The operators we lost were the very best of us. When the enemy beats someone who's better than you are, it makes you wonder what chance you've got." Thompson looks over his shoulder at Argo. "It was the hardest day of our lives." The Gun faces the counselor. "But we go on. Until we can't.” He turns and makes his way over to Argo who props himself against a stack of cargo with his arm.
The counselor looks at the door as if to leave, but reconsiders and walks over to the two men.
“I apologize for my offensive question. My curiosity overcame me. I'll leave if you wish.”
“No, don’t.” Argo turns around to face the counselor, clearly embarrassed by his outburst. “I've had difficulty
mastering my mood on this matter. It is I who should apologize.”
Before the awkward silence can get any longer, Thompson asks, “Where is the main colony apparatus?”
“This way,” the counselor volunteers and pauses mid-step. “There isn’t a lot to see. It’s packaged for flight.”
“Does it still function?” Argo asks.
“Well, we haven’t checked in some time, but I’m sure that it—”
“Argo, we’ll run a full diagnostic,” Thompson interrupts. To the counselor, he asks, “Can you take us there?”
“Absolutely. First, I'll need to let the captain know you intend to perform maintenance on it.”
Thompson nods in acceptance.
Making his way over to an intercom, the counselor hails, “Captain Keller, this is the counselor.”
“Go ahead,” Keller answers.
“Captain, we're going to perform a diagnostic of the colony reactor and atmosphere processor.”
There is a heavy pause.
“Very well,” says the captain. “The rest of our engineers are currently in cryo, but can be ready in a day or so if needed.”
“I don’t believe that will be necessary,” Argo counters. Into his helmet microphone, he calls, “Maiella?”
Via radio, she comes back, “What’s up?”
“Can you warm up the atmosphere processor in cargo bay twelve-Charlie? We want to assess its functionality.”
“Understood,” she radios. “I’ll let you know when preliminary start-up is complete. Maiella out.” Argo and Thompson look at the counselor expectantly.
“Follow me,” he invites, and they stride off together.
Along the way, Argo asks, “What do you know about this thing?”
The counselor shrugs. “Well, it’s fully automated, and when fully deployed, it covers over six kilometers square.”
“What’s the power source?” Thompson inquires.
“Inducted fusion reactor, triple alpha process.”
“You fuse helium?” Argo asks amazed. “How?”
“One of our engineers could tell you. I have no idea.”
“We use hydrogen liberated from water by electrolysis—”
“Whoa! Whoa,” the counselor interrupts before the big man gets going. “You’re over my head!”
Argo blinks thoughtfully. “Why not use hydrogen? It’s more abundant, easier to procure, and it’s higher yield per ton.”
“All I know is helium is easier to contain. One of our earliest colony ships ruptured a hydrogen tank and exploded. We recovered most of the ship, but the reactor failed; and without power, everyone aboard perished. To prevent further tragedies, Congress mandated helium-based reactors on all long-term voyages.”
Argo’s lower lip juts out slightly as he recognizes the benefit. “It is ideal for storage—totally inert. No chance of explosion.”
“There’s another benefit to our fusion reactor...” The counselor pauses to unlock the door in front of them and open it. “We can manufacture basic elements if we need them. Very handy if we need certain materials in flight.” Stepping into the dark space, he moves to the breaker panel and illuminates the bay.
The lights flicker for many seconds before finally coming on, and both operators stare slack-jawed at the titanic machine before them. Wonder fills them at just its dimension, extending well beyond their field of view on all sides. Thompson and Argo step reverently toward it, and Argo extends his hand. Caressing the cool surface, he grins, and Thompson does likewise.
“Once the processor is installed on a planet,” the counselor explains, “robots deploy from within to collect raw materials for construction. Ore, minerals, flora, fauna—anything we need is collected and processed into building materials. Then the robots construct domes and living structures for the colonists. The facility is habitable in about a month.”
“Incredible,” admires Thompson.
From deep within the machine, a low hum radiates.
“Preliminary start-up complete,” radios Maiella. “Beginning systems diagnostics. Stand by.”
A terminal nearby comes to life, showing Maiella’s progress. A line-item list appears slowly at first and becomes more rapid with time. Each line is punctuated with the word “IMPAIRED” in large red letters. Argo strides to the terminal, taking in the extent of the list as it grows longer and longer. He shakes his head and looks over at Thompson. Thompson understands Argo’s glance and faces the counselor.
“I think we’ll need your engineers after all.”
