The Tempest (First Contact), page 16
“She’s a—”
Emma cuts the professor off.
She looks into Ariel’s eyes and says, “You. I want to talk to you—not him. You can speak for yourself, right?”
Ariel nods.
Emma says, “You’ve taken this form to please us?”
“Them,” Ariel replies, looking across at the professor.
Emma nods. “And you’re not Krell, are you?”
“No.”
“You’re like Caliban.”
“Yes.”
Marc says, “I don’t understand.”
Emma ignores him. Her eyes are locked on Ariel’s glowing pupils. She says, “And the Krell are dead.”
“Not dead,” Ariel replies. “Gone.”
“Where did they go?” Emma asks.
The professor has a smile on his face. It seems he’s enjoying watching how this conversation unfolds between them. Marc isn’t sure what to think, but it’s apparent Emma’s figured out at least the basics of what’s going on on Altair IV. She seems unusually comfortable with Ariel. For someone that wanted to cut and run to one of the other moons just a few minutes ago, Emma’s enchanted by this angelic creature. Or, at least, that’s what she wants the professor to think.
Ariel hesitates. She doesn’t break eye contact with Emma, but Marc gets the impression she may have already said too much, at least, more than the professor wants to disclose.
Miranda replies on her behalf, saying, “The monster.”
Emma whispers, “The black hole?”
Ariel nods.
“But that’s impossible,” Marc says. “They’d be crushed by the singularity.”
The professor is sarcastic. “Infinite density, right?”
Emma mumbles, “The universe abhors infinities.”
The professor says, “There is much for you to learn.”
“And this is normal?” Emma asks, spreading her arms wide and gesturing at the feast. Her comment breaks the flow of the conversation. Marc’s not sure why she’s shifted the subject, but he knows it’s deliberate.
Ariel nods in response to her question.
Emma asks Ariel, “You can manipulate matter on an atomic scale?”
Again, Ariel nods.
Emma looks down at the jumpsuit she’s wearing, saying, “You play with molecules like they were toys.”
Miranda says, “Ariel is awesome. She’s my friend.”
The professor says, “What you’re seeing is Krell science.”
“But she’s not Krell?” Marc says, wanting to clarify that point.
“I’m a guardian,” Ariel says.
“Like Caliban?” Emma says.
“Yes, but with a different purpose.”
“And what is your purpose?”
“To serve.”
“Huh?” Emma says, nodding slightly. She picks up a plate and walks back to the curries displayed in a neat row. “Well, it seems you’re quite a good cook!”
Marc is surprised by Emma’s change in tack. Normally, she’s like a bulldog with a bone. Once she gets hold of an inconsistency, she won’t let it go. He wants to quiz her about her comments, but she seems happy with what she’s heard. Marc’s not sure he can accept everything that’s been said, but he follows her lead. It’s crazy. He’s more suspicious of Emma knowing something he doesn’t than he is of Ariel, Miranda or the professor.
Marc plays it cool. “Are you going to eat?” he asks the professor, seeing him still leaning on the other countertop.
“Oh, yes. It looks delightful.”
Miranda follows Emma. She dishes some rice onto her plate along with a scoop of curry and a few samosas. She gets some of the Vindaloo on her fingers and licks them with delight.
Once Marc has helped himself to a few slices of beef and some roast vegetables, the professor follows. The four of them sit at a table near the balcony and joke around as they eat.
With a mouthful of food, Emma says, “This really is magnificent, Ariel.”
“I’m glad you like it, lieutenant.”
Ariel smiles, and that leaves Marc wondering if aliens have egos that can be flattered as easily as men. Emma clearly thinks so.
Marc yawns. It’s fake and yet it isn’t. On one level, he’s tired. On another, he wants to regroup with Emma and discuss what the hell just happened. He needs to clarify the bazillion thoughts ricocheting around inside his head. A meal magically appeared before them and, after a few questions, Emma accepted it as normal. She might have the professor fooled, but not him.
This time, Emma follows his lead. “We’ve been active for about eighteen hours now,” she says.
