by Paul G White
Releasing his harness, he said curtly to Cray, “Let’s go! We need to check on the captain.”
Cray nodded. As junior in rank to Hollifal, he knew when to respond instantly to a command. Together, they headed for the bridge.
They found a scene of disaster: Captain Lessil lay moaning in pain beneath one of the mighty consoles that lined the bridge. One of his arms was splayed at an unnatural angle – clearly broken – and there was a deep gash in his skull from which blood was still oozing. Dark blood from the wound was pooling beside his head, and the two officers saw smears of red around the smooth floor where he had slid around unconscious, bleeding from numerous wounds.
Axolin was still bound by her makeshift harness into her chair, which had survived the buffeting. Axolin, however, was the worse for wear; her head was lolling on her chest and she was moaning in pain. Probably some broken ribs, Hollifal thought, from the way the webbing was cutting into her.
The captain was clearly in no position to command at this time; so, as senior officer, Hollifal knew what he must do. “Round up all the crewmembers who managed to climb into their safety harnesses,” he told Cray, “and assemble them all here. Tell anyone with medical knowledge of any kind to get here yesterday.”
The junior officer departed at a run and soon the survivors began to straggle into the bridge. None could mask their dismay when they caught sight of the stricken captain, or heard the faint, disjointed murmurings of Lessil’s mind. The eighth and ninth newcomers to the bridge were astronomers, Parel and Shenna, who were trained as emergency medics.
Shenna waved everyone away from Lessil’s side, whilst Parel stepped over to a wall of the bridge and opened a medical locker. He returned with a portable diagnostic centre and knelt down beside his stricken captain. Parel selected a palm-sized ovoid and depressed a small node on its upper surface; the device hummed almost inaudibly. Taking great care, the astronomer ran the instrument over every part of Lessil’s skull, one centimetre from the surface. He showed Shenna the reading and then asked her to repeat the measurements. Shenna complied, and then continued the auto-diagnosis until every one of Lessil’s injuries had been assessed.
She looked gravely at the two surviving officers. “Captain Lessil has suffered a cracked skull and several broken bones. We can reset the broken bones, and the diagnostic tells us that his skull and brain will make a full recovery, providing that he is immobilised. Both Parel and I advise that our captain be placed in cold sleep for as long as is necessary for his injuries to heal.”
Hollifal was not happy with the situation. “Cold sleep?” he queried. “For how long?”
“We cannot say with any certainty, but the sleep unit will monitor his condition constantly – far better than either one of us could do – and would, under Hela’s control, offer the captain the quickest progression back to full health.”
Hollifal knew that he was beaten. “We shall set up the cold sleep unit immediately, but meanwhile, I believe that Axolin requires your assistance.”
Shenna stepped over to where Axolin was lying on the floor, having been released from her chair. She was conscious and asking about Captain Lessil.
As Shenna ran the diagnostic over Axolin’s ribcage, the comm-op said, “I owe the captain my life. He bound me into my chair and was just completing his own harness when Erwe’s farewell reached us . . . did anyone else hear Erwe’s cry?”
Around the bridge, people nodded; everyone had heard Erwe’s cry, and everyone had been touched by its poignant message.
Axolin pushed the diagnostic away and tried to sit up. A shaft of pain lanced through her cracked ribs and she groaned. Shenna tried to hold the comm-op still to prevent her opening out the cracks in the bones, but Axolin squirmed and broke free from her grip.
“You must let us stabilise your injuries, or the damage may get worse,” Shenna told the struggling Axolin, but the comm-op continued to fight her, and eventually managed to sit up. Her face was devoid of colour, and her eyes filled with pain.
“I must check the communications systems,” she managed to say through her distress. “When I am able to present the captain with a status report, I’ll submit to a full examination and any treatment you deem necessary.”
Shenna knew that she would get no further, and so helped Axolin back into her chair.
