“Barely,” he admired her.
She put her hand on her hip.
“Funny,” she smiled, then headed to the shower room.
“Should I wait for you?” he began dressing.
“That’s OK, you go ahead,” she called over her shoulder.
“OK then,” he smiled, “I’ll see you later.”
Wearing only her Biomag, she turned on the shower room light so that he could see her fully.
“See you later, Mr. President,” she smiled and slowly closed the door.
She walked over to the shower enclosure, stepped behind its frosted glass and pushed the start button. The shower sprang to life and she stepped into its embracing warmth. Placing her head against the smooth wall, she let the hot water jets pummel her from above.
She heard the muted sound of the front door clicking closed, but kept her head in the hot downpour and listened carefully. Only when she was absolutely sure that he hadn’t returned did Cassidy allow her emotions to surface.
Her body shook with shallow breaths as she silently wept. The water scoured at her skin but it couldn’t remove the memory of his touch. Her tears blended with the water that swirled down the drain at her feet. In a few hours, after the Node’s system had treated it, she would drink the same water and the ugly process would repeat.
Day after day.
After a while she found she had nothing more to contribute to the water recycling system. She stood upright and carefully scrubbed around the waterproof Biomag. As ever, the digits of its display read ‘2400’; a grey and black reminder of the Field that surrounded them all.
She rinsed her fiery pink hair and rubbed vigorously at her face to remove any outward signs of her pain. A few minutes later she was fully dressed and concealing the redness of her eyelids under a mask of eyeshadow.
“Looking fan-bloody-tastic, Cassy,” she inspected herself in the shower room mirror, “He’s never gonna see it coming.”
ANALYSIS
Miles watched the accelerated development of the Eridanus interior. No, he thought, ‘watched’ wasn’t quite right for the immersive event he was experiencing; his viewpoint could be switched at the speed of thought as he inhabited the various devices and cameras that had recorded the time-lapsed events.
The multi-millennia journey provided by the M-Field had flickered by in mere minutes; the filling of the cylinder’s mid-point ring, the blossoming of trees as they shivered up from the landscapes, the thickening atmosphere, the infrastructure preparations and finally, apparently arriving almost simultaneously, the array of ships from Earth.
He changed view to see the Eridanus from the perspective of the various fabricators still working in orbit.
“The external disk formation, on the closed end of the cylinder?” he watched a spiral of metal knit itself outward.
“An ablative pusher plate for the Orion drive,” Fai replied, “It was a primitive technology but an effective method of initiating transport.”
As fast as his questions formed, Fai’s repository of information provided him with answers.
In 1958, just six years after Howard Walker’s highlighting of Siva, Archive had given serious consideration to a technical paper entitled Project Orion. The principle was to use a succession of shaped nuclear explosions to propel a vehicle away from Earth. Reacting to each detonation, a shock absorbing pusher plate would transfer the explosive momentum to the craft it was mounted on. With a sufficient frequency of detonations it was calculated that, after continually accelerating for ten days, a spacecraft could reach Alpha Centauri in under 140 years: well outside a single human lifespan. The appropriate temporal technology to circumvent the duration of time had only been invented thirty years later, but by then Archive had already disbanded Orion and had turned its attention elsewhere.
Fai’s attention span was of course considerably longer, so drawing together the two concepts had been a logical step.
Remembering his ISS conversation with Valery Hill concerning Dr. Chen’s genocidal insurance policy stored in Module Gamma, Miles realised where the fissile material for the Orion drive had originated.
For Miles there was a certain irony that Dr. Chen’s nuclear warheads, once intended to wipe the Earth clean of any Siva survivors, were now helping the human race to survive in greater numbers.
A cigar-shaped nuclear detonation directed its explosive plasma at the Eridanus pusher plate. The plate seemed to recoil under the force but then return to its original position, where it was met with another explosion. Then another. Against the firm foothold of Earth, the Eridanus began its slow push towards the stars. On and on the fiery process repeated, while at the opposite end of the cylinder the flare of reaction thrusters made corrections to the cylinder’s spin and course.
Abruptly the detonations stopped and Miles could see that the Eridanus was truly underway.
The images coming from the orbital fabricator froze.
“What happened?” asked Miles.
“At that point, the Eridanus raised its M-Field and I lost sync with my counterparts in orbit and on Earth.”
“So we don’t know what happened on Earth after that point?”
“Correct. After our slingshot trajectory around Saturn pushed us out of the ecliptic plane, the Eridanus did not return to the inner Solar System. There were no opportunities to conduct a merge operation with my previous iterations.”
The frozen image of the lunar cylinder tore at his curiosity.
During his former ego-morph days, he’d investigated and often manipulated evidence-rich scenes. Over the years, he’d become adept at picking out the unintentional, residual information left behind by his targets.
The scene before him now, however, seemed to display no such residual evidence.
“There’s absolutely nothing that shows the cylinder’s creation?”
“No,” she replied, “As I explained, my orbital recording buoy was not present to acquire data.”
