“OK, send it down,” he told her.
•
When Izzy had removed the office chair from between the elevator doors, the incessant bell noise had stopped and the elevator had departed for the USV ground floor below. After a brief pause, the elevator motor noise returned; it was on the way back up. For her it couldn’t arrive soon enough, but while they waited Marcus continued to recount his entry to the USV.
“The tunnel wall opened up, so we just followed the carriage in,” he nodded in Sarah’s direction, “Then you showed up so we climbed up the back of the carriage and hitched a lift into the USV.”
Sarah shook her head in amazement, “And you’ve been in here since then?”
Marcus nodded then added, “Samphire station can’t be all that far from the Warren’s lower entrance.”
Izzy knew he was right, “Maybe a few hundred yards, but we don’t know what state it’s in.”
“One time, I gave Monica a hand with a coded message,” Marcus recalled, “She said Entrance One was still intact.”
“That was ages ago,” she said, “Although… right after the Warren flooded, the water level never went down again.”
“So the door’s still closed?” said Marcus.
“Not necessarily,” Tristan countered, “It could just mean that the main tunnel is already flooded and the water in the Warren has nowhere to go.”
An electronic bell noise announced the arrival of the elevator and the doors opened, revealing a large crate.
“OK,” Izzy removed the crate’s lid.
Both she and Tristan were independently familiar with the equipment that the crate contained, and within a few minutes they were both ready for the next stage. All four of them walked out of the office and gathered at the point where the walkway used to be.
“How are you doing, Vic?” Sarah radioed to him.
“A few flights… to go…” came his breathless reply.
A distant clattering sound eventually resolved itself: she could see that Vic was carrying a ladder.
“Wouldn’t fit… in the elevator,” he explained as he reached the top.
Working together they used the ladder to bridge the gap between the Glaucus office level and the stairwell. One by one, moving carefully down the ladder, they all arrived on the stairs. After almost losing the ladder to the void below, they eventually succeeded in repositioning it; turning it to reach the Warren’s entrance tunnel above them.
After a short but difficult climb, Izzy reached the upper level with Tristan, then turned to see Sarah, Marcus and Vic below.
“Be ready,” she called down to Marcus.
“Remember what I told you, Izzy,” he replied. “Good luck.”
Turning on her wrist-mounted flashlight, she headed away from them along the tunnel to the Warren’s entrance. Water was still pouring out, but it wasn’t as fast as before. The weights around her ankles made it difficult to climb through the narrow opening, but she was glad she wasn’t wearing the flippers yet. Soon they were both inside the flooded facility, wading through waist-deep water; water that would only get deeper and colder from this point. Even with their air cylinders, she knew they’d have to keep the dive to a minimum if they wanted to avoid blood gas issues.
She’d dived before, but the full face mask was something new; the idea of being able to speak while submerged would take a little getting used to.
“Check,” Tristan’s tinny voice echoed around her mask.
“Check,” she nodded, looking around the room, “I don’t get it though.”
“What?” said Tristan, tightening the straps of his face mask.
“Why did the Warren stop flooding?” she said, “Water should still be pouring into the USV right now.”
She heard Tristan sigh.
“Everything about today just keeps getting curiouser,” he pointed his flashlight into the deep water of the Warren, “Let’s see how far down this rabbit hole goes.”
•
It had been over half an hour since the power had gone out. The more Bradley paced around the circular hole of the Eye, the more he converged on an uncomfortable thought.
Far from being a place from which he could spy on the whole USV, this dark, isolated space was now a detention cell.
CELL
DAY782 : 12SEP6816
Marshall had no idea how long he’d been out cold, but every inch of him reported the thorough beating he’d received. Instinctively he reached for his chest. His Biomag was gone, but obviously he was still breathing. It meant one thing: he’d been taken to the Node’s holding cell.
He opened his eyes and saw the grey ceiling and surrounding solid walls; evidently he was lying on the bunk. He lifted his head and felt a sharp pain in his neck, but he pushed on until he’d raised himself into an uncomfortable sitting position.
Biomags were mounted in each of the cell’s eight corners, their overlap ensuring that he stayed anchored. The small cell had a doorway but no door, but he knew it didn’t need one; stepping outside the cell without a personal Biomag was a death sentence. If he looked carefully, he could see a faint red wash that stained the floor; evidence of a previous prisoner’s escape and their resulting unanchoring. No doubt the bloody marks had been left as a reminder to anyone who occupied the cell.
He experimented with drawing a deep breath, but regretted it. Rubbing at his aching ribs, he thought of Cassidy.
Events had unfolded a lot more violently than he’d hoped, but they’d had to adapt to a narrow window of opportunity.
On the shore of Beta Beach, Cassidy and Marshall had seen Alfred dismiss his CPO bodyguard while talking to the Node’s reporters. She’d been hesitant to kick-start the process, but Marshall had insisted. Just as they’d rehearsed, he’d begun loudly slurring his words and she’d stormed off in Scott’s direction.
Scott’s position, so close to Alfred, had not been left to chance either. Scott had done a great job of marking the president’s position, so that Cassidy would have a target to head towards.
