by Rob Rowntree
“Got anything useful?” Alan asked, as he lowered himself into his data well thinking it a stupid question considering the buffeting the ship had taken, was taking.
“The engines are struggling against something,” Woodland stated. “I haven’t got a clue what though. If I didn’t know better I’d swear we were being pulled out of blue-space.”
“Conway?”
No reply. Alan’s ports itched, grew hot and for a split second he felt like his neck was on fire as the two sealed couplings readied themselves.
“Conway?” He tried again, annoyed at the lack of response.
“I’m trying my best Alan,” Conway replied. “But this is why I hired you. This is your show.”
Okay, I get the message. Relaxing into his couch Alan closed his eyes. For a moment darkness heightened the struggling ship’s motion. Then... Spore Expansion.
Coldness gripped the nape of his neck, extinguishing the fire as his spore-ports opened. The hiss of nano-nodes pummelled his hearing and he quickly took a look at his data well. Myriad specks of ruby light filled his vision as the ship dumped billions of the laser nodes into his space. Closing his eyes again he felt the wetware optical connections flex, his head uncomfortable but not pained. No, never pained, and anyhow, it was worth it. Optical links writhed from his neck ports, waving like expectant snakes and the nano-nodes, the spores, burst into radiant light. As the mechanical parts of his mind, the links, flooded with information-giving light, his sensorium expanded, became the size of the data-well, the size of a ship. Blue-space lay revealed at the speed of light.
Alan became Haqiqa. His will the means to flight.
Blue twists and whorls held him in a churning vortex. Above, the vortex narrowed and spiralled away, below it expanded and grew. Alan spun. Don’t fight it, drift into the motion. Alan felt himself wallow a little, but the yawing smoothed out. He rode a wall of blue-death.
So far, so good. Woodland’s voice, “The engines aren’t straining as much, but there appears to be a power surge.”
Alan said, “Get Kiki to help.”
“But she’s sti—”
“Get her.”
Moving lower, the funnel broadened. The ride against the vortex wall steadied, yet an upward pressure forced Alan to compensate. Firing the upper docking thrusters helped, but the small jets of gas were rapidly becoming useless. Perhaps something really was trying to eject them from blue-space. Alan could not remember hearing of phenomena like this...ever. Was it weather? Blue-space weather, now there’s a thing.
Enjoying his immersion, he tested his environment. As he edged himself around the confines of the vortex, he tasted cinnamon and lemon, smelled the burnt tang of salt-encrusted beach-wood, and felt the gentle caress of the vortices’ calm centre against his skin: all artefacts of Spore Expansion, all rewards for being one with the ship.
Drifting a little, he moved out into the dead-centre of the vortex. Forces tried to spin him but he countered with several small bursts of his lateral thrusters, holding steady. Below, at the very edge of his senses he saw something flicker, almost a blink. Watching, he felt an upward surge and saw the funnel convulse below, a constriction racing up towards him. Mere minutes remained before it reached him — an eternity for his light-enhanced mind.
A convulsion racing upward...
Alan/Haqiqa turned towards the rapidly spinning wall. It raced by in a sheet of translucent blue, bulges and rills hinting at texture and structure. Gently he moved toward it, easing left into the direction of spin. Almost parallel he nudged into the flow. He lurched and pitched downward. His skin screamed: he felt twisted.
Pulling away he turned one-eighty, applied maximum power and dived straight into the onrushing maelstrom. Absently he heard metal groaning, felt his skin pucker and bend, the sheet of vortex-wall washing over him in a torrent of cold slashing knives. He sensed rather than saw that it was working, momentarily certain that the calm of blue-space lay only meters away and then they were thrown inward, back to the heart of the vortex, trapped like a drowning spider in a bathtub.
What to do? To go up might take them out of blue-space; it certainly looked like there might be a rip in the blue-space interface boundary. He looked again at the dark patch topping off the vortex. Perhaps that would be the correct choice. They could always re-enter. Well maybe, as long as the engines weren’t fried. Down’s out of the question. He took a quick look and the constriction appeared nearer. What?
