On fiction: Rendezvous with NECA pt. 3
{parts 1 and 2}
The torches on their helmets waver in NECA’s night. A second later and their shine resumes upon the metal surface of the airlock.
Ballard shrugs. “I’m afraid there’s still some electromagnetic leakage.”
“That thing better not fry my microcomms,” Hendrix says.
“They’re too small for the wavelengths in the pulse,” Ballard replies. “Indeed, I believe that they will-” he presses a button on a device the size and shape of a wristwatch “- be just fine.”
Another second of uncertain torchlight as the alien keybox sends a new pulse towards NECA. The airlock opening widens a bit more, now large enough to fit two people. Good enough, they’ll only climb in one at a time anyway. She goes first, to find some spots to anchor a rope to help them climb back up again. Hendrix follows, setting a couple more devices like the one Ballard used to control the box- little communication relays to keep them in touch with the ship. There is no need for her to babysit him as he rappels down- the first rope is secured from the top- so she looks around the airlock chamber.
The chamber is a fairly large cylinder- a family house might fit inside with room to spare- with the airlock gates at its ends. Its surface, smooth but not slippery, is the same blue gray like the exterior. Unlike the metal webbing outside however, here the tubes appear embedded in the wall, with only an occasional thin arch jutting out of the solid mass. No significant features apart from the diaphragm patterns on the ceiling and floor. The one salient object is another black box, a twin of the one they now use as a key, but a twin more favored by fate, protected from erosion and dust.
Hendrix unclips himself from the rappel rope. “Wow, those guys were really fond of leaving things behind, eh.”
She nods, and moves in closer to the artefact. Its sheen is not entirely due to the metal; some kind of transparent substance has effloresced on the its surface.
“Found another box, captain. Should we play with it?” Hendrix asks.
“Absolutely not. Wait until ours gets to you.”
“Just kidding.”
“Really, Hendrix.” She shakes her head and resumes examining the new box. The material trapping it must have been liquid once- maybe even a gas- and it leaked from the wall nearby. Tracing the trail of solidified drip reveals no damage. The thing just appeared at some point, maybe through a hole too small for her to see. She turns to watch their own keybox being winched down into the airlock. Tamed, or so they hoped, it would now send small bursts of energy rather than the explosion its designers intended. Small bursts that the space suits would weather undamaged.
Their keybox settles on the airlock floor. Moments later, Ballard follows. “I’m going to need that thing out of the way,” he says as he touches down. “I don’t expect the placements of these things is arbitrary, and if you don’t want to use that one-”
“Then Dr. Ballard, I suggest you be the one to move it,” captain Chahal says, as he stops on the rappel rope and looks around to take in the situation. “Handle the thing so that it won’t fry us.”
“Yes Captain.” With care- and a snarl of disgust- he grabs the second box, avoiding the transparent substance. Several pushes later, he turns around. “I believe I’ll need a hand here.”
She produces a small hammer meant to punch bolts into rock walls, and attacks the crystal. It refuses to shatter under her blows.
“Give me that,” Hendrix says and takes the hammer from her. Several minutes of furious strikes later, his arms droop, exhausted.
They all take turns hammering away at the crystal. It cracks with difficulty, and the cracks spread surprisingly slowly. The better part of an hour passes before they get the new box free.
“We should-” Captain Chahal gathers his breath. “We should get some of that to the ship.”
“We should get the whole box, I’d rather have one in mint condition too, for reference.”
“We’ll get it when we leave. Now try and control the airlock.”
-:-:-
Gubarev’s voice crackles through the commdev. -”I can hear you loud and clear”-
Concern has never been away from his tone ever since they woke up, but it sounds reassuring to hear him. Three kilometers and two closed airlock gates away, but still there- their own ship and some semblance of the familiar.
“It’s good to hear you,” she says. “Pity communication with Earth has been unreliable.” She glares at Hendrix, an unspoken accusation in her eyes. Very convenient for him to have the comms fail.
