“I’ll wear a tightsuit without the helmet,” Chee said. “I may as well test the atmosphere and bacteria while I’m at it.”
“Without a helmet, the rest of the suit is useless,” I snapped. “We might as well send you down naked.”
“You wish,” Chee smirked. “But I’m going to wear a suit anyway, because I deserve it. I’m an Explorer now, aren’t I?”
“I suppose so….”
“Right,” he said, raising his mug. “Here’s to being an ECM.” He waited for us to raise our mugs too, then drained off the dregs of his chocolate in one loud slurp. In almost the same motion, he hurled the mug sideways into the galley wall. The mug shattered, scattering ceramic shards in all directions.
Chee turned back to us with a satisfied smile. “Now that’s what ‘expendable’ means.”
Part IV
OBSERVATIONS
Alarm
I woke to the sound of applause and distant shouts of “Brava! Bravissima!” The less restrained members of the audience let loose a flurry of sharp whistles. The cheering went on and on, louder and louder, until I kicked away the sheets and stomped to my computer terminal to enter the de-ac code.
It has long been known that if your alarm clock makes the same buzz or ring every morning, you learn to sleep through it. For this reason, all wake-up systems in the Outward Fleet produced a different noise each day.
In the preceding week, I had wakened to the hum of a million bees, the drone of bagpipes, the love songs of whales, the demolition of an office tower, the screams of earthquake victims, and the national anthem of some obscure Fringe World nation as performed by a 200-voice chorus of five-year-olds. Even worse, they all started at low volume and gradually increased, so that you might sleep through as much as a minute before truly gaining consciousness.
It made for the damnedest dreams.
Dripping
I had just shoved myself into the shower when the message buzzer hummed. For a few moments, I pretended I couldn’t hear it, but the buzz increased in volume. One day in my second year on the Jacaranda, I had plugged my ears and hoped the buzzer would burn out its damned speaker; but before that happened, the strength of the sound vibrations broke one of my eggs, a fragile filigreed shell from Tahawni. I had to stop the buzzer back then, and I had to stop the buzzer now. Cursing, I dripped my way out of the shower, wrapped a towel around the parts most likely to get goose pimples, and stomped off to answer the call.
Harque’s smirking face appeared on the screen. “Good morning, Explorer. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
There was no way he could miss that my hair was streaming wet and I was only wearing a towel, but Harque was Harque. “What is it?” I asked.
“Five minutes to Melaquin orbit,” he announced. “Any special instructions as we go in?”
“I have a special instruction for you, Harque, but I don’t think it’s physically possible.”
“Goodness, Explorer! Need I remind you that deliberate rudeness is Conduct Unbecoming an Officer. Especially when I’m merely doing my duty. I don’t suppose this Landing has you frightened, has it?”
“One more word, Harque, and here’s what I’ll do. I’ll show the admiral one of my pretty little eggs, and I’ll tell him he can have that pretty little egg if he immediately transfers you to the Explorer Corps. I think he’ll do it, Harque, and then you’ll get to visit Melaquin with the rest of us.”
The screen went blank and I laughed aloud. Vacuum personnel were so susceptible to cheap theatrics.
Leave-Taking
I spent too long drying my hair and trying to get it to fluff properly. It should have been cut weeks ago, but I refused to have it done on ship—the Jacaranda barber felt she had the right to comment on my appearance and make suggestions to improve it. (“All it would take is the right kind of makeup, not really heavy, just some pancake, and we could soften that color a lot. What if you wore your hair over to the side like this? Well really, Festina, I’m just trying to help. If you’d just make an effort, you could hide it so scarcely anyone would notice.”)
Rushing, rushing, and I was nearly out the door when it occurred to me I might not see this room again. The thought chilled me. My collection. Two thousand, three hundred and sixty-four eggs, catalogued, mounted, polished.
