Netherspace

by Andrew Lane

  Tse moved forward. “We thought it would be nice to watch lift-off together,” she said quietly. “Nikki told me where.”

  She led them to the canteen, which confirmed Marc’s suspicions of drabness. Microwave ovens and stacked ration packs were placed against one cream-painted steel wall. In the middle was an oval table, plastic and metal, large enough for ten; at the far end a tired-looking coffee machine squatted on a plaswood shelf. The floor was some sort of grey speckled composite with a spongy feel to it. The room smelled of warmed-up food, stale coffee, joss fumes and industrial cleaner. A cockroach or a short-order cook would have felt at home. Only one thing suggested this was a space vehicle: a viewing screen that took up most of the wall opposite the microwaves. It was like looking through the clearest glass window ever made – or a glass-free hole in the SUT’s side.

  Marc looked around. “Aside from the vid it’s all grunge.”

  Kara shrugged. “A room is a room is a room.”

  “The RIL-FIJ-DOQ is normally used for local runs,” Tse supplied. “Nikki told me. Doesn’t go beyond Pluto. Twoday round trip at the most. Apparently it was the only passenger SUT available at such short notice.” She saw the doubt on their faces. “Leeman-Smith comes with it. Big, public fuss if he was left behind. And he’s got friends high up. But the rest of the staff are exploration spacers brought in off leave, been together a long time. They don’t like him any more than you do. Shall we sit down?”

  No fresh coffee – the machine was out of water – but Tse found pre-made cans of the stuff amongst the rat-packs. Presumably this coffee was made from fresh water rather than someone’s recycled piss. The beans were an Italian blend. Pulling the tab on top of the cans set off a tiny microwave heater in the base, and within a few seconds the coffee was hot and the odour was overlaying the smell of the room.

  Marc pulled up his sleeve as if about to access his own keyboard and then stopped as he remembered the earlier problem with accessing the SUT’s AI. He looked at Tse.

  “Not sure the AI’s secure,” he said. “Don’t want my chip seduced.”

  Tse looked at the vid screen. “Hey! Bet you never saw that before.”

  An SUT was being readied for space. A spider-like foam spreader stood over it: a good ten metres tall, with multiple thin, segmented legs radiating from a fat central hub. As they watched, three of the legs lifted from the ground and angled themselves towards the SUT’s convoluted exterior, stopping about a metre away, while the spreader balanced on the remaining ones. A pause and then foam pulsed out of hidden nozzles on their ends. It formed a great, seething glob all the colours of the rainbow, coruscating even in the late afternoon sun.

  “That I didn’t expect,” Kara said. “How does…”

  “Hold on.” Marc noticed something and clumsily used the remote control on a nearby table to zoom closer. “Bloody hell!”

  The three sat down at the table and watched. Left to itself, the rainbow foam spread over a triangular-shaped area on the SUT’s surface, filling every nook and cranny, covering every weird angle and sharp edge to precisely the same height. Only the business ends of the manoeuvring jets and sensors on the ends of their arms were left exposed. It was as if the foam knew exactly what it was doing. More than that, the foam was a perfectionist.

  “That’s a little weird,” Kara said as another shimmering glob was deposited, again oozing unaided in all directions like some vast and purposeful amoeba to produce a triangle that merged with the first one, which was now beginning to fade to a dull grey.

  “Alien tech,” Marc told her, “is always weird. The clue’s in the name.”

  Leeman-Smith’s voice filled the room. “Mission manager speaking. Take-off in five minutes. It’ll be a slow ascent, allowing the newcomers to adjust. I am now going to sound the emergency alarms, as per regulations.”

  On cue, an ear-splitting screech filled the room, mercifully for only a second. It was followed by Leeman-Smith’s fruity tones: “If you hear that alarm, we are venting atmosphere to space.”

  A different ear-splitting screech. “If you hear that alarm, there is a fire on board.”

  A third screech. “If you hear that alarm, the radiation levels on board have reached dangerous levels.”

