On the day in question, most of my energy was spent traveling. It must have been around five o’clock, West Africa Time, when the lights in the railcar flickered, dimmed, then went dark entirely.
My colleague Bernard stiffened beside me. I felt him groping at the seats in front of us as if the train were going to rearrange itself in the darkness. Subvocal utterances revealed his disquietude. I determined he was unaware of his own animal noises and so, surely, he was unaware of the electrical whine of the magnetic brakes engaging beneath us. I was not especially worried by the change; the tunnel had slowed our transport to barely a trot prior to the loss of power. However, I did find myself wondering what it would sound like if the machine had to deploy its kinetic pads to bring us to a halt. Would we hear the metallic scream of an ancient locomotive echoing through this ultramodern coach? Such a thing would only occur if the rail lines lost power completely, of course. The absence of this emergency measure was proof enough that there was no cause for concern. I began to phrase this for Bernard, but he spoke first.
“Aha, observe: the station has already restored its connection.”
His intonation suggested he was trying to reassure me, but it was not I who was craning my neck to take in every inch of the conveyance. Still, I took a gander to humor him
There was enough luminance leaking through the slim slipglass portals to give shapes a some definition. The curved edges of urethane seats repeated themselves down the aisle a dozen meters to the front of the car. The domed window there allowed me to observe dots of light in the ceiling of the tunnel outside. They ran over us, then crept, then came to a halt. I could only observe a few of these lamps before they faded into obscurity in the tunnel’s depths. This amber glow was enough, though, to reveal the falsehood of Bernard’s claim: the power for these lights was quite obviously sourced from battery failsafes. The crisp iridescent bulbs of the platform were left inert, dumbly indicating their disconnection.
For this I was grateful. The ambiance soothed my weary eyes. Sunset red – the lowest end of the visible spectrum – was appropriate for the moments after a blackout. It was appropriate, as well, for the end of a long journey underground. I took to the aisle, spirit renewed, startling Bernard with my confidence. I surmised that he was peering through the slipglass in hope of spotting an attendant coming to aid us. I had already dismissed this as a false hope, and I told him so: though our arrival was scheduled, a remote docking station had no hands to spare for civilian travel. Flatbed freight lines ran on rails parallel to ours, but with tonnes of Earth separating the tunnels. I described how operators were at that moment scurrying to manage the loss of power and still meet their deadlines with the facility above. This was a routine inconvenience for them and only a mild disturbance for us.
He conceded the truth of my words and aided me in dislodging our baggage from their holds. He made a comment about guiding my weak eyes in the dark, which I found rather condescending. Bernard knew of my corrective surgery and, as a scientist, should understand how impeccable the treatment had been. I let the slight pass by without comment. I understood in the moment that he needed to glamorize his youthfulness to combat his childish fear of the dark.
The platform was vast and lonely. The farthest train car doors were far beyond my range of vision in the dim red glow of the station. I could hear them all shut in a chorus: a sound that was never meant to dominate this space. Voices, shouts, the shuffle of footsteps; this was once a bustling place. We ascended the escalators and I let Bernard take the heaviest baggage, one step at a time as we climbed the inert transport mechanism. It occurred to me then that Bernard had never seen this place when it was in its prime. This would be his first ascent into orbital space. Perhaps it was misguided of me to think he had been scared of the dark, rather than the climb into orbit that was in our immediate future.
The silence was broken when we crossed the threshold of the sky bridge. Mercifully, the automatic doors had maintained power. When we entered that glass-enclosed tube we felt the vibrations of the trucks crossing down below. Just as I described, the cargo carriers were operating at full, almost frantic, capacity. I observed them, briefly wondering whether they were behind schedule or if this was their usual frenzy of action before an ascent. The sunset to the west had a glow no stronger than the running lights guiding us across the bridge. The horizon ended over the Gulf of Guinea, I knew, but all that could be seen was a blackening mass of clouds. The storms were rising to consume the night.
I began to comment on the oncoming weather, but I reconsidered it when I remembered Bernard’s first-flight nerves. It was then I discovered he had stopped in the middle of the bridge, several paces behind me. He stood at the apex of the arched structure, staring eastwards and upwards. Even before I followed his gaze into the night sky I knew what he beheld.
“This is not my first time spotting it.”
He seemed to anticipate my question.
“I wrote most of my doctorate in Sri Lanka. In the southern region it was possible to look towards the equator and see it on a clear day. A column of steel. A needle scratching across the grooves of the Earth, playing the music of space.”
I approached the window to stand beside him, leaving the baggage so I would not have to haul it twice. We watched the thing approach us: the International Space Elevator. It was only a line of lights. An innocuous warning for an unstoppable force. The boundary of its airspace was impossible to define, and the lights made no effort to do so, but those points of color climbing into the sky were a marvel of their own. I let Bernard have his flight of fancy, ignoring his erroneous description of the thing as steel. Very little of the structure was metal, or any solid material at all; only beams of magnetism were strong and light enough to maintain such a miraculous formation. And it might as well be a miracle to scientists such as ourselves: archeologists, not engineers or physicists. So I let him have his poetic pronouncement, trying to remember if I had any words as apt when I was his age.
