The Tempest (First Contact), page 15
Marc looks at his fingertips. No dust has settled on any of the rough, angled surfaces. Given this room is well over a decade old, he expected some accumulation. Perhaps no one has been in here since it was completed. Given the lack of visitors to Altair IV, he’s probably the first person to stay in this room.
The bed is round, which seems like an odd choice, but as the room isn’t symmetrical, it works well enough. Pillows have been piled up on the bed. They lean against the rock wall. They’re pretty. Someone’s taken the time to embroider flowers on them, although the embroidery would be robotic. This must be Miranda’s touch. It’s as though she’s been expecting guests all along. Perhaps longing for them is a better turn of phrase. The duvet spread over the bed is plush. Marc tosses his helmet on the bed. It rolls and his gloves fall out. He runs his fingers over the duvet, enjoying the soft touch. Warm air spills out of a vent in the ceiling. Several return vents have been set into the floor, drawing away gases such as CO2.
A single chair has been set in front of an austere table. A thin glass vase holds a solitary flower on a long stem. It’s not unlike those he saw lying on the grave.
Marc didn’t notice the bathroom en suite when he first entered the room. It’s down a narrow rock tunnel that, from the doorway, blends in with the rest of the wall. It’s the angle at which it's been set that hides it. Marc didn’t spot it until he walked around the bed. Curious, he walks down the corridor. Identical jumpsuits hang inside an open closet set to one side.
Mirrors adorn the walls of the bathroom, reflecting the overhead lights. They make the bathroom seem far larger than it is. Water bubbles up from within a broad, granite bath. He watches as the excess water spills over the side into a drain. Steam rises from the surface. It’s inviting.
“Oh, wow,” he says, running his fingers through the warm water. “This is sweeeeet!”
The toilet is a squat pit. Marc’s seen these before during a trip to Asia, but he’s never tried one. Soft pads have been placed on either side of a hollow opening on the floor, indicating where his feet should go.
“That’s going to take some practice,” he says, noting there’s no toilet paper or flush mechanism. There’s a basin but it doesn’t have a tap. Marc waves his fingers through the air, passing them above the bowl. Warm water rises from the center of the basin. It reaches several inches in the air before cascading back into the bowl and down the drain. He removes his hand and it stops.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Hang on,” Marc says, jogging back into the bedroom. In the low gravity, his bulky spacesuit is annoying rather than heavy. He waves his hand over a soft blue light beside the door and the steel panel slides open. Emma is standing there in a slim-fit jumpsuit. Her hair is wet. She’s slicked it back over her head with a comb. In the time he’s fumbled around in his room, exploring the exotic nature of various things like the bed and the bath, she’s already washed and dressed.
“What are you doing?” she asks, throwing her hands wide. She gestures to his suit. Marc is dumbfounded.
“Ah.”
“Nothing,” she says. “That’s what you’re doing. Nothing. Come on. Get dressed!”
“I—um,” he mumbles, reaching for the switch to close the door on her.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she says, stepping inside before the door can close.
“Can’t a guy get some privacy?”
“Since when were you so shy?” she asks.
Marc doesn’t answer. He retreats to the bathroom and begins shedding his spacesuit. He’s expecting Emma to help but she doesn’t. She leans against the rock wall and watches as he unclips the hoses and connectors reaching around to his backpack. Marc swings the life-support unit down onto the polished concrete floor.
“You know you could help,” he says.
“And spoil all the fun?” she replies, laughing. “Nope.”
“Great,” he says, being sarcastic.
Marc unlocks the waist ring on his suit. He leans forward and jiggles, working the upper torso over his shoulders as he bends toward the floor. The low gravity doesn’t help. On Earth, it would flop to the ground. On Altair IV, it barely moves. The stainless steel locking ring for his helmet and the front plate makes the upper torso quite stiff even though the arms are flexible. Once his shoulders are free, he dumps the torso on the floor next to the backpack. Getting out of his trousers is easy, but he has to remove his overboots first. The thick insulation on the soles makes them clumsy. He steps out of his trousers, allowing them to crumple next to the life-support pack.
