New Writings in SF 26 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Kenneth Bulmer

  He turned back to the scanner and ran through the empty field. He changed the setting and to his surprise the arc cleared the horizon and showed beyond it, unbelievably close, the bulk of Mars. He pushed on through the space walk routine, full of bleak anxiety. What conditions did prevail out there on this lunar lollipop? Had Morris fallen off the edge? Was there some gravitational hang-up on a satellite this small? He set everything on automatic, activated the lock, checked his tank and felt the rim of his helmet suck into place as the vacuum strips took hold. He stepped into the pressure chamber and worked awkwardly by the headlight of his suit. He set the time for thirty minutes and stepped out of the hatchway into the hot brilliance of the dawn.

  There were five steps on the ladder and the bottom step was a long one. Erikson came out ungracefully, butt first, clinging to the handgrips: one step. Jesus but it was a weird little dishpan of a satellite, rainbow coloured through his visor, with the perpetual bulk of the planet swimming above and below, wherever he looked. Two steps. He could almost see under the shuttle, the area he wanted to examine most. He had an idea in his head that Morris had gone there to fix the strut... out of range of the scanner.

  Erikson saw that part of the ground was clear in the ruby shadow of the hull. Then he glanced upwards at the hatchway and saw the black lens of the camera swivelling down. His descent was being recorded on video. The inside control? No, it was not activated. That left the remote control unit ... Morris must have it But that was crazy! Had he been going out to film his ‘creature’? It didn’t seem like a good reason for filming Erikson. He placed one leaden boot then another on the third step and it sliced neatly into three pieces beneath his weight.

  He hung and kicked for a lower step but his weighted feet swung in awkwardly under the hull. He went sprawling backwards as the steps slewed and buckled. Erikson began falling a long, slow way down to the hard ground of Phobos and twisted desperately to save his tanks, his life, his air-supply, from contact with the rock. The dawn flared up around him but he grounded firmly without losing consciousness. No damage done? His right arm and shoulder ached; he guessed they were badly bruised. Before he could begin to heave himself up he saw Morris, a pair of heavy silver boots, edging out from under the shuttle.

  Erikson could not get his right arm from under his body; with numb fingers inside his unyielding glove he fumbled for the dials of the communication system on his chest.

  ‘Lie still. Watch what he does.’

  The voice was intense and soft, so close that it could have been the crackle of his suit fabric or the creation of his brain. Yet Erikson lay still.

  He could see Morris full length now, plodding the few steps with that comically deliberate gait to where Erikson lay. Morris held some object in his gloved hands. He swung towards the shuttle and then towards Erikson as if measuring the distance of his partner from the steps. Light bounced from the object he carried; Erikson identified it with a surge of doubt. An anodized unit about the size of a ration tube: the remote control for the video camera. Morris was getting him in focus.

  Erikson found the right spot on the dial.

  ‘It’s okay, Glen ...’ he panted. ‘One step gave out.’ Morris replied in a voice that was normal but not reassuring.

  ‘Stay where you are, Paul. I’m coming.’

  Erikson was having trouble finding his feet. The voice came in again, sure as static.

  ‘Move now! Get moving, Erikson!’

  Erikson struggled, bounced sideways like a ball, trying to bend his knees and get his boots back on the ground. Morris growled:

  ‘Where the hell are you heading, Paul?’

  He put the remote control unit in the kangaroo pocket of his suit and came after Erikson. He overstepped, which was easy, and came right up to Erikson, who caught his arm for support. He could see Morris’s face quite clearly through the visor of his helmet; but it told him nothing. Morris took hold of Erikson’s left arm with both mitts and began to urge him along.

  He pushed Erikson towards the shuttle, then still in an eerie radio silence, put out one hand and began feeling for the connecting tubes from Erikson’s tanks.

  ‘He means to kill you!’ The voice was insistent and at last Erikson admitted to himself whose voice it was. ‘Save yourself, Paul Erikson!’

  ‘Johnny!’ called Erikson and Morris heard him.

  ‘What about Johnny?’ Morris was fierce, ingratiating. ‘Get back there, Paul. Get back over there.’

  Erikson pushed Morris’s hand away instinctively and found his feet at last.

  ‘Glen ... quit shoving...’ he said feebly. ‘My arm hurts.’

  Morris came after him, arms outspread, in a slow dancing movement.

  ‘Are you hurt, Paul?’ he asked innocently. ‘Your tank is fouled. Let me...’

  ‘No!’ said Erikson, all his trust ebbing away. ‘Fix the steps. Get inside.’

  ‘Johnny’s lying!’ said Morris, out of the blue. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s saying.’

  ‘Are you disabled?’

  ‘My arm ... bruised I guess.’ said Erikson. The pain was sharper now that the numbness from the fall was wearing off. ‘Johnny, is that you?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ murmured the voice.

  ‘What wavelength have you?’ asked Erikson.

  ‘Yours.’

  Morris was coming after him again, uphill. The ground was striated in rainbow patterns under their feet.

