Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  “The airlock is ready, Colonel.” Doomes’ intrusion shoved introspection aside and reinforced the urgency of their departure.

  The hatch swung out and to the left. It took half a minute for the men to climb ten meters, up rungs extended from the side of the ship. Once inside, O’Brien tapped a yellow, then a green square on the control pad. The rungs withdrew into the outer hull and the exterior hatch resealed. In seconds, a polarized charge caused the black dust to fall away, trapped in deck filters. Decon complete and pressure equalized, the oblong inner hatch hummed open.

  They shucked off and stowed their envirosuits amid mostly empty suit lockers lining the well-lit cabin that was crowded with boxy yellow containers strapped to the grated black deck. To the left, a wide passage between the containers and lockers led to tubular rungs set in the bulkhead beneath a yellow and black safety-striped hatch. Subdued voices drifted down from the main cabin on the next level.

  O’Brien clambered up the ladder and entered a chamber of similar dimensions lined with storage lockers, access panels, and two con stations. An upright rectangular box with the word ‘privy’ blazoned across the door in red block letters was crammed between the far set of lockers. He assumed the non-NASA terminology was someone's idea of a joke.

  Reginald Tammer’s black jump-suited bulk overflowed a console chair, and Linda Myer, the other. Greco and Paider stood beside Tammer, discussing the attack. Remorse, uncertainty, sorrow and flashes of anger peppered their conversation.

  “Where’s Captain Garson?”

  “Upstairs, Colonel. In the pilot house.” Tammer’s voice boomed within the confines of the small cabin. His girth shook with each syllable.

  “The what?”

  “Pilot house, Or to use another colloquialism you may be more familiar with, the cockpit. Command deck, I believe, is the astronautical term. Third level above us.”

  “Pilot house is a term used on sea-going vessels, Tammer. One I haven’t heard in decades.” O'Brien paused, remembering that Tammer took pleasure in answering questions in a distinctly unique way, and offered a faint smile. “Glad to see you made it out.”

  “Story of my life. Always in the right place at the right time. I should be thankful. It has made my career.”

  “So I’ve noticed. You keeping a record?”

  “Have my vidmate on at all times, Colonel.” Tammer pointed upward. Near the ceiling, a small black orb floated, supported by thin, clear membranes attached to the ceiling and bulkhead. The device moved by changing the contact points of its web membranes. The vidmate usually went everywhere with Tammer, but it had not been with him in the mess hall. Perhaps Tammer was opposed to being vidcorded while eating.

  “This is most likely the greatest journalistic event you will ever witness.” O’Brien’s tight-lipped smile hinted at his displeasure over the presence of the recorder.

  “Ah yes, Colonel. I daresay you are correct, though I wonder who my audience will be, given the alien’s unprovoked attack. It would appear they don't like us very much. Don’t you agree?”

  “I assume they view our ability to traverse within our solar system, as a threat.” O’Brien moved toward the ladder, wanting to speak with Garson, but unwilling to offend Tammer. A strategically slow withdrawal would be acceptable. However contradictory, the journalist’s expansive ego was easily bruised when he perceived he was being brushed off.

  “My dear, Colonel. Do you believe they’re waiting for us...to lift off?” Tammer shifted his considerable bulk and planted both black-slippered feet squarely on the deck as if he were about to rise. He cleared his throat and hesitated, then continued. “Won’t our exhaust draw their attention?”

  “I believe that if the aliens had scanned the Mars Explorer, they would have destroyed it. With judicial use of the engines, I hope to escape detection." O’Brien turned away, then looked back. "If you'll be patient, I'll take the time to answer your questions once we're free of the atmosphere. Excuse me.” O’Brien pointed up with his thumb.

  “Of course, Colonel.” Tammer’s laugh was forced, his smile contrived. “I should not keep you. As a trade-off, would you allow my orb to follow you...for posterity?” His voice softened at the last.

  “Just keep the damn thing out of my way.”

  “As you wish, Colonel.” Tammer touched an oblong, black conpad on his right sleeve. “Follow O’Brien.” The orb slipped, whisper soft, toward O’Brien.

