Carrier

by Timothy Johnson

  When Pierce passed the department heads and entered the white light of the bridge, they stared at him. His apparent indifference set them off kilter, like a glitch in a system. Their queries returned no response, no directive, breaking up their rhythm. They did not know what to do.

  Pierce knew that, and it was okay. Soon, they would understand. Soon, they would have no question what they would have to do. The protocol would tell them everything they would need to know, and by God, they better be strong enough to carry out their orders. Leadership was not for the weak-willed. Only hard men could lead in hard times.

  Their mouths gaped. Their screens flooded with unanswered requests.

  Pierce reached his platform and leaned upon the railing, his shoulder blades pressing the back of his uniform like hidden wings. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he found himself unable to say the words he knew he had to say. He knew which words he would say. He had already chosen them carefully, but a barrier in his throat or in his mind would not let them pass. Never before had he struggled so intensely to do the right thing. He understood then that ordering men to commit necessary evils was harder to bear than committing them because, when you are the hand, the burden of intent is not yours. It is leadership that bears guilt. It is the mind that remembers.

  "What's up, Captain?" Arlo said.

  "Turn us around."

  "Sir?"

  "Take us back to the Shiva."

  "You leave something behind?"

  Pierce thought about Commander Ashland, and he tried to convince himself he wasn't taking the Atlas back to help her. He was taking the Atlas back to help the crew and, in the worst-case scenario, keep their blight from reaching New Earth, but only in his darkest nightmares had he thought that far ahead.

  "Ensign Evans, on your terminal, you will find a document," Pierce said.

  Evans moved a window aside on his workstation and found the document of which Pierce spoke. "The Pandora Protocol?" He swiped through it casually and then slowed when he began to understand what it was.

  "Yes," Pierce said. "On my mark, I want you to send it to all department heads and officers."

  "Sir," Arlo said, carefully. "Do you know what this is?"

  "It's necessary," Pierce said. "It's necessary." As if repeating himself might reassure them, as if it might reassure himself, Pierce found the truth was not comforting.

  "Execute," Pierce said, and with a single word, he killed the spirit of the Atlas. By enacting the Pandora Protocol, he brought the oppression of the New Earth Council across the cosmos.

  The tragedy was that it was necessary to keep living, and that was the only thing on Pierce's mind. Soon, he was sure, survival would be the only thing anyone could think about, like a black dawn settling on a horizon where once there was light, an eclipse in his mind.

  Chapter 8: Turning Wheels And Necessary Evils

  One

  You'd never know from the odor that the water treatment facility processed so much toxic waste. It smelled like the cleanest, purest part of the ship. The scent of the water rising from the tanks as steam, beading on the walls as condensation, reminded Stellan of the lakes and rivers near the last place he called home on New Earth. He recalled the warm summer days lazing in the shade of the trees, when the world still seemed so big, when he yearned to find his place in it.

  The black water in the water plant was hidden away, though Stellan knew, even if he couldn't see or smell it, the stuff that could kill him wasn't far.

  Standing on the catwalk between tanks of clean water and gazing at the reflections from the exposed pools dance on the ceiling like ghost stars, Stellan breathed deeply, the air itself cleansing him. It smelled like dew or rain on a spring day when the trees were coming into full bloom. When he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the wind, smell the soil, and see the branches and leaves waving at him, greeting him, applauding him, inviting him.

  The hum from the light drive rippled in his head like the water below. It was quiet, except for the gentle lapping against the tank walls, and the urge struck him to turn his link off, dive in, and wash away all his anxiety.

  The charred area in the walkway from the burning ENV suit had been expertly repaired. The men in this facility loved their ship, and if Stellan didn't know there had been a fire there, he probably wouldn't have been able to tell. They had paid so much attention to detail to weld the new portions so evenly across the supports and the grating that the seams appeared natural, as if they'd been there all along.

  Stellan hoped he could repair the crew with such workmanship. He hoped he could persevere so that their losses would be minimal and they could move on as though nothing had changed. People were far too complicated for that, though. Unlike steel, people were soft, and what would happen over the next few hours would mold them and perhaps take the rest of their lives to smooth out. He hoped they would see their forced quarantine as precautionary and protective instead of oppressive. He didn't want to be that person again.

  "Back again, Chief?" Carter Raines said, emerging from the dancing shadows. "I hope there's no more trouble."

  The water treatment personnel cared for the water, and in turn, they wanted to be left alone. They'd opened up to Stellan over the years and allowed him to invade from time to time as a reclusive religion that would invite someone who was beginning to see the beauty in their peace.

  "Everything's fine, Carter," Stellan said. "But I'm going to need you to shut it down."

  "What? The water?"

  "Yes."

  "Why in the world would you want to do that?"

  Stellan saw in Carter's face and heard in his voice that his friendliness was evaporating. Carter's round edges became sharp as he raised his guard, his muscles tensing into alertness, but Stellan didn't think he would fight.

  "And then I'm going to need you and your people down in bay seventeen," Stellan said.