As Cassidy had suspected weeks ago, it wouldn’t be enough for Alfred to simply win her passively, someone else would have to actively lose.
In the original plan, Scott was supposed to have intervened in the argument then allow Marshall to push him. During the following tussle, Cassidy was supposed to have been knocked into Alfred and then use him to steady herself.
The night in the cell had been planned for, but the beating had not. However the end result had been the same: Marshall had publicly, and painfully, lost to the president.
He looked around the blank cell; his reward.
The pain in his hand now demanded his attention. It appeared that someone had been decent enough to bind his broken fingers to a short wooden splint, but not decent enough to leave him with any form of pain relief. An unsubtle reminder of his social transgression.
In hindsight, Marshall knew that he could have waited until Scott had returned with Alfred’s drink, but he’d been provoked into action by something more primitive. As he’d watched Alfred talking with Cassidy, he’d seen the way he was looking at her. An unstoppable fire had ignited within him and it had propelled him on his way.
He winced, not in pain, but at the memory of slapping her. The thought of hurting her was more than he could bear, but he knew it had been necessary for it to be convincing.
A few days ago, during one of their publicly visible dates, Cassidy had quietly explained what might be required of her, should they be successful. He’d found the conversation heart-wrenchingly difficult but, over a shared cup of coffee, they’d vowed to stand by each other, for better or worse. Hopefully they’d covered the ‘worse’, he thought, but if he had to break more of his fingers to keep her safe, he’d willingly do it.
He inspected the small space that he’d be calling home for the conceivable future. The bunk had a pillow and a few blankets, there was even a toilet in the opposite corner of the cell. Stuffed into a space behind one of the pipes, somethin
g caught his eye.
LIGHTS
17th August 2173
The transport carriage continued on its route along the track and out over the body of water that separated one half of the cylinder from the other.
Lana could see the languid waves washing across the deep channel. Occasionally she’d see small splashes of marine life, but for the most part the ripples were due to the cylinder’s gravity-inducing spin.
Dry land shot into view again; the undulating landscape rising and falling to expose wide farmland, forests, hills and lakes.
Almost eight months of ordinary time had gone by, but there was still no consensus on a coordinate system that could replace the more familiar compass directions. Like most things, she thought, the new references would emerge in time. But for now, her transport was bound for the visually ‘open’ end of the cylinder.
After a few minutes, the doors slid open and she disembarked from the Red Line carriage. The journey had taken her from one end of the cylinder to the other. When she looked back at the opposite end, the jagged edges and onyx-like patches of the far wall were softened by distance. The imposing circular cliff face now seemed no bigger and no more detailed than a dinner plate.
In contrast, the cylinder’s ‘open’ end now loomed large.
At the centre of the vast circular wall, more than a kilometre above her head, was a rocky, tubular entrance. Currently the entry was bathed in a red light; a signal that the external airlock was cycling.
The diameter of the cylinder’s entryway had made the creation of a mechanical airlock both impractical and undesirable. However, during the time-accelerated construction phase it had still been necessary to maintain an atmosphere within the cylinder.
Using the same approach taken by the Discovery to create an impervious barrier for atmospheric re-entry, a time-neutral Field had been placed at both ends of the cylinder’s entrance tube. By careful timing and pumping of air, it was possible for large spacecraft to enter and leave the main airspace without loss of pressure.
“Lana,” her earpiece sounded.
“Go ahead,” she replied.
“You wanted me to notify you when the Bergstrom arrived.”
“I’m just watching it now.”
“Also, just to let you know, Fai finished her last sync.”
“OK, thanks,” said Lana.
The red lights deactivated and she saw the craft make its way forward along the central sun axis, like a slow-moving moth drawn to a flame. Although small, she knew it contained the last few hundred people who would join them.
In line with the arriving craft but docked with the central sun axis, was the ISS and its characteristic end Ring. Although she couldn’t see the RTO module with the naked eye, she knew it must still be there. Somewhere up there, she thought, one of Fai’s subroutines was continuing the task of saving Miles Benton.
The Bergstrom stopped moving forwards and Lana knew it must now be descending from the weightless axial zone towards the artificial gravity that existed at the cylinder’s inner surface. The geometry of the space meant that it could have descended away from her, towards the far side of the curving landscape, but she’d already checked the bay assignment register; this should be the right place.
There had been much to prepare over the last few months, but she’d taken the time to be here in person for the final arrivals. Over the next few minutes the Bergstrom appeared to get slowly larger. Soon it would land and join the other vehicles nearby. Perhaps in deference to the lost Mission Control centre, or its proximity to open space, people had suggested naming this area Houston or Canaveral; the circular belt of land ran around the cylinder’s circumference and held an impressive array of spacecraft.
Several of the craft were similar in design to the Discovery, but the majority appeared to be rocket-like; simple boosters capable of making multiple trips to orbit. Many had left Earth decades ago and waited patiently in orbit using their own Chronomagnetic Fields. To Lana, it seemed that Time was now considered an expendable resource; simply a fuel with which to reach a destination.
