Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  Lauren asked through a poorly disguised yawn. “Could this level of radiation alter the bioputer readings?”

  “No...” Fingers knitted, Don shrugged at her back. “The receptors are buried beneath several layers of polycarbonates. I doubt there’s much of anything that could affect them.” He glanced at his vid, “Or the bioputers, save a virus...and that isn’t possible. Besides, I ran an analysis this morning. Everything checked out, then and now. What we’re getting is the real thing. No phantom images, no erratic readings.”

  Lauren offered a conciliatory grin that faded as she continued examining Farrell’s vid. “That isn’t the Oregon coastline.”

  “We’ve come to that conclusion already.” Farrell didn’t look up.

  Stealing a moment for himself, George took a long breath and cleared his mind. Lake Superior was a long, long time ago. Now he chaired committees and directed hundreds of technicians, specialist and scientists. What was the procedure? Ah, yes. Tactical. He whirled his chair about. “Don, scan for aircraft. We won’t be off-net for long if we surface, but if the skies are clear of search craft, we’ll go for it. And guys, don't get too worked up over this...not yet anyway.” He meant to keep that last unvoiced, but there it was.

  “How about we get a visual from the tube?” Without waiting for his approval, Lauren covered the few steps to the satin black periscope platform, gripped the polycarbon gray riser control post-mounted to the controller’s chair, jumped lightly and pivoted into the cushioned polycloth seat.

  “Wait.” George leaned about until he faced the con and pulled back on a maroon, pistol-grip shaft mounted on the con, then chided himself. His bioneural implant was new, and he’d yet to get used to the simplicity of its use. “Let's not leave a wake.” He onlined with Slinker. Forward motion tapered off. Multiple nine-inch magnetron tubes punctuating the hull at prescribed intervals, kept the bow from wallowing.

  Don returned to his console and plopped down with an audible whump. His fingers danced across the touchpad. He scanned the data streams, shoulders hunched, his barrel belly pressed against the con's soft edge. He grunted and let out a slow, soft whistle.

  George shot him a curious look, then stiffened. Sub-surface currents tugged at the vessel. Slinker canted slightly starboard, then righted. “Okay, Lauren. Take a look.”

  Seated before a matte-black panel that consumed the forward bulkhead, Lauren selected search parameters. A three dimensional visual coalesced of calm seas, a sky concealed by low, brooding clouds and a grainy mist. No sight of land.

  “So much for that. Even if there were a thousand aircraft overhead, it would be a fluke to be visualed,” she said.

  George grasped the helm cyclic and eased it forward and left, then pulled back on two deck-mounted stirrup pedals. Regaining forward motion, Slinker canted to port.

  Breaking the silence, Don startled the preoccupied crew. “Are the others aware something has happened?”

  “I doubt it.” Lauren swiveled to face him. “They were still asleep when I got up. I was sure they’d feel the...well...I don't know what it was...but, no.”

  “You think we ought to wake them, Cap?” Don asked.

  “Not yet. So far we don't know enough to warrant disturbing them.” George centered the cyclic and pressed it forward when the longitudinal depth readings neared zero and the directional heading steadied on ninety degrees. Manual manipulation gave him the feeling of control that the bio-link could not. Once he got used to the implant, he assumed he would cease to use the manual or oral command controls.

  “Let’s get a look at the coastline close up,” he said. “Then maybe we’ll have a reason to wake them.”

  “Sure, Cap.”

  With a gentle surge, Slinker surfaced. George digitally set the acceleration at forty knots, sat back and looked around. Time to reflect on what left him so unsettled. The offset illumination dimmed slightly, though the low hum of the generators remained steady. Lauren, at the periscope con, Don and Farrell hunched over their workstations. A normal scene, yet...different. Could Slinker's design be a factor, the unusual turbulence prompted by the powerful magnetic emanations of the magnetron tubes?

  Though all one hundred and eight feet of the sea-blue, stingray-shaped vessel was crafted from layers of honeycombed polyfibers, Slinker was propelled by two, nine-foot diameter ceramic shafts ringed with coils pulsed sequentially to draw seawater through: the magnetron tubes.

