by Guy Haley
“De Mona is the only officer I could find alive. Who else is with us?” said Posth.
“Danovitz, Kruger, Mori, Oldberg, Gomez, Hankinson, Johnson, Mdele, J Schmitt, R Schmitt, Kaczynska and... I think that’s it, ma’am,” Brno frowned. “I’ve got Oldberg, Mdele and Hankinson scouring the other decks, but all the other officers’ pods they’ve found so far have failed.”
“Ship?”
“Hankinson’s wrestled us back under control. We’re out of the woods for now, a decaying orbit, but a slow one. We’ve got a few days.”
Posth’s face was grim. “Call them back in, everyone to the bridge. We can’t afford to waste any more time. We’ll make do with who we’ve got. Anyone else who wakes up is on their own.”
Brno gave a curt nod, and spoke into a device at his wrist. “All officers, report to the bridge, report to the bridge.” His words echoed out around the Mickiewicz on every system: the tannoy, data nets and the personal inChips of the crew.
“And get any security personnel you can organised. Not the Pointers’ men! Post a detail on the primary diameter intersection. Set the rest to patrolling the corridors of the hibernation decks. The last thing I want is a mass panic.”
“What about the passengers?” said Sand.
“Give a ship-wide order to get all those awake into the post-revivification lounges,” said Posth. “They’ve had their training. They’ll have to fend for themselves for the time being, we’ve got bigger problems. We’ll get the emergency protocols shut off for all except crew and crucial colony personnel, if the Syscore remains discriminate enough to pick them out. We’ll keep whoever else is not awake under until we land.”
“The Pointers, ma’am?” said Brno.
Posth swore harshly in German. “We have no choice but to wake them all. Some of their representatives have already found their way onto the bridge.”
Brno relayed the captain’s instructions, while Posth radioed the bridge and ordered the emergency waking sequence shut down.
Sand’s head reeled. Her mind was sluggish, her skull so chilled it felt gripped by a vice. A mass emergency revivification like this would only take place under the worst imaginable circumstances.
Her legs steadied as they made their way to the head of the ship. Several times, they were forced to push their way through groups of confused colonists. A couple of hundred were awake, and some of the more self-possessed harried the captain with questions. Posth pointedly ignored them as Brno shouted at them to get to their assigned PRV lounges. A security team, as ill-looking as everyone else, joined them and formed moving cordons front and aft of the small group of officers. The corridor became claustrophobically full, and Sand was glad when they reached the intersection that led into the cap deck corridor. A team of seven ship’s security men, all armed with pistols, kept the gathering crowd back as Brno, Sand and the captain turned left into the broad corridor running around the inner circumference of the main shield cap.
The cap corridor was quiet by comparison. There were no hibernation sarcophagi, everything immediately behind the cap was dedicated to running the ship: command deck, main systems controls, EVA pods and the like, and extensive systems of the Syscore itself. As they marched toward the bridge, they passed a wrecked bike and a smashed security drone.
“What the hell...?” asked Sand.
“Sabotage,” said Posth, not stopping. “There were two more security drones deactivated on the lift platform of Radial Two. Someone, somehow, got to the Syscore during the voyage. We don’t know who, the datalog’s been wiped.”
They reached the doors to Radial Two. The second and third downed drones had been placed to one side and been cordoned off with tape and poles. “Evidence. We’ll get to the bottom of this if we survive our current predicament,” said Posth. “I’ll hang the bastard myself.”
There were more people by the Radial Two lift, ship’s personnel rushing up and down, although how many of the ninety-four crew had survived, Sand could not tell. Three more joined them as they summoned the lift. They all stepped onto the platform, and the lift rose. They went past a door that was jammed half-open. “The scene of the crime,” said Brno.
“Nutrient feed check room,” said Posth. “They introduced something into the Syscore’s nutrient mix.”
“Is it dead?” asked Sand incredulously.
“Alive, but non-functional. We can’t get much sense out of it, and we have little control. Could be the hibernation sickness, but we reckon not. It doesn’t affect bottled brains the same way.”
