by Linn Schwab
She took a sip of champagne to calm her nerves while maintaining a cautious distance from him. “But what exactly is your goal, Antoine? I don’t understand what you’re trying to accomplish. What could you possibly hope to get out of this?”
“I get what every shipbuilder wants,” he explained, glancing up at the distant stars as a cool breeze blew across his face. He grinned and raised his glass up again. “A contract to build another ship.”
* * * *
The Livingstone’s bridge had fallen silent for a while, aside from the faint chatter of its instrumentation. Gwen leaned against the side of Jüergens’ chair and studied the quiet expression on his face. It was a look she’d seen many times in the past, and quite often over the previous two years in particular. Two years of prepping and planning for this undertaking, and doubts and concerns over whether it would be worth it in the end. She rested her hands on his shoulders and flashed an inquisitive look at him. “Something’s troubling you,” she said. “You’re not having second thoughts about this now, are you?”
Jüergens slowly shook his head. “No,” he said, “It’s not that. Something you said a few minutes ago. I was just thinking about Elise’s unborn daughter. With all of the planning and uncertainty I’ve been dealing with, there’s something I hadn’t really considered before now.”
“And what’s that?”
He turned his head and looked up at her with subtle traces of remorse in his eyes. “She’s going to be the first human child who will never have breathed Earth’s atmosphere. The thought of that just makes me feel like maybe I’ve cheated her out of something. Something that every human child should probably have a right to experience. And because I convinced her parents to go along with this, it’s an experience she’s going to miss out on.”
Gwen nodded and cocked her head. “And what about our own child,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Stefan as he stumbled around, exploring the bridge. “Did you really even bother to consider all the things that he is going to be missing out on? Trips to the countryside. Building sand castles at the beach. The sweet aroma of salt water taffy being pulled at the local amusement park. And what about the other forty–six children? It’s all well and good for you and I to sacrifice our own futures for this cause. But what kind of childhoods are they going to have, growing up confined to the inside of a space ship? Doesn’t that bother you as well?”
“Of course it does,” Jüergens replied. “There’s nothing more upsetting to me than the tragedy of childhoods lost. And you’re right, Earth may not be the pristine jewel it once was, but at least for now, it still has an abundance of riches to experience. Even if they are beginning to dwindle. The only consolation I can offer is that the sacrifice we’re all making right now may ultimately result in a brighter future. And if things don’t start to turn around very soon now, Earth may not have all that much left to offer anyway.”
PARADISE 048
>>
When the missiles began raining down on Trafalgar, Peter realized his primary objective had changed. He could tell by the relentless onslaught of explosions that nothing in the vicinity could have survived. Which meant the Melbourne had likely been reduced to molten slag, leaving him with nowhere to land his fighter. It was time to abandon the now pointless effort to track down and obliterate that enemy destroyer. Whatever threat that one small ship still posed was of minuscule importance in the greater scheme of things. His own survival was now his first priority. And the prospects for that seemed very bleak at the moment.
So close, he thought, watching the distant detonations as they pummeled and shredded the ranks of helpless battleships. We were so close to having a chance to end this awful conflict, and all the suffering and misery that it inflicts. For a moment, he struggled with the burden of knowledge that the task of preserving that chance at victory had been placed squarely on his shoulders ... and he had failed! Failed to achieve what should have been a simple assignment for a seasoned pilot of his skill. Failed to put a stop to the fighting and killing that gnawed at his conscience continuously. And most importantly, he’d failed to make good on a promise to himself to end the war as a tribute to the memory of his daughter — something he’d long ago realized was his greatest motivation for fighting. All I had to do was destroy that one ship, he told himself, and all of this madness might soon have been over. But that one ship had successfully managed to elude him and quash his hopes for a quick end to the conflict.
After briefly considering his options, Peter decided on a course of action. If he could manage to locate the Mona Lisa again, there was a chance he could maneuver his fighter into its underside cargo bay. He reached forward to switch his radio on, and put out a general distress call. “Mayday, mayday, this is Captain Peter Straydel. Can anybody hear me? Over.” He waited. There was no response. He tried once more, but again there was silence. “This is not good,” he said to himself, searching his surroundings for signs of activity. He was still skirting the outer edge of the debris field. There were plenty of rocks in this area, but nothing much else as far as he could tell. Realizing his transmissions might carry further if he moved his fighter away from the rocks, he set a course directly away from the debris field, and put his engines into conservation mode to ensure that his fuel reserves would last as long as possible. It was a risky move, but one he felt he had to take. There was a danger that if he failed to locate friendly forces, he could just end up drifting on forever into the empty void of space.
Well, he thought, leaning back in his seat, there’s not much more that I can do right now. He toggled his distress beacon on and waited for a reply to come. With his own fate pretty much out of his hands, his thoughts now shifted to the other members of his squadron. What had become of Jay, and Thomas, and Angelo? Had any of them been caught up in that nuclear inferno? Or were they all now in Peter’s situation, on a desperate quest for a place to land? It wouldn’t be the first time, Peter reflected, that people under my command have died. Could this finally be the end for me as well? Is this how I’m destined to meet my demise? After all the bullets that have been fired in my direction, am I just going to die a lingering death in my cockpit, and quietly fade into the great beyond?
