The Comet's Curse

by Dom Testa

  That coincided with the area where Gap had found the coin. Perhaps Peter had indeed startled the intruder and caused him to accidentally drop the quarter. But what was he doing there?

  “All right, thanks Peter,” she said. She was about to get up when she decided to ask him one more question. On an impulse she said, “By the way, are you familiar with a man named Tyler Scofield?”

  “I know the name,” Peter said slowly. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him before. Isn’t he the guy who was so against Galahad?”

  “Yeah,” Triana sighed. “He and Dr. Zimmer used to be good friends.”

  “Is that who you think is on board?” Peter said. “You think he’s trying to sabotage the ship?”

  “I don’t know,” Triana said. “Maybe. It all fits. The beard, the fact that he was so against this mission. Even the coin.”

  “The coin? How?”

  Triana bit her lip for a moment. Then she said, “Well, I never met the man face-to-face. But I saw a vidclip of him about three months before we went into the Incubator. Almost sinister looking is how I’d describe him. He was giving a speech about Galahad, about how Dr. Zimmer was playing a game of chance with people’s children.

  “At one point he pulled something out of his pocket and flipped it in the air and caught it. He kept saying ‘Heads or tails. Heads or tails.’ I didn’t know what it meant. He said it was something that people his age would understand.”

  “So what did it mean?” Peter said, gazing intently at Galahad’s Council leader.

  “I asked Dr. Zimmer. He just waved it off and said not to worry about it. You know, he never wanted us to get distracted from our training. So later I asked Dr. Armistead.”

  “And?”

  “She said it meant a fifty-fifty chance. She said when people still used coins for money they would flip them and bet on which side came up. You had a fifty-fifty chance of winning.

  “Apparently Scofield was angry, and believed that Dr. Zimmer was gambling with people’s families, that his plan was a long shot, no better than a game of chance. Scofield handed out coins to his followers to … I don’t know, inspire them to defeat the mission. Dr. Armistead said that Scofield wanted to make it a symbol of how desperate our chances were. It never caught on, though.”

  Peter shrugged. “I never saw that. Like I said, I heard his name before, but I must not have heard about the coins.”

  “Listen, do you think you could recognize him if Roc pulled up a picture of Scofield?” Triana said.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t get a very good look at him. I was … pretty freaked out, I guess.” Peter lowered his face, ashamed of the memory.

  Triana touched his hand lightly. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I would have freaked out, too. Any of us would have.”

  Peter nodded, but kept his head down.

  “Well, do me a favor,” Triana said. “When you’re finished with lunch stop by the Conference Room and have Roc pull up a photo of Scofield. Just check it out. It can’t hurt to try. And let me know later, okay?”

  “Sure,” Peter said.

  Late that afternoon a sizable crowd had gathered to watch the opening of the three-on-three soccer tournament. For a while there had been discussions about postponing it until their intruder issue was resolved. But Channy was insistent that they not buckle under his intimidation.

  “Listen, he might be sneaking around, writing scary memos on the walls and kicking up a few clods in the farm, but he’s not going to ruin our fun. No way. Let the games begin.”

  And so they did. Thirty teams, almost half of the ship’s population, had signed up for this three-day tournament. Each team fielded three players at a time, with one extra who subbed. The games were played on fields much smaller than the kids were used to back home, but space inside Galahad was very much at a premium. This time around, however, Zimmer didn’t need much convincing. He could relate to soccer much more easily than Airboarding. Two fields were squeezed together inside one large room on the second level.

  With the smaller playing fields the action was much more intense and the scoring much higher. And, since the crew members on Galahad were naturally more competitive than the average teen, the physical aspect of the games was compounded, as well. This was definitely a contact sport.

  Channy was in charge, but took time out in the early evening to sit for a few minutes with Gap and Lita in the stands. They kept their eyes on the match in front of them while they discussed the latest Council meeting.

  “I just find it interesting that she kept this note from the stowaway to herself until the end of the meeting,” Channy said. “If I get a note from this guy I’m not waiting two seconds to let someone know about it.”

  Lita put her fingers into her mouth and whistled loudly at a great save by one of the players on the field. “But it’s just like Tree, if you think about it. She doesn’t get worked up about anything, really. I can totally see her sitting on that note until she thought it was the right time to talk about it.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Gap said. “But doesn’t it make you wonder if she’s telling us everything?”

  Channy took her eyes off the game and stared at him. “You think she knows more than she’s telling us? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I don’t know,” Gap said, unconvinced. “Look, she’s a loner for the most part anyway, right? C’mon, don’t look at me like that, we all know she is. And that’s fine. Personally, I’d like to get to know her a little better, but I respect her decision to keep mostly to herself. But doesn’t that make you wonder if sometimes she thinks she can handle something by herself?”

  Lita thought about this, then looked quizzically at Gap. “What are you saying? That she’s gonna try to track down this guy alone?” Her face contorted into a look of disbelief. “That’s ridiculous, Gap. She weighs about one hundred ten pounds. She’s not gonna try to take him on.”