“Hey, I got them to work in time to tell everyone of the first box, all right?” The moment of silence as he meets her eyes convinces her he knows she suspects him. “Besides, why get the folks back home worried?”
-”Worried? No, they seem less afraid than they should be,”- Gubarev says. -”I’ve yet to find any other entrance in the pictures from Sfetnik. And what kind of entrance is this anyway.”-
“Do you see what we see?” she asks.
-”Yes, and it makes no sense at all.”-
They are now below the airlock. A dense network of pipes crosses between the walls, convenient for hand and footholds as they climb down, but an awkward obstacle for anything much larger than a human. If ships were meant to enter here, they’d have to be very small. If people were meant to enter here, why the climb? They descend among the pipes, their lights scattered and defeated by the wide surrounding darkness. The cold air carries echoes of their steps.
“Atmosphere reading: two hundred Kelvin, naught point six bars.” Ballard looks around, then again at the device on his wrist. “Eighty percent nitrogen, nineteen oxygen, argon and other trace gases make up the rest.”
Glimmers of frost- actual frost, or carbon ice- cover the tubes. Not the same at all as the crystal outside, the frost crumbles under her foot and she slips a couple of inches.
Ballard catches her. “Careful, Ms. Evans.”
She gives him a smile as he removes his hand from her arm. His help wasn’t needed, but it is appreciated.
It’s Hendrix’ turn to look at her accusingly. “Let’s keep focused and leave this place quick. I don’t like being locked up in here away from the ship and I’m sure neither do you.”
“Wait, stop,” captain Chahal says, and gestures for them to stand still.
The silence in NECA is complete, even as Ballard takes a few more steps down before stopping. Several seconds of silent waiting later, a distant rumble resumes.
“Must be some distant echo of ours, captain.”
“Yeah, echos. Heh, I’m starting to sound like Gubarev.” Snow crunches beneath Hendrix’ foot. “I’d really like to have some proper light here.”
Her eyes close by reflex. A moment later they open- too bright- and slam shut. It takes some willpower and patience for her to be able to look around again, for Hendrix got his wish. There is light inside NECA. Lots of it. Gubarev’s voice saturates the commdev, a long incomprehensible string of Russian curse words.
“Gubarev, what is NECA doing?” The captain attempts to keep a calm demeanor, but his rising pitch betrays fraying nerves. “Yen, any change in its trajectory? Any signal?”
It takes forever for the answer to arrive. -”None. No change on the outside.”-
-”It’s alive. Boje moi. The thing is alive.”-
“Let’s all keep our heads and carry on, shall we?”
Funny how the light brought more care to their steps than darkness did. What if they are watched, after all? But whatever else may be true, the inside of NECA is beautiful. While the metallic strands of the gauze enveloping the surface crossed each other in irregular but branchless patterns, here the pipes organize themselves in gigantic interlocked rose windows. Wherever the light comes from, it arrives in hues of teals, cyans and oranges, in patchworks resembling stained glass. A gothic cathedral. A radiolarian skeleton grown to cosmic size. The expanse of ledges, columns and steps seems to go on forever downwards, but apart from its dizzying structure there is nothing and no one. The emptiness at once reassures and overwhelms.
She prefers the dark, muddy twists inside the caves of Earth. More … intimate? She’d press her hand against the rocks and feel the bones of Gaia, the slow life of planet Home. It’s not that NECA threatens- there’s no one else around- but it stands too pristine to be inviting. Like no one is worthy, like no one matters. The interlocking patterns mock her mind with their chaotic regularity. Even the captain, always so steadfast, sways and hesitates.
It’s Ballard that seems the quickest to adjust. “Ms. Evans, look!”
New lights float upwards from the depths of the alien craft, small wisps barely the size of an eyeball. Pale yellow they flicker, tiny flames with no apparent candle, inching randomly from side to side under the influence of air currents her suit wouldn’t allow her to feel.
“Do you suppose they are alive?”
“I’ve no idea,” she says.
If they are alive, they do not show it; they do not cluster around any of the intruders, and just diffuse on their way.
