Echoes In The Grey

by David Allan Hamilton

  She shouted louder this time. “Hello!”

  In the stillness of this place, Mary sensed two key things. First, something pinched into her skull, like the teeth of a comb, but all over her head. Nothing had penetrated the skin, but the pressure points were uncomfortable. Second, a faint sound, a hum of machinery, a power source out there.

  “Kate?”

  Every nerve ending in her scalp fired and danced. Instinctively, Mary lay perfectly still, her breathing becoming erratic and short. She waited for more to happen.

  “Kate . . .”

  The tips of those pressure points on her skull grew warmer and suddenly, a blue light—that blue light—shone above. Something happened to her mind . . . in her mind. Images, sensations, impressions overloaded her thoughts, invading her own memories like a virus, supplanting them with—

  Oh shit!

  —foreign experiences that didn’t belong to her. At least, she hadn’t thought they were her recollections, but now they were as real as everything that had taken place over the past few months, from working with Kate on surveys, to screaming over the moonscape, to seeing her home, the Earth, from her deathbed on the ship’s hull.

  Except this time, she understood. Mary had gained access to the alien’s thoughts, its history, journeys, experiences. They overwhelmed her with a flood of information. Her neurons couldn’t keep up.

  Horrific images of a peaceful race being wiped out by a mysterious disease, ripped her heart in two.

  Stop it . . .

  The loneliness of a solitary survivor, marooned in space, homeless, with no one for company.

  No . . . no more . . .

  The curiosity and hope with the discovery of these carbon and water bi-pedal creatures, studying them from a safe distance, afraid of being seen, yet desperately wanting to be around them but not knowing how. Guilt over destroying their habitat by accident, misunderstanding how fragile they were. Learning cultures, languages, conflict, space travel. Overcoming intense fear to guide them to the ship, bring them inside when they posed no threat.

  I can’t . . . please . . .

  Unlocked secrets of the universe, of new scientific discoveries, energy, space-time, the origin of life, an underlying, overshadowing creative force giving birth to it all.

  I . . . no, I . . .

  Mary’s mind no longer functioned as it once had. She tried parsing the incoming alien information as it rushed at her—into her—at breakneck speed, but her brain refused to absorb so much in so little time. She shivered involuntarily, incapable of processing anything, feeling wave after wave of intense suffering and isolation swamp her.

  Somewhere, her own experiences had been washed away. There were diluted glimpses of whatever remained, images of her dad, of Kate; bits and pieces from the last twenty-four hours. In her mind, she reached for them, desperately grabbing at any remnants she could find, but her personal memories kept drifting further and further out of reach, disappearing in the crush of overwhelming alien history.

  In a final attempt to stop what was happening to her, Mary opened her mouth wide to scream, but nothing came out. She convulsed sporadically on the flat surface, held securely by restraints, and watched the images in her mind drain into complete black.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Katie

  So, it’s come to this.

  Katie stared at her bare chest in the bathroom mirror while he waited in the other room. The cutting field didn’t seem that bad, she rationalized, and perhaps in the dark he would mistake them for surgical scars. Then again, chances are he’d see that as a bonus, an extra thrill. Anti-rad pills had cleared up most of the cancerous blooms that dotted her torso, so no issues there. Tracy’s voice kept echoing in her mind, don’t take it all so seriously, Katie, but she couldn’t help it: she was built this way.

  She buttoned up her blouse again, confirmed the credit transfer had taken place on her indie-comm, and stared in the mirror. Dark circles were permanently etched under her eyes now, and her jawline had become more pronounced and angular, more like that of a man. The way she chopped at her short hair, leaving it asymmetrical and butchered, gave her a feral look, except for one thing: the down-turned mouth exuded a defiant sadness that made her wonder what the hell happened?

  Nineteen years old. There were no prizes, no rewards, nothing intangible either. Tracy would say, “You remove your clothes, then his or hers, and embrace them. Some don’t even want you to do that—they prefer watching. Others go for a bit more, you know, contact. That’s your call. I charge extra for that.”

  “Trace, what if I can’t . . . pretend?”

  “Hey, they’re paying so they can brag about seducing a Spacer. They get off on it. Just go along, play it coy. Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt to smile once or twice.”

  In the mirror, Katie practiced smiling, struck different poses. She frowned and shook her head.

  Who are you trying to fool?

  The flat was a one-room affair that smelled of cabbage, as did the man. He couldn’t have been much older than her, mid-20s perhaps, and looked shifty and nervous. He sat on a loveseat watching as she drifted in, smiled nervously, and undid her buttons.

  “You don’t have to do that,” he said in a soft, melodic voice.

  Katie stopped, fingers trembling. “I thought . . .? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

  “No. Well, not now anyway.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you screwing with me?”

  “No.”

  “So what am I doing here?” She reached for the indie-comm in her back pocket. “I’ll refund your money, okay?”

  “Carrie, I—”

  “It’s Katie. My name’s Katie, for crissake.”

  The man stood up and approached her. He towered above her head, with well-trimmed hair, and a disarming, pleasant face. She caught the glint in his eyes from ocular implants, the kind that still cost a fortune.

