by C. Gockel
Except for some mythical, prehistoric tribal setting along the forest edge of a savanna, man was out of his element. It was only through employing technologies that man flourished over the millennia. And often it all came crashing down: wars, famine, plague, fires, warp field generator malfunctions, space suit failures, and now—this green burst.
Alvarez made himself look up and face the darkness. There was something new, a faint glow in the distance about a hundred yards ahead. The tunnel seemed to curve left, and the glow reflected from some unknown source around the bend.
The men’s demeanors changed. Their pace quickened, their steps measured. Alvarez checked the time again. More than eight minutes had passed since they had entered the tunnel.
They rounded the corner and froze. The tunnel opened into a large cavern. But unlike a natural cave the rock, concrete, or whatever it was had been carefully hewn. The ceiling soared above them, curving like the dome of an ancient cathedral.
What caught Alvarez’s attention was the light source, a bluish-green glow emanating from a central port. There were tapered columns, unnatural stalactite-stalagmite formations, above and below the source. The light flickered like fire, but there was no obvious fuel source or gas duct. Nothing burned up. This was unlike anything Alvarez had ever seen.
“What is it?” Weston said.
“It’s the source. Don't you recognize the color? It’s the same as the plasma burst.
Weston nodded. He was mesmerized by the glow until something caught his eye. “Look at the walls,” he said. “Those glyphs are all over the place.”
Alvarez looked at Weston instead of the walls. The young man was starting to break. “Just calm down,” Alvarez said.
“What do you mean calm down? There's no way this was made by people. I don't care which corp you're talking about. Nobody's got technology like this. I’ve got to get out of here.”
Weston turned toward the tunnel, but Alvarez grabbed him.
“Son, if you want to get back to the Constance, you better stick with me. Unless you know how to fly that shuttle, you'll be spending a long time down here.”
Alvarez knew a rookie couldn’t fly the shuttle, but if the boy was scared enough, he might try.
“Look me in the eyes,” Alvarez said. “If there is something down here, something alive, the best chance we have is sticking together.”
Weston bit his lip and nodded.
Alvarez needed to get his bearings. He looked around the cavern. To the east was another passage exiting the room. And on the other side of the energy source looked to be another tunnel leading west.
I bet these two meet up with Sarge’s and Brennen’s tunnels, he thought.
He scaled back his map view until the two other parties appeared. Brennen's group was due east, parallel to Alvarez, but Sarge's party was further south. It looked like his tunnel was starting to bend sharply to the east. Alvarez was sure that Sarge's tunnel would wrap around and join Brennen's.
Alvarez got on his comm. “Sarge what's your status?”
“We're here, sir. We're still in this miserable tunnel, but we're here.”
“Your passageway hasn’t opened up into a larger room?”
“No, we're just plodding along. We did pass a fork in the tunnel a minute ago?”
“It turned east towards me, didn't it?” Alvarez said.
“How'd you know?”
“We’re in a cavern. I'm pretty sure if you backtrack, you can get here via the tunnel you skipped. Otherwise, if you keep going, you should rendezvous with Brennen. At least, I think you will.” He paused. “Sarge,” he said with a different tone, “I think we've found it. We found the source.”
“Good. That means we can get out of here.”
“Let's hope. Rendezvous with Brennen and get here on the double. I’ll let Brennen know you're on the way.”
“Roger that,” Sarge said. “Just one thing, we found some more of those pictures on the wall.”
“You didn't...”
“Of course not,” Sarge snapped back. “We didn't touch anything.”
“We saw them too,” Alvarez said. “With what Brennen did on the surface, all I can figure is...”
They were interrupted by the sound of blastfire in the distance. Alvarez and Weston stood listening. It was hard to pinpoint where the sound came from because of their acoustic transmitters.
“I think it came from the eastern tunnel,” Alvarez said.
The sound of blastfire returned, but this time, it was accompanied by screams and an unrecognizable roar.
“Sarge, do you hear that?”
“It's right ahead of us,” Sarge said. “I'm on my way.”
Chapter Nineteen
PARKER, SHORTHANDED WITHOUT York, was back inside the cargo bay.
“Installing a new combustion chamber is a two- person job,” he muttered.
After tethering the combustion chamber to the outside hull and shutting the outer hatch, Parker had come back inside to deal with the real problem: York. He needed to convince her to return to work, or he would conscript a grunt to take her place.
This wasn’t the time for drama, he thought.
Weightless, he bounced across the bay towards the door opening to the main corridor. He tapped his thrusters, but it was overkill. He bumped into storage bins and machinery at a painfully fast velocity. The bumps derailed him, slowed him down.
He had the irrational fear of being sucked out the bay doors, forgotten in space. It was the stuff of nightmares. The chances were astronomical, but something about being untethered, without AG, and with bay doors open wide stimulated Parker’s primal fear response. Being alone didn't help either. Ironically, in this room of irregularly shaped and sometimes sharp machinery, his effort to escape danger increased his chances of a suit breach.