The captain would tell them something, but Ballard is already approaching one of the rising wisps. It dims for a moment under his touch, then resumes its dull shine. Upward momentum lost, it lingers near Ballard, until he gives it a slight push away.
“Get away from the jack-o-lantern, only fools follow those,” Hendrix says.
“Hm.” Ballard toys with another wisp, but he gazes elsewhere. “Will-o-wisps.” He smiles. “Will-ve-wisps.”
“Sorry?”
“Eh, nothing.”
Frost begins to sublimate- dry ice turning to gaseous CO2.The temperature must be rising. “Captain,” she asks, “what’s the temperature range for our suits?”
“I don’t know, Ms. Evans, nor do I know how much more the temperature will increase. Major Hendrix, make sure our comm relays can monitor the conditions here. I suggest we wait this one back at the ship.”
-:-:-
She rolls her eyes. “What, again? We barely got back to the ship and Earth comm f-”
“I’m doing the best I can, the thing is really finicky.” His tone is annoyed. “It looks like it’s really broken this time.”
“This time.”
“I do not like what you’re suggesting.” Hendrix’ hand slams against the wall above her shoulder. The ship may be small but in this corridor the two of them are alone.
“Is it you who’s tampering with it?” she asks.
His fingers clench, but he retreats. “I’ve got no idea what’s got into it now, and I won’t be chewed by a civvie. You do your thing, I do mine- and that includes telling you how much to share with others.”
“Doesn’t Earth need to know something changed inside NECA?”
“They will as soon as I get the damn radio fixed. There. Happy? And don’t get too cozy with the others.”
Foul, the mood she feels as he walks away to the comm room. At least she has her own work to attend to, help her forget for a while. Everyone else does. Ballard has the two keyboxes to play with, Dezaki and the captain adjust the suits for NECA’s newly tropical climate, and she has her dust and crystal shards to look at.
Even small things have great stories to tell, if one knows how to ask. Shape, mechanical properties, chemical composition- all tantalizing clues to hidden histories. And sometimes, just sometimes, serendipity smiles. Like when she tried to dissolve the shards from the crystal that engulfed the other keybox. At first the acid seemed to have no effect, and then she saw needles of precipitate appear on the sample. With optical magnification she watched it grow like a snowflake- or a miniature NECA- expanding slowly until the minuscule strands merged together in a solid grain. If only there was a way to get some metal coating over it, and examine it with the better resolution of an electron microscope, for it reminded her of something else: those clays she found deep inside Earth, self-replicating, almost but not quite alive.
It seems a small thing to find, when there’s still so much of NECA to explore, but she should feel exhilarated at finding another path for the inorganic to reach towards life. Then why does the foul mood return? So be it, she’ll tell him- Hendrix- first, in person. And then she’ll tell everyone else; what can he do, stop her?
She locks the sample in the freezer before leaving. The sequence plays in her mind, again and again in variations, as she approaches the comm room. Should she flat out defy him? Should she play more devious, make him believe she complies for now? The door opens as she swipes the controls.
She turns away. Eyes stare blank into a distance. A breath, then another, before she turns to face the room once more.
A shattered porcelain figure that looks like … that used to be Hendrix lies on the floor in a pool of bilious fluid. An acrid stench wafts from the corpse and she covers her nose with her hand, but what really disturbs her is the sight of him. In pieces. Flesh seemingly turned to china, broken to shards with jagged hard edges. Small spikes and beads of transparent glass- or something like it- glisten from his skin like frozen sweat. But what she sees is not frozen. The room is hot, oppressively so, yet the solidified flesh gives no sign of melting. If anything, it seems the body fluids that were once inside his guts are also turning crystalline. Needles of glass float in gastric juices- are they growing? Are those new branches that they’re sprouting? They look still, but even so she can’t shake the feeling that they expand.
To her side, an intercom. A desperate scratch beneath it, trailing down towards the floor where fragments of Hendrix’ hand soak in caking blood. He tried to warn the others. She must do it for him.
