Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  With a start, Evans realized that the Earth had been in his field of view the entire time, ever since Dean had begun working on the airlock. He hadn’t even noticed, such was his intense focus on survival. Somehow, amid the trials and tribulations of contending with the gravimetrics, the near-loss of their craft—and the fatalities—Shane had put them into position for the return home.

  It was beautiful. Making the scene even more surreal was the glow of counter-energy from the anomaly. Although his vision was nowhere near strong enough to see so many thousands of miles, he felt like he could just see a dissipation of the force, the solution going to work to shield the world. Of course that was irrational, but it was a comfort all the same.

  He then became hyper-aware of the sounds of his life support equipment, pumps and fans circulating the vital air and water to keep them going. Looking over at the airlock, he imagined that he could hear that metallic clang of the hatch swinging open—but he knew that no such sound was possible out here, at least not until they got inside and began to re-cycle the interior atmosphere. With a ‘let’s go’ motion to Jo, he worked his way toward Dean’s outstretched arm.

  * * *

  Shane gasped in spite of himself, sickened over the tense scene outside the airlock. One factor he’d not calculated for was extended exposure, and the pair of them had been out in the thick of it much longer than expected.

  “Saito,” he called down to the crew quarters, “I need you to prepare a first aid tray for when they get inside.”

  ‘Understood,’ Saito answered, ‘what should I be preparing for?’

  Good question. “Hard to say, but definitely gauze, bandages and burn preparations. And you’d better dig up some potassium iodide tablets too. 150 milligram doses.” There was no way to know if such a treatment would be effective against unknown elements, but it was the only course he could think to suggest, especially given their limited supplies.

  ‘How much time do they have?’ Saito asked. Shane gave Dean a questioning glance. Dean shook his head. The effects would set in quickly. Even though they’d been spared direct exposure, there was no way they avoided any peripheral contamination after so much time in the soup.

  “Can’t say, specialist, we don’t have enough information for an E.T.A, so just do what you can.”

  ‘Understood.’

  Keeping the channel open, Dean and Shane listened in on the situation below decks. Saito took care of Evans and Jo as best he could, patching up their wounds and doling out the anti-rad pills. Over the audible protests of Saito, Jo insisted on returning to duty straight away. She appeared on the flight deck two minutes later, taking up a support position to help Shane get them underway. The fact that she was needed on the flight deck wasn’t lost on the commander. Shane appreciated the fact he didn’t even have to ask.

  “Good to see you, Osbourne,” Shane said, never lifting his eyes from the controls.

  “Good to see me in one piece, you mean,” Jo said.

  “Let’s make sure we all stay that way,” Shane replied. “Alright, what’s say we blast this bastard back to where it came from.”

  “Glad to, sir,” she replied, adding her hand to Shane’s on the main thruster control. They increased power until the full thrust of Space Force One shook the spaceframe even worse than the outer forces had before. The collective reaction was severe. So violently fearsome that it threatened to injure the crew, even seated as they all were in their acceleration chairs—and they were just getting started.

  72.

  Undocking the re-entry module was a critical priority now. There was no way the entire cylinder would hold up under the strain. But still, Shane Douglas applied all of his thrust, pouring fire into the heart of the beast. His face, screwed up in concentration, made him look like a madman, but his deft touch remained perfect as ever. The effort seemed to be working, but there wasn’t time left to do anything more. They needed to break off. The furious upheaval of the wounded anomaly was tearing the ship apart.

  “Think we should give some thought to a timeline here?” Jo called out, fighting to keep her voice steady, even as she raised it to be heard over the din. “Whenever you’re ready, of course.”

  Always with the quips. Shane’s gaze landed on his newfound co-pilot. A quick nod, then his attention was back on the controls. “Just a few more seconds,” he said, “we’re almost there…”

  The ship bucked under them, warning lights flashed from every corner of the HUD, klaxons blaring from stem to stern, and still he sat on the thrusters. “Little more…little more…”

  Jo left Shane to his work, turning her attention to hull integrity, and the preparations needed for decoupling. The stress readings were off the charts. She wondered if they’d be able to break away at all, or if they’d take half the solution along with them on their way out. That couldn’t happen. Not even if it meant the ship. Better make it perfect, she thought, unwilling to be forced into that decision.

  Looking over at Shane’s hands, she was amazed to see how steady they were, even after so many hours at the controls. He was sweating profusely, and fighting for every inch, but still his grip was rock solid, his movements as steady as a surgeon. His muttering continued, low and impatient, as if urging the ship to hold. “Not yet…little more…”

  He slammed a foot down hard to brace, and pulled back hard on the yoke. “Now!”