“Come,” I said to him when the marvel had grown stale. “It will be upon us within the hour.”
Bernard broke away with a nod. He took up the bags I had left down the bridge with a renewed spirit of chivalry or excitement. As I struggled to catch up to him I was struck with the thought that this was how my mother must have seen me when I raced ahead to that first ascent, so many years ago. How different was this terminal then: she would have had to watch me through the shifting crowd, all of us pushing forward into the compartments that would carry us through the atmosphere. How different was I, as well: not eager, not hurried by curiosity. Only an old academic’s commitment to research drew me forward and upward. Only an old skeptic’s questions propelled me towards dread.
Within the terminal propper we were met by the porter who introduced herself very briefly before leading us up the loading tower. The power was fully operational in this section of the facility and we rode a lift as she explained the required safety guidelines. By the time she finished her script we were in the passenger compartment that would carry us on the rest of our journey. Bernard asked her several questions about emergency procedures, which she answered cordially while checking her watch. I took a seat as soon as she suggested it, already feeling the need to rest my legs. Bernard followed suit.
“If the magnetic field loses coherence, it would be better for me to be seated, yes? Strapped in, not tossed about.”
He gestured with a smile, but his nerves were apparent.
“That is true, though belts are not required after initial attachment.”
“Quite.”
The porter was aware of his reticence.
“You are correct, doctor. No harm in being prepared, though we’ve performed thousands of ascents from this facility alone and not a single one required emergency ejection. I wouldn’t want you to miss the view from the stratosphere.”
“Indeed.”
Bernard was examining the surroundings as she said this. The carpet was thin and pale from high-atmosphere sun exposure despite the ultraviolet-resistant triple-layer slipglass that formed the walls which were themselves warped and tarnished by air pollutants. He may have been wondering, as I was, why they could not maintain better cabins now that passenger travel was so rare. Perhaps they attached better accommodations when a lunar diplomat was visiting.
The porter checked the tension in our belts. She began to ask if we had any other concerns but was interrupted by a loudspeaker.
“All personnel clear for attachment.”
The words were submerged in waves of static but the porter knew the queue. She crossed to the rear of the cabin and surveyed the door as it sealed. I craned my neck to observe, hoping to see the point of attachment between the magnetic cable and the ten-story strut that held the stack of cargo modules together. Our seats were facing away from the mechanism: positioned for enjoying the view, not the technology. The discomfort grew too great, so I relaxed and tried to listen for the moment of connection. I heard nothing except the clicking of the aged ventilation system. The slipglass walls excluded all sound of the gargantuan machine taking us in its grasp. I knew I had missed it entirely when the loudspeaker crackled again.
“Starting ascent.”
The porter smiled at us from her seat off to the side. I realized she must have been worried about how the G-force would affect me. There was no cause for concern. Frankly, the lift was gentler than the train ride we had taken earlier. Despite the poor condition of the passenger cabin, the facility must have kept its critical infrastructure in tip-top shape. I had the cynical thought that this was for the sake of the cargo, not the people.
With the planet falling away beneath us, I turned to one of my devices to pass the time. Bernard glanced at me, evidently surprised I was not admiring the view as he was. All that could be seen on the western horizon was a black mass of storm clouds, occasionally given form and contour by a flash of lightning, just as we had seen from the ground. I told him to rouse me when we crossed ten kilometers, but within a minute it was I who was grabbing his attention.
“A dispatch from the Doctors Gardner.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, although…” I had thought I would read the message aloud, but I struggled to find a starting point. “Theresa has written me quite a few times since we left Oxford.”
“I received nothing on the train.” Bernard reached for his own screen.
“No, I should think you wouldn’t.” I scanned the correspondence for facts that were appropriate to share with my colleague. “It appears Alexander has been unwell.”
“Oh dear, that is a spot of misfortune.”
“Yes. Well, much of this is of a personal nature. Should hardly-”
“Say no more, if it does not affect our schedule.” Bernard held up his hands and turned his attention back to the window. Rifts of lightning squirmed in the descending clouds.
“Actually, it does.”
I had reached the origin of Theresa’s effusive thread and bounced back to her most recent transmission. It was a rather simple statement, though its ramifications for our study were most significant.
“They have left Luna.”
“What?”
“Some time ago. I expect we shall intercept them at the Orbital Terminal.”
“And the artifact?” Bernard was in a bit of a lather. The porter was watching over him with a caring eye.
“If I understand correctly, they are bringing it along.”
“But the weight of the thing. The expense!”
“She doesn’t explain, I’m afraid.” This was true, though I omitted the explanations Theresa did include. I found them less than satisfying, and I knew Bernard would as well.
“But what of her husband’s illness?”
“That is a personal matter, but he’ll be treated on Earth.”
“The best doctors are on Luna!”
