The Galahad Legacy

by Dom Testa

  Triana leaned forward. “I hope you’ve finally accepted the decision that I made to … well, to do what I did. I’m sure you were angry at first, but I hope now, after everything that’s happened, that you’re able to forgive me and let us move on.”

  “Sure,” he said again.

  She debated whether or not to add a final comment, and finally plunged in. “I know that it wasn’t just the pressure of command that I heaped onto you with no warning. The election must have been excruciating for you, too. I’m sorry about that. I never had any doubt about coming back, so I never thought that you’d have to face that. I mean, you know—”

  He cut her off. “It’s okay. You couldn’t know that she’d run for the position. Believe me, I was shocked. Besides, she never would have done it if it wasn’t for some prodding. But I don’t want to get into that. It’s over and done with.”

  Triana stared into his eyes. There was pain lurking within them, but she’d get no more out of him on the subject. Instead, she shifted into work mode. “Tell me about the shields.”

  He let out a long breath. “It’s iffy. We’ve diverted power to help get us through the worst of the shock waves, but at some point they’re gonna cave. Unless we can get away from the waves.”

  “Can we throw more power into the shields?”

  “Maybe, but as Roc pointed out in his somewhat irritating style, we eventually get to a point of diminished returns. And it’s no one’s fault, really. Dr. Zimmer and his team could never have planned for wormhole shock waves. Or Channel waves, whatever we’re calling them now.”

  Triana leaned back. “And the options thrown out by Torrec; initial thoughts?”

  Gap toyed with the cup of water again. “Let me ask you something first. Do you trust it? Or him, I guess. Do you trust him?”

  “I don’t know. On one hand it’s because of his species that we’re in a lot of the mess we’re in. But on the other hand, I’ve seen some of the things they can do, and words can’t describe how impressive it is. They’ve learned to harness a power in the universe that we could only scribble theories about. They’ve relocated themselves, and built an environment that serves them well. And they’ve covered…”

  Her voice trailed away.

  “Covered?” Gap said.

  “Well, I was going to say the galaxy, but I think it’s much more than that. I don’t think their Channels are limited to just our little neighborhood. But whenever I try to talk about that, Torrec is vague. Not really evasive, just vague, as if he thinks we’re not ready for that information.”

  Gap frowned. “We weren’t ready for the Cassini, either. I’m sick of being the scrawny runt.”

  Triana laughed. “Something we better get used to, now that we’ve left the nest. It seems that lots of others got here long before us. I suppose we’re lucky that the Dollovit haven’t squashed us like bugs.”

  “Maybe they still will,” Gap said.

  They sat quietly for a moment. Triana got up and refilled her water, and glanced back at the star field in the window on her way back to her seat. Untold trillions of worlds, each struggling to produce a life-form capable of making its way in the universe. Each coming across the Cassini, the Dollovit, and who knew what other advanced civilizations. How many survived those encounters? How many adapted? How many just … gave up?

  The crew of Galahad would never give up. Not if she had anything to do with it.

  “We’re back to the original question,” she said, sitting down again. “What does your gut tell you about the options?”

  Gap let out another long breath. Triana had seen him do this many times, and it usually meant he was uncomfortable. In this case, she couldn’t blame him.

  “Well,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll have this same discussion with the Council.” He glanced up, and she gave a quick nod. “But I suppose each of the three options has its merits, and each has its danger. If we stay on our current course, I’m afraid I agree with Torrec; we’ll probably break down and get cooked. Hannah’s bruised space theory seems to stand up to what we’re experiencing.

  “If we take a chance on going through the Channel, I’m assuming the ship will physically be fine. I mean, obviously your pod zipped through without a problem.”

  He fixed his gaze on her. “Then we’re left with a decision between Eos and the Dollovit system. And again, both have pros and cons.” He shook his head. “I guess I don’t know yet which way I’d lean. I know we need to make a decision quickly, but I’d have to think about it some more.”

