by Dom Testa
She laughed. “Yeah, why not?” Pointing almost directly overhead, she said, “Tonight it was Arcturus that turned on first. That red one, right there.”
Bon glanced up momentarily, then back at the blond girl on the ground. “It’s a red giant. Probably similar to what our own sun will look like in a few billion years.”
Alexa raised her eyebrows. “Yes, but that’s not the good stuff.”
Bon shifted his weight to his right foot. “The ancient Polynesians used it to navigate back and forth from Hawaii. Is that the good stuff?”
“No, that’s the science. I’m talking about the romance. In Greek mythology, the story of Arcturus was rather sad.” When Bon didn’t answer, she leaned back on her elbows and stared up into space. “A story of love and jealousy. Would you like to hear it?”
“Mythology doesn’t really interest me,” Bon said. “There were two kinds of people in those days: those who sat around and made up stories, and those who used the stars to actually get work done.”
Alexa laughed. “And there’s no question which line you descended from.”
A smile flickered across Bon’s face. “You’re right about that. I’m a farmer, from a long line of farmers. You can thank the stars for teaching my ancestors when the time was right to plant and harvest.”
With a bow of her head, Alexa said, “On behalf of my silly romantic ancestors, thank you, thank you very much.” She patted the ground beside her. “Have a seat; you make me nervous standing there.”
Bon knelt and gently gathered an earthworm that was edging along the soil. He placed it a few feet away, then sat down. “You said in your email that you wanted to talk about something in particular tonight.”
His directness never failed to catch Alexa off guard. She took a moment to collect her thoughts before looking into his face.
“I’ve … I’ve had another vision.”
Bon studied her eyes. “You’ve had several, but you’ve never looked like this.”
She nodded, and her voice fell to a whisper. “This was different.”
They sat quietly for a moment. They heard distant laughter from a handful of crew members, but it was obvious they were heading in another direction and would not disturb this small clearing. Alexa fidgeted, looking upward again, toward the starlight that fought its way through the slowly dimming natural light of the dome.
“I wasn’t sure I should talk to you about this. Well, talk to anyone about it, actually. But … but I knew you would understand better than anyone.”
Bon ran a finger through the soil beside him, carving a miniature channel, before filling it in and starting again a few inches to the side. “Maybe understand isn’t the right word. You have visions; I get … feelings. They’re not the same thing.”
“But you understand how difficult it is to be on the receiving end,” Alexa said, and offered a smile with a shrug. “You’re at least a good listener.”
He kept his gaze down at the ground. “Tell me what happened.”
Alexa took several deep breaths before responding. “I saw death.”
Bon’s head snapped up, but he let his face ask the obvious questions.
“I don’t know who,” Alexa said, “and I don’t know how. All I know is that I saw someone’s funeral.” She spent a minute recounting all that she had seen in her dream, the words picking up intensity as they spilled from her. Bon listened, his finger once again scoring grooves into the dirt. When she lapsed into silence, he spoke.
“You said that people spoke at this … this funeral. Couldn’t you make out any details, any information about the person?”
Alexa shook her head. “I heard the sounds of people talking, and I understood that it was a eulogy. I don’t remember hearing anything specific.” She seemed to struggle to find the best description. “You know how you overhear a conversation, and you somehow know what they’re talking about without grasping any exact details? Besides, it was a dream, or a vision, or … something. It made sense at the time, while I was floating in the middle of it.”
Bon nodded. After a moment of hesitation he said, “Do you have any guesses at all? Anything that feels like … I don’t know, an instinct?”
A small chuckle escaped from Alexa. “Remember, that’s your specialty. I have the visions, you have the feelings.” Then, when he didn’t answer, her face grew serious again, and she reached out to place a hand on his knee. “Bon … I’m really scared.”
He looked at her hand for a moment before covering it with his own. “Yeah, I know. But not all of your visions have necessarily played out, right?”
“I don’t know. Some of them have been so unrelated to anything in my experience, I don’t know if they’re happening or not. I mean, they seem to be real.”
Bon raised his other hand palm up. “Right, but isn’t it possible that what you’re seeing are just possibilities? We barely understand even a fraction of the way the universe works, but we know that there are an infinite number of possible outcomes. It’s like … like an infinitely long hallway, with an infinite number of doors, all with a different future. Isn’t it possible that your mind is simply opening doors at random, and seeing something that might—or might not—happen?”
They both seemed to consider this, although Alexa’s face betrayed skepticism. The sounds of scattered activity around the dome filtered across the fields to their isolated setting, along with the gurgle of an irrigation pump two or three rows away.
“Are we going to get wet?” Alexa said, peering through the leaves.
A wry smile worked across Bon’s face. “I adjusted the system to skip this spot for another hour.”
Alexa grinned back, and gave his knee a small squeeze. “Wow, it’s nice to know the manager of the place.”
They remained that way for a minute, taking in the sounds, the smells, the atmosphere of their oasis of solitude. Finally, Alexa removed her hand and pulled her hair behind her ears.