  With a sigh, Stellan motioned with a finger to two of his men who'd been waiting near the entrance. Andrew Reynolds and Desmond Brannigan swept in and grabbed Carter under his arms. They were good men. They would be gentle, respectful.

  "You can't do this, man!" Carter cried. "This place is our home. We live here!"

  Carter's face broke in a way Stellan had seen many times before with many others whom he told would have to leave their homes. It was the loss of control and freedom. It was heartbreak from lost trust. Just like on New Earth, it was easy to support your government when it was protecting you, when it was establishing the perimeter around your home, but it was hard for citizens to be patriotic when soldiers knocked on their door and told them they would have to move or they'd be abandoned. They'd have to comply, or they'd be shot. Men like Stellan would go as far as they needed to go if they thought it was necessary. If they believed it.

  "Tell us what's going on at least!"

  Stellan felt the urge to justify to himself that he was just the messenger. It was how he lived with it before. He'd pulled men and women away from loved ones, but it wasn't his call. He'd fired bullets at children, but he was just the hand, the mechanism.

  The problem was there might have been something worse than him out there, and if he left them on their own, they would be unprotected. It was for their own good. It was necessary.

  Stellan walked to the far end of the room where the main valve control was accessible through a small door secured by an electronic lock. He had access. He had access to everything. So he waved his link, and the door slid open, revealing a one-meter-wide pipe with an old-fashioned red valve wheel.

  "Everything will be all right," Stellan said. "You just have to trust me."

  The wheel turned with surprising ease.

  Two

  Pierce paced along the platform on the bridge, head bowed in thought, chasing down something internally. His crew watched him with electric anticipation. When they decided he would maintain a state of deep reflection indefinitely, some of them turning back to their workstations, he walked to his platf
orm and spoke.

  "Arlo," he said. "Comms to all stations."

  "Have something you need to get off your chest?" Arlo said. "Because you know you can always talk to me. I'm a good listener." His fingers danced on his holographic interface.

  "I need to address the crew." A window expanded before them, displaying the sound wave, a flat line of silence.

  "Ready when you are," Arlo said.

  Pierce drew in a deep breath."Attention all hands," he said in a grave tone. "This is the Captain."

  Everyone throughout the ship stopped what they were doing to listen. The flowing traffic in the hallways stood still. The tram arrived at a station; no one boarded. The patrons in the bar set down their drinks. The off-cycle crew in their quarters rose from their beds. Pierce's words boomed. Everyone heard him like the voice of God directly in their minds.

  "This run has been anything but ordinary. Together, we've dodged the unexpected at every pass. We dove deep into the black, and some of us have paid a price. Coincidence presents itself as a curiosity, and we struggle to connect the dots. The connections may exist. They may not. However, for the betterment of us all, we have to take certain precautionary measures. It's important that we cooperate with each other now and that we all attempt to reserve judgment. We have to lean on each other. We have to help each other. We have to remain united, or we may not come out the other side the same, if we come out the other side at all. We prepare for the worst but hope for the best."

  Pierce stood silent for a moment. Arlo and Evans turned toward him, knowing he had more to say. The department heads in the hall craned their heads for a better view. They suspected Pierce was simply allowing his words time to resonate before he stopped speaking in generalities and got to specifics.

  "I've ordered the security team to carry out a protocol that puts the ship under quarantine. The crew will be isolated into multiple zones throughout all decks. If you are currently in your residence, remain there until our ensured safety has been re-established. If you are not on the residence decks, you are to report to your nearest quarantine zone, which is being sent to your link now. Do not leave the deck you currently are on unless ordered to. If you are not feeling well or if you know someone who is not feeling well, report it to the nearest security officer.

  "At this time, I cannot reveal the specifics behind the reason for this act. However, I ask for your cooperation. Work with our security team, and we will get through this. I will keep you all apprised as we gain new information."

  By addressing the crew, Pierce created a sense of calm and order. He answered just enough of their questions to satisfy them for a time. He established enough confidence that the crew knew something was being done. But that calm and order was fleeting at best, and they all knew it. They'd lived freely so long that they forgot about the definition and finality of a strict set of guidelines. They'd forgotten what it felt like to have certain freedoms revoked in the name of civilization. They'd forgotten the oppressive spirit of the planet they'd escaped.

  "This is the Captain," he said. "That is all."

  Three

  The Atlas' corridors swelled. Stellan knew it was impossible, but looking down the long hallway leading to the dining deck, over the bobbing heads of the crew who were shuffling toward the designated quarantine zone, he could have sworn the walls pushed outward.

  With fear and panic making the air musty, friends and acquaintances found each other and moved quietly together, embracing tightly. All the while, Stellan and his men, now armed to reinforce the message that cooperation would be appreciated, watched over the crowds at pre-established checkpoints. Their weapons added an ultimatum even though no one explicitly stated it. Those symbols reminded the crew what life on New Earth was like before they came to the freedom of the Atlas.

  Doug stood beside Stellan at their checkpoint outside the cafeteria and bar, a single hatch door leading to a room that was used to being filled to capacity. Now, they were pushing that limit a little further.

