Escape Velocity: The Anthology

by Unknown

  Matthews drove in silence.

  Davis sat in the passenger seat with the Russians behind him in the rear section. He turned and faced the cosmonauts. “So are we allowed to ask why we're going out so far from the station?”

  “It is allowed,” Gordonov said. “I am surprised you did not ask sooner. We are headed for the site where a Russian spacecraft crashed many years ago. We are to take pictures and cut off samples of the spacecraft.”

  “What kind of spacecraft?” said Matthews.

  “A sample-collection lander. It failed to return to Earth.”

  “I remember that,” said Davis. “The Luna missions, right?”

  “Yes, it was called Luna, I believe.”

  “I thought none of them made it to the moon.”

  “This one did. The engine failed to re-ignite and it remained on the surface.”

  The two Americans glanced at each other for a moment. An unspoken thought passed between them. Bullshit.

  It was several hours later when Matthews stopped the rover at the edge of a steep hill. “Well, this is as close as we can get,” he announced. “According to your coordinates, that lander is down in a canyon on the other side of this hill. Looks pretty steep to me.”

  “Yes.” Gordonov said something in Russian to his partner and they began gathering up equipment and putting on their helmets. “We must try anyway.”

  The two Americans followed suit, sealing their helmets so the Russians could exit. After everyone was secure, Matthews shut down the oxygen pumps and vented the atmosphere from the rover. White crystals of suddenly frozen air poured from the vehicle and trickled slowly to the ground like snow.

  The Russians opened a rear door and climbed out, shutting it behind them firmly. They walked to the base of the hill and began to climb hard for the summit.

  They made good progress.

  “Look at that,” said Davis. “Those two are in good shape.”

  As they watched in fascination, the cosmonauts used short hiking poles to work their way up the hill. Occasionally, a rock would dislodge from under their feet and roll down, but they continued steadily upward. It was obvious they had been in training for the mission a long time.

  Within a couple of minutes, the Russians had reached the top and disappeared over the other side.

  “Gordonov,” Matthews called out over his suit radio. “Do you read me?”

  “Affirmative. Everything is good.”

  “Do you need any help over there?”

  “No. We can see the spacecraft now. We are going down to it. The terrain is suitable. We do not require assistance.”

  “Roger that.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Matthews looked at his partner. “What do you think?”

  “I think we should go up there, buddy.”

  “So do I. Get your helmet on.”

  The two Americans struggled up the rocky hill. When they reached the summit, they found themselves above a steep and narrow canyon.

  They had turned off their helmet radios to avoid alerting the Russian cosmonauts to their presence. Davis pointed into the darkness below and gave a thumbs-up. They started their descent cautiously. Boulders the size of cars were scattered at the bottom of the canyon. At first, they could see nothing, and then a silvery glint from one of the cosmonauts' suits flashed near some of the boulders.

  Matthews switched on his suit radio. “Gordonov?”

  “I read you. We are fine. We do not require assistance.”

  “Too bad. Look up. We're already on our way into the canyon.”

  A soft sigh came over the radio. “So be it. Do you see me? I am waving at you.”

  “I see you.”

  “The largest boulders. We are working behind them.”

  As Matthews and Davis made their way into the canyon, they spotted the very top of a large spacecraft that had landed among the gigantic stones. Rounding the last of the massive obstacles, both men stopped and stared in shock at what they saw.

  It was not an unmanned lander, or a sample-return craft. It was a spacecraft sitting on four legs, similar to an old Apollo Lunar Module.

  Alexei Gordonov snapped a picture and moved to his right for another shot from a different angle.

  Greshchenko was standing at the top of the access ladder on the lander and peering into a circular window built into the hatch door. He said something in Russian and Gordonov replied with a grunt.

  “What the hell is this thing?” Matthews gasped.

  Gordonov snapped another photograph. “It is an LK, the lunar lander section of a LOK system. It was launched from Earth by an N-1 rocket.”