The pulsating noise of the descending craft drew her attention upward again and she found herself taking an involuntary step back; she wasn’t used to being this close during a landing.
Some of the Bergstrom’s features she could recognise by their function; the swivelling thrust-manoeuvring jets were similar in aspect to the redesigned Discovery. However, no doubt assisted by Fai’s Earth-bound counterpart, the intervening sixty years had produced technology that defied her immediate interpretation: partial conic sections stood proud of the surfaces and a thin iridescent ring seemed to intersect the plane of the wings. Evidently there was much for her to learn.
The craft settled into place and the tiniest of tremors passed through the ground.
Ground, she thought. Solid rock. The lunar rock that had once been under her feet during her FLC days, was still under her feet now, but with the added solidity of Earth gravity.
A slight hiss drew her attention back to the Bergstrom as its side door opened and began swinging aside. Welcoming attendants moved in to guide people away, but on a few occasions it seemed that people were reuniting with each other; possibly families or friends who’d been separated by distance, time or both. Smiling and hugging, they headed in the direction of the debriefing rooms with everyone else, chatting eagerly as they walked. For them, the weightless transit from Earth had been temporary, walking was easy. For her, adapting to full gravity was taking a little longer.
She switched her exo-limb framework from passive to active and raised herself up to her full height. She wanted to look her best for her friends.
The last few groups disembarked and walked away, leaving Lana alone on the deck. She wondered if she’d got the wrong location and was about to confirm the details when a murmuring came from within the craft and three individuals began making their way out.
She felt her heart skip a beat at the thought of seeing Cathy, Mike and Anna again. But immediately her optimistic anticipation collapsed; she didn’t recognise the passengers. Two old men were escorting a motorised wheelchair that held an even older woman. They headed in her direction so, to quell her disappointment, she drew a steadying breath. She had a reputation to preserve, she must greet the last arrivals in a formal manner.
“Lana Yakovna?” said one of the men.
“Yes,” she smiled for them, “Welcome to the Eridanus, Mr…?”
“Meyer,” the man extended his hand, “Abel Meyer.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she shook his hand and turned to the second, older-looking man.
“Danny Napier,” he introduced himself, “Good to finally meet you.”
“Welcome aboard,” she shook his hand. Despite his obviously advanced age, his grip had disproportionate strength. She also noted that, like his friend, the man required no mechanical assistance to walk. Although she’d previously seen a few arrivals marked with the Exordi Nova symbol, the faint scar on Danny’s forehead caught her attention. An action that he seemed to have spotted.
“Long story. Supposed to mean ‘New Beginnings’…” he offered a calm smile, then looked around in wonder at his surroundings, “I’d say this counts as a new beginning…”
Not wishing to ignore the last of the three people, she pushed the appropriate buttons on her exo-limb frame. The ankle motors in the device whirred into place, then Lana lowered herself into a sitting position opposite the woman in the wheelchair.
Unlike Archive’s policy that favoured the youngest and fittest, the Eridanus and the other space-faring ventures had adopted a different approach. Youth carried curiosity, but age carried wisdom; it was foolish to have one without the other. Almost the personification of this tenet, the woman in the chair was clearly very old, but it had been her choice to spend the rest of her days passing on her knowledge to the young; children who would have no recollection of Earth.
“Hello,” she smiled at the woman, “I hope -”
&nb
sp; Lana broke off.
Time had worn away at the woman’s youth, etching deep lines that camouflaged the light scar on her cheek. The features had softened and she’d received a light dusting of liver-spots, but her eyes were the same.
“Hello, Ice Queen,” Cathy smiled back at her.
Lana had too often projected a cold exterior, but under the sudden heat that was building behind her eyes, she felt the facade break. Unable to speak, she simply embraced Cathy and allowed the tears to arrive.
•
Ivan Meznic patted down the soil then stood to admire his handiwork. The garden was modest, but it was his; a tiny patch of land within the vast interior of the Eridanus. He picked up a small watering can and sprinkled a little precious water over the red, thornless, rose.
The pain of a lonely childhood had made him seek solace in his studies, an action that had set in motion a chain of events that had led him to this new world. He wondered if the same may be true for others aboard the Eridanus; individuals somehow shaped by childhood events and driven by an invisible urge to reach this future destination. It was unknowable, of course, but for the time being he contented himself with the thought that Foothold was now a reality.
Setting the watering can to one side, he looked up to view the night sky.
The axial sun had dimmed, casting a twilight glow throughout the cylinder. Already, people had begun turning on their night beacons.
Casting light only upward, the beacon lights were not visible to the people underneath them, only to those on the opposite side of the cylinder. For those who looked up, they would see constellations of stars; each bright point representing a saved human life.
He added his beacon to the night sky.
In the distance, further up the curving landscape, he could see one of the many Eridanus greenhouses reflecting the starlight. The huge, hexagon-paned, glass domes housed the plants and trees that needed a more tropical environment than the main cylinder. During the night, their domes remained dark and quiet but during the day they were vibrant centres of education, supporting a simple message to old and young alike: respect for their delicate ecosystem allowed life to exist.
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