Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  “I’ve no idea,” I say. “And actually, it sounds seriously crazy, doesn’t it?”

  “So, the mission objective worked as intended.”

  “Oh, yes. All that rain and overcast,” I say. “That’s because of us. Or, to be precise, the Ghost Moon—which is no longer a ghost. People are going over there right now, even as we speak. But there’s some major problems happening globally down here on Atlantis.”

  I tell Dad all about the moon’s gravitational effects and the building hurricanes and tidal waves.

  “I haven’t turned on the TV all day,” Dad says. “I’m sorry that I’m so deeply unaware of what else might’ve happened—besides this rain.”

  “They’re working on re-programming weather control systems to account for the new moon,” I say. “I’m going over to the workroom in a minute to see what exactly is going on and whether it might impact us here. But first, I had to check up on you.”

  “Ah, in that case, my dear girl, you should go. Let me know what you find out. And I want to hear back from your brothers, tell them so.”

  I get to the workroom and find Oalla, Radanthet, Gennio, Anu, and a dozen other people, staring at multiple screens, and one large main screen in particular. None of the other four members of our astroctadra mission are back yet, except for me. The Imperator, of course, has been here all along—and is possibly still downtown at the Atlantis Grail Stadium with the ark-ship masquerading as a Monument, or more likely upstairs in his Quarters dealing with panicked calls from other heads of state—but I’m not going to inquire about him until Aeson returns.

  The various computer displays show streams of data, live images of the stormy skies and tidal waves in an open ocean. There are numerous rain-soaked locations around the globe, including the opposite side of the planet in the middle of the night. Some of the smaller screens are monitoring the now-permanent views of Helios surrounded by the golden light grid, plus companion views of Rah and Septu with their grids. And one dedicated display is split up into six lesser windows and set to TV feeds showing various networks reporting on the sudden shocking weather and the rumors surrounding today’s space mission to the ghostly moon.

  But the largest of the smart screen displays is showing the Ghost Moon itself. It’s an image of pastel desolation on the surface, mauve and brown and grey rocky features, with a focus on one particular plateau littered with ancient ships. For once, the panorama is natural, taken from a vantage point of landing parties—as opposed to a weird flyby of an incorporeal surface. On the lower portion of the screen are rows of constantly changing numerical data.

  There are dozens of Fleet personnel wearing the now familiar space suits, walking along the surface. Some of them are taking soil and rock samples, even as robotic units hover nearby taking additional samples and performing other analysis. Others are walking among the ships on the plateau, and the direction and camera angle changes periodically, jumping to another individual vantage point, another sudden closeup of a ship sprawling on top or partially sunken in the regolith. . . .

  As I observe and pay attention, it becomes apparent that the personnel on the surface are communicating with us here in the workroom.

  “. . . what percentage of gravity are we talking about?” Radanthet is saying into his wrist comm to the person on the surface. “Twenty or eighteen percent? Check the readings on your end, please, to corroborate. I’m getting conflicting numbers here from two different probes. . . .”

  “Confirming now, Rad-Rad, give me five heartbeats to recalibrate,” a familiar voice replies. I realize at once it is Erita.

  Wait, what’s Erita doing on the Ghost Moon?

  Just as my eyes widen, I see another tall person in a suit following along after the speaker whose helmet camera is showcasing the view. My God . . . that’s my brother Gordie! I can see his face with glasses through his clear visor.

  I near Oalla and ask her what’s going on.

  “Don’t worry, Gwen,” Oalla tells me with a quick glance in my direction before turning again to watch. “They decided to take a detour before heading home.”

  “Does Aeson know?”

  Oalla smiles and points. “He’s right there.”

  I stare at the display and see another tall figure in a space suit moving several paces ahead of Erita. The height, the proportional breadth of shoulders, the familiar commanding posture, all tell me this is my husband.

  “Wait, Aeson’s on the Ghost Moon too?”

  “And Ker, and Xel also. They all met up there to take a quick look.”

  “Why didn’t we?” I say with accusation.

