Unbound Brothers

by Rob Rowntree

  Stars twinkled and danced against shimmering veils of gauzy light, bunched in spirals and groups, pumping out a cascade of vibrant colour. If he looked away along the Orion-Spur’s length he imagined he could see it tapering with distance, which further reinforced the image of a starry wall. Immediately ahead the Orion Spur blocked the darkness completely.

  Here and there were darker patches and luminous bumps. The defining structures mesmerised.

  Woodland leaned into the data-well. “You should turn the ship so that the wardroom windows face the star-wall. It’ll be a great view for breakfast.”

  Alan, intent on his investigation, indeed his wonderment, jumped at the interruption. He laughed. “How long have you been staring over my shoulder?”

  “Ever since you pulled all the light from my work station. Mind you, it isn’t like there’s anything to do.”

  Why anyone wanted to work when they could look at this amazed Alan. “Tell you what, let’s secure station and go up to the wardroom, relax with a drink or two.”

  “That my friend, is a bloody good suggestion.”

  Alan quickly selected a holding algorithm in the knowledge that they were within a few hundred thousand kilometres of the last official position Peterson had reported, and out here a few hundred thousand kilometres was dead-on after such a long trip.

  On the stairwell, Woodland said, “All those years ago, face it, Alan, they didn’t search particularly well. The Deepship program was already suffering from budget fatigue and political troubles. To some, the disappearance played right into their hands. Tell you something, I wasn’t surprised the program eventually folded.”

  “Yeah, but it left me and thirty or so spore-enhanced pilots in a real fix. I take meds but you’ll never believe the rush I get connecting to blue-space. It’s like I’m touching the very essence of reality.”

  Woodland nodded, “I guess in some way that’s true.” He looked pensive for a moment, then: “Conway’s information is very compelling and opens up a shit load more questions.”

  “You’ve already seen his material?” For a moment Alan wondered if Conway had somehow overcome his dislike of the navy and taken Woodland into his confidence, but concluded that navy personnel had their ways and means. Grinning, he said, “You sly devil.”

  “Needs must.” Woodland grinned back. “There’s no doubt that we ought to be able to narrow the search down and probably find the location.”

  “Hell, it’s all so long after the fact. Let’s hope we find something more interesting than bugs and flying fish.”

  “My friend, I’ve a feeling you just might.”

  A flood of light washed over them as the wardroom doors opened. Heading down to the observation level, Alan noticed a figure silhouetted against the light. He made out Avram Stowe sitting before an easel.

  Woodland went to the bar; Alan stepped up behind her. Not turning her head, Stowe said, “It’s more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. Creation wrought large across a black abyss. There’s something so primordial about it, as if a struggle measured in eons is being played out.”

  The canvas Stowe worked on already sported a layer of darkened paint. She held the brush back, the lighter paint adhering to it collected starlight streaming in through the window. And yet Stowe hesitated, perhaps held in awe by the view.

  Alan said, “Go ahead; this is an image worth capturing.”

  “I agree,” Stowe began to lightly fill in the background features in the creation of her painting.

  Alan suddenly saw the merit in Conway’s foresight. What a perfect way to capture images for the voyage. Natural beauty interpreted by an artist’s mind and hands; such images would be worth a small fortune at home.

  Woodland came back with whiskies and water. Passing the water to Stowe he said, “Out there the Peterson or what remains of its crew await us. Let’s toast them.”

  They raised their glasses. “The Peterson.”

  The single malt tasted sour to Alan and as he stared into the wall of stars a chill rippled through him. “Look, I need a few minutes to compose a message to my brother. I’ll be back for the breakfast briefing.”

  Abruptly he stood and made for the door; his shadow an eager guide.

  ***

  Drawn by the aroma of hot food, Alan entered the wardroom around 9.00 am; late but not overly so.

  Nobody occupied the upper floor. Apparently his crewmates preferred instead to eat on the observation deck and enjoy the wonder of the view. Who could blame them? As he approached, a babble of low, infrequent voices grew louder. Overwhelmed? Highly likely.

