by Rob Rowntree
“Alan, we’ll be getting underway at eleven hundred hours. You’ll find a briefing of our flight profile in your data storage. Before then you may wish to familiarise yourself with the flight systems and navigation interface. I’ll join you on the flight deck before departure.”
Alan rose from his chair but not before draining his glass. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll be ready by eleven hundred. One thing, would you mind if I sent a little data package down to Jimmy. He likes to keep tabs. I did promise I’d keep in touch.”
Gazing out of the window, Conway absently waved a hand, “Of course. It’s only reasonable.”
Reasonable? Despite revelations, Alan found the thought amusing; especially since there could be nothing further from the truth when it came to this voyage.
***
Alan slid the drawer shut, happy that he’d stowed his gear easily. The cabin, though not as grandly finished as Conway’s was spacious, its décor pleasing rather than striking. At least it didn’t have an art exhibition!
A knock at his open door surprised him.
Woodland leaned against the door jamb. Alan detected an air of eager nonchalance about him. “Well, how did the chat go?” Woodland enquired. “You feel any happier about the trip?”
“To be honest, I’m still not sure, and in view of what Conway did reveal, I’m not sure what all the fuss is about. Peterson’s crew is apparently long dead and although I can see some merit in finding a derelict as historically important as the ship undoubtedly is, I can’t fathom why the trip is attracting undue attention. Conway gave me some spiel about extra information he has, but—”
“Yeah. It’s an odd situation, but I think you’ll find things falling into place soon.”
“Maybe. Look, I’m heading to the flight deck, so later yeah?”
“If you don’t mind Alan, I’ll tag along. Nothing much to do, so I could give you a hand. Conway’s an old goat with a lot of skills, but I do believe he isn’t the pilot he thinks he is.”
Feeling shoehorned, Alan nevertheless agreed; they made their way to an elevator. The ship lurched, Alan grabbing on to the rail inside the elevator, “The Cargo Hopper leaving.” Alan said.
“I guess,” replied Woodland.
The elevator continued down, taking them to the flight deck.
The flight control deck consisted of an oval room the size of a large private swimming pool with two sunken data-wells and several technical stations on a mezzanine surrounding the wells. Yes, Alan thought, all compact and neat.
In the wells, immersion couches reclined awaiting occupants. Conway already occupied his.
Making his way down to the couch Alan felt a fleeting familiarity steal over him. His spore-ports tickled and shifted, stimulants pushed to be free and he longed for the welcoming embrace of immersion. Everything retained elements recognisable to all Deepship pilots.
Once comfortable, he allowed the ports in his neck to open. Triangulated membranes flexed and pulled back revealing two orifices. Ruby light played from them as bunches of optic neural-fibre bundles sought the floods of information that were to come.
Body ready, sixteen data-well information nodes opened, dumping clouds of nano-spores into the well. A lacy network of ruby light sparkled as the spores communicated with each other. Myriad spores shifted, sending dark bands swirling through the cloud and then, primed and full of potential, spores pooled their information, sending it by laser directly into Alan’s wetware.
An intimacy exchanged, Alan and Haqiqa’s AI, probing, searching, invading each other’s minds. Rudimentary, but unpleasant. He released his counter-ware, darting deep into Haqiqa’s systems, priming data acquisition, shunting bundles of search-algorithms ever further into the chaotic mess of the AI. A few search routines met resistance, skipped and darted around un-inventive screening devices. Alan’s tiny subversives’ lodged in garbled data and loops within authentication programming. You could never trust AI’s. It reminded Alan of the old earth sailors continuing to learn and use sextants even when the world’s GPS system became almost fool-proof. You needed to be able to do-it-yourself. With current AI systems, you needed to go further, needed a cut off.
Pleasure centres pumped endorphins into his system; wetware neurons fired up, each a spore enhanced machine and Alan began to think at the speed of light. Information flooded in from outside, from storage and long dead libraries. He was home.
Absently, he noticed icons indicating technical positions coming on line. Woodland and others? And why not, they were coming to see the new guy work, check him out.
