The Disturbance: Hard Science Fiction, page 13
How sweet. Aaron was worried about him. Benjamin wanted to hug him. He pushed off and flung his arms around his crewmate.
Shepherd-1, April 25, 2094
“The sensor’s not damaged,” said David, bending over a device that looked like a microscope.
“That’s really weird,” said Aaron.
David took the sensor out of the holder, placed it on the table, and connected its wires to a measuring device.
“Push down on it,” he said.
Aaron floated to the table, hooked his feet under a chair and pressed down hard on the sensor.
“See? There’s a clear signal.” David pointed to the display.
When Aaron pressed it, the curve rose. Now it was falling again. Benjamin launched himself into a slow spin. Wall, ceiling, and floor went past him, then the wall again, the ceiling, the floor. They had to admit it. They would never get back home. But the idea just wouldn’t sink in.
“Benjamin?” said Aaron.
“I’m spinning out,” he replied.
“Ha ha,” said David. “Seriously, though, what should we do?”
“There’s nothing we can do,” said Benjamin, trying to hold himself still. The world continued to spin a moment longer. “We don’t have enough reaction mass, and there’s no gas station out here. It’s as simple as that. You know what that means.”
“We need to talk to Mission Operations,” said Aaron. “They won’t leave us hanging. There has to be a way.”
“And what would that look like?” asked Benjamin.
There was no solution. They were too far from Earth.
“They could resupply us,” said Aaron.
“It would get to us in twenty years. We’d be home in forty. I’ll be eighty-eight. And first they have to build a ship.”
“If we fly to meet it, that shortens the travel time,” Aaron argued. “They could send us an unmanned ship so it can accelerate faster. It could be here in five years.”
“Coulda, shoulda, woulda. That ship still has to be built,” said Benjamin.
David looked at him in surprise, then said, “Benjamin’s right. We’re stranded out here. And to be honest, it doesn’t make much difference. We’d be old men when we got back anyway. I just want to know why. Without some explanation I feel betrayed.”
“Then let’s ask them,” said Benjamin. It made sense to ask. But it wouldn’t change anything. They’d never get back to Earth.
Two hours later, he and Aaron were hovering in front of the inner airlock door. They had sent their message. Aaron’s lips were pursed and he appeared to be singing a song. Or had he switched off his helmet radio? He looked strangely relaxed, as if they had just accomplished something.
The door opened. Then Aaron pressed the button. Not again!
“Did you see that?”
Aaron didn’t respond. Benjamin tapped him on the shoulder. His crewmate turned around, opened his mouth, and spoke, but there was no sound. Benjamin tapped the side of his helmet.
“Oh, sorry, I forgot the radio. What is it?”
“Did you notice that?”
“What?”
“The door opened before you pressed the button.”
“Really? I didn’t notice, sorry, I guess my mind was elsewhere. Wait.”
Aaron pressed the button again and the door closed. He pressed it again and it opened. He tried it again, and it closed. Again. The door wobbled briefly, then opened a little slower than before.
“The mechanism could use some oil,” said Aaron, “but otherwise it seems to be working.”
“I’m not disputing that. But the door shouldn’t open by itself.”
“It doesn’t.”
Aaron pushed off against the door frame, floated to Benjamin, grabbed his shoulders, and looked him in the face.
“We’re all on edge, that’s normal. I’m barely sleeping. We can check out capsule C another time. I’ll tell David...”
“I’m all right, thanks.”
He knew what he saw and the log would confirm it.
“Let me go,” said Benjamin.
Aaron was holding him back by his arm, but Benjamin shook him off. When did Aaron start playing the babysitter? It was a new side to him, one Benjamin didn’t like. They needed to talk about how the tragedy was affecting them. The three of them were on their own out here, unless some miracle happened – or, more likely, another catastrophe.
Benjamin flew to the damaged capsule. Aaron’s helmet lamp illuminated it starkly against the shadows. The contrast always amazed him. In space, there was only black and white, life or death. Where no light fell, there was nothing to see. And maybe there was nothing there. Quantum physicists claimed that things only acquired form when they were observed.
Capsule C looked like a split hazelnut. The two halves had partly opened out. He could only see what was at the center – the rest lay in shadow. Benjamin flew in a shallow arc to illuminate the dark areas. There was the small room that served as a cabin. The cover had lifted off Christine’s bed, hovering horizontally above it. He was amazed it wasn’t lost during their evasive maneuver. A lot of inventory must have been left behind. Christine didn’t need it now.
They went closer. What looked like a dollhouse from a distance was now real. He too had spent the last twenty years in a capsule like this.
“I’ll secure you from outside,” said Aaron.
Benjamin turned around. He was silhouetted like an eagle, crouching on the curve of the burst capsule. It was reassuring to have Aaron watching in the background. If something happened to him, his crewmate could pull him out. He turned and flew into the open wound.
There was the bed cover they had spotted from farther out. It was moving slightly. Benjamin grasped it. The air conditioning outlet was directly above the bed. Air must be flowing from it onto the blanket. He pulled it. It wasn’t stiff, like he expected. Should he take it inside? It was a waste to leave it out here. He pulled harder, but the corner was stuck. A piece of debris had pinned it to the ceiling.
