Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  “Aeson, what is the personnel status at the location of the Ghost Moon?” the Imperator asks.

  “The SPC patrols are now in place,” Aeson replies. “Our ships are on standby, but with sufficient clearance from the Ghost Moon’s focal coordinates. If—when—the moon emerges into normal space, they’ll be safely out of the way of any dimensional displacement.”

  “Good,” Romhutat Kassiopei’s voice says. “We are almost out of time. Use the next few moments to focus yourself and your voices, everyone. Earpieces in.”

  And then silence returns. I stand up from my hovering chair, and carefully insert the earbud in my ear. Leaning over the console I hold down the button until it goes from steady to flashing green. All the while, I go over the details in my mind. . . .

  As I wait, exchanging nervous stares with Oalla, I find myself gently clearing my voice a few times, then take a quick sip from the water bottle.

  This is nerve wracking.

  Moments later, the Imperator’s voice returns, this time in my earpiece. “Counting down now. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

  My gut clenches with nerves, so I breathe deeply, to free up my diaphragm.

  “. . . seven . . . six . . . five . . .”

  The round walls of the spherical chamber seem to be closing in. I stand before the console, with my hand ready to pounce, as if I’m about to hit the buzzer on one of those Earth TV game shows.

  “. . . four . . . three . . . two . . .”

  The world, everything around me, comes into sharp, clear focus.

  “. . . one . . . zero.”

  I place my hand on the console and sing, even as I hear the Imperator’s powerful Logos voice fill my ear.

  The keying sequence is simple. As the first note issues out of me, the resonance chamber comes alive. The sound is all around me—it builds, rises in a tidal wave and fills the spherical chamber. There are echoes, but because of the small size of the chamber, the sound waves dissipate quickly even as they rebound—they are sucked in and absorbed into the hungry orichalcum layers of the walls, and are sent onward to their destination.

  We are done with the keying sequence. Now the main program sequence begins. It’s that same stupid, long sequence that we all had to do over and over again to make the ark-ship stop humming. . . .

  My clear, resonant mezzo soprano fills the chamber. Meanwhile, in my ear I hear the Imperator’s dark voice singing the same identical notes.

  Soon it feels like the very air is alive, as the frequencies continue to dissolve and are transmitted elsewhere along immeasurable cosmic distances. . . .

  Finally, it’s over. I grow silent, and lift my palm from the console to stop transmitting my voice.

  Did our effort work?

  I won’t know, not for some time. The earbud in my ear is silent.

  Oalla is staring at me. Then she glances at the wrist comm unit on the arm of her space suit where a small holo-marquee is running with text. I’m guessing she is checking for updates from the SPC patrols who are on location.

  “Oalla?” I ask after a few beats of silence. “What’s happening?”

  Before she can reply, I realize that my voice has transmitted to mission control since I did not disconnect the link.

  Moments later, the Imperator’s voice sounds in my ear. “Good question. Re-connecting my Son to all of you in conference mode. Aeson, what is the status on site? Report!”

  And then I hear Aeson’s voice come in. “My Imperial Father, Gwen . . . everyone. My SPC patrols on site report a brief fluctuation—a ripple in the fabric of space—for lack of a better description—at the intended coordinates of the moon. But the Ghost Moon is still locked out of our normal spacetime.”

  “Rawah bashtooh!” the Imperator’s voice explodes with devastating force as he curses carelessly in all our ears, including the primary head of state of Ubasti. “We will repeat the procedure immediately, while we still have some moments of alignment remaining—”

  With a sinking feeling I listen to my Imperial Father-in-Law rant at us, knowing that if this didn’t work once, it’s not likely to be any different if repeated.

  Repeated . . . what if it’s repeated differently?

  An idea comes to me.

  “Um . . . Imperial Sovereign,” I say. “Why don’t we sing together as a Plural Voice Chorus?”

