“Describe the workings of the Chrono-Travel vortex.”
That’s better. A test, at last. I laid it out as best I understood it. The computer had a couple of points to make, fine-tuning my reply. I agreed. Then, “describe the hydrogen fusion reaction in the Cruiser’s engines.” I gave this one a good try, too. Again, the machine had some interesting observations. We were getting along a lot better.
This continued for four hours, in a most engaging way. I hadn’t used my brain in forty years and this was just the kind of exercise I needed. We talked about aspects of physics and spaceflight, obviously, and then moved onto more theoretical discussions of the nature of matter, its relationship with energy and the implications of their being a formative particle which made up both. We talked about the inner workings of the replicator. We even brushed up elements of the plan to help the Earth.
In the middle of this brain-food session, the computer judged me ready for my second meal. We pushed on with an Asian theme. Steaming Chinese dumplings were followed by endless bowls of rice as dishes came streaming from the replicator and were summarily demolished. Spicy chopped eggplants. Fluffy egg and tomatoes with garlic. Thick, green spinach leaves, quick-fried with pork. Chicken with cashews. Bacon and mushrooms, all with modest levels of Sichuan spices. Endless cups of excellent green tea washed it down.
There was a pause after these numerous entrees while the computer quizzed me on human biology, evolution, various environmental cycles and the science of Earth’s current problems. I had a good handle on everything, it seemed.
“No further learning will be required on these subjects. However, stored with the portable computer you will take on this mission is a Red Cube prepared by Bassar and Cyto. This will provide invaluable knowledge. There is a condition, however.” I listened intently. “You may only access this Red Cube when you judge, in your own experience, that mankind would be ready for the results. You know the kind of thing to expect.”
I nodded. I would have to be very careful about all of this. We had strategies already, some of them massively ornate, for keeping certain secrets from my fellow man. Humanity just wasn’t ready, I knew. Avoiding chaos wasn’t the only reason, though – I needed peace and time to get these things done. It wouldn’t do to draw too much attention to ourselves, certainly not at first.
My third meal was ready by the time this final session of discussions was over. I enjoyed talking to the computer. Apart from the obvious attraction of company after so long asleep, and particularly out here in deep space at three time the speed of light, the Computer seemed socially gifted. We even seemed to communicate in much the same way, handle questions in a similar fashion, express ourselves with a similar grammatical structure and vocabulary. I came to believe, and I wasn’t wrong as it turned out, that this machine had been given a personality specifically designed to coalesce with my own. The computer was intended to become my friend.
My final replicator meal (at least for now, I thought), was to prepare me for English cuisine. Dover sole, garden salads, roast beef with Yorkshire puddings, vegetables and gravy, full-scale fish and chips with tartar sauce, all the old favourites. For dessert there was sherry trifle, then bread and butter pudding, and finally rice pudding with a huge dollop of raspberry jam in the centre. My mother couldn’t have made better.
I took another nap in the pilot’s seat. Having hit 40,000 calories and more, a little digestion time was probably in order. The ship continued on its inexorable approach to my own solar system. I had about six hours’ solid sleep before the Computer woke me once more, this time Handel’s Water Music. We were only an hour from the burn. I had to get ready.
There was little physical work to do, but plenty of mental preparation. Decelerating from this speed, irrespective of the 18 hours it was going to take, was a taxing process for both the ship and its passenger. As we came back through the barrier into sub-light speed, there would a range of odd effects. I had the option to sleep through them again, in a truncated version of stasis, but decided to experience this ride for myself.
I tidied up the compartment and stored everything away, strapping down whatever would float away once we lost gravity as the ship ceased its roll. I checked all the systems and asked for a full diagnostic from the computer. Everything was fine. As the countdown to the burn proceeded, I strapped myself into the pilot’s seat and enjoyed the easing off of all weight and pressure as the roll stopped and microgravity returned.