He let it go, pushed himself off the wall and drifted to the small cupboard by the bed. He opened a drawer and found photos – real printed color pictures. A couple, white, middle-aged – her parents? Sorry for poking around in your stuff, Christine, but we need to know why you died.
The drawer was otherwise empty. He closed it – which was pointless, but he couldn’t help himself. It was a small effort that restored a little order to the scene of the disaster.
Christine’s wardrobe was very neat. She seldom dressed up, but he expected her to have more clothes than him – the usual cliché. He counted. Funny, she had exactly the same number of pants as him. He dug deeper and counted her briefs – 22 pairs. She was still wearing one pair, way out there. That made 23 – exactly the same number as him. He could still remember packing them in his duffle bag. It would have been amusing if they had figured it out earlier.
“Aaron, did you know Christine had the exact same number of underpants as me?”
Hopefully his crewmate didn’t think it was weird that he’d counted them.
“Underpants? How many?”
“Twenty-three, including the ones she... was wearing at the end.”
“That’s original. What I find more interesting is that you know exactly how many pairs you own.”
“Don’t you?”
“Nope, no idea. I have to do a big load of laundry every three weeks, that’s all I need to know.”
“Count them some time. It would be weird if you’d packed twenty-three pairs too. Maybe there’s some kind of human instinct at play here. When the number drops, you automatically buy more.”
“I do. But maybe we should concentrate on Christine’s research results rather than her wardrobe.”
“OK, I’m on it.”
He wouldn’t find anything useful in her cabin. He opened the door to the corridor. The mechanism still worked. Well, that was logical – doors needed to be able to open when everything else was damaged. In the corridor, he had to duck under the strut that had severed the capsule. It was part of the puzzle. Assuming Christine had deliberately caused the explosion, did she also mean to kill herself in the process? If so, wouldn’t it have been simpler just to take her helmet off in the vacuum? Or had she sacrificed herself to achieve something else?
The WHC was up ahead. The door was open. A few pipes had burst in the explosion. In zero gravity, the chill of the vacuum had shaped the water into interesting sculptures. To the left of the shower, a bubble bulged out of the wall, perfectly spherical. Below the toilet, where there was less space, was a glassy cushion. The sculpture didn’t look like wastewater. It was the color of amber, a clear golden yellow. It even had a few objects trapped in it. They reminded him of primordial giant earthworms. He knew what it really was, but his mouth didn’t dry out the way it usually did when he felt revulsion. Maybe it was the lack of odor. The vacuum had sterilized the sculptures.
He pulled himself down a ladder to the workshop. Christine used to work there. He should have visited her more often. Maybe then she would have put more trust in him and not acted alone. Or did she run out of time to tell them what was happening? But then why didn’t she at least leave them a message?
Christine’s workstation was completely clear, but maybe that was a result of the evasive maneuver. Any documents or sketches on the desk would now be scattered around the workshop or out in space. Had Christine done old-school hand sketches? They could only hope so, because they couldn’t get into her computer memory.
Benjamin searched the workshop methodically. It didn’t have to be notes or sketches. Maybe she had copied data to a separate drive and then forgotten about it. She was clearly not herself at the end. How had she analyzed the gravitational lens data? If only he’d talked to her more about it.
“Aaron, how did Christine get the images from the probes?”
“Good question. I figured they somehow just ended up in the main computer.”
“In their raw form, yes. But then something has to happen to them. You have to collate them and combine them into a composite image. Christine often did that in her capsule, I think.”
“You think?”
“I know so little about her. I never really talked to her, I mean, on a personal level.”
“Neither did I. Maybe David knows more?” Aaron suggested. “Hello, control room, David can you hear us?”
No answer. Benjamin pictured the control room empty. He closed his eyes but the image wouldn’t go away.
“...when he’s done,” said Aaron.
“What?”
“He’s probably in the can. He’ll get back to us when he’s done,” said Aaron. “You OK?”
“I’ve become more fearful, I think.”
“That’s understandable. For me it’s the opposite. I feel like things can’t get any worse, and that’s reassuring.”
Benjamin hoped Aaron was right, but he was doubtful. They had tumbled from the top of a high mountain. They were in free-fall. They couldn’t see the slope, so it felt like they were floating. But that didn’t change the fact that they would be crushed when they hit the ground. No, it was way too late. The only way they could have prevented the fall was to not take the fateful step into the abyss. But when was that?
“I’m going to keep looking,” said Benjamin.
It was all he could do.
In the left-hand drawer of Christine’s desk he found a pair of glasses. They were unusual. Their thick, dark lenses made them look like sunglasses, but the Sun was never bright enough out here to need them. The frame was chunky and some rubbery material blocked peripheral vision. He opened the arms and put the glasses on over his helmet.