Like a dog-paddling child in the deep end, he reached the door to the corridor. On the wall console he started the re-pressurization sequence. He could have used voice commands, but his risk aversion compelled him to see the data first. After a brief visual confirmation, he entered his instructions and turned to see the stars disappear behind closing bay doors. He heard a whoosh as air filled the room. Gently, his feet touched the floor. AG was restored.
Time to find York, he thought. Parker looked again at the console. The metric showed nearly one-hundred percent, meaning the atmospheric mix was almost right. The eternal skeptic checked his wrist console to verify. Everything checked out. He reached for his helmet release latch.
“Parker, we have a problem,” Thomson said over the comm.
“What is it?” Parker asked.
“I think it’s York. I didn’t know what to do, and you’re the senior officer on board.”
“Just tell me what happened.”
“That’s the thing. I’m not really sure. The aquaponics station and York’s barracks—that room—something’s gone wrong. I think it’s a computer problem.”
“What’s the computer doing?”
“From the readings here at the helm, it looks like the temperature setting is maxed out. It’s venting nothing but hot air into that room. I'm hoping it's just a programming glitch with the thermostat. But that’s not all. It looks like the atmospheric mix is off too.”
“The mix should be automatically regulated.”
“It should be,” Thomson said. “This isn’t supposed to happen. Without reprogramming it, I don’t even know how to ask the computer to change the mix.”
“What are your readings?”
There was a brief pause as Thomson pulled up the data. “A high nitrogen and carbon dioxide ratio with oxygen subnormal. And there are some trace gases that aren’t usually present.”
“That’s not instantly lethal, but without enough oxygen…”
“I know, sir. Should I send grunts to check it out? Or maybe I should go.”
“No, I’m close by. I’ll check it out. Stay at the helm. Somebody has to run this ship. Parker out.”
He left his
helmet on. If the mix was bad in the aquaponics station, he would need his own oxygen. He checked one more time at the door console. The corridor’s mix was identical to the normal atmosphere in the cargo bay.
Parker bypassed the door commands and engaged the manual override. He spun the massive wheel. There was a hiss as slight differences in air pressure equalized. He entered and turned left. He saw the helm door, a reassuring sight, at the end of the corridor.
Everything looks fine, he thought. Lights were on, and all of the doors were open except the first on his right, the aquaponics station.
Doors in the corridor were usually left open. The exception was the door to the cargo bay which was routinely sealed for spacewalks and shuttle launches. Both the cargo bay door and the door to the helm could be manually sealed from either side. But all the other doors had wheel locks on the sides facing the main corridor. This standard design feature was a redundant safety measure. In the event of a hull breach, any number of compartments could be sealed off from the rest of the ship.
The aquaponics door was pulled to, but wasn't sealed. Parker heard water running. It wasn’t just the sound of the bubbling fish tanks; it was the distinct, high-pitched sound of a running shower. He tried to open the door but felt resistance. He pulled harder, and the door broke free, making a crackling sound. He looked down and saw that ice had formed a bond between the floor and door.
“Thomson said the room was supposed to be hot,” he said as he entered the station. He passed through the landing, essentially a mudroom, and made an immediate left. The room opened up, but if York was there he couldn’t see her. A dense fog obscured his view. The upper third of the room was filled with steam clouds. They all drafted in the same direction, away from the corridor door. The bottom layer was frigid. The entire floor was covered by an inch of ice.
Extreme thermocline phenomena, he thought.
Parker stepped carefully toward the aquaponics station in the center of the room. He stopped between the two fish tanks. The grow lights and beds were enveloped in steam, but the fish effluent that usually trickled into the grow beds was frozen solid. The tanks below were iced over except for a couple holes. Parker peered into the holes. The water below the ice wasn’t just bubbling; it was boiling. Poor fish, he thought.
“Terra, can you hear me?” he yelled. “There’s something wrong with the ventilation. I’ve got to get you out of here. Where are you?”
There was no response. He still couldn’t see through the steam, but he could hear the shower running. His headset made it difficult to pinpoint the location of sounds, but he had the layout memorized. After all, he had designed it.
He moved towards the far left corner of the room where the showers were. The steam clouds moved with him. Each step produced a crunching sound.
The shower grew louder. Parker called out again for York. Nothing.
He moved closer. The fog was thick, but he could make out faint images. Both shower stalls were running full blast. They were positioned side by side, but all of the steam clouds moved toward the corner stall.
Parker creeped closer. He moved slowly both to keep from slipping on the ice and to gather his bearings in this strange environment. If York’s life wasn’t in danger, he’d never have the nerve to walk in like this.
She was in the stall, or, at least, Parker thought so. The curtain was wide open. The thermocline dissipated, and steam, still thick, whirled around a standing body.
Moving closer, Parker saw York clearly. She stood naked, her back turned. Although she was short, and not the least bit petite, her body possessed perfect proportions. Her muscles glistened as the water broke through the mist and ran down her back.
Parker gazed at her sculpted body, forgetting why he came. Regaining his wits, he said, “Terra, it’s not safe to be in here.”
She didn't answer. It occurred to him, she wasn't moving.
Parker’s senses exploded, torn between competing stressors: York’s nakedness, how attractive she was, how endangered she was, how endangered everyone on the ship might be.