“Enjoying the show?” he asks.
“Yes.”
Marc grabs a jumpsuit.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Emma says with a not-so-subtle hint he needs to shed his dirty thermal underwear. Normally, Marc’s oblivious to the smell of his own dried sweat, but after all that transpired on the Sycorax and here on Altair IV—and after removing his suit—he has the distinct displeasure of smelling himself.
“Take a quick dunk in the bath,” Emma says.
“Seriously?” Marc asks. “Isn’t everyone waiting?”
“Everyone is an old man and his teenage daughter,” Emma replies, walking into the bathroom. “I think we can spare them the stench.”
“And you’re just going to watch?” he says, reaching around his waist and pulling his top off.
Emma shrugs as if to say, maybe.
Marc turns his back to her and drops his long underwear.
“Interesting,” Emma says.
Marc looks back at her over his shoulder. She slaps his bare ass playfully.
“Hey!”
“What?” she protests, looking innocent.
Marc hops into the bath. He plunges in, quickly realizing it’s easily six feet deep. His feet barely touch the bottom. Water surges around him. Waves wash over the edge. Emma stands in the doorway. There’s a slightly soapy feel to the water. The low gravity on Altair IV makes him more buoyant than on Earth.
Marc has to grab hold of the edge of the bath to pull himself beneath the surface. He rubs his hands through his hair, working his fingers over his scalp, under his arms and around his groin—not that Emma can see over the rim of the bath.
“Could you get me a towel?” he asks.
“Oh, this is the best bit,” she says, walking out of sight into the corridor to give him some privacy. “Just hop out and it’ll do the rest.”
“Really?” he says.
“Really,” she replies. All he can see of her is her hand protruding around the edge of the corridor, holding a jumpsuit out for him.
Marc pulls himself up on the edge of the bath, dripping wet. Warm air begins swirling around him. He stands as jets of hot air wash over him, drying him. Within seconds, the water beading on his body has been drawn away. Moisture hangs in the air around him, but it’s quite pleasant. To Marc, the waves of warm air leave him feeling as though he’s being patted down with soft, fluffy towels. He ruffles his hair, but his skin is dry.
“Okay, that is pretty cool,” he says, taking the jumpsuit from her outstretched hand.
“Feel better?” she asks from out of sight.
“Yes,” he says, getting dressed. He peers around the corner, seeing her looking at his suit lying on the ground. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking we should wear the upper torso.”
“Of the suit?”
“Without the backpack,” she says. “It’ll allow us to remotely control the scout and the mining units. The computer battery is built into the front plate so it’ll work without recharge for a few days. Besides, it’ll keep our core warm when we go back outside.”
“You want to go back out there?” he asks, zipping up his jumpsuit.
“I sure as Shiva don’t want to stay here,” she replies.
Marc bends down and slips on a pair of thick moccasin-style boots lined with fur, asking, “What’s the plan?”
There’s no answer.
“Em?”
She’s gone.
Reluctantly, he lifts up the stiff, tortoiseshell of the upper torso and slips it over his head.
The door’s open. Marc walks out onto the balcony.
“There you are,” Emma says, wearing the upper torso of her suit as well. Her playfulness is gone. He’s confused. She’s focused—serious. “Be careful. Nothing is what it seems.”
In the low gravity on Altair IV, the upper part of his suit is light, especially without the associated backpack and its canisters of oxygen, heating and CO2 scrubbers. The arms on the suit finish in the lower part of his forearm with the locking ring that would normally clip into his gloves. A thin, flexible screen wraps around the section from his elbow to his wrist. Emma taps at her screen, checking metrics on the scout.
“Ah, okay,” he replies, feeling at a loss given their lighthearted banter just moments ago in the bathroom. “So what’s the plan?”
Emma says, “Wait for the storm to subside and make like Kali out of here.” The confused look on his face prompts an explanation. “Get the fuck out of here. Is that better?”
