by Jack Dann
Prophetic words?
In all innocence, I guess.
And, talking, she made it sound like nothing more than numbers, reducing a beauty that had the power to mist my eyes into something like math homework. Cubus plus sext rebus aequalis vigentum.
Once, staggering under the workload of a powered exoskeleton, I'd looked off the top of Ishtar's Veil, high in the Maxwell Montes of Venus, and seen a colored glory, swirling with the ripples of a Kirlian aura, stood transfixed by it. No numbers there. No numbers at all.
I'd shut Jennah up with renewed kisses, overwhelming her with the demands of innumerate flesh. After a while, she gave up telling me about the arithmetic of her dreams.
In time, I fell asleep, hoping to dream about Jennah, at least.
Dream about the things we'd done together, the simple fun we'd had in those little rooms. Maybe, if I dreamed that dream, I'd awaken in the night to find myself flooded with renewed desire. Maybe in the morning, I'd turn this thing around and drive on back to base. Drive back, look Jennah up and . . . what the hell would they do if I took some extra time off? Fire me?
Instead, sleeping, I dreamed about Christie Meitner, dumpy in her longjohns, barely human in her pressure suit. Christie Meitner and her fields of color. Christie Meitner hopping like a maniac, hopping on puddles of melted crayon stuff, driving the colors away.
I woke up in the morning, looked for a bit at my refrigerated sample, and then set sail for Workpoint 31, calling base to let them know I was sidetracked, that I'd call them again later with a revised schedule.
It's not far out of the way, I thought. A few hours, that's all.
She wasn't at the habitat, blue dome looking baggier than ever, rather seedy by daylight, and didn't respond to my radio hail. Well. Snowmobile's gone, at any rate. Since there was plenty of juice in the batteries, I turned and drove on, following the tracks down to the edge of the escarpment, heading for the rubble fall and her instrumentation site.
For some reason, I stopped a few hundred meters shy of the turn and got out, listening to the soft woof of the vent burner, wondering if she'd see the cloud of blue flame as it dissipated, rising above the cliff's edge.
I walked down that way, waxy surface crackling under my boots, steam rising around me once I got off the beaten track and started disturbing virgin regolith, finally stopping right on the verge, looking out into open space. The beach, silver sugar crystals woven with orange and black thread. The silver-red sea. The red-orange-brown haze farther on. The sky, orange and brown with red clouds and dark, faraway snow, descending blue bands of rain like shadows in the mist.
A soft voice inside whispered, Alien world. Truly alien. Moon, Venus, Mars, all just dead rock, whether under black sky, yellow, or pink. This place, though . . . I shivered slightly, though it was hot in my suit, sweat trickling down my ribs, under my arms, trickling down 'til absorbent undergarments wicked it up, fed it to the suit systems, turning it back into drinking water.
Below, stark and alien in the middle of the beach, Christie's instrument cluster was unnaturally motionless, powered down, I realized. Christie herself was a tiny, spacesuited white doll figure perched precariously atop the weather station access platform.
Batteries. The dead batteries were gone too. Ah. Over there, piled at the foot of the eutectic fall, where she'd also parked the snowmobile. Maybe she was planning on hauling them back to camp to take away. Good idea. Nice of her to . . .
Beyond her on the beach, right down by the edge of the sea, was a writhing spill of color. Blue. Green. Red. A broad stripe of olive drab, like a foundation between the others, making it almost look like . . . well, no. Only to me. Christie's down by the beach. What was she seeing?
The colors were moving slowly, like swirls of oil in a lavalite.
I released my suit's whip antenna and turned up the transmitter gain, intending . . . the colors suddenly started to jitter and Christie seemed to crouch, as if coiled by tension. Like she was . . . expecting something? Jesus. Imagination run riot.
I said, "Christie?" There was a background hum in my earphones, feedback from the halftrack communication system.
The colors jumped like water splashing away from a thrown rock, but Christie didn't look up, seemed wholly focused on what she was seeing.
