Year of the Child

by R L Dean

Alexandria took a deep breath, and gritting her teeth hooked her good wrist in the webbing of her rack and eased herself into a sitting position. The pilot of the courier she was aboard was taking his time on the final approach to Ganymede because he was forced to. No hard braking. Her body wouldn't take it. Four weeks ago the ulna of her left arm snapped and the radius cracked. That was followed by a crushed spleen and damaged vertebra in her neck. She would have died if not for Greg insisting that she take at least a partial staff with her, which included extra security, an aid, and a former UNSEC surgeon that spent most of her career aboard patrol cruisers. Between the surgeon and the state of the art medbed it had taken a week to repair the damage. A week at speeds that nullified the courier's initial thoroughbred pace from Earth to the Belt. She imagined that the pilot and his partner considered it coasting.

  Edgar was probably laughing his head off right now. Legalities required that she keep the Board informed of her health. The old man wanted her gone, he didn't care where— the issue at Ganymede was a fine excuse— and her suffering under heavy g was probably icing on his cake.

  Her handcomm was tangled in the webbing, periodically beeping with messages, and she slowly freed it with one hand. She felt heat rising in her face. Her patience had come to an end when two of Greg's burly Vanguard security officers carefully, but hurriedly took her to medical when her body was broken. She had screamed that day, loud enough to attract their attention through the bulkheads of her cabin. The courier had been in maneuvers and she had to endure until they leveled out and the two men could get to her without being flattened or tossed around like rag dolls themselves. Even now, behind the pain meds there was a throbbing at the base of her neck and something that felt like a muscle cramp in her stomach.

  Alexandria flipped through three business reports and a summary of recent news articles that Charles Rathbone had put together for her that were related to the plant and Harmony dome's destruction. And then there was a message from Adam. She smiled, despite how she was feeling, and tapped the screen. Her handsome husband's face appeared, smiling back at her. He was in the kitchen, Maria was in the background pulling things from the refrigerator.

  "Hi hon. Just wanted to say we miss you ..."

  Adam turned his head to look back and said, "Jason, come say hi to your mother." He turned back to the camera, and lowering his voice said to her, "He's got a surprise for you."

  There was movement behind him, then Jason sidled in beside his father.

  "Hi, mom. Hope you're okay. I wanted you to meet somebody ..."

  He disappeared from the view and she heard whispering, then a girl's face came to the camera.

  Oh my God, Alexandria thought. She was an angel.

  The girl looked at Alexandria sheepishly, her emerald eyes roamed a little. She smiled shyly, showing perfect white teeth. Jason pushed in next to her.

  "This is Zoe," he said. "I met her at school."

  Alexandria suddenly realized she was holding her breath. She had missed the first time her son brought home a girl. Their children would be beautiful. Then she gave a short laugh that pulled something in her chest. It's a bit early for that, don't you think?

  Jason nudged her, and the girl— Zoe— used one fair hand to push back strands of blond hair behind her ear and said, "Hi Misses Reinhardt."

  "Okay," Jason said. "Bye mom, love you." He pulled Zoe away. After a moment Adam came back into view.

  "Zoe Anderson," he emphasized her last name. "I don't have a lot of details yet, but she lives in Hamilton Square, and before you ask, Jason hasn't taken the tram to her place." Then he added, "She's nice, can't wait for you to get back and meet her."

  I missed this. She let out a sigh. The first girl her son brought home ... were they just friends ... or was she his girlfriend, that's what it seemed like.

  Sometimes the cost of what she was doing seemed too much.

  "She went to church with us last Sunday. Yes, we're going every Sunday. Anyway, we're holding the fort. Maria won't let us starve. Oh, hon, you really don't have to have Greg drive by everyday. Everything's okay. I love you. I have a surprise for you when you get back."

  Adam's face froze in a wan smile on the screen, his eyes looking directly at her.

  The last part drew a blank. A surprise for her ... maybe he did something with the garden in the backyard, or ... she had been wanting a Louis XV armoire. Maybe he found one. Adam wasn't the impulsive type, so whatever it was he had put thought into it.