  “Clapton. Join me in the ‘pilot house’.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  O’Brien followed Clapton up the ladder. The orb glided along at a respectful distance, though its very presence remained intrusive. They climbed through the crew quarters and the communal deck before reaching the command level, housed in the nose section of the craft. A slate gray console followed the curve of the hull directly below a three-meter wide viewport presenting a breathtaking panorama of the crater. Jutting out to the right was the cliff-face that concealed the ship in shadow. To the left, a boulder strewn plain: the crater floor. A wedge of reddish-brown consumed the upper edge of the portal.

  Above the viewport and identical in dimension, a blacked-out vid screen fit snugly against the inward curving bulkhead. Three gray-frame and black vinyl glide-mounted chairs sat before the console, with two more anchored a meter behind. Unlike the lower levels, the coarse gray decking was solid and the cabin smaller in circumference and height. Inset equipment lined the bulkhead, concealing the white insulation that comprised the inner surface of the ship. The deck hatch, opposite the console, was demarked by a square of short, thick, angled yellow lines that continued a quarter meter up the bulkhead.

  They found Captain Garson slumped over the navcon to the far right. He jumped when they appeared, though he should have anticipated their arrival. “Colonel.”

  “Captain.” Motioning for Clapton to take a seat, O’Brien slid into the chair beside Garson. “What’s our situation?”

  “The ship is ready for launch, Colonel.”

  “Food, fuel?”

  “The cargo containers are supplies meant for the base. Lucky for us they hadn’t all been off-loaded. We’ve got enough chow to get us home and then some. The reactors were refurbished at Spacedok and refueled, so we’re in pretty good shape there too. And I have to tell you, Mr. Tammer has been quite helpful. More so than I ever would have guessed.”

  “He’s a good man, despite his journalistic credentials. You foresee any problems?”

  “Just one, Colonel.” Garson looked O’Brien square in the eye. “Redundancy. The powers that be were afraid someone might freak out and take off without authorization, so they made it impossible to launch the ship without precursors being tripped either at the base or the on-site con.”

  “Anything else?”

  There were ways around any safeguard. To O’Brien, saving all the survivors was a fundamental measure of humanity: beyond the fact that they very well could be the only humans still alive.

  “Sensors don’t see that alien spaceship anymore, but I’m not sure that means anything.”

  “Reasonable assumption. You got a course laid in?”

  “Two options, Colonel. We could rendezvous with the alpha relay station halfway home, if it’s still there, then slingshot off the sun. Or, we can make an elliptical loop and catch Earth on its next go around. That might be a route they wouldn’t expect of us, but it’ll add sixty-eight days.”

  “We’ve no idea how these beings reason. We do know they are technologically superior, and they kill humans." O'Brien fixed his eyes on the viewport. Where did these murdering sons-of-bitches come from and why pick on us? Are a handful of humans that much of threat to them?

  Despite the magnitude of the catastrophe, bioengineering limited his ability to muster a decent rage. That left the very human desire to win against all odds, and to survive and propagate. His gaze fell on Garson. "We’re not safe anywhere, but staying here isn't an option.”

  Garson nodded. Fear, worry, a number of emotions flicked
across his face, but then his eyes, and the determined set to his mouth, softened. “You're right, Colonel. Can't get water and oxygen from underground deposits without equipment.”

  “Lay in a course for the shorter route. If they’ve left monitoring devices or a patrol ship to mop up survivors, we can only hope we’re too small to be detected off planet.”

  “If they went on and took out Earth too...” Garson pursed his lips and rocked back, his hands locked behind his head. “...we probably aren't worth the bother.”

  "I don't think they know anything about us or that any of us survived," Clapton interjected, "so we can't make assumptions based on logic."

  Before O'Brien could respond, a shout from below ended all speculation.

  The vid blinked, fading from black to a digitally distorted image. A scratchy voice, broken and garbled drew their attention to the screen. not...left..........skies blacken....peat....come back....noth...you here. ...attacking communications, Mars Base. ...Base, respond. Please respond. Houston tracking. Are...still there? The screen flickered, then blanked.

