ARIA

by Geoff Nelder

  ISBN: 978-1-905091-96-6

  Ebook version

  © 2011 by Geoff Nelder

  Published in the United Kingdom by LL-Publications 2012

  www.ll-publications.com

  57 Blair Avenue

  Hurlford

  Scotland

  KA1 5AZ

  Edited by Billye Johnson

  Proofread by Janet Schelke

  Book layout and typesetting by jimandzetta.com

  Cover art ©2012 by Andy Bigwood (http://topaz172.deviantart.com)

  Cover design by Helen E. H. Madden (www.pixelarcana.com)

  Printed in the UK and USA

  ARIA: Left Luggage is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are entirely the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, transmitted, or recorded by any means whatsoever, including printing, photocopying, file transfer, or any form of data storage, mechanical or electronic, without the express written consent of the publisher. In addition, no part of this publication may be lent, re-sold, hired, or otherwise circulated or distributed, in any form whatsoever, without the express written consent of the publisher.

  “Geoff Nelder inhabits Science Fiction the way other people inhabit their clothes.”

  —Jon Courtenay Grimwood

  “ARIA has an intriguing premise, and is written in a very accessible style.”

  —Mike Resnick

  Robert J. Sawyer calls ARIA a “fascinating project.”

  “Geoff Nelder's ARIA has the right stuff. He makes us ask the most important question in science fiction—the one about the true limits of personal responsibility.”

  —Brad Linaweaver

  Escaping Reality

  Exit, Pursued by a Bee

  Hot Air

  This novel would not have been possible without a Dawes Super Galaxy allowing me to cycle up the Welsh slope of Horseshoe Pass, North Wales, making my heart thump so fast my brain – freshly oxygenated – buzzed with the original idea in ARIA.

  Each chapter cranked their way through the critique group of the British Science Fiction Association’s Orbiters. Encouragement came from Battlestar Galactica co-novelist Brad Linaweaver, award-winning SF writer Jon Courtenay Grimwood, and Stargate novel writer, Sonny Whitelaw. Urging me on were publisher Neil Marr of BeWrite Books, friend and guru Les Floyd, M. Kenyon Charboneaux, and literary agent and friend, Rebecca Pratt. Bec Zugor, advised me on the mad Doctor Antonio’s Italian language.

  I am the first person I know who has received an email from space when Leroy Chiao gave me technical help and a wish of good luck – while he orbited Earth on the International Space Station!

  In addition to the above, my friend, Robert Blevins of Adventure Books of Seattle, gave me moral support as did Gladys Hobson, a fine British writer from Cumbria. The world expert on pleonasms and tight narrative, crime writer and agent Allan Guthrie gave me valuable advice and support.

  During this time other novels and over fifty short stories had fled my fingers into the world, so my style evolved, and is still developing. Perhaps it is in the bronze age now. In the last minutes Zetta Brown and Billye Johnson tweaked and poked ARIA further. Thanks to them and everyone.

  None of this would have been possible if my wife had insisted I went out and found a proper job after I left teaching, so ultimate thanks to Gaynor and to my ever-tolerant grown-up kids, Eleanor, Rob, and their exuberant kids. Above all, they understand that when I am staring out of the window, I am really working.

  Wednesday 15 April 2015:

  Outside Dryden Space Laboratories, Edwards Air Force Base, California.

  THE DESERT HEAT PENETRATED Jack’s shirt, giving him a familiar, unpleasant wet trickle down his back. Sunlight lasered through holes in the bus shelter’s roof, making him shuffle.

  Climbing into the homeward-bound bus, he helloed Greta, the driver and then winked at familiar travellers.

  An unseasonable heat wave made the PVC seat sticky. At least the journey was short. The bus’s climate-control system had failed, so he had to share lungfuls of sweaty air.

  Jack thought of his secret. None of the other passengers had handled an alien artefact today. The first in the world, and yet, darn it, he wasn’t allowed to holler “It was me!” at anyone.

