by Greg Cox
Kirk had to smile. He suddenly felt as if he had two science officers at his disposal. That being the case, he would be foolish not to listen to them.
“Kirk to transporter room,” he ordered via intercom. “Prepare to lock onto that object and beam it aboard. Employ standard safety and decontamination procedures.”
“Aye, Captain,” a female voice responded. A glance at the duty roster informed him that Lieutenant Mascali was manning the transporter this shift. “Ready to proceed at your order.”
“Wait for me. I’m on my way. Kirk out.”
He rose from his chair. “Mr. Spock? Qat? Care to join me?”
“After you, Captain,” Qat Zaldana said. She tucked her data slate under her arm.
He headed for the turbolift. “The bridge is yours, Mr. Sulu. Notify me at once if that thing out there so much as burps.”
“Aye, sir,” Sulu promised. “You’ll be the first to know.”’
The two scientists followed Kirk into the turbolift. Crimson doors whooshed shut. Kirk took hold of the handle. “Transporter room,” he instructed the lift. “No stops.”
They found Scotty waiting for them behind the transporter controls. “Thought I should do the honors myself, considering we don’t know exactly what we’re taking aboard here. Better safe than sorry.” He glanced at Lieutenant Mascali, who stood by to assist him. Dark hair and olive skin hinted at Mediterranean roots, although Kirk believed she hailed from Alpha Centauri. “No offense, lassie.”
“None taken, sir,” she answered. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Kirk appreciated Scotty’s initiative, too. Nobody aboard could operate the transporters as well as the ship’s resident miracle worker.
“All right, then. Let’s take a closer look at our surprise visitor.”
Scotty nodded. “Locking onto the object.” He pulled the levers down. “Energizing now.”
The telltale whine of the transporter beam con-firmed Scotty’s report. A scintillating column of golden sparks manifested above a transporter pad, then coalesced into the shape of the probe. The radiance faded away, leaving only a hint of static in the air and a huge object resting on the platform. The image on the viewer had not quite prepared Kirk for the sheer size of the probe. At least twice as large as the conn stations on the bridge, the probe took up most of the transporter platform. Only sturdy Starfleet construction kept the platform from buckling under its weight. It lay sideways across the platform, resting on the rims of dishes at both ends, which crumpled slightly at the bottom. The glowing ring around its equator dimmed and slowed to a stop. Lights flashed intermittently here and there. Patches of melting ice clung to its hull. They dripped onto the transporter pads.
The probe had obviously seen better days. Its surface was badly scorched and corroded. Pitted metal testified to hundreds of microcollisions. The bronze plating was charred and melted in places. Kirk wondered what had inflicted the damage. Merely time and erosion, or had the probe had a run-in with an ion storm or something even more destructive? The probe’s battered condition made it hard to guess how old it was. Hundreds of years? Thousands?
Millions?
“Remarkable,” Qat Zaldana said. “Where do you think it came from?”
Kirk imagined her eyes widening behind her veil. He wondered how the probe appeared to her sensors. What else could she see?
“I’d like to know that, too,” he said. “Mr. Spock?”
A tricorder was slung over the science officer’s shoulder. He scanned the probe with the device. “Batteries low on power and fading. Unable to access its memory banks.”
Kirk cautiously approached the probe. “Any reaction to our transporter beam?” He was concerned that the artifact might regard the act as hostile and respond in kind. “Has it activated any defenses?”
“Not that I can determine, Captain.”
Kirk was glad to hear it. Perhaps the probe was merely an unmanned exploratory vessel from some distant civilization that had nothing to do with the crisis threatening Skagway. Or was that too much of a coincidence?
Qat Zaldana tilted her head to one side. “What are those markings on its casing?”
Markings? Kirk had not noticed anything of that nature, but evidently, her sensor veil was indeed more perceptive than his eyes. He stepped onto the transporter pad to get a closer look. Squinting, he saw what she was talking about. Beneath the scorch marks and corrosion was a string of alien hieroglyphics, partially eaten away by the damage to the hull. Kirk frowned. What was left of the symbols looked disturbingly familiar. He had seen markings like them before, but where?