  Refractors protected the crew and dampened Slinker's magnetic signature. Had that object falling from the heavens — he’d discarded his theory that it was Orbital One — somehow been drawn to them, despite this? If so, where did it go, and how was it related, if at all? Their current situation certainly didn’t fit any of the thousands of scenarios his crew had faced in the simulator. They could contact the nearest of Seascape's submerged habitats and report their findings, breaking com silence, or... Or what? With resolute determination, George shelved his uncertainty. Dad would say: consider what is known and use that to extrapolate what is not before resorting to unfounded speculation.

  “We should have the coast on visual in ten minutes,” Farrell reported, though they all had that data before them.

  The tension in George's belly faded, along with the itch. A general unease remained, but the immediate crisis seemed to have passed.

  “After that I could use a cold one. Anyone interested?” How long since he last tasted hard liquor? Fifteen years? Up to then, he’d lurched through a string of drunken binges laced with cocaine and a variety of amphetamines before coming within a hair’s breath of snuffing out his miserable life. The lost decade, he grimaced. Now he stuck to dark ales, strictly rationed, but the hunger still lurked at the edges of his conscious mind, plumbing his vulnerabilities.

  “Yeah. I’ll take mine with a shot of vodka,” Lauren quipped.

  “Sorry. Unless you snuck some aboard, I didn’t include hard liquor on the provisions request.”

  “Don't I know, Herr kop-i-tawn. Just thought it might take the edge off the moment. Lord knows I could use a pleasant distraction about now.” Lauren rolled her eyes and adopted a disarming pout, which often worked in getting George to see things her way, then turned her back on him.

  “Since your gettin’ up, Cap, how about bringin’ one back for me?” Farrell glanced up, his jaws no longer clenched, features softened by a slight smile.

  “Sure. How about you, Don?”

  “Yeah, sure,” he mumbled distractedly.

  “Puter. Online autocon.” George rose and strolled aft through the bunkroom hatch, past three men and a woman astir, and on to the main cabin that served as communal room and galley. Its matte, cream-white bulkheads were formed from the same composites as the rest of the sub. Along the curved upper surfaces, trapezoidal portals served as skylights when Slinker ran high on the surface, but now only a faint glimmer of sunlight filtered through the thin layer of aquamarine water gurgling and streaming past.

  Set into the aft bulkhead were navy-blue cabinets above and below a narrow, lipped, black counter. From one of these, George removed four fourteen-ounce silver packets. He scooped them up and turned to leave, but stopped when Wendell Toupes entered from the bunkroom.

  Born in the back-brush of Kenya, of average height, slim, and exceedingly good-looking, his mother’s Asian heritage was revealed in his light cinnamon features. An original member of the design team, Wendell’s genius with communications and electronics had guaranteed him a post on Slinker’s maiden voyage.

  “I wasn’t sleeping very well.” Softly spoken, each cleanly enunciated word seemed handcrafted. “I heard you guys talking, Cap.” Sleepy eyes peeked from beneath half-closed lids.

  “And?” It had taken George years to cultivate a willingness to listen, and Wendell's dreams often proved insightful. He set the packets on the counter behind him and gave Wendell his full attention.

  “I thought I was dreaming when I felt that cross-current messing with us, Cap. Seemed darn odd, you know, l
ike when you’re in the middle of a dream and all the faces become someone else. Or the scene suddenly changes and so does the plot line. Know what I mean?”

  “Your dreams do that?”

  “Yeah. Even go from black and white to color. Mostly color...black and white if I’m troubled.”

  “Have you always been able to do that?” It was a skill George’s older brother had developed, but despite George’s best efforts, color dreams, as with most people, were beyond him.

  “Since I was ten. Happened..." He snapped his fingers. "...just like that. I was riding a gravscooter down a country road and I saw something odd up ahead. When I reached it...like an invisible wall...everything changed. The scooter turned red, the grass green, the sky a powder-puff blue...”

  “And something like that just happened to you?”