Radial Two ended in a blank ceiling. The lift came to a halt in front of a large door leading onto the bridge. It beeped welcomingly as it recognised the officers.
The doors opened.
“Let’s get to work,” said Posth.
THE BRIDGE WAS a toroid deck. Stations were placed all around the circumference, their chairs tilted so that all bridge officers faced into the centre. A large holographic display in the round took up the central void, divided into numerous sub-displays showing the ship, various status graphics for parts of the vessel – the hibernation decks prominent among them – and a local stellar map showing a bunch of star configurations Sand did not recognise.
As the bridge was right at the centre of the vessel, behind the thickest part of the ice cap, the sensation of gravity provided by the ship’s spin was minimal here; grab rails were provided for ease of movement. Posth moved off, pulling herself to her command chair, a large station surrounded by clear glass screens. Sand followed to stand beside her. Hankinson and Kruger, two of the other pilots, were in the helmsman’s chairs.
A group of four men dressed in black combat fatigues and armed with assault carbines were close by the command station. They eyed the deck crew suspiciously. Three men stood in their midst, dressed in fine clothes. They appeared fresh and calm.
“The Pointers,” growled Posth quietly.
The face of one brightened as he caught sight of Posth. Sand knew him, but could not recall his name. Everything was still foggy. “Ah! Captain Posth, you have returned. Your second in command here told us you might be able to tell us what exactly is going on.” He had a charming manner, but brittle. She couldn’t judge him for it, no one was themselves right then.
Sand’s chaotic memory pulled up the man’s identity: Yuri Petrovitch, one of the colony governors. The other was Leonid. They were faux-Russians, their family were the owners of the vessel, the colony, and everyone on board. Yuri gestured at First Officer Maalouf, a bald, rangy man with deep black skin, standing over Pilot Hankinson’s shoulder.
“Your officer here would not disclose what he knows.”
Maalouf’s expression was guarded. “It is better coming from you, captain.”
“That simply is not good enough,” said the third man. Plump, smooth, American voice – speaking proper English, not Lingua Anglica – Middle-Eastern colouring, exhibiting the signs of advanced yet indeterminate age of the super-rich and their key servants. Administrator Jonathan Amir. “Need I remind you that the Petrovitches are the patrons of this venture? Nothing is to be kept from them.” The other Pointer, Leonid, looked uncomfortable at this implicit threat.
Posth pulled herself into her chair. “And might I remind you that this is my bridge, and while we are in flight, my authority is absolute? Is that clear?”
Yuri’s smile froze, and his brother pulled him back.
“Forgive us, captain. My brother and I are anxious, that is all,” said Leonid
Posth gave a curt nod. “Very well. Operations, put up the planet on the main display.”
A vast, real-colour depiction of a planet blinked into existence in the centre of the room. One side was shrouded in night, the other a bright desert encompassing half the globe. A star with an orange cast blazed beyond it. A tall, nearly circular mountain range straddled the equator nearest the sun, a whorl of sparse cloud clinging to its peaks. A broad, shining sea curled over the planet’s northernmost point, fringed nearer the terminat
or with green. Elsewhere on the dayside, all was desert. The nightside was black and grey, swirling with weather fronts. A lighter patch on the point furthest from the sun hinted at an extensive ice cap. Clouds boiled where day and night met, and shot the dark through with sparks of blue and white lightning.
Sand’s forehead wrinkled.
“Is that Heracles V? It doesn’t look like the briefing images.”
“It’s not Heracles V,” said the captain. “Our current position is uncertain. Astronavigation are working on pinpointing our exact position, but we’re way off course.”
Sand looked at the display again. A marker showed the position of the ship. Only the Mickiewicz was visible. Her stomach flipped.
“Where’s the rest of the fleet? Where’s our sister ship?” said Yuri.
“There is no rest of the fleet, sir; no sign of the ESS Goethe,” said Brno. “We’re on our own.”