  “It is what we are doing already!” the Imperator responds in my ear. “You are singing together, all of you—”

  “Actually, not quite,” I say. “I mean, what if we go off earpieces and sing directly into the resonance chambers all together, so that we can hear each other’s voices resonate in each of our chambers as we sing, and all the chambers hear all of us? It should multiply the impact of our voices! This way each chamber picks up all our voices and strengthens and reinforces the sound—”

  “Stop! Yes, yes, I see your meaning.” The Imperator cuts me off. “We have so little time, that I will take you up on this notion, Gwen. Now, silence!”

  Moments later the Imperator instructs us all to disconnect from the earpiece transmission mode and sing directly into the chamber even as he sings to all of us. “You will hear not only me but each other, this time—disregard the unusual echo and any reverberation which will be present under these non-standard circumstances, and continue to sing as before. Now, begin!”

  On cue, we begin the procedure again, starting with the keying command and continuing with the main sequence. This time my resonance chamber rings with an unimaginable glory. . . . Not just my own voice but a chorus of six such voices fills the space, so that my fine hairs stand on end along my skin, and it seems that all my nerve endings resound like tuning forks.

  The Plural Chorus of Logos Voices is astounding. . . . Aeson and the Imperator are both low baritones and they lend profundity and weight to the Plural sound, their voices anchoring all of us and sinking into the very foundation. An octave higher, the two tenor voices of my brother Gordie and Anen Qur ring forth like grand bells, ranging outward with clean, deliberate force. Then comes my own mezzo, at the next octave up, filling in the cracks, crevices, and empty spaces left by the tenors, singing in my lower registers and in the alto range, for more power. Finally, Manala’s soprano cuts like a fine, sharp blade, soaring another octave above all.

  Oalla is fixed motionless as she listens to us, frozen in wonder. . . .

  When the command sequence is done, we go silent.

  I find that I’m trembling.

  Several terrible moments of silence follow.

  Once again, I watch Oalla stare at her wrist and the incoming data transmissions there.

  And then, just as I notice a lively change in her expression, I hear Aeson’s voice.

  “Something has happened,” my husband says in a careful voice. “SPC pilots on site report a sudden massive energy displacement and a shock wave at the coordinates.”

  “What? Go on!” the Imperator’s voice breaks in.

  “My Imperial Father,” Aeson says after another beat of silence. “I can now confirm. The vocal sequence procedure had a positive effect. The incorporeal object at the coordinates—the Ghost Moon—has now entered normal space. Congratulations, Father, we now have a new moon in orbit, and it is contained at the predicted coordinates.”

  “So . . . it is real . . . an actual moon!” the Imperator says in an almost dreaming voice. “What a successful mission, at last!”

  “Indeed, this is a remarkable development,” the voice of the First Speaker of Ubasti, Anen Qur, comes in. “Congratulations are in order, to all of us in these difficult times—”

  “Of course, we are highly grateful for your vital role in this, First Speaker,” the Imperator says in a smooth tone. “The cooperation of Imperial Atlantida and Ubasti in this venture is a fine example of the alignment of our goals when it comes to keeping our planet safe—”

  “Speaking of safety—we had a few of our pilots spun and tossed on the shockwave, but fortunately no vessel damage and no c
asualties,” Aeson adds. “They are now in the process of estimating distances and assuming orbit over the moon. I’m dispatching research vessels and landing parties now. First sensor data is coming in already and they are reporting significant gravitational effects—”

  “Yes, yes, excellent. So much to learn! And all of it will be dealt with shortly,” the Imperator says. “For the moment, I pronounce this astroctadra endeavor a success. We are done here and you may all return to Atlantis.”

  A few minutes later, we end our conference transmission. Oalla and I put on our helmets and gloves and re-pressurize our space suits. Oalla shuts off the life support in the habitat and we carefully climb out through the opened hatch into the thin vacuum-like atmosphere of Mar-Yan.

  Walking on the dull grey regolith, we return to the khepri, signal our approach to the crew, and climb inside. Then we take off from the surface and rise into orbit, from where our vessel sets course directly back to Atlantis.