"Christie? Can you hear me?" Could she possibly have her suit radio turned off? Stupid. Fatally stupid in this place.
And the colors? They broke up into jags and zigzags as I spoke.
Waste heat. Radio waves are a form of heat. Just another sort of electromagnetic radiation, pumping energy into the environment.
Christie stood up straight, looking at her chaotic colors, putting one hand to her helmet, as if trying to scratch her head. She looked down, bending slightly at the waist so she could check to see her suit controls. What? Checking to make sure everything that could be turned off was?
"Christie!" The colors pulverized into hundreds of tiny globules, which started winking out rapidly, one by one, then in groups.
Christie suddenly stiffened and spun in place, looking up, first at the clathrate collapse, then scanning along the top of the cliff. I was just a speck up here, but starkly alien against the sky, and she saw me in seconds.
Long moment of motionlessness, a quick glance back to where the colors had been, as if reassuring herself they were gone, then she waved to me. It took a minute or so before she remembered to turn on the radio.
By the time I'd gotten the half-track down to the bottom of the fall, wondering whether I ought to inject any words into the silence, failing to make any decision, Christie'd turned the instrument station back on, its weather station spinning and nodding, my comm system picking up its signal, data relayed to Workpoint 31, then on back through the microwave link to Alanhold.
How much energy is there in a microwave beam?
Plenty, I guess. Human science is playing merry hell with the Titanian . . . oh, hell. Ecosystem's not the right word, is it? Not in this dead place. Well. Our science wasn't making nearly the mess here Mother Nature'd made of Earth.
When we're gone, Titan will get over it.
Interesting to imagine a solar system empty but for our pitiful few ruins.
I helped her load all the dead batteries into the halftrack's unpressurized cargo bin, then followed her home in the snowmobile's wake, watching its misty rooster tail gradually grow smaller as she drew ahead.
By the time I got into the habitat, she was already stripped to her longjohns, bending over the open refrigerator door, rooting around among a meager pile of microwave delights. Holding the red plastic sack of a Quaker meatball sub in one hand, she half turned, face curiously blank, and said, "You want anything? I got, uh . . ." She twisted, looking back into the fridge.
All sorts of goodies.
God damn it.
I said, "Christie, we need to talk about what you just did. I mean, turning off your radio . . . ?"
She turned her back to me, putting the sub away, slowly closing the refrigerator door, slowly straightening up, facing the wall. Finally, a whisper, "What did you see, Hoxha? How long were you . . ."
How odd. What did I see? While I was thinking, she turned and looked at me, startling me with the depth of fear in her eyes. What the hell could I possibly have seen, that I . . . "I'm not sure. You were watching . . . colors on the beach, over by the sea shore."
A bit of relief.
"You know, it's funny," I said, watching carefully. "Those colors almost looked like they were . . . I don't know. Making a picture. Swirls. Like abstract art."
The fear spiked.
She said, "Did you . . . mention what happened last time to . . . anyone?"
I told her about Gualteri, watching her swallow before she spoke again.
"What did he say?"
I shrugged. "Said it was none of his business. Said you'd let us know when you were ready to . . . puh—publish." Publish! Jesus.
Audible sigh, eyes rolling back a bit. Then she looke
d up at me, stepping closer, and said, "That's right, Hoxha. My business. Um. I'd like you to promise me you won't . . ."
"Christie, I want to know why you turned the radio off. Now." People willing to violate safety regs for their own purposes could kill us all. And you know that, Dr. Christine Meitner, Ph.D.
The look in her eyes became almost desperate. "Hoxha, I'll give you anything you want to keep your mouth shut."
Laughter made me stutter again. "You're offering me a bribe? What the hell did you have in mind, your Swiss bank account?" Scientist like this would get a pretty penny for a trip out here. A lot more than some miserable little engineering tech. "You think there's anything left of the fucking Alps?"
That made her flinch for just a second, not quite getting through. Me, I suddenly saw Geneva in flames as the sky burned blue-white with tektite rain.
