Nefir appears again in the view, and we suddenly recall that he is there, facilitating this communication.
“Thank you, Nefir,” I say.
“It’s the least I can do, Imperial Lady Gwen.”
That’s true, I think. And suddenly I’m reminded of another urgent time when Nefir helped me to contact Aeson—by messaging him from Earth directly to the ark-ship in orbit, during Qualification. It now seems such a long, long time ago, an event in another life.
“Now, what were you calling about, before all this?” Erita asks Nefir coldly and hangs back, giving me the tablet.
Nefir nods, gathering himself politely and this time speaks in a measured tone. “It’s about Earth. My Imperial Lady, I wanted to speak with you about the options before us to deal with the asteroid which is expected to make impact with the Earth’s surface tomorrow, your time. That is, Poseidon Time, at eleventh hour and seventeen daydreams of Ra, on Red Mar-Yan 17—or its Earth equivalent which is November 18, at 18:47 UTC.”
“Oh, ugh, yes . . .” I say, wincing. “Only a day left until Earth’s doomsday . . . ugh. So, what is being done about it?”
Nefir pauses. “There is very little that can be done. Right now, I am on AS-1999, and we are following along with the asteroid, flying with it to measure trajectory deviations under various impact scenarios, running more tests.”
“Impact scenarios?”
“Yes,” he says. “I am talking about the option of using this very ark-ship to strike the asteroid at high speed.”
“Oh, wow,” I say. “Do you mean to crash your ship into it?”
“Yes, that was the intent—to abandon the ship and take our various life boats, and set it on auto-pilot to ram the asteroid hard enough to set it a few degrees off course. Unfortunately, our predictive programs told us the result would be insufficient to make a difference in the trajectory. The asteroid is too mass-heavy to be moved by the power resources of this one ship. Furthermore, it will not break apart in most scenarios, and will still strike Earth—but at slightly different and potentially even more catastrophic coordinates, regardless of which direction we aimed the strike. And in scenarios where it did crumble, the individual smaller pieces were equally deadly and now, completely unpredictable.”
“Oh, no. . . .”
“Yes, the Archaeon Imperator had chosen a perfectly destructive object from the Oort Cloud, specified a very direct route for impact, and set it on course.” Nefir pauses, thoughtfully. “The biggest problem is the material makeup of the asteroid’s solid metal core. It has the remarkably dense composition of iron, osmium, platinum, iridium, plutonium and radium. And, before you ask, we tried magnetic tractoring to pull it via electromagnetic forces. However, there is something else in its core that interfered with the tractor, negating the magnetic force. We are now thinking it is the material that used to be orichalcum before it was fried and made inert by the Imperial Sovereign himself.”
“You mean Romhutat Kassiopei,” I correct. “Because, just in case you don’t know it, Romhutat abdicated in favor of his Son, earlier today. Before witnesses. Just before he Jumped into Ae-Leiterra.”
“What?” Nefir’s face stills into a mask of shock.
“Yes, Aeson is now Imperator. Your Imperator.” I feel an odd stab of satisfaction saying this to Nefir.
“Ah . . .” Nefir says softly after a long pause. “In that case—you are now my Imperatris—My Sovereign Lady.”
Holy crap. . . .
The realization strikes me stupidly, just then. I am now the Archaeona Imperatris of Imperial Atlantida.
Both of us pause, for different reasons, as we digest the bizarre, new reality.
“All right,” I say at last, as I float next to Erita, holding the tablet in one hand, and seeing out of the corner of my eye the white column of incandescent plasma which is the solar jet, looming in the cosmic distance. “So, you cannot ram the asteroid. What’s the next option?”
Nefir shakes his head slowly. “There is no other option that I—and the crew experts—can think of. Maybe, if we had more ships, larger ships.”
“And breaking up the asteroid into pieces by laser-cutting it, is no good?”