  In total, there were ten different alarms, each marking a different emergency. There were, however, no instructions on what to do in the eventuality of any of these emergencies actually occurring. It was if Leeman-Smith was really saying how unimportant they were.

  “I can’t tell them apart,” Marc admitted reluctantly. “I hate to ask, but can we run through them again?”

  Kara shook her head. “I don’t see the point. They’re just ways of telling us how we’re going to die. I’d prefer to be surprised.”

  A strange expression flickered across Tse’s face, too fast for Marc to tell what it was. It hadn’t been a happy look, though.

  Kara had picked up on it too. “Can you foresee your own death?” she asked bluntly. “Do we die at the same time as you?”

  Tse shook his head, so minutely that the motion was almost undetectable. “It’s the first thing you learn not to think about,” he said quietly. “There are potential deaths scattered all over the landscape of my future, like sinkholes. Some are obvious, and some are hidden. One day I’ll fall into one, but I don’t know which day and I don’t want to. Also, remember that now we’re together, my future is also tied in with yours, which is what I see.”

  But suppose, Marc thought darkly, the most probable, and best outcome for their mission included Tse’s own death? Or Marc’s? Would he still point them in the right direction?

  Feeling slightly awkward at having caught what seemed like a private moment of introspection, Marc looked toward the vid screen. “Hang on a sec,” he said, gesturing towards the SUT outside. The thing that had, minutes before, been a series of rectangular boxes covered in metal spikes was now a grey oval shape, glistening slightly, like a vast cocoon pregnant with some strange insect life. As if to hammer home the parallel, the tentacles of the spider-like foam spreader were caressing the exterior; looking for patches that needed extra filling, he presumed. “We’re close to launch. Aren’t they going to cover our SUT the way they covered that one? We’re not launching naked, are we?”

  “That is our SUT,” a woman said from behind him.

  Marc turned his head. Nikki, the navigator, was standing in the doorway. “That’s not a vid feed from one of our sensors of what’s happening across the tarmac; that’s a vid feed from someone else’s sensors of what’s just happened to us. It’s always nice to check that people have done their job properly.”

  Marc’s shoulders hunched. It was okay when he’d thought the foam was applied to another SUT. But the RIL-FIJ-DOQ was being smothered. A strange sense of claustrophobia settled over him like a shroud. The temperature inside the SUT seemed to have gone up a couple of degrees in a few seconds. “Er, so what happens when, if we land somewhere?”

  “The part over the main airlock’s removable,” Nikki said casually. “Anyway, reason I’m here is just to say you might feel a tad weird when we go Up.” She smiled reassuringly. “Artificial updown fields can do that to people. And when we go into netherspace, of course. You may feel, oh, a bit woozy, maybe? Almost light-headed. Nothing to worry about, though. Now I’d better go reassure our lord and master. He’s sounding nervous.”

  Kara gestured for her to stay. “Just a quick question: what does happen when we go into netherspace?”

  Marc had wanted to ask the same question, but he was glad that Kara had got in first. It was always better to let someone else ask the embarrassingly simple questions. That way you could sit like an impassive stone Buddha, soaking up the information that someone else had broken their cool, professional demeanour to obtain. As she had told him earlier, in another context, it was a simple psychological trick but amazingly effective.

  “Remember how Tate explained it before?” Nikki asked, taking a moment’s silence for an aff
irmative. “So, try thinking of this SUT as a swimmer, diving into those water channels between dry land. We swim underwater, propelled by the momentum of the dive we made courtesy of the Gliese sideslip-field generator. Eventually the momentum runs out and the natural tendency of real matter to want to be in realspace makes us surface again, like a swimmer coming up to take a breath. When that happens, it’s my job to look around, check the spectra of all the stars and galaxies that I can detect and work out where we are – which should be many billions of miles from where we were, but with luck only a few million from where we were aiming. That done, I set the coordinates for the next dive under the surface.”

  “You make it sound so simple,” Kara said.

