by Roman, Mark
By Mark Roman
© Copyright 2012, Mark Roman
Cogwheel Press, 2403 W Ash St, Rogers, AR 72758, USA
www.cogwheelpress.net
Published in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1477492208
First Edition, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PART THE FIRST: TENALP
PART THE SECOND: THE NIGHT RIPPLE
PART THE THIRD: GROUND
PART THE FOURTH: THE BENJAMINITES
PART THE FIFTH: THE DOGS
PART THE SIXTH: TOT
Epilogue
Glossary
Appendix I: Mamm Evolution
Appendix II: Mamm History
Appendix III: Document 7351/87-A
Appendix IV: The Proof
Index
All the characters in this story are real, and live in Birmingham.
PART THE FIRST: TENALP
It would be fair to say that Tenalp, being the remotest of Earth’s colony planets, had never attracted the finest minds. All the best people – the most intelligent, the most creative and the most highly skilled – had settled elsewhere, leaving Tenalp with what was left. So it was no surprise that many of the planet’s inhabitants, particularly those at the higher levels of authority, were somewhat lacking in brilliance or, in Tenalp parlance, as dumb as a bag of bricks.
Chapter 1
11.03 am, 12 Mar 49 A-PE, Tropecaps Spaceport, Tenalp
The three flight controllers crowded around smuX’s terminal with looks of bewilderment and concern. Above the din of a warning buzzer could be heard mutters of “This is impossible!”, “What’s going on?”, “Doesn’t make sense!”
smuX chewed his nails as he stared at the video-feeds and data streams on his screen. “pliX, go tell droX,” he said, not taking his eyes off the console.
“Tell droX?” asked pliX. “Are you sure? He’s...”
“I know, I know. But he’s spaceport controller now, so we have to let him know what’s happening.”
pliX hesitated. “We don’t know what’s happening.”
“Just tell him there’s an emergency. Remember: keep it simple. Words of one syllable.”
“‘Emergency’ has four.”
smuX flashed him a grin. “Good point. Try to find a one-syllable alternative.”
pliX hurried out of the Operations Room and raced down the corridor trying to think of a monosyllabic synonym for ‘emergency’. By the time he burst into droX’s office the best he had come up with was ‘crisis’.
“Boss, there’s a cri...”
He froze. With open mouth he stared at what his superior was doing.
droX froze too. The hand that had been twirling a cotton swab deep in one ear stopped twirling and the cheeks reddened. The men’s eyes locked for a second. Then the seated man whipped the swab out of his ear and tossed it at the recycler. His other hand shot out to switch off a pink nose-trimmer, still buzzing on the desk in front of him, and to sweep it into a drawer. The same hand also swept a mirror, a pack of cotton wool and some bottles of ear drops into the same drawer before pushing it shut.
pliX hardly noticed. His eyes were glued to the trajectory of the swab as it bounced off the rim of the recycler and headed in his direction, spinning gracefully as it sailed through the air. He tried to dodge out of its way, but wasn’t fast enough to prevent it landing on his right foot, a glistening blob of orange at one end. No sooner had it landed than he flicked it off with a jerk of his leg; but, too late. Part of the orange blob remained on his shoe.
“You were saying?” asked droX, his arms folded, his desk clear.
“Er,” said pliX, still staring at the waxy residue. “There’s an emergency... er... crisis, sir.”
“Oh?”
pliX tore his eyes from the orange globule; he’d have to clean it later. “It’s The Living Chrysalis, sir. She’s coming in to land.”
“And that’s an ‘emergency-er-crisis-sir’, is it, pliX?” The older man cracked a smile and rubbed his nostrils between finger and thumb.
“Yes, sir.”
“A spaceship, coming in to land at a spaceport?”
“The Living Chrysalis is a starship, sir,” corrected pliX.
“Ah yes.”
“And she’s due here in September.”
“Of course.”
“It’s now March.”
droX’s eyes flicked to the calendar on the wall. “So it is.”
“So she’s over six months too early.”
droX leaned back in his executive chair. “Better early than hurly-burly, I always say.”
“No, sir,” said pliX, a note of exasperation entering his voice. “She’s far too early. She’s made the journey from Earth in under a month, sir. And that’s against the Laws of Physics.”
droX took a deep breath. “Ah, yes, the Laws of Physics. F=ma, E=mc2, and that other one.” He stroked his chin. “So, let’s see if I’ve got this straight. This spaceship... sorry... starship is coming in to land, earlier than the Laws of Physics allow? Is that it?”
“Precisely!” pliX struggled to stay calm.
“Interesting.”
“You need to come quickly. She’s landing any second...”
droX raised a calming hand. “Better to think, than blinking sink. Let’s have all the facts first, shall we?”
pliX wanted to scream.
“What does her captain say?” asked droX.
“We can’t get through, sir.”
“Not all dead, are they?”
“We don’t know. We really don’t know what’s going on.”
“It wouldn’t look good if...”