I struggled to find any words that would salve his irritation. Bernard was not a man to have his plans disrupted. Fortunately, the porter was already approaching us.
“Are we finding the ascent at all strenuous?”
She directed her question to me, though the implication was not lost on Bernard. He smoothed the buttons of his shirt beneath the restraining belt.
“We have reached equilibrium. You may roam the cabin. I can show you to the beverage dispenser, though our selection is limited.”
I unfasted and stretched my legs before she finished speaking. Bernard remained fixed.
“I am perfectly comfortable, thank you,” he claimed.
She offered to bring him a refreshment and while they were negotiating his nerves I wandered away. It was an opportunity to take up an angle to view the magnetic column that kept us in the air, as well as to avoid any further prying from my junior. He was not acquainted with the Gardners, only their research, so he would not appreciate their fantastical side. Their shared imagination is what gave them thxe determination to sift through regolith in search of a lost history. They were good scientists, however, and it was for that reason they sought my review and why I was willing to make the long journey to confirm (or reject) their findings. I would perform this role whether I was on the moon, or in orbit, or at their home back in New Boston, should Alexander’s illness force them to return. I would judge them on the merits of their findings, not on the delirium that confronted me in Theresa’s private correspondence.
We rose for some time. The porter kept Bernard engaged in conversation, which distracted him from his altitude anxiety and his frustration over the confounding of our plans. I kept my distance and made no effort to extract him from his seat when we finally gained a view from the atmosphere. With the height and the darkness, the sea of storm clouds below could be mistaken for a country lake: the surface rippled by a cool midnight breeze, the flashes of lightning only the reflection satellites whisking across the sky.
The illusion was soothing. The unrelenting hurricanes that spanned the Atlantic were made to appear tamed, quaint. Perhaps it would put Bernard at ease if he were willing to stand and view it. I found myself thinking of the first eathly emigrants who traveled in this very cabin with no intention of returning. Did they look down on the roiling menace with relief, or did the perspective inspire doubt?
It was impossible to comprehend the altitude, and we were less than halfway to orbit. I could only approximate an understanding by turning my attention to the magnetized column. It had little mass. It was a webbed mesh of cables too thin to see individually, creating the illusion of a solid structure pocked and scarred by the elements. The true substance – the energy – was invisible. Its existence was only apparent through implication: the broad panels that held our compartment aloft sliding upwards in defiance of gravity, that omnipotent force.
I stepped close to the transparent wall, almost touching my nose to the cold surface, to follow the column into the stars. At last I spotted a precise measure of our journey: the compartment on the other side of the cable; our sister, our mirror image, descending to the ground. I knew it would pass us at ninety kilometers, exactly half the journey to the terminal. The reclaimed energy of its controlled fall was aiding with our propulsion at every moment.
Bernard and the porter were conversing in soft tones. We were now in space itself, but I doubted he had registered this fact, and she would find it trivial. I decided not to draw their attention to our approaching twin.
It was upon us. The blinking lights that defined the corners of the immense cube shone with definition that addled my eyes, revoking the wondrous perspective the atmosphere had given me. Then came the crushing depth of carbon. The backdrop of space had been black, but scattered with glimmering constellations. The solid walls of the impregnable cargo hold replaced the view with a shallow matte, yet it imposed a mirage of distance. My heart pressed against my ribs. The magnet that carried the behemoth was dislocating the very metals within me, drawing them into the void and back to the Earth.
This punishing fantasy almost claimed me. Only the faint outline of my own reflection in the glass anchored me to the dim old cabin. I kept myself company as the dark wall slid away from us. It seemed to move slowly, like black tar dripping from a hot roof, though I knew it was actually the immensity of the structure that made it block my view for so long. Both lifts were rocketing in their opposite directions, as eager to leave each other as they were to meet in the middle. The moments slid away just as a fast; if I had not been struck dumb by the oppressive darkness then I would have screamed when the final compartment breached my line of sight.
The descending passenger cabin was scarcely illuminated. With a blink I knew it was meant to be vacant. Faint red running lights gave form to the unused amenities of the small glass box. Seats were silhouettes against the starry sky that once again came into view as the backdrop of the lonely room. All of this was plummeting past, but as I comprehended it in a moment, as if we were hovering weightless in the atmosphere. Once again I saw generations of travelers filling those seats, except these had the parched lips, hunched shoulders, and bruised eyes of those who were not fit to stay in space. They would return to the storming, roiling surface of their muddy home, riding a tower of detritus into gravity’s prison. I was among them, a boy whose tour of the stars had come to an end. I saw my mother there, too, pressed against the corner glass, memorizing every inch of a sky she would never be able to see again once we passed into the clouds.
