Unbound Brothers

by Rob Rowntree

The waiter delivered the deck and Alan made the connection. Conway shimmered into view, dressed as he’d been the night before. Doesn’t the guy sleep? “Mr. Conway.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Abrams.”

  “It would appear that I might be in need of new employment.” Alan saw a slight flicker in Conway’s eye, enjoyment maybe. The bastard loved his control.

  “My offer still stands, Mr. Abrams. How did you like it?”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Conway. I felt it lacked certain clauses I would require if I were to accept your offer.” Conway twitched, but Alan continued, “Amongst several there would be things like vetoes on planetary excursions that I might supervise, if I deemed any landing operation too dangerous, consensus before any, shall we say, unorthodox flight manoeuvres were undertaken.”

  Pausing for a moment, he wondered if Conway would slap him down, and regain control. To Alan’s surprise, Conway said nothing. In for a credit then... “Furthermore, as you have gone out of your way to arrange for my new position, I feel that compensation should be considered. An extra million credits paid into Jimmy’s trust fund by noon today should cover it.” Even suggesting this eased his conscience. “I realise that your job offer is handsome, but I do feel annoyed at the way you have tried to play me. Need I remind you that I have spent three years unemployed and managed to get by? I can do it again if necessary.”

  “Mr. Abrams. I could make things very difficult for you. There are other pilots out there.”

  Oh yes, a threat now is it? “That’s true, Mr. Conway. Just ask yourself if they, whoever you might choose, can ship out as quickly as I can. I need to see Jimmy to explain and perhaps a few hours to get my affairs in order. I’ll forward my amendments to our contract. Do we have a deal?”

  “Mr. Abrams, they told me that you were very good. That if I wanted a co-pilot, I couldn’t go wrong in hiring you.”

  Alan picked up on the implication. Was Conway piloting the mission?

  Conway said, “I do hope I won’t be proved wrong. You’ll have a new contract within an hour of my receipt of your amendments and the extra money will be credited to Jimmy’s fund by eleven.

  “Incidentally, Mr. Abrams, it appears that you have a sharper mind than I gave you credit for. Your deduction of my need for a speedy departure is well founded. How did you come by it?”

  “Mr. Conway, it’s just plain old soap and water.” Alan grinned; he knew that he’d scored an extra point. “Works every time.” Heck, if they were going to work together, best try and get the levels right.

  Conway shook his head, “I won’t pretend to understand. Your departure and boarding instructions will be with you this evening. I’ll send a company Hopper over at eight. Make sure you are on it.”

  The connection faded just as Alan’s bacon and eggs arrived. Great timing. He was hungry now and he tucked into his meal. That Conway could be a real charmer.

  Fifteen minutes later the waiter returned to remove Alan’s empty plate. “Would you like anything else sir? I noticed you haven’t touched your coffee.”

  “Sorry, I’m not a big coffee fan. In fact I don’t drink it. Could I have a tall glass of ice-cold milk?”

  “With pleasure, sir. I won’t be a moment.”

  As the waiter disappeared into the kitchens, Alan pulled the crew manifest from his jacket pocket. There were eight names, each allotted a title. He filled the eighth spot, the type slightly faded, possibly an indication of his unspecified intentions at the time. The curious thing was that of the remaining seven names, Alan had come across four of them in the last day.

  Conway; listed as pilot and expedition manager. Directly below, Harry Gibson’s name leaped from the page as blue-space Quantum Interface Specialist. Next, another blue-space specialist, Frank Shepperd, Gibson’s working partner perhaps? Two ship’s engineers appeared, Rosie Black and Kiki Bech, who also doubled as safety officer.

  Reading the last two names brought a sense of weirdness Alan found unsettling; he found the whole thing surreal. He now read ship’s counsellor and medical officer, one Dr James Pickering, erstwhile head of Mountain Lodge care home. Alan’s blood boiled; he reminded himself to keep his distance from the man whenever possible during the voyage. He just didn’t like the man. Long trips in confined quarters tend to exacerbate personal conflicts.

  Finally, and perhaps most bizarrely, a position entitled Expedition Archivist and Documentation officer, Miss Avram Stowe.

