Dreams of the Chosen

by Cawell, Brian

  – Zero. Alvy punched the screen and the retro cut out. Descent speed?

  – Three twenty-five.

  – That’s more like it. Altitude?

  – Thirty-nine hundred and closing – Fast!

  – Okay, boys and girls, pull your belts tight. This isn’t gonna be pretty. Shifting . . . To . . . Flight-mode. He finessed the touch- screen, a red warning light began blinking on the pilot’s console, and the wings slid out from the sides of the fuselage. We couldn’t see them, of course, but we didn’t need to. Immediately, the lander began to shake furiously. I could feel the vibrations to my core and the noise was deafening, but Alvy seemed unaware of anything except the controls.

  In manual flight-mode, except for supplying basic readings, the flight computers were disengaged and he was flying old-school, countering the buffeting, as the lander forced its path through the heavy atmosphere, dipped into air pockets and slid sideways through cloud banks, only half-responsive to his reflex corrections. He was flying by instinct, feeling the surges, the tiny movements and adjusting with imperceptible shifts of his own. The only instrument he paid real attention to was the screen that showed the location of the landing site.

  Gradually, he tamed the huge creature, the vibration eased and he lined us up for the landing.

  – Ground speed?

  – Three-fifty. Rate of descent 50 metres per second and steady.

  – Throttling back. Let’s pray the drag-flaps weren’t damaged. We’re only getting one bite at this.

  I didn’t answer. I really don’t think he was talking to me, or anyone. It was just his way of holding focus.

  We’d chosen the landing site for its remoteness from any settlement and for the fact that it was a relatively flat clearing, about a click long and half that wide, surrounded by forest. Without the damage we had sustained, it would have been easily large enough to land in, using the landing thrusters.

  Now –

  Well, now all we could do was hold our breath and hope. We came in faster than we’d have liked and for a moment there, I thought it was all over. But then Alvy lifted the nose and engaged the thrusters, wiping the murderous speed from our trajectory and searing the surface vegetation. Luckily, it had been raining heavily and we didn’t start a brush fire. The thrusters reduced our forward momentum to a mere blur, but we dropped the last 20 metres like a rock.

  The tail struck first, as the nose was still elevated. It bit into the soft earth, then snagged on something unseen – the root system of an old tree, perhaps, or a rotting stump. Whatever it was, it ripped the tail off and spun us around, so that we were skidding sideways towards the wall of ancient trees. I could see them approaching through the side view-port and I was sure it was the last thing I would ever see. But somehow Alvy’s heroics and the resistance of the soft ground had slowed us just enough.

  As we hit the first line of trees, the protective collision cages deployed, cocooning us from the worst of the impact. Though the hull crumpled across the entire port side, destroying the lander’s power supply with a massive surge that shorted out every instrument and computer system on board, the integrity of the cabin held – at least enough to protect us. Sparks showered us and a few spot fires broke out, but with a final, screeching thud, we were still.

  I had the presence of mind to hit the external fire-suppressors, just in case, then I slumped forward against the restraints.

  Alvy was still gripping the control stick, but the smile on his face was huge, between the bars of the impact cage.

  – Well, now, that was fun.

  – Define ‘fun’. There was relief in Erin’s tone. Seriously, Alv, thank you. We owe you. Big time.

  In all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen Alvy actually look embarrassed, but at that moment he did and it was almost comical.

  – Yeah, well I’ll probably remind you of it sometime. For now, we’d better take stock.

  Erin unbuckled her belt, released the cage and stood up awkwardly on the tilting deck.

  – We’re sure as hell not getting home in this bird. First priority: Hanni, can you raise the ship? Do we have any comms?

  We didn’t.

  The crash had taken out the central command computer and the peripheral back-ups, and the portable ether-comm devices were stashed with the rest of the expeditionary equipment in the tail section that lay mangled and burning a few hundred metres away across the clearing.

  The front view-screen was cracked, but intact, and through it I could see the ragged track the lander had gouged into the dark soil, as it skidded and spun out of control towards its final resting place. And it dawned on my shell-shocked brain, we were here. After nine centuries of waiting, somehow we’d made it.

  – Welcome to Earth, I said, to no one in particular. Then I looked at Erin. Despite everything, she smiled and I smiled back.

  And somewhere behind me, someone started clapping.

  Expeditionary Ether-Shuttle Cortez

  in geo-stationary orbit above former site of Melbourne, Old Earth

  November 29, 3383ad

  TERESE

  On the bridge of the Cortez, no one has moved.

  – Did they make it?

  It is a pointless question. They are all looking at the same blank read-outs and hearing the same static.

  – Who do I look like, Richie? Nostra-bloody-damus? Terese stands up, and moves over closer to the view-port, as if, by some miracle, she might be able to look through the thick grey clouds covering the southeast quadrant, and see one tiny insignificant speck lost somewhere on that vast continent. She turns back to face the others.

  – Maybe it’s just the comms. Richie is grasping at straws. What else is there to do?

  Terese shakes her head.

  – And the telemetry? We’re getting nothing.

