Hello, and thank you. Just a little bit more. Edited.
18
Floating through space, heading for Half-Moon's gaping wide hatch-
Scott Tracy led the way, tuning his locator beacon to Thunderbird 3. Not that he really expected the signal to function once he got into that altered colony ship… but procedures were put into place for a reason. Properly followed, they kept your team safe. Usually.
Gordon jetted along in the pilot's wake, growing quiet and calm as the mission commenced. Rather than joking chatter, there was only the noise of stressed breathing, occasional fluid-tube swallows, and various transponder chirps; backed by the sounds and sights of that unending video loop.
The sun hung above them, too eye-searing bright to look at. Venus broiled nearby; a furnace of swirling, tan-golden clouds. Ahead lay Half-Moon, her boarding hatch open and launch ramp extended. The light from within looked reddish and dim, like the glow of an elderly star.
Scott did not stand on that creeping and pebbly ramp. He floated above it. At least, until he passed through what felt like a tingling forcefield. Then, all at once, 3's transponder signal cut off, and gravity struck like a freight train. Full-Earth, plus maybe one quarter more.
Scott was no expert on gravity wells, but he hit the deck with a rattling THUD, feeling more than just spacesuit and personal weight. A sudden WHUMP and startled cry betrayed Gordon, who'd just come in through the hangar-retention field.
Scott had struggled back onto his feet by that time. Was able to offer his brother a friendly hand-up.
"Whoa!" blurted Gordon, staggering rubber-legged in greater than usual gravity. "That's different."
"Scanning local environment," Scott remarked, tapping his wrist controls to pull up a greenish virtual screen. Then, "Hunh. Breathable atmosphere… two percent more oxygen than Earth-normal… no surface or airborne microbial life forms detected… two humanoid crewmen or passengers, down in compartment 31-G." And no other life signs, frozen or otherwise.
"Yeah. I'm getting nothing from Thunderbird 3 or Venus Control," cut in Gordon, who was running a scan of his own. "But I guess that's not much of a shock."
He was busily camming their surroundings, turning a slow, full circle to get it all down. Neither young man took off his helmet because A: procedure, and B: they weren't stupid. Breathable air didn't mean free of nasty surprises or invisible alien vapors. Once back in 3, they could take off their sleek, second heads. In the meantime, there was certainly plenty to look at, most of it downright unsettling.
Half-Moon's interior seemed to flex like a slowly swallowing throat, pulling them gradually deeper into her launch bay. There were shuttles and landing craft clamped to berths on the bulkheads and deck. Only, these smaller craft looked covered in pearl; nacreous, lumpy, and melted. A few empty berths stood out dark and accusing, like gaps in a raggedy smile.
Scott jumped when that colony-welcome vid ended. By this time, he could quote the d*mn thing, was quietly humming its brassy main theme. Without it, the sudden silence felt hollow. Through the soap bubble curve of his faceplate, Gordon was wide-eyed and tense. Alert as a cat.
"Think it's aliens?" he whispered, nodding at the two red flares on Scott's life scan. His tall older brother shrugged at the swimmer.
"Over seventy-three years of space exploration, it's never been aliens, Gordon… unless you count that pottery shard on Proxima B. I'm more interested in where the gravity's coming from. There's no sign of a mass-generator big enough to produce all that force."
His magnetic cable gun was casually out and available, now. Gordon, of course, had a plasma cutter and med kit. Not weapons, exactly, but better than nothing.
The deck beneath them continued its weirdly slow creep. Like they were groceries, destined to molder before reaching the cash-bot. Looking around, Scott opened a wide-band comm channel. Then, he started to talk.
"Half-Moon, this is Scott Tracy, of International Rescue. With me is Gordon, our team medic. We choose to interpret the open hatch as an invitation, and we're here to offer assistance. Please acknowledge."
The result was instantaneous. He wasn't answered in words. Instead, the sullen red lighting changed to fluorescent white. An image appeared. No… not an image. A space filling three-dimensional movie. All around Scott and Gordon, normal shipboard events sprang to life.
Uniformed crew strode hither and yon, tending their brand-new machinery. Announcements blared and data screens flickered.
"Dude…" Gordon breathed. "It's showing what happened. It's showing the past." He waved a gloved hand before one of those phantom crewmembers, who didn't react. Not even when Gordon walked through her to study a mechanized workstation. "Old style dating system," the swimmer reported. "2023, in something called Jun."
"The start of their voyage," said Scott, feeling deeply uneasy. "It's replaying what happened, in real-time."
Gordon returned to his brother's side, walking through heedless crew and machinery.
"I feel like a ghost," he said.