Scratching the Surface
Keller stands silently among his officers as his recently thawed engineers mill about the bridge. They gawk stupefied at the twisted blast doors and various sooty scorches. Once Keller believes they have had enough time, he calls them in. Fourteen new faces gather around him, all bearing the same look of awed disbelief.
“A couple of days ago, we were attacked,” the captain explains. “The assailants bored through our hull, shot everyone they saw, and seized the bridge. They were swift, efficient and savage.”
The engineers hang on Keller’s words, unblinking as if petrified.
“The assailants were human.”
Jaws drop and eyes go wide. Keller pauses, letting them digest the weighty news.
“They seem to be a new breed. They're taller, stronger, faster, and incredibly aggressive. They had total control in minutes.”
“How'd you fight them off?” asks one of the bolder engineers.
“We didn’t.”
Keller watches a collective chill rise through his recently unfrozen crewmembers, building upon solid foundations of anxiety into outright panic.
“They’re still here?” one asks.
Keller nods sternly in affirmation. “Yes. They just finished rating our main drive’s efficiency and are taking four hours of sleep.”
The group sways on its feet, their faces wracked with disbelief and bewilderment.
“Wait... They storm in blasting, take the bridge, then stop, go work on the ship, and take a nap?” a shorter engineer questions.
“Correct,” Keller responds.
Several in the group slump into nearby seats, overloaded with the bizarre information.
“What do they want?”
“It gets confusing from here,” Keller admits, rubbing his forehead. “They’ve laid in a course to their base and have taken a full inventory of this ship. Most interesting to them is our atmosphere processor. They performed a thorough diagnostic, and it has a lot of problems. That’s why we thawed you— to assist them. Whatever their plans, we need the processor fully functional. It’ll take roughly sixteen months to arrive at our destination, so we have some time to determine what we should do about them.”
“How many were hurt?” asks another.
Keller grimaces. “Seventeen dead. No wounded.”
The engineers squint at each other and at Keller.
Keller plainly reads the emotions playing out before him. The knitting eyebrows, accusing eyes, slack jaws tell him they are furious their captain has not done more to protect them. Nevertheless, he continues, “I've prepared a list. They're interred in their cryo-tubes if you wish to pay your respects.”
“So why haven’t we killed the sons-a-bitches? How many are there anyway?” demands the bold one.
Keller purses his lips. “Three.”
“Three?” the man questions with unrestrained disgust. He strides furiously to a wall sconce, pulling a rifle free. “Fuck them. They die now.”
Gregor nods and steps over to him, also grabbing a rifle. “I’m with you.” The two men slap in battery packs and activate the weapons.
The counselor runs to them both, resting his hands on their rifle barrels, gently pushing them toward the floor.
“Didn’t you hear anything the captain told you? These three captured our entire ship in minutes. Three! Those things you’re holding wouldn’t even leave a mark on that armor of theirs... but don’t you understand? They’re human
! We’re not the last!”
The men look skeptically at the counselor, unmoving. Seeing their indecision, the counselor continues.
“What Captain Keller hasn’t told you yet is that these three didn’t know this was a human ship. To survive, they've been scavenging from the alien. The moment they realized we were human, they broke off the attack, even helped us care for the...for our dead.” The counselor turns to look at the others behind him.
“Somehow, those people have endured the destruction and have been struggling to hang on. Their ways may be strange, and their military abilities are terrifying...but as people, they’re not so different.”
Oh?" Keller interjects. “What've you learned?”
The counselor looks patiently at Gregor and his impetuous associate, waiting for them to replace their weapons in the wall sconce before answering.
“Their organization is regimented, and I believe you were right. They are, most likely, a remnant of a military outpost. Their home is a barren rock in space, sparse on resources, and they have been collecting their needs from the aliens that destroyed our worlds so long ago. So far, they’ve managed to keep their existence a secret.”
“These guys go toe-to-toe with the lizards?” asks one of the engineers.
The counselor nods. “That’s why their tactics are so vicious. If they don’t get control quickly, the enemy could get out a message that humans still exist.”
Eyebrows rise with respect and the beginnings of understanding.
“Survival is a full-time job for them where work shifts are twenty hours long, leaving only four hours for sleep. They are exceedingly efficient at task management, and they can be likened to machinery. In fact, I get the distinct impression mechanistic behavior is the ideal in their group, yet... to watch these three interact, I recognize a very strong bond—it’s clear they depend on each other heavily to stay alive—and more so, they really care about each other.”
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