  Gazing out of the vibrating window at the passing ochre desert, he caught a childhood aroma, one that he’d thought he’d forgotten—butterscotch.

  Jack massaged his forehead. Strange, he only grew fuzzy heads like this with hangovers, but he’d not swallowed beer for days. It had to be dehydration.

  The desert town of Rosamund slid into view, so Jack queued, strap-hanging, in the swaying aisle.

  A few seats back, he caught Ken’s eye. “Hey, Jack, did something special happen at work to you today?”

  A few passengers nearby looked up at Jack.

  He distracted himself by looking through the windows at the white-walled tract houses decelerating by. He and his colleagues were not allowed to speak of work at the space lab, but that wasn’t it. He gazed up at the rectangle of blue sky in the roof. He couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast let alone the morning’s work schedule.

  Ken persisted. “You okay, Jack?”

  Hot though he was, Jack’s face heated more. A special day. He’d done something unique—a first, but darn it, he couldn’t remember what it was. His knees gave way, and he flopped into a seat. His head buzzed so loudly, it must have annoyed the other passengers. He remembered catching the bus to Edwards, but was that yesterday?

  He muttered to himself. “Don’t be stupid. Come on, man, what was in today’s newspaper?” Damn, he was losing his memory…or his mind.

  Then he caught a whiff of talcum powder and gardenia. His grandma used to reek of it. Smells alluded him these days. Something was messing with his brain.

  Through wet eyes, he noticed Greta looking back down the aisle at him. “Jack, your stop, buddy.”

  He hadn’t noticed the usual lurched halt. He staggered up and patted Greta’s arm. Then he looked back at her as she rubbed her head. Other passengers rubbed theirs.

  As he dismounted, he spotted a newspaper billboard announcing Wednesday’s lottery results. Hey, he thought it was Tuesday. Was amnesia his problem? Maybe it could explain why he couldn’t remember the morning’s events.

  The heat from the sidewalk baked his feet through cheap shoes as the bus grumbled away. He gazed after the bus disappearing in its own dust cloud, and he thought of the bus driver, what’s-her-name.

  Her face had looked sallow, green. Maybe he’d picked up a bug and infected her too. If her, then maybe all her passengers would get it and new passengers and their kinfolk. That’s one hell of a messed up world.

  The previous day, Tuesday 14 April 2015:

  The shuttle, Marimar, in orbit, is approaching the International Space Station docking port.

  Peering over Vlad’s shoulder at the porthole, Jena could see the International Space Station rotating. Damn, it shouldn’t have been. Along with the other four crewmembers, she couldn’t speak, holding her breath as she thought through possibilities. She’d worked darned hard to get a seat on this mission, and it looked screwed already. Several long seconds later, she touched the Ukrainian’s arm.

  “Vlad, let me see.”

  “In a moment. Ah…”

  She gave him the full force of a glare at the back of his head as if telepathy worked. She wouldn’t use feminine wiles in spite of unjust accusations to the contrary. She knew her success was based on skill and cunning, but in this charged atmosphere, nothing worked on Vlad. Tall, slim, and wearing his dark hair longer than the American male astronauts wanted to
, he was selected for this mission because of his phlegmatic coolness, which could be annoying when Jena was in a hurry.

  “Vlad, can you tell why it’s spinning?”

  “I think so, but I need another angle. Ah, found something.”

  Jena tried a push at his elbow to gain a better view. All she could see was her own reflection: jet-black hair and a scowling face—she smiled at herself.

  Dan’s worry lines pulled his black eyebrows too high. “You know why the station is tumbling?”

  “There, Commander,” Vlad said, “in the solar panel supports: a metal box. It must have given the station a nudge when it jammed there. Looks like a silvery suitcase.”

  Jena prodded Vlad’s shoulder. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, but I like to see things for myself, move the hell over.”

  A hand warmed the back of her neck, followed by Antonio’s breath. “Let me see too. It doesn’t look as if it belongs there, does it? Una bomba?”