  “No, but she probably isn’t thinking about a physical confrontation,” Gap said. “Tree is one of the smartest people on this ship … and there’s a lot of smart people crammed in here. I just get the feeling that she thinks she can outsmart this guy. You know, brains over brawn, that old cliché.”

  “So why would she try to do that by herself?” Channy said. “She doesn’t think we’re smart enough to help her?”

  “No, that’s not it,” Gap said. All three of the Council members instinctively threw their hands up as one of the soccer players deflected the ball up into the bleachers. It was grabbed by a girl two rows in front of them, and everyone relaxed again.

  “No,” Gap said again. “I don’t think she feels that way at all. It’s just …” He paused, trying to figure out the right words to express himself. “It’s just that she’s so independent, and feels so much pressure, I think, to lead this mission, that she thinks she has to take on all the responsibility herself. It’s not that she doesn’t like the help. I just think she doesn’t like asking for it.”

  “Well, that actually makes sense,” Lita said. “I’ve talked with her enough to know that she grew up that way. She absolutely worshipped her dad, and when he died she kinda felt like she didn’t have anybody else to rely on. She’s had that spirit since we’ve all known her, you know what I mean? Like, ‘I can do this by myself,’ that kinda thing.”

  “What if we talked to her about it?” Channy said. “Told her that she doesn’t have to solve every problem alone?”

  “Or, don’t say anything and just start volunteering to help her more,” Lita suggested. “We’re not going to change her personality, I don’t think. It’s better if we just showed our support and let her figure it out for herself.”

  Gap nodded. “I just hope she doesn’t get herself into trouble in the meantime.”

  A cheer rose from the crowd as another goal was scored.

  Listen, I know I’m a little bit of an attention hog, but I’ll be honest with you.

  I don’t feel too good.

  There’s nothing wrong wi
th the ship, at least that I can tell. The life-support systems are okay, the gravity system is perfect, the crops are growing, the water recycling unit is good …

  But something’s not right with me.

  I was talking with Bon in the Farm Dome when it first happened. I … well, I guess I blacked out. One moment I’m hearing everything that Bon is saying, and the next thing I know I’m out of it. Must have lasted about ten seconds. Bon asked what had happened, and I quite honestly couldn’t tell him. He shrugged it off as a fluke of some kind, but I’m not so sure. In all my years of programming and testing, nothing like that has ever happened.

  It was like a human losing consciousness. Their heart keeps beating, their lungs continue to breathe, but the signal with the outside world is cut off momentarily. Very puzzling.

  I haven’t run a full diagnostic test on myself for a couple of months. Must be time.

  And then there’s the matter of our uninvited guest. I’ve gone through every detail over and over again, and there’s one answer that keeps popping up.

  I think it’s time to talk with Tree about it. After my test, of course.

  32

  The passenger section on the shuttle was practically empty. Wallace Zimmer knew that the staff on the space station had begun to thin out within hours of the departure of Galahad. When he had finally decided to head back to Earth he left behind a crew of perhaps only two dozen orbiting in the space lab.

  He flipped on the vidscreen built into the seatback ahead of him and selected an all-news station. What greeted him was mostly depressing: a reporter stood before a vacant office building in the United States, reflecting on the slow but continuous demise of most businesses. There were too many people ill, and those that were as yet unaffected by the disease were unable to keep up with the workload. Another report from Western Europe showed images of rioting, as hordes of frightened people took out their frustration on a pharmacy that had shut its doors rather than turn away people desperate for medicinal help.

  That was the problem: there was no help from the medical front in the foreseeable future. Doctors and scientists were still at a loss to explain exactly how Bhaktul worked on its human hosts. While there were some similarities in each case, such as coughing and severe headaches, often madness at the end, there were also hundreds of different symptoms. It was as if Bhaktul took different paths, threading its way through each person at a different vulnerable point. That made containment—and any possible antidote—incredibly difficult to provide.

  Flipping the channel he gazed at a newscast photo of Tyler Scofield. Zimmer adjusted the volume up slightly and listened as the news anchor announced that Scofield’s headquarters had also gone dark. No one had seen the renowned scientist in more than a week, and it was assumed that the launch of Galahad had sent Scofield into hiding somewhere. There was a quick mention of the spacecraft picking up speed on its way towards Saturn, and how it would use the giant gas planet’s gravitational pull for a slingshot effect into deep space. Then the station broke for a commercial.

  Sighing, Dr. Zimmer shut off the vidscreen and glanced out the tiny window beside his seat, scanning the image of the blue-green planet that rotated lazily below him. It looked peaceful and undisturbed, like a child curled up asleep. Soft clouds glided above the surface, and sunlight dappled off the water. He was amazed at the deception, how the gentle appearance concealed the despair that weaved its way throughout the population. This would be his last view of Earth from space, he realized with a start, which only deepened his sadness.

  A coughing spasm made him convulse suddenly, and the taste of blood was stronger than before. He pulled out a tissue and dabbed his mouth, noticing the tiny spots of red before he returned the tissue to his pocket.