Axolin reached out to depress a series of buttons and gasped in pain. Her hand was like a claw as she fought against the agony and nausea. Shenna leaned over her shoulder and whispered, “I’ll get someone to help you,” and the comm-op nodded gratefully. She had no wish to appear weak but, as the only person on board qualified to operate the complex communications system, neither did she want to let everyone down.
Thank you, she transmitted to Shenna so that no one else would ‘hear’.
The astronomer stepped over to where Hollifal was busy organising the insertion of Captain Lessil into cold sleep. Hollifal readily accepted the need for someone to provide a pair of hands for the comm-op, and immediately detailed Leta, a linguist to help. “In fact,” he told her, “as there can be no call for your particular skills at the moment, it would be prudent for you to learn all you can of the comm-op’s duties, in case anything should happen to Axolin.”
Leta could see the logic in the temporary Captain’s request. The ship was going nowhere without an increase in the number of crewmembers, but the communications system would need to be manned around the clock in case they managed to contact Sha’lee’an. She hurried over to assist Axolin.
With the comm-op issuing a series of instructions they were able to check the whole of the vast ship’s communication system over the next couple of hours. The pain from Axolin’s injuries was easing thanks to medication, but her concern was slowly building as it became increasingly clear that the disaster had left the Comora devoid of deep space antennae. There were no answering signals from any of the arrays attached to the hull, prompting Axolin to wonder if they had all been ripped away by the water-borne debris. With the discovery, they realised that their chances of contacting Sha’lee’an had probably diminished to zero.
However, before finally giving up hope, there was one way to check on their status: through the multitude of cameras and telescopes built into the outer shell of the ship. She tapped her keyboard and a system check on all optical instrumentation appeared on screen. Very few lights were out, indicating that she could call on more than ninety per cent of the ship’s optical sensors.
Axolin chose a camera at the rear of the ship and an image of total blackness appeared onscreen. Must be obscured, she thought, and tried the next in line. One after another, the screen showed the same infinite blackness, forcing the comm-op to the conclusion that the ship was buried. The question was, how deep?
But the situation was impossible. The Comora’s powerful shield should have been capable of forcing immense tonnages of matter clear of the ship’s hull, so had the shield collapsed – or failed altogether? She called up the necessary graphic, which showed the shield active, but at seriously reduced power. Could it be increased to enable the Comora to throw off its burden of mud and debris?
Axolin asked the AI.
“Such a procedure would be too hazardous,” the calm voice of the AI replied. “I am presently modelling a series of simulations and in every single one I have tried so far the expanding shield is forced inwards, crushing the ship. I am not hopeful that the outcome of the simulations will change significantly.”
The two comm-ops stared at each other in dismay. Eventually, Axolin decided that Captain Hollifal must be informed of the new development.
“Recheck every camera and communications array,” Hollifal commanded. But the results were the same, as was the AI’s report.
The stand-in captain desperately needed the input and experience of Captain Lessil, but Lessil was lying unconscious in a cold sleep unit, slowly drifting into the dreamless world of retarded metabolism. Hollifal knew that to raise Lessil from cold sleep at this stage would, i
n all likelihood, kill him. He must make the decision himself – perhaps with the help of the remainder of the crew. He called a meeting on the bridge of the starship. Before Hollifal opened the meeting, he insisted on a cursory tidy-up of the disarray and soon the survivors were able to sit in reasonable comfort on the few chairs that remained undamaged.
“What are our options?” Renai, one of the navigators asked.
“We could power up the shield until the Comora breaks free,” suggested Gerrit, one of the surviving engineers, but the AI broke into the proceedings with the news that she had modelled every possible scenario regarding the shield, and the ship had survived in none of them.
“We could wait here to be rescued,” someone else suggested, but the AI, once again threw cold water onto the proposal. Even with so few crewmembers aboard, the ship’s oxygen stores would be depleted within a period far shorter than it would take for a rescue mission to reach them from far off Sha’lee’an, assuming that the Comora was posted as ‘missing’ in the first place.