“I suppose you might be right. I’m not even sure what I could do, anyway. I don’t think I should tell Triana.” She hesitated, as if waiting for agreement. When it didn’t come, she asked. “Do you?”
Bon shrugged. “What if you wait to see if it happens again? You’re right; I don’t know what anyone could do without more information. Maybe you’ll … I don’t know, see something else that might help.”
“I’d have to go back through that same door,” she said.
The gurgle of the irrigation pump was replaced by the thump of water pressure kicking up a notch. From twenty feet away they could hear water flicking across leaves. Alexa began to think that Bon’s attention had been diverted back to his work until he fixed her with a look.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you have some control over which door you open.”
She studied his face, as an image of endless possibilities opened before her.
* * *
Gap hunched over his workstation in the Control Room, shifting back and forth between two monitors, oblivious, it seemed, to the activity going on around him. Triana twice attempted to communicate with him, but gave up; with only minutes remaining until Galahad streaked through the cluster of vultures, his mind was locked onto the task of determining the outcome.
The fact that there were too many unknowns in the equation didn’t seem to make a difference to him.
With a sigh, he finally pushed back from his station and looked around the room to find Triana. She threw another fruitless glance at the large vidscreen before walking over to stand next to him. He seemed to understand what question her raised eyebrows implied.
“The best I can figure out,” he said, “is that there are close to ten of these things out there. They’re not that big, which makes them tough to nail down, and they’re in constant movement. They flit around almost like moths near a light.”
Triana nodded, even though this wasn’t exactly new information. She knew that Gap was doing the best he could, with an enthusiasm she hadn’t seen from him in a while. He recently had battled
discouragement over his contributions—or his perceived lack of contributions—to the mission; in a way, for Gap the intrigue brought on by the vultures was good medicine.
Roc chimed in with his own observations. “Their wingspan is approximately one meter across, their composition is unknown, and their sense of drama is impeccable.”
“Can anyone make an educated guess what will happen when we cross paths?” Triana said. “I’m hearing a lot of ‘I don’t know,’ so how about a few cases of ‘I think.’”
“I think their mission is to either check us out as we shoot by, or try to board us,” Gap said.
“I agree,” Roc said. “They are obviously quite advanced technologically, if they were able to spot us, plot our course, and arrange to intercept us; crashing into us would not make much sense. Ever seen a bug hit a windshield? Yuck.”
Triana looked at Gap. “All right. How much time?”
“Two minutes.”
With a determined step, Triana walked to her command post and punched the intercom, which fed the entire ship.
“If I could have your attention,” she said, keeping her voice as calm as possible. “We have picked up some sort of escort out of the Kuiper Belt. Eight to ten objects, roughly the size of large birds. They are pacing us, and appear to want to make contact.” She paused, and could only imagine the impact these words were having upon a stunned crew. Swallowing hard, she began again. “I have no idea what we can expect; maybe a jolt, maybe something more violent. But whatever it might be, it’s going to happen in about one minute. Please prepare yourself.”
She snapped off the intercom and wondered exactly what that preparation would consist of. Holding on to something? Sitting down?
Roc began a countdown. “Thirty seconds to contact … twenty … ten…”
Triana found herself unconsciously reaching out and grasping the arm of Gap, who responded by putting one hand on her back. They both stared at the large vidscreen.
Suddenly Gap cried out. “Did you see that?”
Triana strained her eyes. “I didn’t see—”
But then she did. At the extreme edges of the screen, on both sides, wispy black shapes, almost appearing to be doing cartwheels, spinning, vibrating, flew into her field of vision. They flashed briefly, a muted shade of blue-green, and then were gone.
Half a minute elapsed, with no sound from anyone, and no apparent reaction from Galahad. Triana gradually let go of Gap’s arm. He kept his hand on the small of her back. They looked at each other without saying a word.
Finally, one of the other crew members on duty in the Control Room spoke up. “What happened? Did they miss us?”
Gap bent back over the panel before him, but it was Roc who answered.
“At the point of intercept we were able to positively identify eight of them. They are no longer registering. Wait, check that. I have one vulture, trailing us … now peeling off.”
Triana considered this. “And the other seven?”
“I have to assume,” Roc said, “that they have indeed grabbed hold of us, and are comfortably attached to the outside of our ship.”
7
I like games. As part of my programming and training, I was taught hundreds of them. I’ll tell you right now, I have no use for Duck Duck Goose; I got no legs, which means I get killed every time. I’ll stick with the cerebral games, thanks.
Not only do I enjoy poker, but I love the way poker’s colorful language works its way into human relationships. Playing something “close to the chest,” or “vest,” comes from the way poker players hold their cards close so that no one else can see them. Well, it’s the same with budding relationships: neither side seems to want to reveal too much to the other.
Plus you seem to always try to “keep a poker face”; you keep important information in reserve, which means you have “an ace up your sleeve”; and you never want to “tip your hand.” I’m telling you, poker players and budding romances have an uncanny amount in common.
