“Ship’s security?” Bloom asked.
“We’ve mapped out patrol routes throughout the Ship,” Commander Nadia Castaneda, the Security Chief said, “We have enough officers to start, but I’m going to want to recruit about five hundred more from the civilian population as soon as possible.”
“You’ll have to talk to Governor Santino about seeing if the Education department can handle a small police academy. Education’s a civilian concern and therefore under his jurisdiction,” Bloom said, “Otherwise we’ll have to train them as part of the militia. Other security issues?”
“We have operators ready to train with the Ship on its defensive systems,” Castaneda replied, “The brig facilities are up to par though I hope we never need them and we have a forensics squad ready to run.”
“Again, let’s hope we never need them,” Bloom concurred, “I think that about covers most of our immediate concerns. There isn’t much to be done as far as the Alien Studies go. Nothing pressing in any of the other departments?” Everyone else shook their heads.
“Good,” Bloom said, “Then I think that about wraps up this meeting. Just one note for the military personnel: I know that some of you have been reporting to duty without the uniform jacket on or with the jacket unbuttoned. That isn’t a problem aboard Ship, but for the ceremonies this morning you are expected to be in full uniform as we mercifully haven’t had a dress uniform issued. Duty jackets, buttoned to the top, will be expected; issue the order to your respective departments. That’s it, folks. We’ll see you all topside for the last time, in about an hour.”
♦♦♦
The sun was setting by the time the last of the passengers had boarded the Ship. The blue bands of strange energy were glowing in the evening sky, the Shipsong loud in the ears of everyone remaining on the surface as the bustle and noise of loading nearly a quarter of a million people into the gargantuan vessel died down. People had begun gathering along the new perimeter set up by the World Ship Summit nearly two days before. Everyone wanted to witness the spectacle of the Ship’s launch. Fort Arapaho, which had been home to the Ship Survey Expedition, would no longer be needed after Shiprise. As such, the base was to be decommissioned.
Sequestered within the Ship it was a ceremony that Colonel Bloom and Major Benedict were sorry to miss. As the flag was lowered and removed from Fort Arapaho, the moon was halfway through the night sky. The Shipsong echoed powerfully and eerily throughout the area. Systems and sensors would record the coming day’s events for the sake of science, history and the public interest. They stood now, silent mechanical sentinels solemnly waiting for the Ship’s departure the following morning. Aboard Concord Three, the space station’s new crew set every single Earth-facing monitoring device they had to watch the Ship.
♦♦♦
In the vacant Fort Arapaho, The Shipsong was stronger now, echoing off of deserted walls and empty buildings, picked up by microphones and monitors scattered throughout the compound and the surrounding desert. As the first rays of the sun poked over the horizon, coloring the cold desert night, stirring awake those eager observers who had fallen asleep a remarkable thing happened; something totally unexpected, something that immediately stirred everyone. As dawn broke, the Shipsong stopped.
After coming in search of intelligent life, after being damaged and buried during the Cataclysm, after lying dormant beneath the Earth for aeons, the Ship had been discovered, unearthed itself and communicated with intelligent life, fulfilling its ages-old directives. And now at long last, the Ship again had crew and passengers, and it was at long last completing its mission, and beginning the journey home.
FINALE
SHIPRISE
Allison McQuire woke to the rich scent of coffee brewing. It took her a long moment to remember that she was deep within the Ship. Her quarters on Habitat were still not unpacked; her bed was there but little else. Artificial sunlight streamed welcomingly through the round windows. The walls were a bare creamy yellow, the floor black, almost like polished marble. Every room was backlit through the ceiling as in the rest of the Ship. Allison rolled sluggishly out of bed and padded her way into the kitchen, furnished with the latest available appliances, to fix herself a cup of coffee. She’d set the coffee maker the night before; it had been one of the first things she’d unpacked besides a change of clothes for today. Outside, the beautiful greenspace of Habitat stretched out: hybrid trees casting cool shade, the generated sky a rich and beautiful blue. The air was fresh down here; fresher than she’d ever known on Earth.
Allison recalled the trip to the Ship yesterday afternoon: Following agonizingly dull induction ceremonies with speeches, prayers, musical tributes and--Goddess help her--interpretive dance numbers, the Passengers had been sequestered into groups. Then it was on to the embarkation zone according to the number assigned to each group. Allison had been in Group Nine so she had had to wait nearly five hours before embarkation. And then Embarkation itself was another completely surreal experience.
