The Tempest (First Contact), page 11
The man says, “A complete lack of biocontrols. Where are the entryway decontamination showers? Why aren’t there HVAC HEPA filtration systems attached to each of these huts? Why don’t these dwellings have double-glazed windows with hermetic seals? These labs should have been protected with an isolated positive-pressure purified air supply to keep contaminants out.”
“It’s like they didn’t care,” the woman says.
“It’s a serious oversight for a scientific mission.”
The woman turns away, looking out across the spiky sea of glass grass beyond the landing site, saying, “Well, they are dead.”
“Not all of them,” the man says. “We spoke to someone down here. Someone’s alive.”
The woman holds up her wrist in front of her. With her other, gloved hand, she taps at a series of controls. A metal crate mounted on treads comes rolling down the ramp.
“Setting up the methane extractors,” she says.
“I’m going to look around,” the man says.
“Don’t stray from line of sight.”
“Copy that.”
The man moves with a gentle lope, working his way down the slope leading away from the landing zone. Even though he’s in low gravity, his suit makes his motion awkward. He bunnyhops, scuffing the ground with his boots. Clouds of microbes spring to life, glowing around his legs as they slowly settle back to the rocks. The lights on his helmet blot out the subtle effect, but he seems to notice something. He comes to a halt and fiddles with the controls on his wrist.
Miranda watches as he stands near her mother’s grave.
From out of the darkness, Ariel says, “You should tell your father.”
“No,” Miranda whispers in sharp reply.
“He needs to know.”
“You shouldn’t have followed me out here.”
“What are you going to do?” Ariel asks.
“What you always do,” Miranda says. “Watch.”
With that, Ariel falls silent.
The astronaut turns off his lights. As he’s out on the fringe of the spotlights cast by the spacecraft, he appears as little more than a silhouette. The other astronaut seems to recognize the change in an instant. She reacts with horror, speaking as though something has gone horribly wrong.
“Marc? MARC!”
“I’m here,” he replies.
“Where?”
She turns, scanning the area. Panicked, the woman rushes forward, but unlike Miranda, she’s not accustomed to moving around in low gravity. She fails to lean forward, probably because it feels unnatural. Running on Altair IV is akin to a controlled fall. Whereas in one gee, runners lean forward at an angle of about 10 degrees, on Altair IV it’s closer to 45 degrees. It’s the only way to get any traction.
“Marc,” Miranda whispers from behind the rock, repeating his name to herself. She instinctively wants to learn all she can about him.
Miranda wants to get closer to Marc. She crouches in what amounts to a sprinter’s starting position at the Olympics. Instead of pushing up and off the blocks, she pushes long and low, scrambling over to another boulder. Miranda needs to remain near him if she wants to hear their conversation.
To the uninitiated, scooting around on Altair IV is unnerving. The other astronaut is also moving out of the spotlights, but she’s clumsy. She pushes off the ground instead of along it. Although she’s scrambling to make headway, she doesn’t travel very far. Instead, she floats in midair with her feet swinging, searching for the rocks below her. Slowly, she settles only to push off again as she tries to rush on.
“I hate this moon,” the woman says. The harder she tries, the slower she goes. The low gravity conspires to thwart her efforts, leaving her bouncing on the tip of her boots.
“Come on, Emma,” Marc says. “This was your idea.”
Miranda comes up behind the cluster of rocks near her mother’s grave.
“Emma,” she whispers, fascinated by the names of these interlopers on her icy world. She’s close. She’s so close to Marc that she could reach out and touch the backpack on his bulky suit. She’s tempted to just for fun, just to see if she can get away with it without him noticing. Her fingers twitch, urging her on.
“Turn on your lights,” Emma says.
“No,” he replies. “Turn yours off.”
“What?” she asks, but she does as he suggests.
“Look!”
Marc leans forward, dropping awkwardly down onto a thick, padded knee. He scoops up a handful of gravel. It’s difficult for him to stand. He almost topples over, but he turns to Emma, showing her the grit and stones held in his thick gloves.
“I don’t get it,” she says, hidden safely behind her glass visor.
“Watch,” he replies, turning his wrist over and scattering the dirt in front of him. Tiny flecks of light fall from his fingers like glitter.
“What is that?”
“Life,” he says. “This moon has some kind of bioluminescent microbial life. It springs into action when disturbed.”
He kicks his boots, scuffing them against the rocks and ice. Pebbles scatter. At the point where the debris lands, the soil lights up in blue specks.
Emma laughs. She repeats his uncontrolled experiment, giggling as tens of thousands of bioluminescent microbes packed within a tiny patch of soil respond to her stimulus. Life glistens around her, just outside the reach of the spotlights on the spacecraft.
“This is wonderful,” she says, smiling within her bulky helmet. “What a delight!”
“I know, right? Who would have thought life could arise in a system dominated by a goddamn black hole!”
“How is this possible?” Emma asks. “I mean, there’s no star. Surely, you need a star to provide energy.”