He repeated her name with each step hoping to give her a way out, to relieve her of some of the embarrassment they both would feel afterwards. How could she still be on her feet? he thought.
Within arm's reach, Parker noticed her skin was gray. Maybe it was from lack of oxygen. A strange thought floated across his mind: she seems taller.
He reached his hand out to touch her shoulder. “Terra. It's David.”
Like an automatic nervous response, she twisted around and grabbed his arm. Parker, shocked, almost fell limp. But York had him. With inexplicable strength she dragged him by the arm out from the shower stall. He hung from his own arm as if from a tree limb. His feet dangled as she raised him higher. Then with a twist, she threw him across the room.
“How dare you put your hands on me!” she said. Her voice had added depth.
Parker's mind wouldn’t work. How? and Why? was as far as he got.
She strutted towards him slowly as he scrambled to his feet.
“What's going on?” he demanded. “You acted like you couldn't hear me, and now...now you're...” He trailed off unable to make sense of the situation. He puzzled at her body ripped with muscles.
“Take a good look,” she said. “This is what you wanted the whole time, wasn't it? You're such a pathetic excuse for a man.”
She charged him, ramming him into a support pole. She stepped back as if admiring her work.
He stumbled forward, wincing from pain. She came towards him again. This time he tried to run, but his legs didn’t cooperate. He limped toward the fish tanks, knocking over boxes as he went.
“You don't have time to feed the fish,” she said.
He tried to navigate the tanks. But he had built up speed, and his feet slipped on the ice. He fell onto a frozen fish tank. Like a turtle on its back, he struggled to turn over, to right himself. He was too slow.
Grabbing him with both hands, York lifted his squirming body above her head. “My only regret is not having time to savor killing you,” she said as she threw him against the wall.
He landed on bags of fish feed, softening the blow. His body and mind were numb from adrenaline. If there was a thought left in David Parker's head, it was no longer How? or Why?. It was Run .
Parker got to his feet and slung a forty-pound bag of feed at York.
She laughed sardonically. “Is that the best you can do? You throw like a girl.”
With what strength remained, he tried again. This bag banged through some of the grow beds above the fish tanks, getting nowhere close to York. Fearlessly, she walked towards her prey.
He grabbed one more bag, knowing it was his last chance. He shoved the bag forward. It arched slightly and landed in York's waiting arms. It was an easy catch. But her bare feet slid on the ice, and she fell onto her back.
Effortlessly, she flung the bag off her chest and released an intonation that was more roar than scream.
This was Parker's chance. As he dashed for the door something hit him; first on the shoulder, and then on the back of his head. Is she throwing things at me? he thought.
He ran harder. Objects continued impacting him until, finally, something stuck to the front of his helmet. He slowed, trying to pull it off. He discovered his unlikely assailant: tilapia.
Fish continued jumping out of tanks, trying to attach their mouths to his space suit.
He flailed wildly, knocking lose as many fish as he could. Keep running, he thought. He heard York's steps behind him. He didn't look back, knowing this was it.
Miraculously, he navigated the mud room bend without falling. In the main corridor, he came to an instant stop as he regained normal traction.
He grabbed the massive door by the wheel lock. York’s footsteps grew louder. She screamed, “You're dead!”
He slammed the door with all his might. It got within inches of closing before it hit Terra York's body.
Clang!
The inert
ia of the half-ton door won out against York's dead run. The door jolted back hitting Parker's helmet. His vision blacked-out, but he was conscious. He flung his weight against the door. It clasped shut. He violently spun the wheel, locking York inside.
His whole body drooped as he exhaled loudly. He slumped against the opposing wall. His vision started to return, but he had a hard time focusing his eyes. He squinted at the door, partly afraid, partly relieved.
An alarm sounded in his headset. He didn't have to look at his wrist console to know what it meant; his suit was losing pressure. Now that his eyes worked better, he knew why. His helmet was cracked.
“No, no, no, no,” he said.
He grasped the consequences immediately. Whatever contagion York was exposed to—he would be too after he lost internal pressure. He would have no choice but to breath air through his cracked helmet or take it off.
He wondered if he would become like her. What would cause such a reaction? Why was the ventilation screwed up in the first place? If it came from the probe or the object, how did she get exposed?
Too many questions and no real answers.
Clang!
His teeth rattled as the sound echoed inside his helmet.
Clang! Clang!
The sound was steady as York tried to beat her way through the door.
It was hopeless now. He saw no way out. He knew he would be infected, if he wasn’t already. There was no way to save himself or the others onboard.
Clang!
Then something clicked inside. What about the Constance? he thought. He didn’t feel brave or courageous—he was still terrified—but the same impulse that made him a great architect now helped him detach from his emotions. He was compelled to solve a problem. He needed a way to save the ship.
Clang!
Chapter Twenty
IT HAD BEEN over twelve minutes since Alvarez entered the tunnel. He knelt down in front of the source.
“What are you doing?” Weston said as he white-knuckled his weapon.
“I'm doing what we came here to do,” Alvarez said. “Turning off the plasma blast.”