by Rob Rowntree
The image focused, revealing an aged face. Cragged, leathery wrinkles drew Alan’s gaze upward towards deep set eyes. Mischievousness hid there, beneath a cold hard stare. Alan felt threatened; here was a man that expected to be in control.
Alan knew of Conway, as did much of the world, but few people got to see him; less got to interact. Haliwell Conway Conglomerate supplied raw materials to the Solar System. If they couldn’t supply an item, or a certain product, anybody willing to do so, needed to go through them. Conway held the solar system in his hand and could close it with a whim. Alan regained some composure despite an unsought nervousness and said, “Good evening Mr. Conway. I must say Gibson has me interested. By all means, continue.”
“Possibly in a moment Mr. Abrams, first I’d like to ask you a question. How strong is your desire to get back into space...to fly, to discover?”
Alan nearly blurted out a trite answer, yet held back. Jimmy. For too long a time the guilt he’d carried, both for his foolish act in their formative years and the subsequent lack of care he’d shown his brother, had gnawed at his resolve to the point where a new resolution, almost a duty to help Jimmy had taken hold. Could he throw this away and blame a whim to travel, his maybe selfish need for the new?
“I’m a little reluctant to answer that question, Mr. Conway. My love of piloting is well documented and a shot at a pilot’s seat is very tempting, but I have more responsibilities to deal with now. Without more information—”
“Yes, yes,” Conway cut in sounding exasperated, “I’m well aware of your obligations to your brother. It’s one of the reasons why I have approached you. If you accept my proposal, I will guarantee Jimmy’s healthcare in one of my private medical facilities until our return, at which time, you will be well rewarded for your efforts and thereafter be able to afford any god-damn care package you’d like for Jimmy.” Conway paused, a sigh audible before stating: “What I’m really after here Mr. Abrams, is passion. Do you still have the urge to explore? Does the dream of contact still beat in your heart?”
Alan’s turn to pause, and he deliberately said, “Mr. Conway, may I have a moment’s privacy with Gibson? I’d like to ask him something.”
“No you may not; you are talking to me now. Time is precious Mr. Abrams.”
Alan took Conway’s reaction as overly authoritarian. However, already hooked by the proposal he let it slide. “Very well Mr. Conway, I admit to feeling as I felt then. I signed up with Fleet in order to make contact with, or at least see another race of beings; a race born under a different star than our own. I craved the exotic. But as you know, we missed them.”
If there was a smile from Conway, he hid it well. “Young man, that notion is not held in all quarters. But I will concede that after one hundred and fifty years of looking, a few ruins and one short lived blip on a sensor array make for poor headlines.”
Conway looked ‘off-screen’ to his left. Alan glanced at Gibson, who leaned against the booth’s upholstery looking relaxed.
Gibson raised an eyebrow at Alan and then smiled, “Gave me the same shit. But keep listening.”
Conway was back. “Two hundred and eighty years ago, my Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandfather vanished out there. He travelled on this.”
Conway held up a small, model starship. Alan recognised the ship. Although smaller in every detail, it matched the sculpture in Mountain Lodge’s reception foyer. Perhaps the artist Avram Stowe produced replicas, or this could be a test model before the real thing. However you viewed it, it still held all the power of its larger counterpart. It was beautiful.
Conway said, “So, you’ve seen this before. The lodge I’d guess.”
Needing breathing space, Alan said, “I can think of maybe four or five retired pilots that have better service records than mine. So why me?”
“No laddie, I’ll not be distracted from my tale,” Conway said, adding somehow more meaningfully, an underlying sense of control, “after all, it’s at this point where I will hook you.”
Alan leaned towards the holo-console and flicked it off.
Gibson leapt to his feet, “What the hell did you do that for Alan? No one does that to Conway. He won’t forget whatever the outcome of your discussion.”
Gibson was beside himself, almost as if he had insulted Conway personally. Gone was the laid-back attitude, replaced with a stuttering nervousness.
