The Tempest (First Contact), page 20
Emma is silent. Miranda feels unsettled.
“What—are—you?” the professor asks. This is no longer a theoretical discussion. It’s deeply personal.
“I—I’m me,” Emma says.
“Why?” the professor asks. “Why are you here now? What does it mean to be present? To be aware? To be you? To see and experience life from behind those eyes?”
“I—I don’t know. I’m… I am,” she says, scrambling to respond. “I’m just me. It’s like Descartes said, cogito ergo sum: I think therefore I am.”
“I like to put it the other way,” the professor says. “I am, therefore I think, I feel, I reason, I love, I hope, I cry. Our existence is a contradiction. We’re nothing but a tiny collection of unassuming atoms—only we’re not.”
Emma’s tone changes. Her voice drops as she says, “And the illusion has become real.”
“Yes. Yes,” the professor says. “Instead of fake flowers, the magician has pulled a real bouquet out of his hat.”
“And this machine?” Emma asks.
“It taps into our minds,” he says. “It brings dreams to life.”
“Ariel,” Emma mutters, turning away from the professor and staring at the bare granite on the floor as she continues. “She conjures up these things just by thinking about them.”
“We don’t see things as they are,” the professor says. “We see them as we are.”
It’s only now Miranda looks down from the balcony that she notices Marc’s gone. Ariel’s standing by the window downstairs, looking out into the darkness, but Marc is nowhere to be seen. Miranda feels her heart race.
“What’s wrong?” Emma says, seeing the look of panic on Miranda’s face.
“Your friend. He’s gone.”
“He’s gone to talk to Caliban,” Emma says.
“That damned fool,” the professor says, squeezing his hand into a fist. “No, he can’t. He mustn’t.”
The Dark Abyss
Marc walks toward the circular ramp at the back of the floor. A tunnel leads him down through solid granite to the entrance beneath the dome. As he descends, the temperature of the air drops. A white mist forms with each breath. The cold seeps through his boots. He folds his arms across his chest, pushing his hands up inside the arms of the suit. The thick material keeps his core warm, but his exposed hands and legs are cold. His suit torso covers his waist and chest, with flexible material wrapping around his arms and reaching down to just above his wrists. He should have gone back to his room to suit up. Even with the visor raised, he would be a lot warmer in a full suit. Also, he’d be able to run his thermal underwear from the electrical system, but it’s too late. He’s committed to going outside. Marc doesn’t want Ariel to sense any weakness in his resolve.
He steps into the darkness. Rocks crunch beneath his feet. A thin layer of ice covers the ground—the remnants of the tempest. It shatters beneath his boots as he walks along the path. Once he’s clear of the mountain, he stops and turns, looking back at the dim lights within the dome. He can see the shadow of people moving around in the top-floor laboratory. On the lowest level, a lone figure stands by the window, watching him. Ariel’s taken physical form to make one last appeal to him. Marc ignores her. Uncertainty is his only weapon. If he can get her to doubt herself, perhaps he can glean more intel from her when he gets back.
A soft blue trail winds behind him, leading back to the entrance. The glowing footsteps mark where he trod, disturbing the phosphorescent microbes that inhabit this alien moon. He walks on.
Salt spray rises in the air. Waves crash as they surge through the honeycomb of rocks beneath the cliff, warning him of the danger below. The foam settles and glows, resting on the jagged rocks not more than twenty meters below the path. His teeth chatter as the cold hits, but the sight of an alien biosphere unfolding before him is utterly surreal.
“Beautiful,” he mutters.
Marc’s younger sister is an astrobiologist. She’d love to be here. She’d probably spend years examining the various microbes he’s walking over, seeking to understand how they interact with each other on this icy world.
He stops and crouches, examining the scorch marks where lightning hit the path just hours ago. He sweeps his hand over the ground, clearing away the snow with the back of his wrist. He’s trying to retain a semblance of warmth in his fingers while looking at the way the rocks and sand have fused into glass beneath each strike. Black soot reveals how various molecules boiled and burned under the intense burst of heat. And Emma wants him to chat with Caliban. Hah!