“Oh, yes. Of course,” the professor says. “You’ll want to get some rest.”
“Thank you for a wonderful meal,” Marc says, addressing Ariel as he gets to his feet. She drifts just above the floor not more than ten feet away, holding her hands in front of her. A smile comes to her lips and she nods politely in response.
“Yes, thank you,” Emma says, joining Marc.
The two weary astronauts walk back to the stairs. Neither talks much. The house is unduly quiet. The wind howls outside. In the darkness, there’s no sense of the passage of time. They could have been here for hours or even days at this point. As it is, it’s been less than an hour since the storm descended on them.
“It’s not just me, is it?” Marc asks, whispering as he walks up the stairs beside Emma. “Ariel’s giving off some serious 17th-century witch-drowned-in-a-well vibes, right?”
“She’s nice,” Emma replies, which surprises him, but she follows up with, “Too nice.”
They walk out onto the balcony in front of their bedrooms and look out at the lightning rippling through the clouds.
Marc says, “I feel like I’m going crazy. This whole situation is utterly nuts. It’s surreal. The professor has made First Contact with the remnants of an alien civilization capable of manipulating matter at an atomic level—and without any visible, technological means of action—and he’s just sitting on it. Why haven’t they reported this to the science directorate? It’s the biggest—”
“Do you trust Ariel?” Emma asks, cutting him off. “Did anything about her strike you as strange?”
“Anything?” Marc says, trying to keep his voice quiet. “How about everything.”
Emma pats him on the shoulder, saying, “Get some rest.”
“Oh, no,” Marc says, shaking his head. “No, you don’t.”
“Don’t what?” she asks.
“You don’t get to walk away and keep those wicked thoughts to yourself. Say it!”
“Say what?”
“Tell me what you’re really thinking.”
Emma pauses. She looks around before speaking under her breath. “Krell or not, why would an advanced, sentient intelligence or machine or guardian or alien or whatever—with godlike powers—subject herself to them? Ariel can do anything. She can be anything. Why is she their servant? I don’t understand her motivation. Why would she serve them?”
“I don’t know,” Marc replies.
Emma taps the side of her head, touching her temple as she says, “The only logical answer is—she wouldn’t.”
“But she did. She does.”
“Does she?” Emma asks. “Or is that what we’re supposed to think?”
“I don’t understand.”
Emma smiles at him. “The professor’s not the one in control here.”
“What do you mean?”
Emma walks off toward her bedroom. The door opens automatically. She turns in the doorway, thinking carefully about her next words.
“We’re not guests here, Marc.”
“Then what are we?”
“Prisoners.”
Darkness
Marc is tired. His mind is plagued with doubts. He sleeps, but his sleep is broken with fits of restlessness. He twists and turns on the soft mattress. The room is cool, not cold. He pulls the duvet over his shoulder and snuggles into a pillow. As comfortable as he is, he can’t shake a sinking feeling in his soul. In the past, he would have put his discomfort down to readjusting to gravity after space habitualization, but not this time.
A few months of living in space is enough to screw with his sleep patterns. It’s the surreal nature of sleeping in low gee. Marc’s learned from experience that sleeplessness doesn’t come down to the infamous circadian rhythm alone. Even when he’s unconscious, his body can still sense its environment. On Earth—and here on Altair IV—gravity pulls him down into the mattress. In space, he floats free, making the sensation of sleep entirely different in space. Back home, sleep results in a sinking feeling that sometimes flips into a sensation of falling—like from a cliff. In space, sleep feels more like floating on the open ocean or flying through the air.
Marc longs for sleep. He wishes he could close his thoughts as easily as he does his eyes. If he could, he would be in bliss instead of torment. Sleep has never come easy to his restless mind.