  What in the hell was going on?

  Alan’s milk arrived, which he hurriedly drank, the cold liquid chilling his stomach; underscoring his mounting anxiety. The crew list couldn’t be coincidental. Something linked these people. Alan thought he’d better find out what, sooner rather than later.

  ***

  The UTG bubble sped along its track; inside Alan opaqued the shell and connected to Solnet. The information regarding Avram Stowe flashed for his attention and Alan nearly opened the file. There’d be time; long voyages make talkers of us all. First things first though.

  Ignoring the indicator he connected to his bank, asking the AI there to inform him the minute monies transferred into Jimmy’s trust fund.

  Moments later, a reply confirmed that the monies had arrived. Pleased they had, he called his house, advised the home computer net to shut the place down and go into standby until he returned. The system would run various low-maintenance chores and ensure security in his absence. Dusting at a small stain on his trousers, he smiled and then dialled up the nearest men’s retail hub. Ordering seven casual outfits, all self cleaning, and two sets of more formal clothing – not knowing how pompous Conway would be - Alan realised that in the not too-distant future both his and Jimmy’s circumstances would be changed for the better. For a moment he contemplated ordering work-wear, but suspected that Conway would outfit him upon boarding.

  That done, he called ahead to Mountain Lodge, where an apparently bored receptionist took his message regarding his imminent arrival. Perhaps she already knew he was on his way.

  The file light flashed. Alan accessed the information and read quickly.

  It appeared Avram Stowe’s work sustained quite a reputation. She’d gained several honours plus the prestigious European Arts Foundation life-time achievement award for contribution to, and uplifting of, the popular awareness of art. An award given once every ten years.

  The file listed other note-worthy exploits and a brief bio with accompanying photo. As for Mountain Lodge and Pickering there were the usual advertisements, local and national news clippings regarding levels of service.

  So, Alan perceived no obvious links. There were several hundred files. Alan, aware he wouldn’t have time to read them all, queried the net, asking the file manager to search for patterns and links. Six came up. Two referred to the sculpture, Lost Dreams. One to a visit to Broken Ridge by Stowe six years ago. A quick look at the text brought Alan up sharp. Not only Stowe, but Conway and Gibson had accompanied her.

  The fourth article represented a summation from a local gossip-node mentioning the possibility of a piece of Stowe artwork arriving in town.

  Frustrated, he realised there didn’t appear to be much to play with. The fifth article told the sad tale of Stowe’s mother and her decline after contracting post-antigen syndrome - a nasty disease affecting people who have taken longevity treatments, compromising the nervous-system and skin. An added request from Stowe dictated she wished to have her mother transferred to Mountain Lodge.

  The final file, entitled, ‘They’re out there, way out there!’ turned out to be an irreverent Blog detailing the ravings of a bunch of generation spanning SETI believers. Pickering and Stowe had listings as affiliate members. Amusingly written, it held little in the way of ‘real’ information, yet it and the other files supported the notion that his new crew-mates were more than just crew.

  The UTG bubble rocked and a loud thud reverberated through the cab.

  Clearing the shell, Alan looked out onto sun-drenched snowfields. Beh
ind them, the track ran straight towards the wooded hills he’d just cleared. He saw nothing to indicate any problems. Forward, he followed the rail as it dipped down before it rose in to a small copse of trees – stick-men on the skyline, hiding the bend ahead. A shiver penetrated. Above them, a small finger of smoke scratched the sky.

  Uneasily, Alan opened an audio link to the bubble’s onboard AI, “Please run track hardware diagnostics.”

  Thirteen seconds later a reply stated, “Diagnostic complete. Track malfunction three kilometres ahead. Recommend immediate action.”

  “Are there safety protocols installed?”

  “Yes.”

  Alan almost laughed, as a surreal moment of panic threatened to break loose. “I take it this vehicle’s safety protocols are online and operating.”

  “No. Safety protocols are off-line. The independent impact expansion foam restraint is functioning, but all other safety functions are disabled.”

  “Off-line? Please engage the safeties at once.” Impact restraint foam would save him, but the bruising and breaks his body would sustain made for shallow comfort.