“Gibson, what’s with all the smoke and mirrors? Can’t the guy just get to the point?”
“Alan, look, it’s complicated. Conway doesn’t want outside interests to get wind of his pet project. There are shares to consider, can’t have his stake-holders worrying or anything.”
The console chimed.
Alan signalled for the waiter, “Please can I have a couple of detox-tabs?” As the waiter went to fetch his order, Alan said to Gibson, “Need a clear head, especially now that I have set the bar by cutting him off.” He flicked the switch.
Without any outward sign of pique, Conway said, “Mr. Abrams, there’s really no need to set an agenda here. If you will please indulge me by listening—” Uh-oh, he’s being condescending. “I’ll indulge in your, what shall we call them, quizzical histrionics. Does that sound fair?”
The waiter returned and Alan quickly took the tablets offered.
Conway resumed his tale. “The Peterson vanished out in the void; records indicate possibly a couple of hundred light-years out from the Orion Spur. I know one can’t be exact about these things, but it’s nice to think of them as ‘in the void’. Quite romantic.”
Conway appeared wistful, like an old mariner retelling a sea myth. “Last of the Deepships, the really big ships, last of the hunters,” he said. “My relative held the rank of Exo-biologist, head of one of the planetary field teams. Much like you Mr. Abrams, a Mud-skimmer. I know you are aware of the story, it has passed into legend; they found something, they exploded, they returned home, the crew and their discoveries hidden away lest they disturb the population...”
Alan shifted in his seat. Sure he’d heard this before and deep within himself possibly held a liking for this kind of myth. But hey, that’s all it was, myth. They’d searched and found nothing. Blue space lock-out, the ship forever beyond the read of normal space – accidents happen.
“Mr. Abrams, I see from your tired expression that you feel there’s nothing new to offer on this subject.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Conway, but this is tabloid fodder. What is more, I don’t understand why a man of your standing and undoubted intellect would tarry with such notions.”
A more personal note of exasperation entered when Conway retaliated with: “My relative kept a diary; he often sent sections of it home.”
“Many crewpersons did; it’s a matter of record that each and every one of those records sent back from the Peterson has been examined thoroughly. What—?”
“If you will let me finish,” Conway sounded agitated now. “You are correct, those messages were analysed. However, Mr. Abrams, my relative thought it prudent to send personal messages via blue-space-quantum-interface and they, as you know, remain permanently embedded in quantum-time, so there’s no denying their time of origin. Mr. Abrams, I have a slew of messages here.” He waved a pack of memory cubes. The pause was profound enough to dramatise what he said next: “One, following the official date of loss!
“They found something. I want you to co-pilot my venture to uncover the truth.”
For a moment Alan felt drawn by the statement, but then said, “Why didn’t you take your material to the authorities, Mr. Conway? If there’s anything there, they’d be only too willing to assist you.”
“Ahh, there’s an interesting notion, with one tiny drawback. Given one sniff of this the authorities would be claiming compulsory domain. Any and all profit from the considerable amount of capital I’ve already invested will be coming back to me. If there’s a time to involve governments, it’s after we are back.”
“Fair enough,” Alan couldn
’t fault Conway’s logic. “It’s an interesting offer, Mr. Conway. However, without some hard data, I’m inclined to decline.”
“Mr. Abrams...Alan...Harry Gibson has a package for you. Take it to your room, read it thoroughly and then get back to me.”
Alan looked at Gibson, who nodded affirming Conway’s statement. What harm could it do? “Okay, Mr. Conway, I’ll take a look, but no promises.” Somewhat defiantly, he added, “As I said earlier, I already have a job.”
“You will find all of the information there. My financial offer is also included. The only thing omitted, and for good reason, is the location of what they found and indeed what they found. If you accept my offer, I will reveal this information once we have reached the official last known location of the Peterson. I must insist on this, as the nature of the material is precious not just to me, but to the entire world.”