  There was a little gray in his hair, at one temple, she noticed, still staring at the screen. She didn't remember seeing it when she left.

  I miss my family, she realized, tracing Adam's temple with one finger. It was almost like they were in the past, Adam and Jason were memories. Like Rachael. Edgar should pay for this.

  She sat in her rack, snug in a blanket and webbing, staring at Adam and thinking of home, for almost fifteen minutes. She wrestled with telling Adam about her injuries. She hadn't so far, not wanting to upset him. And that reasoning won out, again. The pilot's voice, coming from the overhead, pulled her from a growing fugue, back to the purpose driven present.

  "All passengers secure for landing. Control has us in a security checkpoint lane, we expect a few minutes delay. All passengers please secure for landing."

  * * *

  This was the part that Alexandria hated. The meet-and-greet. It was an inevitable task of leadership. Shake hands, smile, come up with something friendly to say on the spot. Except, Alexandria thought as the faceless aid fussed with her jacket, there would be none of that. Hurst and Strindberg would be waiting for her on the other side of the access tube. Hurst would be fired on the spot, and Strindberg, while competent at her job, wasn't luminary.

  At last, dressed and standing upright, a position that she had seldom been in for weeks, the aid adjusted her collar and gave her a quick smile, standing aside.

  In the corridor beyond her cabin Greg's two chosen men were waiting, their Vanguard vests on over their white long sleeve shirts. One of them started to extend a hand as she haltingly stepped through the hatch, but thought better of it and went still.

  It was probably the look on her face that warned him.

  The aid stayed behind to repack her luggage, and Alexandria moved out into the corridor, keeping one hand on the bulkhead to steady herself. Taking a deep breath, and letting it out quickly, she headed toward the courier's airlock. The two Vanguard officers following close behind her.

  Morton Hurst was a tall man, like Edgar. Lanky. He was a couple decades Edgar's junior, but carried that older, wiser, aura like he was born with it. That aura was a lie. The pale Norwegian woman standing beside him was Helena Strindberg, the Operations Coordinator— a glorified air traffic controller. Strindberg's job was about to get harder. Regardless of Alexandria's doubts about her capabilities she was the only one with enough experience to hold the base together until she could get Hurst's replacement to Ganymede.

  The lineup against the access tube's bulkhead ended with two men. The one wearing a black suit and tie was Wilhelm Kirkendorf, Greg's man, his Chief of Security here at the base. Beside him was Tōmas Efron, a slender Arab man in a green uniform— Orion Security’s chief and liaison to Vanguard. He seemed young, to Alexandria.

  Gritting her teeth— not necessarily in anger, but effort— she crossed the tube. As she approached Hurst gave her a tentative smile.

  "You're fired, Hurst," she snapped, still coming toward him. He frowned, glancing at the deck. "Go pack your things, the courier will take you back to Earth."

  He let out a heavy sigh. Of course, he had known this was coming. Edgar, knowing her, would have told him to expect it. As he turned and walked away she yelled, "Remember your NDA includes jail time!"

  She watched him for a few moments, as he made his way to the terminal hatch. Then, turning to Strindberg she said, "Helena you're going to have to step up. If that's a problem you can go back to Earth on the same courier and sulk together."

/>   Strindberg licked her lips then shook her head, "That won't be necessary, Misses Reinhardt."

  "Fine," she said, then moved to Kirkendorf, shaking his hand as firm as you could muster. "Mister Kirkendorf, Greg speaks very highly of you. I'm glad someone here has a brain."

  "Thank you, Misses Reinhardt."

  She shook Efron's dark skinned hand in turn. Orion had done a good job at the base, and she told him that.

  "Gentlemen, I want to go to the crater. Now."

  * * *

  The decision to use a dome, rather than dig a burrow, had been one of time, not money. A burrow was safer, but it was a lengthy exercise in engineering, and Alexandria needed mining operations at Ganymede to produce quick returns. The dome, an old standard by far, had gone up in a matter of weeks.