They were herded outdoors from their staging area, where a fleet of hundred and fifty-passenger busses sat waiting. The busses were all aimed down the Ramp, towards the Pyramid network. As each bus was loaded it drove off while the next one in line began taking on passengers. Once she’d taken her seat on the bus, what it was she was about to embark upon settled on her shoulders. As the bus pulled away from the terminal her last view of the Earth was one of the desert vista to either side of the Ramp. The Ship was beginning to overtake the scene, and she found herself staring into the mute face of a young Black man who was, like her, sitting alone in the throes of realization of what was to come. He looked as she did: nervous, eager, and afraid. They held each other’s gaze a long moment, silently sharing each other’s worries of what was to come. Then they broke contact, looking back out the windows. The gold and blue of the Ship was visible everywhere now beyond the leading edge of the Ramp. They were nearly there. Everyone rode in silence, listening to the Shipsong, loud even through the walls of the bus. The bus turned, taking a secondary route to the embarkation point they’d been assigned. Someone at the front of the bus wearing the gold-and-black uniform of the Ship’s crew was giving them instructions; where to go when they arrived at their embarkation point, what signs to follow, and if they got lost how to interact with the Ship and find their way to the registration areas. The Passengers had all been walked through this already but it was nerve wracking about to be doing it for real. Allison thought of the party the night before, and of the night before that, her last with Laura. She’d have memories of her dearest friend for a lifetime but their last hours together had been bittersweet and achingly brief.
“Laura…” Allison whispered, pressing her hand against the cool glass of the bus window, feeling the vibration of the Shipsong against her hand. And then they were at the Ship; the bus stopped and the passengers were getting up.
“Oh, God,” Allison murmured, “Here we go.”
♦♦♦
Sipping her coffee the following morning, Allison stood on the small terrace of her lodgings, looking out at the vast tracts of parkland before her It reminded her strangely of the greenspace behind her apartment, back home. The Ship’s shops were located on the decks surrounding the Habitat, as were the industries and agro-centers that supplied them. A decision had been made somewhere to only allow cloned meat on board the Ship. None of the livestock aboard would be raised for anything worse than milk or eggs. Everything would be given free range either in isolated sections of the Habitat sphere or in separate preserves set up along the surrounding decks. The Ship was a veritable ark, with samples of every environment, including oceanic life, having been created within. There were Laurentian forests, tropical rain forests, deserts, the arctic and even a deck that was a perfect microcosm of the African Savannah. The Ship was a miracle, a wonder, and a frightening, fascinating place. Allison had cried herself to sleep last night for fear of what was to come; but for better or worse she was now home. There was a sudde
n, strange chime reminiscent of the Shipsong. Then a voice boomed over some hidden PA system throughout the Habitat. Allison recognized it almost immediately: Laura’s mother:
“Your attention please, your attention please. This is Colonel Margaret Bloom, Commander of the Ship. We are now commencing countdown for Shiprise. All Passengers please report to your designated emergency shelters until flight is underway. Please consult one of your house panels if you do not recall where your designated shelter is located. We are at T-Minus sixty minutes and counting. All Passengers should be at their shelters within the next fifteen minutes.” Shiprise. In one hour. Allison swallowed hard and filled herself a thermos of coffee.
♦♦♦
Walter Quincy Robertson had been a reporter with INN for almost ten years now. Any other Grid-based news network would have long since promoted Robertson to anchor or co-anchor but INN, with its virtual news anchors had no need of a human anchor. They still had need of Human news reporters. When INN perfected the technology used originally by Ananova.com to bring its virtual news service to life, the Union of Broadcast Employees had been quick to require that all other networks and news outlets have at least five live human on-air personalities. INN escaped the ruling, but it left reporters who chose to work for INN as pariahs to the rest of the industry. It made INN reporters a bit of a close-knit society. But only because there was no future reporting the news to INN; if you were lucky you'd get a job in one of the INN offices writing script for the electronic ghosts who anchored INN's several hundred news broadcasts. Robertson intended to bend the trend. He had been assigned to cover the launch of the Ship, and he was going to use this as an opportunity to get a job at another network and hopefully land an anchor chair.
"Walt, we're going live in sixty seconds," Laurel, his producer called.
"Great," Robertson said. He slipped his microphone under his collar. "What's our opening feed?"
"We have a wide shot of the Ship, zoomed in on from one of the low-orbit satellites. It'll show up on your monitor," Robertson looked to the monitor positioned directly under the camera facing him. He was already formulating his opening.
"Thirty seconds," Laurel cautioned.
"After the wide shot?"
"We cut to you on screen left with the Ship on screen right."
"Excellent. Let's dance."
"Ten seconds. Nine...eight...seven...six...five..." the last four seconds his producer counted down on the fingers of one hand so that Robertson could see.
"Seventy million years ago," Robertson began as the wide shot of the Ship appeared onscreen; the abandoned Village and Fort Arapaho encircled it to the southeast, the desert and mountains surrounding it everywhere else, "The Ship landed here in what would become known as the South-western Protectorate. It came in search of intelligent life; its crew looking for others of their kind out among the distant stars of lonely space." The image onscreen dissolved, showing him on the left of the screen with the Ship, kilometres distant but nonetheless dominant on the horizon, behind him. His producer gave him the thumbs up. After ten years she wanted to get the hell out of INN as well.
"Although the Ship's original crew is now long dead, the Ship has survived to at long last fulfill their mission and realize their dream. Humanity has found the Ship, and today Humankind will join the Ship in space as it makes the long journey home." The camera closed in on Robertson.