  “It is,” Nikki admitted, shrugging. “If you want I can dress it up in all kinds of techno-babble, but at the end of the day I run a set of computer algorithms that do the work for me. When I was a kid I wanted to be a masseuse,” she said brightly, “but do you know the amount of training and certification you have to go through? This was an easier career choice.” She waved a casual goodbye and left.

  “Muster point is the control room,” Leeman-Smith’s voice boomed again from the tannoy. “Full brief in one hour thirty-six minutes in the conference room. Mission manager out.”

  Marc shook his head in mixed sorrow and anger. “What is his problem?”

  Kara turned to Tse. “What you said about the fuss if Leeman-Smith’s left behind. Even so. Why him?”

  Long black hair rustled faintly as Tse shook his head. “Pre-cog doesn’t work like that,” Tse said, clearly playing for time.

  “You’re smart,” Marc joined in. “Make a guess.”

  “Perhaps because, despite the bluster, he’s mostly harmless.”

  The other two looked doubtful.

  “And can be controlled.” Tse looked directly at Kara. “You’re really in charge, right?”

  “Well…”

  “And I doubt the rest of the staff would support him. If it came to that.”

  “Came to what?” Marc asked.

  “Oh, you know,” Tse said vaguely. “A crisis.”

  Kara looked at Tse for a long moment then slowly nodded her head. Marc watched the unspoken by-play between the two of them, thankful he wasn’t a pre-cog.

  Widespread awareness of a probable future can result in the accidental or even deliberate creation of a totally different, perhaps more dangerous one. For the first time Marc understood how isolated Tse must feel. To know all the probabilities, all the mights and maybes, to know the shape of the landscape and the landmarks on the horizon, to use Tse’s own earlier simile, and not be able to share, except perhaps with other pre-cogs. The force of willpower it must take to keep all of that bottled up inside. Maybe that explains the momentary dark expression on Tse’s face earlier, Marc thought – and realised his claustrophobia was gone.

  “One thing,” Kara said, interrupting Marc’s chain of thought. “Can a pre-cog help explain why aliens exchange tech for crap?”

  “Crap?” Marc asked, offended.

  “Mostly crap.” She batted her eyes at him. “And some genius art.”

  “But aliens don’t know the difference?”

  “I can make a guess,” Tse said quickly. “Most of the exchanges don’t matter to them. Except for the genius art, of course. There’s only one thing they consistently want. Us. Humans.”

  “So the tech is to keep us sweet?” Marc asked.

  Tse shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Do you know that for sure?” Kara asked intently, leaning forward in her seat. “Is that pre-cognition telling you something we’ll find out in the future, or do you just have a feeling?”

  “Is there a difference?” Marc queried.

  Tse shrugged again and said nothing.

  Kara looked doubtful. “Until now it’s only Gliese who’ve taken humans. Other aliens take objects. There again, only Gliese trade for sideslip engines.” She assumed a military attitude. “Remember two things. One, the staff do not learn the truth of this mission until I decide it’s necessary, okay? Going to affect you most, Tse, as you’re working with Nikki.”

  “Keeping secrets is what I do,” Tse said a little sadly. “And my work with Nikki’s mostly done. She’s got the general direction, distance in light-years and the relevant star patterns.”

  Kara nodded. “Second thing, look at each other for a moment. The person you see is now your best friend. He and me are the only people you trust. Got that?”

  Both slowly nodded.

  “We’re alone in the Up,” Kara said. “Do not ever forget it.”

  The moment was broken when for the second time Leeman-Smith’s voice filled the room. “Lift-off in two minutes. Passengers must sit down and refrain from moving about until advised otherwise.” It sounded like a script.

  Marc discovered he was both excited and nervous. Judging by suddenly tightened lips, so were the other two. He glanced at the vid screen. The spider-like foam spreader had moved away now. The SUT was sitting alone in the middle of the tarmac. “Any particular view?” he asked, looking at the remote control. “I think this thing can get a feed from any external camera in the space port.”