“You don’t want to know more?” he asks as they walk along the vast, open balcony. “I mean, this is First Contact, right? You heard the professor. These aliens are millions of years more advanced than us. Don’t you want to know about the Krell?”
“Nope,” Emma says. She’s blunt. Marc preferred it when she was jovial, tapping him playfully on the butt.
“What about methane extraction?” he asks as they walk down the broad staircase.
“There are dozens of other moons in this system,” she says. “We’ve got thousands of people up there counting on us to keep them alive. That’s our priority. We’ll leave the science stuff to the scientists.”
“But you heard what the professor said. Caliban won’t let us leave. He destroyed the Copernicus.”
“But we have an advantage,” Emma says, smiling. “We have something they didn’t.”
“What?”
“Me.”
Marc doesn’t mean to insult her, but he can’t help himself. He laughs at the thought she could stand up to an extraterrestrial intelligence capable of manipulating the weather and hurling lightning at them like an angry Zeus.
“I’m serious,” she says, batting her hand across his chest and striking his front plate.
“Okay. Okay,” he replies, unable to suppress the smile breaking out on his face.
Emma asks Marc, “What did you think of him?”
“The professor?”
“Caliban,” she replies in a whisper. “You saw him, right?”
“What? No,” Marc says as they reach the second floor, following the stairs down to the first floor.
The professor and his daughter are below them in an open-plan kitchen overlooking the valley—or it would overlook the valley if the storm had subsided. There’s a marble benchtop, a central breakfast bar that spans easily thirty feet, and appliances that wouldn’t be out of place in his mother’s home: an oven, a stovetop and a refrigerator. If anything, it all looks disconcertingly normal. A handful of plates and some cutlery have been placed at the far end of the counter.
“Caliban was standing beside the landing gear on the scout,” Emma says. “I saw him during a flash of lightning.”
“But he’s the bad guy, right? The enemy.”
“If the professor is to be believed,” Emma replies, drifting down the steps. There’s no rushing in low gravity.
“You don’t believe him?”
Emma is blunt. “In my experience, when someone tells you who they are—believe them. When they tell you who someone else is—ignore them!”
“But why would Caliban take human form?” Marc asks. “For that matter, why does Ariel? Why don’t they appear as Krell?”
“Who fucking knows?” Emma says under her breath as they walk toward Miranda and the professor. She adds a flippant, “Who cares?”
Emma puts on a fake smile as they walk across the vast floor toward their hosts.
“Ah, our guests have arrived,” the professor says, feigning a warm greeting. It seems both sides are faking their enthusiasm.
Miranda doesn’t seem to notice the forced pleasantries. She’s genuinely excited to see the two astronauts have changed into their jumpsuits. “Hi,” she says, waving excitedly. There’s an innocence to her. It’s as though she’s meeting them for the first time—again. Marc is perplexed by her enthusiasm.
“Couldn’t live without it, huh?” the professor says, tapping the breastplate on Marc’s suit and distracting him.
Emma says, “This allows us to stay in contact with the scout, control the methane extractors, stuff like that.”
“Hmm,” the professor replies, not looking impressed.
“Ariel is preparing dinner for us,” Miranda says. It’s only then Marc realizes just how distracted he’s been. Up in the professor’s laboratory, they were so busy talking about Krell science they never talked about the Krell themselves. Who or what is Ariel? He’s seen her and yet he hasn’t. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s seen. And why did Caliban attack the two of them? What motivated that reaction?
Emma seems to arrive at a similar conclusion. “Where is Ariel?” she asks, looking around. Marc too wants to better understand this relic of Krell science.
“She’s right here,” Miranda replies with childlike joy. She snaps her fingers and, in an instant, the marble countertop is transformed into a feast.
“What in sweet Kamadhenu?” Emma says, stepping away from the counter.
“How the hell did you do that?” Marc asks, trying to take in all that’s appeared before him.