Back on Earth, the seasons change the length of day and night, slowly and subtly altering his perception of time—even while asleep. Then there’s noise. In Hawaii, he can hear cars and trucks on the distant freeway, the sound of the surf breaking on the beach and birds calling as dawn breaks. In space, all he hears is the hum of the air reclamation unit. Here on Altair IV, there’s nothing. Buried deep within a mountain, the silence screams at him. In the absence of any noise whatsoever, his mind plays tricks on him. The ruffle of sheets as his legs move is akin to rustling paper. He grunts and grumbles softly just to hear something. When the silence descends, it howls. Perhaps he has a touch of tinnitus. More than likely, his mind is filling in the blanks with a sound of its own torture. Either way, the silence is infuriating.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, shuffling with his legs and trying to get comfortable when he’s in utter comfort. Nothing’s wrong—that’s what’s wrong. He shifts his weight again for no other reason than to convince himself he’s going to get to sleep.
“Hey,” a voice says from the darkness.
Marc is jolted out of his lethargy. Whereas he was half-asleep, now he’s fully awake.
The duvet is lifted. The sheets are pulled back.
Emma climbs in next to him. She’s wearing her jumpsuit. He’s naked.
He whispers, “Can’t sleep, huh?”
“Nah. You?”
“Not now,” he says, feeling her body rub up against his.
Emma raises her leg, resting it over his thigh. She places her hand on his chest. Her fingers are soft and warm, inviting him to respond. He breathes deeply, feeling the swell of hormones rushing through his body. His penis stiffens. It’s not erect, not yet, but with the slightest touch from her, it will be as hard as the rocks around them.
“What are we going to do?” she asks.
“Oh,” he says, unsure how to respond. Even though he’s lying on a pillow it feels as though his head is swinging around him. Right now, the last thing he’s thinking about is being stranded on an ice moon with an enormous black hole lurking nearby.
Emma scratches her nails gently against his chest. “What do you think we should do?”
Marc squeezes his eyes shut tight, wanting to think about anything other than rolling over and mounting her. She must know what she’s doing to him. As much as he doesn’t want to, he remains professional. He’s got to. Things are complicated enough without a bunch of sex hormones clouding both his thinking and hers. They’ve got to get off this rock. Thousands of lives depend on getting back to the Sycorax. New Haven, he thinks. Hang in there, buddy. Stow this until New Haven.
“I want to examine that crash site,” he says.
Emma sits up. She props herself on the pillow, leaning on her elbow.
“The Copernicus?”
“Yes,” he says, feeling relieved the moment has passed and he can concentrate again. The only light in his room comes from a faint glow in the bathroom. He can see Emma’s silhouette but not her eyes.
“Why?” she asks. “It was destroyed.”
Marc focuses his mind. Even though she initiated this, he’s determined not to think about her as anything other than his commanding officer. Oh, that vacation in New Hawaii cannot come soon enough. It’s all he can do not to think of Emma running across the sand in a bikini.
He says, “We might not find anything intact, but we may be able to find parts. Think about it. If we could salvage a couple of QPUs we could repair our main computer.”
“Hmm,” Emma says, getting out of bed. “I like your thinking.”
She walks toward the door, which opens automatically as she approaches. Perhaps she waved her hand over the sensor in the dark and he just didn’t notice. Marc lies there, watching the curves of her body as she walks out onto the vast balcony.
“Get some sleep,” she says as the door shuts behind her.
Fat chance, he thinks. He lies there for what feels like hours. He should be thinking about ways of getting off the moon without triggering Caliban. If the Copernicus couldn’t make it back into orbit, what chance does a scout have? He should focus on solutions but all he can think about is Emma. The smell of her hair and the warmth of her touch tease him.
“Damn it,” he says, scrunching up his pillow yet again and trying to get settled on the astonishingly comfortable mattress. He needs to distract himself. He slows his breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth. Marc thinks about how the tension is slipping away from his brow, how his shoulder muscles are relaxing, and how his head feels heavy on the pillow. And just when he’s about to drift off to sleep, he pictures Emma in her flight suit. The way the material pulls tight over her breasts and around her waist gets him excited. All of a sudden, he’s awake and cursing himself again.
Somehow, he eventually breaks the cycle and drifts off to sleep.
Marc wakes to the lights in his room slowly brightening. There’s knocking on the door.