  “Don't respond to that!” Every fiber in his being cried out as O’Brien lunged to the hatch and hollered to those below. “Nobody answer that!” At once certain they would obey, he faced Garson. “Take the external com offline. From here on out we’re incommunicado.” Despite his desire to ride to Earth’s rescue, there was nothing they could do that would be of any consequence. “You got that?”

  Garson and Clapton nodded. Five distinct voices from below assured O’Brien they would comply. As the highest ranked officer aboard, O’Brien could have assumed everyone’s allegiance, but civilians were an unpredictable lot at best.

  “We’ve got a decision to make. Join me downstairs, gentlemen.”

  “Yes, sir.” Clapton pushed off from where he was leaning against the console and followed O’Brien down the ladder. Their footfalls whispered hollowly on the honeycombed rungs until they stood before the others.

  Rocking on the balls of his feet, Tammer's face was ruddy from the exertion, though the cadence changed and he stopped shortly. Lieutenant Paider had taken Tammer’s seat beside Myer, Greco beside him. Doomes rose from a squat and assumed parade rest.

  O’Brien looked at each of them in turn, gauging them against what would be expected of them. He rested his gaze on Linda Myer. If she were to panic... Garson coughed nervously, ending O’Brien’s musings.

  “Garson tells me we can't lift off unless someone stays behind,” O’Brien began, no longer staring at Myer. “I won't accept that.” He nodded to Paider. “Lieutenant, I saw five bots on the manifest. See if you can set one up to enter simple con sequences.”

  He looked to Doomes. A memory of a late night confrontation with construction types in a seedy bar flashed across his mind. Lake Street, Minneapolis. No good reason for them to have been there other than Doomes’ mother lived in a fashionably decrepit two-story walk-up just off the strip. Short-cropped salt and pepper hair and square jaw, shoulders straight and muscular beneath a thick neck, Doomes appeared every bit the mercenary soldier he had once aspired to be. Sucking on a brew at the Lake Street dive, he told O'Brien that the profession demanded a total lack of morality. He quit on the eve of his first contract, the day the Afghan Wars ignited, and joined the Air Force.

  "Sergeant, give Paider a hand. Greco, suit up. You’ll begin the launch sequence from the launch dome. The bot will complete it." O’Brien faced Garson. “Go upstairs with Clapton and familiarize him with everything you can. Broad categories first, then panel by panel. He's a quick study."

  Nodding, Garson was already at the ladder. “No problem, Colonel.”

  O’Brien waited until the cabin had cleared, then waved Tammer over while motioning for Myer to stay where she was. He offered her a comforting smile, eliciting a sheepish grin in return, though it faded quickly. She was too traumatized to be of any use.

  With an unusual show of fealty, O’Brien clasped Tammer by the shoulder and drew him closer, until he could be heard by Tammer alone. “The Doc needs a friend. Don't be a pig and come on to her, just stay close and be that friend.”

  “On my honor, Colonel. The child is in good hands.”

  “I knew I could count on you.” He stood back and looked past Tammer.

  Clinging to the overhead grating close by, the orb moved when Tammer did, maintaining its distance. Fine clear filaments zipped out, attaching to new points as other filaments retracted, making the orb appear to float. It was impossible to see where Tammer's mechanical companion was focused.

  “My dear Colonel.” Tammer shifted his bulk. “What makes you think we can lift off without calling these aliens down on us?” His whisper was wrapped in dread.

  “No way of telling.”

  Tammer rose to his full height, slightly flushed. In a normal voice he said, “Thanks for being so brutally honest, Colonel. Your candor is refreshing for someone like myself, who's job it is to converse with heads-of-state and the supposedly learned.”

  O’Brien nodded then slanted his gaze toward Myer. “I’d like you to get started immediately.”

  “Immediately. Yes, of course.” With a slight bow, Tammer turned and approached Doctor Myer. He took her hand in his pudgy paw and engaged her in small talk. She responded, subdued at first, then the tinkle of laughter established that Tammer’s practiced charm was working.