  “Your husband’s orders,” Oalla replies. “He commanded me to return you home without delay.”

  “Ah, great.” I sigh, a little frustrated.

  What am I saying? I’m a lot frustrated. Actually, right now I’m more than a little ticked off.

  I could’ve been up there, exploring the unknown alongside everyone. Instead, here I am, stuck in the mission control center, watching the action unroll on a live feed. . . . When I see Aeson in person we’re going to have a little talk about making these kinds of important decisions without me, or on my behalf. This kind of thing needs to stop.

  Meanwhile, the view on the largest screen switches from Erita’s helmet camera to the perspective of Aeson. “Phoebos—you are now on primary screen,” one female astra daimon at the controls nearby announces, and we see the scene skip forward, with the vantage changing to a large ship’s hull directly ahead. The ship is ovoid, slate grey metal shaped like a capsule that’s several hundred meters in length. It is resting on the regolith at a slight angle, one end sunken at least three meters lower into the ground.

  “Understood.” Aeson’s clear, businesslike voice comes in loudly from the audio equipment in the room, “This is Phoebos, now approaching the largest of the vessels. Requesting cutting crew assistance. Meet me with cutting equipment on the short end in five.”

  And then Aeson continues walking, so that with every pace he takes the view of the grey hull takes over, filling the camera.

  We watch intently as Aeson approaches within touching distance of the big ship. Then his one gloved hand comes up and he places it on the hull to sweep the metal surface side to side, dispersing a layer of ancient dust. Underneath the dull grey layer, the metal surface is revealed as pale orichalcum. At once it gleams brightly in the light of Hel, coming through sharp and undiluted in the thin atmosphere.

  “Poseidon Command Imperial Quarters, are you seeing this?” Aeson asks.

  “Yes, we are receiving,” Radanthet says. “Looks like orichalcum. And the size, proportions, and overall shape matches historical records. The ship is definitely one of ours—is my guess.”

  Aeson steps back, leaving the cleaned streak on the hull, and now the camera on his helmet shows that he continues walking along the perimeter.

  “This is Sobek, I have your cutting crew,” Keruvat’s deep voice suddenly fills the audio, with a crackle preceding him.

  “Coming toward you now,” Aeson responds. And then his camera shows him begin to turn and follow a circular hull surface as he reaches the short end of the capsule that tapers off in a blunt, rounded curve, with the bleak moon landscape resuming in the background.

  A group of five personnel in suits stands ready, three of them holding cutting equipment. The other two approach Aeson. The tallest is Keruvat, and his handsome dark face shows clearly through his visor.

  “What are your recommendations for making a clean breach?” Aeson says. “Find me a seal line if you can, otherwise we will cut at random.”

  “Commence sweeping the hull,” Keruvat says to the crew next to him, and the crew member lifts a small pressurized nozzle tool and starts sweeping the surface of the hull to remove the accumulation of what appears to be centuries of ancient dust (another mystery—where did that dust come from, if the moon with everything on it was isolated in a dimensional bubble all this time?). “Clean up this entire side before you
cut. I want to see if there are any original hatches here before ruining this beauty. . . .”

  “I can’t even imagine how old that thing must be,” Oalla whispers next to me. “And yet, look at that nice smooth surface—underneath that dust it’s still solid and undamaged.”

  “. . . Poseidon Command Imperial Quarters, this is Shamash,” Xelio’s voice sounds abruptly, coming in at extra-high volume. “I have a full vessel count for you. We’ve observed 379 units above surface, and a possible 47 more that are buried in the regolith. That’s a total of 426 vessels after an initial surface scan. There are likely more, but that will require a deep scan.”

  “Shamash, confirming your numbers at 426,” the female daimon seated near Radanthet says. I can’t remember her name.

  “Among them, 120 of the vessels appear to be large transport class—the antique combination of residential ark and cruiser,” Xelio’s booming voice continues. “The rest are variable in size, function unclear. Maybe 29 small, possible shuttles. About a hundred are deep space military grade, still to be confirmed—”

  “Shamash, you’re blasting my earpiece, turn down your volume,” Erita’s voice cuts in, transmitting at a much lower level of sound.