Alan couldn’t help but smile. “You have a way with words, Mr. Conway. I’ll get back to you shortly. Oh, one thing before I go, those four or five other pilots... Did you contact them?”
“Yes I did.”
The holo went dead.
For a while Alan stared into the space vacated by Conway’s head and shoulders. Fate played cruel tricks, and yet he found himself thinking of Jimmy. Could he leave him again? Maybe security and a limited income might be better than risk and a possible windfall. Hell, he’d only just got settled.
Absently he rubbed his neck, felt the knotted wetware interface clump beneath his skin. The thought of constant medication for his spore-enhancement addiction did not fill him with joy.
He turned to Gibson, “When I met you on the airship, I thought you seemed like a nice guy. Now I’m not so sure, not sure at all. What convinced you to sign up?”
“Money, what else? Oh, and Conway made it kind of hard to say no.”
“I guess I’d better go read up on stuff then.”
Gibson passed over a hand sized pack and Alan stood to leave. Gibson said, “It’s not so bad, and Conway’s offer will surprise you.”
Alan stopped. “You think those four or five other pilots refused his offer because they were rich? There’s something out-of-line here and I’ll be damned if I’m going out on some ill-prepared joy-ride. I’ve got to go think about it. Catch you later.”
“Better be sooner rather than later. Conway’s in a hurry.”
Alan strode from the booth and headed towards his room.
***
He walked rather than take the elevator, needing the time to think.
Ramps rose from the lobby in sweeping curves, past huge windows where coloured polarization filtered the interior light into a pastel mist that bathed the snow mounds outside. Marshmallows thought Alan, big marshmallows.
A dark shape struggled through the snow. Hunched beneath some sort of blanket the figure took slow steps, wallowing and falling into deeper drifts.
The figure turned his way and for a second a young female face looked up at him. As if caught doing something she shouldn’t have been, she turned away and stumbled on.
He knew that vagrants lived outside, that the vulnerable, the lost and forgotten drifted by the normal structure of society.
But outside? In this weather. What sort of a community did that to its own?
The answer came easily. Ours. And for a million different reasons. Suddenly saddened, Alan moved on to his room. Perhaps he and Jimmy deserved a better life. Jimmy certainly did. Like those unfortunate folk outside, he’d been long enough without someone to really care for him. Yes, Jimmy deserved a chance.
***
Having taken a quick shower, Alan ordered coffee and cake via room service.
His Solnet terminal signalled two messages waiting: he ignored them. The job offer waited.
The package, he found, contained a handsome fold-out portfolio, detailing the Joshua Peterson’s last voyage, a crew manifest, and a mission profile from Exploration. Several data prints detailed supposed irregularities within the ship’s cargo manifest; also a list of unusual ship log entries, filed before communications ceased.
Nothing new.
Exploration’s mission statement read like a holy writ: Search for and locate other sentient life forms...traces of past occupation...blah, blah, blah. Did he have passion, Conway had asked. Passion... for this? No, not anymore.
We are alone in the universe and whatever twisted joy was to be had from that is God’s alone.
The document specifying his contract and financial package was impressive. Jimmy would receive care from the best facilities until Alan’s return, upon which a large lump sum settlement and continued access to medical support would continue. What to do?
Alan decided he could fly the mission without too many problems. He might be a little rusty, but a few hours behind the throttle would fix that. Besides, ships flew themselves; you just needed pilots as back up.
Conway mentioned Mud Skimming. He must expect land-fall.
Tossing the pack aside, he stretched out on the bed. Nothing had leapt out from the information to suggest that Conway knew anything significant. To be fair, Alan found Conway overbearing, and maybe a touch condescending. A bit like a spoiled child.
His Solnet console chimed indicating another message loaded. What the hell, he thought, I’ll take them. One listed several information packages relating to his search of Avram Stowe and Mountain Lodge; another offered free hermaphrodite reconstructive surgery, providing applicants were willing to appear in ten movies of dubious quality. The final message listed the home number of Marcus Hand the personnel manager at the Solar Museum, right now Alan’s new employer. Lowering his wrist-ident he said, “Please respond to the message from Marcus Hand and connect me to his nearest terminal”
The Solnet console chimes and a wavering head and shoulders materialised.