Closing his eyes now for a moment, he began to revisit battles of the past. How many pilots had he killed? He didn’t even bother to keep track anymore. But none of the enemy pilots he’d killed had met their fate in a peaceful manner. Why should his own death be any different? If there was any kind of justice in the cosmic existence, shouldn’t his undoing have come at the hands of one of those enemy pilots he’d been fighting? Wouldn’t that be the very essence of Karma? To die in the same way that he had killed others?
Minutes began to slip past Peter. Minutes filled with thoughts of friends and family back home. And with each and every minute that passed, he became more and more convinced that the war was finally over for him. That his time in the universe had come to an end. He tried the radio at frequent intervals, but each of those attempts was met with disappointment. His mind wandered aimlessly along different lines of thought until it focused on how his mother would have felt if she’d known that this was going to be his fate. How heartbroken would she have been, he wondered, if she’d known that I was going to perish like this? Lost ... alone ... full of regret ... No one would want those things for their child. And no one is ever going to know what became of me. My fighter will just keep drifting along until it eventually gets pulled into something — a planet or a moon, or perhaps a comet. I’ll be forever lost out here among the stars — my fate to remain a mystery forever. With that thought in mind, he looked out at the stars in front of him, wondering if his body would ever reach one of them. After a time, he noticed one of them was blinking. He studied its rhythm for a moment. It wasn’t flickering or shimmering; it was definitely blinking. And it wasn’t blinking in some random fashion, as one might expect from a natural occurrence. It was a slow and steady repetitive blink that could only have come from somethin
g man–made.
“Mayday, mayday!” he yelled into his radio, desperate not to miss this opportunity for salvation. “This is Captain Peter Straydel. Can anybody hear me? Over.”
There was no response to his call. The jolt of excitement that had just passed through him quickly began to recede once again. Perhaps this wasn’t his salvation after all. Maybe it was just a probe or something. But whatever it was, be it probe, ship, or space station, he decided it was still worth investigating. What have I got to lose? he thought. Might as well take a closer look at it.
Taking his engines out of conservation mode, he aligned his fighter with the flashing light and applied a slight amount of forward thrust. As his fighter drew nearer to the object, its outline slowly began to grow and block out some of the stars in the distance. He held on to a cautious feeling of hope. This was too big to be just a probe. It had to be some kind of space station. And that meant he had a real chance to survive now, assuming they granted him permission to land. But why hadn’t they responded to his mayday call? Perhaps things were not quite what they seemed. The possibility now occurred to him that this might in fact be an enemy installation.
Upon closer inspection, he noticed a glow emanating from the top of the structure. The radiance of artificial light covered vast swaths of its upper surface area. As he drew even closer to it yet, he saw the outline of several large glass enclosures covering the illuminated areas. And beneath those massive glass canopies was the clue that finally tipped him off: circular expanses of leafy green. This, he realized, was a horticultural station. But who does it belong to? he wondered in concern. Them ... or us?
A quick search of his memories failed to come up with any mention of such a station. As far as he was aware, there was nothing like this that belonged to Earth’s forces. It almost had to be an enemy installation. But if it was an enemy installation, what was it doing way out here? And why hadn’t his forces discovered it yet? The mystery, it seemed, was growing deeper by the minute. As he ran these questions back and forth through his mind, he noticed a string of letters and numbers painted on a section of the station’s outer hull. He half expected it to be written in some alien language belonging to Earth’s now estranged distant cousins. But when he was finally close enough to read it, he discovered it wasn’t so alien after all. The letters and numerals were familiar to him. In bold white print, it read:
PARADISE 01
Adjacent to the station’s moniker was a large bay window that seemed poorly lit. As Peter stared into that dim opening, he noticed there was someone standing inside, waving at him to get his attention: a tall slender woman, dressed in an unfamiliar gray uniform. He moved his fighter closer to the window and reached forward to switch his transmitter on. The woman seemed to realize what he was doing and made an impassioned throat slashing gesture, imploring him to maintain radio silence. She then motioned for him to come aboard the station, and directed his attention toward a set of bay doors. Well, he thought, following her directions, whatever this place is, this should prove to be interesting.
As Peter drew closer to the bay doors, they parted and allowed his plane to pass through. The space inside was open and empty, with plenty of room to park his fighter. He lowered his landing gear and set his plane down, then waited for the doors to close behind him. Just prior to shutting his engines off, he made a quick note of his fuel reserves. They now stood at less than six percent. If his hosts decided to ask him to leave, he wasn’t going to get very far.
Atmospheric pressure in the room began to rise. How high would it go? Would he be able to survive? It’s funny, he thought, how little we know about the lives of our enemies. For all we know, they may have adapted to survive in conditions that would prove deadly for us.