  “Yeah, Cap. I was kind of drifting, half-awake, half asleep and...and...darn, how do I explain this.” Wendell closed his eyes and screwed up his face. “Like being in a tunnel that goes topsy-turvy, then back to normal, except afterwards I felt like I was walking on my own grave. Really eerie.”

  “Still feel that way?”

  “Can't seem to shake it, Cap. A premonition maybe?”

  His eyes popped open, startling George.

  “Do me a favor. Keep this to yourself for now. Okay?”

  “Sure, Cap. So, what did happen?”

  “Not sure what’s what right now. Nothing fits.”

  Wendell approached until he was standing before Seascape’s director, the puffy blush of sleep still on his cheeks. “May I make a suggestion, Cap?” His voice was soft, effeminate.

  “Sure. Tell me what you’ve got in mind on the way to the control room. Like a beer?”

  Wendell stepped aside uncertainly. “Not right now, Cap. Maybe later.”

  With a nod, George picked up the packets and stepped past the much younger man. Wendell fell in a pace behind. “I think you need to keep an open mind right now. Don't take anything for granted, and maybe think that the impossible is possible.”

  “Good advice.” George nodded.

  Their crewmates were dressing when he and Wendell passed through the bunkroom. Despite illumination spilling through the hatches, most of the cabin remained in shadow. George stepped through the forward hatch and set the packets on the chart table. With practiced ease, he flicked the top of each. The packets frosted over and swelled. He tapped each twice and the packets transformed into wide-bottomed opaque mugs with perfectly formed frothy heads.

  Alerted by the hiss of carbonation, Don spun about and retrieved one, gulped a third of the mug’s contents, then thumped it down beside his touchpad. Wendell picked up one for Lauren and hurried over to her, his movements liquid.

  “Thank you, Wendell,” she smiled warmly. “You’re not having one?”

  Wendell’s eyes shone. George followed the exchange. Wendell and Lauren had become fast friends over the past few months, as he had with everyone, except Baider, who remained distant.

  “No, dear. Beer leaves too stale a taste in my mouth for so early in my shift.”

  A low bow and Wendell took his seat at the com station beside Don. Out of habit, he slipped a micro headset over his left ear and powered up the con. An audible hum joined the panoply of ship-borne sounds as a half dozen transceivers onlined.

  George scooped up the remaining two mugs, sat down at the helm and handed Farrell one. He took a deep draught from his, set it aside and faced his crew.

  “So, any thoughts, suggestions?” Though confident he appeared calm and in control, he worried they might glimpse his uncertainty. He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head.

  With a look of complete mystification, Don turned to him and shrugged with his hands. “None of this makes sense. Nothing.”

  Drumming his fingers nervously on the con, Wendell faced George, his emotions otherwise masked. “I think maybe we ought to go on-net. See what’s out there.”

  “Not yet. This situation may very well bring Slinker’s maiden voyage to an end, but for now we're still under com silence.” With exaggerated care, George retrieved his mug, held it in both hands and took a long draught. He eased out a burp with his lips compressed and set his mug aside, slow and deliberate, giving him pause to consider options before saying anything more.

  “So what?” Don shrugged. “This isn't anything we could’ve predicted. We’ve been running covert for three days now, and not one of the NHDA or Pacific Alliance search craft has even come close to tagging us. Something has gone goofy topside and we need to find out what.”

  “He’s right, you know.” Hesitating at the hatch, Heather Chambers, a marine biologist and the ship’s medic, spoke with enough force to gain their attention. Drop-dead gorgeous, with shoulder length blond curls and languid sapphire eyes, she filled out her coveralls in a manner that would turn any man’s head. Nearly as tall as George, she was not above standing eye-to-eye with him to support her position with a strength and conviction he found hard to resist.

  “Yes...and no.” His brew forgotten, George assumed a warm and conciliatory tone. Slinker’s management was by mutual consent, not by decree. “We must proceed with great caution. Scan the bandwidths. If the com traffic appears normal, and nothing earth shattering comes to light, we can always go on-net.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Wendell addressed George formally, turned to the com and set the transceivers to scan. “Monitoring AM, FM, microwave, UHF, VHF and all satellite frequencies.”

