by Ezra E Manes
“Wait, Carlos.”
He turned hopefully back toward her.
Gloria’s reply was short but not hostile. “Not with all we have to do right now.” Then she looked his trim, muscular body up and down and smiled. “Ask me again in a few months after we get this ship operational.” She then turned back to her notes.
He nodded and left without a word, happy that she had not totally rejected him.
He sensed her watching him in the next design review meeting and looked up to engage her eyes directly. She smiled, then blushed and concentrated back on her schematics.
They soon became friends, with a growing respect for each other’s work. He enjoyed working with her and wanted there to be something more.
Carlos became more involved with operational testing as the work advanced into the integration and testing phase, and seldom saw Gloria, who was busy resolving the last few design problems. He sought her out when he could but almost always found her busy with work. Sometimes she would take a break to talk with him, and he came to cherish those moments, which deepened their friendship.
George continued providing updates on the unfolding story of Zilia. The Zilan civilization had advanced uninterrupted for several millennia, quite in contrast to that of Earth. Elements of their impressive technology base had been in existence well over a millennium. But it was strange this technology had not evolved farther, particularly considering the rapid advancement of technology in Earth’s civilization over the previous three centuries.
There were no individual nations and countries on the planet, only large regional zillahs, or districts, that all answered to a centralized global government. No large military organization existed, only loosely coupled militias enforcing civil law and responding to emergencies. Incredibly, the population functioned as one large integrated society, with no real apparent distinction among zillahs, except the products produced in the different regions.
Carlos realized this lack of nations, and consequently of competition among them, could explain the lack of more advanced technology on Zilia. The bond holding the utopian-like society together appeared to be common religious beliefs, with the predominant religion believing in one God who created the universe. This religion had very similar structure and beliefs to most of the religions on Earth, another cause for wonder, speculation, and debate by those of Earth origin.
The integration of religion and government was pervasive on Zilia. This was a boon in that crime was almost nonexistent; it was a bane in that much scientific research was stifled. This was particularly true in medical research addressing the very nature of the Zilans’ physiological makeup, and in any technical research that would challenge their strong religious beliefs.
The planet’s population was concentrated in the northern and southern temperate zones. The occupied regions were expanding beyond the temperate zones, even though the global population level appeared stable. This dispersion of population had driven the need for global communication and navigation systems.
It was curious that once Zilia was well understood, Earth initiated a program to increase yet again the number of space transports launched toward the Messier Colony. The timing of Earth’s action raised a paramount question: What was prompting the decision to speed up expanding the colony at a time when they were facing the unknown challenges of dealing with another intelligent race in the neighborhood? Fremont Jones and Joe Fairling shrugged it off when Carlos asked them such questions, giving circumspect answers that the colony would be ready for all immigrants coming their way.
For the first time in Earth’s history, direct contact with another sentient race was imminent, and certain to change the future in dramatic ways. Carlos wondered what his role in that uncertain future would be.
FOUR
MISSION TO ZILIA
His decision should be easy, go with the most experienced pilot for the Messier Colony’s first extrasolar mission—the mission to Zilia. That was the selection committee’s strong recommendation. However, Edward Turney had achieved his current leadership position by looking beyond so-called easy decisions.
President Turney poked a finger at one, then another of the personnel files displayed above his desk, reviewing qualifications of the three top pilots in the Messier Colony. He knew each pilot well and had arranged the files from most experienced on the left to least experienced on the right.
He rubbed his chin and looked again at the file on the right, that of Carlos Sepeda. In spite of Sepeda’s success on the Democritus mission, other pilots had much more experience piloting spacecraft to and from the planet Hope, the space station, and the Moon Research Facility. However, none of those pilots had experienced hibernation.
An extraordinary episode involving Sepeda when he was a child enabled developing hibernation advances. And now Sepeda had successfully tested the advanced hibernation system during the Democritus mission. Would he have the best chance of surviving if something went wrong during the extended hibernation period required during the Zilia mission?
Turney flicked his finger, scrolling through Sepeda’s file, mentally checking off qualifications. He paused at the file report on Sepeda’s near-death experience at age seven. He remembered it well; he had been the Messier Space Station commander at the time.
Commander Turney pushed through the anxious crowd gathered in the waiting area and entered the infirmary emergency room. The Code Red medical team was gathered around a small boy lying dormant on a transit gurney––seven-year-old Carlos Sepeda. His body had been found in the hold of a drone transport craft. The drone cargo hold had been depressurized en route to an external construction site.
“It can’t be!” Dr. Loaks exclaimed, her voice high pitched. The space station’s lead doctor looked as anxious as an intern making her first diagnosis.
“What can’t be?” Turney demanded, striding across the room. The medical team shifted to make room for him near the gurney.
“He should be dead,” Loaks said, pointing to the monitors. “His vitals show he’s in deep hibernation. That’s impossible under these conditions.”