She elbows the intercom.
The torches on their helmets waver in NECA’s night. A second later and their shine resumes upon the metal surface of the airlock.
Ballard shrugs. “I’m afraid there’s still some electromagnetic leakage.”
“That thing better not fry my microcomms,” Hendrix says.
“They’re too small for the wavelengths in the pulse,” Ballard replies. “Indeed, I believe that they will-” he presses a button on a device the size and shape of a wristwatch “- be just fine.”
Another second of uncertain torchlight as the alien keybox sends a new pulse towards NECA. The airlock opening widens a bit more, now large enough to fit two people. Good enough, they’ll only climb in one at a time anyway. She goes first, to find some spots to anchor a rope to help them climb back up again. Hendrix follows, setting a couple more devices like the one Ballard used to control the box- little communication relays to keep them in touch with the ship. There is no need for her to babysit him as he rappels down- the first rope is secured from the top- so she looks around the airlock chamber.
The chamber is a fairly large cylinder- a family house might fit inside with room to spare- with the airlock gates at its ends. Its surface, smooth but not slippery, is the same blue gray like the exterior. Unlike the metal webbing outside however, here the tubes appear embedded in the wall, with only an occasional thin arch jutting out of the solid mass. No significant features apart from the diaphragm patterns on the ceiling and floor. The one salient object is another black box, a twin of the one they now use as a key, but a twin more favored by fate, protected from erosion and dust.
Hendrix unclips himself from the rappel rope. “Wow, those guys were really fond of leaving things behind, eh.”
She nods, and moves in closer to the artefact. Its sheen is not entirely due to the metal; some kind of transparent substance has effloresced on the its surface.
“Found another box, captain. Should we play with it?” Hendrix asks.
“Absolutely not. Wait until ours gets to you.”
“Just kidding.”
“Really, Hendrix.” She shakes her head and resumes examining the new box. The material trapping it must have been liquid once- maybe even a gas- and it leaked from the wall nearby. Tracing the trail of solidified drip reveals no damage. The thing just appeared at some point, maybe through a hole too small for her to see. She turns to watch their own keybox being winched down into the airlock. Tamed, or so they hoped, it would now send small bursts of energy rather than the explosion its designers intended. Small bursts that the space suits would weather undamaged.
Their keybox settles on the airlock floor. Moments later, Ballard follows. “I’m going to need that thing out of the way,” he says as he touches down. “I don’t expect the placements of these things is arbitrary, and if you don’t want to use that one-”
“Then Dr. Ballard, I suggest you be the one to move it,” captain Chahal says, as he stops on the rappel rope and looks around to take in the situation. “Handle the thing so that it won’t fry us.”
“Yes Captain.” With care- and a snarl of disgust- he grabs the second box, avoiding the transparent substance. Several pushes later, he turns around. “I believe I’ll need a hand here.”
She produces a small hammer meant to punch bolts into rock walls, and attacks the crystal. It refuses to shatter under her blows.
“Give me that,” Hendrix says and takes the hammer from her. Several minutes of furious strikes later, his arms droop, exhausted.
They all take turns hammering away at the crystal. It cracks with difficulty, and the cracks spread surprisingly slowly. The better part of an hour passes before they get the new box free.
“We should-” Captain Chahal gathers his breath. “We should get some of that to the ship.”
“We should get the whole box, I’d rather have one in mint condition too, for reference.”
“We’ll get it when we leave. Now try and control the airlock.”
-:-:-
Gubarev’s voice crackles through the commdev. -”I can hear you loud and clear”-
Concern has never been away from his tone ever since they woke up, but it sounds reassuring to hear him. Three kilometers and two closed airlock gates away, but still there- their own ship and some semblance of the familiar.
“It’s good to hear you,” she says. “Pity communication with Earth has been unreliable.” She glares at Hendrix, an unspoken accusation in her eyes. Very convenient for him to have the comms fail.
“Hey, I got them to work in time to tell everyone of the first box, all right?” The moment of silence as he meets her eyes convinces her he knows she suspects him. “Besides, why get the folks back home worried?”