The Pointers and their servants looked at each other.
“We need to talk,” said Leonid. “In private.”
Posth nodded. “We do. Brno, you have the bridge. Maalouf, Kaczynska, Mori, you’re with me.” She pushed herself out of her chair. “This way. My ready room.”
“A MOMENT PLEASE, captain. I must speak with my brother,” said Leonid. Posth nodded and turned away to examine the screens around her chair. She called one of her crew over.
Leonid snagged his brother’s arm. Anderson looked away. “You wait here,” he whispered in his ear.
“What?” Yuri hissed. “I am mission deputy, I must be included.”
Leonid tightened his grip on Yuri’s bicep. “Yuri, you’re scared out of your wits. I know what you can be like. You must remain calm.”
“Oh, and you are not frightened, shot across the galaxy to god knows where? Cool Leonid, is that it? You’re pissing yourself. I can practically smell it. I promise you I am not going to make a scene.” Yuri glared at Leonid’s hand.
Leonid relaxed it. “Okay, okay. Just follow my lead. Stay calm, and don’t say anything stupid.”
Yuri smoothed down his sleeve. “I love it when you’re patronising.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“I am coming with you.”
“Keep it together.”
They followed the captain to a round door in the floor/wall of the bridge, which opened to reveal a ladder leading to a medium sized room.
There was a conference table with seating for twelve. Leonid held his brother back and let the crew descend first, to take their places. He did not want to undermine Posth. She stared, openly unfriendly, as he, his brother and the Administrator descended. He had their security team wait outside; only Anderson came with them. Leonid knew he would insist, and was keen to avoid open dissent in front of the bridge crew at this critical time. He had to look like he was in charge, terrified or not.
As was Anderson’s way, he did not sit. Leonid resented his presence. His father’s motives for sending him and his brother on the voyage were still opaque; he doubted he’d ever be able to figure it out to his satisfaction. The inclusion of an attack dog like Anderson in his retinue was the kind of thing he expected from his father, and undermined his more charitable interpretations of Ilya’s motives.
“So,” said Yuri brightly. He was keeping up his brave face. Good, thought Leonid. “What’s the problem?”
Leonid stayed silent, observing the reactions of the crew.
Posth looked into the face of each of them before she spoke. She was pale. They were all scared, and this scared Yuri more.
“At some point in the voyage here, the ship’s Syscore was sabotaged. We’ve lost contact with the rest of the fleet, and there is no sign of our sister ship, the ESS Goethe. As is obvious from the display outside, that is not Heracles V, our target planet. First Officer Maalouf.”
Maalouf’s irises were so dark as to appear as one with his pupils. Hard eyes to read, but Leonid could see the fear in them. “As far as we can tell, we’ve overshot our destination system by seven hundred light years.”
No one spoke for a good few seconds, as the news sank in. Leonid’s heart raced.
“How long?” he said.
“Five hundred years subjective,” said Posth. “Give or take.”
“The voyage was supposed to last one hundred, Earth time. Us, we were supposed to be under for fifty years,” said Yuri. His smile had gone. “And you’re telling me we’ve been asleep for five centuries?”
“Mori’s working on exactly where we are,” said Maalouf.
“We have not been able to determine our precise location,” said Mori, a tall Japanese woman. “Many of the ship’s systems are malfunctional or non-responsive.” She tapped on the table, and a display sprang up. She tapped again, sliding her fingers over the surface, and a holographic representation of the galaxy popped into being. She zoomed in to an area of space crowded with stars toward the Crab Nebula. “We are supposed to be here, a dozen light years from Earth. As best as I can tell, we are here.” The view shifted on for some time, until an icon blinked. “The triangulation tools are not working as they should. I’m getting a different result each time. This estimate is based on my own initial observations.”
“Please forgive my questions, Lieutenant Mori,” said Yuri. His hands were shaking. “But not working, how?”
“I get different results. Sometimes it locks me out altogether.”
“We have similar problems system-wide,” added Maalouf.
