by Sean Wallace
Strange. My Vendeth line has heard nothing like this before, but I am not discouraged. Each line has its own language.
Nothing more than a fragment, yet the first words since I ripped from my mother, long ago.
I search, spin and twirl, my senses reaching for the slightest trace, eyes fully open. If only I had not been asleep I would know the direction!
Excitement slowly leaches from me.
Was it nothing but a dream? Wishful thinking transforming the chatter into sense?
The lights are cold, and far away.
. . . and despite the health problems, Chuck.”
“Yes, Bob. We could not describe Eisenhower’s return to office as anything else but a landslide.”
“Absolutely. What a result. Only eight holdout states . . . ”
There! Strange in its quality, yet words. Reaching toward me from a distant point of heat.
Does my lover wait for me even now?
This is the chance I have prayed for.
I let myself fall, swinging around one of the massive, silent giants. The tight maneuver has given me the speed I need.
I fix my vision on that one light in the dark.
I groan, despairing at my hunger and thirst. I hear nothing, and fear soon overwhelms me, but it is too late. I am truly in the void now. Nothing to speed me, or slow me in my flight.
One sign! That is all I ask.
My girl she knows how to roll,
O Betty!
You looks so sweet in my ’50 Chevy.
Ooo, baby, ya’ know how ta’ jive!
There! Again. This time there can be no mistake. My sensitive ears have confirmed the target. My lover awaits! Who else could be talking such as she? Here amid the terrible emptiness of my Universe.
Soon . . .
“And of course, here is the man who needs no introduction. The man who saved Earth from the threat of Nemesis. Director Matrick Keterson.”
Applause filled the room, the dim, cold corners cut by bright staccato flashes as photographers surged against the red-roped barriers.
Mat stepped up from the stage onto the tiny platform to join Vice-President Linten and Hari Wottard, NASA Director of Space Sciences. His head swam with the view. The Caltech lecture theatre was packed with press, suit-clad men and women in sombre power-dress. He looked across an auditorium jammed with students, all in awe as they stared up at him on the podium. Scattered amongst them were the members of his own team. Jereece, unshaven as usual, gave him a languid wave.
The applause became deafening as he took the lectern, and he unconsciously gritted his teeth. His hair was steel-gray, as it had been since his early twenties, neatly trimmed around a long, serious face.
He tried to smile and raised his hands to still the applause, his two lanky arms like a crane’s wings fanning out beside him.
“Please . . . please . . . ”
Gradually the applause subsided.
“Thank you. But first of all, diverting 2047KW13 was a joint effort, a team one. And equal praise must go to Director Yo Tein of the Peoples Republic of China and Vladimir Rotanski from the Russian Space Directorate.” Mat turned to nod at Tein and Rotanski. “Without their help, and the help of their governments, this . . . this incredible achievement would not have been possible.” Tein nodded back with polite reserve, while Rotanski merely glared.
“The list of all those who contributed is just too long. Both here at JPL and throughout NASA, where I have been lucky enough to be part of this extraordinary program.”
He took a breath and looked at the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen. This is truly an historic time for Mankind. For the first time we have been able to protect our home, Earth, from an asteroid impact of devastating proportions.
“The revolutionary NTRs—Nuclear Thermal Rockets—now installed on 2047KW13 have already pushed it out of a collision course with Earth, using ice from the asteroid itself as propellant.”
Mat stopped and scanned the crowd. They were quiet, expectant. The sound of a stifled cough from the back of the auditorium filled the room.
“There were some who said the task of diverting a 123 kilometer- long asteroid was impossible. But thankfully advance warning from our Near-Earth Object program, along with our NTR technology, meant that we got the crucial lead time we needed to meet the beast head on.”
“We beat Nemesis!’ screamed out a man in the front row.
The room broke into applause again.
The news was really months old. But now that the huge asteroid was less than one day away from its fly-by of Earth, the whole world was on watch—and the PR geniuses at NASA had judged it the ideal time for this event.
In the rush to divert the massive asteroid, no one had thought to name it, but that had not stopped the press. Nemesis was irresistible, and that name had been splashed in heavy black across media headlines for the last seven years.
“Ah, ladies and gentlemen, please . . . please! And I must correct that gentleman in the front row, and all the members of the press here please take note: 2047KW13 is not called Nemesis. There is already a minor planet called 128 Nemesis, which bears no resemblance to 2047KW13.”
“When will it be named?” the man yelled, his press-tag glistening in the lights as he rocked on his heels excitedly.
Mat smiled and looked across to Hari, holding up his palms in a silent question.
Hari whispered to the vice-president, who nodded and flashed a bright row of Texas teeth.
Hari stepped up to the podium beside him and leaned across to the mike. “One of the announcements we have for you today is the naming of 2047KW13. Usually these things are named by the astronomer who first discovered the object, but in view of the circumstances we thought it only fitting that Director Keterson have the honor.”
The room erupted in applause again, and Mat looked across to the doorway to see Jereece leaning against the sill, his eyes slightly mocking as he took in the scene. Jereece had been one of the key people on Mat’s team, a team leader in the NEO program and the man who first identified 2047KW13. It seemed a lifetime ago—those heart-stopping months when they realized its orbit would swing it past Jupiter and send that massive lump of ice, carbon and rock heading straight for Earth.