The energy streaming to the warp drive began slowly to diminish. Our speed dropped, bringing us increasingly back to within the classic laws of physics. I kept an eye on things, snacking on potato chips and bags of pork crackling (guess the calories don’t matter now, I mused to myself) and took the occasional nap as our speed dropped below 2C. Outside, we were passing through the Oort cloud. This unexplored region consisted of millions of tonnes of icy asteroids and proto-comets, yet to begin their sunward journey. We left this zone behind and entered the solar system proper, streaking past the orbits of the outer planets.
With only two hours to go, we were still precisely on course, not for the Earth at first, but to join up with the shower of rock and debris left behind by a comet. These rocks, on a predictable, annual cycle, would encounter the upper atmosphere of the Earth and streak into the atmosphere, visible for thousands of miles. This meteor shower would be slightly different to the others, I chuckled to myself, in that it would carry a passenger home. There were those who believed in Panspermia, the concept of life arriving from other planets, perhaps in a meteor shower like this. It’s possible. I’m living proof. You just need a really spiffy spaceship.
We approached 1C and things got weird quickly. Time seemed to do the strangest things. A motion of my hand which seemed quick to me actually proceeded glacially across my field of vision, which was itself becoming stretched and distorted, like I had walked into a hall of mirrors. My legs seems to stretch out from my hips, and my feet to disappear through the front of the ship, which itself had become an endlessly progressing point in space, moving outward, onward, with a life and energy of its own. It was like I had been placed on the Medieval rack, as had the whole ship, and we were both being stretched.
I tried to calm myself with the knowledge that these were almost purely visual phenomena, and that the ship and myself were in fact doing well as we decelerated to under 1C for the first time since leaving Holdrian forty one years earlier. As our speed dropped and the warp fields dissipated, the phenomena trailed away, my feet returning to their regular position and my vision seeming normal once more. We were crossing the orbit of Jupiter but were many billions of miles away – both this gas giant and the other, Saturn, were on the far side of the system as we approached it. The sun, however, was making its presence felt. It was already a coin-sized blur of light in the canopy window, and on camera it was a seething mass of boiling gas. It seemed almost too close for comfort, but I remembered that the closest we would come would be 93 million miles. When I landed in the lake.
“Picking up Perseids material”, the computer announced. We were joining the stream of suicidal rock particles which had an appointment with Earth. Once our speeds equalised, and we were trundling along at a paltry 0.0004C, the computer announced that our flight track was perfect and that the deceleration procedure had been flawless. It is always nice to hear these things from one’s supercomputer, particularly after such a journey. The relief was immense.
There was an hour to get ready before our entry into the atmosphere. I floated out of the pilot’s seat and over to the storage racks. The three suitcases waited patiently. Beneath them were a set of drawers which slid out to reveal a pair of comfortable, outdoors trousers, a white t-shirt, a battered green fleece and a Gore-tex jacket. Precisely the clothes I had been wearing when I left the Earth. It was odd seeing them again, but nice to be reacquainted with some of my Earthly possessions. In other draws were my watch, a climber’s model with altimeter and barometer. My belt was separate, so I slid it
through the loops of my trousers. There was my wallet and car keys, and my backpack which contained only a litre of water, some energy bars, a map and compass, and my cellphone.
I ordered a few things from the replicator and stowed them in my bag – more water, juice and some snacks for the cold wait on the beach. Another storage rack contained a telescopic fishing pole and a bag of fishing gear. I added these to the backpack and closed it up tightly. Finally, I donned all of my Earth clothes, down to my wallet and watch, and pulled on the exposure suit. This was like a spacesuit, but much simpler, and could be pulled on straight over my head. Double-layer zips extended down the legs, and I made sure these were secure. Finally, I checked the air source, which fed into a scuba-style regulator, and returned to the pilot’s seat. Phoenix had turned and the Earth now filled the window the first time.