All of this I saw in that dim compartment, the forms and the memories, yet only she caught my focus. And when I blinked away the memory I saw that she remained, but she was not my mother. Though she was pressed against the window, her gaze was eathward. So bent and bowed was her body, with knees locked stick-straight, she only did not topple because her hands were propped against the window, fingers splayed as if to adhere to the surface. A wave of nausea hit me then, as I realized with shame I had mistook this miserable crone for the shape of my mother. Even with my strange angle and her cables of dark, damp hair, the difference in appearance was so stark I experienced a new bout of shame as I wondered what desperation had beset this haggard woman in the opposite cabin. Her stare was fixed on the Earth with such determination that I saw saliva drip from her jaws and stain the carpet, though in the dim distance I knew I could see no such thing.
The instant I became aware of the incongruity of her form, I sensed that she became aware of me. That craned neck twisted, sliding her ragged head across the glass, though her hair remained stuck, pulled back from her face. In the ambient light her skin was a rubbery pink, but I knew that without the red glow she would be a chalky white. How I knew this I could not say, except that as her stare fixed on me I saw a creature made of moon dust, sitting with its enormous form filling a crater like a dragon upon its horde. Its slightet motion crushed ancient stones and sent plumes of regolith into an orbiting fog. The same consciousness that once filled such a magnificent form was now bursting through the flesh of this woman creature.
And that thing was now looking at me.
The weight of that gaze may have crushed my soul. The nightmare of a new reality which allowed for such an entity was already corroding my understanding of history. There was but one distraction which allowed me to avoid confronting the new truth: I recognized its face. Her face.
Theresa, my dear friend, whether at the university or on the damn moon you were my inspiration. Cunning, evasive, almost maddening at times, but all the better for it. Could you hear me thinking this as I watched your face stretch and split? Did that cognitive barrage leave any crack for my thoughts of you to slip through before you slipped away?
She was gone. The stride of gravity caught up to the sprint of perceived time. My line of sight was broken by the top layer of that twin compartment, a remarkably thin cap on an extremely pressurized bottle. In a split second that was gone as well, leaving only the stars and the corona of the planet I had left.
I refused to blink, disturbed by what I might imagine. But as the grip of that consciousness released its infinite fingers from around my nerves, I had no will to replace their support. I dropped into nothing.
“He underwent surgery recently.”
“Yes, it says so in his record, but that was a routine ocular adjustment. I assure the gentleman is simply acclimating to the gravitational shift. How did he respond to the initial acceleration?”
“Well, I’m not sure, I was observing the…”
“He was entirely healthy at launch.”
The porter’s voice cut off Bernard’s prattling. She was confident, professional. I remembered how she had kept her gaze upon me when our ascent began. I opened my eyes and saw she was once again watching over me.
“Yes, well a loss of blood pressure can come on quite suddenly at his age,” the medic continued speaking to Bernard until the porter notified him I was awake.
“Have we arrived?” I asked while the medic shined a light in my eyes. I blinked frantically and between each flash I saw something burnt into my retinas which filled me with unease. I had not yet recovered the memory of the passing lift, but it was pressing at the boundaries of my awareness.
“See, now, he’s alert already.” The medic smiled at Bernard while patting me on the shoulder. “Up and at ‘em, old chap.”
The medic drifted away and it was then I discovered my own weightlessness. My limbs began to grope for purchase and, though I tried to tame them, the porter was at my side with assistance before I could hide my distress.
“The floor is just beneath you. I’m activating your mag-lining now. It will calibrate when you start moving. It’s only a short walk to the inner ring, though we can provide a transport chair instead, given your recent-”
“No. Thank you.”
I sat up, pushing against the minor resistance of the magnetic current running through my suspenders. The medic must have removed my suit jacket; Bernard offered it to me along with his arm as I rose to my feet. With my arms in the sleeves, the magnetism offered a feeling of gravity as well, and I was pleased to find the orbital attire I had purchased second-hand was in such good condition. Dignity restored, I addressed Bernard with a question that was hot on my mind, though I was still vague on the reason for it.
“What of the other compartment? Is Theresa alright?”
Bernard appeared wholly unconcerned, merely pleased that I was awake and alert.
“We’ve only just arrived, you haven’t missed any news. We can visit their quarters right away, if you feel you’re up for it.”
“No, no!” I growled at him before I even understood what was upsetting me. “The other lift: she should have finished the descent by now. She’s ill!”
He did not flinch at my outburst, which only made me want to curse his stupidity. He kept a half smile on his lips as he turned to the porter to offer her a shrug. When I saw that she was equally unconcerned I realized they thought I was still in a daze. I took a breath and focused my attention on her as calmly as I could muster. A knot of pain was tightening at the base of my skull and I hoped it was merely the result of the low-gravity environment.
“We passed the other lift. Halfway through our ascent. It was returning to Earth.”
“Yes,” she confirmed. “That was just before you fell.”
“It had a passenger compartment.”
“Yes, a small one is always kept at the top of a cargo stack, just like the one we rode in.”
“There was a passenger in it,” I asserted, then added with less confidence, “A woman.”
“No, there can’t have been.” She smiled, certain she had resolved my confusion. “I’m the only porter on rotation today and no passengers would be sent without an escort. For safety. It’s our policy.”