  Conway, Pickering and Stowe occupied a booth near the stairs and as he passed Stowe threw him a brief smile. Gibson and Shepperd manipulated virtual screens covered in complex equations, plates of half eaten food pushed to one side. Nearer the window Kiki and Woodland sat alone. Woodland waved to Alan. Nodding back, Alan turned to the auto-chef and selected his breakfast.

  Manoeuvring between tables Alan made his way towards Woodland. He hoped to have enough time to eat leisurely before Conway commenced his briefing. Drawing alongside Kiki, he hesitated. Would she mind if he sat with her? Impulsively he sat, arranged his breakfast and asked, “Would you like another tea? I can see you’ve finished that one.”

  From somewhere far away, Kiki appeared to hear him. She looked at him, her face slowly growing more animated. A smile fluttered there. Alan was aware how difficult it must for her. Damn Kiki’s trauma over Rosie Black’s death... He felt heartened when she said, “Yeah, sure Alan. Thank you.”

  Not wanting to spoil the moment he hurriedly fetched a replacement. Back at the table he ate in silence. Kiki clutched her tea, stared into its rippling surface.

  “It’s so beautiful here, and a little scary.” She eventually said. “Rosie would have loved it.”

  Alan hadn’t expected this but answered with gusto, “You know, no matter how many times I’ve travelled and looked out at such sights, I’m always bowled over by the spectacle. There’s something deep within us that draws us to them. I’m sure Rosie would have appreciated this.”

  Suddenly more vocal, Kiki said, “Don’t you find it a little frightening? I mean look at it, each point of light a star. It scares me to think about what might be out there.”

  Alan thought her comment odd. Surely one of the trip’s objectives was to locate any sentients the Peterson may have discovered. He shrugged, trying to keep it on a level, and not cause her more unrest. “I suppose it can be a bit daunting, but I doubt there’ll be much to worry about. People have been looking for a long time and what have they found? Land-crabs and seaweed; fish and some exceptionally weird plants.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right, but I’ve got to say we need to exercise caution.”

  Maybe Rosie’s death had switched something on in Kiki’s mind, a mechanism for coping, possibly an over-reaction. Reaching out a hand, Alan gripped Kiki’s fingers – a gesture of understanding, perhaps even an underlining of the fact that he was there for her, whatever.

  “Kiki, we won’t have to worry. If there is an advanced race out there we’ll locate them long before we have to meet them. We can prepare, and if they are low-tech then we can take adequate precautions.”

  Alan felt the pressure from her fingers as she squeezed his hand, “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s not spoil Conway’s moment.”

  ***

  Meals finished, Conway gathered his briefing to order. He offered what Alan termed a benevolent smile. Or maybe condescending might be a better term. “If you’ll all just drag a few seats into a semicircle, that’s right. Gibson, Shepperd, if you please?”

  Alan noted Gibson shrug before they both vacated their booth and joined the others. The shrug, directed at Shepperd signified nothing to Alan, but the second blue-space specialist smiled in response.

  Conway stood before them, his gaze acknowledging their presence. “After many years, you and I,” he encompassed all with a gesture, “are about to see something qui
te extraordinary. It took my breath away the first time I saw it, and I’m pretty sure it will yours.

  “You will see the last message and breath of a very single-minded individual. Dimitri Maslov, navigation officer, second class, possessed a will to survive which borders on heroic and after watching his account you’ll all see we owe him a great debt.”

  The shuffling of chairs and quiet hubbub of whispers died as might a starlit shadow at the switching on of a flashlight.

  “Allow me to play his last recording.”

  The room darkened and a virtual image flickered to life. A man, shortened by perspective gazed up into the camera. Dark rings framed his eyes and a small sliver of blood etched his cheek, his appearance somehow ghoulish. Following a nervous look at the window behind him he turned back to the camera.

  “...my name is Dimitri Anatolie Maslov, last survivor of the Joshua Peterson’s ground expedition.” Deep breaths now, Maslov’s body shuddering with each lung full of air, a mounting panic evident in his looks and demeanour.