Then an idea formed and grew — an old idea.
Alan drifted back towards the wall and increased the rate of climb to give the crew more time. “Woodland,” he tried to sound calm, “please launch one of the ship’s landing shuttles and tether it to the loading bay.”
“What?”
Christ was the man deaf? “Do it now and open the shuttle’s cargo bay. And relax. You are going to love this.”
Long moments later, Woodland said, “We’re go, Alan. Tether secured.”
Alan nudged the shuttle out, the vehicles thrusters pushing silent bursts of gas into the void. All the time warnings begged for his attention. Yes, the airlock to the bay would remain open. He killed the alarms. As soon as the shuttle cleared the bay, Alan/Haqiqa felt himself slew right and for a moment he wondered whether the stresses involved would tear the ship apart. Numbers said no.
The convulsion appeared nearer, a searing bright blue throat come to vomit them from blue-space.
Aligning the shuttle, he brought the Lander’s engines on line.
He heard Woodland say, “I’ll be damned, a sea anchor.”
“Hang on to something.”
The shuttle’s engines burned purple as it darted at the vortex wall. Maximum velocity occurred moments before contact. The shuttle hit the wall and Alan/Haqiqa swung around an arc directly opposite to the wall’s rotation. The fast approaching convulsion barrelled into him as he dove into the wall. Main engines fired and Alan felt the sharp bite of the vortex shudder across his skin. Metal screamed and twisted, it buckled. He felt the skin peel away.
But he was out.
The vortex twisted away like filaments of light-bound smoke. At the apex Alan saw a small shadow, a pit in the fabric of blue space, momentarily there and gone, like the fading pillar of light that it rode.
Alarms sounded. Alan suppressed fires; activated auto sealants in lower compartments. Telltales showed all crew accounted for. However, they were one shuttle light.
Alan searched and found the little craft burning bright as it tumbled away into blue-space. Farewell little buddy, you did us proud.
***
Conway came to his cabin.
“I assume there was no other way, Alan?” He beckoned Alan to follow him.
Trailing Conway, he eventually entered the crew lounge; as he made his way between plush sofas and low tables towards the conference room, he had to admit that perhaps he could have tried a few more options. “I made a decision and it worked.” He told Conway. “The loss of the shuttle is problematic in as much as it cuts into our ability to deliver hardware to any planetary surface we wish to visit, but personnel can be transferred by the skiff and we still have one shuttle. It’s workable.”
“Just, Alan.” Conway pushed through clear doors into the conference centre and stopped. Turning he added, “We could have left blue-space and retained the shuttle. Our mission profile would still be intact.”
“Yes, the option had occurred to me. However, there was no guarantee that we’d have come out in one piece. I’ve never encountered blue-space ‘weather’ before and to be frank, I doubt any of you have. My decision entirely.”
“Yes. Indeed.”
Alan detected a sour note and replied with, “What do you mean by that?”
Alan observed Stowe and Pickering seated along one side of the oval conference table. Blood encrusted Stowe’s head, a dark stain on her pale complexion. They both appeared shaken. Woodland sat near the far end and coughed politely.
“Nothing, Alan.” Con
way answered. “A mere observation, that’s all.” He edged into the conference room.
Stepping in behind, Alan veered to sit by Woodland. The room felt muggy but they waited patiently until, moments later, Gibson, Shepperd and Kiki entered. She looked tired, her skin translucent, dark rings under her eyes testament to her worries. Nor did she make any attempt at eye contact.
Seemingly oblivious to all this, a satisfied Conway said, “So, where are we?” He raised a hand, “No, don’t answer.” Pensive, he gripped the end of the table. “There are those who would describe me as stubborn, bombastic, even cruel. Such are qualities for which I don’t particularly mind recognition. It’s not as if these emotive descriptions contribute in any way towards the goal that I set myself, and yet I find myself wondering, right here on the edge of our great quest, whether these things have any importance at all.
“Many of you here and those now sadly missing—”
Kiki uttered a small sob.