  From the Orion shuttle's window she looked at the sprawling base below. The dome was surrounded by the Landing Zone, a small refinery, and tank farms. Empty ore containers were haphazardly lying around the periphery. It was a mere spot of civilization outlined in lights, dirty with dust and frost. She glanced up and saw Jupiter hanging in the black, far bigger than a full moon. The planet's eye was visible, and for a moment her mind anthropomorphized the great ball of gas and she imagined that it was watching her. She smirked back.

  Khensu crater was about three-hundred kilometers south of the dome. During the planning stages she had final say in where the base was to be constructed but had been limited by geological concerns. She hadn't wanted it so close to the crater that miners might be tempted to investigate, yet the base needed to be close enough for support and security. She thought she had made a good choice of locations but here she was. A miner had discovered it. Ideally it would have been several more years before she sent an excavation team to investigate the wreck. The plant on Deimos would have been up and running and producing refined ore, because when the UN found out about the discovery— and they would— Ganymede Base would be closed and Modi would move in and take everything.

  It's too soon, she thought, her gaze now fixed on the flashing lights of another ship off in the distance. A hauler or miner, its canisters shadowy and big. She wasn't ready and had no idea what the repercussions were going to be, or in fact what they would find on the ancient, alien wreck. Maybe it was a gambling ship, a sort of interstellar vacationing cruise liner. Like the water version that Adam had taken her on a couple of years ago. There would be tables, and dice, and roulette wheels ... slot machines lining titanium bulkheads covered in glittering tapestries ... Alexandria snorted at herself. She wasn't usually given to silly thoughts and supposed it was the pain meds and stims.

  The landscape below began to turn from light gray to tan— like beach sand— and finally from streaks of white to plains of white. When the alien ship hit the surface of Ganymede it created Khensu crater, the force of the impact exposing the lighter material beneath the surface dust and permafrost. The ice reforming over the new crater's floor, darkened, mixed with debris and material from the wreck. That was the theory, at least, and not at all of interest to Alexandria. Her father had lavished on geological details in his survey, yet he had recorded little more than a scan and spectrographic data of the wreck itself. Who could say what the old man had been thinking, but for her the treasure was not the hows and whys, and the fact that the Iron Age had just started at the time the wreck occurred. No. It was what was to be discovered within the wreck.

  She needed something to change the world.

  It had been impossible to assemble an excavation team before she left Earth. Edgar was working on it and sent progress reports every couple of weeks. It was going to take time and delicacy. After all, how do you explain to world class professionals that you need them to go to Ganymede to ... do what exactly? Investigate an alien wreck? It would be on the newsfeeds ten minutes later. Alexandria was there now to take control, and prepare for their arrival.

  The shuttle banked and the top of the crater wall flashed past the window and the interior wall begin to rise up. Captain Efron was piloting. Chief Kirkendorf and the two Vanguard security officers that Greg sent with her were seated in the passenger module with her. Everyone was in heavy vac-suits.

  "We are landing," Efron said through the overhead.

  The shuttle came down in what looked like a construction yard. There were earth movers, cranes, and stacks of metal sheeting.

  "Mister Hurst had the construction vehicles and materials flown in," Kirkendorf said, when he saw her gaze and the set of her jaw.

  "I see," she said, and turned to face him. "Contact Strindberg and have it returned to the base. I want a minimum presence here. No techs, no construction workers, just security personnel."

  He nodded and pulled his handcomm from its clip on his vac-suit.

  There was a slight bump and thud as the shuttled settled, then Efron announced they were down. Kirkendorf helped her with her suit helmet and ten minutes later, after everyone was checked and rechecked, they cycled through the shuttle's airlock and walked through a short vestibule to the hatch of an emergency SAR dome.

  Inside, the dome was crammed with banks of terminals, a bulky air recycler, and a crate of MREs and bottles of water. The helmet HUD said the temperature was 50°.

  Efron sat down at one of the terminals and activated it.

  "Are you wanting to enter the wreck, or watch through a probe feed?" Kirkendorf asked, his voice sounding hollow through the speakers of Alexandria's helmet.

  Her head jerked toward him in surprise, barely moving the helmet. She turned to face him, and asked, "You've found a way in?"