Ten-fifty-nine. Checking — power up, blue-space interface initiated. He felt it then, like an old friend tugging at his sleeve — blue-space interface drag — an undesired side-effect of entering blue space, but one that indicated things were in order. The drag to the right continued, and grew. The ship, the crew, indeed everything experienced increasing elasticity. Not real he reminded himself, just induced mental aberration.
Eleven hundred hours.
An observer would have seen Haqiqa slowly fade and then twist away to nothing. Inside Alan brought up the external view. Blue Sunrise.
To the left a blue cluster radiated like a star, its image resolving into a pixel-soup of overlaid points. Alan adjusted the image, allowed it to zoom out. Software floated the Haqiqa in a mist of blue pinpoints. Far away a blue sun shone. The mist thinned towards the edges of the image.
Conway said, “It’s beautiful. I never tire of this image. Perhaps this is the quanta that makes up the universe?” You could sense his delight. “I enjoy the idea that we may be floating in the very information that makes up the cosmos. Breathtaking.”
“I have heard that theory suggested before Mr. Conway. Not sure I buy it.” It’s as romantic as hell though, Alan thought.
Towards the view’s edge small Q-ghosts left dizzying trails in the mist. Here it comes, more pseudo-myth and theory...
“I’m aware that you have seen the ghosts, Alan. I knew you felt like me, there’s no hiding your heart.”
“Naturally curious, that’s all.”
Conway hacked a laugh, “Naturally curious! Nature has little to do with those ghosts, my friend.”
Uh oh, it’s friend now is it? “Little here makes much sense Conway and the image we get is a massaged representation of things that we could never observe with our own eyes. Those twirls in the miasma could be and probably are nothing more than data-glitches.”
“Alan, where’s your longing, your imagination? You’d steal the dream from under a sleeping child’s duvet with logic like that. No, there’s something there, a tangible reality waiting to be uncovered.”
Alan realised that he was starting to enjoy himself. “Hey Gibson, you online?”
“You’re not dragging me into this Alan.”
“And why not? Mr. Conway and I would like some input from an expert. While away the hours.”
“Alan, Mr. Conway, as far as I’m concerned the data manipulation programme we run for the visuals is representative of the external stimulus reaching the ship. I can’t give you any firm data on the ghosts. Every blue-space traveller sees them, reports them, but none have ever gotten close to the phenomena. Your guess is as good as anyone’s.”
Gibson was dry as an old fish. As he spoke, twin synchronised trails took parallel journeys across the top of the image. They danced and twirled, spiralled through intricate loops offering little indication of scale.
“You have to admit the possibility, Alan.”
“No, not a chance; the jury is still out on this one, Mr. C.”
Alan heard a muted laugh from one of the crew; he noted a humph of displeasure from Conway, the over-familiar use of Conway’s name and title hitting home.
Information dumped into Alan’s mind and later scrolled across Conway’s screen, Alan fully understood the contents and Conway made an announcement. “We will be in blue-space for four days, twelve hours and five minutes. Please thank our engineers for the information
when you next see them.”
This was the fabled duration measurement Kiki had mentioned. The unexpectedness of the information mixed with an unusual feeling of reassurance. For a moment Alan let the emotion wash over him. The measuring technique definitely did help confidence once the voyage was underway. It was safer, yet still felt out of kilter with his recollections of the service.
As Alan ran a full check of critical systems he said, “Knowing the duration of the flight takes a bit of the edge out of flying these ships. In the old days we had all that mounting tension and personal angst to deal with. What are we going to do now? Four days is hardly enough time to start a decent argument.” As he spoke he sensed that he might have gone too far, his sarcasm a result of his over-enthusiasm.
Conway picked up on it, “Alan your wit, such as it is, needs to remain checked. Please refrain from vulgar displays of crass humour while on duty.”
Alan noticed a non-functioning piece of software. He selected a diagnostic.
“Sorry Mr. Conway. It’s just that I’m so happy to be back here, doing what I love.”