  They waited quietly for Wendell to announce his findings, though George assumed they would be tagged by search craft before communications were established. A minute passed, then another. George remembered his beer, slugged it down and checked the ship’s progress. Don fidgeted when Heather took her place between he and Wendell. His lips twitched nervously. The deepening color of his cheeks reminded George that Don had a crush on her, though Don held to the belief that that wasn’t common knowledge.

  With an aristocratic air he spent years trying to shake, Owen Wellington III entered and quietly took his place at engineering beside George. Raised in a family of fifth generation financial wizards, he walked away from a Harvard scholarship at twenty-one and became one of the top ‘gear-heads’ in the submarine business in less than five years.

  From the galley came the thump of cabinet doors and rustle of polybags. Baider Margolis, a merchant seaman at fourteen and an ex-Navy submariner, had yet to join them.

  Wendell leaned his chair around until he faced George. “Nothing, Cap, nada. It’s like every com in the world is offline.” Brow beaded with sweat, he radiated apprehension.

  George nodded. “I expected as much.” Though he kept his voice even, untroubled, he couldn't tell them everything would turn out alright, because he didn't believe it himself.

  “So, what now, Cap?” Lauren asked.

  “Yeah, what?” Farrell echoed.

  “Maybe nuclear war, maybe a natural calamity or a damned big asteroid...hell, who knows? I’m reaching here, but I’d still like to know more before I let it scare the bejesus out of me. We'll make landfall at this inlet and check things out on the ground. Don, is the air breathable?”

  “Oxygen levels at ninety-five percent, Cap, based on an elevation of fifteen feet above sea-level. Kind of thin. Carbon dioxide is eighteen percent over norm and I’m seeing a profusion of contaminants."

  "Nothing that will sicken or kill us...at least not for a while...maybe weeks," Heather offered, scanning Don’s vid. "Long term, we're in for a rough ride. Radiation, lead, sulfides, a whole slew of cancer triggers, but few airborne microbes...there should be loads this time of year, but the temp is down to 30 degrees Fahrenheit."

  "Damned unseasonable.” Don wrapped his arms about his shoulders and shivered.

  With a meaty sandwich wrapped in polyphane in one hand, a mug in the other, Baider stepped through the hatch, and set his meal down on the chart table. “I don't like what I’m hearing. But George is right. We make lan
dfall. Submerge Slinker. Cap and I will go ashore in the dinghy.”

  “There’s a harbor of sorts cuttin’ through the middle of town,” Farrell leaned closer to his vid, which now revealed far more detail, “with a wide basin about a hundred and twenty feet deep close in. The bottom looks like it might've been a valley with a river basin at one time. There’s projections, but none more than twenty feet up from the bay floor. We can slip in there, float the dinghy and submerge in the channel on the way out.”

  “I’ll lead,” George stated flatly, “who wants to join me?”

  “I’ll go, Cap.” Wendell grinned sheepishly and set his comset aside.

  “Me too,” Lauren said.

  “No, Lauren. You stay aboard. You know this ship’s biosystems better than anyone.”

  “Then I’ll go.” Heather, having never set foot aboard a ship before Slinker, stood and zipped up her jumpsuit, appearing eager to put dry land under her feet.

  Baider wolfed down the remnants of his sandwich and cleaned his hands with a Wipeall. “Half Slinker's crew." He nodded to George, then drained his mug with a protracted slurp.

  “Can't you try to be anymore disgusting than that?” Lauren glared.

  “Ditto on that,” Heather huffed, hands on hips and head cocked. “Bad manners may go over on a gravporter, but please don't share your body sounds with us."

  Baider chuckled. “For the ladies then, for the thousandth time, I’ll try harder.”

  “Good enough.” George was relieved his crew had taken his cue and relaxed. “Farrell, take us in. Don, note the time and date in the ship’s log.”

  A question flicked across Farrell's face. “That’s auto, Cap. The internal cam's been running since the moment we shipped out.”

  Under ordinary circumstances, George knew he would hesitate at such a request too, but the readings, the displays, and his own intuition said these circumstances were by no means ordinary. He kept his outward calm, but the worries of management raced through his thoughts. Documentation would be critical.