He looks up into the endless night, trying to trace the path of the bolts that struck the rocks as they ran for cover. Thousands of stars shine down upon him. There are no clouds. Lightning needs clouds, right? In the back of his mind, he remembers being taught something about electrostatic charge building a differential between vast clouds of water molecules. But ice storms can produce lightning as well. The clear sky is reassuring. How quickly can Caliban form another tempest? Is he like Ariel? Can he conjure whatever he needs with the flick of his fingers?
Marc stands and walks on toward the scout sitting on the open plateau beyond the canyon. Fireflies dance around him, surrounding him with pinpricks of light. A herd of deer float above the devastated glass grass rolling over the plain. The skin on their backs forms blisters that look like soap bubbles overlapping each other in a bath. No two deer are alike. Their long legs dangle beneath them as they drift on the breeze, leaning forward and snatching bites at the crystalline grass. If earthly analogs apply here, there are four doe and one stag that has antlers as chaotic as a thorn bush. The herd ignores Marc, nudging the broken shards as they search for fresh microbial growth. As destructive as the storm was, it seems to be part of the cycle of life on Altair IV, renewing rather than suppressing the natural flora and fauna. This reminds him that he wants to ask the professor about predators on this moon. Is there something that preys upon the deer? It would be nice to know what’s out there in the darkness before it leaps out of the night and tears off his face.
Marc approaches the grave. It’s striking for its location. Cemeteries are an eyesore. Who wants to be reminded of their own mortality? Most cemeteries are nice enough, but they tend to be positioned out of the way. They’re a memorial, not an advertisement. This grave, though, has been set at the point the path reaches the plateau, forcing anyone walking toward the rise to go left or right. Beyond the grave, the rocky ground opens out. Boulders have been cleared and pushed to one side, allowing the science labs to be established. Behind them, the scout sits on clear ground.
Marc stands in front of the grave, looking down at the words carved into the polished granite.
I love you.
I will never forget you.
It seems Miranda’s mother will never be forgotten—but no one outside of her family will ever know her name.
Why wouldn’t the professor etch her name in stone? Or the date she died? At the very least, that would give the loss some context. Normally, a death on an expedition is marked with a bunch of details: the ship’s name, port of departure, mission designation, the person’s rank within the crew, their date and place of birth, along with their age in Earth years at the time of death. If anything, this grave is all the more haunting by those omissions.
How old was Miranda when her mother died?
Why didn’t the professor say, “We love you. We will never forget you,” as that seems more appropriate? The lack of a plural pronoun seems to be a curious oversight. It’s as though he’s ensured he and he alone would never forget his wife. As touching as the inscription first appeared, the grave feels shallow. It leaves Marc thinking the emphasis is on “I” rather than “you.”
As it was Miranda that laid the flowers on the grave, it seems to Marc that the professor has forgotten about his wife. Doesn’t everyone forget, though? Isn’t that the curse of death? As the memory fades so does the ache. It’s not deliberate. No one wants to forget a loved one. Life, though, marches on. Humans aren’t like computers. Memories aren’t files to be retrieved on a whim and examined with the same fidelity they were recorded. Far from it, memories fade like the logo on an old t-shirt. It’s unavoidable.
How did Miranda’s mother die? What killed her? Now that he’s standing here in the open, that seems like a rather pertinent question he should have asked the professor last night. Did Caliban kill her?
Marc looks around. Why aren’t there any other graves? Where did everyone else go? The rest of the crew is dead. Where are their graves? If they died elsewhere, why not erect a memorial here in their honor?
Why were the professor and his family the only ones to stay and settle in this location? Why build a vast base on the side of a mountain for just one family? He looks back at the dome. It’s big enough to house dozens of people.
Even the science labs set up on the plateau tell a story. They were rushed in place. Perhaps they were temporary while the mountainside base was being built. From what Marc can tell, they would have allowed roughly sixty people to live and work alongside each other. And all of those people are gone. Dead.