  “This isn't for sample returns,” said Davis. “It's almost as large as an Apollo LEM!”

  “Yes. The LK was designed to carry one person to the lunar surface.”

  “Is there someone inside?”

  “Yes. He is dead, of course.”

  Matthews was suddenly angry. “I don't understand!” He approached Gordonov as quickly as his bulky moon suit would allow and grabbed him by the arm. “What the hell is this all about? I've studied your lunar program. All the N-1 heavy-lift rockets exploded on the pad. The LOK system never made it to the moon.”

  Alexei Gordonov answered the agitated Matthews calmly. “Try to understand. This is a historical site. Please stand aside and let us finish our work. I will explain everything afterward.” The cosmonaut pulled himself free of Matthews' grip and continued snapping pictures from different angles.

  Greshchenko, standing at the top of the access ladder, spoke in Russian and pointed at the porthole.

  Gordonov waved in response.

  “What did he say?” Matthews demanded.

  “The cosmonaut inside the craft is holding a notebook. He wants to retrieve it.”

  “Baloney.” Matthews walked toward the spacecraft and stopped at the bottom of the ladder. “Greshchenko! Come on down from there!”

  The cosmonaut looked to his partner for advice.

  Gordonov waved for him to come down and motioned to let Matthews take his place.

  The cosmonaut shrugged and started down. As soon as he reached the ground, Matthews took the rungs in his hands.

  Greshchenko grabbed Matthews by the arm and spoke angrily in Russian. Matthews shook him off brusquely and started up the ladder. “What did he say now, Gordonov?”

  “He says you should be more respectful of the dead. I agree with him. The man inside that spacecraft was a person of great courage.”

  Matthews continued climbing.

  Walt Davis pointed to the ground. “Look at that. You can still see the ejector blanket from the descent engine throwing dust.”

  “Yes,” said Gordonov. “The pilot was extremely lucky during the landing. You can see he had to put down between these boulders. He was our best pilot at the time.”

  “Why didn't he just fire his ascent engine and go home? Did something go wrong?”

  “Not exactly. The engine was operational. He chose to stay.”

  “Why?”

  “He knew we would come for him someday.”

  “That doesn't make any sense,” said Davis.

  “Of course it does,” said Gordonov.

  Rick Matthews peered through the thick round glass. He adjusted his helmet light to maximum and shined it into the spacecraft.

  He saw a figure lying on its side dressed in a pressure suit with the head down. Matthews could not see a face. “There's something in there. It could be a dummy in a suit. I can't tell.”

  “It is a man,” said Gordonov.

  “How do you open the hatch? I'd like to see for myself.”

  “As you wish. Do you see the four small handles at the corners?”

  “Yes.”

  “Turn each one to the left until you feel a solid click. Grasp the larger handle and pull it toward you.”

  Matthews did as he was told and opened the hatch. He reached inside and grasped the arm of the suited figure, rolling it over on its back. It was like m
oving a stone statue. As the front of the helmet became visible, he saw the face of a man with his eyes closed as if he were asleep.

  The man's features were still recognizable, although the skin on the skull had dried and given him a mummified appearance.

  “Oh, my God...” Matthews let the body roll back onto its face and backed out of the hatch. This isn't possible, he thought. That man was killed in a jet crash. He started down the ladder, nearly losing his grip.

  “Carefully now,” said Gordonov.

  Matthews joined the other astronauts and stood side-by-side with them. All four stared at the spider-legged craft in awe.

  “It's Yuri Gagarin, isn't it?” Matthews finally asked.

  “Yes. He was supposed to test the LOK system in Earth orbit,” said Gordonov. “Everything was going flawlessly until Ground Control discovered the heat shield for the reentry capsule had been seriously damaged during liftoff. He could not return to Earth.”

  “And he asked if he could try for the moon...” Davis whispered.