  A comms-blackout of maybe ten minutes is expected on re-entry, as the heat and the static caused by friction with the atmosphere distort all frequencies from the lander’s devices, even the sub-ether ones.

  But this is different. It has been over thirty minutes since re-entry and still nothing. As duty officer, Terese is charged with deciding on an emergency response, but part of her feels paralysed. A situation like this was never considered, except as an outside possibility.

  – Do we have a bird in range? Her mind-tone is steady.

  Richie consults his console.

  – There’s a high altitude drone over the west coast of the continent, about 20 degrees north of ground zero and maybe eight or ten west. We can have it within scanning range in about twenty-five minutes.

  – Do it. Then she is calm. The paralysis relaxes and she is strong again. Okay. Suggestions?

  – We have to wait until we can get a visual of the landing site. See if they made it to the target co-ords. The cloud’s so thick that without comms and telemetry, they could be right under our noses and we’d miss them. Saami has moved across to join her at the view-port – the insignia tattoo on his neck the only remnant of his childhood in the Fringe-communes among the foothills of the Roosevelt Ranges around Neuenstadt. Apart from Alvy, he is the best flyer-pilot on the crew. Totally fearless.

  He gazes down out of the view-port.

  – If they made it down, Alvy would’ve aimed to get as close to the co-ords as he could – if only to make it easier for us to find them. If they didn’t hit the target and they can’t get telemetry or comms working, it’s going to be like looking for a very small fish in a very large ocean.

  If they made it down.

  – Okay, then. We wait. It is not an order. It is a statement of the obvious.

  As if we could do anything else.

  Terese Shields the thought.

  She looks at the other crew members crowding the bridge and they look back at her. All except Richie, who is staring at the blank telemetry read-outs, as
if willpower alone can bring them to life.

  21

  Psi-Blocker

  ‘The Archives’

  Old Bourne

  November 29, 3383ad

  MYKAL

  He stares down at the first page of the ancient Plastisheet document lying on the desk in front of him. The text is faded from centuries in storage, but still legible all the same. And the coloured central image, taking up three-quarters of the page, is undamaged.

  Head and shoulders, disembodied and characterless, sketched without shading. While around its neck –

  Curving like a metal snake around its neck is a memory. Copper, fashioned into a tubular necklace, about a finger’s thickness and curved at the back, its two ends secured just below the throat with a thick ring of black metal.

  Just below the throat.

  After more than a dozen years, he feels the swelling of fear and anger, as the long-suppressed horror resurfaces.

  His brother’s body, lying motionless in the road, his mother’s slumped across the small heap of potatoes, spilt from the overturned pony cart, the blood running from her mouth and her blue eyes staring lifelessly through him.

  And the Guard.

  Seven of them, black cloaked and huge on their steaming horses, standing in a circle around him, looking down – without emotion, without pity – their eyes as cold as the wind that froze the sweat on his face. Their minds closed to his desperate, angry probing.

  And – as their leader barked his orders; as they lifted him effortlessly from the ground, binding his hands behind him – the glint of sun on copper.

  The necklace that clung, reptile-smooth, around the leader’s throat.

  – It’s how they keep us from reading them, he says, as Leana stares at the illustration. What happened when you tried to get into their heads? On the night your cousin Gared died, I mean – when they almost captured you and your mother.

  – Nothing. Nothing happened. I tried to read them, but they were a blank. I couldn’t get through. You mean—

  Mykal taps the sheet in her hand.

  – I came across this among the tech papers in K Archive. They have all sorts of strange machines and other technologies in there. I pull things out sometimes, to see if I can make any sense of them. This one’s a description of something called the ‘Psi-blocker’. According to the notes, for almost two centuries before the Fall, the scientists had been working on ways to prevent telepaths – that’s Espers, like us – from reading minds. And it looks like they’d come up with something.

  It works on a similar principle to the glo-lamps, except that instead of producing light, it produces a field, that shields the—

  – A field? I don’t— Leana’s confusion leaks out and he smiles.

  – Not grass and trees, Leana. It’s a term from the Old Science. It’s like an invisible force that – Look, forget it. The science isn’t important. All that matters is that the blocker works. And they must have made a large number of them back then, which the Guard managed to get hold of. It’s how they can—

  – How they can get close without us being able to detect them. How they can capture us.

  Mykal nods, putting the page back down on the desk.

  – Do you remember seeing one of these? I mean, were they wearing them, on the night when – you know—

  – I don’t remember. It was dark and it was raining. They had their hoods pulled over their heads. Besides, we were lying under a bush and I was only six years old. All I know is that I couldn’t read them and that I couldn’t help him.

  She feels the tears start and wipes her eyes. Mykal puts an arm around her shoulder and draws her to him.

  – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just—

  – It’s okay. Really. I mean, it’s important. ‘Know your enemy.’ Isn’t that what they always say?

  He smiles.

  – I guess so. It’s just that when I saw that picture, I recognised it. It all made sense. Psi-blockers. I just wish I understood the science behind them. Maybe then we could find a way to, I don’t know, to stop them working and take away their power.

  Reaching up, she kisses his cheek.