Conway cleared his throat, that in itself demanding their attention. “They came to this mission with plans of their own, each linked through the tragic loss of the Peterson’s crew. Gibson and Shepperd are here for their blue-space quantum interface experiments, Kiki and Rosie for testing of their voyage timing mechanism. Only Stowe, Pickering and I are along for the sole purpose of finding the Peterson.”
Alan reached over for a glass of water, its pouring a noisy distraction. Yet he didn’t mind, why should he, Conway’s speech felt like just another drum rattle.
Conway continued, “You know, of course, that I believe Peterson’s crew made some sort of landfall and that we retrieved several blue-space interface messages of low quality. The quantum data on their position was indecipherable. There was a search and Woodland, I have no doubt, would agree that the search came up short in the thoroughness stakes. Suffice to say that we didn’t find the crew or the ship.”
Alan’s heart skipped a beat, “I thought you already had the position nailed down.”
“A small fabrication, a sweetener.” Conway smiled and ignoring Alan’s glare continued, “And so you ask, what is it that I have? What piece of the puzzle? My colleagues I have a new message, one received only three years ago. It’s sharper and more defined. The location data is still incomplete, but not as imperfect as before. We know which system, but not which world.
“We are on the edge of mystery my friends.
“In approximately five hours we will exit blue-space and then... What? A ring of debris circling a frozen moon? The vacuum-rusted hulk impacted on some asteroid—”
Woodland coughed; Alan hid a grin behind a hastily placed hand.
“Yes, Woodland?” Conway said.
“Are you going to show us the record?”
“When we exit blue-space.”
“Why not now? There’s no need for the amateur dramatics.” Woodland appeared agitated.
Conway sat like a man who had time; he wouldn’t allow impertinent questions to faze him. He said, “All in good time Woodland.”
Alan chipped in with, “Woodland’s got a point, Mr Conway. Where’s the harm in showing us now.”
Through a wry grin Conway said, “Where’s your sense of adventure Alan? Whetting the appetite is half the fun.”
Stowe, Pickering and Kiki rose and began moving towards the door, the meeting at an apparent end.
Alan too rose, walked over to Conway. “This game you are playing has gone far enough. After we exit blue-space I expect you to show the record and come clean regarding the true nature of the voyage. Do I make myself clear?”
Before Conway could answer, Woodland caught hold of Alan’s elbow and guided him to one side. “Can I have a word?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Not here. Follow me.”
Alan drifted out with Woodland, “Where then?”
“Just around this corner, out of ear-shot.”
“You think we can talk safely around a corner? Conway’s probably got the ship bugged like a cockroach infestation.”
“If we keep walking it might be safe.”
Stopping in a corridor close to the observation lounge Woodland produced a small black oblong device from his pocket, the size of a small chocolate bar. It nestled in the palm of his hand, its blackness trying to steal any light that fell upon it. “You ever see one of these before?”
Alan stared hard at the object, “Yes. And you can forget about asking me to help you with it.”
“No, you’ve got me wrong.”
“Have I? I’m aware you and Conway are sharing the same ship under sufferance and I could believe you’d want to use that. It’s not too far a leap.”
“Stop. You are making the wrong assumption. After Rosie died and you got us all thinking about the extinguishers, it made me wonder why they’d tampered with all the extinguishers in engineering.”
Alan decided he should listen. “Okay, go on.”
“What would have happened if both Rosie and Kiki had picked up a tank each?”
“There’s a possibility they’d both be dead.”
“Hit the spot there, sport. That would leave us with no engineers. Doesn’t that seem a little odd to you? I mean what would that achieve?”
Alan thought for a moment and said, “I see your point. Even with the engineers dead we could still have flown the ship home.”
Woodland grinned and said, “Kill the engineers and create a big diversion. Make us check the fire extinguishers throughout the ship. Bloody petty and ultimately pointless. So I got to thinking. In what situation would a lack of engineers cause a problem?”
Alan saw it then, “It would be a great friggin’ problem if the engines malfunctioned.”
