by Paul G White
Carter reddened. “What does everybody know that I don’t?” he growled.
Makeman could barely speak through his guffaws. “It’s you, you idiot.” And to no one in particular, he announced, “My mother used to say that some of the brightest people had the least common sense, and I reckon this proves it.” To Carter, he said, “Haven’t you noticed the way she looks at you?”
“Well,” Carter replied, “I did think—” He broke off in mid-sentence. “Ok, lads,” he grumbled, “the joke’s over. You’ve had your fun and I fell for it.”
Makeman had finally managed to stop laughing. “Look Mike, how long have we known each other?”
Carter thought about it for a moment and said, “Coming up to twenty years – since University.”
“Then I reckon you ought to be able to trust me on this one, don’t you? Especially since Hal and Enrico, and God knows how many others, have noticed it too. Seems to me, you’re the only one going around with his eyes wide shut, and,” he grinned, “with all this heavy plant scooting about the site, that could prove as dangerous as attacking the ship.”
Carter regarded his friend for a few moments before breaking out into a smile. “It seems I’d better take everyone’s advice. And can we now get back to the question of what we’re likely to find inside the ship if and when we manage to get inside?”
All three colleagues nodded and Makeman advised, “As I said earlier, let’s see what happens when the whole of the underside of the ship is cleared. It should then become clear whether or not there is a hatch or some kind of opening in the hull. If we see nothing resembling a door, we’ll have to decide at that point how to proceed. One thing’s certain, though: somewhere in the acreage of black surface there has to be at least one entrance.” He grinned and added, “Otherwise we’ll have to start believing the builders had the means of ‘beaming up’ supplies and personnel, and that would probably freak me out.”
A straight-faced Kleineman commented, “You know, Phil, that kind of thing is theoretically possible. Thing is, it would take an unimaginable degree of computing power to achieve; way beyond our present capabilities. But it is possible in light of what we already know.”
Makeman grinned. “Now you are freaking me out, Hal. We’ve all had to adjust our credibility levels over the past few weeks, and it’s certain that what we’ve seen so far isn’t the full extent of what will be revealed. Like Margaret, I’m trying to keep an open mind, no matter how difficult it is to do so, but we’re already pretty near to fantasy, and I’m not sure I’d like to step over that particular threshold.”
Mike Carter chuckled. “All this is getting a little obtuse and I think a cup of tea is called for. I’m heading for the canteen if anyone wants to join me.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Most of the workforce at the site gathered in small groups around the perimeter of the Comora as the final scoop of stone and shale thundered into the bed of the dumper truck, throwing up a cloud of fine dust. Palo Lopez stuck his head out of the cab of his JCB excavator and mopped sweat from his brow. He smiled broadly, justifiably proud of the work done by the small team of excavator and dumper drivers.
“That’s it, Señor Mike, she’s all yours now,” he called before feeding power to the tracks and heading upslope out of the vast, symmetrical bowl, followed by the remainder of his team.
Behind the receding vehicles, the Comora cast a vast oval shadow in the bright autumn sunlight. Around the edges of the immense ship, as far as the landing gear, light levels were comfortable for human eyes, but further towards the centre, the stygian surface of the ship’s underbelly seemed to suck the very light from the air.
Lars Hendriksson stood beside one of the massive legs upon which the mighty ship rested. “Looks like we’re going to need some lighting if we’re to pick out any doorways into the ship.”
Carter nodded. “It’s all arranged, Lars. It’s on its way.”
On cue, a small flatbed truck, with Phil Makeman at the wheel, eased its way down the slope towards them, carrying several banks of mobile lights and a portable diesel generator. The truck halted a few metres away from the Comora and Makeman alighted. A couple of electricians slid out the other side and began untying the ropes securing the load. Eager hands hurried to help and within minutes two banks of lights were in position. The crew jumped back into the cab and Makeman drove fifty metres further under the ship and repeated the process. Eventually, a dozen lighting units were in position and the electricians began the process of wiring up. In half an hour the generator was fired up, a switch was thrown and the floodlights illuminated the area with a harsh, white light.