  “Astroctadra mission control,” Oalla says, “Bast relaying our approach home.”

  This time, the view through our cockpit window is dense with cosmic colors and full of stars.

  Chapter 79

  About an hour and a half into our flight, we begin to see Atlantis swell in size from a tree ornament to a sizeable sphere in the viewport. And then Aeson’s voice comes in on the comms.

  “This is Astroctadra mission control. All mission vessels, be advised—we are now experiencing strong weather on Atlantis. This is a direct result of our mission, as expected. The moon is exerting gravitational influence on our local planetary system, and our weather control systems are still reprogramming the new parameters to compensate. As you make your home approach, expect atmospheric turbulence and more. Relayed and closing.”

  “Well, here we go,” Oalla says with a glance at me and the other crew. “Looks like we might have an exciting ride.”

  I stare at her with concern. But Oalla gives me a comforting smile. “It’s going to be fine, Imperial Lady Gwen.”

  “Should be fun,” Axela adds.

  Xurut just chuckles.

  Half an hour later, we reach Atlantis orbit. “Astroctadra mission control,” Oalla calls. “This is Bast vessel, now assuming planetary orbit. Going to automatic survey mode to look around the globe once before landing. Please acknowledge.”

  “Phoebos acknowledging your position. Bast vessel proceed with survey orbit before attempting landing. Reports are coming in of atmospheric gravity waves and multiple major tidal events on the surface.”

  “Phoebos, this is Bast. Did you say tidal events? Please clarify.”

  There is a short pause, as Oalla and the rest of us listen intently.

  “Phoebos confirming. Scan the surface in the location of the oceanic belt. Zoom in to observe catastrophic tidal wave activity. The Djetatlan Ocean in the Lower Hemisphere, bordering New Deshret has multiple tidal waves building.”

  “Ah . . . bashtooh,” Oalla whispers. She then says loudly. “Phoebos, understood. Bast vessel inquiring about the status of Atlantida?”

  “Bast, the reports are inconclusive. Assume the worst, proceed with your orbital survey then attempt landing—carefully. Relayed and closing.”

  When Aeson’s transmission ends, Oalla turns to us with a fixed expression. “We are going to stay in orbit for now,” she says in an overly calm tone.

  My heart starts to pound. “Oalla, what’s happening down there?” I ask.

  “I’m guessing, atmospheric gravity waves causing air displacement, hence storms. Huge tidal waves forming because of the moon’s gravitational pull. Most likely other phenomena, but I know only as much as you do,” she replies.

  “What about everyone in Poseidon? Is it in danger?”

  “Probably not,” she replies after a small pause. “The Golden Bay is a nice big gulf that would keep any such tidal activity at a minimum, even without active weather control in place. But the rest of the coast is likely taking a beating.

  “I would hate to be in New Deshret right now,” Xurut says. “They’ve been having constant weather tech problems all Green Season. And now—their broken algorithms can’t keep up with these new variables that are suddenly in play.”

  “They’re going to need help,” Axela says, staring at the viewport where a long stretch of blue ocean greets us below as the continental landmass drifts out of view. Even as we stare, cloud cover is building to indicate storm activity.

  My poor Dad is down there on the surface, I think. So is Gracie. I really hope all they’re experiencing is some minor bad weather. . . .

  It takes us almost two hours to do a full orbital revolution. The crew analyze the incoming data on multiple grids, while I wait, staring at the planet below anxiously, watching more and more clouds appear. At some point I see hurricane eyes begin forming and point them out to Oalla.

  “Oh, yes, that circular funnel. Interesting,” she says. “I don’t recall seeing a fully formed hurricane over a planetary surface before.”

  My eyes widen in surprise. “Not even on Earth?”