  “That is correct. The LK does not need a heat shield to land on the moon. Ground Control said yes, so he fired the rockets on the LOK and reached lunar orbit four days later. He disengaged the LK from the LOK and made his descent. He could have fired the ascent engine, but it would have served no purpose. He kept up a running commentary for another eighteen hours until his oxygen was exhausted.”

  “How long has he been here?” said Matthews.

  “Since June twenty-ninth, nineteen sixty-eight.”

  “No...”

  “Yes,” said Gordonov. “More than a year before Neil Armstrong.”

  The Zozoian

  Duane Byers

  The Zozoian waited with impatience for the next bus to heave over to the assigned stop at the curb.

  The monstrous bulk of the bus had extricated itself from the log jammed intersection at the far end of the block. While the Zozoian grew more anxious by the minute, the bus finally rounded the corner. Its snub nose parted the veil of rain; its fat wheels plowed the deep water inundating the rain slicked street. The bug eyed front windows loomed larger in the steady silver gray downpour, its engine thrumming like a motorboat on a choppy lake.

  The Zozoian had overheard the radio weatherman’s description of the torrential rain as ‘the worst storm in a decade.’ Feverish to seek dry cover as soon as possible, he elbowed his way impatiently through the press of the others waiting in line. He squeezed forward, only to run straight into a portable radio snuggled protectively under a teenager’s muscled arm. The volume-control button received the brunt of the collision, and suddenly the radio weatherman could be heard more loudly than before over the speakers of the boom box.

  The rough physical contact had aggravated the teen, and he immediately turned down the volume to where it suited him. As soon as he was satisfied, he shoved back viciously at the Zozoian. Having finished the business at hand, the teen turned his back as if the small man did not exist.

  The Zozoian was ruffled and humiliated. He glared at the back of the impetuous Earthling, but he said nothing.

  The freak storm perturbed him a great deal more than the hotheaded teen. Rivulets of the poisonous water crawled in serpentine tendrils down his clothes. His wet skin prickled and itched, a danger sign that the water had taxed his immune system to the limit. With increasing dread, he knew there was little time to spare. The bus splashed through the water at a snail’s pace, and then braked with a release of compressed air, blasting it into the Zozoian’s wet face.

  The accordion door swung open.

  Assertive passengers started butting into a better place in line in the column. He was jostled to the tail end of the queue. At last, he reached the door and put a leg into the first step.

  He shivered with his body halfway inside the door, and halfway out. The killing downpour soaked him to the skin, a chill as cold as death.

  He climbed into the bus and dropped the required coins into the slot. The warmth and dryness made the interior a comparative paradise. He brooded on the odds of his dying in the next few minutes. The seats in back held only a few scant passengers. If he were to die now, he decided that the rear of the bus would be a dignified place where he could die simply.

  On one side of the aisle near the back, a fat woman twitched and scratched her nose. On the other side, two pretty teenage girls were giggling at some private joke. At the very rear, the Zozoian saw a geezer who was talking loudly to nobody. He chose a seat directly across from the geezer and sat down. He was dying from his exposure to the rain; he no longer doubted it. His hands were as putty and he could barely move them. As his brain turned to mush, his eyes seemed to be as windows against which floodwaters rose.

  “Buddy,” the geezer spoke in undertone.

  The Zozoian’s dying thought was the realization that he had another piece of bad luck by drawing the fellow’s attention. Now he probably would not even be able to die in a dignified fashion.

  The old man continued talking to him. “Buddy, I got news for you.” The geezer pointed toward the front of the bus. “See them two girls?”

  The Zozoian melted away like butter; the face sunk in like a plastic doll’s in the heart of an incinerator; the shoulders might now belong to an infirm old lady. Then the coat collapsed like an illusionist’s disappearing act.

  “Those girls are whores,” the old man explained as he reached up and pulled on the stop cord for the bus.

  The bus pulled over to the curb. The driver braked, and water flowed down the aisle from out of the Zozoian’s lump of clothes and leather shoes.