  “Come away now, Doc,” Dan said. “Of course it’s not a bomb. Everyone strap in for final manoeuvring.”

  IT TOOK TWO HOURS for the five-man crew to match the spin, dock, and transfer to the ISS. Anxious to investigate the aberrant object, Jena rushed to the new control module. It smelt of plastic and fruit juice spilt by the installation crew. She focussed on a view screen, her nose twitching at the blackcurrant aroma. Her annoyance with sloppy work was mollified by the prospect of an intriguing problem to solve.

  Surprised at seeing her breath condense, she realized how much cooler the station was compared to the shuttle. She made a mental note to check then cancelled it— health and environment was Antonio’s remit. Their occupation with the enigmatic led to the danger of procedure slippage. She glanced around, noting scuffmarks on the grey plastic and aluminium curved walls. Her frown deepened at the sight of scribbled numbers on a locker. Anyone would think the place was a building site. Then she smiled—that’s exactly what it was.

  Dan disrupted her inspection. “Jena, snag that suitcase with the remote-control grabber.”

  The metallic case was just big enough for a weekend away. An apparent seam existed where a holiday suitcase would have been squashed shut but no padlock. The aluminium struts on the space station were not magnetic, and yet…

  Jena frowned. “Damn, it won’t shift. Someone might have to go EVA.”

  Vlad headed for the suit locker. “I’ll go. I’ve nothing much else to do until my observations start.”

  “Hang on,” Dan said. “Vlad, you set up the remote radiometer. Let’s see if the case is emitting nasties. If anyone is going out, Abdul has more experience.”

  Jena knew Vlad would be disappointed not going for the EVA. “I know I said an EVA might be needed, but I can’t see how Abdul’s going to move it from out there if this robotic arm and its four tons of prodding power can’t.”

  Vlad winked at Jena. “He might see what’s holding it down.”

  Jena gave up on the remote grab. “Any ideas on what it is before you go for a walk, Abdul?”

  Abdul twitched his thin moustache. “Could the case have come adrift from another part of the station? Part of the antenna housing, yes?”

  “No.” Vlad looked at Jena for confirmation. “I worked on that last year. It looks nothing like the antenna components. The case out there has a raised mark on its side.”

  Jena looked again at the camera image. “I agree there’s a mark. A chevron.”

  She looked at Dan for the EVA go-ahead.

  “We really ought to await compliance from Houston. Okay, I appreciate they might take so long that whatever it is out there becomes a danger if it shifts. So, Abdul…I don’t have to tell you…”

  “Take no chances? Of course.”

  Jena put her hand on her hip. “What’s the protocol for handling possible alien artefacts?”

  “It’s never happened, so there is none. Or…” Dan’s eyes darted between them.

  The after-thought that the case might be alien hit Jena. Dan’s high blink rate told her his mind and emotions must be in turmoil too. But Jena knew the crew must occupy a scientific detachment. What was she, a machine? Even so, she bottled up her growing exuberance.

  “Protocols were possibly drawn up fifty years ago, penso di si,” Antonio said. Nothing ever fazed him.

  Jena loved his Turin accent but there was something unsettling about him. She said, “We’ll make up a protocol as we go along. No, that wasn’t a joke. I mean we didn’t have any training on handling alien artefacts.” She thumbed up at Abdul as he headed towards the suit lockers.

  Dan muttered as he sat at a console. Keyword searches on the procedure for handling alien artefacts came up blank. “I don’t know... Maybe I’m being over-cautious, but we should wait clearance from Houston, even if they have to convene meetings with the President—it could be that important—”

  Jena interrupted Dan, noting his thinning hair as if he’d lost more with this worry. “I don’t think we should wait for Caroline Diazem to make up her presidential mind.”

  Antonio smiled, his almond complexion a result of Italian breeding and Mediterranean sunshine. “Commander, this is an international mission. President Diazem is delusional. Thinks she rules the planet, si? If we wait for the United Nations to decide on what to do with the case, the end of Time might arrive first.”