  “I’ve released thirty micro-drones. Hopefully their imagers will last for many months. I’ve undertaken this in an effort to provide information for those that follow, or... the drones will download their data to a storage buffer here in the Landing pod. When it’s full the data will be blue-space interfaced back to earth.”

  Maslov went silent, turned away. A few moments later his body shuddered and Alan caught the first of several sobs. Later, more composed Maslov returned to his monologue.

  “Where to start? We found them by chance as we popped into a system very close to a terrestrial body. Routine orbital surveys turned up isolated communities of pastoral farm land, cultivated fields and small hamlets. They were difficult to see as the fields followed contours in the land rather than the more regimented system we have back home.”

  Images of ploughed land in narrow strips followed, meandering around hills and vales, skirting rivers and lakes and edging up to woodland with slanting trees.

  Gasps filled the observation lounge. Alan glanced at his fellow crewmates just as Pickering exclaimed, “Oh, my god.”

  Stowe said, “I can’t quite believe it. Look at them; farmers but not our farmers, fields and crops. It’s just...”

  Her voice died away as Maslov’s commentary continued.

  “We prepped a landing team and of course most everybody wanted in. Nolan and Conway soon put a stop to that. In the end though thirty crew members, men, women and two of the crew’s children, came ashore... Jesus thirty... Sorry.” Maslov appeared to be genuinely ashamed, like he’d let somebody down. “You know, I’m not sure what I want to say. What I can say? The landing went well. Yeah—” He paused; they heard his swallow. “Oh yeah, the landing went real well... now they’re all dead.” Maslov retreated into his sobs and uttered something inaudible.

  Stowe asked, “Can you replay that? I didn’t hear him”

  Conway pushed his hands into the image and stroked an icon. “I’ll remove the other sounds.”

  The audio now contained a jittering staccato but everybody in the room heard the words clearly.

  “We are bound to the land. We are the Bound.”

  Woodland leaned towards the image trying to discern more information, “What’s that about?”

  A startled Woodland leapt back into his seat as fast moving shadows beat at the bright window in the image. Maslov’s voice screamed, “You can’t have me. Do you hear? You can’t have me.” He sounded desperate and exhausted as the battering at the screen image window increased, the slaps and scrapes, the unsettling scratching increasing, louder as Maslov slumped into his seat.

  Pickering and Stowe whispered and then pointed at the image. “Why hasn’t he just taken off? Surely these pods possessed an automatic homing facility or something.”

  Conway said abruptly, “Just listen.”

  The image darkened and faded, and darkened again. Maslov’s features though gaunt at first now appeared skeletal; his hair a mat of twisted knots. Had time elapsed since the earlier images?

  “They come daily now, take pleasure in toying with my nerves. Still I’ve out-foxed them, turned their final act of debauchery around...” A manic titter followed. “And withheld the one thing they want more than anything – their mastery over me. I still have my free will.”

  Maslov sounded elated, a man high on the rush of a battle won. The image faded.

  More sober, at least in tone, Maslov returned.

  “Seven days have passed since my first recording and I have images for you. Let me just say the Peterson is gone. After we landed, Nolan raised the Peterson and spoke with Conway. Weather, observations on the atmosphere... We couldn’t raise them again.

  “Enough! Here are this week’s pictures.”

  A flood of images burst onto the screen; muttering sounded in the ranks as they beheld small hamlets of tall, slim buildings huddled up to crossroads formed by dirt tracks; here a sky displaying a pink tinge to the blue, slanted regimental trees marching off towards the horizon to meet gently rolling hills sweeping away like huge ocean swells. Bipedal natives, tall and not right, thought Alan.

  They were slim and thin boned around the legs. Large knobbly projections grew up from their shoulders, huge muscle mass there resulted in their arms being thrust too far forward, sprouting from a deep ribcage. Here they were in a pose with members of the Peterson’s crew, in a field pushing a plough, others laid out on the floor staring at the sky.