Traybaren, a cook, made the most telling assessment of their predicament. He said, “Whilst we are awake and moving around, we consume food – of which there is a finite supply on board; we also consume air, as Hela has so succinctly explained. Of us all, Captain Lessil will consume least of either of those two commodities, because he is already in cold sleep.”
“Are you suggesting that we all enter cold sleep until we are rescued?” Hollifal demanded.
“Yes, Captain.” Traybaren added, “And with the captain’s permission, I will clear sufficient space in the refectory to accommodate all the survivors, and I will provide food for everyone until we enter cold sleep.”
Hollifal did not like the way the discussion was going, but he knew he must exhaust every possibility. “Does anyone have any new suggestions?” he demanded. “Hela?”
The AI waited for a few moments before speaking. “I have modelled various scenarios of cold sleep for everyone aboard, and the outcomes are encouraging. The Comora’s power plant has the capacity to run at reduced output for considerably longer than the journey time from Sha’lee’an. The drain on the oxygen supplies would be reduced by cold sleep to a tiny percentage of what it would be if the crew were to remain active. Food would not be a problem, because your metabolism would slow down to a point where food consumption was negligible. As for monitoring the cold sleep units, I would perform that task on a regular basis, and assuming no mechanical faults, there is no reason to suppose that the survival rate would be below one hundred per cent.”
Parel, one of the astronomers, explained, “On any normal voyage, so that no person ages more than any other, a skeleton crew, which is rotated every ship year, remains on watch in order to ensure the safe resuscitation of their replacements at the end of their period of duty. I would ask Hela to calculate the probability of rescue within a period equivalent to one or two such voyages.”
The AI did not reply immediately, but spent several seconds computing the probabilities inherent in countless minutely varying scenarios. Finally she announced sadly, “Within such a short time span, the likelihood of rescue is almost zero. Even one person remaining awake and active, would consume vital food and oxygen. If one enters cold sleep, everyone must do the same, or all will die.”
The survivors regarded each other for long moments. No one wanted to be the first to say ‘Yes’ to the proposal, and no one was prepared to gainsay the AI’s advice.
Finally, Parel and Shenna glanced at each other and stepped forward together. “We wish to enter cold sleep,” Parel announced. Their simple act of acceptance was the signal for everyone to step forward.
Hollifal had to admit that consensus had been reached, and he signalled his acceptance. However, he intended everyone to have the best possible chance of surviving. “Before we enter cold sleep,” he told the eighteen crewmembers present, “we will service every cold sleep unit meticulously, as we shall every piece of equipment on board likely to have an impact upon our chances of survival. Rellic and Jossel,” he nodded to the two engineers, “will check the power plant and the shield, because the last thing we need is for power or the shield to fail.”
The two engineers immediately turned on their heels and strode from the bridge; they had been handed a mammoth task and they intended to see it through with the minimum of complaint.
The captain continued, “I have no idea how long it will take to complete all the necessary servicing and system checks, but until they are finalised to my satisfaction, no one will enter cold sleep. Now, go to it; we all have work to do.”
*
Thirty-six of the planet’s days passed before Hollifal gave the order for the first crewmember to enter cold sleep, and several hours later, he climbed into his own personal unit and pulled down the canopy. The AI continued the countdown and soon every Sha’lee aboard the Comora was still and virtually lifeless.
What the AI had failed to inform Captain Hollifal and his crew was that immediately following the impact, she had completely replenished the ship’s stores of air, utilising every vestige of airtight storage capacity on board. She had also omitted to say that she could realign the entire life support of the Comora and centre it on the cold sleep room. All oxygen was drawn from the remainder of the ship and stored, ready to be eked out to the survivors in their pods over what might amount to millennia. The power plant slowed down to a barely discernible output, and the mighty ship quietly drifted into her own analogue of cold slumber, watched over unceasingly by the unsleeping AI.