  Triana bit her lip. It seemed unanimous that to do nothing meant death within a week; that left them a choice between Door Number One and Door Number Two. Behind one lay a potentially harsh, cruel planetary system, one that would tax every ounce of their mettle. They’d known that from the start. But at the start they hadn’t had a Door Number Two option, which suddenly offered them a softer, easier life, but a life where they’d never again set foot on solid land. And they’d be at the mercy of the Dollovit.

  “We’ll all get together tomorrow morning,” she said. “I want all of the Council members to get away from work early tonight, and do nothing but think about what we’re facing. We need everyone ready to hash this out, the sooner the better.” She paused, and then added in a softer voice: “And if it’s okay with you, I’m going to include Hannah from now on. I feel that she’s earned a spot with this Council. I hope that’s not a problem for you.”

  Gap stared across the table, motionless for what seemed ages. Then he shook his head. “No, no problem. You’re right, she’s earned it. And besides, she’s one of the best scientific minds on the ship. She’d be an asset.”

  “Good,” Triana said. They both stood and stared out the window.

  “Just think,” Gap said. “Within a few days, we might very well be at our new home.”

  Then he turned and faced Triana. “Wherever that might be.”

  * * *

  An hour later, after a hasty dinner that she consumed without interest, Triana sprawled onto the floor of her room, leaning against the bed, grasping her journal. One of the few personal items that she’d brought aboard, it allowed her to work out her thoughts visually. Something about seeing her life in written form gave her a fresh perspective.

  She opened the journal to a blank page.

  Once again, so much is happening so fast. More than anything I’d like to just unplug, to coast for awhile. Each day has a way of filling up until nothing else can fit within it. Maximum pressure, applied at all times.

  I’m glad to be back, to see familiar faces. But at the same time, I’m responsible for these people, and after what I saw on the other side, I’m confused. Do I know what’s best for the crew? Will I make the best decision for them?

  And then, just as quickly, I remember that I chose to make that jump so I could make the best decisions. It’s why I took the chance in the first place.

  She rubbed her forehead, then tilted her head back and closed her eyes. She fought to clear her mind, trying to push the weight of their latest crisis to the side. Her breathing relaxed gradually, and she felt her pulse slow. It was a method she’d learned from Lita; not quite meditation, but rather a way of taking control of her body, manipulating it to behave the way she wanted. It wasn’t always successful, but tonight’s weariness helped.

  After reaching a plateau, she allowed her mind to drift, to seek out a peaceful place. It was no surprise that it found its way to her dad. She saw his face, his fun, devious smile. There was no sound with this image, only a mental movie, played out in jerky glimpses, as if frames of the movie had been cut away. Scenes jumped ahead, but it seemed that nothing important was stripped out. With no soundtrack, Triana’s mind focused entirely on the visual. Her dad, in the middle of a mountain meadow, running away from her, yet turning and motioning her to follow, urging her to keep up. In a heartbeat he was across the field and clambering up the rocky side of a steep hill. Again, he waved for her to follow, faster, faster.
<
br />   Once they’d reached a higher meadow, he backpedaled, laughing at her and shrugging his shoulders. Why? What was he unsure of? What was he saying? Then, turning, he jogged toward the edge of the clearing. A strong breeze had picked up, and Triana felt herself running against the wind. It forced tears into her eyes, blurring her sight. She put up a hand to shield her face, peeking between her fingers, trying to follow her dad’s lead.

  He’d stopped.

  When Triana reached his side, she wanted so much to talk with him. But this was a silent world. He motioned to her, then pointed ahead. Turning in slow motion, with the wind continuing to push against her face, she saw what he indicated. A path meandered uphill barely ten feet before it split into two; one leading left, through a dense copse of trees, heavy with underbrush and thorny vines, the other dropping downhill to the right, a gentle slope with soft grass underfoot and few trees to block the way.