-”Worried? No, they seem less afraid than they should be,”- Gubarev says. -”I’ve yet to find any other entrance in the pictures from Sfetnik. And what kind of entrance is this anyway.”-
“Do you see what we see?” she asks.
-”Yes, and it makes no sense at all.”-
They are now below the airlock. A dense network of pipes crosses between the walls, convenient for hand and footholds as they climb down, but an awkward obstacle for anything much larger than a human. If ships were meant to enter here, they’d have to be very small. If people were meant to enter here, why the climb? They descend among the pipes, their lights scattered and defeated by the wide surrounding darkness. The cold air carries echoes of their steps.
“Atmosphere reading: two hundred Kelvin, naught point six bars.” Ballard looks around, then again at the device on his wrist. “Eighty percent nitrogen, nineteen oxygen, argon and other trace gases make up the rest.”
Glimmers of frost- actual frost, or carbon ice- cover the tubes. Not the same at all as the crystal outside, the frost crumbles under her foot and she slips a couple of inches.
Ballard catches her. “Careful, Ms. Evans.”
She gives him a smile as he removes his hand from her arm. His help wasn’t needed, but it is appreciated.
It’s Hendrix’ turn to look at her accusingly. “Let’s keep focused and leave this place quick. I don’t like being locked up in here away from the ship and I’m sure neither do you.”
“Wait, stop,” captain Chahal says, and gestures for them to stand still.
The silence in NECA is complete, even as Ballard takes a few more steps down before stopping. Several seconds of silent waiting later, a distant rumble resumes.
“Must be some distant echo of ours, captain.”
“Yeah, echos. Heh, I’m starting to sound like Gubarev.” Snow crunches beneath Hendrix’ foot. “I’d really like to have some proper light here.”
Her eyes close by reflex. A moment later they open- too bright- and slam shut. It takes some willpower and patience for her to be able to look around again, for Hendrix got his wish. There is light inside NECA. Lots of it. Gubarev’s voice saturates the commdev, a long incomprehensible string of Russian curse words.
“Gubarev, what is NECA doing?” The captain attempts to keep a calm demeanor, but his rising pitch betrays fraying nerves. “Yen, any change in its trajectory? Any signal?”
It takes forever for the answer to arrive. -”None. No change on the outside.”-
-”It’s alive. Boje moi. The thing is alive.”-
“Let’s all keep our heads and carry on, shall we?”
Funny how the light brought more care to their steps than darkness did. What if they are watched, after all? But whatever else may be true, the inside of NECA is beautiful. While the metallic strands of the gauze enveloping the surface crossed each other in irregular but branchless patterns, here the pipes organize themselves in gigantic interlocked rose windows. Wherever the light comes from, it arrives in hues of teals, cyans and oranges, in patchworks resembling stained glass. A gothic cathedral. A radiolarian skeleton grown to cosmic size. The expanse of ledges, columns and steps seems to go on forever downwards, but apart from its dizzying structure there is nothing and no one. The emptiness at once reassures and overwhelms.
She prefers the dark, muddy twists inside the caves of Earth. More … intimate? She’d press her hand against the rocks and feel the bones of Gaia, the slow life of planet Home. It’s not that NECA threatens- there’s no one else around- but it stands too pristine to be inviting. Like no one is worthy, like no one matters. The interlocking patterns mock her mind with their chaotic regularity. Even the captain, always so steadfast, sways and hesitates.
It’s Ballard that seems the quickest to adjust. “Ms. Evans, look!”
New lights float upwards from the depths of the alien craft, small wisps barely the size of an eyeball. Pale yellow they flicker, tiny flames with no apparent candle, inching randomly from side to side under the influence of air currents her suit wouldn’t allow her to feel.
“Do you suppose they are alive?”
“I’ve no idea,” she says.
If they are alive, they do not show it; they do not cluster around any of the intruders, and just diffuse on their way.