Suddenly, it hit him.
“Spock,” he said urgently. “Is it just me, or do those symbols look like the ones we found on that obelisk a few years ago?” His throat tightened at the memory. “You know the one I mean. The one the Preservers built.”
Painful memories flooded Kirk. The obelisk in question had been constructed by an enigmatic alien race to protect a primitive world from an oncoming asteroid. While investigating the obelisk, he had been struck down by an unexpected energy discharge and separated from the rest of the landing party, who were eventually forced by circumstances to leave him behind. Suffering from amnesia, he had been taken in by the people of the planet, a tribe of transplanted Native Americans, and had eventually married a lovely young woman with whom he’d soon conceived a child. A deflector beam from the obelisk, of unimaginable power, had ultimately diverted the killer asteroid, but Kirk’s bride had died at the hands of her own people when they turned against her and Kirk. Her tragic death, and the loss of their unborn child, still haunted him.
Miramanee . . .
If Spock was aware of just how agonizing this subject was, he was professional—and Vulcan—enough not to acknowledge it. Still, he seemed to choose his words even more carefully than usual.
“There is a resemblance, Captain, although the damage to the casing makes a detailed comparison difficult. It may be necessary to reconstruct the missing and obscured portions of the symbols before a definitive identification can be made.”
The lack of certainty frustrated Kirk. “But I thought you said this probe did not match any in our computer banks?”
“May I remind you, Captain, that little is known of the Preservers and their technology. It is possible that a more rigorous examination may turn up subtle similarities between this probe and the obelisk, but they were apparently constructed of different materials, possibly at different points in the Preservers’ history and development. Certainly, we lack the data to identify their relics easily.”
Kirk knew that Spock was right. Nobody even knew what the Preservers had looked like. They were known to have seeded the galaxy with various life-forms, sometimes transplanting specimens from one planet to another, as with Miramanee’s people, but their origins and motives remained obscure. Some scholars had proposed that the Preservers were largely responsible for the proliferation of humanoid species and cultures throughout the universe, but that was just speculation. They were believed to have disappeared centuries ago, but whether they went extinct or simply departed the galaxy remained a mystery, much like this probe.
“But these markings do look the same?” Kirk asked impatiently. He searched his memory, trying to remember exactly what the hieroglyphics on the obelisk had looked like. Spock had eventually deduced that they had corresponded to musical notes. “Don’t they?”
“Yes, sir,” Spock conceded. “They do.”
Overcome with emotion, Kirk reached out to touch the symbols.
“Captain! Wait!”
Spock’s warning came too late. Kirk’s fingers brushed against the ice-cold steel. An unexpected shock jolted his nervous system. A blinding flash consumed his vision.
The transporter room disappeared in a blaze of light.
Nine
2020
“You sure you want to do this?” Fontana asked.
Inside the cramped airlock, she and O’Herlihy helped Shaun into hi
s spacesuit. He began by climbing into the bottom half of the suit, which had not yet been pressurized. He had already donned his inner cooling garment, which looked like a cross between a skindiving suit and long underwear; cold water circulated through the plastic tubing laced throughout the elastic undergarment, giving him chills. The lower body assembly itself was composed of multiple layers of protective fibers and insulation. Its white outer shell was heat- and puncture-resistant. The legs ended in a pair of built-in boots.
“Not really,” he admitted. “But I can’t think of a better idea.”
Their crazy notion was to capture the alien probe for transport back to Earth. Having already disposed of Sacagawea, a few other Earth probes, and nearly half of their provisions, they had room enough in the cargo bay for the mysterious extraterrestrial artifact now that its huge icy shell had sublimed away into the ether. Radio transmissions had been flying back and forth between the ship and Earth for hours, but Mission Control had ultimately approved the operation with laudable speed. Shaun guessed that the folks back home were already salivating at the thought of getting their hands on the probe.