*
The AI was feeling a great sense of anticipation. She had avidly watched as the last loads of debris were cleared from beneath the Comora, and now she observed the alien creatures as they set up a number of devices twenty metres or so from the edge of the ship; all the devices were aimed at the central area of the Comora’s belly. Carefully, for she could permit no error on her part to threaten the lives of her Sha’lee charges, she assessed and analysed the devices, utilising the vast array of sensors in the Comora’s hull, which had now become available to her since the final material had been removed. At last, she was able to determine that, rather than being some kind of strange, alien weapon, they were in reality nothing more than simple machines to illuminate the shadowed area beneath the ship.
Ever since she had restored herself to full functionality following the first tiny inroads made in the vast burden of rock entombing the Comora, the AI had been recording all forms of communication between their rescuers. She had detected electronic communication over distance by means of radio and microwaves, but most of what she recorded had been sounds directly from the mouths of the aliens. For many months the AI had assigned a small portion of her vast capacity to deciphering the alien language, and was now reasonably confident that she could make herself understood to the rescuers. She knew that there were serious gaps in her knowledge, but she was in no doubt that interaction with the aliens over a few days would enable her to speak their language fluently.
With a sense of drama, the AI opened a broad hatch at the lowest point of the Comora’s hull and lowered a wide ramp to the newly restored ground level, the ground upon which the Sha’lee crew had walked so many millions of years ago.
*
As the lights snapped on, those gathered around heard the thin keening of wind being forced through a narrow gap. Then, in a blur of motion, a round opening appeared in the hull of the ship and a ramp, capable of accommodating three cars side by side, fell into place. To those watching, there was no appreciable delay between the hatch opening and the ramp dropping into position. Dust around the hatch was sucked inwards for a few moments and then a gust of foul air wafted from the hatch as internal pressure sought equilibrium. The faint hum of machinery emanated from the hatch as fans within the ship drew in clean air from outside the ship to fill the near vacuum built up over the aeons, and replace the tenuous supply of millions of years old air still remaining. More foul air flowed outward, forcing those nearest to the hatch to draw back, retching at the disgusting odour.
Following a violent fit of coughing, Phil Makeman managed to wheeze, “Good grief, it smells as though something’s died in there.”
Jenna Henderson, an exobiologist, on secondment from NASA sniffed the swiftly diluting odour and commented, “It could be that they used up all their air soon after they were buried by the tsunami and all that’s left is the stink of decay. I think I heard fans, which probably means the old air is presently being replaced by air from outside the ship. If anyone asked me, I’d say the people who built the ship most likely breathed air much the same as we do, otherwise, why would they want to land on Earth? If you had a ship like this, which clearly is made for deep space, you would surely choose not to land on a planet that was inimical to your form of life. And why would whatever is controlling the ship allow it to fill up with poison gases if they don’t br
eathe an oxygen and nitrogen mix like us?”
Hendriksson said curtly, “There’s nothing to be gained by speculation. Let us find out what is inside before we begin theorising on the builders of the ship. The opening of this hatch has rather pre-empted any plans we might have had to investigate the interior of the ship, because we hadn’t even worked out how we were going to open it up. Fortunately, however, for our prospects of success in gaining entry into the alien spacecraft, Mike has been proved correct in spectacular fashion, so we’d better get our heads together and come up with a schedule for exploration. Meanwhile, no one is to attempt to enter.” He looked around at the mixture of archaeologists, scientists and site workers and added, “And I mean no one!”
Hendriksson stepped over to Colonel Suarez, who was standing nearby with Major Heathcote. “Would you mind placing a couple of guards on the ramp, Colonel, to deter any would-be thrill-seekers?”
“Certainly, Director Hendriksson. I’ll see to it right away.” He turned to Heathcote. “How many would you say, Major?”
“Two of yours and two of mine should be able to handle it, Sir.”
“Then please see to it, Major.”