“A side-effect of this... sabotage?” said Amir.
Posth nodded, and folded her arms tight under her breasts. “Yes. Initial reports suggest someone poisoned the nutrient feed to the Syscore.”
“With what?” asked Amir.
“We cannot be sure yet, some kind of synthetic virus, I expect. A gene-rewriter.”
“Who did it? Do you have any indication?” said Leonid.
“We should be able to tell, given time,” said Kaczynska, the cryonics specialist.
Yuri let out a hysterical noise that might have been laughter. “That part of the system is not operational.”
Kaczynska nodded slowly. She was small, brown-haired, solemn. “The datalog was wiped. We’ve a DNA sample of the saboteur – he cut himself – but we can’t sequence it. It’s only a matter of time before we can, but even then we have, as yet, no way of checking for a match.”
“The colonist database is not working, either, right?” said Yuri bitterly.
“We will find who did this, gentlemen. But it will take time. And we have more pressing problems,” said Posth. “It is not a priority matter at this moment.”
“How bad is the damage to the Syscore?” said Leonid.
Maalouf spoke. “It is hard to say. An organic virus like that, introduced into the nutrient feed... It’s an ingenious way of getting at the ship’s brain and reprogramming it –”
“That’s impossible!” said Yuri.
“Difficult, not impossible,” said Maalouf. “Changing the architecture of the Syscore brain can be accomplished by an engineered retrovirus.”
“But that would not affect the programming, would it?” said Amir.
“There is no telling what it is doing,” said Posth. “In theory, no, the programs run by the Syscore are only software. But if the underlying hardware is altered, how do we know how it will interpret that software?”
“There’s evidence it’s somehow leached into our non-organic network. We’ve been coming up against destructive viruses in many of our electronic sub-systems. We lost a couple, but we’ve initiated a system purge and clean reboot of each new device as we activate it. That should contain the problem.”
“How can a viral infection translate into a digital virus?” said Amir. He was growing suspicious.
“That is unknown at this time. Of course, the Syscore brain is interfaced with all systems, it would not be beyond feasibility to reprogramme it to create a secondary, digital, virus to infect our electronics,” said Maalouf.
“Another �
��difficult’ process,” said Amir. “Are you sure there are no other causes?” He looked at the crew calculatingly.
“We are not to blame, Administrator,” said Posth.
“Devastating,” said Leonid.
“That appears to be the intended result. We could be dealing with the effects forever.”
“The Syscore caught a cold?” Yuri gave another disbelieving laugh. Leonid stared at him, silently urging him to pull it together.
“Something like that, yes,” Maalouf said.
“We have isolated the Syscore, removed it from contact with all other elements of the ship. Not all systems are down; we have control over the ship’s motive systems, although the ride may be bumpier from here.”
“Good news, then,” said Leonid. “Well done, captain.”
“Not good news, sir. I am afraid that is not all,” said Posth reluctantly. “We have become caught in the planet’s gravity well. We do not have the capability to break free. The ESS Adam Mickiewicz will crash.”
A stunned silence. Only Anderson was unaffected.
Yuri opened his mouth. Leonid shushed his brother.
“What do you suggest we do?” said Leonid.
“Simple,” said Posth. “We’re going to have to abandon ship, take our chances on the planet below. We have already selected a number of potential settlement locations, subject to your approval, of course.” She nodded. Mori brought up a hologram of the world.
“There’s no evidence of rotation,” she said. “The world is tidally locked to the star, but it is habitable. There’s a large amount of oxygen, most of it is desert but there are signs of life here, here and here around the sea.” She zoomed the picture in to a band of fainter light between the night and day side. “In the liminal zone too. Perhaps more, deeper into the nightside. We’ve not yet had chance to do a full analysis.”
“Then we should stand off. We have to assess the world properly,” said Amir. “We’ll burn, or freeze! Nothing can live on a world that does not turn, with one side permanently presented to the sun, it will be too hot. An inferno, a hellish place!”