  They decided to go split screen: one half showing RIL- FIJ-DOQ from a series of angles, the other the SUT’s view pointing down.

  Leeman-Smith began counting down the last thirty seconds. They might have despised him, but it did add something to the proceedings.

  “The countdown was invented by the German film director Fritz Lang,” Kara said. “He used it for a film over a hundred years ago called Woman in the Moon. Everyone thinks it’s some kind of necessary space-flight ritual, but it really isn’t.” She caught Marc’s raised eyebrow. “What?” she challenged. “I like old movies. Sue me.”

  “That’s not old,” Marc pointed out. “That’s ancient.”

  Leeman-Smith had left the tannoy on and they could hear his voice, that of the mechanic, Tate Breckmann and a distant traffic controller in some computer-filled room miles away engaging in a ritualistic call-and-response script.

  “All electricals checked and operational.”

  “All electricals cross-checked and operational.”

  “All hydraulics checked and operational.”

  “All hydraulics cross-checked and operational.”

  “Confirm pressurisation of vehicle is stable.”

  “Confirm airspace is clear of obstructions.”

  “Internal and external updown fields on line.”

  “RIL-FIJ-DOQ, you are clear for take-off.”

  “Space access point control, acknowledged.”

  The merest bump, and the sound of creaking as the stresses and strains within the SUT’s structure redistributed themselves.

  “I don’t feel lighter,” Marc said, half-joking. A part of him had expected to be floating by now.

  On-screen, the pale grey chrysalis that was their transport rose slowly through the air as if on an invisible string.

  “You have any idea what we do when – if – we get to this Cancri planet?” Marc asked Kara. “Seeing as how you’re in charge.”

  “Whatever I tell you.” Her slight smile took some of the sting from the words.

  He looked at Tse. “She has no idea.”

  “Are you asking me?”

  “I know, pre-cog’s an art. Any chance you could do me a sketch?”

  “We do whatever’s necessary to get the hostages back,” Kara said. “Assuming they’re alive. You’re confusing ‘what’ with ‘how’. And the how’s already in your head.”

  8

  FOURTEEN DAYS EARLIER

  The sun was small, blue and so dazzlingly hot the captives were forced to stay inside the domed shelters. Some had sunk into apathetic depression. Others were all but speechless from shock and confusion. A few tried to make some sense of the situation, although no logical scenario held out any hope. And some had begun looking to Tatia for guidance. Not because she was the Consort. But because she’d
told a few people who she was and that she’d owned their original SUT. There’d been a need for authority. Whether she wanted to or not, Tatia was gradually assuming it.

  She’d been sleeping. This was a state distinguishable from waking because lying on hard ground was more uncomfortable than standing on it. Without warning the temperature dropped to well below zero. The condensed sweat that had been trickling down the curved walls and pooling on the identical material of the floor froze with a series of crackling sounds.

  A middle-aged woman named Mariana, black hair streaked with far more grey than a day ago, began pushing people nearest her towards the door. “It’s warm outside!” she said, clinging to the obvious like a drowning swimmer clinging to a rock. “We must keep warm or we’ll die!”

  Some of the Pilgrims moved but others just stood where they were and looked at Tatia for guidance. The little boy Pablo was one of them, had even taken to sleeping near her. Despite the heat, soon after he fell asleep his body would edge closer to Tatia until he was nestled into her side.

  “Why is this happening?” an elderly man asked. “Please, why?”

  This sudden cold, or the whole thing? Tatia asked herself bitterly as she levered herself from a half-sleep of happy, hopeless dreams. As if I would know the answer to either question!

  “It might be the weather,” she said, hearing the dullness in her voice. “Perhaps the climate control has broken down. Or maybe they want us to go outside.”

  “Should we go?” This was a teenage girl, Darai.

  “If it’s the weather then going or staying won’t make any difference. People who stay should huddle together for warmth. But I think they are forcing us outside. We should go. If we don’t, they’ll come in and get us. At least let’s go willingly, with dignity.”