Within five minutes two SAS and two Belizean troops were on guard around the ramp, relaxed, but with sub-machine guns at the ready. All the Belizean troops under Colonel Suarez had undergone a major change in both efficiency and expectations following the failed Honduran takeover of the site, and they had become far more confident in their own abilities. In fact, Major Heathcote reflected, they had become a fighting force to be reckoned with, whereas a few months ago they had been little more than amateurs – conscripts content to ‘do their time’ as painlessly as possible.
Smiling inwardly at the way circumstances had changed the servicemen into real soldiers, Heathcote headed towards the canteen, which was the largest building on site and therefore the most suitable place to hold a meeting between the military and the scientists to discuss exploration of the spaceship. Inside the building several personnel were hurriedly finishing their meals, whilst the heads of each section and their deputies were filing into the canteen from locations spread around the site.
Major Heathcote looked around him. The archaeologists were represented by Lars Hendriksson, Mike Carter and Phil Makeman; Hal Kleineman and Enrico Tempi were accompanied by Jon Kite; Margaret Blythe represented biochemistry, but as she had several years’ experience in exobiology, she had teamed up with the full-time exobiologist, Jenna Henderson; Ellie Merrill had been joined by a thin-faced youth, who looked barely old enough to shave, but who held top class computing and systems analysis degrees from MIT in Cambridge, Massachusetts. His name tag announced that he was Jasper Tyson, and Heathcote thought wryly that if ever a macho name had been applied to the most unlikely person, then this was probably it. The major was able to place everyone else within their own particular sphere of expertise and there was no one he did not recognise. The room was rapidly filling up as word was carried to the far edges of the site and the world-renowned scientists eagerly responded; most, however, found time to detour within sight of the open hatch below the Comora. The appearance of the hatch in the otherwise pristine surface had caused quite a stir.
Hendriksson brought the meeting to order and enquired if anyone had any thoughts on how the exploration should begin. “The last thing we want,” he explained, “is to go into the ship heavy-footed. We must treat this artefact as we would the most delicate of archaeological treasures. Everything must be photographed and video-recording made, and nothing should be moved until every part of the ship has been documented. Does anyone disagree?”
Hal Kleineman cleared his throat. “Guys,” he said, “I’m almost too embarrassed to say this . . . almost . . .” he looked around as if gauging possible reactions before continuing, “but I’m going to say it anyway. We’ve all got to resist the temptation to pocket the odd souvenir.”
There were murmurings of disgust from around those gathered in the canteen as they dissected and analysed Kleineman’s warning, but the physicist ignored the grumbling.
“We all may be pillars of our particular professions, but not one of us – in fact, I’d be willing to bet no one in the entire history of humankind – has been in the situation in which we find ourselves today. This ship undoubtedly contains technology and information centuries ahead of us, and in my view we must rise above even the most fleeting of urges to hoard any fragment of what belongs to the whole world. We are only human, but every person on this site – and every visitor – must behave in a manner that is beyond reproach.”
Someone amongst the group of scientists gave a single, hesitant clap, which was picked up by others until everyone was applauding Kleineman’s short speech.
Hendriksson smiled at the physicist and said, “Thanks, Hal, that needed saying, but I’m glad it didn’t fall to me to deliver the speech. Now, ladies and gentlemen, has any one any ideas on how we should proceed?”
Several voices responded at once and Hendriksson opened a large jotter and prepared to take notes. “Let us begin with Ms Henderson. Fire away, Jenna.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The four soldiers padded slowly and cautiously around the ramp, which depended from the interior of the spaceship to the hard-packed surface, all the while keeping a wary lookout for anyone approaching too close. So far no one had sought to test the resolution of the sentries and everyone had maintained a respectable distance from the ramp. Private Carlos Ruiz halted and stared up into the brightly-lit interior of the ship. The recently installed floodlights cast harsh shadows, but within the ship, everything he could see from ground level was bathed in an even yellow light. He caught a glimpse of the top edge of a highly-polished metallic cylinder and took a step towards the ramp in order to gain a better viewpoint. The barrel of his sub-machine gun suddenly sparkled violently and dissolved into a cloud of fine powder, which glittered like diamond dust in the strong light as it floated to the ground. Ruiz stepped backwards in alarm, cursing fluently in a mixture of his native Spanish, and Anglo-Saxon that he had recently acquired from his British comrades.
