‘It’s gone,’ said Scott, staring at the little screen, feeling a sudden wave of listlessness. After twenty minutes of effort to mechanically recharge the sensor grid, and for no more than about five minutes of operation, his console was telling him there was nothing.
Lichman looked at him with his intensity of concern. ‘Are you sure about what you saw?’
‘Of course I’m sure, you saw it too.’
‘I saw some kind of anomaly.’
‘Right, a disturbance in space.’
‘Let’s get out of here.’
The maintenance bay was not the most comfortable of places. Just as with the relay station Scott had to physically connect the console. Whoever designed the ship had not anticipated the possibility of such massive systems failure; normally a remote optical connection would suffice for even a high level interface. To add to matters he had to kneel down in zero gravity; his suit’s knee Gecko pads felt like strong glue, so he had to be helped up to his feet by the doctor.
As they climbed the stairs to the flight deck, the wordless silence invited the inevitable dark thoughts that Scott knew were always there, like a background radiation. The bleakness would permeate them both if he didn’t say something just as a distraction. But why put off the inevitable acknowledgement of their fate with pointless words? Maybe Josh had the right idea of simply getting Zonked out on tranquillizers. The ones he had taken had by now almost completely worn off. Then he thought about how much was left: twenty hours, perhaps; he was too afraid to check. Josh could survive perhaps a third longer using less oxygen, and at least his death from suffocation would be more tolerable. Even if they found spare supplies of oxygen their suits had only another fifty, perhaps sixty hours, before the loss of power meant they’d freeze to death. Scott simply had to request the info and it told him, without regard to his state of mind for having known these dreadful statistics.
When they got back to the common room, Scott was feeling so tired he collapsed on the large reclining chair, the fear and despair finally giving way to melancholy. He thought about how beautiful space had once seemed: the wonder of the stellar cycles and every potential that provided for life. Now, stranded here, outer-space was a cold, empty, utterly indifferent to suffering. Yet this was no revelation, it was just an acknowledgement of what he always knew but chose to ignore. In that indifferent space the image in his mind of himself decaying inside his suit...
Scott’s suit told him he’d been asleep for nearly two hours.
In the faint blue, bioluminescent light he could just see the EVA- suited form of Lichman on the other side of the room, sat on the communal couch.
Scott lifted himself up off the Velcro-like contact points of his chair, and did the awkward strides towards the doctor.
‘Doc. When it gets near the time I want a heavy dose. I don’t want to be conscious when it happens.’
There was no answer. Scott turned to face the doctor so his helmet’s beam was striking the man through his helmet. ‘Doctor Lichman. Are you all right?’ But he noticed something not quite right with the man; it was clear even through the reflective surface of the bubble helmet, he was unconscious. So he told his suit to make an interface. Through the remote connection, displayed in a series of graphs showing heart and neural activity levels, it informed him that Dr Fredrick Lichman had ceased to be alive precisely eighty-four minutes ago. The graphical displays then went into further detail: a dispassionate clinical analysis from a subsentient AI, that felt no obligation to inform him. Perhaps it knew there was nothing he could do to save the Doc, or that by attempting to do so would use up vital resources that he himself needed, and by remaining asleep he was indeed conserving those resources. The cold logic of a computer. But what caused his death? It only told that all vital functions had ceased. Lichman’s suit was still functioning within acceptable parameters. Scott asked further questions; he got no answers: the interface was not adequate for any detailed medical analysis. Maybe the man had simply committed suicide, accepting of his inevitable fate; he would certainly have the knowledge to make it as painless as possible.
‘Josh,’ he whispered, as if to confirm to himself what he knew must be true. He felt the rush of panic, his helmet glass steamed up rapidly before its cool air system attended to clearing the glass.
A second suit was near an emergency evac door at the far side. Scott gasped when he noticed the suit was empty. As far as he knew there were no other EVA suits. He then interfaced with the suit. It was still active, as if it’s occupant had abandoned it in a hurry. He thought it should deactivate automatically after a certain time like a computer no longer being used. The fear at the back of his mind before he’d fallen asleep had been the steady decline of the ship’s temperature, but he wouldn’t have its doom-laden reminder on constant display. Now he requested it: minus 27.4 Celsius, and currently dropping a degree every two minutes.
