by Jim Graham
‘Judging by what you’ve told me, Marv, you won’t need to do anything. Your Prebos buddies will be doing that for themselves.’
‘Yes, of course, you’re right,’ he said, snapping back to the present. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter, in any event. We’re on our own if we aren’t in touch with them,’ he added, referring to their nearest neighbours being hundreds of light years away.
‘And so we are.’ April put her hand on his shoulder and sat on his lap, giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek. ‘Anyway, forget politics, Marv. You’re home now. You need to let your hair down, and get some outdoor perspective. Let’s take a walk, see some friends. Where do you want to go?’
Marvin stared across at the kitchen sink to think. He was tired, and he sensed every pound of his and April’s weight in the 9/10ths ESG. He had no need of the great outdoors. Not yet.
‘Hazies. I like their “steaks”. Besides, it means I’ll not need to walk anywhere, and I can get sloshed sitting down.’
32
By the time it was dark in the rift, and the city streetlights flickered on, Scat had found a small room in a decent hotel somewhere deep inside the central core. He was happy with it, although it was expensive.
It was dark, too, out in the Outlands where Thomas Irwin had done his best to answer his father’s questions about Pierce’s death, the general situation on Prebos, and the arrest of the three supervisors under the guise of fermenting an industrial dispute. Finally, he had sat down to a quiet and sober supper with his mother and siblings as his father drove over to the Spelling bunker to meet with his long-term friend and business partner.
Marvin was unaware of what time of the day it was. As usual, he had become quite tipsy after just a couple of stouts and, in any case, Hazies had no windows. It was located in an underground level of his apartment complex. The steak had been a tolerable reproduction, the veggie fresh. April kept their friends amused while Marvin napped.
Petroff was also arriving on Trevon after a hectic day and a half in space, the flight from Prebos having taken a rule-breaking four hours. Petroff’s shuttle launched almost immediately after the Venture Raider dropped out of ftl. On his way down, he sent instructions to his personal assistant to book some time with Lynthax’s Planetary Chief Executive, Joshua N’Bomal.
As the company soft-track drove Petroff away from the spaceport, he went over his presentation and reworked his resource requirements, ignoring his surroundings until the soft-track pulled up outside the Lynthax Centre. He gathered up his mobile hologram projector, written notes and overnight bag and then strode into the building foyer, nodding politely at the concierge as he headed for the elevators. Upon reaching the 120th floor, he walked quickly to his office, flicked on the light and closed the door behind him.
He hit the intercom.
‘Maude, can you confirm N’Bomal for 10 pm this evening?’ he asked.
Maude was quick to respond.
‘Yes, sir. I didn’t see you come in. When did you get back?’
‘A few minutes ago. Is the conference room ready?’
‘Yes, sir. N’Bomal is bringing Mr Bradbury with him. Anything else?’
‘Nothing, Maude. Go home when you’re done.’
For the next 30 minutes, Petroff composed himself, rehearsed one or two impact lines, and then reviewed his resource request again, just in case N’Bomal set a tight budget. Somehow, though, Petroff did not think N’Bomal would want to penny pinch.
It was time. He walked purposely across the hall to the conference room and looked around. He set the hologram projector up at the end of the table behind three chairs Maude had arranged around the open space between the table and wall. He then heard the door swish across the carpet.
‘Good evening, Jack. Welcome back,’ N’Bomal said in a low, gravelly voice. ‘This had better be worth my while. I’m missing my wife’s cooking.’ He appeared to be in good humour.
‘It is indeed, sir. Good evening.’ Petroff replied, all smiles. He then turned to N’Bomal’s permanently sick-looking Chief Scientific Officer, Todd Bradbury, who appeared as pale as always, his expression dour. ‘Evening Todd,’ Petroff added, without expecting a response.
N’Bomal relaxed his large frame into one of the three chairs, pushing his legs out. He cleared his throat.