“Alan, I’m glad you called.”
“Hello Marcus. Is everything all right?”
“I’ll come straight to the point. The committee has decided that due to budget restrictions in next year’s business plan, we need to be making savings as soon as is practicable and therefore they have decided to cancel your contract for the foreseeable future. I really am sorry. I know how set you were on working for us.”
Alan felt numb. “I, well I don’t know what to say. Are you sure you can do this? I have a contract. There are employee protection rights.”
“Alan, there’s a clause in section 7, subset iii. I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I thought you were the man for the job.”
“Marcus, thanks for letting me know. What sort of budgetary cuts are you looking at?”
“One of our major backers has pulled funding. We found out late yesterday. It’s a shame.”
“Which backer was it?” Alan said.
“I can’t possibly reveal information regarding our backers and their finances. It’s come as a big...”
Alan didn’t hear the rest. “Son-of-a-bitch must really want me.”
Marcus said, “What was that Alan?”
“Sorry, nothing. Thanks for giving me the message in person.”
“Alan, I... The committee had nowhere to go. It was either lose the funding or...”
“Bye, Marcus”
Conway obviously needed him badly. Time perhaps? He’d call him shortly and having been forced into dependency on this new job offer, he’d make Conway pay, bargain for a better contract.
Eventually, following a stretch and a yawn, he walked over to the drinks dispenser. His leg brushed the job details from the bed, and the portfolio hit the carpet with a muted thud. A small sliver of paper slid free. Bending Alan noticed it was a roster of Conway’s intended crew.
Being more interested in the job offer than the details, the crew manifest had gone unread when he’d looked over the material earlier. He would look at it in the morning, folding it, he placed it with the other material.
Lost in thought, and following his quick night cap, Alan drifted to sleep. The Solnet messenger service light bl
inked away, Alan’s search results for Avram Stowe and Mountain Lodge would have to wait.
Chapter Three
Introductions and Farewells
How would Jimmy take the news?
Alan felt numb and un-refreshed from a fitful night’s sleep. He tumbled from his bed and padded over to the small hotel bathroom, a cubicle equipped with a reusable ultrasonic shaver and a real water shower. He needed the water, needed its flow and cleansing touch to help order his thoughts. Staring into the full length mirror he recognised guilt; saw it creeping out from under his tired face. Damn it to hell, he’d had time enough to think of Jimmy’s needs, of what Jimmy might want. He picked up the shaver.
The shaver pulsed in his hand, pinpoint ultrasonic beams slicing away stubble. To Alan it felt grating, the stubble resistant and uncooperative.
The shower felt good and as he massaged his neck and augmentation ports he drew up a mental list. Conway needed a pilot, one experienced in mud-skimming. And fast, meaning like yesterday. Conway had also used his brother Jimmy as a lever and destroyed Alan’s new job.
Distressing as such thoughts went, Alan managed a smile. Gibson sure had thrown a loop when he’d not played ball with Conway. A link perhaps? Maybe some sort of shared knowledge or understanding?
What had Conway said about those other pilots? Oh yes, ‘Yes he had contacted them.’ Why would he reveal that?
Had he asked anybody else? He just needs a pilot.
Alan dressed casually, hard-wearing trousers and a sweater. Feeling more presentable, he headed to the hotel’s restaurant for breakfast. The atmosphere belied the cold outside, artificial summer-sunlight and exotic vegetation giving it a pleasant airy feel, ceiling fans wafted subtle scents of ionised ocean air and bougainvilleas. He felt calmer.
Food ordered, he asked the waiter for a communications deck.
Hesitating, he wondered how to play this. Conway would know that Alan had contacted Marcus Hand, so there would be no need for coyness or subterfuge. Straight then, without any bull.