Unbound Brothers

by Rob Rowntree

  “Amen to that brother,” said the naval officer.

  For the first time, Alan looked properly at him. The officer’s uniform looked immaculate and well fitted. Alan guessed him to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. He wore his blond hair in a tight solid, downward-spike as befit the style of larger urban centres, its severe taught-ness adding a sharp birdlike quality to his face. The officer stared back, a big smile spreading across his face.

  “Spoken like a true navy flier,” Alan turned to Gibson and continued, “So, are introductions in order?”

  As Alan took a spare seat near Gibson, Pickering said, “I think you’ll find that we all know each other and have been briefed on your service record.”

  Alan relaxed into the soft seating; as he reached back to collect and then secure his seat straps he said, “Then Pickering, I fear you have me at a disadvantage. Although I know you and Gibson here, I have never been introduced to our friends over the table.”

  Navy spoke up, “Like you, I’m an outsider here. Name’s TJ Woodland, Captain, Solar Navy. Five hours ago my feet were skimming a surf board over some Hawaiian waves that would make your toes curl. Got orders and...”

  “Nice to meet you Woodland.” Alan offered a curt nod. To the woman he said, “Ms Stowe?” She nodded, “I’ve seen some of your work, and it’s very authentic.”

  Glancing at Pickering, Stowe merely replied, “So I’ve been told.”

  He thought he caught a barbed innuendo yet didn’t comment. If something was happening between Stowe and Pickering he deemed he was better out of it.

  A few seconds silence engulfed the cabin, Alan suddenly felt unsure of the dynamics here. He flipped his gaze back to Woodland. He’d seen the crew roster and now suddenly here was a ninth member, what’s more, a career naval officer.

  The small alcove for baggage and coats also doubled as an airlock, the doors locked into place. Alan felt the ship vibrate as the engines built up power. The small vessel rocked, as if trying to contain the enormous energies building by sheer will. Pickering frantically fastened his safety belt and fumbled with a towel from the seat nearby. He brought it to his face and Alan cracked a wide smile in his direction.

  The ship punched into the night sky.

  Chapter Four

  Ascent and Answers

  The Hopper shook.

  Alan smiled. He liked the descent in these craft, and unlike fixed wing or airship flight, he understood and enjoyed the more natural mechanics of it all, the ballistic trajectory, the physical trade-off in momentum and friction, gravity’s incessant grip. Although the rocket powered rotor-blades were outside of the simplest of nature’s laws, he felt somehow calmed by their vibration. Despite the overall thrill he clenched his teeth. Outside the air was thickening and Alan knew tooth damage due to turbulence would be a bitch to live with.

  Woodland and Gibson sat comfortably, both unconcerned, preoccupied perhaps with other matters if their vacant stares were anything to go by. Pickering and Stowe on the other hand, constantly looked to each other, eyes wide and darting.

  A loud howl rode up the side of the ship, accompanied by tapping and groaning as the rotors bit deeply into more substantial air. Stowe shifted uneasily in her seat.

  To Alan, Pickering and Stowe proved enigmas. They acted like fallen-out-lovers, fencing, yet wanting reassurance; but he detected more, a deep understanding, a more comfortable knowing than lovers might exhibit. Brother and sister perhaps?

  Woodland looked at him, his smile beaming. His very presence indicated that Conway’s expedition carried more importance than previously revealed. Hector Ramos’s death and Alan’s own ‘accident’ demonstrated there were forces at work bent on preventing Conway’s dream reaching fruition. He returned the smile. Perhaps he should cultivate a friendship there. After all, they were the outsiders, the interlopers and there could be little doubt that Woodland as the official navy observer would also be the eyes and ears of authority. Bound to be mileage in that.

  Screens blossomed to life above the seating, showing views of their intended landing sight.

  Many years ago, Lord Howe Island represented the epitome of UNESCO’s world heritage ambition. A national park and playground for tourists, it offered everything an idyllic subtropical paradise could. Staring down at the small land-mass, Alan wondered how the world not only had changed, but how it could have changed like this. How had Conway bought something as precious as this?