“No, sir.”
pliX’s patience had nearly run out when, with a heavy sigh, droX raised his large frame from his seat. “All right, I’d better take charge of this one. We don’t want any mistakes.”
pliX gave a hesitant pause at the last statement. “Er, no, boss,” he said. Then added, “Sorry for interrupting...’
“Oh, just taking a break,” said droX, casually stepping over the cotton swab on the floor. “I’m a busy man, you know. But I’d rather you knocked next time.”
“Yes, sir.”
*
The two men left the room and strode down the corridor. pliX, young and keen; his boss, older and wider. As they approached the Operations Room there was a tremendous roar, a seismic thud and the whole floor jerked from underneath them, making droX lose his footing and fall to the ground. He lay on his back for a second, thrashing his limbs like an upturned beetle, before the younger man pulled him back up. The tremors faded and the corridor filled with the din of alarms as droX brushed himself down, swearing under his breath.
“Sir, she’s crashed on the landing strip!” cried smuX, emerging from the Operations Room and having to yell above the noise.
“Crashed?” shouted droX, rubbing the side of his leg where he had landed. “What happened?”
“Looks like pilot error, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. I’d say we’re clear of blame on this one.”
The spaceport controller gave a no
d.
“Any idea why she’s so early?” asked pliX.
“We’re thinking some phase-shift in the singularity field. A shift from Newtonian to non-Newtonian, maybe some massive antineutrino flux.”
“A rupture in the brane, maybe?” suggested pliX.
“Let’s hope not,” said smuX. “In fact...”
“Alright, alright,” interrupted droX. “Let’s get into rescue-operation mode, shall we. And get some facts to guide our acts.” He headed for the exit, limping slightly. smuX and pliX exchanged worried looks and hastened after him.
*
Outside the building the alarms were less overpowering, but the roar of engines and screeching of tyres more than made up for it. The emergency services were in full swing, their bustling activity converging on the centre of the landing strip where lay the vast, crumpled hull of The Living Chrysalis, a Class ZN-4 starship, hissing and smoking after her crash.
The rescue team were already perched high up on her side, drilling into her hull. After a short time the chief rescuer called, “We’re through!” He handed his cutting gear to a subordinate and scampered through the hole. Everything went deathly quiet.
A minute passed. Then another. The crowd became impatient, but then the chief rescuer’s head reappeared at the hole. He had a troubled look on his face as his eyes searched the crowd, finally latching onto the overweight figure of droX. He beckoned the controller to come up and see for himself what was inside.
*
Inside it was dark. droX and his two companions followed the chief rescuer through a crumpled corridor to the starship’s main control room, now eerily lit by the emergency lighting system and smelling strongly of burnt circuitry and melted plastic. They stopped at the sight that met their eyes. Lying scattered amongst the dust and rubble, were several human skeletons, their chalk-white bones arranged in ghastly postures, their skulls grinning hideously.
The chief rescuer pointed to a corner of the control room, and the others gasped when they saw what he was pointing at.
Lying propped up against the wall, was an old, old man; his body little more than skin and bone, his hair and beard silvery and long. They could see he was still breathing, still alive. He looked as though he had aged well beyond his natural lifespan – the sole survivor of the ship’s crew of ten.
“I guess that explains the pilot error,” muttered droX. The rescuer stared at him, appalled, but the others didn’t react.
“How can this have happened?” wondered pliX aloud. “After only a month in space!”
“Let’s ask the old guy,” suggested droX, nodding his head towards the aged survivor.
The four men picked their way through the rubble and skeletons. The man groaned and, on becoming aware of company, looked up and opened his mouth to speak.
droX elbowed his way past the others and indicated he was taking charge of the situation. The others exchanged uneasy glances but stepped back to give him room. The spaceport controller knelt down slowly, wincing at the pain in his leg, and put his left ear to the old man’s quivering lips. The latter swallowed hard before croaking a few words in a faint, broken whisper, his every muscle seeming to strain with the effort. Then he closed his eyes, exhaled a final breath and slumped sideways... dead.
droX bowed his head and remained on his knees for a few seconds. “Damn!” he said.
“What did he say?” asked pliX.
The controller grimaced in frustration as he got to his feet. “I don’t know, dammit.” He put a finger in his left ear and waggled it about. “This blasted ear-wax! Can’t seem to shift it. Didn’t catch a single word.” He looked down at the corpse and sighed. “It sounded important, too.”
Chapter 2
3.49 pm, 12 Mar 49 A-PE, Committee Room, Tenalp Government HQ
The Committee only met in times of grave crisis. Now was such a crisis.
At the head of the vast oblong table sat TOT, the Transcendental Overlord of Tenalp, supreme ruler of the entire planet. His neuroplasmoid temples vibrated gently as the psychotronic waves pulsed to and from his exocortic cranium. TOT was no ordinary man; he was a cyber-kinetic limb of the Tenalp Central Computer Complex, the TCCC. His laser eyes scanned the other members of The Committee, processing their every movement, their every tick and involuntary reflex, and TOT did not like what he saw.