“Explain!”
“His metabolic activity is almost zero, as is his heartbeat and brain activity. He’s in a very deep sleep. I’ve only seen this condition in people in hibernation cells, prepped for long space flights.” Loaks paused, then added quietly, “I’ve called for support from our hibernation unit.”
The medical team continued examining the young boy, monitoring vital signs, peeking inside with a noninvasive ultraspectroscope, and performing automated blood analysis. They drew a small amount of spinal fluid for analysis. The boy’s pale skin felt cold and clammy. They discovered a small lump and cut behind his left ear, possibly from a fall. However, this did not explain their other findings.
A large, stout woman rushed in, out of breath. Commander Turney turned to greet Colene Harken, chief hiberneticist, but she ignored him, pushing medical staff aside at the gurney.
“What’s this about the boy still being alive, Dr. Loaks?” Dr. Harken began examining the boy.
“He is alive, Colene, but just barely,” Loaks said firmly, regaining some composure.
“We’ll see about that.” Harken checked the vitals data. She lingered over the brain activity scans. Then she checked the boy carefully from head to toe, poking into all orifices and pulling back his eyelids to look deep into his eyes.
“No tissue pathological damage evident. Amazing,” she said, to no one in particular. “Internal neurological and hemorrhaging damage possible.” She then examined the blood and spinal fluid analyses results.
Dr. Harken turned toward Commander Turney. “This boy is in a state very close to complete suspended animation, and he’s in remarkably good condition. I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t seeing it for myself. What in the world happened to him?”
“The boy’s class was on a field trip to look at shuttlecraft used to move construction materials for the space station expansion,” Commander Turney
said. “They went aboard a shuttle loaded and ready to fly as a drone to an external construction site.
“Young Sepeda is a curious boy, making it a challenge to keep him focused on his studies. His teacher paired classmates for the field trip as a precaution against someone wandering off, in particular this boy, but he slipped away in spite of this.”
The commander paused, noticing the frown growing on Dr. Harken’s face. He was rambling, having difficulty admitting how long the boy had been without oxygen.
“In short, the class left the shuttle, all hatches were secured, and the shuttle was launched under remote control. Controllers began depressurizing the shuttle hold in preparation for offloading materials at the external site.
“The teacher noticed Carlos was missing several minutes later, and then a girl admitted seeing the boy climb into the hold. Our controllers sounded the alarm and turned the shuttle around. I’m afraid the air pressure, and consequently the oxygen level, dropped well below that sufficient to sustain life before we discovered the boy was there and repressurized the hold.”
He then added somberly, “The boy was in a low pressure, reduced oxygen environment for over twenty-eight minutes.”
The click and whirl of monitoring equipment were the only sounds in the emergency room for several seconds, and Commander Turney could see hopelessness in the eyes of the assembled staff. Twenty-eight minutes was several times longer than the brain could go starved for oxygen before irreversible damage occurred, even as cold as the shuttle hold had become.
The pulmonary technician broke the silence. “The boy’s heartbeat is coming up, as is his respiration rate and body temperature!”
The medical staff quickly checked vital stats. The boy’s legs and arms began twitching, and he showed rapid eye movement. His face became flushed. The boy shook his head, mumbling something about bright bubbles and games.
Commander Turney leaned close to hear what the boy was saying.
“Dad, did I play good?” the boy whispered.
President Turney sat up straight, clearing thoughts about young Sepeda’s miraculous survival with no ill effects from the shuttle incident. Data taken from the seven-year-old boy, including his detailed description of steps taken mentally to enter hibernation, had greatly advanced human hibernation technology. The haunting question was, how had the boy learned to hibernate? Turney dismissed the boy’s claim that “angels” had saved him, that his mom and dad had told him what to do.
Turney turned off the personnel files. There was more at play with Carlos Sepeda than met the eye. He recalled another odd incident with Sepeda when he was three years old; the child insisted his parents had visited him in the childcare center after they departed the Messier Space Station. The problem was, Sepeda’s parents had died minutes earlier in a shuttlecraft accident while departing for the planet Hope surface colony. Turney still got goose bumps thinking about the security video that appeared to substantiate what the child said.
He sat back in his chair, decision made. Now, how could he get the selection committee to agree?
So, I’m not going on the Mission to Zilia, Carlos thought.
He could not get even a hint about those under final consideration for the mission. From comments he’d overheard by a staff member from Fremont Jones’s office, he was sure the team list was complete. He sensed that Fremont was avoiding him, which was not a good sign.
As the Zilia story unfolded, he became even more intrigued and determined to be on the crew chosen to travel to this newly discovered civilization. The thought of making initial contact in person with another intelligent race was captivating. He had trained every day of his life for such an eventuality, although he had not realized it until discovery of Zilia.