She looked away, breathing with her mouth open, swaying slightly. When she turned back, I was shocked to see tears in her eyes. She said, "Christ, Hoxha. Please. I'll give you anything you want! Just name it!"
Then she took the zipper ring of her longjohns and pulled it open, open all the way down the front, showing me big, flabby breasts, roll of soft fat around her belly, ratty tuft of reddish-brown pubic hair peeking through the vee at the bottom.
Standing there then, looking at me, eyes pleading.
And I felt my breath catch in my throat, caught by a bolt of unfamiliar feeling.
I put up my hand, palm toward her and, very softly, said, "Christie. Just tell me what's going on, okay?"
She looked down then, face clouded over. Slowly zipped up her longjohns, and I almost didn't catch what she said next.
It was, "I think the melted-crayon things are alive."
I held my laughter, looking at her, mouth hanging open.
It's all a lifetime ago, for all of us.
I remember when I was a little boy, seven years old, I guess, sitting with my grandfather, who must have been in his early sixties then, watching reports from the Discovery lander, setting down on Europa, releasing its probe, drilling down and down through pale red ice, down to a sunless sea.
Remember my grandfather telling me how, when he was seven, it'd been Sputnik on the TV, dirigible star terrifying on the edge that atom-menaced night, his grandfather a man born when the Wright Brothers flew, man who remembered being a little boy when Bleriot made his fabulous channel crossing.
There was no life under the icy crust of Europa, just a slushy sea of organic, scalding bubbles of water around lifeless black smokers. My grandfather died a few months before the first men got to Mars and proved there was no life there either, probably never had been, just as his grandfather died not long before Apollo touched down on the moon.
I figured I'd probably die just before men got to the nearest star, living on in some little boy's memory.
Shows how wrong you can be.
And now here I stood on Titan's lifeless chemical wonderland, facing a woman who'd gone mad, suffocating in a delirium of loss and denial.
Christie didn't argue with me, anger growing in her eyes, displacing the fear, masking her with the familiar scientist ego I'd seen on so many self-important faces, so often before. Sometimes they say, "Well, you're just a tech," and turn away. More often than not, I guess.
Christie led me outside to the half-track and made me drive her back down to the beach. We parked the vehicle well clear of the instrument station and she told me to stand on top of the cargo bin. "You stay here and watch. Otherwise we'll make too much waste heat and . . ."
On the run then, no more words for me.
Over by the instrument station, she took a pair of utility tongs and fiddled with something I could see sticking out of the beach regolith. Squint . . . yes. The top of a small dewar bottle. When she uncorked it, a hazy mist jetted, like smoke from a genie's bottle, rolling briefly, beachscape beyond made oily looking by the vapor.
"What's that stuff?"
She was panting on the radio link, out of breath, voice loud in my ears as she pulled the bottle from the ice. "Distilled from beach infiltrates. It's . . . what they eat."
She had it clear now and was scurrying toward the rimy area where cracked-ice beach became Waxsea surface.
"What're you . . ."
"Shut up. Watch."
She suddenly dumped the bottle, just a splash of clear liquid that quickly curdled and grew dark, billow of greasy fog momentarily disfiguring the air, then scuttled back toward me, dropping off the tongs and empty bottle as she passed by the station.
And it didn't take long for the colors to bloom.
Before she got to my side, blobs of red and yellow, pink, green, blue, were surfacing by the edge of the beach. Surfacing and then sliding inward, making the beginnings of a ragged vortex around the chemical spill. Around and down, dropping under the surface, not quite disappearing, surfacing again.
The smoking puddle of goo started to shrink.
And Christie, standing beside me now, said, "You see? You see?"
I said, "I don't know what I'm seeing. I . . ." I jumped down off the halftrack, bounding slowly in the low-gee, heading across the beach.
Christie said, "Stop! Stop it, you'll . . ."
