by Allen Kuzara
Parker worked up his nerve. “When we get back to Novos, I have some designs I’d like to show you.”
York didn’t reply. Her hands, still threading bolts, started to slow.
He continued. “I have an enhanced energy-transfer coupling prototype that should make the job we’re doing now obsolete. It’s back in my lab. I’d love to have you…” He coughed. “I’d love to have you come over to check it out. Maybe we could get dinner while we’re at it.”
Parker couldn’t see York, except for her hands on the bolts. Her movements slowed even more.
“There’s an excellent Tahitian grill I discovered,” he said. “It’s on an orbiter that’s really close to my lab.”
Her hands stopped moving.
“Terra, are you okay?”
She didn’t respond. He wished he could see her face, see her expression.
“Terra?” He reached forward and gently touched her hand.
She jerked hers away.
“Listen, I’m sorry if…” He stopped in mid-sentence. York was back to work. But she was unthreading the bolts.
“Hey, I’m sorry if I said something wrong,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Her hands moved quickly, faster than he had ever seen her work before. Two of the four bolts were loose. He continued to apologize to no avail.
She had the bolts free in no time. She pushed the combustion chamber hard. Parker, on the other side, backed out of the hatch. He didn’t speak. He didn’t resist. Shell-shocked, it was all he could do to tether the combustion chamber to the rail before it floated past him.
Another object darted out the hatch. Parker watched as York’s propulsion pack zipped away, lost forever. York climbed out of the hatch and began her spacewalk back to the cargo bay entrance.
“What did I do?” Parker pleaded. “Fine. I’ll do this myself.” His voice trembled. “You’ve got a lot of growing up to do, York!”
York pulled herself via the rail, hand-over-hand, toward the cargo bay at an astonishing pace. She was reckless, untethered, and without her propulsion pack. Dumbfounded, Parker heard the click in his helmet as York moved out of range.
Then he heard a crackle over his headset. “Parker, this is Alvarez. We’ve landed on the sphere
Chapter 18
The shuttle was packed tight. It wasn’t designed for more than six passengers, but Alvarez, Brennen, Jitters, Sarge, and three grunts were crammed in together. The uninvited man, Brennen, had showed up right as they were leaving.
Alvarez wasn’t convinced bringing him along was a good idea. His brain could prove useful, but his attitude and propensity to disobey orders could be problematic. Alvarez allowed Brennen onboard, choosing to pick his battles. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? he thought. If he gets too deep under my skin, I’ll just leave him down here.
The men were getting antsy. Everyone stood and waited for Alvarez to give them the green light to open the rear hatch. Alvarez used the shuttle’s sensor to survey the surface of the object. This nearly perfect sphere wasn’t noteworthy. If anything, its lack of features was its most defining quality—like a small moon without craters. What notable characteristics it did have were all located in close proximity to where the shuttle landed. What drew Alvarez to this location, even before he noticed the features on the landscape was some sort of energy signature that emanated most strongly from their current position. It wasn’t until they were about to land that they had observed the anomalous rock formation.
Alvarez checked for atmospheric readings but found none. The surface of the sphere was a vacuum.
“I’m surprised we have this much gravity,” Sarge said looking over his shoulder. “This rock is tiny. It must be incredibly dense to have this much pull.”
“That’s not all that’s odd,” Alvarez said. He expected Brennen, the only scientist there, to join the conversation. But he appeared disinterested.
“Everyone keep your helmets on,” Alvarez said. “There’s no atmosphere out there. Grab your weapons and reattach your extra tank of oxygen.”
Most of the men were ready except for the extra oxygen. Each suit came standard with an extra tank for longer missions or for occasional malfunctions. Most grunts habitually removed the extra tank to lighten their load.
The amount of disorder Alvarez’s command created was almost comical. The grunts stumbled over each other like corralled livestock. Alvarez noticed Sarge’s weapon was different than the grunts’.
“Is that what I think it is?” asked Alvarez.
“Well, I don’t know what you think it is, but it’s a twentieth century Mossberg, pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun.”