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
Maya Mountains, Belize, Central America, 12 June 2028
“Hey, Sven, take a look at this!” Phil Makeman held up the geophysics printout and waved it in the air to attract Andersson’s attention. “You’ll never believe it. I don’t even believe it myself, and I just did the survey.”
Andersson swung his long frame out of his canvas chair and ambled across the partially-cleared site towards the puzzled geophysics expert. Ambling was about as urgent as it got for the laid-back Swede. Behind him, the ruined lower seven steps of a hitherto undiscovered Mayan pyramid rose to around two metres above ground level; and scattered all around the square platform were weathered blocks of limestone that had once rested proudly atop the base levels and climbed above the low jungle to a height of around twenty-five metres. Situated at the central point of one of the sides was the remnant of a broad staircase, enclosed by carved balustrades. The lower half of a badly weathered stele, inset into the flat upper surface of the left-hand balustrade, seemed to date the building to 44 BCE, and the ruins had the appearance of a rare example of a Pre-classic Mayan pyramid – one of the oldest ever discovered.
The geophysics and ground radar experts had been toiling for some time in the humid conditions to determine the extent of the temple complex lying hidden beneath the jungle floor; and now—
“Problems, Phil?” Andersson enquired in English that showed little sign of a Swedish accent. “Is the heat getting to your equipment again?”
Makeman grinned as he spread the printout on a bench and weighted it down at each corner with shards of limestone. He said nothing, allowing Andersson time to digest the information on the paper before he trusted himself to speak. The Swedish archaeologist stared at the survey, taking in the various anomalies suggestive of massive foundations, long buried in the humid jungle soil.
“What’s this, Phil?” Andersson’s long finger traced the faint partial-outline of a circular anomaly at the maximum penetration depth of the geophysics signals. “Is it some kind of printer malfunction?”
Makeman smiled grimly. “No such luck, Sven. What you see is what you get. That object is below the level of the temple foundations.”
Andersson’s eyeballs seemed to expand in sympathy as he spoke. “Below the foundations, you say? How can that be possible?”
“I think I’ll pass on that one, my friend. I’ve absolutely no idea what it might be or how it could’ve go
t there.”
“But it’s huge!”
“One hundred and thirty-two metres across, to be precise,” Makeman informed him. “I think that qualifies as huge, right enough. And nothing with curves that perfect could be anything but man-made, so what the hell can it be?”
He regarded his fellow archaeologist for at least half a minute before he spoke. Then he announced, “Hendriksson will go ballistic if he finds out the site’s been compromised. Do me a favour will you, Sven, and run your deep radar over this area to see if you can confirm what we’re seeing here? Otherwise the boss will hang my carcase out for the mosquitos if I take this printout to him without having at least made an attempt to verify it.”
Andersson found the mental image of his friend’s carcase stretched on poles for the local insects to chew on highly amusing. He grinned at Makeman. “Sure, Phil. You’ll help me won’t you?”
“Too right, I will. Let’s get our backsides into gear before Hendriksson decides to call in my report.”
Somehow, the laid-back Swede had suddenly developed a sense of urgency, because he trotted over to his equipment, earning puzzled looks from fellow archaeologists around the site, who had become accustomed to his low-energy style. After two hours of frantic activity, the new printout chattered from the computer. Phil Makeman grasped the leading edge of the sheet almost before it had time to clear the printer.
He whistled through his teeth and handed the page to Andersson. “It’s even stranger than we thought,” Makeman grunted.
Andersson frowned in concentration as he took in every anomaly on the A3 page. And there, lying beneath the foundations of a two thousand year old Mayan temple complex, was the outline of a gigantic egg-shaped artefact. It was clearly broader at one end than the other, but the curvature of the outline was flawless . . . so perfect that there was not the slightest possibility that Mother Nature could have produced it by a chance combination of unlikely circumstances. But the whole of the artefact seemed to be hollow and it was impossible to determine from the deep radar image whether the anomaly itself was hollow, or merely a flat area of unknown material lying atop a cenote – a sinkhole – of indefinable depth.