"Hello," He said, "I'm Walter Quincy Robertson, and I am coming to you live from the fringes of the World Ship Preserve. Today I will be covering the launch of the Ship for the Interactive News Network."
Robertson didn't allow it to touch his eyes, but the reaction of his producer told him what he already knew: he had made this broadcast his own. It didn't belong to INN; it belonged to him. His heart surged. Whatever network he went to Laurel would have to be part of the deal. Whether she worked on the same show as he did or just got another production job at the same network didn't matter. They were leaving INN just as surely as the Ship was leaving Earth. It was time to fall back on the script and fill in the time for the viewers with the usual background and trivia.
"The Ship arrived here towards the middle of the Cretaceous period during a time when the Earth was lush with a wide variety of life. It is commonly believed that the Ship was attracted to our world because of the amount of life teeming across the globe at the time. The Ship was trapped here during the Cataclysm, when a large asteroid hit the Earth, wiping out almost all life on the planet's surface.
"When the Ship was discovered last year, an archaeological dig led by the late Professor Mark Echohawk helped to unearth it and reveal it to the world. Since its discovery the world has been witness to many tumultuous events, culminating with actual first contact with the Ship's control entity." On the screen before him Laurel had begun showing still images from the archaeological dig, the unearthed Ship, and famous images from the events that had led up to where they stood today.
"Several months ago the Ship announced that it wanted to take what it called a macrocosm, a representative sample of Humanity, with it back to its Homeworld. The Ship invited Humankind to join a League of Worlds among the stars. Since then, preparations have been underway to accomplish this, including the now-famous Ship's Lottery. The logistical nightmare and tremendous expense of fully outfitting the Ship with the necessities of life for a quarter million men, women and children began not long after. An overview of the Ship's cargo manifest includes the industrial machinery to produce the luxuries we've grown attached to and the equipment to generate the basic necessities of human life including food, medicine and clothing. Many of the world's cultural and historical archives have also been placed in the Ship, to represent all aspects of Human civilization and cultures. In exchange for this the Ship has given us access to technologies unprecedented in Human history. The resulting revenue from these technologies is expected to far exceed the multitrillion dollar expense of outfitting the Ship with the macrocosm of life on Earth that it will now take with it as it leaves."
The image on camera switched to another live shot: this one the vantage from the top of the Zuni Mountain range. Nothing new was happening so his producer gave him the signal to continue with the babble.
"Aboard Ship there will be schools, a university, houses of worship for the several religions represented by the Ship's passengers and crew, a theatre complex for motion pictures and live acts, sports arenas and recreational facilities, a hospital, and even a shopping plaza. The citizens of the Ship will occupy themselves there much the same way they did while here on Earth: vocational professionals will go to work in the hospitals, schools, agriculture centers, and other institutions; people will work in the commercial and industrial zones, their children will be in school, and other than some very obvious differences, life on Habitat inside the Ship will proceed much as it has here on Earth."
His producer signalled him again: a hand sign indicating they were going to overlay an audio feed on all live broadcast channels. Robertson nodded. He was the only reporter from INN live at the site. He wasn't worried about losing his moment.
"I've just been informed, ladies and gentlemen, that we are switching the live feed over to the INN Grid channel monitoring activities at Mission Control. We'll be going live in just a few seconds so please stay linked to this Grid Spar. I'll be reporting on the Ship's launch as it happens. This is Walter Quincy Robertson, for the Interactive News Network."
♦♦♦
"Ship Command this is Mission Control. Do you copy, over?"
"Mission Control, Ship Command; Colonel Bloom here. We read you loud and clear."
"What is final status, Ship Command?" Bloom looked around her Command Deck. The deck was lit overhead by a simulation of the sky above New Mexico. The imaging system was online, showing the brilliant blue sky of morning. Castaneda, her operations chief, signalled her with a thumbs-up.
"All systems are go, Mission Control," Bloom said.
"Roger that, Ship," came the reply, "You a
re go on final countdown, at clock set of T-minus thirty – that’s three-zero – minutes and counting."
"Confirmed, Mission Control," Bloom said. She turned to Major Benedict, who was sitting at his station, on the deck below her.
"Major Benedict, would you do the honours?"
"Operations, begin final countdown," Benedict called, "Clock set T-minus thirty minutes...mark."
"The clock is running, Mission Control," Bloom signalled, "T-Minus thirty minutes, and counting."
"The Ship confirms Countdown Go," Tanaka said, "T-Minus fourteen minutes from Ramp destruction on my mark...mark!"
"Do you confirm that, Control?" Bloom asked, "If you have anyone on that Ramp tell them to evacuate now."
"Roger that Ship. We're sweeping the Ramp for stragglers now."
"The Ship is energizing main engines for launch," Tanaka informed Bloom.
"Null buoyancy field is coming online," Another operator called from their station, "Cycle at two per cent and rising."
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