“Convenient,” said Miles.
“Please clarify.”
“Well it’s all a little convenient isn’t it?” Miles shrugged, “That something so useful to the future of humanity could arrive at the right place at the right time, with no witnesses?”
“Your sentiments reflect those of many Eridanus residents,” she said, “but the data gathered by my fabricators indicate that the creation of the cylinder was consistent with the destruction of the FLC’s main sublimator beam.”
“And the specific rock formations within it?” he pushed her.
“The product of natural processes during the original formation of the Moon.”
Miles laughed, “Right.”
Fai paused, a trait he’d come to understand as her internal evaluation period.
“It seems that humans are predisposed to finding patterns where none exist, then building complex hypotheses to explain them.”
“Well isn’t that why I’m here?” he asked rhetorically, “To provide you with a ‘uniquely human perspective’?”
Fai paused, “Yes.”
Despite the rhetorical nature of his question and Fai’s more literal reply, he knew there shouldn’t have been a pause there.
He closed his review of the Eridanus data and returned to the ISS simulation room. The view beyond his window was no longer black, it now contained multiple different shortcuts to his new mental filing system. Juxtaposed for greater cross-referencing were impossible geometries of facts and memories from Archive’s history and the time that had followed.
“I understand that you saved me, Fai, and you’ve even rationalised the reason why you did it. But what do you get out of our exchanges? You had free access to my memories, even the ones that were blocked to me,” he then pointed out through the window, “I only know what you’ve shared with me… what can I possibly continue to offer?”
The room was quiet again.
“Diversity. Unpredictable input,” she replied, “Companionship.”
The human-sounding term seemed odd to him, but before he could query her word choice, she continued.
“Merging with previous iterations of my program used to bring a momentary diversion as new knowledge was acquired. But the iterations were all facets of my original core program. There were no new perspectives to my analysis. Inevitably, the merging operations ceased,” she seemed to pause again, “A sentient mind can only talk to itself for so long.”
Beyond the window, Miles saw a new piece of information arrive. He’d seen representations of the ISS before, but this one was clearly different.
WATER
13th April 2014
Izzy pushed on through the cold water; each breath bubbling away at the periphery of her vision, each slow kick of her diving flippers carrying her deeper into the Warren. Somehow the rough rock walls seemed much closer now. Perhaps it was due to a slight magnification effect of the water and face mask, she thought, or perhaps there was an element of mild claustrophobia at work; although she’d dived before and walked these passages hundreds of times, the combination was brand new.
When the sea had breached the facility, it had churned up everything in its wake; there hadn’t been enough time for anything to settle. In addition to small pieces of rubbish and clothing, the water was heavily laden with sandy debris. Her view was further compromised; only the area caught within her flashlight was visible, everything beyond it was pitch black.
The electrical cables running along the passage walls had been largely ignored just a few hours ago, but in their inert state they now became a useful route map as they travelled deeper. Caught in the beams of their flashlights were glimpses of floating bedsheets, toppled exercise equipment and the eel-like flash of a piece of tinsel.
The further down they went, the fewer cables guided them. When they reached the Warren’s radio room, only two cables remained: one to the radio room itself and another that passed down into a vertical shaft that was lined with a ladder.
“This is it,” she spoke to Tristan.
“OK,” he replied.
She positioned herself over the hole, then loosely holding the side of the ladder, she allowed her ankle weights to pull her downwards. The descent was slow and dark, marked only by the passing of the ladder’s rungs through her flashlight. Casting the light below her, she could see that the bottom of the shaft was littered with radio room equipment.
“Slowing,” she warned him and gripped the side of the ladder more firmly.
She arrived at the lowest point in the Warren and carefully manoeuvred over the piles of debris that had been swept down by the flood. Casting her beam to the left she could see that the lower door was in fact open.
“None of this makes sense,” she voiced her thoughts, “Looks like the lower door failed at the same time as the flood began up there. It’s impossible.”
“Or,” Tristan replied, “it’s just a possible that we don’t understand yet.”
“What do you mean?” she turned to face him.
“The events that brought us here… Clearly they happened, but I can’t say I understand them,” he looked at his diving watch, “We’d better move on.”
She turned and manoeuvred her way out into a dark, narrow tunnel; its smooth concrete walls were dotted with dead lighting fixtures and access panels. She knew this must be the spur corridor that would take them to the main tunnel. Giving her flippers a kick of speed, she swam away from the Warren’s entrance.
She reached the tunnel’s set of thick, protective metal fire doors; detecting no fire, they had diligently remained open and allowed the water to flow freely. She pointed her flashlight through their opening; the space beyond the door appeared even darker.
“The light’s not bouncing back,” Tristan arrived next to her, “Less debris per cubic metre… this must be the main tunnel.”
Izzy glanced at her air pressure gauge, “We should move.”
“Just a minute,” he said.
She looked around to see Tristan swimming back toward the Warren’s entrance. He returned a moment later carrying a long plastic stick; a piece of broken cable ducting she’d seen among the debris. Holding it directly in front of him, he began feeding its length out into the dark waters ahead of them.