  As they fell, detail grew. Through a dispersing cloud base, Mount Eliza and North Peak emerged as real features. Etched by thin, bone-white beaches, lush rainforest-covered mountains pinned the emerald-downed island resplendently in turquoise waters. Alan had seen the island before, but each time he visited its vibrant beauty awed.

  The rotors drummed their chorus, loud and pervasive. Conway’s space-port lay south of the old tourist runway; a thin green strip that straddled a flattened area between the mountainous northern stretch of the island and the gentler slopes to the south. Here sat old tourist hotels and sand and old whitened accommodation blocks.

  Swinging around the southern headland, the craft raced in towards the hardened tarmac. Agile and quick, the Hopper danced beneath its blades, the sound of the motors loud, Pickering and Stowe both shrieking as the craft landed and bounced across the pad. A sigh escaped them as the Hopper resettled and rolled to a stop.

  As coolant steamed and hissed down the outside of the ship and pooled on the hot tarmac, an acerbic automated voice filled the cabin, reminding its passengers to collect their baggage.

  Alan dismissed the rest of the message as waffle, undid his seat restraint and shuffled out.

  Gibson caught him at the rack, “You ready to meet Conway then?”

  Alan knew he needed to chill-out a little. It wasn’t these guys’ fault; in fact, if he thought about his current situation he knew that the majority of the blame lay with him. Still, the manner of his press-ganging irked. He needed to get past it, focus on the here and now. “I guess so Gibson.” Smiling he added, “Surely he can’t be all that bad? After all, you guys have signed up too.”

  Alan noticed a quizzical flicker pass across Woodland’s face. There again, like a joke they all got, but he didn’t. What the hell, he’d find out soon enough.

  Gibson said, “He’s not all bad. And from what I’ve heard you give as good as you get.”

  Alan laughed, “The world’s a tough place and you need to set boundaries.”

  “You do, huh? We’ll see my friend, we’ll see.”

  Something in Gibson’s look forced Alan to wonder whether Gibson resented Conway in some fashion. Shrugging the thought aside he moved to exit the Hopper.

  The exit ramp brought them to the pad’s expanse amidst a gentle breeze and the sound of distant breakers.

  Across from their landing site sat a large assembly building, its white façade made brilliant by shafts of sunlight; beyond it the squat form of their ascent craft straddled its launch crucible.

  “No bus?” Alan said, to nobody in particular.

  Gibson shrugged and hefted his bags, “I think Conway will expect us to hurry. There’ll be a briefing in the assembly block. Let’s go.”

  Not waiting for a reply, Gibson strode off, Pickering and Stowe close behind. Alan hefted his bag to follow. Conway really was a penny-pinching bastard after all. Before Alan moved off, Woodland came alongside, “Say Abram, you gotta sec?”

  “Sure, we’ve got a minute or two. Let’s walk.”

  “I couldn’t help noticing that you seem a little lost re the dynamics here. How long you been with the group?”

  Alan smiled; like Woodland didn’t know already; spooks and their games, “Since yesterday. I guess you could say I’m playing catch up. But I’m sure Conway will let me in on everything once we are underway, maybe sooner.” Alan gestured towards the building. “I wasn’t expecting a navy presence though. Where do you fit in?”

  “I’ll just say that my superiors felt it prudent that Co
nway accept their offer of assistance. I’ve got orders, you understand.”

  “Not really. Since when do the Navy run roughshod over private enterprise?” Eyes met, behind one set a real question, behind the other nothing. “No, don’t answer that. All I know is that Conway believes he knows where the Peterson went, that his relative was a crew member and he needed a co-pilot. That’s about the size of it.”

  “Yeah,” Woodland said eventually. “Obviously the navy’s interested in any first contact scenario and so they felt I should tag along.”

  “But you guys looked for the Peterson for four years and found nothing. Why the renewed interest? Why now?”

  “Space is a big place Mr. Abrams.”

  “Call me Alan.”

  “Alan. Okay Alan, we might have missed something. We combed the blue-space-quantum interface messages, but those BQI’s mostly contained text and indecipherable data; we got nothing except a few uninteresting mud-balls. No ship. However, one of Conway’s messages contained information regarding first contact, mostly text with garbled image data. That’s it right there. You see, we have to be sure.”