While she recited this I gave up on her and looked to explain the facts of the matter to Bernard. He had left her side and was leaning through the door to fetch the medic again. I took a first step to follow him, using all of my concentration to walk naturally against the magnetic field. Focusing on movement helped the ache in my head reside, which only made me more certain I had demonstrated my health. As I looked for the audience’s approval I realized there was another man standing beside the door. It was clear he had been observing the situation and he was some type of authority.
“I am glad to see you feeling well, sir.”
The man approached with his hand outstretched. It was a friendly gesture, but it also cut off my route to the door quite deliberately. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Crozier. I did not know the politics of OTIS well enough to judge this title. Though he was the youngest among us, the freckles on his nose and cracked skin of his cheeks told me he had not lived the soft life of a space cadet. I thought I detected the accent of the french deserts as he explained the importance of station security.
“I understand you saw someone in the descending cabin.”
“He thought he saw something,” the porter corrected before I could respond. I wanted to contradict her, but the prospect of this security officer believing my account was somehow more frightening than the doubts that I had been weighing.
“Indeed,” agreed the lieutenant. “Thank you, miss, for taking such good care of these gentlemen. You are free to go off duty, I will escort them from here.”
The porter gave me a final look before giving him a sharp nod. Her farewell to Bernard lingered a bit longer, but it was only a moment before she was following the medic who had also been dismissed. Outside the cabin door I began to feel the rotation of the station, though it was still quite subtle. Crozier monitored us, ensured we were acclimated, then sealed the door. Based on the time it took, and the many blinking icons, I was convinced he had locked it with extra precautions. He gave no indication that anything was amiss as he led us into the station.
As with the facility back on the surface, the corridors were broad and had markings to direct crowds of travelers, though most were faded into obsolescence. It was all quite mundane, but in orbit, where the economy of weight and volume is so austere, the vacant areas struck me as quite decadent. Bernard, too young to care about the history of the place, inquired whether there were plans to retrofit the station. Crozier showed no interest in the matter and instead continued to address me.
“You are here to visit the lunar researchers, correct?”
“Yes, we are scientists as well,” I answered. “Archeologists.”
“Archeologists.”
It was neither a statement nor a question, yet it demanded further explanation. I knew he was keeping something from us, but discussing our itinerary was easier on my nerves than recounting my recent memories.
“Yes, though the Gardeners focus more on paleontology these days. They invited us to review one of their…”
I wondered then what I had been wondering for weeks: How do I refer to their discovery? An artifact? A fossil? It was my purpose to determine whether it was anything of any interest at all.
“…findings. Early review, before moving to publish, it’s best practice.”
“And the Orbital Terminal of International Space is an appropriate place to conduct this review.”
Once again he refused to be explicit about his question. I was merely going to nod, there being nothing to hide about the nature of our work, but Bernard cut in with gossip.
“Mr. Gardener has been ill, we hear. I can’t imagine what they can’t treat in Selene City. I’m betting the esteemed professor has a chronic case of homesickness. I understand it, I do. I’d invite anyone floating around up here back to the firm ground of Kidlington Isle. Though I presume they are destined for New Boston, despite the foul air there. That is no place for the unwell.”
His prattle failed to distract me. The fact Crozier was willing to listen only made my urge to understand the situation grow until I had to interrupt.
“Lieutenant, why did you ask about what I saw?”
“Because I have reason to believe you.”
I had not expected him to be candid with me. He went on.
“Our video channels suffered a brief malfunction, so I cannot say how they entered the passenger cabin, but measurements suggest there was excess ballast in the descending elevator.”
“Ballast?”
Bernard intruded with a trivial question, further revealing his ignorance of the history of the station. It was just as well, though, for I was struck dumb by the revelation my episode had not been a hallucination, at least not entirely. I struggled to rationalize Theresa’s behavior while the lieutenant explained OTIS’s operations in a way that anyone with the slightest interest in its history would already know: most of the mass that is sent down to Earth is ballast, refuse from asteroid mining operations that is better sequestered on the planet than left to clutter the sky. The resources from the mines are directed to Luna, feuling its perpetual improvement. Some energy is reclaimed from the dead remnants by loading them into descending elevators and converting their potential energy into electricity. The cycle sustains itself, and it is no surprise the station has very detailed accounting of the exchange – even one stow-away could upset the balance.
By the time his recitation had concluded, the Crozier had led us into a ring of the station that was much more comfortable for walking. The force of rotation felt almost Earth-like; our magnetic fields were hardly engaged at all. It was evident this wing was dedicated to living quarters and I finally found the words to bring us back to the matter at hand.
“After you show us our rooms, Lieutenant, would you be so kind as to direct me to the Gardeners’? I will feel much better when I know all is well with them.”
There was no certainty in that claim, which must have contributed to the slowness of his reply.
“Beg your pardon, professor,” Crozier brought us to a halt before a sealed door, “but this is their room. I’m sure you are in need of rest after your journey, but we both will feel much better if we confirm that all is well.”