Alvarez was half intrigued and half concerned. “Is that really appropriate out here?”
“It’s well tested. Used it throughout the Fight,” Sarge said while patting the stock of the gun. Alvarez noticed it was curly maple with a checkered inlay.
Wooden objects of any kind were uncommon in corporate settlements. Although timber harvesting became sustainable on earth decades earlier—the hybridized blight-immune chestnut coppicing systems had revolutionized the industry—except for antiques and crafts, wood was replaced by the cheaper, more durable plastics and alloys.
“I don’t remember any of the corporations issuing those armaments. We’ve had energy weapons for over fifty years now,” Alvarez said.
“It wasn’t issued. It’s a family heirloom. My pappy’s pappy carried it as an MP in Korea…or was it Vietnam? Any way, it was on the wall collecting dust until my orbiter was boarded by Statists goons. After I saw what it did to those thugs, it never left my side. I’ve taken it with me on every corporate mission since.”
“What about non-atmospheric conditions? Won’t it foul up or something?”
“Unless I drop it under water, it works like a charm. It’s a workhorse. If I’ve got enough shells,” he pulled on the bandolier strapped around his shoulder and torso, “and I keep pumping, it goes bang.”
Mostly satisfied, Alvarez was anxious to get a move on. He punched keys on the console unlocking the rear hatch and cued the grunts with a hand signal. Jitters, closest to the rear, pulled the manual release on the side wall. The atmosphere in the shuttle vented, and the hatch rapidly lowered like one from a Higgins boat on D-Day.
The team fanned out around the nearby rock formation. When Alvarez spotted the formation from space, it looked like three obelisks, massive at the base and narrowing quickly towards the top. The three small towers leaned towards each other, towards the center of a concentric triangle, without touching.
Sarge stood at one of the formations. Its base diameter was as large as the shuttle’s, but starting at about twice his height and continuing to who-knows-how-high, it narrowed—tapering to the width of a transport table. It was as if monuments from 20th century Washington, DC protruded up from the rocky landscape of Colorado’s Garden of the Gods.
“Sir, this isn’t natural,” Sarge said. “Look at these corners.”
Alvarez came and bent over to get a closer view. The base was rough rock, but the obelisk that jutted out was anything but.
“They have four corners,” Sarge continued, “and they appear to be evenly spaced apart. They look like they were chiseled out of…well, rock. But not any kind I recognize.”
Alvarez pointed up at the obelisks. “There’s something on them too. Some sort of logos or icons. Alvarez wondered if this was from an unincorporated settlement, marauders, or some looney cult. Whoever they were, they came out this far for a reason. He climbed the rocky base. To his surprise, his feet found purchase without any of the stone crumbling. It must be tough stuff, he thought. Closer now to the obelisk, he looked at the inscriptions. He still couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
“Do you recognize any of this?” he asked.
“Nope. That’s nothing I’ve seen from any of the Outer-Five,” Sarge said.
In the stone were swirling gray and white patterns. It definitely wasn’t
concrete and mortar. Alvarez had come to recognize the typical species of rock from the mining expeditions he led on various planets, moons, and asteroids. They were always named and cataloged in relation to the most ubiquitous rocks mined on earth. Whatever this was, he hadn’t encountered it before.
Carelessly, he jumped off the base, forgetting how high up he was. His landing, fortunately, was softened by the light gravity. He stood up, straightening his back.
“Sarge, have any other corporate settlements been out this far? It’s supposed to be Novos territory.”
“What would another Outer-Five be doing out here?” Sarge said. “Unless they know something we don’t, I don’t see any corp spending certs on ugly stone artwork, especially if they had to haul the stone from home or mine it here. Just doesn’t make sense to me.”
Alvarez had already thought the same but was hoping Sarge would see it differently. Sarge wasn’t the most diplomatic person—probably why he hadn’t found a higher position with Novos—but he was a straight-shooter.
Jitters was on the far side of the formation. “C-c-colonel, I’ve found something. This formation’s different.”