“Perhaps, I showed too much leeway during negotiations of your contract. If you loved this so much you might have come for a reduced fee. Still, it’s only to be expected, your cravings drive your persona and I can understand that.”
Patronising git. Data shifted, called for attention.
Feeling suddenly vulnerable, Alan said, “That money is for Jimmy, Mr. Conway, you know that.”
Information burst against his musings, burrowed in demanding Alan’s attention. A klaxon burst into life.
Kiki’s voice came online, “Conway we’ve got a problem down here. There’s a fire in the coolant banks.” Her voice suddenly shrieked, “Rosie, no. ROSIE.” A muffled thud rumbled from the speaker and the Haqiqa wallowed. More klaxons sounded and beneath the blaring Alan heard Kiki, “Shit no. Rosie.” Alan heard her stifled sobs, as fire-icons began to pulse.
“Conway, the automated fire suppressant is not coming on line.” He quickly activated the system and readouts indicated the fire was dying.
Alan called the engine room, “Kiki, it’s Alan. What’s happening? Kiki. Kiki?”
To Conway he said, “Take over I’m going down there.”
“Gibson and Shepperd are already on route.” Conway threw back. “You should remain here.”
For a moment Alan hesitated. Screw that. He released his harness, the instant disconnection from blue-space ripping through him like a blow. “I’m going.”
“Alan—”
Moving to the elevator Alan said, “Look this ship’s in blue-space and we wait for exit. There’s nothing else to do; you can monitor the passive readouts. I‘m going.”
“Very well, but I expect a full report from Gibson and Shepperd. I’d like you to add any asides you’d care to make. Is that understood?”
It didn’t register at first. Only later would Alan realise that Conway had asked him to spy.
***
The coolant banks had a room to themselves. When Alan arrived a blackened mess met him via the doorway. Melted chairs, a table, proved how voracious the fire had burned. Something black and mis-shaped huddled in a corner. Nearby a severed, shrivelled limb held an exploded fire extinguisher.
Sobbing brought him to Kiki; comforted by Gibson. How young and out of depth she looked. Lost.
Turning to the carnage once more Alan looked closely at the extinguisher. Exploded. What could do that?
Beneath the room’s scorched, stinking surfaces the tell-tales still blinked, a reassuring light indicating that all was well with the engine coolant system. They’d been lucky. Without engines they’d have drifted in blue-space trying to effect repairs. Indeed apart from Rosie Black’s untimely and tragic death the mission was still intact.
Then it hit him. Surely not? But it fit.
What do you do when you see a fire on board? Raise the alarm and try to put the fire out. You take precautions but use the safety equipment. Once Rosie and Kiki realised that the fire suppression was out they’d have grabbed the nearest extinguisher, hoping to hold the fire back. Except this extinguisher had exploded.
“Gibson,” he said, “once it’s safe to enter can we get the extinguisher tested?”
“What?”
“The extinguisher. I need to know what was in it.”
Kiki raised her head and stared through Alan. “Rosie’s dead Alan. Please.”
Perhaps she thought him insensitive, but Alan felt a rush of relief that Kiki hadn’t been quicker to the extinguisher. He immediately regretted the thought, but it was there. He didn’t have to mention it to Kiki though. “Sorry Kiki. I—”
Tears came, the sound too much for Alan. He drifted back towards the elevators.
Chapter Six
Doubts and Vortices
Haqiqa’s observation lounge sported a bar with stools, a dining area scattered with round, four-seater tables and a more comfortable lower floor, where booths with over-stuffed seating snuggled up to a panoramic window. Subdued lighting allowed the colder light of blue-space to sparkle like frosted diamonds.
Gibson was late. That didn’t surprise Alan. The ship’s mood nose-dived soon after Rosie Black’s death and had never really picked up. Once the initial shock wore off, Alan’s insight regarding the extinguisher seemed obvious. That small consolation held no solace though, and Alan’s blurting it out at the scene had driven a gulf between him and Kiki that he thought might never be crossed. Her coolness towards him hurt considering their earlier camaraderie.