  “The software is malfunctioning. Recommend manual override. Please locate the brake actuator arm, near the rear of the vehicle.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Twelve seconds to breach in track, current velocity, two hundred and forty kilometres per hour.”

  “Thank you. How the hell am I going to stop in time?” Alan said trying not to sound panicked.

  Alan yanked the actuator arm, the bubble wobbled and bounced, screeching loudly as sparks flew. The bubble slowed but only fractionally. Rounding the curve Alan had to release the handle, his muscles strained and hurt, lactic acid building.

  Ahead he saw a dark spot on the track. Frantically he dove for the handle again, and with both hands wrenched the cold bar upwards. The bubble bucked and shook, screeching metal on metal filled the cab and the spot grew, a dark stain, becoming larger, a disturbing rent in the track, blackened by fire, a black hole to fall into.

  As the bubble left the rail, Alan heard a loud hiss. His vision filled with white.

  ***

  Alan smelled flowers and felt the touch of a warm tropical breeze. Music played a soft melody of guitar and keys. He knew he should open his eyes but he felt comfortable here, where ever here might be. Soft, warm blankets and an overtly welcoming pillow enfolded him, reassured him.

  “Mr. Abrams? Mr. Abrams please open your eyes.”

  He knew that voice and although he really wasn’t interested in seeing its owner, he complied and stated the obvious. “Pickering.”

  “Good, good. Alan you aren’t badly hurt, just some light bruising, concussion and a couple of abrasions. The crash foam saved you. As we were the nearest medical facility, I sent a med-cab to collect you.”

  “Kind of you,” Alan said, trying not to sound sarcastic. Attempting to rise, Alan felt a few twinges; a sharp stabbing pain in his side caused him to wince.

  “Take it easy. The meds will take care of that in a moment.”

  Now upright, Alan saw two men near the door. Pickering saw this and explained, “Police and insurance. Conway’s expedited everything, they just need you to sign a few papers and then we can get back on track.”

  “Back on track? Is that a joke? The damn UTG track just blew up in front of me. Correct me if I’m wrong, but when was the last time you heard of an accident like this?”

  “Accidents happen Alan, it’s their nature to on occasion. Don’t you agree?” Pickering appeared a little flustered, worried perhaps.

  Rather than mention the thud he’d heard before the crash, Alan said, “Can I see my brother now?” Alan couldn’t be sure if Pickering’s comments meant to infuriate and embarrass, to play on his guilt, but that’s how it felt. He suspected the accident had more to do with intent to harm than metal fatigue. The thud had felt like a concussive shock travelling down the track. Small munitions came to mind. What in all the worlds had he gotten himself into?

  As if Pickering had read his mind he said, “I do hope we can accommodate some understanding during the voyage Alan. Life’s short and the flight long.”

  Clambering from the bed, Alan made his way to the men at the door. “Perhaps you can accommodate this, Pickering. I have never liked you or your fawning, patronising approach to life. You treat Jimmy and all the patients here, as commodities. I will try my best to ignore you, but I swear to god that if you act like I’m something you’ve trod in one more time I will accommodate you right where you stand. Do I make myself clear?”

  Pickering stared at Alan, his ice-cold gaze challenging and remote. “Alan, you are not fit to be on the same crew roster as the rest of us. If it weren’t for an accident of fate and bad timing, we wouldn’t be having this conversation and I wouldn’t have to stomach the prospect of spending a prolonged period of confinement with you.”

  “Feelings are mutual, Pickering. I warned you.” Alan took a step towards him but halted when Pickering said, “You aren’t half the man Hector was. It’s a bloody shame he couldn’t be saved.”

  “Who the hell’s Hector?” More to the point, what happened to Hector?

  “Hector Ramos. Our pilot, and as I say, you are nothing compared to him. Nothing.”

  “Hector Ramos.” Alan knew of Hector Ramos. Space-piloting existed in its own bubble, a small world of friends, colleagues and acquaintances. Hector Ramos remained an acquaintance Alan saw at meetings and parties, a figure passing in the corridor. The man’s competence though, ran through Deepship piloting like a rule. Alan said, “So where is he? Why have I got the co-pilot slot?”