  “Katie, do you ever get lonely?”

  She squirmed and continued looking at him with deep suspicion. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m asking a question. I’ve paid for your time, and I’m asking a question.”

  She had to think about this, not about his query—being miserable was evident—but about how much to disclose. She still wasn’t convinced that all he wanted was to chat. That’s not how the script went, but he had seemed genuine when he approached her at the coffee shop, unlike any of the other followers, and didn’t push. She exhaled, feigning boredom, and said in a clinical voice, “All right, to be honest, I’m pretty much lonely all the time. I have no real friends . . . tried that once, and they either died or disappeared.” She thought of young Martin dangling from the window.

  “So, being alone is your choice?”

  She averted her gaze and scanned the room. Nobody asked her these questions before, or cared to probe into her feelings. But there was something about the fellow that put her at ease. Perhaps it was a ruse. He may even be one of those Spacer murderers who drift around from time to time, but her instincts wouldn’t buy that.

  Out of habit, Katie rubbed her chest up and down with her fingertips. “No, this was not a choice. One minute I’m taking the Aptitudes, the next, getting butchered. Me and all the others.”

  “Come, sit down.”

  She joined him on the loveseat, her thigh brushing against his.

  “Why do you stick with the Program?”

  “Why? It’s all I know. I don’t think I could leave now. At least when I’m working, I’m by myself and don’t have to deal with asshole followers and. . . sorry.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “At some point they’ll turf me I suppose, and then I’ll have to figure out what to do.”

  He folded his hands together in his lap. “Have you ever been in love, Katie?”

  She burst out laughing in a nervous, defensive way, and ran her fingers through her cropped hair. “Me? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  He looked straight into her eyes.

&nb
sp; “Not kidding, eh? Well you are an odd duck. Let me guess: graduate student? Doing research?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Busted.”

  “Right, okay, maybe I should just be going.” She stood and straightened her blouse.

  “If that’s what you want, but answer one more thing before you go.”

  “What is it?”

  He rose up and faced her, staring at her chest and the entrails of cutting scars that peeked out around the Vee. “Those . . . do you cut?”

  Katie looked away and pursed her lips. Her cheeks flushed with shame. When she spoke, the words came out in whispers. “Yes, I do. I can’t help it, can’t stop.”

  “May I see?”

  “No.”

  “Please, Katie. I’m not here to judge.”

  She fought back the lump gripping her throat and dropped her arms. They were abnormally thin and bony compared to his.

  “Have a look, then.”

  The man slowly undid the buttons on her blouse and pushed the panels aside. Katie’s eyes welled up, but she vowed not to let him see one tear drop, and choked them back.

  “Katie, I . . .”

  “There’s nothing there if you want to touch. I mean, it’s your time.”

  He traced various scars across her chest and upper abdomen with his middle finger. She’d seldom allowed anyone to see these, let alone feel them, and after a moment of tracing, she inhaled through her teeth at this new sensation, and closed her eyes.

  The man stopped and buttoned her up again, then studied her with fear and sympathy on his face.

  “Like I said. I can’t stop. Besides,” she added, tucking in her blouse, “it’s all I know. I couldn’t wear those other replacement tops and pretend to be a normie. These scars, my shit . . . these are me.” She turned to leave and whispered, “I can never be more this . . . than what I am.”

  She left him, mouth agape, and disappeared into the warm night.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Atteberry

  Atteberry fidgeted beside Quigg on the bridge, desperate to be out there looking for Mary instead of watching Ishani and Dub haul the massive excavator across the Moon’s surface toward the alien ship’s hull. Esther huddled with co-pilot Jenson at the nav station, conducting high-level scans of the area and reviewing geophysical data they found in the memory tube. She was right: whatever fate had befallen his girl and Kate, they needed to learn more about this craft and its inhabitants. Still, it tore away at him.

  Carter, meanwhile, fumed beside Captain Powell in front of the main viewscreen. “It’s not that big a vessel, John. We can have the damn thing unearthed in a matter of minutes.”

  “True, but we’re dealing with a completely unknown entity. Think about it. For the first time in Earth’s history we know there are other sentient creatures out here. Let’s take a minute or two like Dr. Tyrone says, learn as much as possible about them and establish contact. Perhaps even get inside that ship.”

  Carter worked his jaw and sighed, resignation spreading over his face. “Very well.” He turned to the comms station and scowled. “What have you two found?”

  Atteberry let Quigg do the talking. “No apparent EM signatures at all, no heat or radiation I can detect. She’s like no boat we’ve encountered before, sir.”

  “Have you determined the hull’s composition?”

  “Not completely. It appears to be an aluminum-titanium composite, but there’s some other compound in there as well that don’t register in our info systems.”

  Carter paced again and frowned. “So how the hell do we communicate with them? Walk up to the front door and knock?”

  Atteberry swallowed hard, and when no one else answered, said, “Actually, Mr. Carter, that’s exactly what we do.”

  He stared at him in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, years ago when I first heard the Rossians, they used a tap code based on the atomic numbers of chemical elements.”

  “Yes, yes, the whole water story. What of it?”