And if I died? Perhaps the captain would let the crew traipse through my quarters and take whatever appealed to them, manhandling my treasures, breaking them, laughing at me for collecting useless dead things.
Or perhaps Harque would come with a garbage hopper and throw in all my eggs, smash, smash, smash, and they would be jettisoned into space, shot out through the Sperm tail like trash and Explorers.
No.
No.
Surprising what can give you the will to live.
My Will
But I was an Explorer, a good Explorer, and therefore a realist. I didn’t have much time, but I keyed the computer for audio input and dictated the following. “Instructions: lock the room and do not open until you register my voice print or Yairun’s. Confirm?”
It beeped once, then responded, “Confirmed.”
“If anyone overrides my instructions by asserting that I am dead or Lost on Landing, you will immediately inform Captain Prope and Fleet Central Records that I bequeath my egg collection and all personal effects to…”
To whom? My parents were dead. Yarrun would be my second choice, but he was about to go Oh Shit with me. Perhaps I could leave everything to my old crush Jelca…but no, a classmate told me he had gone Lost three years ago; she hadn’t known the details. No other friends came to mind. No one really….
“I bequeath my collection and personal effects to Admiral Seele. Confirm?”
“Confirmed.”
There. Everything to my first Admiral, the one who wept and tried to hold my hand. It was a bequest Prope and Harque wouldn’t dare ignore. And Seele cared for me in her way. As good a way as any.
I wondered if she belonged to the High Council now. I wondered if she had been the one who picked me to take Chee to Melaquin. If so, receiving my collection would unsettle her.
It would seem like some kind of gesture.
In the Halls (Part 2)
While I was asleep, the day shift had come on duty. The corridors were now filled with crew members striding along, wearing self-important airs that told the world they had Things to Do. Most pretended to be so absorbed by their obligations that they didn’t notice me; those who couldn’t pull off such obliviousness doffed self-conscious salutes to me without meeting my eyes.
As I passed open hatchways, I heard snippets of conversation. The crew seemed bursting to tell each other that Admiral Chee was on board. (“A real admiral, but he’s here incognito, so keep it secret.”) Each of them had a theory why Chee was here: Prope was going to be court-martialled; Prope was going to be promoted; the League of Peoples had decided humanity was mature enough to receive another technological “gift,” and the Jacaranda was taking the admiral to pick it up.
Once in a while, the gossipers noticed me and instantly went silent. Before I passed out of earshot, their babble began again with, “I’ll bet she knows.”
And yet no one spoke directly to me. No one asked if I had news. It was as if I were encased in glass walls that no one could break through—not them, and not me.
Even now, that’s how I remember the Jacaranda.
First Sighting
On the bridge, Harque sat at the pilot’s console and occasionally tapped a key to make course corrections. Chee frolicked behind him in the captain’s command chair, swivelling left and right as far as it would go. Thunk, an arm of the chair would hit the engineering monitor panel; thunk, the other arm would hit the communications board.
Prope clenched her fists tighter with every collision…which was no doubt why Chee did it.
Yarrun had already taken his place at the Explorer station, and was programming probe drones for preliminary surveys of the planet surface. This was ro
utine work; he nodded to me as I walked by, then went back to his gauges.
On the view screen, a purple speck had begun to differentiate itself from the background of bluish stars. We were not on a direct course at the moment, so the speck drifted slowly to the left. I grabbed one arm of the command chair and stopped Chee’s gyrations long enough to push a button on the chair’s control pad. The purple spot blossomed to the size of a baby prune.
“I thought Melaquin was supposed to be Earthlike,” Chee said. “Why is it purple?”
“Blueshift from our speed of approach,” Prope answered. “I can computer-correct the color if you let me work the controls….”
But Chee had already keyed in the correction, plus an extra level of magnification. He muttered, “She thinks I’ve never heard of blueshifting. I just forgot, is all. Too long since I’ve been on a real bridge….”