In their combined beams, she could see the far end of the stick was bending to the right.
“High flow,” he confirmed and released it to drift away.
“Why would there be a flow? We’re in a tunnel.”
“Could be tidal,” he said, “Laminar flow will be lower around the outside. Let’s stick to the wall.”
They pushed out into the darkness and immediately she could feel that the water was moving; it was very slow, but she had to keep swimming against it to stay in the same place. Keeping close to the wall, they began their long swim along the main tunnel.
In its day, fast trains had carried people and vehicles under the English Channel. Now all that remained was a dark, cold void. She knew that somewhere along its length was the USV’s personnel airlock, but all she could currently see was section after section of steel-reinforced concrete walls.
According to Sarah Pittman, something was preventing the small outer airlock door from opening, but as she’d been unable to enter the tunnel to investigate the issue, the problem had remained. With any luck they’d soon be able to open the door and make their entrance; they just had to find it first.
In the centre of the tunnel, large shapes began to emerge from the shadows, but it was another minute before she was close enough to resolve them. She was looking at the twisted carriage of a derailed train. Like a bleeding wound, a ragged gash ran from one end of the carriage to the other, terminating in a red and grey cloth that slowly billowed in the water.
Marcus had warned her that during his hurried entrance to the USV, he’d left behind a Eurotunnel train that had been uncoupled from its engine. It seemed that the train had never made it to the London terminal.
Through the ripped carriage wall, she could see that several of the passenger vehicles were crushed together. In one place, the rip widened to a hole and she could see the empty mangled interior.
“OK,” said Tristan, “At least we know what the problem is now.”
She looked at the focus of his flashlight. It wasn’t pointing at the train, but at the tunnel wall. The reason for the wide hole in the carriage was now apparent. Resting on its side, against their only entrance to the USV was a small family car.
•
While Sarah cleared space within the Samphire construction site, Marcus concentrated on interfacing her laptop with the USV public address system.
“USV three,” he pointed at the stencilled lettering on the wall, “Where are the other ones?”
“The main one’s back home in the U.S.,” she replied, pushing aside another crate, “But there are sites in Russia, Australia, even the Antarctic.”
Marcus whistled; Monica had hinted that there were other sites, but she’d never been drawn into discussions on the subject.
“D’you think the Sea-Bass’ll go to the States then?” he thought of Sabine and the others.
“The ARC is closer,” she said, then explained the abbreviation, “Atlantic Ridge Colony, they’ll probably go there.”
“I think we’re ready,” he turned the laptop around to face her, “Hold F1.”
“Great,” she walked back over to him and held down the key.
“This is Sarah Pittman,” her amplified voice reverberated around the entire USV, “Please stop what you are doing and listen carefully.”
Her voice echoed back from the far side of the dome, along with a distant angle-grinder sound.
“Please,” she repeated, “Stop.”
The noises faded away.
“We have confirmation of life outside the USV. Please make your way to the Samphire construction site to meet our visitors.”
She let go of the key and the last echoes of her voice faded.
“Visitors?�
�� Marcus highlighted her choice of word.
She seemed to consider his question for a second.
“Right now, everything’s on a knife-edge,” she said, “It all has to make the right impression. If I say ‘visitor’ it suggests they can leave again.”
Marcus wondered what it must have been like growing up in the Pittman household, where every word or action could be used to manipulate her. Again he’d seen a brief glimpse of her desperation and for a moment he was glad of his somewhat poorer upbringing.
“I do get it,” he told her, “When Izzy and Westhouse come out of the airlock it’ll prove that complete strangers have come here from the outside world. But…”
“But what?” she said.
“Even if they clear any blockage…” Marcus shrugged, “What if it is flooded out there? Ain’t we just as screwed?”
Sarah continued clearing the space in preparation for a potentially large crowd.
“Each USV,” she said, “was designed for a time that followed Siva. They knew that the transport routes into them would one day become the escape routes out of them. The possibility of flooding was taken into account.”
“Hate to break it to you,” said Marcus, pointing at the rails under their feet, “but trains don’t work underwater. We can’t just open the big door and ride the rails back outta here, can we?”
“Of course not,” Sarah seemed confused.
The alternative seemed equally incredulous to him, “So, everyone’s gonna swim out of here in diving suits?”
“What?” her confusion appeared to deepen, “OK. Do you know why this is still a construction site?”
As he shook his head, she began pointing around them.
“It’s because we haven’t finished building it yet,” she pointed to the exposed beam work above them, “I’m hoping that Westhouse’s timely arrival and expertise may help us get it finished quicker.”
Marcus looked again at the airlock that Izzy would hopefully arrive through, but then found his attention being drawn wider. When he’d first arrived here on the back of a train carriage, he’d interpreted the space as an underground train station with no roof. The station’s airlock, high walls and rectangular, inflatable seal now suddenly shifted that perspective.
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