‘I read your report on the production situation, Petroff,’ he said. ‘So, can we count on resuming work in the next day or two?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Petroff replied, confidently. ‘Xin is working with Station Chief MacDonnell so as to get the out-of-system workers back online. We’ve already deported the Trevons and HR is replacing them with the workers from a few of the other in-system asteroids. Amesont production will be back online shortly.’
Petroff was reporting some significant achievements, but N’Bomal did no more than raise his eyebrows in acknowledgement.
‘OK. So what do you have here that requires my attention?’
The hologram flickered to life. N’Bomal drew in his legs, put two large, black and deeply creased hands onto his stomach, and drummed his fingers as they waited for an image to appear. Petroff had designed his presentation to create the maximum impact. It was not his usual style, he preferred slow and steady build-ups, but for once, he took a leaf out of the sales book. He needed their attention from the off. Once the image locked into place, he got it.
‘What the hell is that?’ Bradbury asked.
‘It is a void, Todd. And that,’ he said, pushing his pen into the projection, ‘is a craft. An alien craft.’
N’Bomal was sure he misheard him.
‘Alien?’ he asked.
Petroff flicked across to a hologram of the craft inside the Frigate’s number two port deck.
N’Bomal and Bradbury looked at each other. Bradbury began to shift nervously in his seat. It was as though the presence of the alien craft inside the company frigate was of much greater significance.
‘You brought it back with you?’ he asked. It sounded more like a whine.
‘Not quite, Todd. It’s on Prebos.’
Petroff then fast-forwarded to the moment when Makindra touched the craft and then flew across the hangar floor.
Bradbury flinched. N’Bomal’s abnormally large, dark brown eyes bulged in horror before snapping shut. When he opened them again, Makindra was picking himself up.
‘Jack, what have you done?’ he asked, glancing at Bradbury.
Bradbury’s shoulders had slumped. Both were acutely aware of the Law of First Contact.
‘I’m hoping to give Lynthax a chance to leap a few decades of technology, sir. The way I see it, this thing is abandoned, or is so far from home that no one is going to miss it. Our own exploration of the spiral arm has turned up nothing worth speaking of. This must come from further afield. It has no propulsion capabilities of its own, so it was either discarded, or it doesn’t need one.’
‘Your point being…?’ Bradbury asked.
‘If it doesn’t require a propulsion system, and wasn’t discarded, then it could only have gotten to where we found it using technology we don’t yet possess. The void gives us a clue as to what that may be.’
‘My God! Are you implying wormholes?’ N’Bomal asked, leaning forward.
‘Yes, I am,’ Petroff replied. ‘But I’m not the expert. I saw the value in checking it out, but it was Makindra who speculated on its method of travel—there was no other explanation, at least not one that could also explain the void.’
Petroff had worked out a long time ago how to conceal his own ambitions. He knew that bosses like their department heads to pass on credit where it was due. They were suspicious of senior staff who claimed all the credit for themselves: they were too ambitious. But Makindra was far enough down the totem pole not to distract from his own achievements.
No one responded, so Petroff carried on.
‘The craft’s signals coincided with the void switching “on and off”, for want of a better description. But when we brought
the craft on board, the emissions stopped, and the void disappeared. Of course, it’s possible the frigate’s mass disturbed it, although our tug didn’t seem to have any effect earlier. Or it might have collapsed as we went to ftl: we would have distorted the space fore and aft.’
‘Yes, you would have,’ Bradbury agreed. He then hedged. ‘Probably.’
Petroff ploughed on.
‘But Makindra believes it’s more likely that the craft’s own emissions were responsible for the final “off”.’
N’Bomal sat silently looking at the freeze frame for what seemed a long time. Bradbury began to fidget and finally broke the silence:
‘How did you find this thing in the first place? What led you to it?’ he asked.
As Petroff expected, the initial shock was giving way to curiosity. It would soon be time to sell them his plan, and to bid for the resources he needed.
33
On Prebos, Commander Xin took some time out from the station move to check on his deputy and the field hospital. Williams appeared to be adjusting to life in a deep mine on an asteroid although it was obvious he did not like it. Makindra liked it even less.