“Anything special for the probes?” Yarrun asked me for the sake of formality. The rules of rank said he should defer to me, but his programming skills were at least as good as mine, and his planetography intuition was superb. I waved for him to proceed and he turned a knob. “Probes away.”
Four projectiles appeared on the screen and sped toward the planet. They looked like ejaculated Sperm, wearing a milky film dragged off the Jacaranda’s own envelope. The wispy white coating hung loosely about the probes, held by the faint magnetic fields generated as a side effect of internal electronics; but within a few minutes, those Sperm coverings would lose their grip and fall away into hot little eddies of nonrelativistic spacetime that would take years to normalize. I watched as the Sperm cover slipped off one of the probes, curled, and rolled in on itself; but before the other covers did the same, the computer running the monitor lost its battle to keep the probes visible, and they vanished into darkness.
“Shot our wad, did we?” Chee asked.
Prope winced at the expression.
“Yes, sir,” I told Chee. “Now Melaquin knows we’re coming.”
Sitting on the Edge of Immortality
Time crawled by. The probes would take five or six minutes to reach the planet and assume their initial scan configuration, then there’d be another two minutes before we started receiving data.
One of our instructors at the Academy (Explorer Commander Dendron, afflicted with a progressive muscle disorder that pulled his face taut over his bones like a rubber mask stretched on a cannonball) encouraged us to smoke a pipe of tobacco during this waiting interval. “Nothing like a comfortable pipe,” he would say whenever he could manipulate a lecture in that direction. “Calms you, gives you something to do with your hands, and irritates hell out of the Regular Vacuum types. Imbues the upholstery with your presence too—you may go Oh Shit within the hour, but the smell of pipe smoke will stink up everything till the ship gets decommissioned. What other immortality do we have?”
In fact, ECMs were granted another form of immortality besides tobacco fumes: the Memory Wall at the Explorer Academy. The wall recorded the names of all Explorers who went Oh Shit in the course of duty. Perhaps it was significant that Commander Dendron didn’t consider our Memory Wall as a true memorial for the Lost. You had to be remembered by “real people”—other Explorers didn’t count.
Chee’s Pipe
Neither Yarrun nor I had been swayed by Dendron’s suggestion; we did not smoke as the probes sped toward Melaquin. Chee, however, chose that moment to pull a briar pipe and leather pouch from an inner pocket of his jacket. As he opened the pouch and pulled out a pinch of dark-brown shreds, the rich brandied aroma of tobacco took command of the bridge. I had smelled pipe tobacco before (Dendron’s brand if nothing else), and the odor usually had a metallic tang to it…like the taste of water that has been stored too long in a steel canteen. Chee’s tobacco, however, had a thicker, purer scent; somehow nostalgic, though I couldn’t imagine why.
Chee must have noticed me eyeing his tobacco, for he offered the pouch for me to inspect. “It’s the real thing, Ramos. Rank hath its privileges.”
I took the pouch and inhaled deeply in spite of myself. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“This tobacco was stolen under cover of darkness from Old Earth itself. I organized the raid personally. Five Explorers landed on the island that used to be known as Cuba, primed as much ripe leaf as they could get in fifteen minutes, then scampered back to the ship just before the Spark Lords arrived with weapons blazing.”
“You risked Explorer lives for tobacco?”
“Don’t squawk,” Chee growled. “The High Council reamed me out enough, without you bitching too. Of course, all the council cared about was violating our treaty with the Sparks; they didn’t give a flying fart for the Explorers…who all got back without a scratch, I might add. The council cursed and screamed, and next thing I knew, they were sending me to Melaquin. I suppose you agree with them.”
“Your actions are difficult to understand,” Yarrun replied. “Tobacco is grown on many Technocracy planets, not to mention the Fringes. It seems rather…extravagant to endanger Explorers and the treaty for something so easily available.”