  Straightening up, he plugged his work pad into the connection beneath the vidscreen and proceeded to access his mail. A few more scattered congratulations from colleagues around the world, along with a short note from his doctor. It mentioned a new cough suppressant that helped ease the pain that might accompany the intense spasms Zimmer had reported to him. “And,” the note added, “it has also been shown to decrease the likelihood of coughing up blood, although you haven’t mentioned that happening with you. For future reference, though …”

  Dr. Zimmer grimaced. He hadn’t mentioned it, of course. “At my next appointment,” he kept saying to himself. He wondered if it was too late for the drug to help.

  With almost two hours to go before landing in California, he decided to spend the time writing to some of the people closest to him. He wrote a long letter to his only surviving sister and another to his half brother. Both letters apologized for his lack of attention to them over these last two years. He hoped they understood how the Galahad project had dominated his time. He wished them well, asked about their spouses and children, and closed with a reference to his own declining health. As he read over the letters before pushing the send button, he noted that he was really composing good-bye letters. They weren’t eloquent, but he hoped they conveyed his love.

  He sent another thank-you note to Angela Armistead. She had cried to the point of making herself sick when the door to Galahad had sealed shut. Dr. Zimmer had hugged her for a long time, feeling the grief that wracked her body. Barely thirty years old when the project began, she had come to feel that each of the star travelers was like a brother or sister to her. Zimmer hoped that she found peace quickly.

  Next he wrote a brief note to Dr. Bauer, thanking him once again for his two years of work on the project. “I know that you sacrificed time that could have been spent with your family. I don’t know how others would regard that commitment; some would call it despicable while others might call it honorable. I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate what you did. There are 251 young people who echo those sentiments. They carry a part of you with them to the stars.”

  Dr. Zimmer included warm wishes to Bauer’s family. He started to ask about Fenton Bauer’s relationship with his son, but decided that it probably would not be appropriate. “I’m sure it feels good to be home,” he closed. “When you find a spare moment, please give me a call. I would love to visit with you again.”

  His final letter was to Tyler Scofield. “No matter our differences over the issue that has occupied our lives the last two years, I want you to know how much I continue to respect you and your convictions. I’ll always treasure the friendship that kept us bonded for many years, and want you to know that those memories will be the ones that take priority when my thoughts turn to you.”

  And he meant it. Scofield had fought him at every step during the entire project, and hurtful barbs had been thrown in both directions. But Wallace Zimmer was now at peace, and truly hoped that his old friend-turned-adversary felt the same.

  Before sending the e-mail he considered the news story that mentioned Scofield’s disappearance. He hoped the acclaimed scientist would still be checking his messages, wherever he had gone.

  Zimmer sent a handful of other quick notes to his rather small circle of close friends and associates. His final task was a mass e-mail of congratulations and thanks to each of the hundreds and hundreds of people who had devoted their precious time and energy to the success of Galahad. “You have made a difference, one that we won’t ever be able to witness ourselves, but will ripple across the galaxy over time. In a time of despair and sadness, let that one thought lift your spirits. You are all heroes.”

  He unplugged his work pad and put it away. The time had flown during his writing, and touchdown on the desert runway was now only ten minutes away. The weary scientist closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and waited.

  33

  The hallways of Galahad were quiet. It was almost midnight and most of the exhausted crew slept. The three-day soccer tournament had ended that evening, the winning team claiming victory with a last-second goal in the championship game. “I couldn’t have scripted a better ending to our first tournament,” Channy had exclaimed to the cheering throng gath
ered on the field. The spirit of the crew was high.

  Before turning in, Triana had congratulated the winners on the ship’s vidscreens and also thanked Channy for all of her hard work. “We’ve trained hard for this mission, we work hard each day to sustain ourselves,” she said. “But balance is crucial to our mental well-being. We will always play as hard as we work. Let’s never lose that edge.”

  She had made a couple of other quick announcements regarding possible shift changes in the coming days, and reminded each crew member to check their personal e-mail at least twice a day.

  Now, as midnight approached, Triana prepared for bed. Kicking off her slippers, she brushed her teeth and laid out her favorite T-shirt to sleep in. Then, sitting at her desk, she flipped open her journal and began to write.

  I keep replaying my conversation with Peter Meyer, and now all I can see in my mind is Tyler Scofield creeping along the corridors of the ship. It’s true he wanted to disrupt the mission, but is he the type of person who would resort to violence to destroy the ship and the crew?

  Triana couldn’t answer that question. For one thing, she had never met the man. Second, there was no telling what the ravages of Bhaktul might have done to his mental state. And third, what if it wasn’t him? The description fit, but unfortunately she wasn’t ready to declare Scofield the intruder. Peter had been unable to positively identify him from the pictures Roc had available. The young Canadian had only glimpsed the man in the Storage Section. The beard was roughly the same, he said, but something just wasn’t clicking. All of Roc’s photos were several years old, and time or disease could have altered the man’s appearance. Triana felt as frustrated as ever.