  "I don't understand," Doug said. "No one will look us in the eye."

  Stellan didn't respond. Doug would either get it, or he wouldn't. If someone had tried to explain it to Stellan when he was in the Unity Corps, he wouldn't have gotten it either. So he simply focused on helping people through the doorway.

  The sweet elderly woman who worked for housekeeping and changed Stellan's sheets approached. Her name was Bernadette, and Stellan gently took her hand.

  "Watch your step, Bernie," he said. She accepted his help but showed no appreciation.

  "Spoiled brats. All of 'em," Doug said when Bernadette was out of earshot, the cacophony of sobs masking his words.

  "You really have no idea what we're doing, do you?"

  "We're helping them," Doug said. "They should be thanking us. We're risking our lives here just to give them a chance."

  Stellan shook his head and went back to watching the crowd.

  "What?" Doug asked.

  "Killing and dying are easy," Stellan said. "Living is the hardest thing a man can do."

  Doug's eyes glazed over as if considering a complex math problem. "What does that mean?"

  "It took me a long time to figure out that killing and dying are pretty defined terms," Stellan said. "Everyone's got a different take on what it means to live. These people came out here to get away from all of this. It's why I never armed you guys until now. It's why I never needed to. We let them live the way they wanted and asked for little in return."

  Doug furrowed his brow, trying to understand. Stellan knew he never would.

  "Please!" someone cried. "Don't do this!"

  "What are we, cattle?" another yelled.

  "Just tell us what's going on!"

  Stellan expected Doug's caustic tongue to make matters worse. He didn't give Doug the chance.

  "Everything's going to be all right," he said. "Help us help you, and we'll all get through this."

  "The last of them are through checkpoint B," one of Stellan's men said over a comm channel.

  A moment later, Stellan saw a break in the line of people as the tail end lurched around a corner. Their low heads bobbed and weaved toward the dining deck.

  When they all were inside, Stellan turned to see them finally looking at him with quiet, pleading eyes. The crew of the Atlas were on the ship because they had no fight left. So exhausted from suppressing their anger, they resolved to the space. Of course, the anger remained. There was plenty of that left.

  "Keep each other safe," Stellan said. "We'll come back for you soon."

  As he closed the door, the quiet erupted into unintelligible protests and spitting hate. The hatch sealed, and Stellan waved his link over the holographic interface, changing the green light of access to the red light of finality.

  Four

  One-by-one, the quarantine zone supervisors checked in to verify that everyone had been secured. Every zone had finished with the exception of cargo bay seventeen, the only bay the Atlas hadn't utilized because of too many nonfunctioning cranes. It would house hundreds of crew for the time the protocol was in effect, and they were close to being finished, too.

  In the stillness and quiet, Stellan had the distinct feeling the Atlas was dying. The halls were a wasteland of cold, lifeless metal, the illuminated halls picked clean like bones. Even the light drive's hum was weak and distant.

  Stellan checked a schematic of the Atlas on his link, marking each active link on the ship with a red dot. On the blue background of the holographic image, the concentration of the links in the quarantine zones looked like clouds of blood in water. He checked his own location, a speck in the starboard main thoroughfare, surrounded by blue for hundreds of meters in every direction. In a place where he was usually no more than a dividing wall away from another human being, the understanding of the physical separation combined with the quiet felt all too isolating.

  The schematic returned to his link, and Stellan continued down the corridor. Turning a corner, he expected to see mo
re blank, white hallway. Instead, he found Agent Adelynn Skinner, leaning against a wall with her arms crossed, as if materializing from the nothingness was no big deal.

  "Well, hello there," she said cheerily.

  The Pandora Protocol had almost made him forget how he knew without a doubt that she was responsible for everything, and he charged her with a war cry he hadn't heard himself make in ages. In an instant, he was on her, pinning her against the wall with his forearm across her neck, with all the conviction of instinct, of knowing her guilt without needing proof. He wouldn't consider until later how she didn't even try to defend herself.

  "You did this!" he screamed in her face, feeling satisfaction from the spit that flew from his lips. "Admit it! You did all of this! Why!?"

  She grasped his arm and struggled only to allow herself to breathe and speak.

  "Why would I do such a thing?" she said. "Your prejudice is clouding your judgment. My mission is to ensure safe delivery of the precious cargo, not maroon us in space. If you let up, I'll explain."

  "You're lying!" Stellan pushed his arm into her throat with each syllable. The strain flushed her face with crimson, approaching purple. "What is your mission?"

  "I may be a liar. I'll give you that. But about this, I'm telling the truth. Our missions are the same."

  "No." Stellan backed off a little so she wouldn't asphyxiate. "My interest is in saving lives. You care only about the material. Why?"

  "The Council ordered me to—"

  "Not good enough. What's the reason they ordered you to bring it back?" He eased back into her, and she struggled against his forearm.

  "They want to study it. As I said."

  Stellan had an epiphany, his attention drawing away. "They know what it does. They think they can use it to control people."

  "Stellan, please. We have a common interest in getting home, and that's what matters. I'm here to help."