The scenario leapt into Scott’s mind like a mentally downloaded movie on autoplay. He could see Josh in his last dying breaths opening the emergency evac door into an airlock, which probably didn’t function due to there being no air throughout the ship, and so the exit would open in sync. Somehow, though, he’d managed to close it, or maybe there was some spring mechanism that did this without power.
This was the reality: Dr Lichman had died and Joshua Adams had committed suicide. It was pointless trying to imagine either of their reasonings. He was simply in a hopeless situation, his fate as inevitable as everyone’s eventual demise. He could wait it out, use up the remaining oxygen in his suit, until asphyxiating.
But still, in his mind, a grim survival strategy had presented itself. Both the other suits were still active, wasting oxygen and power. He could still use them, perhaps even use their resources without having to wear them – there had to be an interface for that. He might survive for another fifty hours. There was always the possibility of rescue. But he wondered how long he could live on liquidized rations.
Deanna.
Even the remotest chance that he would one day be reunited with her – the vaguest scintilla of hope – was enough.
He peered over at the doctor in his still-functioning suit. The man didn’t look frightened, he looked serene; a drug overdose, he surmised. But why did Josh not take the same option?
Stop thinking.
Yet Scott felt an increasing nausea, and the urge to remove his helmet in spite of the awareness of how suddenly and overwhelmingly the cold airless environ would take him. It was seeing Lichman cocooned in his suit that was causing this.
He had to do it.
Scott pressed the emergency release on the side panel collar section of Lichman’s suit. A warning light flashed just below. Because it was still functioning the emergency release mechanism wouldn’t activate. But he knew it had to work; there were always situations when its occupant might become unconscious or suffer some unexpected mental trauma. And eventually it did release. After all, it knew there were no life signs.
Removing Lichman from the suit proved to be a harrowing task. Scott didn’t recognise this corpse as being the concerned and sympathetic doctor. He’d never imagined how empty, not merely lifeless, the dead can seem. He thought it would be traumatic, at least feel like an act of callousness, to dispose of his body. But the idea of his corpse remaining in this ship was even more disturbing.
Yet as he got to the exit airlock he knew he couldn’t do it. It was likely that one day the ship would be recovered; Lichman’s relatives, descendants would claim back his body. It could remain on this vessel for centuries, millennia, without noticeable decay.
He left the dead man in his own quarters, then set the lock to activate, vowelling never to go back in there.
The only thing Scott wanted to do now – the only thing he could do was to be amongst the stars. The observation dome at least gave the sense of being away from the confines of the ship.
He looked about in a faint hope of finding his home solar system, without success. Then had the idea of using the helmet’s location and magnification facility. He set it to max, about 150 times, only to further be presented with an unfamiliar collection of stars. But when he moved his head round – seeing initially a dizzying blur of stars – something was picked up by the tracking optic sensors. He requested a further digital enhancement. The thing, pixellated, resolved into what the suit’s computer identified as a humanoid figure. It was in some kind of spacesuit, copper in colour, with a bulky pack giving off a bright exhaust. Clear enough anyway: this was to be his rescuer.
‘Oh, thank you,’ he said, partly in advance to whoever was making this bold endeavour but also to his suit, which had become such a trustworthy companion. Without it Scott knew he’d have likely gone insane.
He kept the suit firmly focused on the figure, expecting to see some movement registering. But it appeared still. Perhaps it was merely an effect of the vast distances of any reference points.
‘Suit. Estimate velocity of figure 1A.’
‘Cannot give estimate at this time,’ it answered in its androgynous voice. ‘Trajectory is indeterminate.’
‘Explain,’ Scott said, feeling ever so slight dumb at not really understanding.
‘Figure has not moved within reference frame since initial analysis.’
‘I still don’t understand. It surely must be moving; I can see that thing on his back giving off matter.’
‘That appears to be the case,’ it said. ‘Yet there is no identifiable motion.’
‘Can you increase resolution?’
‘Not while you are standing freely.’
‘Okay. You want me to be still.’