Hari raised his hand to the crowd then waved at Mat, clapping above his head as the room went wild.
Camera flashes stabbed into his eyes, and suddenly the empty, blank lenses were filling his view. He felt himself staring at the beginning of a vast, unstoppable future.
“It is an honor, and one that should not be mine.”
Calls came from the room, demanding the name.
“Very well, ladies and gentlemen . . . I will keep you waiting no longer.” He raised his hands once more for silence.
“I have decided to name 2047KW13 . . . Erebus.”
There was silence as the room took in the name, a sense of confusion, perhaps even disappointment.
“Erebus is a deity from Greek mythology—always an old favorite for planets.” That had been his ice-breaker joke, but it went completely flat. “Erebus arose from Chaos, and was wedded to the darkness of the night, but also represented an infernal region, through which souls had to pass to reach Hades. And this—this whole project—has been a test and a challenge for humanity. But we have passed through it, to a place where we are one step closer to controlling our wider destiny in this beautiful but deadly universe.”
There were more camera flashes, then Mat was being ushered away from the podium, displaced by Linten, who raised his hands to the crowd and began a prepared speech that highlighted the foresight and good sense of the Yerry administration. He was soon finished and people surrounded Mat, shaking his hand, patting him on the back. Everyone was talking at once, and a dense wall of expectant eyes pressed in on him.
Mat rose onto the balls of his feet to look over the heads of the crowd. He spotted Jereece and the other members of his team and waved them over. If he was going to share this
moment with anyone, it would be them. They started moving toward him, but the packed crowd was swarming toward the stage now and they were pushed back.
The reporters arrived. Microphones and cameras were pushing into his face.
“Mr. Keterson, what are your plans now . . . ”
“Are you staying with NASA?”
“Here, Mr. Keterson!”
“Mr. Keterson, you have any comment to the rumors . . . ”
Mat surveyed them coldly, wondering how he could extricate himself without seeming rude or aloof.
Hari appeared and took Mat by the elbow. As director of space sciences he had a more public role than Mat’s, and seemed at ease negotiating the aggressive crowd of TV-jockeys.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. There will be more opportunities for questions after the reception,” he said.
Rapid-fire questions trailed after them.
Hari nodded and four secret service agents neatly surrounded them, cutting off the press. They followed the vice-president’s entourage into an adjacent hall, which had been decked out in silver service for the grand reception. Mat was in the VIP section. By design, he and the other dignitaries were scattered through a crowd of wealthy supporters, multi-millionaires who had invested in the NTR technology. Without them, Erebus would still be hurtling toward them on its deadly course.
He dreaded the dinner, and was longing for the blessed silence and comfort of his small apartment. No doubt he would be saddled with some boorish oil billionaire whose thirty-year-old engineering degree and avid reading of the Wall Street Journal qualified him as a space expert.
Mat was relieved to take his seat, and eagerly accepted a cool lager from the waiter, drinking it down greedily before the press of the crowd forced social niceties on him. His face flushed with heat as the alcohol began its work, and his body relaxed. He loosened his top button and tie, and was about to lounge back in his seat when he caught sight of her.
“I believe this is my seat, Mr. Keterson?”
Mat almost choked on his beer, but managed to swallow and straighten in the same motion.
She was tall and elegant, her wavy yellow-blond hair matched perfectly to her long golden dress, which shimmered in the soft overhead lights.
“By all means, allow me . . . ” said Mat, leaping up to make the suave maneuver of taking her chair out for her. Unfortunately his long legs caught under the table, sending the silver service and precisely laid glassware skittering across the heavy linen. He looked across at her, but only the merest tension at the corners of her mouth hinted at a suppressed smile. He was grateful for her tact.
“Why, thank you.” Her accent was Southern, and delightfully sexy. “I am Athy Jates.” She held out a soft yet strong hand for him to shake.
“Matrick Keterson. Pleased to meet you.”
She smiled, soft brown eyes lighting up her rounded beautiful face, offset perfectly with shades of subtle makeup.
He felt a little foolish introducing himself—half the world must know his face—but she seemed genuinely pleased.
Mat waved for the waiter, unobtrusively straightening his tie as Athy turned her head to watch the waiter approach.
She scanned the tray and looked back at the waiter. “Do you think you could find me some of that champagne?”
The waiter nodded, and Mat took another beer before he disappeared. He knew he should slow down—didn’t they always say not to get too smashed at these things?—but after the stress of the last few months, he just needed to let loose.
He put down his empty glass and saw Athy smiling at him.
“You know, I have always wanted to meet you, Matrick. We were all so lucky to have someone like you in control of that project.”
The waiter arrived with Athy’s Moët. Mat took another beer and smiled, feeling relaxed and happy with the world for the first time in . . . well, seven years.
“Cheers,” said Athy, holding up her glass.