  Atteberry ran his palm over his forehead. “It’s a long shot, maybe, but why not do it again? Have one of them tap it out on the hull.” He pointed to Ishani and Dub wrestling with the excavator. “Or let me try.”

  Carter glanced at Esther, who now stood watching the conversation while Jenson continued scanning the area. She said, “It’s worth considering. Look, Kate and Mary are here, right? That scooter didn’t fly itself. In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, they must be inside that ship.”

  “I’m not sure I buy that.”

  “Regardless,” Esther added, in measured tones, “that tap code is the only thing we have that worked.”

  Atteberry swallowed hard. He wasn’t about to allow this opportunity to rescue Mary pass him by. “Let me help. I know the rhythm, the pattern. I can reproduce the signal they sent.”

  Before Carter could respond, the Echo was being hailed. Quigg opened the channel, listened, then turned to Captain Powell. “Urgent message from the Malevolent, Skip.”

  Powell glanced at Carter. “Put it through.”

  Captain Russo appeared on the main viewscreen, standing beside one of her officers.

  Powell motioned to Jenson to return to her position in the co-pilot seat. “Captain Russo? Echo here. What’s the situation?”

  “It’s heating up, John. The Volmar fired a warning shot over us moments ago. We’re holding steady with the Nachtfalke, but the situation’s tense.” She approached her own comms screen. “How much more time do you need?”

  “Laura, Clayton here. Are you in immediate danger now?”

  “No, sir. We can hold our own in a firefight with Volmar if it comes to that, but sensors show there are more cruisers on the way. We’ll be pinned down shortly and we’re woefully out-gunned, so I have to know how far to take this standoff.”

  Captain Powell and the rest of the crew turned to face Carter. Atteberry felt the tension on the bridge, figuring their fearless leader talked big, but did he truly desire open conflict?

  Esther was the first to speak up. “Clayton, this isn’t what you want. Think it through.”

  He glared at her. When Esther glanced Atteberry’s way, her look reminded him of the fear they both lived years ago at Mount Sutro when Marshall Whitt wanted them dead. He couldn’t let this situation impede Mary’s rescue. “Tell that ship to stand down, Carter!”

  Captain Powell spoke with calm and conviction in his voice. “Mind your place, Mr. Atteberry.” Then, turning his attention to the Malevolent, he said, “Laura, what’s the status of your weapons systems?”

  “All online and fully operational.”

  “Defenses?”

  “Full hardshields available, but we’re keeping them down for the moment. Don’t want to needlessly provoke the Prussians.”

  Powell maintained that smooth, calm tone. “Good. Keep sending a message to the Volmar and all others that you’re simply protecting the Titanius mission on Luna and have no desire to engage. Our salvage operation is complete here, but we’re still looking for the missing techs. Not sure when we’ll be finished.”

  Captain Russo smiled curtly. “Understood . . . thanks John. Malevolent out.”

  “Yes, thank you, Captain.” Carter regained his voice and posture. Atteberry eyed him with deep suspicion, wondering how much longer Powell would allow him to call the shots. In the growing silence, he addressed the captain. “Sir, if I may, I’d like to join the others on the surface and attempt communicating with the alien ship.”

  Powell raised his eyebrows and glanced at Carter. His expression remained stoic and defiant. The captain turned to Esther. “Dr. Tyrone, please help Mr. Atteberry get suited up.”

  “Will do.”

  He stared hard at Atteberry. “I want you to stay in contact with the Echo at all times, do you understand?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Don’t give me the ‘of course’ business. Lives are at stake here beyond those of your daughter and friend. Th
is is a damned harsh environment, got it?”

  Atteberry straightened up. “Yes, Captain.”

  “If the shit blows and I call you in, immediately drop whatever you’re doing and return to the ship. If you hesitate at all, for any reason, I will leave you behind to protect this ship and crew. Understand?”

  He pulled himself away from the comms station. “Yes, Captain.”

  Esther piped up. “Do you want me to accompany him?”

  “No. I need your analytical skills here, Doctor.”

  She pursed her lips and frowned, unable to hide her disappointment. Then, she nudged Atteberry on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go.” As they marched to the prep area, he glanced back at the bridge. Carter, arms folded across his chest, watched them leave.

  FORTY

  Kate

  Nothing remained in her stomach—not that there was much to begin with—but Kate continued to wretch, leaving her exhausted and kneeling beside the pedestal. When the heaving mercifully stopped, she spat, dragged the sleeve of her skin across her mouth, and palmed her eyes. Then she hauled herself up and slumped on the dais, staring in front of her in a daze, feeling the stretch of breasts forming on her chest.

  After several minutes of silence, save the faint, low-level hum of the ship, Kate peered up and found the creature frozen beside a console. “What did you do to me?” Her voice sounded raw and unnatural.

  Keechik raised and lowered its limbs slowly, groaned that familiar guttural sound, and mimicked Kate’s strained voice. “I am Kate . . . is broken . . . one Keechik helps . . . no more broken now.”

  She closed her eyes, at once frightened by the apparent power this being wielded—unlike any molecular manipulation she had ever encountered—and overwhelmed with a heavy and final sense of a full-system ego shut down.

  But I am not Kate anymore, you damn thing.