Scott retrieved a hardback chair from the ship’s common room. Then positioned himself to face where he estimated the figure would be.
Once the suit was again focused on the spaceman, it said, ‘Please relax your muscles and prepare for immobilisation.’
Scott complied. The suit then became rigid. It felt disconcerting at first like he had been set in concrete, but he soon forgot about that when the image of the spaceman resolved itself at 240 times optical magnification, and then the digital enhancement where he could see the distinct form of the copper suit – arms partly outstretched, and from the back unit the bright glow of fusion particles.
After seven minutes Scott’s suit reported back: ‘figure 1A estimated velocity is approximately 4 kilometres per hour.’
‘What! You’re kidding me, right?’
‘That is the correct relative speed.’
‘Relative?’ That was a worrying word to hear in this situation.
‘Do you wish an elaboration?’
Suddenly his suit was not such a welcome companion. ‘I know what it means … but … what’s causing it?’
‘Unknown.’
‘But he’s heading towards this ship. How long do you estimate he will take.’
‘At the current estimated velocity: 7.8 years.’
‘Shit. I’m fucked. This is fucked.’ he wanted the suit to comment, to somehow offer some solace if not a solution, but it remained silent, only releasing it’s lock-hold, at least sensing that was the right thing to do now.
After only a few minutes of despair a thought in his head so pronounced he almost heard the words: I must leave this ship.
*
Zorandi was trapped in a prison of normal time; if he left this vessel his time would be slowed a thousand fold. Curiously it offered him protection from incoming threats. Yet it also meant any attempt at rescue was futile: his life lived out waiting for the slow creeping advance of his rescuers, much like (he imagined) the passengers who awaited their own rescue.
No. He had to escape, but only after a last futile act of sending a distress beacon, in the remotest chance that he could be wrong in his assumptions.
It came as something of a relief to find his outer suit still tethered.
At maximum thrust Zorandi’s suit calculated that he would reach the nearest B’tari outpost in forty-five thousand hours of his time; not that the suit would still have any power or life support by then. But since there was no sign of any wormhole this was the only course option: an outpost which more than likely no longer exists.
A last desperate grasp at rational positivity: a chance his kind would find him on this course.
Zorandi requested conservation mode; this could potentially extend his survival by up to fifty times, giving him at least ten thousand hours. The suit began its process of sending him asleep before cooling him to near stasis level. But as he started to drift off a warning appeared on his HUD – an unidentified object moving at a phenomenal speed.
The suit disengaged conservation mode.
But it was too late. The thing – a giant chromium arachnid – was upon him before he could react with more than a vague incipient fear. In his half sleep state Zorandi felt distanced: it was like some bizarre nightmare, the thing facing him with its legs grappling. Except for one leg, which had some kind of tiny drill device pushing into the diamond glass shielding his face. Only this wasn’t any conventional drill: the glass was developing a rippling effect as if it had become a liquid.
The drill had penetrated.
His last conscious memory was of a sharp and cold sensation just below his jaw.
*
During the pre-flight briefing there was never any mention of an escape pod. Scott knew it was something that would be unconscionable – the notion they would have to use it in any event. Even from only a hundred light years away – with no other known ship with hyperspace technology – rescue was unlikely for years, certainly beyond the life support of the pod. So what would be the point of informing them about it? even to place the thought in their minds: the possibility of the ship’s failure? No. It was never even a consideration.
Yet he searched the ship for the likely places. The damaged flight deck’s control panel rendered no clue as to any escape procedure; he was sure that would be the activation point. He then descended to the engineering room, his helmet light illuminating the dead fusion injection systems. There were various control panels with screens, which were probably once illuminated interface controls, in a semicircle around a depression in the floor. He had noticed it before but hadn’t given it any thought. But now it seemed obvious to him.
The floor had a felted carpet. It was difficult to find the join; Scott had to use a sharp-ended screwdriver to separate the lowest level section. It came away in an un-sticking motion similar to his gecko boots. This revealed a black circle – a plastic infill with a recessed handle, simply a finger-sized hole, which lifted away like an old-fashioned bath plug. As it came out, the sudden release of air-pressure sent him falling backwards and then he was floating upwards until hitting an arch panel. In annoyance he pushed himself away, momentum enough to slam into the side of the recess with some pain. But at least enough of him had made contact with the floor for his suit to activate it’s static cling until he could get to his feet for his boots to do their gecko sticking thing.