“Not enough power or tools at our disposal to cut through that much metal in time. Also, same problem with the smaller pieces acquiring multiple unpredictable trajectories.”
I sigh in frustration and think.
There has to be some other way.
“Can you involve Earth in this, by any chance? Reveal your presence to the public and see if you can somehow use their resources, ships, weapons?”
Nefir shakes his head again. “They are doing it already, on their own. Earth is in chaos, but there are many factions, such as Earth Union, who believe in fighting up to the very end. Yes, there will be weapons fired and ships going up in orbit. None of it sufficient to assist us. Some of it might even end up being detrimental.”
“Damn. . . .” I whisper.
“Yes.” Nefir pauses and his tone is sad and no longer reserved. “This is why I called. I was instructed to do all in my power to stop this situation, and wanted to update you on our efforts, as promised.”
“Thank you.” I sigh, trying not to breathe too deeply and waste the air inside my suit. “Please, keep trying! Do not give up on Earth!”
“I am not giving up. We will be working on scenarios and trying things, up to the last moment. I promise you this, my Sovereign Lady. I will also contact you periodically—with your permission of course—to provide updates and to make sure you are keeping well in your own ordeal.”
“Yes, please do,” I say.
After Nefir ends our communication we connect back with Hasmik, to keep her company in her horrific isolation, and to continue to try working on solutions.
As we get back on the line with Hasmik, she is in the middle of discussion with Xelio and the others about the best way to locate them.
“The fact that you are picking us up on your local suit comms, means we are within your proximity radius,” Xelio is saying. “If you start losing us, turn around and propel yourself in the other direction!”
Apparently, while we were on the line with Nefir and Aeson, Hasmik figured out how to use the propulsion pack to get around, and has been moving carefully, combing the area for their location and for any other survivors or useful debris.
“Hey, I have an idea, Hasmik,” Erita says. “Did you know, your suit has multiple cameras, including one on your helmet, that can give us your perspective view—here on this tablet. That way we can see what you are seeing as we receive your suit’s camera feed through your helmet’s vantage point.”
“Okay,” Hasmik says. “What do I do?”
Erita explains, while she also manipulates the tablet controls here.
Moments later, Hasmik “disappears,” and instead we see a view of entirely different space and debris and a column of solar plasma similar to our own.
It’s dizzying to think that we’re looking at what could be a mirror-image view on the opposite side of Helios, directly across from ourselves, billions of miles away—and yet it looks very much like our own present surroundings, including the solar jet column and the remains of a battle barge.
“Okay, is it working now?” Hasmik’s voice comes in through the speakers in our helmets, piped in from the tablet. “I can still only see both of you on my tablet, so I don’t know—”
“Oh, yes,” Erita replies. “Working as intended. Now we can help you, a little bit—as much as possible. Shamash—too bad you have no visuals on your end, else you would be the one to guide her.”
“Yes, it is regretful,” Xel’s low voice comes, sounding almost tired. “Now, I’ve been thinking and it might be possible to use the plasma column as a reference point. Hasmik, turn and face the jet, and Tefnut will describe to me the feed and what’s visible in the surroundings, including column thickness based on notches of the view grid. . . . We might be able to estimate distance. . . .”
Little things itch inside my suit, body parts I cannot scratch . . . I am dehydrated already despite sipping from the little tube, and at least I don’t need to move my bowels.
How much time has elapsed?
I stare at the distant pieces of the great battle barge around me, and then—I start seeing bodies. . . .
There are people floating in space suits out there. They are motionless from this distance—or they could be just conserving strength and keeping still—same as us. I point the fact out to Erita.
Immediately she starts cycling on our local comms to try to contact them.
No response.
If there are living survivors, they’re not answering.
Therefore, bodies.
“What’s the likelihood we’re the only survivors of War-2?” I ask. “Where are the others? What about the fighter ships?”