The captain would tell them something, but Ballard is already approaching one of the rising wisps. It dims for a moment under his touch, then resumes its dull shine. Upward momentum lost, it lingers near Ballard, until he gives it a slight push away.
“Get away from the jack-o-lantern, only fools follow those,” Hendrix says.
“Hm.” Ballard toys with another wisp, but he gazes elsewhere. “Will-o-wisps.” He smiles. “Will-ve-wisps.”
“Sorry?”
“Eh, nothing.”
Frost begins to sublimate- dry ice turning to gaseous CO2.The temperature must be rising. “Captain,” she asks, “what’s the temperature range for our suits?”
“I don’t know, Ms. Evans, nor do I know how much more the temperature will increase. Major Hendrix, make sure our comm relays can monitor the conditions here. I suggest we wait this one back at the ship.”
-:-:-
She rolls her eyes. “What, again? We barely got back to the ship and Earth comm f-”
“I’m doing the best I can, the thing is really finicky.” His tone is annoyed. “It looks like it’s really broken this time.”
“This time.”
“I do not like what you’re suggesting.” Hendrix’ hand slams against the wall above her shoulder. The ship may be small but in this corridor the two of them are alone.
“Is it you who’s tampering with it?” she asks.
His fingers clench, but he retreats. “I’ve got no idea what’s got into it now, and I won’t be chewed by a civvie. You do your thing, I do mine- and that includes telling you how much to share with others.”
“Doesn’t Earth need to know something changed inside NECA?”
“They will as soon as I get the damn radio fixed. There. Happy? And don’t get too cozy with the others.”
Foul, the mood she feels as he walks away to the comm room. At least she has her own work to attend to, help her forget for a while. Everyone else does. Ballard has the two keyboxes to play with, Dezaki and the captain adjust the suits for NECA’s newly tropical climate, and she has her dust and crystal shards to look at.
Even small things have great stories to tell, if one knows how to ask. Shape, mechanical properties, chemical composition- all tantalizing clues to hidden histories. And sometimes, just sometimes, serendipity smiles. Like when she tried to dissolve the shards from the crystal that engulfed the other keybox. At first the acid seemed to have no effect, and then she saw needles of precipitate appear on the sample. With optical magnification she watched it grow like a snowflake- or a miniature NECA- expanding slowly until the minuscule strands merged together in a solid grain. If only there was a way to get some metal coating over it, and examine it with the better resolution of an electron microscope, for it reminded her of something else: those clays she found deep inside Earth, self-replicating, almost but not quite alive.
It seems a small thing to find, when there’s still so much of NECA to explore, but she should feel exhilarated at finding another path for the inorganic to reach towards life. Then why does the foul mood return? So be it, she’ll tell him- Hendrix- first, in person. And then she’ll tell everyone else; what can he do, stop her?
She locks the sample in the freezer before leaving. The sequence plays in her mind, again and again in variations, as she approaches the comm room. Should she flat out defy him? Should she play more devious, make him believe she complies for now? The door opens as she swipes the controls.
She turns away. Eyes stare blank into a distance. A breath, then another, before she turns to face the room once more.
A shattered porcelain figure that looks like … that used to be Hendrix lies on the floor in a pool of bilious fluid. An acrid stench wafts from the corpse and she covers her nose with her hand, but what really disturbs her is the sight of him. In pieces. Flesh seemingly turned to china, broken to shards with jagged hard edges. Small spikes and beads of transparent glass- or something like it- glisten from his skin like frozen sweat. But what she sees is not frozen. The room is hot, oppressively so, yet the solidified flesh gives no sign of melting. If anything, it seems the body fluids that were once inside his guts are also turning crystalline. Needles of glass float in gastric juices- are they growing? Are those new branches that they’re sprouting? They look still, but even so she can’t shake the feeling that they expand.
To her side, an intercom. A desperate scratch beneath it, trailing down towards the floor where fragments of Hendrix’ hand soak in caking blood. He tried to warn the others. She must do it for him.
She elbows the intercom.
Comments
Post a Comment