Alvarez was the first to Jitters’s position. The rock formation there was similar to the others, but it was as if an obelisk had broken off leaving just a rocky base. Standing waist high, it was flat on top. Its surface looked like sand and reminded Alvarez of Adam’s sandbox back home. Although the texture wasn’t that of the hard, swirly stone the obelisks were made of, it had similar icons written on it.
Everyone circled around and stared at the glyphs. For whatever reason, they were more striking than those on the obelisks. These markings were too distinct, too complex to be mere designs or logos for some start-up corp. This was writing, some form of language, Alvarez thought. It had to be.
“These aren’t symbols I recognize,” Sarge said, breaking the silence.
“This looks…” One of the grunts trailed off. He didn’t have to finish. Everyone, including Alvarez, knew the rest of that sentence: alien.
The symbols were generic and simple. Each line, dash, or curved shape could be made with a finger in a single stroke. The organization seemed vertically oriented, like some east-asian scripts Alvarez had seen before, but they weren’t nearly as complex. He couldn’t understand how any one character could possibly represent a word. And pictograms required more detail than this. If it was an alphabet, there were far more than twenty-six characters.
Alvarez’s head was swimming. He couldn’t see a solution. How could he? He didn’t even know what the problem was.
His throat clinched, and his chest felt tight. He hoped someone would step forward and make a move, but clearly, they were waiting on him. Why did I agree to do this? he thought.
Wasted thoughts, wasted energy, wasted fear. None of this helped. He needed to get a grip. He was getting worked-up instead of working the problem.
“What are we supposed to do with this?” said a different grunt.
Alvarez looked at the sensor readings on his wrist console. “This is where the energy signature seems to originate. It’s strongest here,” he said.
Brennen, who had been uncharacteristically passive until now, shoved his way to the front of the group. He looked at the symbols briefly and began to mark slashes and dashes with his finger, adding to or completing the characters that were already written.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Alvarez shouted. “Stop, we have no idea what this is.”
Brennen, whatever he was doing, was finished. “Correction, John. You don’t know what you’re doing,” Brennen’s usual sarcastic tone was missing.
Alvarez felt a vibration from the ground below him. The men looked around wild-eyed. One pointed behind them. “Look! There’s an opening between the towers.”
“What is that?” Sarge asked Alvarez.
A dark silhouette formed as the ground slid apart like windowpanes. The thick, massive ledge revealed a rectangular entryway. Alvarez didn’t answer Sarge.
No sooner had the ground stopped rumbling, then Brennen approached the opening and, without hesitation, dropped down into the darkness.
“Michael, wait!” Alvarez said. But he was already gone. At the edge of the opening, Alvarez shined the light attached to his rifle barrel. Somehow the darkness swallowed his light and didn’t permit it to pierce as deeply as it should. Alvarez could barely make out a descending stairwell. The steps were oversized, at least three feet in length and depth. “Brennen, respond,” he yelled over the comm. Nothing.
Alvarez couldn’t walk away, but he didn’t proceed. He just stood frozen on the edge. A twinge started in his belly and bubbled up to his head. He was doing it again. He knew if he allowed it, fear would continue to percolate, building pressure until he lost his nerve completely. What if the opening closes after I drop down? he thought.
He pushed the fear away and gripped his rifle. He held it with his left hand and tapped commands on his wrist console with his right. His helmet light came on. “Follow me,” he said.
The men turned on their lights and in single-file descended the entryway. They looked like toddlers learning to descend the giant steps. They sat on their rears with legs dangling and then shoved off, falling until their feet touched the next step. They repeated this motion until they reached the bottom. The last drop was jarring, the gravity stronger there than on the surface.
Alvarez could see more clearly. Either his eyes had adjusted or his lights were now working correctly. He scanned from right to left, tracing the hewn rock walls of an immense cavern. Unlike caves on earth, there was no evidence of water. Even on asteroids, there were usually ice pockets. Here it was bone dry, even dusty.