“My guess is, those of us who survived—on both ships—were safely contained inside the Resonance Chambers,” Erita says. “As for the fighter vessels, they’re built to be self-contained, so very likely most are still intact. They could’ve been ejected far outward in opposite directions, and we just can’t see them. Given time, we might see some drifting this way.”
“Could be,” Xelio says from his end, billions of miles across from us. “We were lucky in that we hooked up the cables between all our suits to form a tethered human chain while still in the Resonance Chamber, which kept us together. Then, the transport shuttle was within reach, so we took it.”
“Unfortunately, Command Pilot Uluatl didn’t connect his suit with us,” Erita says, then yawns tiredly.
I hope it’s just that and not the beginnings of oxygen deprivation.
Chapter 98
It’s hard to have a sense of time when you’re floating disembodied in deep space, with few frames of reference.
Hours pass.
We chat some, mostly conserving oxygen, watch the tablet view of Hasmik’s helmet perspective as she is floating with determination toward various debris in search of the others, past many, many dead bodies, even checking them bravely for signs of life.
“If you find stuff you can use, take it!” Erita advises her. “Such as additional life support packs—don’t feel, bad, these troops no longer need it. So, scavenge away!”
“Good idea about life support packs,” Xelio nods.
“This is very sad, but all right,” Hasmik says softly.
I can hear her shallow breathing as she moves around, and see her gloved hands in action as she touches the suited bodies, checking their waist area for tools.
I notice, Hasmik starts unspooling the various cords and wire leads from the suits she finds, removes them all the way and attaches it to herself in a large loop she formed out of one cable. She proceeds to hang things on the loop at her waist, and then wraps more and more cords, connecting them by the ends into a long line. As she moves, she keeps adding to its length and winds it neatly.
We watch her hands move very quickly and with amazing skill, despite the cumbersome suit gloves. And then she starts to crochet the lines together, forming a kind of loose net.
Holy crap, that’s some hardcore Yellow Quadrant skills!
“What are you doing, Hasmik?” I ask with wonder.
“Making a net, janik, making a net,” she replies. “It might be useful.”
“That’s crazy good,” Erita says with a smile. “Where did you pick up such solid Yellow skills?”
“In Yerevan, Armenia,” Hasmik says with a little sound of amusement. “Boston too, but later. We knit and crochet.”
“Apparently even in the vacuum of outer space!” I say.
“What’s happening? What is she doing?” Xelio asks with strange tension in his voice.
We try to describe, but it’s nearly impossible.
And then Hasmik keeps going, canvassing the area, picking up stuff and adding it to her arsenal.
More time passes.
According to the chronometers on the suits it’s eighth hour of Khe, Poseidon Time. We could be eating an early niktos meal.
Don’t think about food.
Instead, I think about Dad and Gordie. About Gracie and Laronda and Chiyoko back on Atlantis, in orbit aboard War-1.
Consul Denu comes on the line to tell us some Atlantean Court anecdotes, making us smile, and making Erita roll her eyes.
Nefir calls with another Earth-and-asteroid update. Unfortunately, no new developments, but supposedly several United Nations spacecraft are being launched from Earth’s surface, carrying nukes. . . .
However, Nefir relays a message from Aeson who is making good progress on his way here, flying at top speed. The message for me is to stay strong and to survive.
I drift off periodically, in a kind of shallow sleep that gives no real rest, and leaves my mind racing with stress.
Hasmik has stopped moving and she too is taking a break and has probably gone to sleep briefly while drifting alone among the debris. We don’t dare turn off the tablet in case she needs us, and besides, the tablet’s power source capacity is rated for several months so we don’t need to worry about conserving it.
“What time is it?” I ask a rhetorical question with a yawn.
“Hmm, looks like bashtooh thirteenth hour of Khe and twenty daydreams,” Erita yawns back.
“Why do you call minutes daydreams anyway? And seconds heartbeats?” I ask stupidly.
“It’s an old tradition—very natural, if you think about it,” Erita says. “Has to do with the rhythms of our bodies, I suppose. I don’t know.”