Marc says, “All life requires energy, but here on Altair IV, it’s not coming from sunlight. Perhaps it’s tapping into the tidal friction warming the subsurface oceans. Or maybe these are chemotrophs or radiotrophs. I’m not sure, but they’re alive. I need to take samples back to the Sycorax. I really want to examine these things under a microscope.”
Emma says, “Well, this explains why they set up a research station.”
“But why did they abandon it?” Marc asks.
“Dunno.”
“And why haven’t we heard about this place?”
“Dunno.”
“And what about the quarantine?”
Emma shakes her head, asking, “And where did everyone go?”
Marc turns to a pile of large rocks lying before a headstone, saying, “Look. Not everyone made it out of here alive.”
Emma notices the bouquet of flowers lying on the loose gravel beside the grave. The exhaust from their spacecraft blew them off the rocks. It takes her considerable effort to grab them, but she persists, crouching as she reaches down to pick them up.
Marc brushes his hand against the headstone. He mumbles, reading the words carved into the rock.
I love you.
I will never forget you.
“Someone died here,” he says.
“And yet someone’s alive down here,” Emma says, placing the flowers back on the grave. She lays the bouquet with a sense of reverence and respect. She ensures the stems point toward the foot of the grave while the flowers brush up lightly against the tombstone.
Miranda steps out from behind a nearby boulder. As the astronauts are facing the grave, they have their backs to her. She speaks with a loud, clear voice.
“She was my mother.”
The two astronauts spin around to face Miranda. Emma looks like she’s seen a ghost. She lights into the air as she jumps in fright. It takes her almost a second to drift back to the rocky surface of the moon. Marc crouches slightly with his arms in front of him, wanting to keep Miranda at bay. He shuffles backward.
“W—Who are you?” Emma asks.
“Why aren’t you wearing protective gear?” Marc asks.
“They won’t hurt you,” Miranda says, gesturing with her long spindly arms. She points at the sea of glass grass and a million glowing tips fading in the distance. It’s only now the astronauts have had time for their eyes to adjust to the darkness that they can see the faint specks of light stretching over the field.
Fireflies flash as they dance through the air. A couple of floating deer munch on the sharp tips of the glass over by a rocky outcrop. They’re not more than fifty yards away, being held aloft by dozens of overlapping blisters forming flotation bladders on their backs. To the human eye, it’s a hideous deformation. To evolution, it’s efficient and effective.
Emma keeps her distance from Miranda.
Marc steps closer, asking, “What’s your name? Where did you come from?”
“I’m Miranda. My name means marvelous, wonderful, wonderous. And I didn’t come from anywhere. This is my home. Those are my flowers.”
“No, no, no,” he says. He’s in shock. He mumbles to himself rather than talking to either Miranda or Emma. “This is an active zeno-biosphere. She should be dead.”
“I’m fine,” Miranda says, trying to put his mind at ease.
“You don’t understand,” Marc replies. “Regardless of how benign or compatible this ecosystem may be, even the slightest deviation at a cellular level could cause all kinds of complications and unintended toxicity.”
Emma ignores Marc’s comment, asking Miranda, “And you live here?”
Miranda nods.
Marc is still mumbling to himself. “Hell, even on Earth there are plenty of lethal environments, like algae blooms in rivers.”
Miranda holds out her hand as a firefly drifts past, blinking in and out of the darkness. The tiny insect lands on her outstretched fingers.
“They’re cute,” she says.
Marc points at it, saying, “On Earth, cute is often lethal. The blue-ringed octopus is cute. It’s pretty. It’s the size of a toy in a Happy Meal. And its bite is painless. Its toxin doesn’t even hurt, but it’ll kill you within minutes.”
Miranda laughs. “What kind of meal is happy?”
“You’re missing the point,” Marc says, but Miranda is undeterred in her enthusiasm.
“Welcome to Altair IV,” she says.
“Your father,” Emma says from behind her sealed visor. “Is he the one that spoke to us over the radio?”
“Yes.”
Marc is worried. “He said this moon was under quarantine. Why?”
Miranda looks at the lightning rippling through the clouds beyond the spacecraft. She speaks with a sense of urgency, saying, “Because of Caliban.”
Caliban
“What happened to your mother?” Emma asks, looking down at the grave.
To Miranda the answer is obvious. “She died.”
Even within the confines of her helmet, Emma’s concern for Miranda is apparent. It’s the way her head tilts, the tenderness in her eyes, the soft tone of her voice.
“I know. I’m sorry. Can you tell us what happened here? Can you tell me what happened to your mother? What happened to the rest of the crew?”
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Miranda says. “Caliban won’t be happy.”
“Caliban did this?” Emma asks, pointing toward the decimated labs.
Miranda nods.
“The storm?” Marc asks, following Miranda’s gaze out over the hills. Were it not for the lightning crackling within the clouds, the astronauts would have no idea how close the storm was or how large it has become. In the darkness, it’s imposing.
“We should go,” Miranda says. “You should turn off your lights.”
“Where is your father?” Marc asks.
“I’ll take you to him,” Miranda replies. “But you must turn off your lights. All of them.”
Marc and Emma look at each other.
“Do you believe her?” he asks.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” Emma replies. “That storm is about to hit.”
“And?”