  “You’d have found them if they’d have been there. Blue-space quantum messages have fixed positions and time. The information lies embedded in the fabric of the universe. Vacuum rusted hulk or not, how could you miss a ship the size of the Peterson?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Not necessarily? You sound as secretive as Conway.”

  “Yes, I guess I do. The ship just wasn’t there and as for fixed in space and time, well, not always. Either the co-ordinates were wrong or the messages Conway has are fakes.” Woodland grinned, then said, “As I said, it’s a big universe out there. Checking every mud-ball we encountered wasn’t viable, just the most likely candidates. No secrecy implied, simply nature and statistics. Conway’s got me beat on the secrets front.”

  Alan laughed, “Tell me about it.”

  “Do you want me to flesh out the scenario for you, Alan? Fill in the blanks? Or would you rather wait for Conway?”

  Would he like to know now? The building’s bright bulk loomed ahead and Alan imagined Conway pontificating on events leading up to their impending departure. But then Woodland’s take on things might not be accurate. No, he’d wait.

  Shaking his head he walked on, each step bringing a growing excitement. There was no denying that he’d missed the service, missed the thrill of space flight. Gently massaging his neck spore-ports, he examined the ascent vehicle in the distance. Essentially the hardware remained unchanged from those he’d used. Of course there were refinements, but nothing major.

  The craft was a dumb, brute force affair. A truncated cone formed the main body and equidistant about its circumference sat four regular Hoppers. The central cone carried the cargo and main engine block; the Hoppers carried passengers and also made reliable lifeboats should an emergency occur. Alan’s breathing quickened. There had been times when he thought he’d never ride into space again. Idly he wondered if Jimmy harboured any desire to fly into space. Perhaps, when this was over, Alan thought. Have to spend my money on something.

  Woodland intruded, “They’re not very aesthetically pleasing are they?”

  “No but they get the job done. Real lines can only be appreciated in blue-space craft.”

  “You are not wrong there.”

  Ahead Gibson had vanished, Pickering and Stowe slipping through a small side door next to an office window. Alan and Woodland jogged to catch up.

  They entered what might be termed a small reception area where a flight attendant relieved them of luggage; another then escorted Alan and Woodland up a short staircase to a small mezzanine.

  They found Pickering and Stowe standing before a large conference table, beyond which Gibson talked animatedly with a short round man. Alan guessed Frank Sheppard, the other blue-space Quantum Interface expert. Further along the table two youngish women, maybe twenty-something’s, busily worked on several virtual screens. They ignored the new arrivals. In the seconds it took Alan to register that they must be Black and Bech the ship’s engineers, a door opened and Conway strode in.

  Alan noted that Conway held everyone’s attention. Though he walked with a cane, he used it to emphasise his step, its metal tip clicking out a rhythmic beat. Conway’s stature held restrained power. He was big and not withstanding his age, stood straight and proud. Grey wavy hair topped his stoic features.

  Alan gave him credit; the man sure knew how to make an entrance.

  “Everybody please sit.”

  Conway circled around to the head of the table and nodded to Gibson as he passed by.

  To Alan’s dismay, Woodland sat at the opposite end of the table in what one might interpret as a deliberate statement of intent. Thinking on his feet, Alan moved up beside Gibson and took the next empty seat. Woodland made a mock-hurt face and then smiled at Alan.

  Conway coughed. “Well my friends, a long journey. There have been losses—” Heads turned to look in Alan’s direction. Conway continued, “But the important thing is that we are, at last, ready.”

  A waiter appeared and offered everybody a small sherry. Alan’s nose wrinkled. When drinking, beer was his drink, plain and simple, perhaps the odd single-malt, champagne at a push, but noting that everybody took the offered glass he followed suit.

  “To our success,” Conway said, “To our success and our dearly lost relatives.”