He had pushed the bounds of ethical behavior in making sure his excellent performance record stayed visible to those who would be making the crew selection decision. This exuberance might have hurt his chances of selection to the team. Fremont simply ignored any overtures, and Carlos finally stopped trying because he was not receiving any positive feedback.
It had to mean he hadn’t made the cut. He struggled to keep focused on the New Horizon modification efforts but couldn’t help being irritable and moody.
A summons to meet with Fremont only heightened Carlos’s concern. Fremont surely knew about his irritability on the job, not to mention his erratic behavior during the Democritus mission. He paced back and forth in the small reception area of the Mission Control offices until time for the meeting.
“Hi, Carlos,” Fremont said casually as he entered the small reception area. “Come along; we have just enough time to make our meeting.”
Fremont offered no explanation as they walked down the passageway toward the center ring of the space station. Carlos’s anxiety increased as they approached the offices of the president. The receptionist ushered them through the outer office and on into a conference room.
It was startling to find President Turney and several senior leaders of the colony waiting. He had encountered the president infrequently during the years since his shuttlecraft incident at age seven, but never in a formal setting like this. He knew three of the other individuals very well. Carlton Tinker had been his faculty advisor throughout engineering graduate studies, and Joseph Fairling, head of astronautics training and Mission Control director, was a person Carlos had come to know well and respect. His old friend Dr. Stavonoski was there as well. The others were various colony division leaders he knew only by name.
President Turney greeted him with a broad grin and an extended hand, but that was the extent of the cordiality during the meeting. It quickly transitioned into an interview to determine his suitability to command the forthcoming mission to Zilia.
Five hours later, the committee excused a shaken Carlos. Fremont followed him to the door, placed a hand reassuringly on his shoulder, and asked that he wait in the reception area.
The hours of intense questioning had drained Carlos. The committee left no area of his education, training, and experience untouched in their questioning. It was particularly difficult answering questions about how his parents had died early in the Messier Colony expansion activities, and about his own near-death experience. In addition, President Turney had probed what led to his decision to monitor the Nepali C system. Carlos answered objectively and honestly but did not mention the siren’s songs in his dreams.
About half an hour later, President Turney, Joseph Fairling, and Fremont Jones joined him in the reception room.
“Congratulations, Carlos,” the president said. “Our esteemed committee concluded you are highly qualified to lead the mission to Zilia team. I concur with their assessment. Frankly, I felt that way before we started the meeting. Do you accept this responsibility?”
Carlos was speechless for a moment, but recovered quickly. “Yes, sir!”
“We’re counting on you,” the president said as he shook Carlos’s hand. “This is an extremely tough assignment, and we intend to field our best team. Congratulations again, and good luck.”
The president excused himself as Joseph and Fremont were congratulating Carlos.
“I’ve had my eye on you for a long time,” Joseph said, “and you haven’t disappointed me. I’ll be your mission director, and Fremont will be your mission coordinator, your day-to-day supervisor. That is, when you’re not lazing around in the deep freeze.”
Carlos laughed at this last statement. Both men knew he had a distinct distaste for hibernation.
Fremont congratulated him next, showing more emotion than normal by hugging Carlos.
“I want you to know that we’ll eat, sleep, and live this mission from now on,” Fremont said with sincerity and just a little sternness. “But for now, keep this to yourself. We’ll identify the remainder of the team within a week.”
“Thank you both for your vote of confidence,” Carlos replied huskily. “I’ll do my best to keep this to myself, but it’ll be hard to wipe the grin off my face.”
They turned to leave, but then Fremont stopped. “Just what does President Turney know about you that we don’t know?”
This was the second time he had asked that question, and Carlos was still uncertain how to answer. “I’m not really sure, Fremont. But someday I’ll tell you about my angels.”
Fremont looked puzzled but followed Joseph Fairling out the door.
Carlos had never felt happier as he headed back to join an ongoing fueling system test review. The stress built up over the previous six months as they modified the New Horizon now faded away. He felt a sense of rightness about the way the future was unfolding. He now had more reason than ever to keep focused on getting the spaceship modifications completed.
Fremont was true to his word about selecting the remainder of the team quickly. A week later Carlos found himself summoned again, this time to a large conference room near the mission control center. He entered the meeting room ten minutes early and was surprised to find Fremont waiting alone.
“We’re meeting at 0930 with the other prospective crew members,” Fremont said before Carlos could even say hello. “First, I need to brief you on the crew selection criteria dictated by Earth. Everyone, including you, must agree to these criteria to be on the team. Your signing up first will set a good example for the rest to follow.”
There goes my lock on the mission commander position, Carlos thought. But then, what could Earth possibly dictate that would keep him from signing up to lead the team?
He counted fourteen positions set around the large oval conference table, but only two at the head of the table had name signs, identifying the mission director and mission coordinator. Each position had a thick briefing notebook in front of it.