“Time is weird,” I say. “So many conversions, and it’s all kind of meaningless. Earth time, Atlantean time. Not to mention, all the time zones. And on Earth we have this stupid thing called Daylight Savings Time in some places.”
Erita chuckles. “Yes, I’ve heard. And it’s genuinely one of the most hoohvak thing humans have done for themselves. Changing time to fool and accommodate themselves instead of just changing themselves to be in tune with the environment. Although—we do similar things on the Fleet ships during long space missions. Time tweaking, we call it.”
“Oh, really?” I ask.
“You know, we did that on the Earth mission, multiple times. For example, you know how we arrived back on Atlantis and it was nice and early morning, ship time, somewhere around 7:30 AM, based on the ship’s UTC clock?”
“It was 7:24 AM, Earth UTC, actually,” I say.
I’ll never forget that time of arrival in Atlantis orbit.
“Yeah, right, 7:24 AM,” Erita says. “Well, it wasn’t real Earth UTC. It was off by 8 hours and 38 minutes, which they added on to the Earth UTC, if I recall correctly. They tweaked the ark-ship time right after the Jump, to make your arrival be during daylight hours. Actual Earth UTC in that moment was somewhere in the middle of the night, or maybe late afternoon, according to the 24-hour clock.”
“Wow,” I say.
“Yeah, it’s those little things,” Erita says. “Easy to tweak, but for a good reason, I suppose. Now, why don’t you get some sleep.”
“Right,” I say. “Sleep conserves oxygen.”
And that’s the kind of stupid conversations we have in those long, weird hours as we float aimlessly in deep space with nothing else to do but live.
At some point, I suppose, it’s morning on Poseidon. Here, it’s just another jolt into a wakeful period for me.
But then I remember.
Today is Red Mar-Yan 17.
Asteroid Day.
Immediately I feel a sickening pang in my stomach. And it has nothing to do with me being hungry, thirsty, itchy, weightless, and miserable.
Today, Earth is going to suffer a catastrophic disaster that could end all life on its surface, indefinitely.
I feel a sudden urge to run, to fly, to do something, anything.
“Nefero eos, im amrevu,” Erita says, tapping me on the shoulder, and I see the silly expression inside her helmet as she must’ve just woken up.
I look around us, because it has gotten really bright, for some reason, and realize that we are now floating right at the immense column of solar jet plasma. We must be only a few hundred meters away, because the plasma is now a wall of light before us.
“Rawah bashtooh!” Erita exclaims. “Xel better be right about this spewing solar geyser thing being locked in another quantum dimension. Else, we’re done for. . . . Okay, close your eyes, Gwen, quickly, it’s getting too bright. Don’t stare at it. I don’t know if these helmets have blackout mode on the visors, these look like older, standard issue models which require manual inserts. You would think that War-2 would have better equipment on board—ah, crap—”
Just then, we float directly into the column of blinding light.
I shut my eyes immediately, then squeeze them shut because the light around us is so powerful that I can see it through my closed eyelids.
“This is so horrible!” I exclaim through gritted teeth as we continue to hurtle through the endless fiery hell.
“Not as horrible as if it had been in our actual space-time—we’d be incinerated,” Erita says. “Keep squeezing your eyes!”
“Hello? What is happening on your end?” Hasmik’s voice comes in.
“Oh, nothing much,” I say. “We’re now inside the extradimensional solar flare jet, that’s all.”
“Just drifted in moments ago, and yes, we can report that it is quantum locked and safe,” Erita adds.
“How long is this hell going to last?” I ask. “Not sure I can keep squeezing my eyes this long.”
“Just hang in there,” Erita mutters. “We’ll emerge on the other side at some point. We’re bound to, since we’re still drifting.”
“If we make it back to Atlantis alive,” I say, “and if I still have my eyeballs intact, much less my vision, remind me never to go into space again. This sucks!”
Survive Page 107