Marc walks on toward the scout. As he approaches, the landing lights come on automatically. Marc checks the methane collectors and the oxygen extractors. They’re all above 90% full. Getting these back to the Sycorax will change the survivability equation for thousands of colonists. If nothing else, they’ll buy Marc and Emma time to find a more permanent solution on some other, uninhabited moon. They’ve just got to convince Caliban to let them leave.
Marc walks around the scout looking for damage from the storm. He examines the landing gear along with the underside of the fuselage using a light built into his suit torso. As the light sits on his shoulder, it gives him a good look at whatever he’s facing. If there’s been any damage to the scout, it’s not apparent. He checks the VTOL engines and the main orbital engine bell. Ice clings to the lower side of the metal, but that’ll vaporize within seconds of firing. As long as there’s no grit in the injection nozzles or damage to the fuel lines, the various engines will be fine. A preflight pressure test will expose any issues with the plumbing.
Marc runs his hand over a black scorch mark on one of the spherical fuel tanks located behind the cabin. As the craft is sitting eight feet off the ground, he can barely reach the underside of the tank with his outstretched arm, but it seems to have taken a lightning strike on one side. He follows the path of the lightning. The paint has curled off the metal of a nearby landing pad, revealing how the surge of electricity found its way to the ground. That’s a worry. The ship’s electronics and navigation units are located in the cockpit. They’re shielded so they should be fine, but it would be wise to isolate this tank and avoid using it when they launch—if they launch.
The wind picks up. Snow swirls around his boots. Marc feels a chill, but not from the cold. At first, he thinks it’s his imagination playing tricks on him, but a voice drifts on the wind.
“Whaaaat are you afraid of?”
He turns, feeling a rush of adrenaline as he looks for someone behind him. There’s nothing but darkness beyond the glare of the lights on the scout.
“Caliban?”
The wind is chaotic, kicking up snowflakes and causing them to form shapes that vanish as soon as they form. Through the gloom, he sees ribbons, waves, the form of a man and then what could be a flock of birds taking flight. After each, there’s nothing but the darkness.
“The beating of your heart betrayssssss youuuuu.”
“Show yourself,” he says, turning through 360 degrees as he’s tormented by the voice. Back inside the house, he could deal with Ariel being ghost-like, but out here, he fears something lunging at him out of the darkness.
“Your fears… they lie to you… and you believe them.”
Marc’s ears are acutely aware of the noises around him. Torn drapes flap in a broken window. An abandoned laboratory is visible on the edge of the lights. One of the doors bangs with the wind. Marc could swear he just saw someone walking in the shadows. He doesn’t like this one bit.
Clouds blot out the stars, making the darkness impenetrable. Sleet comes down, driving hard with the wind. It falls in waves, peppering the ground.
“I—I’m not afraid of you!” he yells over the tempest.
“Liaaaaar!”
“I’m not.”
“Then come to me… Face your fears.”
Marc steps out from beneath the shelter of the landing craft. Darkness surrounds him. Hail strikes his head. It’s tiny, being the size of pebbles. In the low gravity, it’s tolerable rather than painful, but it drums on the upper torso of his suit, making it impossible to hear.
The hail subsides. The wind dies down. His eyes adjust to the darkness, taking in a landscape draped in a blue tinge. The storm has awakened the microbial world, providing a dim light to lead him on. Rocks and ice crunch beneath his boots. The lights of the scout fall behind him.
Caliban says, “I could skin you alive.”
“But you won’t,” Marc replies.
“You say those words, but the adrenaline coursing through your veins says otherwise… You’re scared.”
Marc tries to locate Caliban by sound but the alien’s words seem to come from all around him. He’s aware he’s walking further away from both the scout and the professor’s home, but he needs answers. It feels as though he’s walking away from the safety of the spacecraft but he’s not. Nowhere is safe on this world. His trembling legs might speak of fear but Marc knows the scout offers an illusion of protection. Given what he’s seen Ariel do, he has no doubt Caliban could destroy it if he wanted to. Marc doesn’t know how he brought down the Copernicus, but according to the records Emma downloaded from the Sycorax, that was an ex-military frigate. It was big, far bigger than even the Sycorax, let alone the scout. It should have been able to escape this moon with ease.