Makindra was a brilliant science officer, but he had not signed on to rough it in field research. He was strictly an “on-board” scientist, willing to fly at ftl, and comfortable with a month or so’s absence from his growing family on Trevon from time to time, but not this dirt-work in ultralow gravity. He had dropped fieldwork as soon as his seniority had permitted it. Reviewing fieldwork stats, well that was more his style.
As for Williams, he was new to his appointment and was still getting used to the additional responsibilities. When he finally understood that it was not just enough to be proficient at his job, but also to be adept at managing the politics of it, perhaps he would smile more.
After Petroff had dumped the craft in Deep Mine 7, some 30 kilometres from the current Plains of Xenin station, their first task was to assemble the field hospital and move the craft inside. That had been a tricky exercise. It still had the human-repelling properties that had sent Makindra flying across the deck of the frigate.
Deep Mine 7 was a cylindrical hole, some 1350 metres deep and 250 metres wide, it’s southern sidewall studded with elevators. After the grey fines, the underlying rock, right down to the floor, was dark red in colour and extremely hard, almost as hard as metal plate. The upper reaches shone wanly under the Grecos sun’s faint rays. At their lowest point, the walls took on a deeper red-brown glow, as stronger, harsher light spilled from the trooper’s helmets, cargo carts, and the windows of the field hospital.
It was only day three since its capture, but gradually, and without Xin’s direct involvement, order was being established, and Makindra had tired of complaining. The craft now lay in the centre of the Main Ward, one of three wards that joined the field hospital’s reception area at its centre. Wing One was set aside for accommodation, Wing Two was set aside for research and security and Wing Three, or the Main Ward, was mostly empty, to give researchers room to move around the craft without touching it.
They had positioned the Main Ward in the middle of the mine’s floor, so the field hospital itself was off-centre, the bulk of its mass closer to the elevators on the southern wall. Connecting the two was a long, temporary, and windowless passage made of an aluminium frame covered in a carbon-polymer fabric. The open space to the north was now a shuttle pad.
Xin emerged from the Main Ward to re-join Williams in reception. His deputy was leaning back against the counter of the newly installed circular management desk, watching the comings and goings, but staying out of the way.
The lights were bright, and they would soon be breathing unaided. Until then everyone remained fully suited up. The frigate’s engineers were checking for leaks as the increasing pressure pushed at the dense, raddiamond-Kevlar reinforced panelling. Technicians shuffled through the hospital laying power lines and connecting the equipment. Security guards moved back and forth, adding an extra pair of gloved hands where needed.
Xin struggled to press a button on his suit’s communications panel. It eventually clicked on.
‘When do you expect Petroff to be back?’ he asked. Petroff had disappeared without so much as saying goodbye.
Williams straightened up and turned around.
‘He wasn’t specific, Ryan. It depended on the situation on Trevon when he got back. Were the situation peaceful, then he’d want N’Bomal’s attention early on. If not, then he’d put it on the back burner. He didn’t want to drop it on Corporate if they couldn’t give it their full and undivided attention.’’
‘Typical Jack, eh? You’ll get used to him in time. He’s for ever calculating the odds and waiting to pounce.’
‘Yes ... I’m sure he does.’
There was silence between the two men for a short while. The two men had yet to form that special working relationship where they could speak unguardedly.
Above them the lights flickered, died, then returned but with fractionally less luminosity. They both looked up.
‘What do you think we’ll find?’ Williams asked.
Xin turned to face him, wondering whether he should skate around his real concerns, or just give it to Williams straight. He decided to play it straight.
‘Either diddlysquat or way too much, Thomas. I don’t think we’re ready for the kind of thing that Makindra and Petroff are hoping for.’
‘Do you think we’ll share what we find?’
‘No,’ Xin replied, ‘unless it’s a part of some licensing arrangement. Do you?’