He found himself in a forest carpeted with soft moss. Sunbeams danced across it and birds chirped. He turned up the sound transmitted to his helmet by the arms of the goggles. All that was missing was the smell of pine needles, toadstools, and moldering vegetation. The trees – presumably pines – had a peculiar feature. Narrow shelves the height of a person were set into their trunks and filled with countless books. Real books made of paper, large and small, some with gold lettering on their spines, others plain. Some looked dog-eared. A few paces away was a clearing and in the middle of it was a lounger bathed in sunlight. Beside that was waist-high box with a lot of colored, flashing LEDs. A swiveling keyboard jutted from the top of the box.
This must have been Christine’s workspace. It was so clever! Nobody had realized she worked in a VR environment. Why would they? Her capsule was private. Benjamin moved forward. Maybe he could steal a glimpse at Christine’s research in the clearing.
As he approached, the bushes in front of him moved aside of their own accord. But then a screen appeared out of nowhere, directly in front of his face. It was so close he could barely read it. And he couldn’t push it aside.
“Password: ___________” it read.
“Shit!”
David had already toiled over that. He tore off the goggles and found himself back in reality. He threw them aside. This was going nowhere! The goggles spun across the workshop, bounced off the wall, and came back.
“What is it?” asked Aaron.
Had he said something? Oh yeah, he had cursed.
“It looks like Christine was working in virtual reality. But when I go in I’m asked for a password.”
“Hello, control room. David, can you hear us? Did you make any progress with Christine’s password?” Aaron radioed.
Good idea. David had been trying for a while to get into her partition. Maybe he could give them a tip. But there was no answer.
“I’m starting to worry,” said Benjamin.
“Maybe the drives are blocking the radio signal,” said Aaron. “Did you try the password prompt?”
“Password prompt?”
“I have a VR system too. There’s a question mark by the password field, where the user can leave a hint to remind them which password they set.”
“I’ll check.”
It wouldn’t work, but there was no harm in trying. The goggles were now flying out into space. Benjamin pushed off and reached them just in time. Then he flew back into the workshop and put them on.
Aaron was right. There was a small question mark. He reached for it. It turned into a balloon in his hand, and then burst. A female voice began singing. Benjamin pictured an elf dancing between the trees. Was that the hint? He couldn’t understand the words, but he tried to memorize the melody. He quickly removed the goggles and hummed into the microphone before he forgot it.
“Sounds good,” said Aaron.
“That was the hint.”
“Oh. Who sang it?”
“A woman. Made me think of an elf. It sounded somehow Irish, the melody, I mean. The words were Latin, I think.”
“Wait, I’ll send the melody to the system,” said Aaron.
“But we’ll have to wait eight days for a reply.”
“No, if it’s a music track, then it’s one Christine liked to listen to. So it’ll be... hold on, the computer says try ‘Cursum perficio’.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your humming sounded like a song that’s almost a hundred years old, from Christine’s music library.”
Benjamin put the goggles back on. The screen was still there. He took a step back, feeling like a conjurer about to utter a powerful spell.
“Cursum perficio,” he said.
The screen disappeared. Nice one. He stepped into the clearing. Christine had designed everything so beautifully. Was it based on a memory from her childhood?
He sat on the lounger and pulled the keyboard closer.
Wait a minute. None of this was real, but apparently he had access to Christine’s actual data. He should duplicate the data first, before he made a mistake. It must be stored on a physical drive somewhere in the workshop.
He took off the goggles and found himself back in the workshop with his legs stretched out. Why had he never thought of using VR? He could have put himself anywhere.
The drive. He had to find it. He had already searched the workshop, but not the little fitness niche. Every astronaut had to train. He pulled the curtain aside and smelled sweat. That was impossible, but it was hard to imagine a fitness room without the smell of sweat. His mind must be filling in the blanks.
On the bicycle handle was a cable leading to an armband. It must be Christine’s watch. She had charged it and left it there. It had enough capacity to store a set of probe recordings, and you could access it from anywhere via radio. It was the ideal device for transferring work from the control room to your cabin.
“Aaron, I think I found what we’re looking for.”
“Great.”
“Have you heard from David?”
“No.”
That was weird. But they were making progress. Finally something was working. Maybe there was hope after all. Benjamin reached for the watch. His thumb and index finger touched the casing; he squeezed it gently, but suddenly they were touching. The watch crumbled to dust, as if it had been waiting for his touch. The fine dust spread out in a cloud.
“Oh.”
Benjamin pulled back his hand. He didn’t know what to say. Something seriously fucked up was afoot here. He extended his hand again. It was reluctant, but he forced it. It trembled. He managed to touch the handlebar of the bike. It put up no more resistance than the watch. The damn thing dissolved before his eyes. He touched his head. Was he still wearing the goggles? Was this some kind of virtual reality interference? What kind of shitty game was this?
“Benjamin? Are you almost done? I’m starting to worry about David.”
“I... dammit. We’re screwed, Aaron. I think I’m beginning to understand why Christine killed herself.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Come and see for yourself.”
While Benjamin was waiting for Aaron, he tried the goggles again. They took him to a square room with brown steel walls, the default environment. There was no trace of Christine’s computer. He’d screwed up.