My heart leapt in my chest. The sight was so familiar, from a thousand documentaries and some gorgeous prints on the wall of my study at home. The continents were laid out, like a map. We were passing over California at an altitude of perhaps 3000 miles, descending steeply alongside the chunks of rock which would hide our entrance. As we passed over Colorado, and then the Eastern seaboard, the computer made its final checks.
“Prepare for atmospheric entry.” I checked my seat straps, glanced back into the cabin to make sure everything was where it should be, and stared straight ahead at the Atlantic. We seemed destined to plunge straight into it. Our altitude had fallen to only 200 miles and was diminishing rapidly. In front of me, I could see the first flashes as our companion rocks began to enter the thicker part of the atmosphere and glow red-hot, shedding fragments of rock and a trail of smoke as they went. At 80 miles altitude, our nose was pointed directly at the most southerly tip of Ireland. Phoenix was heating up like a steak on a barbecue, her leading edges glowing red, with a storm of super-heated plasma breaking on the canopy, washing over me. But the ship held firm.
At 30 miles altitude, most of the rocks were blasted to fragments by the intense heat, and their glowing largely ceased. Some small, yellow streaks ahead of us indicated where the most stubborn rocks were making a last stand against the friction of re-entry, surrendering their last material only a few miles above the surface. But there was one member of the meteor shower which refused to die. Streaking across the night sky, Phoenix was precisely on course as her nose tipped up and we angled south, wing surfaces biting into the thickening air.
“Twenty seconds”, the computer informed me. We could see lights beneath us, ships in the Irish sea and then the first villages on the Welsh coast. There was a light house, clear as crystal, its beam circling itself. Black shapes loomed in the middle distance – the hills of Snowdonia, I knew – and our target lay in a deep valley between them.
“Ten seconds”. Most of the noise of re-entry had ceased, and we were now a silent, gliding shape, heading down a valley, tilting slightly to the north and then pressing down towards the countryside. There it was. Starlight illuminated the lake, glistening off its surface, which was glassy smooth and black as jet. We crossed the shore at only 40 feet and then executed our final dive. At 3.30 in the morning, after a journey of seven hundred and twenty trillion miles, the Phoenix slid almost silently into the lake.
Blackness covered everything. I knew that the lake was deep enough that the decelerating Cruiser would come to a floating stop before hitting the bottom. There was quite a lot of noise, water moving over the control surfaces and probably a lot of steam generated by the super-hot engines and leading edges, but this all happened under water. As far as an observer was concerned, depending on how quickly their eyes had caught the shape of the Cruiser, an object of indeterminate size had fallen out of the sky and plunged, without fanfare, into the lake. We settled out, became buoyant at a depth of around 100m, and floated placidly in the dark waters.
I put my head in my hands for a long moment and just breathed. I was home. Alright, I was floating around deep in a Welsh lake, but it was an Earth lake. That had been Earth’s atmosphere, and her continents. The villages we had flew over, silent as a bird, had been filled with sleeping people from my own planet. I felt the most enormous surge of gratitude, to what I couldn’t say, but I directed it towards the Holdrian scientists, my friends on Takanli and on the Daedalus, everyone I had met on my journey. But now I had a new journey to begin.
Chapter XXXII: Home
I sat in the pilot’s seat for as long as I dared. There was much to do, I knew, but I needed this moment to accept where I was, to dwell briefly upon the journey I had taken. There would be more time for this, but this initial conversation with myself, and comprehension of my surroundings, was critical. I wondered how it was going to feel, emerging from the lake and seeing the green grass, forbidding crags and familiar roads and paths of the National Park. Only one way to find out, I reasoned, and time was pressing on.
“Preparations for EVA are complete.” The Computer was all business when it mattered. I brought out my lectern and ran down my personal checklist. Everything was in order – clothes, exposure suit, gear. The suitcases were roped together and attached to a clip on the belt of my exposure suit. My rucksack fitted into a sealed, plastic bag which would keep it dry. Everything seemed ready.