  "Yes, ma'am," he told her. "Mister Hurst ran intensive scans of the whole crater floor, there's a crevice that leads to a hatch. But it's almost a kilometer down ..."

  He was politely pointing out her injuries. She ignored it and asked, "Who else knows about this hatch?"

  "The three of us ..." He was including Efron. "... Miss Strindberg, and we think the miners that made the discovery. The hatch was used before we found it, and it looks like someone has gone through a couple of the rooms."

  Alexandria ground her teeth. Miners. There was nothing she could do about it. At least they had reported it, otherwise the greatest discovery in history might have become a shopping mall for every ship and crew in Ganymede's orbit.

  "I want to go inside it," she said.

  * * *

  Alexandria took careful steps across the crater floor. The surface was grooved in places, forming long ditches covered in ice mixed with something that looked like black ash or soot. Patches of it were smooth as glass, while in other places there were rocks and odd round shaped gravel smaller than marbles. She was sweating inside her vac-suit and her breath was heavy. They hadn't even reached the crevice yet.

  Stopping for a moment to catch her breath she glanced up at the black sky. The crater's western wall blocked the bulk of Jupiter, but a hazy, crescent edge reminded her that it was there. It wasn't like looking out a shuttle window ... there was so much open space ...

  "Misses Reinhardt, ma'am?"

  Greg's men had been following close behind, now they were standing beside her.

  "Look straight ahead, or at the ground." That was Kirkendorf. He was a few meters ahead, leading the way. Efron was watching through a construction probe that hovered over their heads.

  That feeling down in the pit of her stomach was not just pain, she realized. It was fear, and like a knot of cancer it would sap her strength. But never my determination. She licked her lips, swallowed, and straightened to look directly at Kirkendorf. He was staring back at her, his mouth a flat line behind his helmet faceplate.

  Her own breath echoed in her ears for a moment. "I'm good, let's go."

  They continued for another hundred meters to a light-plant standing next to a smooth bulge rising from the crater floor. A gash was in the bulge. It reminded her of a blister that had popped, and Kirkendorf confirmed it.

  "We think the crevice was created by steam. It follows right against the s
ide of ... whatever this is."

  A post was driven into the surface beside the crevice opening, a cable extended from it down into the darkness.

  "Alright," Kirkendorf said. "We go single file, with Misses Reinhardt in the center. Turn your suit lights on. Efron, take the probe on ahead, full lighting."

  As one of the security officers helped her find the correct button on her suit for the lighting, the probe descended into the crevice slowly, its own lights gleaming off the icy walls. Kirkendorf looked at her for a moment, then took hold of the cable and slowly walked after the probe. Stepping to the post, Alexandria was forced to use her left hand to take the cable, the suit wouldn't twist enough to allow her to use her right hand. She winched, trying to adjust her angle, then testing her footing she went down into the crevice, her heart beating fast.

  The crevice was a uniformed two meters in diameter most of the way down, its walls were the same as the ones in the video that Edgar showed her, smooth ice streaked with dust. At twenty meters they passed a stretch of silver on the left. When she stopped and put her hand on it Kirkendorf told her it was a section of bulkhead or wall. Just on the other side CT scans had revealed a network of what looked like pipes and circuitry.

  It was that way for the whole trip down. Dirty ice, then patches of the bulkhead. They had to stop and rest several times, for her sake. Alexandria was not unfit, but the injuries she sustained while in heavy g, and the resulting surgeries had taken their toll from her body. If it wasn't for the low g and cable she would never had made the trip down.

  The hatch was a think, heavy design, inset down into the bulkhead, or as Alexandria had come to think of it, the hull. It had been damaged, frozen half open, like a guillotine. A sheet of ice flowed from the crevice into the room beyond.

  Kirkendorf straddled the opening, one foot in the crevice and one foot in the room. "Careful, the room tilts," he said, and held out his gloved hand. She took it, and the security officers helped her inside.

  Once both her feet were on the deck she stood still. She ... didn't know what to think. Had she expected to be standing inside the wreck? Or had she been expecting to armchair the whole discovery from her office? She played her light across the room. Against the far bulkhead was a shattered, clear tube. It lay on its side, frost covered. Is that an airlock?