Steam rises from a side of roast beef. The bone is visible. The outer layers of meat have been carved off and left lying to one side. Sliced beef lies in a pool of its own juices on an ornate wooden cutting board along with a silver serving fork. There’s a bowl of mashed potatoes with butter melting on top along with a bowl of steamed broccoli and another with string beans. There’s too much to take in. Marc’s eyes dart over freshly cooked corn on the cob, roast pumpkin and carrots, steamed peas and roasted asparagus stalks.
He points at the food as if Emma hasn’t noticed. She’s looking further down the counter. The smell of naan bread fills the air. Several curries sit in ornate brass bowls. There’s a plate full of triangular samosas and various Indian pastries. Steam rises from freshly cooked rice piled high in a wooden bowl.
“How is this possible?” Emma asks. “How did you do this?”
“You don’t like it?” Miranda asks. She looks disappointed. “Ariel and I were sure you would like this. We tried to replicate your cuisine based on cultural clues from the way you spoke.”
Marc is stunned. His face lights up with childlike delight. “What is this? Magic?”
The professor says, “Any sufficiently advanced technology—”
“—looks like magic,” Marc replies, paraphrasing the professor’s reference to the 20th-century science fiction author Arthur C. Clarke.
“Well, it looks amazing,” Emma says, leaning forward and sniffing one of the curries. “It smells amazing.”
“But how?” Marc asks. “Where did all this come from? What is this technology?”
“Ariel created it for you,” Miranda says. Her father steps back. He seems content to let her take the lead. If anything, he’s amused by their reaction.
“But how?” Marc asks. “Out of what? Thin air?”
“No, silly,” Miranda replies, taking him literally. “Everything we are—everything we eat—it’s all quite straightforward. For the most part, it’s an arrangement of four or five atoms. It’s all just carbon, oxygen, hydrogen and nitrogen. Oh, there are a few other trace elements like sodium and iron, but there’s not that much.”
Emma focuses the discussion. “Where is Ariel? Is she here? Now?”
“Show yourself,” Miranda says.
A ghost appears at the far end of the counter. Ariel stands there glowing in various shades of golden yellow. She’s beautiful. Her hair blows as if caught in a breeze. She’s wearing what could be loosely gathered folds of fabric reaching over her shoulders and around her waist, forming a dress. Her feet float rather than rest on the floor.
Marc is in no rush. He wants to get a good look this time, although he’s aware that Ariel defies his comprehension of science. In the back of his mind, he keeps Emma’s point at the forefront of his thinking. This display is intended to enchant and distract. Krell science might not be magic, but the giddy effect is the same. Outwardly, he allows himself to show some delight at her stunning appearance. Inside, he remains guarded.
Emma walks forward. “Can I touch her? Is she real?”
“What is real?” the professor asks, leaning against the countertop behind him.
“Me,” Emma says, addressing him.“I’m real. But what about her?”
“What we think of as real is an illusion,” the professor says.
Emma raises her hand, motioning for the professor to be quiet for a moment. Marc steps beside Emma, duplicating her motion with his hand. They’ve both had enough of the professor’s lectures for one day. Miranda is delighted by their response to Ariel’s appearance. She shrugs her shoulders and dances on the spot a little, curious to see what they’re going to do.
Emma addresses Ariel. “Can I touch you?”
The ghostly apparition says, “Yes.”
Ariel’s clothing floats around her rather than hanging from her. If anything, between that and the way her strands of hair move, it’s as though she’s submerged under water. Ariel turns her hand over, offering Emma her open palm.
Emma takes her fingers. “You’re warm.”
“You’re cold,” Ariel says, smiling at the interplay between them.
Emma examines the woman’s palm. Ariel’s hand is semi-transparent, allowing Emma to see the floor beyond. There are no bones. If a human was partially transparent they would appear like an x-ray, but not Ariel.
Emma runs her fingers up over the lace fabric reaching up Ariel’s arms and down to her wrist. “This isn’t you, is it?”