  Up close their faces possessed a human order inasmuch as they had symmetry: two heavily hooded eyes, a mouth and a small flap where a nose might have been. The eyes were large, cat like, and quite beautiful.

  Kiki said to Stowe, “How would you like to get those ugly mutts in a painting?”

  After a moment Stowe said, “They’re adorable, so innocent.”

  “Haven’t you been watching the message? God almighty woman, those innocent untouched natives murdered the crew.”

  Kiki sounded to Alan to be on the verge of shouting.

  Stowe replied quietly, with conviction, “They may well have done so, but there’s no denying their natural presence.”

  As if to emphasize her point the image closed on an alien’s head. Alan studied it, deciding that Stowe was right. But then the mouth - two blades of what appeared to be chitin clicked over smaller razors - kind of stole that idea.

  The image jumped into a rapid stream of snapshots; oddly-twisted mountains topped with snowy peaks, flat plains quilted by rippling long grasses, scrub and desert canyons meandering softly through harsh, rocky terrain.

  Woodland stabbed the air with a finger. “Hey, can you pause the image a second?”

  Conway muttered under his breath but did as requested. The image froze over a bend in the canyon wall. Woodland stood and walked up to the floating view. “Can you see this?” He extended that same finger into the image and drew along the smooth outline of rock, halting when he’d completed one side of the canyon wall.

  Pickering spluttered, “It’s a canyon wall, looks like sandstone.”

  “Yeah, but look at the edging, here and here,” The finger, Woodland’s tutor stick, darted about the frozen canyon marking out up-thrusts of smooth curved rock, other rocks balancing on small pedestals, long parallel gouges, rubbed smooth by time. “Aeolian Sandstone.”

  Pickering looked vacant for a second or so, “And?”

  “I’m suggesting,” Woodland continued, “it’s weathering caused by wind. Sand particles blasted against rock faces smooth the rock, and create curves and arches. I’ve seen rock formations like this back on earth.”

  “It’s just rock though. Right?” Pickering leaned forward, “Not that I have anything against rock, you understand. But I thought we were watching this recording in order to ascertain what we are likely to encounter should we locate the place.” Pickering grinned, an asinine smile.

  “Mr. Pickering.” Interrupted Woodland, “I know that I’m just a poor navy Captain forced upon your jaunt,
and though I’ve never encountered aliens, I did spend an inordinate amount of time reading. Reading anything I could get my hands on. I read fiction, papers on nature, science, environmental influence on social stability. Amongst those papers was an archaic piece by a Brimer or Reamer. I forget which. She liked to write, liked to pass on knowledge.” He took a breath, built up steam. “Aeolian stone or rocks are created by wind over large spans of time. I’d draw your attention to the image again, but fear that you’ll only see rock.

  “The whole god-damn canyon is Aeolian. Although this took time to...to sculpt, it indicates the weather is prone to be windy. Look at the size of the bloody thing.”

  Pickering flushed, “I was only going—”

  “Pickering!” Conway looked and sounded annoyed. He nodded in Woodland’s direction, “Interesting conjecture.” Conway moved nearer the image, “How long would a wind have to blow to force a canyon through rock? Indeed how would it get started? Please put your minds to it people. No matter, let’s continue.”

  Short answer: millions of years. No one speculated. Not even Alan.

  Images sped by; Maslov slumped and burbling; motes flying high; a wall of lights in a cliff face; Maslov still, listless; next, ugly beasts pulling wagons; Maslov thin, grey; light blasting through the Lander’s window; Maslov skeletal bones; a tattered piece of clothing fluttering in the Lander’s air conditioning.

  The sudden blackness brought a jolt to proceedings, interspersed with numerous groans, a burst of chatter that diminished.

  Conway raised the lighting and turned off the virtual. “This message arrived only three years ago. My team thinks that the drones Maslov set free kept recording and storing information until the buffers were full. Only then did the message transmit. Other data arrived, atmospheric composition, gravity readings etcetera. Nothing else.