When his light reached his left, he spotted Brennen who stood motionless, his back turned. The rest of the men shined their lights on him. Brennen didn’t move. Alvarez took point, grabbed his shoulder, and tried to turn him around. But Brennen stood firm as if he didn’t feel Alvarez’s pull.
Alvarez walked around him and shined the light in Brennen’s face. Alvarez squinted, not from Brennen’s helmet light—it was off—but from the grunts’ lights still directed at Brennen.
“Put ‘em down, men,” he ordered. His eyes began to adjust. Brennen’s pale face was expressionless.
“Michael, I’m over this,” he said.
Brennen slowly looked Alvarez in the eyes but didn’t speak. He wasn’t actively resisting, but there was no indication of compliance either.
The two men stared each other down until Sarge spoke up. “What’s your orders, Colonel?”
Alvarez stepped away from Brennen. “We need to see what else is down here.” He removed a sling from over one shoulder. Attached was a tripod and sensory imaging generator. He unfolded the legs and engaged the generator.
On his wrist console appeared a small map with a blinking dot representing the generator and seven numerical IDs for each team member. After the computer’s gears spun for a moment, an N appeared representing an arbitrary Polaris on the map. Alvarez was mildly impressed. The program assigned North to the stairwell. Good as any other, he thought.
“You all know how this works,” Alvarez said. “Each of your helmets has a unique beacon ID. As we traverse this place, our beacons will continue to report back to this central generator, updating our positions and mapping out the territory we’ve traveled.”
This was yet another piece of equipment Alvarez had learned to rely upon despite having little understanding of how it worked.
“Everyone, stay in visual contact,” he continued. “But fan out. Report back if you find anything.”
Sarge spoke privately to Alvarez. “What exactly should we be looking for?”
“Well, something produced that burst. Obviously, it’s not technology that Novos knows about…”
“Or at least it’s not technology they’ve told us about,” the old man said.
“Regardless, there has to be an energy source somewhere on this sphere. If we can fi
nd that, we have a chance of stopping it,” Alvarez said.
“What if it’s a natural phenomenon? How do you stop nature?”
“Does this look natural to you?” Alvarez said sounding more sarcastic than he intended. Sarge knowingly pressed his lips together and looked down at the ground. Some things shouldn’t be said.
One grunt had his wrist raised looking at his console. “Colonel, it says there’s atmosphere down here.”
Alvarez checked. “There’s atmosphere alright, and you could probably breath it for a minute. But that would be your last. It’s a tossup which would cause you to asphyxiate first: the insufficient oxygen or the toxic levels of hydrogen sulfide. Plus, we’re close to whatever made that green burst and caused the probe to go out. Helmets stay on.”
The good news was that they could hear each other without comms. Their helmets transmitted the ambient sounds and could even amplify distant sounds when needed. Everyone including Alvarez noticed the stronger gravity too. It was slightly heavier than regular AG. Alvarez didn’t mention it.
An alarm sounded. It came from Sarge’s suit. He looked at his wrist. “It says low oxygen, but my tank still reads at ninety-four percent.”
“I bet it’s a bad regulator valve,” Alavarez said. The Sarge reached for his spare tank. It was attached to his suit in a preformed receptacle above his right shoulder. He removed it and looked to Alvarez who was waiting.
“You ready?” Alvarez said.
Sarge nodded. Alvarez quickly disengaged the lock on Sarge’s primary tank and yanked it out. Sarge gave Alvarez the spare tank, and with ease that only comes from years of practice the tank was replaced. Alvarez didn’t fret until afterwards. What if the contagion from that burst was able to get in Sarge’s suit? he thought. Hopefully the vacuum seal would keep it out. That’s what it was for after all. Regardless, he needed to keep an eye on Sarge.
“We have about an hour to disable whatever’s producing the bursts. Let’s get a move on,” Alvarez said.
The grunts shined their lights in all directions like a search-party for a missing child. As they explored the main chamber, the sensory image generator outlined the map on their wrist consoles. There were two tunnels that ran along the western and eastern ends of the main chamber and a third passageway that started in the middle. All three led south to who-knows-where.