  She looked back to the left and shuddered. The wind had intensified, relentless as it pushed her. She steadied herself, then looked down the gentle path. After a moment’s hesitation, she took one step to the right.

  The grasp of her father’s hand on her upper arm was almost painful. He’d never, ever hurt her, and it wasn’t his intention now, either. But his grip was steel as he pulled her back. She turned, again in slow motion, and came face-to-face with the man who meant everything to her. The man who’d loved her, raised her, taught her. The man who, with his death just weeks away, had poured all of his efforts into securing a place for his daughter with the Galahad mission. The man who never once let her down.

  Now he held her arm and stared into her eyes. His smile was gone, replaced by a look of sadness.

  He shook his head: No.

  7

  After a long day updating records and working with Manu on his new duties, Lita sat slumped at her desk in Sick House. It was quiet at this time of night, which was fine with her. Her head hung over the back of the chair and she stared at the pebbled ceiling tiles. Although the hunger pangs had subsided, she debated whether to visit the Dining Hall before padding off to bed. Her meal schedule had been thrown off in the last few weeks, and too many skipped lunches and dinners were beginning to take a toll. The last thing she needed during a critical event was an energy crash.

  But now she was too tired to face the usually boisterous crowd that gathered late for dinner. She’d start fresh with a protein-rich breakfast after a good night’s sleep. A quick check on Merit, she decided, and then out the door.

  He was propped up in bed, concentrating on something on the vidscreen beside him. A brief flash of his dark eyes was all Lita saw before his attention was back on the screen.

  “What’s so interesting?” she asked, picking up his chart.

  “Nothing you’d find interesting,” Merit said. He automatically lifted his arm for Lita to begin her pulse and blood pressure checks without taking his eyes off the text.

  “I might surprise you,” she said, taking hold of his wrist. “I have lots of interests.”

  He leveled an emotionless stare at her. “It’s an essay by a nineteenth-century British lord who believed that people only acted like sheep because they have an inherent desire to follow, and those who dare to rise up and try to lead are going against human nature and must, through the eyes of the commoner, be struck down, even if violence is the only answer.”

  Lita allowed a faint smile to cross her face. “Oh, is that all? That’s a little too whimsical for me. I prefer an essay that’s a little heavier.”

  Merit grunted, then scanned the page on his vidscreen. “He’s not the first to say it. And he’s absolutely right: people want to follow, which is why they distrust their leaders. If someone wants to lead, there must be something wrong with them.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Lita said. “Seems to me that we only distrust bad leaders. Otherwise I think we admire a take-charge individual.”

  “There’s nothing that says you can’t admire someone and still want to take them down. Build them up, then tear them down. That goes back thousands of years.”

  “Then tell me, Merit, why you so desperately want to lead. You seem to want nothing more than to be followed and loved. If it’s impossible to be both, why are you so hungry for it?”

  A thick strand of black hair fell across one eye as he looked up at her. For the first time it occurred to Lita that hair was a sort of shield for Merit, a way for him to hide while he formulated his plans, only occasionally peeking out at the world. Most big talkers needed something to hide behind, whether it was an anonymous front, a ring of brainwashed followers, or an artificial wall. Merit’s hair was his wall, his security blanket that allowed him to talk tough while shrinking back out of sight when things got hot.

  “That’s like asking why you’re hungry to have brown eyes,” he said.

  “Ohhh, I see,” Lita said, reaching for his chart. “You’re not choosing this, it was chosen for you. It’s…” She paused for dramatic effect, then finished: “… your destiny.”

  Merit shook his head. “I thought I could have an intelligent conversation with you, Lita, but I guess not. If you don’t understand, why should I waste your time?” He nestled down against his pillow and adjusted the vidscreen, openly ignoring her presence. With an amused smile she finished making her notes on the chart, then walked to the door where she turned to face him.

  “You’re healing fine, so I’ll be discharging you in a day or two. Just remember something, Merit. Calling yourself a leader is one thing, but the true test comes when you turn around to see if anyone’s following.”