  “Commander,” Jena said. “Abdul’s suited up and already on his way out.” She paused, noting that Antonio was studying Dan with interest. Dan had been chosen to command two other shuttle and International Space Station missions, not just for his intelligence and resourcefulness, but for his unflappability. She’d observed that serenity didn’t always achieve respect from eager astronauts like Abdul and wondered how Dan would handle such blatant insubordination.

  “I suppose I kinda gave him a go-ahead,” Dan said. “But we mustn’t let our excitement over this case get in the way of procedures. We must consider all the options.”

  Jena concealed a smile and yet knew Dan had little choice.

  After deploying the sensors, Vlad activated the cameras to record Abdul’s EVA. Jena knew that Vlad wanted to be the one out there. She put an arm round his shoulders.

  “I love the beautiful silence,” Vlad said. “To the purist, it isn’t infinite, but it is to me.”

  “Me too. You Ukrainians don’t possess a monopoly on the awesomeness out there, although you sure have a unique way of expressing it.”

  Dan called over to Vlad, “Anything from the remote sensors?”

  “Nothing detectable emanating from the case, sir.”

  On screen, Abdul swam into view. After he clipped his boots into a strut, he opened the jaws of a light titanium grapple and touched the case. It moved.

  Antonio said, “I see it’s been programmed to be helpful in the presence of humans.”

  “Or in the presence of Arabs, praise be to Allah,” Abdul said, as he prepared to take the case to a small holding dock on the station.

  Jena waved a hand at the screen. “Maybe Abdul’s disrupted some kind of field.”

  Vlad, touching Jena’s hand, looked at Dan. “I don’t suppose—”

  “No way. We’re not going to try and open it until Houston orders us to.”

  Jena hoped to change his mind. “Wonder what’s inside though.”

  “It would make more sense for it to be opened up here than Earthside,” Antonio said.

  Vlad pulled a long face. “Thank you, Doctor. That presupposes we can open it and that it’s really a bomb.”

  “Not a bomba. We have to be prepared for it to represent a hazard. It’s my profession.” Antonio tapped a folder bearing a silver caduceus.

  A full minute of silence passed as they contemplated what could be a stupendous decision.

  “Look at it from another point of view,” Jena said. “It might be easier to figure out what it might be if we knew who’d left it here.”

  “And why,” Dan said. “Let’s list the options, no matter how crazy.
One is that it’s a breakaway component from this station. There are thousands, many already redundant.”

  “Two,” Vlad said, his eyes bright, “is that friendly aliens from Proxima Centauri have sent us a greeting.”

  “Three,” Antonio said, “the greeting is a mix of viruses we have no immunity against.”

  “Or blueprints to cure all diseases,” Vlad said, batting back. “Oh, that’s still number two.”

  Dan said, “Four, it’s not a breakaway but a piece of equipment left behind by some clumsy engineer. I’ve been worrying about just this sort of incident now that we have up to five different consortiums and nations sending people here.”

  “It is an International Space Station,” Jena said. “In theory, we could have two hundred countries sending suitcases up here. Oh, and five, it could be debris caught in the struts from any of the hundreds of orbiting artificial satellites. They could be ruptured by meteoroid impacts and—”

  Vlad interrupted her. “The constant orbital surveillance team at NASA would know—”

  “Not necessarily,” Jena said. “I did a duty with them last year.”

  “So what? They always have at least one operative looking for aberrant satellite behaviour,” insisted Vlad. He waved at Abdul making his way back to the hatch.

  Jena waved too. “Sorry, Vlad, there are often bursts of overkill of data. They still haven’t got the threshold for alerts to a reasonable trigger level. For example, when the Chinese destroyed their own satellite in 2007 there were tens of thousands of parts scattered in that polar orbit. Okay, so the large pieces were tracked, but there were ricochet effects off other satellites. It took a big effort to track everything from that one event. Some satellites rupture with micrometeorite hits, and—”

  “So, a satellite could be knocked off course and no one notice?” asked Vlad.

  “If the satellite was switched off or dead, it could be weeks.”