  “Um, no. . . .” Oalla pauses to think. “Although—I take that back. Yes, of course I’ve seen hurricanes—such as the ones on your Jupiter and the other gas giants. Our own Atlas and Olympos have them too. But they look absolutely different, gigantic, homogeneous. I just mean I’ve never seen a hurricane over a habitable planet with weather control. This one is a small snowy funnel in comparison—”

  “Trust me, they’re not a joke when you’re in the middle of one, getting blown about by gale winds and flooded by storm surge. Horrible!” I say. “People on Earth have suffered tremendously from hurricanes over the last several decades. I would not wish them on Atlantis!”

  “I understand, and my apologies if I understated the seriousness,” Oalla says gently to me.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Sorry that I snapped. I’m worried about my family and everyone down there right now.

  “I know,” Oalla says. “Me too.”

  Eventually we proceed with the landing. Everyone is buckled in, and Oalla insists we wear our full suits with helmets and pressurize them for safety as we descend.

  We begin our gradual fall at an incline, piercing the upper atmosphere then diving into an ocean of clouds that were not there before and now occlude most of the fierce daylight into a soothing grey pallor.

  The khepri gets pummeled and tossed, and I come to appreciate the loose harnesses that keep us suspended and minimize the worst of the effects of rising gravity on the ship and our bodies.

  The continental landmass emerges at last from out of the clouds. And as we fall closer, just before landing I come to see the city of Poseidon in the daytime under amazing conditions—a cloud overcast.

  The khepri comes to a hover stop in the familiar Imperial airfield, then coasts for about a hundred meters before entering the same hidden hangar in the rear.

  “Astroctadra mission control, Bast vessel has landed safely in Poseidon. It is now fifth hour and twenty-seven daydreams of Khe.” Oalla sends one last comm transmission before we shut down the ship and get out. With our helmets finally off, fresh clean air hits us, together with chill, damp wind—a coolness that’s unseasonal for this time of year. The wind buffets us with hard gusts in the open airfield.

  Oalla, Xurut, and Axela, all stare with frowns at all that strange sky water coming down on our heads.

  We walk back to the Imperial Palace in the impossible rain.

  Once in the Imperial Crown Prince’s Quarters, we get out of our suits, and Oalla and the two crew members excuse themselves in haste.

  “Thank you so much, Oalla,” I say before she heads out the door. “Your leadership and help were tremendous. I really must thank you for taking care of me so well. Now I just want to make sure Aeson and everyone else is okay. My brother Gordie, Manala—”

  “Yes, yes, of course, My Imperial Lady—always my pleasure to assist you,” Oalla replies in a slightly hurried tone. “I’m on my way to Kass�
��s workroom now. You should come by there if you want to know what’s happening. He will be there shortly with the others.”

  I nod, and she rushes away.

  The first thing I do is go check up on my Dad in the guest quarters.

  My father is standing near the window when I get there. He is all alone—no one else is in the room, not even the frequent palace servants—and I notice he is holding Mom’s urn and speaking softly to it.

  I stop in my tracks and freeze.

  “. . . What a grey, beautiful day, Margot,” Dad says wistfully, looking out through the window at a lofty view of the distant city and the grand park and gardens far below. “I have never seen such calm, peaceful colors here . . . you should see it. . . . Looks like rain. What a wonder.”

  I take a step into the room, and Dad hears me. He turns around, startled slightly. But his calm demeanor returns.

  “Daddy,” I say.

  “My Gwenie-girl.” He sighs. “I was just talking to your Mom. Sometimes I do that, you know.”

  With slow, careful movements he sets down the urn back on the side table in the corner.

  I approach Dad without a word, and wrap my arms around him. Together we stand looking at the distant city and the strange rain.

  “I miss her so much,” he says after a few moments.

  “I miss her too. So much.”

  “So how was your important mission?” Dad asks after several minutes. “Gordie and George are still not back.”

  “Don’t worry, they should be here soon. It’s so weird, Dad. Today—I was walking on a moon,” I whisper. “And then—then we sang together, and we brought another moon back into our world.”

  “Sounds miraculous.” Dad makes a soft sound of amusement and wonder, then shakes his head slightly in disbelief. “Who are you, daughter of mine? An astronaut who sings moons into being!” He turns and glances at me directly and chuckles.