“Do as she says. Kill the lights on the scout. I’ll power down the methane extractors. The last thing we need is an electrical strike frying the circuits.”
“Understood,” Marc says, bounding over the rough terrain. He hops along, kicking up dust in front of him.
He’s slow.
Miranda runs alongside him.
“Lean into your stride,” she says. “Stay low. Don’t bounce. You’ll go faster.”
“Thanks,” he says, but he still seems unsure of himself. It seems he’s far too conscious of falling, but what is running other than a controlled fall where you constantly catch yourself? To Miranda, running is tumbling forward while never hitting the ground.
Miranda says, “Trust me. Long strides. Lunges.”
To his credit, Marc takes her advice. He copies her stride. Regardless of his thick suit material and bulky backpack, his pace doubles as he leans into his run.
“Nice,” he says, waving as she peels away, leaving him to rush up the ramp and into the airlock on the spaceship.
Marc stands at the top of the ramp, tapping his thick gloved fingers at a control panel on the outside of the ship. As the storm is approaching, he yells within his suit. Miranda only catches some of his words.
“—remote access enabled—power down—wake cycle on—”
The wind whips across the plain, making it difficult to hear anything beyond the howl of the storm. Dust curls around the legs of the spacecraft and through the huts. Out beyond the spotlights, the storm is descending on the hills, hiding them from sight.
A tiny speck of light glows beside Miranda’s shoulder, but it’s not a firefly.
“We need to go,” Ariel says. “Now!”
“You go,” Miranda says, standing beside one of the methane extractors. “I’m not leaving them.”
“You should.”
Emma moves between the extractors, powering them down. Like Marc, even though she has a radio, she’s yelling to be heard above the thunder rumbling through the air.
“—cycle—confirmed. Wake on remote access enabled. I’m gonna—”
Six crates were offloaded on robotic treads. They unfolded into miniature factories with inflatable bladders to hold the captured gas. The flat side panels that lay on the ground now fold back up, protecting the equipment from the storm.
Ariel speaks to Miranda. “You must go. I can’t protect all of you out here.”
“They don’t know the way,” Miranda replies. “They could get lost in the storm.”
“Who are you talking to?” Emma asks as she turns one of the devices off. The tiny LED lights on the control panel fade as the components retract.
Miranda ignores her, saying, “We need to hurry.”
“To where?”
“My home,” she replies, pointing along the narrow stretch of land leading from the plateau to the mountains. The track passes under a cliff. Waves crash on the rocks roughly a hundred meters below the ledge. Spray hangs in the air, slowly settling into the honeycomb of caves that wind their way beneath the crust of the planet.
The lights on the scout die. Marc appears back at the top of the ramp. He drops over the side, falling to the rocks not more than ten meters from the two of them. In the light gravity, he lands gracefully. Both of the astronauts have activated the lights on the side of their helmets.
“You need to turn those off,” Miranda says, leading them toward the hillside.
Neither of them hesitates. Marc, though, grumbles. “I don’t like this.”
Miranda says, “Once your eyes adjust to the dark, you’ll be fine.”
Sleet comes down in waves, washing over them. Miranda takes Emma’s gloved hand, while Marc rests his hand on Emma’s backpack, following along behind her.
The wind drives hard across the field. Shards of glass break off the grass. The needle-like splinters are picked up by the storm. They’re driven across the plateau like hail. As the storm is coming from behind them and slightly to one side, Marc takes the brunt of the debris. Glass embeds itself in his backpack. Tiny bits tear through the cloth on his arms and legs, but it’s only the outer layer that’s breached. Thin lines streak along the side of his helmet, scratching the surface of his visor.
Miranda screams at the storm, yelling, “Cali—bannnn!”
Thunder rumbles through the air. Lightning crashes around them, striking the edge of the cliff in fury. Boulders are dislodged. In slow motion, they tumble down, striking the path around them.
Miranda calls over the raging tempest, “Ariel, I need you!”
In response, an eerie yellow glow forms in the air, but it’s only on the windward side of Miranda.
“Wait,” Emma says, slowing her pace and dragging Miranda to a halt. “What is this?”
Hundreds of glass shards vaporize not more than ten feet away from them. The tiny flecks soar through the air toward them like daggers only to come to a halt. The yellow glow in the air forms a boundary between them and the storm—a shield. At that point, the shards are transformed into molten glass. Droplets fall to the ground, forming a dark slag in the cold.
“A forcefield?” Marc says, reaching out with his hand. “How is this possible?”
He’s on the verge of touching the shimmering haze when Miranda says, “Don’t. Come. We need to be quick. She can’t hold him off for long.”
“Who?” Emma asks. “Who can’t hold him off for long?”
“Ariel.”
Miranda rushes forward. The yellow glow follows her. The two astronauts struggle to keep up. They rush to remain within the shelter provided by the forcefield. It’s only visible when fragments of glass strike its surface, but it’s not a bubble. It doesn’t extend entirely around them. Bits of glass caught in the updraft swirl before Marc and Emma, but these fragments are harmless. Without the momentum imparted by the storm, they tumble like snowflakes.