  There came a chorus of “Hear, hear”, yet even as Alan raised the glass to his lips, his mind raced. ‘Our dearly lost relatives’ Conway had said. No, that would be too surreal, but it did make a kind of sense and explained Pickering’s outburst regarding Hector Ramos and Pickering’s longing to join the service, Stowe’s fascination with the Peterson, the secretive knowing smiles and gestures...

  Could it be possible that this crew, apart from himself and Woodland were all descendants of the Peterson’s long vanished crew; a cabal of progeny. With Hector Ramos dead and their need for a co-pilot urgent they’d come to him. Their unexplained hostility made sense, Hector would have been one of their own and now here he was stirring the mix. The sherry tasted sickly sweet on his tongue.

  Alan glanced towards Woodland who stared back wearing a small grin. He knew. Alan saw that Woodland knew the penny had dropped, that he was enjoying the moment. The guy doubtless felt relieved to discover that another crew mate was outside of the circle. It would be an interesting trip.

  Conway placed his glass down, and then thumped the table with his fist. It got their attention. “When I was a young boy,” he said, “my father would tell me tales of a man called Gramps. Only later did I discover that these stories were family history.

  “In some ways my father idolised his great, great, great, grandfather, Roger Conway. As he told the stories, often as bedtime tales, his countenance would glaze as he wallowed in romanticised visions of far off places, of strange alien worlds. As a boy I soaked up the drama, the adventure, but as I grew, I discovered that the search for sentient life had failed and those beloved stories of my youth faded like lost dreams.

  “Luck and a small amount of skill enabled me to make a handsome living and childish things lay long forgotten until, on his death bed, my father bestowed to me the most wonderful gift. He gave me back my childhood dreams. He bequeathed me my great grandfather’s legacy.”

  Conway waved a couple of data blocks, flourishing them like a trophy.

  “I had these checked by every expert I could find. Here my friends are the answers we seek. Here lies the Peterson.”

  Woodland smothered a laugh and Conway rounded on him, “Laugh if you want Mr. Woodland, but the truth is that your precious navy took this information and were unable to locate the Deepship. Is that correct Mr. Woodland?”

  Alan noticed Woodland redden as he replied, “That’s my understanding of the situation.”

  Conway paused before saying, “Perhaps they should have been looking at the data more closely, at what it actually said
.

  “This is no jaunt Mr. Woodland. Today sees the culmination of many years hard work and planning. And tomorrow or the next day, or the next, we may all have some of the answers we seek.”

  Alan saw Conway look around the table and as he followed that gaze he felt euphoria building from each and every one gathered there, including him.

  He felt Conway’s gaze settle on him. “Right, for those of you that have not met Mr. Abrams, our new co-pilot and mud-skimmer, he’s the one sitting next to Gibson wearing a stunned look. And at the far end of our esteemed gathering is the navy’s asset, Mr. Woodland. I’m sure that in the coming days we’ll all have time to meet properly, but in the meantime I want you to make an effort to welcome them into our fold.

  “Alan, I’ll have a meeting with you once we’ve boarded the Haqiqa. Let me assure you, however, that we are not all here for the same reasons. Yes, we all have a vested interest in the fate of our ancestors, but many, such as Gibson there, also have their own projects to study. It’s a potpourri of an expedition.”

  “The Haqiqa? Ah, of course, Truth in Arabic. A touch melodramatic Mr. Conway.”

  “The ship is actually named Satalqa Haqiqa, which roughly means Finder or Searcher of Truth. As to melodrama, I always found my second wife’s native tongue most poetic.”

  You are not wrong there you old goat. Alan said: “Since you are paying me more than handsomely for my services, I’ll do my best Mr. Conway.” He looked around those gathered and continued, “And I’ll try my best to fit in. Incidentally, I knew Hector Ramos only fleetingly in person, more by reputation. I know he was your friend and colleague, but I’m not him and no amount of comparison will change that. All I can say is that I’ll do my best.”

  And there it was, Hector Ramos dead and either a botched attempt on his own life or a warning. Somebody didn’t want this expedition to go ahead. Then another thought surfaced: What if the malcontent sat here at this table.

  ***

  The ascent was hard. Engines roaring, tearing through screaming air. Alan’s restraint belts dug deep.