The pressure peaked at a comfortable level. It was a match for the standard conditions of Earth’s fleet. That still doesn’t tell me anything, he realized. This could still very well be an enemy station. A door on a nearby wall slid open, and the woman in the gray uniform stepped into the room. She looked up and smiled at Peter, and waited for him to pop his canopy open.
Well, here goes nothing, he thought, pressing down on the CANOPY button. He heard a slight hiss as the seal released, and a rush of fresh air flooded into his cockpit. His senses alerted him immediately to the fact that there was something different about this air. It was filled with qualities that could only have come from a place where plants were being grown in large numbers. He eagerly drew in several deep breaths as his canopy lifted away from the cockpit. The woman standing on the floor below him moved a few steps closer to his fighter.
“Hello, Captain Straydel,” she called up to him. “Welcome to Paradise One.”
Peter unfastened his safety restraints and climbed down out of his cockpit to join her. “You know who I am?” he asked, wondering why she hadn’t responded to his distress call.
“Well,” she said, laughing a little, “your name is painted on the side of your fighter.”
“Oh,” Peter said, looking somewhat embarrassed. “Yes, I guess it is.” He carefully studied the woman’s eyes for any hints that she might be toying with him. “It’s just,” he began with hesitation, “that I was wondering if you might not have picked up my distress call.”
The woman briefly pursed her lips. “Yes, Captain Straydel,” she finally revealed to him, “we did in fact hear your distress call. And I’m sure you’re probably wondering why you didn’t receive a reply.”
Despite the fact that he was now feeling a little irritated, Peter made a genuine effort to phrase his response as politely as possible. “Well, yes,” he said, “actually, that was going to be my next question for you.”
She stared at him in silence for a moment, as if trying to decide how much she should tell him. “Captain Straydel,” she finally explained, “this facility is a closely guarded secret. No communications from this site are permitted. We cannot risk revealing our location. Not for any reason whatsoever.”
“Ah,” Peter said, nodding in acceptance. It all made perfect sense to him now. This station was in fact a United Earth facility, but its existence had been kept hidden from him. “So,” he said, “I suppose that probably means that I can’t put a call through to the fleet from here?”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” she said. “You’ll just have to wait until one of our freighters arrives, and hitch a ride back to the fleet with them.”
“Okay, that seems logical enough. Not that I’m in any hurry to leave,” he said, “but can you give me some idea of how long that might be?”
“It could be several weeks,” the woman answered. “They’re on a very busy schedule.”
“Several weeks, huh,” Peter mused. “In that case, is there any chance that I might convince you to tell me your name? Since it seems I’m going to be stuck here a while...”
“My apologies,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive me. We don’t get many visitors here.” She held her right hand out to Peter. “My name is Karen Parks.”
“Karen,” he said, grasping her hand. He looked more closely at her now and realized he found her physically attractive — at least in the sense that he felt a desire to wrap her in a firm embrace. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced since parting with his wife back on Earth. And it wasn’t something he’d been seeking, either, which left him feeling somewhat surprised. Romance was all in the past for him. Or at least that’s what he’d thought until now. Perhaps it was his recent brush with death that had left him open to thoughts like this. “I don’t suppose,” he asked, “there’s a rank that goes along with that name?”
“I’m the commander of this facility,” she said, seeming to sense what he was thinking. She teased him with a playful smile. “What does that tell you, Captain Straydel?”
“It tells me that you outrank me,” he said. He shrugged and frowned in disappointment, realizing this meant she was off limits to him. “It’s always a good practice to know where one stands.”
“Indeed it is,” Commander Parks said, bringing an end to their brief flirtation. The look on her face seemed to suggest she was feeling a touch of regret as well. “Come with me, Captain Straydel,” she said. “Allow me to give you a tour of Paradise.” She gestured for Peter to follow her, and led him toward the nearest doorway.
“From what I saw outside,” Peter said, “I’m assuming this station has something to do with food production.”
“Your assumption would be correct. Our primary mission is to supplement the fleet’s food supply, and reduce our dependence on shipments from Earth.”
“I don’t suppose you have any cows here? It’s been a long time since I had a really good burger.”
Commander Parks let out a laugh. “No cows or other animals here. But, if you behave yourself, I might just be able to find you some grapes.”
“You can grow grapes here?”
“Absolutely. They’re a fairly recent addition for us though, so we can’t yet produce them in very large quantities. Which means, at this point in time, they’re still considered a special treat.”
“Well in that case, I promise I shall be a good boy.”
Commander Parks led Peter along several winding corridors, pointing out various key points of interest. Eventually they approached a large open bulkhead with an abundance of light spilling out through its doors. “And this,” she said, nodding toward the space beyond, “is what this station is all about.”
When Peter stepped through the bulkhead, he found himself in a large open space topped by a towering glass geosphere. The interior was lined with rows of tables covered entirely with green vegetation. The outer walls were overgrown with some kind of vines, and even more plants were suspended overhead in hanging planters. He got the impression it would be nearly impossible to fit any additional plants in the room.