  “He’s dead. And unfortunately, it opened the door for you. We knew you, well, of you. The arrangements aren’t to my liking but we had to hurry.”

  Shaking his head Alan turned and walked out of the room past the cop and the insurance guy. “Later guys. Much later.”

  Could he do this? He suddenly felt foolish. Had desperation for space driven him to sign up to the first decent gig offered?

  The Peterson’s loss forged an iconic moment, pivotal in humanity’s decision to pull back from the void, from the search. Alan remembered his own feelings upon reading the historical accounts, his sense of failure and the overwhelming understanding that the search was over; that for all intent, Humanity was alone in the universe. You could say that the public had lost interest, or that governments and nations found other pursuits for their pioneering scientists; economics demanded results. And so it went. Deep in his psyche Alan knew those decisions had to be misguided. Why have a universe fit for life, only to have that life flourish in one place, or worse still, flourish in many places, yet remain destined never to meet? It cut deep. Worse, it felt so very wrong.

  Jimmy watched Cosmic Journey. Alan sat in a chair near Jimmy’s bed and stroked Jimmy’s head.

  “Alan my brother,” Jimmy said, eyes fixed to the holo.

  “Jimmy? Jimmy I have to ask you something and it’s very difficult. Last time I asked you if you’d like to live with me. Do you remember?”

  Jimmy bounced a little. Alan took it to mean yes.

  “Well it’s going to happen, but not as soon as I’d have liked.” Alan felt his throat tighten. Christ, brother, what must it be like for you never being able to speak, to reason or just plain say what comes into your head?

  Like alien cultures and the gulfs between, Jimmy remained forever barred from communicating.

  “I have to make one more flight Jimmy, one more journey.”

  Jimmy shrugged toward the holo-show, eyes flicking back and forth, the meaning not lost on Alan. “Yes, Jimmy, I’m off on one last Cosmic Journey. That’s right.”

  “Alan my brother.”

  Alan wiped drool from Jimmy’s lip and wondered if he’d ever see him again.

  ***

  Conway’s Hopper arrived at eight.

  The small ballistic Hopper resembled a large silver acorn. Four grooves ran down from its apex, hou
sing rotary blades; near the base, silvered body-fairing flared out into a large skirt, the rocket-engine mounting mottled pewter in the falling evening light.

  Alan loved the simplicity of these vehicles — blast up and come down like a helicopter on steroids. A hell of a ride.

  A ramp led up into a small alcove used for baggage storage and coats, with four bags already stowed. Alan pushed two aside to prise his hold-all into place, his new clothes not heavy just a little bulky. The latest fashion he supposed.

  Leaving the alcove, he rounded a corner into a circular cabin. In the centre stood a squat table some one meter from the cabin’s walls, where it gave access to seating.

  Gibson and Pickering sat to Alan’s left, and appraised him cautiously. Opposite the pair sat a woman, her black hair pulled tightly back and tied into a long pony-tail; beside her a man attired in full naval uniform whose Captain’s insignia shone gold in the subdued cabin lighting.

  Alan noticed Gibson nod as he moved towards the seating. Did he like Gibson? The man appeared affable enough, Alan having enjoyed his company, albeit briefly. “Gibson.” Alan acknowledged.

  “Nice that you decided to join us,” Gibson said genially, without any suggestion that might confuse Alan.

  “Don’t know if I had much of a choice. Still, I’m here now, so I guess I’d better make the best of it.” Alan turned to face Pickering. Pinpricks of sweat shone on the man’s brow. “Pickering,” he acknowledged, out of curiosity more than anything else. He wondered what Pickering would say.

  Gibson spoke up instead, “He found the Hopper-flight somewhat more exhilarating than he’d expected, Alan. Made him a little queasy. Isn’t that right Pickering?”

  “Gibson’s quite right.” Stark eyes looked out from a pasty face. “I wasn’t expecting the effect the sudden g-forces would have on my equilibrium.”

  Alan recollected his own fear of atmospheric flight, “I can appreciate that. There’s no knowing what’s going to hit you when travelling. Luckily, AI’s are all excellent fliers.” He wondered if Pickering had picked up his reference, Alan was convinced his UTG crash hadn’t been an accident.