‘No, I guess not, not really. It might have blacked out a small region of space, but it’s faulty. We’ll be researching spoiled goods. Who’s to know what parts are broken and what’s not?’
‘You have a valid point there, Thomas. Makindra’s got his work cut out for him, hasn’t he?’
‘He has.’ Williams agreed. ‘We all do. How’s the relocation going?’
Xin felt relaxed about the move. His involvement out on the surface was hardly necessary.
‘It’s early days still, but we’ve read the riot act to everyone and the new guys are settling in. In any case, they planned the move before we arrived; it just needed enough hands to make it happen. Mind you, I don’t envy them: it can’t be easy shifting a station of that size across 50 kilometres of dirt like this.’
‘They’ll manage, Ryan. I’m told they’ve done it a dozen times before. Though maybe I could chip in if they need an extra pair,’ Williams offered. ‘There’s not much need for me here at the moment.’
They stopped talking, briefly, and made way for troopers bringing in more equipment from the elevator corridor. The lights flickered again. Williams made a graf note and then looked up.
‘You didn’t get to tell Petroff what the back-up SG operator saw when we ftl’d out of the void. What was there?’ Williams asked. ‘Anything we can use?’
Xin shook his head, but then realised Williams would not see inside of his helmet. There was too much glare.
‘Nothing much, yet,’ he replied. ‘It’s a toss-up as to what caused the collapse. It was either your jump to ftl or the craft’s own signals. Anyway, we need to marry up the frigate’s SG data with ours. We’re doing that now; the SG’s running programmes to help make an assessment.’
‘Much longer?’
‘No,’ Xin replied, ‘we should get something before tomorrow morning. Has Makindra come up with a research plan yet?’
‘Hah! That would be a neat thought. No, he’s adjusting to 1/6th gravity still. He’s about as co-ordinated as a lobotomised cow on skates!’
Xin laughed.
‘How does he cope on flights, to and from?’
‘The boys say he stays in the gravity ring. He’s OK with short spells of over- or under-ESG so long as he’s strapped down, but he’s a puking machine if he’s in zero gravity for too long.’
Xin smiled as he recalled an old quote. It was from President Liz Henri's address to
an NYU graduation ceremony. It was an indirect plea to the UN, asking it to give the resource companies rights in space, over and above those afforded to individuals and corporations on Earth. She was acknowledging that governments could no longer afford to engage in space exploration and yet it was in space where the resources lay. Moreover, even if private enterprise had just made space travel practical and affordable for some, billions of people were simply not cut out for it. Ultimately, they needed the resources brought back to them.
‘“Not everyone is suited for space, even if we could afford the suits”,’ Xin said, slowly and deliberately.
Williams could only agree.
34
The roughly painted concrete tower blocks at the northern end of Go Down City between First and Second Avenues rose from the sidewalk one row of grey aluminium window frames on top of another.
In the corridors, metalled gates ran across the apartment door thresholds. The lobbies were functional and clean but devoid of character. The finishing throughout was cheap and tacky. The apartments were small, sparsely furnished, hard-used, and almost completely worn out.
They were dreadful.
Scat had viewed 12 apartment complexes in the past three days and, aside from the different pastel colouring, they were all the same. This one would have to do, though. He was tired of looking, and it was as good as his money could buy—or, rather, to rent. At least he had a side-on view of the rift through the aging and weather-scarred rad-glass wind dam wall. He doubted there was another view like it anywhere else in the universe.
From the 32nd floor of Tower 2, Heavenly Gardens, he looked down onto the pavement and road below. Placards, gas canisters, items of clothing and uprooted plants lay scattered across the main road. Police cruisers blocked off the roads leading to the main carriageway. Clean-up crews were sweeping the three lanes on his side of the road. He had missed it, but there must have been quite a fracas down there a few hours ago.
The very neat, but frustrated, female realty agent stood waiting for him just inside the doorway.
‘You can sign the papers in the manager’s office downstairs on the third underfloor. That’s three floors below reception. You’ll need your PR card and the first three months security deposit.’