His emphasis was so conspicuous that Bernard, at last, adopted some of my concern. He put a finger to his forehead and rubbed the crease between his brows. He often did this when stressed or stuck in a dilemma. I tried it myself once, when he was not looking, but it failed to calm my buzzing brain.
Crozier touched a panel on the door to hail the occupants, though what he said next showed he expected no reply.
“Perhaps your arrival will draw them out of their isolation.”
The icon on the tablet spun, the call going unanswered. Through the thin sliding doors I thought I could hear digital tinkling, a high-pitched rhythm cutting through the perpetual base of OTIS’s rotational actuators. I raised my own voice to try and reach my friends within.
“Alexander? Theresa? We have just arrived…”
The lieutenant watched as my hopes drained to nothing. His expression answered a question that I would not ask: they could not be anywhere else on the station. The moment this understanding passed between us, he was already using his security authorization to open the doors.
The room was much like any executive suite that would be found in any business hotel in any terrestrial city. The closet in the entryway had some specialized racks for gravitational adjustment garments, though these were left unused, the couple’s coats flung carelessly over a suitcase. It was a scene of dull utility, which I found rather soothing. A sense of unease had risen in me even before our journey into the sky – perhaps it had primed me for the mishap in the elevator. I felt it from the moment we saw the tower cutting through the horizon. The grandeur of the whole operation was stifling. Its majesty had faded since I had traveled to the terminal as a boy, but only now did I appreciate how immense the scope of the project was and how catastrophic its collapse could be. I was insignificant. So the familiarity of this room was a comfort. It was the nook of an academic. Notebooks that had no reason to be packed in the first place were stacked next to mismatched pairs of dirty socks. It brought up fond memories of traveling with Theresa.
The lieutenant was the first to see the body. He stopped short and I, distracted by memories, nearly bumped into him. When I saw how stiff he had become I knew what lay ahead.
Between the executive desk and the vacuum bed was a narrow gap that led to a small empty corner. Crozier stretched out his arms to block this space, but while he prevented me from moving forward nothing save the grace of blindness could have stopped me from seeing the strewn evidence of a gruesome end. My eyes darted between streaks of red staining the carpet, walls, and edge of the sheets like a professor’s marks across a paper in dire need of revision. The mess radiated from a heap on the floor, but I had no chance to focus on it.
“The two of you need to go to your quarters and remain there.”
Crozier had turned and said this to me directly, but when he saw my vacant, wandering eyes he called out to Bernard with an additional order to assist me. My colleague gave no response. I happened to notice he was bent over the desk, running his finger across the pages of a field journal. The lieutenant was annoyed at his disregard, but I felt a pang of admiration for Bernard’s investigative instinct. It brought me to face the question that had left me stunned.
“Is it Theresa?” I choked.
Crozier put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me towards the door, Bernard carried along by our current. I was grateful to have the hellish scene out of my line of sight, but when we reached the corridor I held fast. My resistance was wholly insubstantial to the young spacefarer. Thankfully, he did not bowl me over. He could see I needed an answer. With a minute shake of his head he granted me that small relief.
“Remain in your quarters, gentlemen.”
He sent us away.
I sat on my bunk for some time, my rueful contemplation only interrupted by the subtly distressing shifts in gravity that occasionally rocked the station. I was in shock. I knew as much, yet that did little to wake me from the recurring nightmare that drowned my consciousness. The crushed and mangled heap was always a blink away. The longer I kept it from my imagination the more vivid it appeared when it inevitably returned. A catastrophe was mounting within me. There were details in that scene that took shape only as I tried to evade them.
One particular shape came to dominate over all else, somehow worse than my friend’s corpse: a sphere, dappled white and perfectly uniform. It was sitting there, in that horrific mess, its surface disturbingly smooth, glassy beyond glass and polished beyond the capabilities of modern machinery. The sphere forced itself upon my mind, asserted its elemental symmetry, even as my memory clearly recalled the broken object that my eyes had seen. There had been no perfect sphere in that room, though there had been two halves, cracked and splayed amidst the remains of Alexander Gardner.
The station rumbled like a beast upset to be driven off course by the crack of a crop. Another shift in momentum almost sent me flying into the opposite wall. I managed to plant my feet without a second to spare.
My brooding had made me forget my whereabouts. I scolded myself for letting go of three points of contact – essential for stability during an orbital disturbance. Fortunately, the magnetic field held me close and I was able to regain stability. I wondered, however, whether my anxious traveling companion had reacted properly. Bernard had taken to his quarters without speaking a word. It seemed an appropriate time to check on him, whether or not he was floundering in low gravity. I moved across the floor of my narrow cabin, lifting my boots no more than a millimeter from the surface, both hands maintaining additional points of contact on the wall. I peeked my head through the door first to ensure no station residents were looking down the hall, waiting to mock my cautious traversal. The lights dimmed briefly, but there was not a soul to be seen. I skirted the wall towards Bernard’s door, painfully aware each step brought me closer to Alexander’s broken shell.