“Thanks”, I offered to the Computer. In response, it simply began Handel’s ‘Hallelujah Chorus’. Chuckling, I hauled all the gear behind me and manoeuvred myself into the ship’s airlock. Closing the door and checking the seal, I glanced around at my gear, then pushed the button which would equalize with the outside conditions. In space, this would have been a cold vacuum. Here, they were a dark and watery. As the water began to fill the airlock I felt the familiar, automatic concern one always feels when faced with rising water. I’m going to drown. But I had faith in my equipment, I thought to myself, putting the regulator in my mouth and breathing deeply. Its only for a few seconds. We’ll be fine.
The water reached my chest. I couldn’t feel the cold through the amazing material from which my suit was made. My suitcases and the plastic bag containing my rucksack began to float up around my knees, and then around my shoulders as the airlock filled completely. The only moment of nervousness was when the water rose up to the level of my mouth, describing a line on the visor of the exposure suit. I just closed my eyes for that part, concentrated on breathing normally, and then opened them again to release the outer hatch.
There was little current, I was pleased to note. I pushed a button on my suit to inflate it slightly, making me positively buoyant. I was breathing an oxygen-helium mixture which would reduce the chances of developing the ‘bends’, but only if I was quick to ascend and didn’t remain at this depth for long. Inflating steadily, I pushed off the side of the airlock and emerged out into open water. A small panel on my wrist told me the right attitude to take when ascending, so that I would break the surface just by the shore.
I floated steadily upwards, letting air bleed out of my suit as we did so, to prevent it expanding dangerously. If it were full of air, that would hamper my movements, and I wanted to keep my hands flexible for any eventualities. We passed fifty meters in depth. There was little feeling of pressure, although the panel told me that the suit was experiencing far less pressure than just a few seconds ago. This continued as we ascended. I breathed normally, careful not to hold my breath. Through the suit’s visor I could see dark, murky waters, which became slightly lighter and less forbidding as I floated upwards.
Right where I was supposed to, the helmet of my suit broke the surface and my suitcases bobbed up around me. I was only fifty meters from the shore and began a steady swim on my back, hauling the bags behind me, until my back rested on the shale beach. Turning around onto my knees, I bled the last of the air out of the suit, stood up straight and dragged the cases along the beach to the rocky cliff. It was important to get out of sight as quickly as possible. I pulled off the helmet and found a good rock to slide the cases behind. I then pulled off the rest of the suit, hid it with the cases, unz
ipped my rucksack from its plastic home, and proceeded with it back to the shore.
I found myself sitting peaceably under a rising sun, letting my breathing return to normal, on a Welsh lakeside, holding a fishing rod and watching the waves caress the shale beach. I was back. In only a few hours I would watch myself being taken up into the Takanli ship. For now, I would sit and consider my surroundings. Now, there was time to think about being home, become re-accustomed to the sensations of 1-G. And give thanks.
Chapter XXXIII: Déjà Vu
My watch said 7.45am although it felt like only half an hour had gone past. My mind was a whirr with the strange yet familiar sensations of being here. Of gravity rooting me to the spot. Of the breeze on my face, coming onshore from the lake. I had sat comfortably on the shale beach with my fishing pole, intending to catch nothing but giving the impression, to anyone who saw me there, that I was enjoying a quiet Sunday morning’s fishing and was no danger to anyone. In fact, given the early hour and the remoteness of our lake, I was most certainly alone. The nearest people, in fact, would be at the local pub which doubled as a guest house. It was about time I got over there.
I packed things up, checked the suitcases and took a walk around this part of the lakeside to make sure they weren’t visible from any angle. Certain of this, I headed around the lake and to the small road which led into the park. I had the option, of course, to just sit on my ass and pretend to fish. But that would do little, reasoned Garlidan back on the Daedalus, to help me readjust to contemporary British life. The village was only a mile and a half, and I decided to take the walk at a brisk but human pace. No heroics amidst the pressures of 1-G, enhanced physique or none. I was to play the part of a regular human, on his way to a pub breakfast after a spot of early morning fishing.
Voyage Page 30