Soothed by the blue-space engine’s deep resonance, Alan relaxed and tried to make sense of her new attitude. The death of a long time friend and colleague surely would take its toll on Kiki. Death never sits well with the young; more something that the old or unlucky experience. Kiki would find a way to deal with it. Alan had time. He could wait.
Gibson’s footsteps played across the lounge.
“Thought you weren’t coming,” Alan said.
Gibson coughed and sat, he said, “Conway’s not happy.”
“You don’t say.” Alan couldn’t help being cynical.
“It’s not like that. He does care, but his passions run deep. This is the culmination of a lifetime’s effort and he feels that it would be against Rosie’s wishes that we turn back or postpone the trip.”
Alan smiled, “Especially since we are almost there.”
Gibson curled a lip, “Alan, you can be a real pain in the ass at times. The three extinguishers in engineering control all contained a gaseous suspension of explosive particulates, their original contents long since removed. However, they had the usual checks by health and safety before we left. Tamper seals in place. So my guess is that somebody onboard must have switched the contents.” Gibson paused to let that sink in, then continued, “Whoever used an extinguisher would have likely died. It’s a miracle Kiki didn’t grab one too. It could have been a lot worse.”
“Gibson, I just—Look, I’m having conflicting emotions too y’know. I apologise if I came over as asinine; fact is I’m worried that this trip’s planning could have been better. The level of opposition to the voyage seems out of proportion to any rewards it may bring.”
“It’s been like that a long time. One obstacle after another — permits, government flim-flam, poison pen letters, net mail and viral assaults.”
Alan reappraised Gibson, aware he’d made a point. “This sort of thing’s been ongoing for some time? Conway says he’s got all the cards, but it would appear that there’s another group who know as much if not more. Why try to stop the trip?”
Beyond the window tramlines began to appear in the blue.
Gibson rose, to leave. Alan looked up as Gibson turned his head away. Did he detect something? Fear perhaps?
“Gibson,” he said on weary breath, “this secret you all share is going kill us. Out here crews need to depend on each other, trust implicitly and unquestioningly.”
Gibson reddened. “And what do you
know of trust and loyalty that I don’t? What do you know of the sacrifices that have made this trip possible?”
“I—”
“Nothing, you know nothing.” Calming a little, Gibson added, “There’s more at stake here than the recovery of lost crew and family, records and data, a whole lot more.”
Through the window the tramlines expanded, wobbled and appeared closer.
“Gibson. Oh, what the hell! How can I appreciate any of this if you guys won’t confide in me?” Alan trapped Gibson’s look with his own. “Please, level with me.”
Alan watched Gibson’s receding back. Before Alan could say more he jumped at the sound of alarm Klaxons.
Alan felt Haqiqa slide and yaw and grabbed a rail as stabilising thrusters pushed and tugged at the ship. Somewhere glass shattered; he heard shouts and raised voices. Outside, a blaze of blue light washed over and through the window.
Near the door Alan slapped his wrist-link against an update node; Conway’s voice filled his mind. “Abrams, we need you in the data well.”
“On my way.”
“Okay,” Conway sounded rattled, “Abrams?”
“Mr. Conway.”
“There’s something out there, in the blue.”
Alan raced for the flight deck.
Descending two flights of stairs he turned left and followed Gibson past sickbay. Around a tight bend he narrowly missed Pickering and Stowe clinging to a hand rail. Some part of his mind wondered whether they were seeking cures for travel sickness; a small smile nicked his lips.
As the flight-deck neared, he felt his spore-ports itch and shift; endorphins washed through his brain, and adrenalin flooded his body. His wetware was coming online. Alan felt the exuberance of life take hold. Vision sharpened, sounds became distinct and all the while he knew the rush would soon be upon him. Expansion beckoned.
Entering the flight deck he noticed several things at once: Conway lying in his data-well, virtual screen and manual data feeds shrouding him like gossamer; Woodland faced an engineering console, the navy man’s eyes darting back and forth.