Bernard did not answer my hail. This provoked in me an urgency I could not temper. The man needed rest as much as I, yet he had not engaged the cabin’s privacy mode. I entered quietly, cautious that he may be in repose, and found him hunched over the cramped shelf that doubled as both desk and dining table in these short-stay facilities. In his frenetic scanning of the page I recognized the energy of a bright and abused doctoral candidate. Fingers pinched pages, ensnaring an apt cross-reference before it could slip through the cracks of an overstuffed mind. The rest of his body, however, reflected a stress that went beyond any academic interest I had ever witnessed. The knuckles of his left hand were white, the bones threatening to break out of his desperate grip on the shelf. His legs were equally wretched, locked around the edge of a stool with force far exceeding what was necessary to remain steady against the station’s tremors – frequent though they had become.
Seeing the state of the man, I wondered how it could be that he was worse off than I who had witnessed the grisly remains of our colleague. My curiosity bent towards the pages of that journal, a grotesque fascination rising within me. It was then that Bernard finally became aware of my presence. He spoke:
Coverage, in the rock, of the craft, in the chyme
Cheh!
Final, in the find, free, finite, fintish
Hess!
Dry, rime, driddage, imply?
Until his inflection of the final question, my ears refused to believe these sounds were a form of communication. The syllables thrust themselves past my awareness and only crystallized into words when pressed for a reply, which only made their logic evaporate, leaving the incomprehensible terms alone in their significance.
I said nothing.
He returned his furious attention to the text. He plucked another journal from the stack of stolen evidence and made some babbling effort to correlate the hissing, crunching phonemes between the two works. The other journal was clearly an older volume, scratched and bleached by the dust that would unavoidably invade a lunar archeologist’s laboratory. The writing, however, was much tidier. From my place by the door, where I stood with growing apprehension, I could vaguely identify the organized layout of these pages in contrast to the unspaced scrawl that held Bernard’s fascination. This notion drew me closer, hoping I could discern the handwriting of the twisted author. I desired to confirm the theory to which my heart had been clinging: that this writing had sprung from Alexander’s addled mind; that his illness had grown self-destructive; that Theresa had treated him with foolish generosity; that she was, even now, simply hiding from the madness that had taken her husband.
So taken was I with this explanation, I was very nearly perched over Bernard’s shoulder, gravity-be-damned. I was entirely unaware that someone had stepped through the open door behind me.
“Gentlemen.”
The sternness of Crozier’s address, when at last I heard it, indicated I had ignored several prior attempts. It also suggested he had already wasted more time than he had to spare. Still, that may not have been enough to provoke my attention. Bernard’s voice was rising again, now with a determination that suggested he would force understanding upon me.
“Hatch, churn, return…”
But the rest was cut off by Crozier’s insistence that I come with him. His grasp overcame any magnetic adherence that kept me on the floor. I was drifting under his control – a nauseating feeling, yet somehow less disturbing than the situation from which I had been ejected.
Crozier propped me back on my feet only once we had bobbed well away from my confounded colleague.
“Follow,” he commanded.
It was only then that I realized something was amiss with the station. The hospitality ring was meant to balance OTIS’s rotational force for maximum health and comfort. It should not have been possible to dislodge me in such a manner, and yet there was the lieutenant ready to hoist me if I did not obey. I took a sliding, self-conscious step and I was certain his face flashed with pang of sympathy, though his voice was as cold as ever.
“Move quickly or I will move you, though that will only leave you bouncing off the walls when the next destabilization hits.”
“Destabilization?” I blubbered. He was already moving away at a brisk pace. I tried to match his shuffling jog. I never found a steady angle for more than a few seconds, but I was driven forward by the thought of my old bones rattling like dice in a game of orbital Yahtzee.
My question went unanswered until he was convinced I was moving at top speed. When the explanation came, it was barked at me in simple terms. The terminal’s rotation was slowed to conserve energy. That energy was needed to maintain our position over Earth. That position had been locked for far too long due to an elevator delay. Something had gone wrong with the passenger module.
“Theresa!”
The creases around his eyes sharpened and I knew I had jumped to the right conclusion. There was no other reason I would be consulted during such an emergency. And yet, for all my logic, this only raised a more terrible question.
“What can I do?”
It was not Crozier’s job to answer, and he made no attempt. He scanned through doors and pulled me past harried crew members working on knobs and buttons, trying to turn red lights green. I was presented to the woman presiding over the scene, with an introduction that was appropriately blunt: “Administrator, here’s the old man.”
“Doctor,” she addressed me with her full attention in spite of the many subordinates who were calling for orders. “I understand you are well acquainted with Theresa Gardner?”
“Yes, well, for a time, quite, though as of late…”
In this situation that demanded swift focus, I found myself blathering. Perhaps the “old man” comment had primed my thoughts with frivolous memories of embarrassment. That would be the charitable explanation. The truth was that Bernard’s noxious recitations were still trying to worm their way onto my tongue.
“What’s important is that you know her better than we do,” she interjected firmly.