Sergeant Jim Scott, who was nearby, heard the commotion and strode over to Ruiz. He immediately spotted that Ruiz’s M4 carbine was missing its barrel and part of the gas charger. Interrupting Private Ruiz’s stream of invective, he demanded roughly of the other three sentries, “What happened here? Has Ruiz been playing silly buggers?”
Private Ruiz resumed cursing as none of his fellow guards seemed inclined to answer the sergeant’s question. Scott turned on Ruiz. “Unless your tequila breath has melted your gun barrel, Sonny, you’ve been poking it where you shouldn’t have. Now, are you going to tell me what happened, or are we marching across to talk to Colonel Suarez?”
Ruiz regarded his comrades despairingly. They shrugged, and their expressions said ‘own up and take your punishment’. That told him his best course of action would be to confess, and explain that it was an accident. “Can I show you something, Sergeant?”
“Ok, but it had better be good.”
Ruiz stepped a couple of metres nearer to the open ramp. “I was here, Sergeant and I saw that—” He indicated the top of the metallic cylinder just beyond the head of the ramp. “I moved a little nearer to get a better look and my gun barrel vanished. It was an accident.”
The SAS sergeant peered at the place Ruiz had indicated and saw a partial boot print in the thin layer of dust that had settled since excavation work had ceased. It was at least two metres from the bottom of the ramp. “Colonel Suarez should make you pay for repairs to your weapon out of your own pocket for being stupid enough to get that close. We all saw what the ship did to the Huey, or have you forgotten?”
“No, Sergeant.” Ruiz was feeling utterly deflated.
“You’d better hand over your M4 . . . or what’s left of it, and I’ll see what I can do to prevent the colonel from staking you out in the jungle overnight.” He grinned to relieve Ruiz’s mounting tension and as he t
urned away to head for the site canteen, he gave a loud sniff and commented, “You’d better check your drawers Private, because you must have come pretty close to crapping yourself.”
As Scott strode away, Ruiz called after him, “What do I use instead of a gun, Sergeant?”
Chuckling, Scott replied, “You’ll have to point a finger and say ‘bang!’ Look, if your mates can’t deter people from entering the ship with their weapons, you’ll have to use your bare hands. But, whatever you do, stay here while I talk to Major Heathcote and Colonel Suarez.”
Ruiz turned to see three grinning faces and he knew he was going to be the talk of the mess for some time.
*
Jim Scott entered the canteen and approached Major Heathcote as quietly as possible in order not to disturb the meeting. He whispered, “Can I have a word, Sir?”
Heathcote turned his attention away from Mike Carter, who was on his feet presenting his views on how the exploration of the ship should proceed. Scott held up the remains of the M4 Carbine and Heathcote’s eyebrows rose a couple of notches; otherwise, he gave no indication that he understood the implications. However, he immediately rose to his feet and the sound of his chair scraping on the floorboards turned heads and halted Mike Carter in mid-speech.
Impatient at being disturbed during his presentation, Carter enquired, “Is something wrong, Major?”
Major Heathcote glanced at Colonel Suarez, who had also noticed the damaged weapon, and the colonel gave his approval to continue. “Sergeant Scott has some bad news, Dr Carter. I’d better let him explain. Sergeant?”
Scott made his way to the area that served as a focus for the meeting. Standing beside Mike Carter, he held up the remains of the semi-automatic carbine for everyone to see. He looked over the expectant faces. “This happened a few minutes ago,” he told them, “when one of the sentries detailed to guard the ramp, accidentally got a bit too close.” A murmur arose amongst the scientists as they realised that almost thirty centimetres had been sliced from the barrel section.