  With measured calm, to keep from drawing attention to his actions, O’Brien went to the com relay panel mounted to one side of the ladder and opened it. Though the controls were upstairs, the primary electronics compartments were located on the lower levels. It took him a minute to familiarize himself with the abbreviations stenciled on white slips atop each pressure switch. There were a hundred in vertical rows of twenty. He tripped the ones with the beginning designation of TRAN, effectively disabling the ships redundant transmitters, but not blocking incoming signals. Near the bottom of the last row, he tripped two more, engaging the ship’s internal security protocols. To access vital systems, a clearance code would now be required. While sabotage was not a concern, utter stupidity, fueled by panic, was.

  That accomplished, O’Brien sealed the panel and returned to the command deck to find Garson and Clapton deep in conversation. He dropped into the remaining console seat and scanned the panel readouts. The security protocols were online, indicated by a blinking red square, top center. He keyed in the proper sequence and the indicator glowed steady.

  Though his current post did not require it, O’Brien could fly the ship if he had to. He had once piloted NASA’s stellar observatory, Discovery VIII, before it was dismantled and handed over to the Smithsonian, and was among the first to test the new generation cargo liners designed to support both low Earth orbit and remote, planet-based space stations. By current standards, the Mars Explorer was a relic.

  The main vid onlined and an overhead view of the cargo hold emerged. Paider and Doomes were working on a bright orange grapefruit-sized bot with eight spindly legs and two multi-function extenders. Two of the yellow cargo containers were open beside them, hand tools, laser probes and robot parts lay spread out across the deck and atop other containers. Though Mars gravity was less than that of Earth, it was sufficient to keep the crew and equipment from floating off.

  “Gentlemen, how are you progressing?”

  Doomes looked up. “A couple more minutes, Colonel.”

  “Fine. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  “Yes, sir. Will do.”

  “Have you seen Greco?”

  “Yes, sir. Went outside to complete the manual hookups. Should be back in ten minutes.”

  “Will Greco know when to retrieve the bot from the airlock?”

  “We’ve got him on the suit com, sir.”

  “Good. O’Brien out.” The display blackened when he took the intervid offline. He sat back and frowned. Despite his reassuring air before the crew, he was convinced the aliens were still around and he held little faith in their ability to evade them.
Except for a handful of countermeasures and a forty millimeter laser cannon, they were essentially defenseless.

  With launch preparations out of his hands, O’Brien took the opportunity to reacquaint himself with the myriad array of ship’s systems. From a directory pulled up on the console vid, he ran diagnostics of the most critical programs, then switched over to tutorial. He scanned the instructions and specifications of the pulse laser cannon and familiarized himself with the location of emergency equipment and weapons storage. To be safe, he electronically checked the six pistol-shaped chargers. Set to maximum, a fifty thousand volt pulse, piggybacked on a hair-thin laser beam, could stun a large animal, or kill a human if fired from less than a meter.

  “We’re ready, Colonel.”

  A moment passed as O’Brien closed down the tutorial. “Is Greco ready?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s in the airlock, with the bot.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll monitor his progress from here.” O’Brien heard the scrape of equipment in the background. “When you’re finished, come up to the main deck and get everyone secured.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve got him on vid, Colonel.” Clapton pulled up the scan on the main viewer and focused on a gloved hand, which disappeared in a wash of white. “Uh, small adjustment.” The image shrank until the launch dome and Greco were better framed. Through the dome’s Plexishield window, they watched him place the bot on the launch con. A white dot blinked between Greco’s arms.

  “You have control?” O’Brien asked.

  “Yes,” Clapton answered.

  Within moments of downloading the primary release codes, the bot hesitated for a fraction of a second. Greco, monitoring the sequence, did not react.

  O’Brien knew a glitch when he saw one. He played back the vid to be sure. “Freeze the bot, Clapton.”

  “Sir?”

  "The bot hesitated.”

  “The FBL didn’t pick it up.” Clapton sounded both puzzled and curious. He ran the scan through a higher level diagnostic, tapping the display as the computer offered suggestions in menu format, then showed the results of his choices. “Neither did the EAC.”