“Shows how little you know about tobacco,” Chee answered. “The stuff our Technocracy grows is castrated and harmless—no tar, no nicotine, not a single carcinogen or addictive substance in the damned vegetable from flower to root. Sissy weed! On Old Earth, tobacco still has balls. It can kill you…will kill you if something else doesn’t get you first. I like that in a plant.”
He produced a match and swept it across the rough metal control pad set into the captain’s chair. Prope and Harque drew in their breaths sharply. Ignoring them, Chee sucked on the pipe to pull the match flame onto the tobacco, then took a few experimental puffs. “I hate safe vices,” he continued, shaking out the match. “Live your life on a limb, that’s what I say.”
“Begging the Admiral’s pardon,” I said, “but from an Explorer’s point of view, inhaling weak carcinogens is a pretty candy-assed risk. Ultimately, you die in bed. Sir.”
The bridge fell silent except for the soft hum of machinery. Prope’s mouth dropped open in shock. Harque had his back to me so I couldn’t see the expression on his face, but his hand stopped moving and hovered stunned over the instrument panel. Even Yarrun stared at me in surprise, his hideous face lit from below by the greenish glow of his data screen.
Chee met my gaze without rancor. “The wolf knows something the sheep will never understand. Is that what you’re saying, Ramos?”
“The wolf pays for it,” I answered.
“A big ante buys into a bigger pot,” he said.
“The pot only grows big when there are many losers.”
With a small laugh, he patted me on the arm. “Don’t you just love arguing in metaphors? Makes you feel profound as a polecat. Even when you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” He smiled, “Maybe we’ll have this argument again someday.”
“Maybe.” If he could pretend we’d survive, I could pretend with him.
“Data on Melaquin coming in,” Yarrun quietly announced.
Melaquin—The Story from Initial Probes
Melaquin (AOR No. 72061721)
Third planet in the Uffree system; one moon
Average distance from primary: 1.0 A.U.
Gravity: 1.0000 G.
Thermal Index: 1.0000 S.
Atmosphere:
21% oxygen
78% nitrogen
.9% argon
.03% carbon dioxide
Other trace gases, e.g. methane, ozone, water vapor
Day: 24.0000 standard hours
Orbital period: 365.25 days
Axial tilt: 23.5 degrees
Surface: 78% water; four continental land masses; many islands, some approaching continent size; poles ice-capped
Life: Abundant green vegetation in 80% of land areas; abundant carbon-based microorganisms in atmosphere; quantity of methane in atmosphere consistent with large carbon-based animal life; sightings of motion in open plains suggest
movement of large animal herds
Sentients: No illuminated cities visible on night side; no industrial pollutants in atmosphere; no unnatural EM transmissions; no visible roads or constructions; no visible dams or canals
Initial Response
A summary of the initial probe data replaced the starscape on the main monitor. “It’s rather like Earth, isn’t it?” Prope observed. “Isn’t that, uhhh, surprising?”
“There are two ways to look at it,” Yarrun answered. “Given the vastness of the universe, it is highly probable that a close twin of Earth would exist somewhere; therefore, the mere existence of such a planet should not take us aback. On the other hand, the odds of such a twin turning up only a few thousand parsecs from the original planet…that is frankly unbelievable.”
“Which means?” Chee asked.
“What else?” Yarrun shrugged. “There’s something fishy going on.”
“I just hope the continents don’t look familiar,” I muttered.
Conjectures
A. Prope: Perhaps we’re really looking at Old Earth. Through some unknown phenomenon, we aren’t where we think we are in space; or at least we’re seeing into a completely different part of space.
Yarrun: The stars aren’t in the right places for the Sol system. And the other planets are all wrong.
Me: Besides, Earth would show plenty of signs of sentient habitation. Cities, highways, all those nuclear waste dumps…
B. Harque: Maybe the computer is malfunctioning.
Chee: [After banging three times on the console with his fist.] Has anything changed?
C. Prope: Perhaps this is just an illusion, and some unknown agency is tampering with our very minds.
The League of Peoples Page 7