  ‘Come back!’ he demanded. ‘Where are you going, Erikson?’

  ‘I don’t need any help.’ said Erikson. ‘Get the steps straight. I can make it...’

  ‘No baby...’ breathed Morris. ‘No baby... I’m gonna see you choke to death. I’m gonna have that helmet off!’

  ‘What are you saying. Glen!’ Erikson shouted and deafened himself.

  ‘Choke!’ said Morris. ‘Suffocate. Maybe your skull will implode like a video screen. Right here where the camera is watching. Camera can’t lie, Paul old buddy...’

  Erikson stood still and Morris lunged at him.

  ‘Are you convinced?’ asked the voice in Erikson’s head.

  ‘Yes!’ said Erikson wildly. ‘Yes! Help me! Johnny?’

  ‘Johnny can’t help you ...’ crooned Morris. ‘I already took care of him once. Come to poppa...’

  He caught Erikson around the knees in a flying tackle of seven metres and they went rolling down in another crazy almost weightless fall. Erikson spun to his left, burying his sound arm up to the elbow in a drift of sand that spun up around the pair of them in a glittering cloud. It was hot; he could feel the warmth through his silversuit. He tried to balance on one hip and scoop the sand at Morris. But Morris was crowding over him, with his gauntlets hooked like metal claws, aiming for the tubes on Erikson’s back. The blur of sound inside Erikson’s helmet was his own voice crying out in fear.

  The flash of light was blinding. Erikson felt it flare up around them as they fought and wash over their bodies. Both men spun slowly apart and turned towards the light. Erikson’s first thoughts were of an explosion aboard the shuttle but he felt no shock wave. The shuttle was intact; it stood out, glowing faintly, against the tawny rocks. Then, as he watched, a source of light inside the craft began to grow brighter. The radiance spread in waves and curtains of cool, vigorous light. The outlines of the shuttle’s casing faded or became translucent, while the marvellous light grew and pulsated.

  Erikson felt better. His bruised arm was no longer painful; the efforts of the fight, the ordinary tension of a moon-walk, all were eased. His brain felt clear and alert; he knew that the light was operating upon him: his sense of well-being tinged with awe was a property of the light. He turned towards Morris. His partner had bent forward against a rock in a clumsy approximation of a kneeling position. Broken whispers came through Erikson’s intercom. Morris was praying.

  Then in the midst of the light flowing out from the shuttle Erikson made out a human form, standing upright. Gale ... it must be Johnny Gale, transfigured. The th
ought of a human being, the young crewman he knew, possessed by a being, an intelligence so powerful, even if it were benevolent, sobered him a little.

  ‘Who are you?’ Erikson demanded.

  And the answer came in Gale’s voice, as it had warned him, tied in some strange way to his own intercom system.

  ‘I am Triclamadan.’

  ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘The planets of a distant star.’ Triclamadan gave the impression of choosing his words with care, like a linguist experimenting in a language he knew but had not much occasion to use.

  ‘The light of this star is still visible from the limits of your galaxy but the star itself has gone out, grown cold, long ago.’

  ‘Then you have nowhere...’

  Erikson was suddenly conscious of the heat of the ground all around him; vibrant solar heat. Phobos was not altogether an alien place.

  ‘No,’ agreed the extraordinary resonant voice. ‘I have nowhere.’

  There was no disguising the note of sadness. Erikson could have sworn that under stress of emotion the light radiating from the shuttle was dimmed momentarily.

  ‘I have no home. I belong nowhere, nor do I wish to do so. It is as we have chosen.’

  ‘Why did you come here, then?’ asked Erikson. ‘What do you want with John Gale?’

  ‘A voice,’ said Triclamadan simply. ‘A brief incarnation. I wanted to talk to my friends.’

  ‘Can we return to the shuttle?’ Erikson was restless. ‘What will become of Morris?’

  He saw his partner slumped in an attitude of prayer against the rock.

  ‘Suppose he were to die?’ inquired Triclamadan.

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Erikson. ‘No... he can get treatment. You don’t kill a man for freaking out. I’m only worried he will try something again ...’

  There was no reply but presently a beam of light flicked out from the glowing arc around the shuttle and touched Morris on the helmet. He flinched and Erikson was alarmed. Then Morris got up, quite docile, and moved like a sleepwalker towards the shuttle. Erikson, automatically checking his suit, plodded after him. They entered the light and it receded before them; the outlines of the shuttle became solid. Erikson reassembled the steps as best he could while Morris stood patiently waiting. The sense of well-being had left Erikson now; he felt let down, jumpy. The whole episode was taking on the aspect of a matter-of-fact but unsettling dream.

  ‘Wait!’ said Triclamadan, as Erikson turned to guide Morris up the steps. ‘I will be leaving your craft.’

  ‘You’re going?’ Erikson was dismayed. Hut I want to know...’

  ‘I will go. I am already breaking a covenant.’