  The old man spit words out to no one in particular. “This bus. They let whores on.” He got up from his seat, stepped to the middle door, and had a last wistful look at the girls.

  “Ninth and Main,” announced the bus driver.

  “Driver,” the old man said. “Why don’t you do something about the water in the aisle, and be quick about it. It ain’t safe.”

  “I’ve got a mop on board. I’ll take care of it at the next stop. Have to wait ten minutes there.”

  “Amen.”

  The Zozoian’s life force crept through the water toward the geezer. It soaked the battered shoes; wet the bony feet; penetrated the painful knee throbbing with a fresh livid bruise; the hollow belly with the pitiful heartburn, courtesy of an early morning alcoholic beverage; the tender palms and arms considerably thinned with age; the mouth, tasting of stale cigarette tobacco; and the dry parchment cheeks – the body was so infirm.

  The middle door fell back. The smell of rain met the old man’s nostrils. He looked wide-awake at the downpour.

  “So?” the bus driver called. “You gettin’ off here, or what?”

  “Not my stop! Not my stop!”

  They lurched ahead. The old man reached for the metal safety pole. He was suddenly beside himself with unreasoning dread. The knuckles with graying hair grasped the stainless steel pole even tighter. An unconscious fear of something he could not identify made him look around for a moment. However, there was only the rain and the damp and the growling of the bus.

  The Zozoian extinguished the geezer’s soul. Now he could begin to give the body the care it was due. If only the dice had rolled up something younger this time, he thought.

  He decided to go back to the seat and sit down, where he began a habit of talking too much, to nobody at all. Rotund drops pounded the roof harder than ever.

  The Zozoian brooded aloud. “Damn it to hell. Damn it to hell.”

  The babbling geezer mumbled away, his voice much wearier and heavier than before. He had only one thing on his mind: the girls were whores.

  Sixes, Sevens

  Simon Petrie

  The visitor this time is a Gamma, slightly shorter in stature than a standard human; with a hide of felted grey fur, trending to light blue at the extremities and across the rump. Face shaped somewhat like a parrot’s, but lacking a beak: the eyes placed on the sides of the head in the defensive cast of the p
lains herbivore rather than our own more predatory, binocular, configuration. He – it is a he, though I don’t stare – enters the room, bearing a sealed tray of food samples and a whiff of fish oil and burnt metal. I meet his gaze, waiting for him to convey any messages he might have – are they ready to transport me to the Library? But he remains silent – tomorrow, then – and I thank him for the meal, which I have placed on the room’s sole piece of furniture, a plain chaise.

  He lingers, examining me by first one eye, and then the other. They are eyes of dark solitude and mystery. I begin to wonder at the continuation of his stay in this room, whose synthesized atmosphere is toxic, even corrosive to him as it is to all Cygnid lifeforms. Does he possess subcutaneous breathing apparatus or an unexpectedly large lung capacity? I do not know, but he is holding mouth and nostrils closed. He stands, lingering, one eye on me and the other on the room’s one, prominent, window: a rectangle of synthetic diamond. Then, in some fashion, he speaks, though the mouth stays sealed: “I share your pain.”

  The speech, in a gentle bass register, is measured, and probably as artificial as the atmosphere and the food on my tray. Human speech does not fit easily within the Cygnids’ various vocalization techniques. I am at a loss for response to this cryptic utterance.

  Even though we have been in contact with Cygnid society for the past fifty years, they retain a reputation as creatures who are aloof, subtle, and frustratingly patient. I meet his monocular stare for perhaps ten seconds, not finding any words with which to reply. The Gamma’s remark is at odds with my long experience of Cygnid communication and behavior. They are a species that shies away from emotive or personal observation. Then the connection is severed, and we both turn our heads. I look towards the window, he the door. Before he leaves, from some dermal pouch on his belly or thigh he produces a sachet containing a dark streamlined object, and this he places on the chaise, nodding towards it. Then he turns towards the window and bows with a quick, knifelike motion before leaving, the door scything shut behind him.