“Give the man a prize. I completed a thorough walk through of the engine housing yesterday and found this nuzzled up against the power-core.”
“Where’s the rest of it?”
“Back in my cabin, now.” Woodland’s eyes never left Alan. “Quantum decoherence bombs are nasty little weapons.” Woodland said. “Would’ve totally scrambled the blue-space engines. We’d be stranded. It’s lucky I found it. This here detonator only had a few hours left on the clock.”
“Either these things were planted before we left, or there’s a saboteur on board.” Alan paused for thought. “No not likely, the engine spaces would have been empty when we left; the port crews always do an inspection.”
“Could have been one of them,” Woodland suggested.
“It might have been, but my money’s on one of us, one of the crew.” Alan couldn’t quite grasp why a person would go to so much trouble, for something they thought important, only to kill themselves to prevent Conway achieving his goal.
“Alan?”
“Sorry. I just can’t get to grips with why? It makes no sense.”
“Terrorists never do. Trouble is they have their reasons.”
“I guess.”
“I’ll report this to Conway, and I suggest we keep our eyes open.”
“Yeah, sounds okay. And Woodland?”
“What?”
“Thanks for confiding in me. It was a risky step considering you have no idea who the saboteur is.”
“Yeah, right. Be seeing you.”
Woodland turned and walked away.
Later, lying in his bed Alan couldn’t shake off the feeling that the walls were the sides of his coffin and somewhere outside, his brother Jimmy clamoured to get in.
Chapter Seven
Darkness and Light
Phasing Haqiqa into real space Alan shed a tear.
The loss felt unbearable and already the cravings were beginning; small tremors threatening to shake his limbs, his stomach icy. In his data-well the nano-spores retreated, making way for the more mundane virtual screens and manual image manipulators. His spore-ports gently closed. Special sacks of nano-manufactured enzymes and proteins pumped healing salves about his body. He felt blind.
Perhaps Jimmy had experienced this; one moment fully functional an
d the next – closed off, segregated by a gulf of longing.
Concentrating on his breathing and listening to the slowing rhythms of his body, he steadied himself, reached out and brought up the exterior view. Overlaid by navigational markers and distance graduations the image looked contrived and unreal. Alan sighed and with the flick of a finger removed all the over-laid data from the screen.
Blackness.
He dimmed the lighting in his well and around several nearby work stations.
“Hey,” Woodland yelled. “No need to dim my display.”
“I’m taking a look outside,” Alan said, expecting Woodland to understand. Many years had passed since he last looked.
Something fogged the blackness - Wisps of lace and gossamer, faint and indistinct, like a frosting on coal.
Haqiqa kept a twenty-four hour clock and here, nestled in the early hours, Alan knew that the majority of the crew were asleep. He took his time, allowed his eyes to adjust.
The frosting taunted, played with his sight, hinted at structure and depth. Yet, no matter how hard he stared it remained just a smudge, a luminous trail that slid from substance every time he tried to focus.
Alan knew it was the Perseus arm of the Milky Way. That fact made him feel small, yet the enormity of their journey finally began to infiltrate.
He estimated they had travelled some five thousand light years and arrived at a place visited only once before by the Peterson: Had they experienced the awe he felt now? Felt the frisson of the unknown, and the fear? The dizzying distances played in his mind and he realised Conway’s navigation construction had been excellent. The old guy knew his stuff.
Alan played with icons and the stationary ship began to slew around.
For a moment the outside feed faded to full darkness, but gradually, like a multicoloured sunrise, light flooded in from the left.
The encroaching brightness forced him to glance away. He flicked on the radio-telescopes and listened to the increasing hiss and bubble of interstellar static as Haqiqa turned to face the Orion Spur.
Data feeds along the bottom of the screen informed that they were two-hundred and fifty-three light years from the arm’s boundary. He knew that this was an illusion, the arm had no real boundary; the stars formed an uneven topography, but here, so far away, it was easy to believe that the stars just stopped; formed a frontier that defined the edge of the empty rift in which they now floated.