  His frantic order echoed in its intensity. The tossing shifted from its back and forth, up and down upheaval to a spine-jolting forward force, blasting them back into their seats with the power of a cosmic hurricane.

  * * *

  The crew compartment had turned into a shooting gallery. Everything that wasn’t firmly secured flew back to strike the aft bulkhead. A piece of stray gear nearly took Saito’s arm off before landing on the wall. Evans, too, barely escaped injury when a service tray got loose and flew by, just inches from gashing his forehead. All around them the jiggering, clanking metal fixtures buckled under the strain, threatening to unleash more shrapnel.

  “I don’t know how much more of this we can take!” Dean Eckert yelled, arms wrapped around his helmet in a meaningless gesture of attempted control.

  “We’ll be fine,” Ed Evans called back, acting the part of reassuring veteran, his voice bouncing along with the rhythm of the momentum, “she can take it.”

  It was a safe bet that the ship could handle it better than it’s frail passengers, although he avoided pointing out that unpleasant reality.

  “You sure about that?” Dean was unconvinced.

  “The faster we go, the better chance we’ve got,” Evans replied. “Just remember that!”

  He wrenched his arm up to deliver a thumbs-up, a significant gesture under the circumstances, but the rest of them could barely lift their heads to acknowledge it. He elected not to remind them they still had to deal with deceleration on re-entry, which meant at least one more round of dodge-the-projectiles before they could properly prepare for splashdown.

  “What have we lost?”

  The question from Saito puzzled Evans until he realized the payload specialist was concerned with, of all things, the payload. Glancing around, he tracked each missing item based on it’s original location, assuming that which he couldn’t see was buried somewhere beneath the growing mound decorating the bulkhead.

  “Nothing vital, I think,” Evans called back. “Wait! Where’s the life raft?”

  Saito’s jaw dropped, his gaze landing on the deployment ring beside the escape hatch. Beneath it, where the hull should have concealed their floatation equipment, there was a gaping hole. Looking from there over to the pile of debris on the wall, he looked back at Evans with a defeated expression.

  Evans sighed, and with a mighty effort he wrenched his hands around and down, over the clasps of his restraints. As the others looked on in stunned disbelief, he unstrapped himself. Hanging on for all he was worth, he began the painstaking journey across the room to collect their raft. They were going to need it.<
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  * * *

  Solution holding, no significant damage during undocking. We’re in the slipstream now, acceleration achieved with minimal damage so far, but we’re going to have to get under it to slow down. Otherwise the force of deceleration will tear the hull open. Unlikely that communications will hold past the dip, but we’ll stay in touch as long as we’re able.

  The control center back home exploded in cheers at the wonderful news. Though delivered in crisp, professional fashion but an implacable Shane Douglas, the fact that the solution was holding was as much as anyone could’ve hoped for.

  They were already aware of Space Force One’s success, due to joyous news reports pouring in from all over the world. Gravimetric eddies were beginning to dissipate, many disappearing altogether. The effect—up until now on the rise on a global scale—was now receding, much like the newest ocean that cut the Americas in half. For the first time since the crisis began, news anchors and government officials alike were reporting real reasons for hope.

  It would take time for them to go over the technical details, but Shane’s creative, last-ditch effort to pour toxins down the throat of the anomaly via rocket-bursts seemed to be working a charm. Space Force One had accomplished the unthinkable—saving the world from certain doom.

  The handoff from Cheyenne to NASA having gone off without a hitch, Houston would now guide Space Force One the rest of the way in. The president had relocated to the NASA facility in order to keep a close watch. He’d be the one reporting back to the people of Earth, so it made sense for him to be there. After all the heroes had done, if they perished now it would be a bitter pill to swallow.

  They were still breathing, at least, which hadn’t been anywhere near a given. But now they were speeding home at a clip that might burn them to vapors, just as they reached those last few hundred miles along their perilous journey. No, they’re not going to burn up. They’re going to make it. God, please let them make it.

  * * *

  “We’ll update you again before we execute the dip,” Jo Osbourne reported to the new command center. With Texas deep in critical territory, an alternate NASA location had been appropriated. Not quite the familiar standard ‘Houston’, which would’ve made the entire re-entry procedure hint at a kind of routine they could never hope for anyway. Still it was a comfort to call on NASA channels, and she enjoyed calling out to Kansas City far more than the militaristic, dire sounding Cheyenne.