  Erikson was filled with a furious curiosity ... his head whirled with questions. What was the form, the origin, What were the capacities of this being? But there was one thing he must ask.

  ‘Please!’ he said. ‘Can you help our mothership... Theta Nebraska. Is there any way... I’ll give you her position.’

  Triclamadan laughed.

  ‘Helpless and demanding!’ he grumbled. ‘Children ... Mortals...’

  ‘You needed a voice.’ Erikson was stubborn.

  ‘No more!’ ordered Triclamadan wearily. ‘Get on board.’

  * * * *

  Our covenant is not easily kept. How can I, however briefly embodied, send out a human being to face death? It may be that in some timefall we are destined to help this race or one like it. But for this time our choice, made in lost ages, will remain inviolate. For the sake of the Four Worlds, now dark, whose only light is in their children, irretrievably lost, let us, each one, maintain the covenant. Triclamadan returns to the deep and only true delight of contemplation and calculation in time. Triclamadan will speak no more.

  * * * *

  The control room was cool and full of sweet air. Erikson took off his helmet and watched cautiously as Morris fumbled with his own.

  ‘Glen?’

  Morris stared vacantly at Erikson and smiled.

  ‘What happened, Paul?’

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Sure, but I don’t remember...’

  ‘Can you start take-off procedures?’ asked Erikson.

  ‘Of course. Right away!’

  ‘Go ahead then.’ said Erikson. ‘I must see to Johnny.’

  The shuttle was suffused with light for an instant... the cabin partition glowed crystalline, transparent. Then the light was gone. Erikson dived for the scanner and tracked wildly up, over the ship, but he saw nothing. What had he expected ... a fireball, a meteor, a gas cloud?

  Morris uttered a strange cry:

  ‘I saw...!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You saw it too!’ Morris was weeping. ‘Forgive me Paul, forgive me ...’

  ‘I do forgive you.’ said Erikson. ‘Take it easy, Glen.’

  ‘We had a vision!’ said Morris. ‘We’ve been blessed. Oh God, God help me!’

  ‘We saw something all right.’ said Erikson.

  ‘We are Elect!’ said Morris. ‘We’ve been singled out ... don’t you understand that? Nothing can ever be the same again. I’ve been cured. I was a madman, now I’ve been made whole again!’

  ‘Steady ...’ said Erikson. ‘Let’s get to Marsport.’

  ‘Yes... Yes... We have to leave.’

  Morris went eagerly to his seat and began take-off procedures.

  Erikson went into the cabin. Johnny Gale was sitting up on the cot and eating a cheese stick.

  ‘Hi man!’ he said. ‘Where is everyone? I had the wildest dreams!’

  ‘Johnny?’ Erikson did not need to ask. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Great. Is that Morris you have out there?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Paul, that guy is crazy. He was fighting me when I fell down the companion way, back there on Theta. Say ... how are those guys?’

  ‘We contacted Marsport. They should have help by now.’

  ‘We’re not in Marsport yet?’

  ‘Phobos.’ said Erikson. ‘We had a fuel link problem. We’ll be moving out right away.’

  ‘But this Morris...’

  ‘He won’t give any more trouble. I know he’s crazy, or he was, but something happened.’

  ‘I know.’ said Johnny. ‘I can’t put it together... but something did happen.’

  They stared at each other. Erikson remembered what Morris had just said: nothing will ever be the same.

  ‘What do you recall?’ he asked.

  ‘There was someone else here,’ said Johnny. He lay back on the cot and fixed his eyes on the low ceiling. ‘Someone else. It wasn’t...’

  ‘Go on...’

  ‘Not human.’ said Johnny. ‘How would you say it...’

  ‘A being.’ said Erikson. ‘I don’t know. Morris has been freaked right out. He thinks he saw God.’

  ‘No.’ said Johnny. ‘This was some kind of free-floating intelligence. Something from out there.’

  ‘That’s what he said. ‘The planets of a distant star.’ ‘

  ‘You spoke to it?’ Johnny breathed deeply. Then I guess it was using my voice.’

  ‘You were conscious?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Was it bad? Painful?’

  ‘Hell no. It was a good trip. I have pictures in my head, Paul. Pictures of places I’ve never been.’

  ‘He was broadcasting,’ said Erikson. ‘Using that panel in some combination of frequencies...’

  He remembered the lights that winked at him from the panel.

  ‘Record!’ he exclaimed. ‘He was using record...’

  Johnny stabbed playback; they both caught their breath. Johnny turned up the volume a little.

  ‘My voice...’ he whispered.

  The door slid back and Morris came in, bright-faced.

  ‘Listen...’ he said. ‘It’s the Messenger, isn’t it? The angel...’

  Johnny switched off abruptly.

  ‘Keep away from me!’

 
‘Johnny,’ pleaded Morris. ‘I’m sorry for what I did. I was mad, I was evil... but now there has been an Intervention.’ He turned to Erikson.

  ‘Paul... were those words spoken by the Messenger?’