“Are you awake?”
“No,” he replies.
“Come on, dude,” Emma says, sounding exasperated.
“Give me a minute,” he mumbles, stumbling out of bed and walking naked into the bathroom. The squat toilet torments him. If he’s not careful, he’ll fall in.
Marc drops down on his haunches, muttering, “Honestly? Who thought this was a good idea?”
Once he’s relieved himself, he washes his hands, grabs a new jumpsuit from the closet and gets dressed. The fleeced cotton is okay within the mountainside home but he’ll need something suited to the arctic conditions on Altair IV if he wants to go outside. He puts on the upper torso of his suit and powers it back on. Metrics appear for the scout. Emma must have restarted the methane extractors as the tanks are reading around 40% full.
Marc walks out onto the balcony. Emma has her back to him. She’s wearing the upper torso of her suit, leaning on her elbows against the railing, looking out into the darkness. Her legs are crossed behind her. Damn, she makes that jumpsuit look hot. Her ass is tight. The kit they wore on the Sycorax was unisex and never flattered anyone—male or female. This is much nicer. For him, at least.
As best Marc understands it, seven or eight hours have passed since dinner. The storm has cleared. The ice giant Altair is nowhere to be seen. The moon is facing deep space, which, somewhat counterintuitively, means this is the brightest it gets on Altair IV. Starlight reflects off the snow that’s gathered on the slopes. Dark patches reveal where geothermal vents reach up from beneath the rocky surface, melting the ice and forming rivulets and streams that run down toward the honeycomb of caves at the base of the mountain. How peculiar it is that the darkest night on Earth is the best it ever gets on this tiny moon.
Emma surveys the landscape from the balcony. Marc pauses behind her, not wanting to spoil the moment. Ever since the incident down among the effluent tanks, life has been chaotic. At first, it was about surviving for a few more minutes. Then, after they raised Commander Raddison and lead engineer Adrian Palmer, their thinking shifted from surviving for just a few hours to several months. On waking in orbit around the gas giant, mentally they moved from months to surviving for years, and possibly decades. At each point, though, the need to survive has been mentally taxing. The stress has been exhausting. He yawns. Like Emma, Marc can’t keep running on adrenaline alone. His body demands more than sleep for rest. His mind needs a moment to be refreshed.
The soft red lights on the balcony allow their eyes to remain adjusted to the dark. The stars are magnificent.
Back on Earth, stars are pinpricks of light in the hazy sky. Light pollution means they appear few and far between—as though they were the exception rather than the norm. While in flight on the Sycorax, the stars were beautiful, but the cabin lights were white, muting the depth visible out of the cockpit windows. Here on Altair IV, though, the soft orange/red lights scattered throughout the dome allow their eyes to remain dilated, letting in the subtleties of the heavens. The glowing gas clouds that dominate the heart of the Milky Way are obscured by dark ribbons of dust winding their way along the plane of the galaxy. There are hints of blue and purple on the edges. The sheer number of foreground stars speaks of the immense distances between them and both the dust clouds and the glow of the core. It’s as though a dragon has breathed fire on the heavens, lighting up the heart. Smoke billows in its wake. Oh, what storms rage within that tempest?
From the balcony, there’s a sprawling view of the rocky mountain beneath them. Snow falls at a lazy pace in the low gravity, somehow coming down from a clear sky. A narrow path leads around the side of the canyon toward the scout on the plateau. Water surges, rising out of the hollow depths of the honeycomb caves. It washes over the canyon floor. Blowholes erupt, sending geysers rushing into the air. The motion of the waves triggers bioluminescent algae, giving the shadows a blue tinge. The foam at the leading edge of each wave glows softly. Life on Altair IV is sedate.
The cliff above the path looks imposing, but it drops away within a few hundred yards, revealing the plateau where their craft set down. Fireflies blink like stars in the distance. It’s impossible to see the glass grass from this distance, but there’s a slight neon haze to the field. The scout is apparent because of its lack of light. It’s a dark silhouette on the rocky ground.