Triana and Bon have been playing a kind of poker game for months … and I still don’t think they are ready to “lay their cards on the table.”
* * *
It was late, the ship’s lights had dimmed for the night, and the Dining Hall was almost empty. Triana sat in her customary spot near the back, facing the door, and picked her way through a plate of mixed vegetables. She had not eaten since breakfast, and yet found that she was forcing herself to take in the nourishment. In the four hours since their encounter with the vultures, she had been unwilling to break away from the Control Room, although no new information was forthcoming.
They had indeed picked up some uninvited guests; seven entities that they described as space vultures had apparently latched onto Galahad. A report from crew members indicated that one of the vultures was firmly attached to the outside of Dome 1 like a leech. Its dark color would normally have camouflaged it against the black background of space, but following Triana’s warning message many of the farmworkers had been peering upward through the domes. Several gasped when a dark shape blotted out a small section of stars.
The other six could not be seen, but Roc assured Triana that they were there. He was busy programming many of the ship’s external cameras to begin a sweeping scan to locate the remaining vultures.
Triana poked at a piece of carrot before opting for a hunk of green pepper. One of the last groups of crew members in the room began to clear their table and make for the door, which opened and admitted Bon. He quickly picked up a tray and filled it with fruit and vegetables, an energy block, and a cup of water, before turning and making eye contact with Triana.
She watched him hesitate, and knew what thoughts were tumbling through his mind. He would ordinarily have chosen to sit by himself, but the absence of other people in the Dining Hall would have made it rude—even by Bon’s standards—to ignore her completely. With what appeared to be a resigned sigh, he carried his tray to her table.
“I can’t remember the last time I ran into you here,” Triana said.
“Then you must not usually come this late,” he said, pulling out the chair across from her and sitting down. “I always wait until things have cleared out.”
“Surprise, surprise,” she said with a smirk. “You? Avoiding people?”
He fixed her with his blue eyes. “I work late. This is more convenient.”
“Uh-huh.” She picked up a wedge of cucumber and took a bite, then held up the remnant. “In case I haven’t told you in a while, this is all delicious. You do know your stuff, I’ll give you that.”
He didn’t respond, his usual style in dealing with compliments. Instead he concentrated on quickly eating. Triana waited a moment before changing the subject.
“Did you happen to see the blob hanging outside Dome 1?”
Bon nodded. “Not much to see. A black triangle.” He took a bite from his energy bar. “What are your plans now?”
She shrugged. “It’s one of the things we’ll talk about in the Council meeting tomorrow. As of right now they don’t seem to be doing anything. Of course, we don’t know that for certain.”
They sat in silence for a moment before Bon spoke up. “I suppose we could ask our friends about it.”
Triana had been lifting a glass of juice to her lips. She stopped and stared at him. “You mean the Cassini.”
He nodded.
She set the glass back on the table, took the napkin from her lap, and wiped her mouth. All of this allowed her to process the thoughts that were tumbling through her head.
“I guess this is as good a time as any to talk about this,” she said. “I have some thoughts about your connection with the Cassini, and I’d like for you to hear me out.”
She took his lack of response as permission to continue.
“I’ll just come right out and say it: I’m concerned about your recent … fondness, I guess, for making that connection.”
His eyes never left his tray. “What do you mean?”
“I
mean that you seem much too eager to link up with them, especially considering the pain that it causes. The obvious comparison would be the drug addict who needs his fix.” She moved her tray to one side, clasped her hands together, and leaned forward. “I know you, and I know you’ll brush that off, but think about it. The link is agonizing for you, and yet you are beginning to crave it. Talk to me; what is happening during this connection that has you so … addicted?”
He looked up at her. “You didn’t have these concerns when I was getting the information we needed to escape the Kuiper Belt.”
“Yes, I did. I shouldn’t have waited this long to talk about it with you.”
He set down his half-eaten bar. “The pain isn’t nearly as bad as it was in the beginning.”
“You mean you’re building up a tolerance.”
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
“So it won’t be long until you feel nothing at all? Just a quick high, with a side of orange eyes?”
He grunted. “Listen, this conversation is ridiculous. I’m not a Cassini addict.”
Triana looked back and forth between his eyes. “You’re avoiding my question. What happens to you during the connection? There’s obviously something that attracts you.”
Bon sat back and pulled a strand of his long dark hair out of his face. “I didn’t ask for this responsibility, remember? In fact, I seem to recall a time when you begged me to make contact with them. Why are you pestering me?”
“Because I—” She broke off at the sound of her own voice, surprised at how loud it had burst from her. The handful of crew members on the other side of the room looked around, then returned to their own discussion. Triana felt a flush creep into her face, embarrassed at her sudden lack of control. Bon appeared to study her.
“You mentioned responsibility,” she said in a calmer voice. “Well, don’t forget that I have a few myself, including the well-being of the crew. That includes you. If I have concerns over your mental connection with an alien force, it’s my duty to discuss those with you, and if I feel it’s necessary, make any command decision that I believe is required.”