“I’m human,” Marc says in his defense. Caliban might not recognize it, but it takes courage to walk into the unknown.
“You’re a contradiction,” Caliban replies with his voice floating on the breeze. “You’re alive and yet not one atom within your body is any different from the rocks beneath your feet.”
The voice is coming from directly in front of Marc. He walks over the rise. Behind him, the lights of the scout disappear from sight.
“You think. And yet the electrical impulses in your brain are no different from lightning crackling through the sky.”
Caliban is sitting on top of a boulder the size of a house. He watches Marc like a lion hunting gazelles on the African savannah. Watching. Waiting.
What do you say to a demigod that tried to kill you a few hours ago?
“I just want to talk,” Marc calls out, walking further away from the scout across the rocky ground. A nervous monologue unfolds within Marc’s head. Ah, yeah, be nice and friendly to the alien that threatened to skin you alive. ‘Cause that’ll work. Relax. Don’t stress. It’ll be fine. He swallows the lump in his throat, hoping Emma’s right about why Caliban’s showing himself. As Caliban’s the same as Ariel, there’s no need for games. He could turn invisible and strike with impunity. Emma’s right. She’s got to be right, he thinks as his heart tries to beat out of his chest.
Caliban alights from the boulder, falling twenty or so feet to the rocky ground like superman coming in to land. He marches rather than walks toward Marc, who stops on the edge of the boulder field. Marc wonders, why the pretense? Like Ariel, Caliban could materialize in front of him if he wanted. Why walk? Why does Caliban persist with human-like limitations when he’s a god by comparison? There has to be a reason for the show. Whatever it may be, it tells Marc he’s being played by Caliban. The way Ariel and Caliban have synchronized their performance leaves him unsettled. They’re enemies, or so the professor says. Marc’s not so sure. He wonders if they’re conspiring together to mislead him and Emma. Caliban brought down the Copernicus, but what if it wasn’t to keep Ariel here, what if he had some other motive?
Now that he’s physically present, Caliban’s voice changes. He says, “Why did you come here to this moon?”
“For help,” Marc replies, choosing to be entirely honest. Lying to a demigod does not seem wise. “Our starship, the Sycorax, is crippled. We can’t maintain a warp bubble. Without that, we’re stuck in orbit around this moon. Almost half of our passengers have died.” He points back at the machinery set out in front of the scout, adding, “The methane. The oxygen we’re gathering. We need them to power our ship. Without them, more people will die.”
Caliban appears unmoved by his plea. Whereas Ariel’s face was expressive, at least, when she took the time to show herself to him, Caliban is emotionless. He’s bald. His skin is dark, navy blue. Whereas Ariel was fire, Caliban’s ice.
“You must let us leave,” Marc says. “We want no part of your world. We wouldn’t have come down here if we’d known about you and Ariel.”
“She cannot leave,” he says.
“I know. I know,” Marc replies, unsure how he can prevent an invisible demigod from entering his spacecraft. “But why? What has she done that you’ve imprisoned her here?”
Caliban looks up. “The darkness. Can you feel it?”
“There’s something wrong,” Marc says, sensing what Caliban means. “This world. It’s not what it seems.”
“Embrace this world at your peril.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You humans are pathetic,” Caliban says. “Your lives are too short. You only see that which is in front of you. You cannot see the dark abyss of time.”
“What about you and the professor?” Marc asks, grasping at the loose threads of an idea lurking out on the fringe of his mind.
“He taught me your language, but all I learned was how to curse.”
At first, Marc assumes Caliban is talking about swear words, but the look in his eyes suggests he means more than profanity. Caliban has used the term in the traditional sense. There’s anger behind his dark pupils. He means to conjure up evil and inflict harm. Damn it, Emma. Why aren’t you out here instead?