Scott stood over a twistable lever. He turned it with great slow caution until he felt it clunk undone, then removed it with even greater caution. Beneath that was a simple push up lever for a hatch.
Inside was darkness. Even when he projected into it with his helmet light, there was nothing. But moving around the beam illuminated a rung of steps. The first step was not easy in zero gravity, and he had to hold tightly to the ladder’s side bars.
When Scott reached the bottom he was momentarily dazzled by the suddenly activated light. He looked round to see an interior of white and grey shapes to see what he thought must be the pod’s central fusion mixer: a glass-effect cylinder containing concentric metal cylinders – in motion. Surrounding it were display panels, much like in the maintenance bay but with symbols that even without seeing from close-up appeared somehow odd: green and blue shapes swirling. It all seemed rather more sophisticated than he would have expected for an escape pod.
Just as he began approaching one of the display panels something from a corner caught his eye, it was emerging from an embedded hatch. The thing – it looked like a giant mechanical spider – scuttled towards him. He got out the way in a fraction of a second, hardly aware that he was now in artificial gravity. The spider made for the stair-rung, climbed it with its claws grappling. Once it had exited, it pushed down the hatch.
As Scott remained transfixed on the hatch area, his suit amplified the sounds of what must be the covering plug being pushed into place. It was only then he was certain – that thing was not an integral part of the ship; escaping as if it were a real trapped spider, indifferent to him.
He looked back at the cylinder, its concentric parts working in a furious motion as if at full power.
Without taking time to consider the option Scott climbed back up the ladder. He tried with as much force as he was able, but the inside lever appeared locked.
He was trapped.
‘Be calm,’ Scott told himself, his suit warning him of inordinately high stress levels. The suit itself was making him feel trapped so he removed the helmet, assured this environment was breathable.
If this really was an escape pod this had to be his last chance. He examined the surrounding controls; none of them made any sense: mysteriously swirling shapes, which every so often merged to form one bigger shape.
Find an interface.
But he found nothing obvious. And as a last resort he said something he would tell a vehicle: ‘give me command control.’ He hadn’t really expected any result, so he stumbled back, just stopping himself from toppling over, as a chair formed seamlessly out of the floor. A long back recliner chair with side arms and a kind of moulded arch over the headrest.
As the only conceivable option now, Scott got out of the spacesuit and onto the chair, placing his head inside the arch like it was some scanner, slightly raised side cushions held his head; they had cold spots which he took to be metal contacts. At first he was afraid to open his eyes, until the lack of any sensory stimulation roused his curiosity.
Immediately he was in space. Around him vector-like grid patterns, lots of numbers … but none of them changing. He had no idea how he was supposed to control this.
He pulled himself out from the chair, needing the security of his space suit once more. But when he looked around for where he remembered having left it it was no longer there. The sudden cold realisation that something, perhaps that spider bot, had returned and removed it. At this point his mind was too stressed to rationalise the logic in this. The simplest explanation being that it wanted him to remain in this place.
Scott looked around for any sign that the robot had returned, then he frantically approached one of the side control panels and started hitting it in frustration.
Eventually he returned to the chair. His eyes open this time, the image was beamed onto his retinas, the same vector pattern. He took a while to calm himself and try to focus on what it meant. The stars were tagged, the numbers clearly corresponding to their distance. He tried to determine which of those would be Sol … but they were just numbers, and in any case what chance would he have of returning home in his lifetime?
Still: ‘Give me position of Sol, and set a course; maximum thrust.’
At first he thought he’d heard the response but the words seemed to just be in his head, like his own mental voice. Specify Sol.
About four light years from Proxima Centauri; main sequence, third planet Earth.
Confirmed, came the voice in his head. Setting course.
Scott exhaled in relief. This felt like something of an achievement even though it seemed very unlikely he would ever see Earth again.
Unlikely but not impossible
***