  Here in the room, Radanthet and Oalla both chuckle, while the other daimon glance at them in equal amusement.

  “Apologies,” Xelio says after a pause, coming in at a more reasonable volume. “Is that better?”

  “Much better,” Oalla says, here on our end.

  “Showing off as usual, daimon?” Keruvat remarks, as he stands next to Aeson. Both of them are waiting on the sweeper who is still cleaning the ship’s hull for the cutting crew. Aeson’s perspective camera view is still filling up the primary screen.

  “Yes, naturally. You know me, sen-i-senet,” Xelio says calmly. “I’ll always blast and clear your way—be that with noise or my charming presence.”

  Keruvat snorts, and Radanthet here in the room snorts, in tandem.

  Oalla and the other female daimon exchange glances. The woman shakes her short-cropped, gilded head with sarcasm and Oalla rolls her eyes.

  “So—Tefnut, Phoebos, anyone—how’s the gravity where you are?” Radanthet asks. “I’d still like a confirmation of twenty or eighteen percent below Amrevet gravity. Yes? No? Still processing?”

  “This is Tefnut, confirming 18.5 percent below Amrevet—”

  On the screen, Aeson’s camera view continues to show the sweeper passing the device over the nose portion of the capsule end, when a definite seam is revealed, running in a manhole-sized circle along the fabric of the hull.

  “What do we have here?” Oalla murmurs thoughtfully—even as Aeson’s camera stops then pivots in the same direction, and Aeson himself walks closer.

  “It appears to be a hatch,” Aeson says. “No visible access mechanism on the exterior, so it must open from the inside.”

  His view sweeps over the fine detail of the seam, following the circular indentation in the hull. Its placement and doorlike size definitely suggest some kind of opening. We see all of it clearly, in closeup, on the big screen.

  “Good work. We will start cutting here, following the seam.” And Aeson turns to the cutting crew, indicating the seam line with his gloved finger.

  “Carefully, please,” Radanthet adds. “Be ready for ancient door traps. Those things were legendary during the Landing period as part of construction security methods.”

  “Valid point.” Aeson says. “Take extra care. Now, proceed.”

  Chapter 80

  While the cutting crews work on getting the hatch of the ancient ship open, I happen to glance away from the compelling action taking place on the large screen and notice that my Dad is here. Charles Lark, my father, is standing at the door of the workroom, looking in on us from my bedroom door.

  “Oh!” I say. “Dad, please come in.”

  “Is it permitted? Would that be all right?” he asks quietly, even as the daimon and officers in the room turn to look.

  “Ter Charles, of course, please do come in,” Oalla says with a friendly nod.

  If I recall, Oalla had met my Dad at the Wedding and then briefly talked with him a few times since. Dad has never come into the workroom, except in passing, insisting that he didn’t want to be in anyone’s way.

  But now, here he is.

  I come up to Dad and lead him over to the nearest chair which I pull up for him.

  “Just wanted to take a peek,” Dad says to me in a considerate whisper. “I realize things are getting rather exciting because the TV is showing live footage of the Ghost Moon. Apparently, it is filled with ancient ships! An archeological discovery in progress!”

  “Oh, yes.” I smile. “Aeson is there now, look! That’s the view from his helmet up on the big screen.”

  “Ah, I knew I’d get a better, inside look here than on the TV,” Dad says with excitement. I don’t recall seeing him this animated in quite some time. What a nice contrast compared to his quiet grief and sorrow of about an hour ago. . . .

  Thank goodness for archeological discoveries!

  Suddenly I recall that my brother Gordie is there now too, walking on the moon surface in a space suit, along with all those other people who know what they’re doing.

  How will Dad react? Should I even mention it to him? Would the worry be too much? For that matter, where exactly is Gordie now, as he’s wandering on the surface among the ship junkyard necropolis—or would that be shipropolis? Okay, probably not. . . .