“We could still try using the robot arm,” O’Herlihy reminded him. The telescoping arm, which was installed in the cargo bay, could be quite handy when it came to loading and unloading heavy pieces of equipment, as well as for making repairs to the ship’s outer hull. They could conceivably use it to try snagging the probe. “That might be less risky to you personally.”
Shaun shook his head. “Too clumsy. We don’t know how fragile that probe is.” He checked to make sure the bottom of the spacesuit fit him securely. Multiple loops and clips were available to hook tools onto. “Every scientist in the world will have my hide if we break a genuine alien probe.”
“I’m more worried about what might happen to you,” Fontana said. “We don’t know anything about that thing or how it might react. There could even be some sort of alien pilot inside. There are too many question marks.”
“That’s why we need to get a closer look,” Shaun said. To be honest, he wanted to check out the probe himself, not via remote control. “Don’t worry. I promise not to make any sudden movements that might alarm it. I wouldn’t want to start an interplanetary war by mistake.”
Fontana frowned, less than amused by his glib remarks. “I hope to God you’re joking.”
Me, too, he thought.
For several hours now, they had been maintaining a low polar orbit that brought them back over the probe on a regular basis, but the artifact had yet to react to their presence. Shaun chose to take that as a good sign. Braking thrusters had been deployed to keep them in the probe’s vicinity long enough to carry out this operation. “We haven’t been hiding from it,” he pointed out. “If it’s capable of spotting us, it doesn’t seem to care.”
“So far,” she said.
“Hey, astronauts are optimists, remember?”
“Yes,” Fontana countered, “but we’re not supposed to be daredevils—or bomb-demolition experts.”
Shaun hoped the probe wasn’t wired to self-destruct. “Don’t be silly. Who would bomb Saturn?”
“Pluto?” Zoe suggested. “Maybe it’s still pissed off about not being a planet anymore.”
The stowaway floated beyond the doorway, just outside the airlock. Fontana shot her a dirty look. “You know, it’s not too late to lock you up again.”
Fontana had proposed confining Zoe to the docking ring while they were using the airlock, but Shaun had vetoed that idea. For better or for worse, the intrepid blogger had been aboard the ship for months and had never given them any reason to suspect her of malignant intent. Furthermore, her story had checked out, so he figured it was safe to let her act as an observer.
“Nah,” Shaun said. “This is possibly the biggest news story of all time. It would be a crime to exclude the only reporter in one-point-two billion kilometers.”
More importantly, if things did get hairy, he didn’t want anyone locked up with no escape route. What if they needed to evacuate part of the ship in a hurry?
“If you say so,” Fontana said grudgingly. “Say, if there is an alien, maybe we can trade her for the probe.” She thought better of the idea. “No, scratch that. I wouldn’t wish that on any species.”
“Love you, too,” Zoe retorted.
Fontana ignored her. “Let me go with you,” she volunteered. A second spacesuit hung in a niche on the wall. There was no suit for O’Herlihy; protocol dictated that one astronaut remain inside the vessel during every spacewalk. “I can help.”
He shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not risking both pilots. Somebody has to steer this ship if something happens to me.” Glancing down at himself, he thought he looked like a clown with oversized pants. “Let’s just finish getting me suited up. I’ve got an appointment with a probe.”
The other two astronauts held up the hard upper torso assembly so he could wriggle into it. He was grateful for the lack of gravity; the bulky suit would have weighed more than a hundred pounds on Earth, and that wasn’t counting the jet pack, which he had yet to put on. The life-support system on his back was loaded down with oxygen tanks, fans, pumps, and a water supply. Fontana and O’Herlihy locked the two halves of the suit together and made sure the connections were airtight. Shaun put on his “Snoopy cap” himself. The headphones pressed against his ears. He adjusted the miniature microphone in front of his lips.