  She was starting to feel distinctly feverish, but she ignored it and focused on the controls. At the rate they were traveling, she’d be seeing a medic sometime in the next hour anyway. Assuming we see anyone at all. She shook off the morbidity and pointed to the horizontal stabilizer readout.

  Shane registered his concern with a head shake. “We’re going to have to dip down pretty low to get out from under the slipstream. It’s gonna be rough.”

  “No rougher than if we shot straight in,” Jo said. The view from the main viewer was beginning to spin. Nothing to do with flight adjustments, her condition was simply worsening. The confusion between eyes and inner ear made her violently ill. She managed to grab hold of her helmet just in time to catch most of the splash.

  Without missing a beat, she busied herself with cleaning, mopping out the helmet with a rag intended to dust off the instrument panel. It seemed to be working, which was a lucky break since she’d be needing it soon.

  “We’re at the point of no return, everyone,” Shane announced to the crew, “check your restraints.”

  * * *

  Kansas City control was in contact with Space Force One for a full minute past the dip, which came as a surprise. Full blackout was predicted the moment they breached the slipstream. The transmissions, however, were far from reassuring. The sounds of the ship being ripped apart in real-time—or so it seemed—were frightening enough. The noises the crew made, or tried to stifle, were downright sickening. Bruised and battered, the pain and terror couldn’t be masked enough to keep the reality from the controllers on the ground, who were helpless to do anything but listen to it happen.

  The transmitter technician attempted to remain calm; calling out status reports and repeating requests for situation updates. But he couldn’t keep the stress out of his voice. It became impossible for the SFO flight deck to respond after the first few transmissions, so the poor fellow was essentially talking to himself. In between bangs and slams, the commander and pilot attempted to relay their situation to control, but strained to make themselves audible over the metal-rending chaos of hull degradation. It was clear from their back-and-forth that the two were keeping each other focused and on-target, even if there was little they could do to ease the discomfort of their harrowing ride.

  Space Force One, Kansas City. Revised E.T.A., fourteen minutes at mark. Respond.

  The pilot radioed something back, but it was lost in an earsplitting crackle of white noise.

  Space Force One, revised trajectory, Indian Ocean, decent fourteen-oh-six parallax, E.T.A. Thirteen forty-five. Respond.

  Nothing this time. Even the crackle of static faded away to nothing, leaving a ghostly echo across the control center in its wake.

  Space Force One, Kansas City. Can you receive?

  Space Force One, Kansas City. Relay status report if able.

  Space Force One, Kansas City…

  * * *

  President Webster stepped away from the monitors when the spacecraft cut out. He listened to the chatter of updates and tried to assess the mood of the room, but his attention was interrupted by one of the deputy communications assistants. One staffer or another had been trying to put a worst case draft under his nose every few minutes. Something about heroes, eternally memorialized in the stars and the skies.

  Webster knew they were just doing their job, but he wouldn’t take it, wouldn’t even look at it unless he had to. To entertain such possibilities was to admit defeat; he would stay optimistic as long as he could. He waved off the doomsday copy once more, but accepted a fresh version of the ‘welcome home’ speech. He went over the opening paragraph, committing the words to memory in order to execute a stirring delivery the moment the opportunity arose.

  73.

  Kansas City control spent several minutes calling out, only to meet static. There was little reason for optimism, given the state of the ship upon re-entry, but they would continue until there was no longer any reason to try.

  Space Force One, E.T.A. mark minus three minutes. Respond.

  Nothing in response. Thirty seconds ticked by.

  Space Force One, Kansas City. E.T.A. mark minus three minutes thirty. Respond. Can you receive?

  Space Force One, Kansas City. Relay status report if able.

  Space Force One, Kansas City…

  The faintest hint of a transmission crackled to life in the control center, only static at first, with something vaguely human beneath it. The transmitter tech fought to boost the gain.

  Space Force One, Kansas City. Say again. Relay status if able.

  Four beautifully crisp and clear words rang out through the control center. Space Force One Arrived.

  The reaction this time was downright deafening, interrupted only by the scramble to triangulate their position to send out the rescue teams.

  * * *

  The astronauts spent hours adrift before their hero’s welcome, but the cheers to mark their return were audible to all. Throngs of people in every major city gathered together as one. Refugees who’d already begun the journey home stopped to celebrate. Military forces, eager to enjoy a brief respite between battle and rebuilding, laid down their arms and embraced their comrades in arms. In governmental circles, plans had already begun for an official ceremony to mark the safe return of Space Force One, and her crew—the saviors of humanity.