  On the other hand, I’ve come to the conclusion recently that withholding anything from any of my loved ones is usually a bad idea.

  So, I tell my Dad about Gordie taking a detour to visit this newly-corporeal moon with the others.

  Dad’s brows slowly rise in amazement, but there’s a soft, pleased smile on his lips. “Good for Gordon,” he says firmly. Then he shakes his head and makes a laugh noise. “What a wonder. . . . Holy moly indeed. . . . The unbelievable things all of you get to experience every day.”

  “At least George is safely inside a huge, secure, battle barge-class warship, with Manala,” I add.

  Dad chuckles in his typical follow-up reaction to his continued state of amazement. “Indeed.”

  Lovingly, I pat my Dad’s arm through his jacket. “Let me know if you don’t understand whatever’s being said, okay? I’ll translate from Atlanteo to English for you,” I add in a whisper, and Dad nods.

  Then together we return our attention to the screen showing the crews cutting through the hatch, as Aeson watches them on site.

  Finally, the last of the seam around the hatch is pierced, and the crew retract their tools.

  “Stand clear. Prepare to breach,” Aeson says.

  Two additional personnel approach, carrying other specialized tools for mechanical force-opening.

  I expect them to pound down the hatch. Instead, moments later, they carefully lift out the rounded metal panel with special corner grips and suction tools.

  A dark opening is revealed.

  Everyone in the workroom command center stills in anticipation.

  “This is Phoebos, proceeding inside,” Aeson says, stepping past the work crew members without hesitation.

  “Oh God. . . . Careful, Aeson,” I whisper, and Oalla glances at me.

  This time it’s Dad who squeezes my arm comfortingly.

  Aeson steps inside the ancient ship’s entrance. As he does so, a faint, greenish illumination starts to fill the void of darkness, until it normalizes to a steady pale white glow emanating from the interior walls.

  “Functional light sensors,” Aeson remarks. “That’s more than expected.”

  The camera in Aeson’s helmet continues to record for us, and now we can make out the interior itself.

  A bare, metallic antechamber greets us. No furnishings, no control panels—nothing but unadorned orichalcum walls. As Aeson looks around, we get to see what he is experiencing. He sees a rounded outer hull wall and a straight interior wall. And
then, on both ends of this vaguely rectangular space are empty doorways opening onto more darkness.

  “This is Sobek, coming in also, as backup,” Keruvat’s voice says. “In fact, bringing in additional personnel.”

  “Confirming backup.” Aeson says. “I am taking the left corridor. Have them meet me there. Sobek, proceed in the right.”

  “Slowly and carefully,” Radanthet repeats.

  Aeson advances at an even pace, and the corridor lights come on softly as he approaches. The walking space is narrow, with a low ceiling. Here, in the claustrophobia-inducing corridor, there are additional light fixtures every few paces, but still no decoration or writing on the wall panels.

  The corridor ends at an intersection.

  “Taking the passage on my right, with the assumption that it eventually leads to a central hub or command center,” Aeson says, turning in the specified direction. He walks another twenty paces through a similar stretch of narrow corridor until he comes to a dead end, culminating in a bulging set of reinforced doors that I instantly remember seeing somewhere before.

  Oh, my. . . . That convex doorway looks exactly like the entrance to one of the four spherical Habitats located inside the ancient ark-ship Vimana, the Grail Monument.

  Aeson stops. He must recognize it too. It’s as if his camera is suddenly fixed in place while he considers the implications.

  Everyone here in the workroom shows no such recognition, since none of the daimon are a part of the Imperator’s secret circle. None of them have had the opportunity to visit the ancient ark-ship buried underneath the Stadium. They know nothing of the Habitats.

  Even Oalla, Keruvat, Xelio, and Erita have never been down there, although they’ve heard about some of it from Aeson when he partially confided in them about the ark-ship situation.

  And now, as the only other person who gets it, I’m unsure how to react—not sure if I should mention anything. I decide to hold my tongue.

  “Phoebos, that door looks very solid,” Oalla says. “Any locking mechanisms you can see, or do you require assistance?”