He looked right into her eyes and felt a jolt of excitement. She seemed cool and collected, but Mat could not help noticing the heave of her chest above the low neck-line of the off-the-shoulder gown, or the slight tremor in her hand as they clinked glasses.
She smiled.
“Cheers,” he replied.
The table filled up around them, but Mat did not take his eyes off Athy.
The waiter arrived once more, and they eagerly reached for the tray.
Jarry Twine pushed himself carefully across the tiny cabin of the NTR control unit. Even after almost a year in the micro-gravity of 2047KW13, he was still overbalancing. It was a tiny space, no bigger than a small trailer, yet was packed with electronics and process control equipment. The air was rank with body odours and the stale, artificial flavors of their ration-packs.
“Vapor flow on ejection port five sub-optimal, Ranky. I’d get on it,” said Jarry.
“Roger, control,” came the reply from Ranky, who was EVA at NTR#3, six hundred meters away.
Jarry felt a slight tremor under his feet.
“Oh boy.”
He raised the radio mike to his lips.
“Ranky! Tie yourself down! We’ve got another one!”
Despite the analysis of 2047KW13’s structure, and all the modeling, the whole rock had been shaking like a Turkish apartment block.
They’d had seven tremors in the last shift alone. Big ones, too.
“Roger, Control. Going for tie-down.”
Each of the EVA rigs carried an explosive spike for emergencies, allowing the operator to tie themselves securely to the deep-frozen ice and rock of the surface in less than a minute.
The floor surged up under Jarry’s feet and his porta-screen shot across the room. He made a grab for it, but a drinking tube slammed into the side of his head.
“Fuck!”
Loose papers and equipment shot around the cabin, tossed like greens in a salad shaker as the thin walls trembled. Soon the whole thing was shaking, the big alloy casings of the monitors banging together violently.
Multiple alarms blared.
He tried to brace himself and access the console at the same time. It was useless. The keyboard was moving too much.
He pushed across the cabin and hit the view-port release. The hydraulics whined and the heavy shield shot back from the window.
“Holy mother—”
The whole surface of the asteroid was rippling, waves passing through it as though it was a fluid. He could see two of the big NTR installations being literally shaken loose.
Cries for help came from everywhere.
“Jarry! I need help. I can’t hold—”
“This is NTR#1, we have systems failure—”
“Control! Control!”
“Oh, mother of Christ!”
He felt one of the big mounts on the control shack break. Then another. A wave lifted him up, tilting the whole space.
The NTR#1 control unit smashed into his chest. Pain flared from his right side.
Jarry looked out through the window.
The rough surface of ice and rock was gone. In its place was a strange, patterned expanse of bulging hemispheres, perfectly regular, as though the whole thing had been constructed by forcing dark spheres together until they joined without a gap.
A crack appeared across the middle of each bulging section.
Jarry screamed, his hands bloody as they beat at the weight of the casing that pinned him.
Another ripple swept through Erebus.
This one ripped the control room apart.
Jarry’s breath was sucked from him, his whole body swelling with red-hot pain as he decompressed, tumbling out into space.
The surface of each hemisphere drew back.
He tried to scream, but the greedy emptiness sucked even harder at his vital fluids. Then his eyes exploded, leaving him in agonizing blindness.
Mat woke suddenly, desperately thirsty, and with a thumping headache. He felt a soft warmth against his side and the night came back in a rus
h.
He looked down to see Athy, her naked body curled into him, her large breasts and small pink nipples pressed into his thin chest, wavy blond hair tumbled across his shoulder. Even through the pain he smiled, remembering the fun they had had playing cat and mouse with the media, giving the paparazzi the slip somewhere between Caltech and Athy’s suite.
But something was not right.
There was an angry rhythmic sound pulsing in his ears. It sounded like traffic. No. Not traffic.
Mat groaned and shook his head.
He delicately extracted himself from Athy, covering her gently with a sheet. Then he rummaged around in the mini-bar to find the headache tablets, washing down three with a Coke, wincing as the ice-cold carbonated mixture hit his throat.
Athy had a huge suite, and he moved into the lounge room and flicked on the television.
News.
He flicked again.
News.
Again.
News.
News. News. News.
It was on every single channel.
His eyes widened and he turned up the volume on a chat show.
“ . . . some are calling it incompetence, others scientific error. But all agree we have been betrayed at the highest level,” said the host.
“But the thing is. How can a mistake like this be made?”
The camera swung. The man was red-faced, obviously sweating in his cheap suit. He was so angry he was almost rising from his chair as he spoke. “How can an organization like NASA, with all the resources at their command, make a mistake like this?”
The camera returned to the host. “How indeed?” he said solemnly.
“But the real question is, where the hell is Matrick Keterson?” said an older woman.
“My God, it’s Marjorie Heters,” said Mat, recognizing a highly respected astronomer that had worked alongside his own team.
There was a thumping on the door, growing louder.
The camera swiveled back to the host.
“Just to recap. Australian astronomers tracking Erebus have this morning confirmed the massive asteroid is back on a course for Earth. Despite the best efforts of NASA and co-operation . . . ”
Mat could not take it in. The words washed over his sleep-deprived and alcohol-sodden brain, refusing to register.