I stopped well short of the slowly writhing conflagration of colors, marveling at how they stayed distinct from one another. You'd think when the blue one touches the yellow, there'd be a bit of green along the interface. Nothing, not even a line. Not even an illusion of green, made by my Earth-grown eyes.
They looked sort of like cartoon amoebas, amoebas as a child imagines them before he's looked through a microscope for the first time and realized "pseudopod" means exactly what it says.
And it really did look like they were eating the goo.
Suddenly, the blue blob nearest where I stood became motionless. Grew a brief speckle of orange dots that seemed to lift above its surface for just a moment, then it was gone, vanished into the beach ice.
All in the twinkling of an eye, too quick to me to know exactly what I'd seen.
The others followed it into nothingness within a second or so, leaving the smoking goo behind, an evaporating puddle less than half its original size.
I think I stood staring, empty-headed, for about thirty seconds, before trying to imagine ways you could account for this without invoking the magic word life. "Christie?"
Nothing. But I could hear her rasping breath, made immediate by the radio link, though she could have been kilometers away. "Christie . . ." I turned around.
She was standing right behind me, less than two meters away, eyes enormous through the murky faceplate of her spacesuit. She was holding my ice axe, taken from its mount on the outside of the half-track, clutched in both hands, diagonal across her chest.
I stood as still as I could, looking into her eyes, trying to fathom . . . Finally, I swallowed, and said, "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough," she said. Then she let the axe fall, holding it in one hand, head raising a few icechips from the beach. "Long enough, but . . . I couldn't do it."
She turned and started to walk away, back toward the halftrack.
The ride back to the habitat was eerie, full of that shocky feeling you get right after a serious injury, when the world seems remote and impossible. I couldn't imagine what would've happened if she'd tried to hit me with the axe.
Like something out of one of those damned stupid old movies.
The one about the first expedition to Mars, movie made almost a hundred years ago. The one where the repair crew is out on the hull when the "meteor storm" comes. There's a bullet-like flicker. The inside of this guy's helmet lights up, showing a stunned face, twisting in agony, then the light goes out and he's dead, faceplate fogged over black.
Just like that.
Our suit pressure's kept just a few millibars over Titan ambient by helium ballast. Maybe if she cut my suit, there'd be a spark and . . . I pictured myself running for the half-track, spouting twists of sl
ow blue flame.
She said, "I guess . . ."
Nothing. Outside, the sky was dull brown and streaked with gold, as well-lit as Titan's sky ever gets. Somewhere up there, Saturn's crescent was growing smaller, deepening shadow cast over her rings. You could tell where the sun was, a small, sparkly patch in the sky, like a bit of pyrite fog.
I said, "I keep trying to think of ways it could just be some fancy chemical reaction. I mean, organic chemistry . . ."
She snickered, making my skin crawl.
Back in the habitat, out of our suits, sitting at the table in our baggy underwear, we ate Caravan Humpburgers so old the meat tasted like filter paper, the buns stiff and plasticky, and mushy french fries that must've been thawed and refrozen at least once in their history.
Too much silence. Christie sat reading the ads on the back of a Humpburger package. Something about a contest where if you saved your wrappers and got four matching Humpy the Camels, you could win a "science vacation" to Moonbase.
I pulled the thing out from under her fingers and looked at the fine print. The trip date had been seven weeks before the impact. Christ. I said, "Maybe whoever won this is still alive."
Or maybe, knowing what was about to happen, they just sent him home to die.
Christie was staring at me, eyes big and unreadable.
"You going to tell me about the crayon things now?"
Silence, then she slowly shook her head.
I found myself thinking about the way she'd looked a couple of hours ago, offering her virtue to me like . . . hell. Like a character in one of those silly romance vids Lisa was always watching when we . . . nothing in my head now but Christie with her suit liner zipped open, titties hanging out, eyes begging me to . . .
I felt my face relax in a brief smile.
Her eyes narrowed. "Who you going to tell?"
"Nobody. I guess I was . . . reconsidering your offer." My own snicker sounded nervous.