I nodded. I thought of a time, long ago, when Theresa had told me no one understood her the way that I did. I had believed it when she said it. That had been shortly before she and Alexander left for the moon.
The administrator drew my attention to her console. One of her attendants offered me a headset and helped me steady my balance as I donned it. The cups dulled the strained mechanical noises that I had not realized were echoing through the Orbital Terminal.
“We lost all video when the terrestrial compartment triggered a hypersurge.”
Her voice was crisp in my ears. With a diagram of the unloading station rotating on screen, she sped through a description of the incident. The first few ballast compartments had been emptied and shipment loading had been underway when the electromechanical systems were devastated. I sensed that she wanted me to know how much effort had been expended to keep OTIS in sync with the Earth after this occurred, not because I required the information, but as a prelude to an apology.
“Communications are down. We don’t yet know how many workers were injured by the debris.” Her eyes darted to my face and back to her screen. “But, once we disengaged from the terrestrial station, we were able to restore a single audio channel.”
“The passenger compartment.” I spoke up even before she indicated the location on the diagram. I had started to figure out what the apology was going to be. “You think Theresa is in there.”
The administrator looked at Crozier. He had pushed closer to keep an ear on our exchange. He was the only member of the crew to do so, the only one who did not shy away from the fate of their colleagues on the ground. When the administrator turned to him, he simply tapped his finger on a nearby display: a clock.
“No, Doctor, we don’t think she is,” the administrator stated.
I was taken aback.
“But what I saw…”
“And that is why you are here.”
She summoned up an equatorial map. The Orbital Terminal was soaring through International Space. A time lapse projected above the atmosphere showed our course from the sunken coast of Gabon to our current point just past the 20th western meridian. The immense distance would connotate speed to rival the rotation of the planet, were it not for the projection of our intended journey. By this time OTIS was meant to be synchronized with the dock in Pará.
What a short journey this could have been, I thought. Bernard and I had debated whether our colleagues would expect us to follow them to the Americas. I had insisted they would, if only because I had no desire to remain in orbit for the long go-round of the Pacific. Now I was hovering over the smaller ocean with my chances of following Theresa home sinking farther into the distance even as we drew closer to the shore.
“Our cable has borne the weight of the remaining compartments for thirty-three degrees.” The administrator highlighted the plumb line that was the elevator itself. “I doubt we can make it thirty more. And, without the capacity to notify Pará, we have no way of knowing how this dangling structure could affect our people on the ground.”
I followed her reasoning. I didn’t know if the numbers were correct, what the engineers recommended, or how the protocols accounted for a situation like this. But I understood.
“You want to release the load.” Then, after a moment, “You want me to say it’s okay to let her go.”
The administrator affirmed. She served me no further justifications, which deepend both my trust in her and my sorrow. I knew that my answer would be respected, that her crew would do everything in their power to save that passenger. As the administrator connected me to that one line of communication, I wanted to stop her hand, to tell her she was a fool for asking me, that it was her authority and her sacrifice to make regardless of what I heard on the other end. But the connection was made and she stepped away.
The committee has already heard my testimony as the content of that exchange, which serves as the factual account in absence of any recordings from that day. I am aware this additional recounting will have little influence on deciding the culpability of the crew members involved in the incident. However, I am compelled to write with all the pathos I can muster to catalog my experience beyond what could be expressed as mere evidence.
My primary concern is that the committee forbid any further collection of evidence, insofar as it would require the recovery of the compartment which now rests under the waters of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.
Doctor Bernard Hawberk, my former colleague, is currently arranging funding for such an expedition. I fear there may be some among you who would support this effort. I must insist that this would be a catastrophic error. The equatorial storms are absurdly dangerous, so the risks alone should be enough to dissuade any rational actor. However, the true danger would only present itself if the mission were to succeed.
I have already explained Doctor Hawberk’s actions after the discovery of the journals. I must remind the committee that none of these materials were recovered as evidence, despite Lieutenant Crozier’s corroboration of their existence. I refuse to speculate on Doctor Hawberk’s state of mind since the traumatic events we shared. I will comment only that he has returned to Earth with great eagerness to pursue his recovery mission. He abandoned all other research.
The committee is aware that I have remained in space despite your request to deliver my testimony in person. My discomfort has been remarked upon, and I know this document will only serve to fuel such gossip. I would rather suffer that consequence than leave the truth unsaid. Therefore, I must confess my testimony was incomplete.
I stated the voice which came through that last channel was too artificial – too unnatural – to have been vocalized by a living person. This matched the administrator’s doubt and fit into the theory that this was yet another inexplicable mechanical failure.
It is true that most of the sounds I heard were too unnatural to be a human voice. I did not and will not attempt to recreate them, as it pained me enough to transcribe Bernard’s utterances above. That was not my omission. What I failed to state in my testimony were the words that I heard as clearly as if Theresa were standing right beside me.
“I love you,” is what I heard, just before I told them to drop the thing into the sea.
Harmless Writing 