To his left sat honX the Fermi-Dirac statistician, groX the president of the Polyphobic History Society, leeX the stereogenetic informatician, and ferX the parasociologist. To his right were praX the biopsychologist, oloX the ambiluminal fractologist, and nerX the pelvoscapial altomnemologist. Last but not least, and directly opposite TOT, sat quiX the biscuit packer.
All were the very best in their chosen professions.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” started TOT gruffly, surveying the anxious faces pointing towards him. “We are all well acquainted with the problem at hand.” He paused for nods of agreement, but instead detected gulps, nervous intakes of breath and panicky glances at briefing notes. TOT’s neuroplasmoid temples vibrated a little faster.
“So,” he continued, his steely gaze becoming steelier. “What happened to The Living Chrysalis? How are we to investigate this mystery? Do I hear any suggestions?”
There was a deathly hush. Each member of The Committee stared down at their briefing notes, or at their glass of water, or at the portion of table directly in front of them. They tried to look thoughtful as though weighing up the evidence and considering options. None dared make a sound. None dared make eye contact with anyone else, and certainly not with the laser eyes at the head of the table. Too often had they witnessed the consequences of a Committee member making a suggestion that incurred TOT’s disapproval.
“Well?” asked TOT, his irritation rising. “Anyone?”
Silence.
TOT’s jaws twitched and his eyes narrowed.
He turned to the ambiluminal fractologist. “How about you, oloX? Any ideas?”
oloX gulped. “What, me?”
“Yes, you, oloX.”
“Ideas?”
“That’s what I said.”
oloX looked desperately round at the others, but they all studiously avoided his eye-line. He started shaking violently. “Well...,” he said, trying to clear his throat and frantically turning the pages of the briefing notes for inspiration. “Well...”
“You don’t have any suggestions, do you,” concluded TOT.
oloX froze.
“Do you.”
“Er, no, sir.” oloX’s voice was barely audible.
“No one does, do they,” said TOT, addressing the whole table, his voice and his anger rising. “What is the point of having a Committee if no one ever comes up with any ideas?”
All the members trembled in their seats, bracing themselves for what was about to come.
But just then, quiX the biscuit packer gave a sniff and said, “How about sending up a rocket, like?”
TOT’s laser eyes wheeled to him. “A rocket?”
quiX shrugged. “Yeah, a spaceship, starship… whatever. Make the same trip. See what gives.”
TOT stared at him as he considered the suggestion. He pursed his lips and decided it worthy of multi-core axosynaptic processing. Instantly, the suggestion was transmitted to the multi-channel cycloanalysers of the TCCC and, just as instantly, an answer came back.
TOT took a deep breath. “That’s a very good idea,” he said, speaking calmly now. “Well done, quiX.”
quiX smiled modestly. “It was nothing, really.”
The others sighed with a mixture of relief and disbelief.
“Very good,” repeated TOT. “I think we’re done here. Meeting over.”
All got up and left the room, taking it in turns to pat quiX on the back.
Chapter 3
6.17 pm, 12 Mar 49 A-PE, Tenalp Ministry of Intelligence and Spying (MIS)
The door swished open and jixX the landscape architect peered nervously into the room. He adjusted his hold on the lar
ge plant pot he was carrying and entered. In the pot, the 3-foot tall, dwarf Alberta spruce swayed precariously from side to side.
jixX found himself in a large room, empty apart from a few discarded computer monitors on the floor. The door swished closed behind him and his unease increased. He shifted the weight of the plant pot from his right to his left arm so he could check the message that had summoned him.
“Welcome,” said a metallic voice from the other end of the room.
jixX looked up in surprise, nearly dropping the heavy plant pot. “Hello?” he responded.
“I am VOZ, the main computer here at the Ministry of Intelligence and Spying,” said the voice. “I will brief you on your mission.”
“Mission?” asked jixX. None of his landscaping projects had ever been termed a mission before. He shifted the small spruce back to his right arm.
“You will command The Night Ripple: a Class XI phonon-drive spaceship. You will determine what befell The Living Chrysalis on her journey here from Earth.”
“Wait, wait,” said jixX. “I think there’s been some mistake.”
“Mistake?”
“I think you’ve got the wrong person.”
There was a long pause from the computer, and a sound of whirring.
“Name?” it asked at last.
“jixX.”
“Correct.”
“Must be some other jixX. I’ve never flown a spaceship before.” He turned to leave.
“Oh, but you have.”
jixX stopped. “No, I haven’t.”
“On 9 March, in the year 29 A.P-E.”
jixX turned back, frowning as he made the requisite mental calculations. “Oh, come on!” he said at last. “I was six years old and, most probably, sitting on my father’s knee! He was a spaceship captain.”
“And on 15 September, 30 A.P-E.”
“Er, I was seven and a bit.”
“And on …”
“Okay, okay,” said jixX. “I get the picture.”
“Like father like son,” said VOZ.