“We’ll be monitoring you every second,” O’Herlihy said. He handed Shaun a pair of thick white gloves. Molded rubber fingertips were meant to provide a better grip. He slipped the gloves onto Shaun’s hands and affixed them to metal rings at the end of the sleeves. “Take care . . . and good luck.”
“Thanks, Marcus. Don’t leave without me, okay?”
The doctor chuckled. “As if I know how to drive this thing.”
Fontana approached with Shaun’s helmet, which was made of a tough polycarbonate material. A gold-tinted visor provided protection from UV rays and any glare from the planet and its rings. Built-in cameras and lights were attached to the sides of the helmet.
“Don’t forget your hat,” she said. “I hear it’s cold out.”
O’Herlihy retreated to give them more room and perhaps a bit of privacy.
“I don’t like this,” she whispered. “Not one bit.”
“I know.” He retrieved his lucky dog tags from a hook on the wall, where he had hung them earlier. NASA frowned on accessorizing its high-tech spacesuits. He placed them around her neck. “Look after these until I get back.”
“You know I will.”
She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “For luck,” she explained for the benefit of their audience. Zoe snickered in the doorway, while O’Herlihy refrained from comment. Shaun found a new appreciation for the cooling effects of his elastic undergarments. He was tempted to kiss her back, but the mike in front of his lips made that problematic.
“Thanks,” he said inadequately. “For everything.”
She lowered the helmet onto his head. “Be careful, Shaun. Come back to me.”
He nodded at her through the gold-tinted visor. Her emerald eyes seemed to exert their own gravity, pulling him in. For a moment, he forgot about the probe.
Why exactly did we break up again?
Something to think about later.
Even after he was sealed into the suit, there was much to do before he was ready to exit the ship via the cargo bay. They had to pressurize the suit, frequently adjusting the pressure until it was just right, then test the life-support system and radio communications gear. Not until all of the gauges showed green did the other astronauts lift the jet pack onto his shoulders. The cumbersome device, officially known as the EVA Maneuvering Unit, fit over the life-support backpack. He didn’t want to think about how much the entire outfit would weigh on Earth or even Saturn.
“Very spiffy!” Zoe took a photo of him. “Now you look like a genuine spaceman.”
Shaun hoped the
probe would approve, too. He gave her a thumbs-up as his crewmates exited the airlock, dragging Zoe with them. The hatch closed behind them, and he waited impatiently for the airlock to depressurize so he could enter the cargo bay and get on his way. The probe had been there for hours. He was anxious to make its acquaintance.
Eventually, a green light signaled that he was cleared to proceed. He opened the far hatch and floated into the ship’s cavernous cargo bay, which was large enough to hold more than six months’ worth of provisions and equipment, plus, he hoped, a captured alien probe. As on the rest of the ship, handrails were mounted on the interior walls.
The space doors were already open, and Shaun could look down on the vast expanse of Saturn’s pole. He was struck by how much smaller and more pallid its famous hexagonal vortex had become; it was now only a semblance of its former self, probably no more than fifteen thousand kilometers across. It was startling how much it had shrunk in the short time they had been there. At this rate, there might be nothing left of it by the time they got back home.
His visor shielded him from the glare of the planet. The probe was silhouetted against the fading hexagon hundreds of kilometers below. Its metallic bronze casing reflected Saturn’s amber light. No longer buried inside a huge ball of ice, the probe’s true configuration had been revealed to resemble an hourglass with dishes mounted at both ends. A glowing turquoise ring orbited its midsection.
Okay, he thought. That’s as artificial as can be.
Holding on to the handrails, he made his way out into the cargo bay until he was above the open space doors. A momentary sense of vertigo assailed him. Even though his mind knew that there was no gravity, all of his senses told him that he would fall to his death if he let go of the rail. He tightened his grip.
Shake it off, he told himself. He had experienced this sensation before; it was a fairly common reaction on spacewalks. He took a deep breath and loosened his grip. You can do this.
“Christopher to Lewis & Clark,” he said into the mike. By now, the others would be in place on the flight deck, monitoring his transmissions. “Preparing to exit vehicle.”