  She left before she could see him roll his eyes and turn his back to the door.

  * * *

  Gap was startled out of a deep sleep. His roommate, Daniil, was shaking him.

  “Hey, wake up,” Daniil said. “Roc’s been calling you.”

  “Yeah, wake up already,” the computer said. “Wow, when you shut down, you really shut down, don’t you? I thought you were dead until I saw the drool.”

  Gap pushed himself up on one elbow and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Four-fifteen,” Daniil said, yawning and walking back across the room. “Good night again. You boys play nice, okay?”

  “I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in forever,” Gap said. “So I’m guessing that there’s something important going on. Or are you just being cruel?”

  “I woke Triana, too. Apparently another wormhole opened up the same time the last one did, but this new one is far enough ahead of us that we only experienced a minor ripple. Similar to the shock waves that are taking out our shields.”

  Gap fought to shake the fog from his head. “So … you’re saying you made a mistake? You thought it was part of the space bruise, but it was another Channel opening?”

  “I’m saying that you might want to get out of your choo-choo jammies and stumble up to the Control Room. We’re getting closer to this new opening.”

  “I don’t have choo-choo jammies,” Gap said. “Why the Control Room? More vultures zipping our way or something?”

  “No,” Roc said. “No more vultures. In fact, the ones on the skin of the ship started peeling off about twenty minutes ago, and they’re already on their way to the Channel. I guess they’ve finished their little mapping project and are reporting back to base.”

  “Okay, so why did you wake me up?”

  “Because, sleepyhead, I think we might need to go fishing again.”

  Gap let this sink in for a moment. He wrinkled his forehead and said: “Something else has fallen out of the wormhole.”

  “There are seventeen new things out there, unless I’ve miscounted.”

  “Seventeen what?”

  “Sixteen pods, and one amoeba.”

  In a flash Gap was wide awake. “Pods? Like … our pod? The one we picked up from SAT33?”

  “Identical, at least on the outside. All nice and shiny.”

  Before Gap could respond, the computer added: “Isn�
�t this great? It’s like Christmas or something. You never know what’s gonna pop out of Santa’s bag around here.”

  * * *

  Morning light—or the Galahad equivalent of it—played across the domes. The artificial suns gradually began their daily heating, backlighting a pale mist that rose from the damp leaves toward the recirculating ducts within the ceiling grid. It lent a brief jungle feel for an hour or two before evaporation pushed the environment toward a drier state.

  The bees began their morning ritual, lifting off from one colorful plant and passing its pollen grains to another. Along the surface of the soil, earthworms finished their nighttime grazing of organic matter and started their diligent descent into the ground, mixing the soil and aerating the plants in the process.

  The human element made its first appearance just before six. Teams of Galahad crew members trudged along established paths, some with tools slung over their shoulders, others pulling carts laden with fertilizer, pruning gear, or baskets to hold the day’s bounty. Except for a few muted conversations, the farmworkers quietly went about their jobs, anxious to get their chores underway before the Farms’ overseer, Bon Hartsfield, began his own rounds. More than a few of the workers had experienced firsthand the fury caused by a lack of discipline on their part. And, once experienced, few were likely to provoke it again.

  But they were unaware that Bon was already deep within the fields. He’d slept overnight in his office, rising at four-thirty to eat two energy bars and plan his route for the morning. His own schedule, as routine as that of the bees and worms, meant patrolling the crops in both domes, checking for damage or neglect, inspecting new plantings and recent harvests. He skimmed the previous day’s reports and made several notations on them in his severe, left-handed scrawl.

  At five-thirty he pushed into the small clearing, hoping to finish his task before the Farms became crowded. It wouldn’t take long.

  Within minutes he had connected, his head back, a bead of sweat on his forehead. His eyes glowed a dull orange. He stood, rigid but shaking, connecting on his own terms, fighting to maintain control.