  – You’ll find a way. I trust you. With my life.

  22

  Carlin’s Promise

  The Forest of D’nong

  Western Perimeter

  Bourne Region

  November 30, 3383ad

  ERIN’S STORY

  Finally, we were ready to set off in search of human life.

  The good news, such as it was, was that we weren’t totally cut off. Things could have been so much worse than they were, and we all knew it – and, strangely, that was sort of comforting.

  Terese was doing her job from the Cortez. No one had expected anything else.

  Less than an hour after our crashlanding, the skies miraculously cleared and in the deep blue overhead, we caught the glint of sunlight on the wings of the drone, as it made a few high-altitude passes over us. They’d be getting images of us, standing by the wreck, waving up like excited children, and know that we were safe.

  Relatively speaking.

  Jordan and Alvy had investigated the burnt-out tail section to see if there was anything salvageable in the wreckage and they’d returned with a couple of damaged portable ether-comms and a few blackened ration packs.

  – Most of it’s burnt to a crisp or crushed to oblivion, Alvy reported, holding up the damaged comms. Still, with luck, we can cannibalise one of these and make up one functioning unit, then we can contact the Cortez and work out a plan of attack.

  It took them four hours, but eventually they had it working and we were talking with Terese and Saami, discussing options.

  ‘I can send Saami down in the second lander to pick you up,’ Terese suggested, but we had already discussed the option among ourselves and made our decision.

  ‘No need, Teri,’ I said without hesitation. I knew what she was thinking, when she’d made the offer. They’d almost lost us and she was keen to provide us with a chance to overcome any shock that might be setting in after the ordeal – maybe change personnel, if necessary. But it really wasn’t an option.

  I looked at the others, before continuing. They were in pretty good spirits, all things considered, and that had made the decision easier. ‘Apart from a couple of scratches and bruises, no one’s injured, so the crash doesn’t change the game plan all that much. When we’re ready, we can arrange a pick-up. If we go back up now, it means either abandoning the whole expedition, or risking three landings, to pick us up, drop us off again, then return for us.

  ‘After what’s happened, we can’t risk the second lander on any more hops than we have to – and we certainly can’t leave it grounded, in case it’s discovered. We have no other back-up and if anything happened to it, well—’

  There was no need to say any more.

  It was the only logical decision and Terese was smart enough to see it.

  ‘Well, keep in comm contact, at least,’ she said. ‘We can be down there for you within a couple of hours, if you need it.’

  I could see Jordan shaking his head. He leant across to speak into the battered mouthpiece. ‘No can do. The unit’s jury-rigged, and the power meter’s smashed, so we don’t know how much charge is left. The solar back-up’s damaged, so it’s only trickle-charging, and we’re holding the power pack together with spit and promises. It’s needs-only, I’m afraid, otherwise we may not have it in an emergency. Best we can do is a short positioning squawk once a day, say at midday, to show where we are. If it dies, which it probably will, watch the landing site. We’ll get a message to you somehow.’

  So, it was settled.

  Our path led us south and east, skirting the thickest parts of the forest to come out in a direct line with the ruins of the old city, perhaps a day
’s trek further south.

  We had the aerial maps taken by the drones during the week before we landed. They showed small primitive settlements scattered around the periphery of the old city, and cultivated fields and a far larger mass of population in the one area that seemed to have avoided the devastation of the rest.

  A huge castle-like complex dominated the landscape, surrounded by a high defensive wall and outside it, beyond a narrow no-man’s-land of trees and bare earth, squatted a few small gatherings of huts and gardens, then the sprawling ruins of a city that once would have dwarfed even the largest settlements on Deucalion.

  To the north and east, parallelling the coastline, lay the large cultivated fields, and to the northwest, the dark green expanse of the forest near which we had landed.

  There were a couple of small villages nestled in the centre of these woods, but there seemed no obvious way through to them and we had decided to take our chances with the more promising walled settlement; skirting the trees and cutting through the cultivated lands, which looked considerably safer than the sprawling ruins further south.

  Fortunately, we never made it that far.

  JORDAN’S STORY

  I never believed in fate.

  For me, whatever happened always had a logical explanation, if you were smart enough to discover it. You might not like it, but if you could explain it rationally, at least you didn’t have to walk around feeling like the entire universe was against you.

  And if things went well, then you could feel a whole lot better about taking the credit.

  Luck didn’t come into it.

  At least, not until we arrived on Earth. On the first night after the crash, I lay under a makeshift lean-to, looking up into an alien sky. One moon, not two, and a strange configuration of stars, obscured at times by the light clouds, which the wind was driving across a background of dark purple. Far darker than the sky back home. And huge, green trees all around – larger than anything I’d ever seen growing in Deucalion’s arid soil.

  But my eyes kept straying from the sky and the trees, back to the wreckage of the lander. And my mind kept running through the events that had brought us to the ground – shaken, but alive. What were the odds of survival, considering what had happened? Logically, we should have broken up and exploded kilometres above the surface. And even if we hadn’t, if we’d had any other pilot – one without Alvy’s unnatural reflexes – it didn’t do to think about the consequences.