Scott grunted by way of response. Always the safest choice, when you had more questions than facts.
"We're on the clock, Gordon. Let's find our two lifeforms, then get the h*ll out of Dodge," he decided. "If we can't tow Half-Moon directly, we can push her to Earth with targeted force-blasts."
Anyhow, that was plan B. His scan of the vessel matched up with the archived schematics, mostly. A good thing because all they could see was that ghostly projection; a busy crew that was not really there.
Crisp uniforms, stern, intent faces, and military protocol dominated all decks related to ship operations. But, farther back, in the colony areas, children scampered, and animals lowed. Couples walked hand in hand, discussing the future. Seeing all this felt invasive and eerie, like strolling through someone's fond memories.
The brothers kept close together, because that ongoing projection made it hard to see each other, if there was more than three feet between them. Scott kept them moving downward and aft, maintaining a rapid clip, despite the high gravity.
"What d'you think happened?" asked Gordon, staring around at scenes of a vessel in seeming good health. "I'm not picking up any damage, even through all of this… putty, or whatever it is." The stuff flowed too much to be metal or plastic or duralloy. Was inorganic; not clutching at their boots like magnetized clay.
Scott shook his head, saying,
"Not sure. Not enough facts to make a real guess, Gordon. That's Brains' department. Ours is finding whatever's left of the crew, and then moving this ship to a safer location."
They were crossing a phantom greenhouse when one little kid ran right through them, chasing a yipping white puppy. Gordon almost tripped, forgetting that the child had no physical substance.
"You think… think they made it to Tau Ceti?" he asked, after recovering his balance. "Like, maybe most of them started a life on the planet and then lucked onto some alien tech? Maybe they've sent back a message or… I dunno… plans for FTL engines?" Gordon's hazel eyes were locked on his brother's face, seeking reassurance that Scott couldn't give him.
"It's a possibility," answered the pilot, as they made their way through Half-Moon. "But we'll have to watch the projection if we want to find out." No easy chore, at a screening rate of one minute per minute. Literal lifetimes would pass, before they learned anything major. But that, too, was something for Brains.
Eventually, Scott and Gordon came to an aft-central hold near the vessel's big galley. Inside, according to their scans, were two humanoid lifeforms, seemingly crouched down behind a long counter.
"They're scared?" Gordon hazarded. "Of us?"
"Looks that way," said Scott, frowning a little. "Recommend that we ingress slowly, with no sudden gestures or noises. I'll take point, you bring up the rear and watch for surprises… but err on the side of "we come in peace" if anything happens."
Inside his helmet, Gordon hoisted a sandy-blond eyebrow.
"So, smile when I light up the plasma torch? Say please and thank you, while tying them up?" He was back to joking, again. Funnily enough, Scott didn't mind.
The pilot smiled.
"Use your best judgement. Maybe hold off on the flirting, though."
"But, Scott…" the swimmer protested. "What if it's geen alien space-babes in tin foil bikinis?! These girls have crossed space! They have needs!"
"Uh-huh. Keep it in your pants, Romeo. Mind on the mission."
So saying, Scott keyed open the hatch, stepping into a powered down food-stasis locker. There, behind a shiny aluminum counter, they found Half-Moon's sole cargo. A boy and a girl. Twelve, maybe thirteen years old… dressed in shimmery, form fitting garments of gunmetal grey. That ghostly projection ceased just as soon as Gordon and Scott reached the youngsters, who'd pushed themselves into a corner.
Phantom cooks and surroundings vanished like mist, revealing a lumpy, grotto-like shelter. Low, reddish lighting. Food and water dispensers on a rear bulkhead, sleeping mats spread on the deck.
Gordon was first to speak.
"Hey, guys," he said, moving forward a little. "Welcome to Earth! How was your trip?"
The boy and girl did not answer. At least, not with words. They gestured instead, tapping at different spots on their arms, head and chest. With pale skin, closely cropped burgundy hair and grey eyes (which seemed overly large for their faces) the children were human… but only just. In build they were stocky and muscular, able to handle that gravity-plus.
"I'm Scott Tracy," announced the pilot, moving to stand beside Gordon. "I'm with International Rescue, from Earth. This is my brother, Gordon. We followed the transponder signal and came here to help. Can… do you understand me?"
More tapping and flapping. More shrinking away. The few sounds made by the kids seemed accidental, as if they could hear, but weren't accustomed to using their voices. The girl stared at Gordon and Scott, but the boy was less bold. Not so much afraid to look at them, as seeming completely repulsed. Gordon decided to call him Sam, after a former Olympic teammate.
Scott kept trying, using short, simple words to explain their purpose. Meanwhile, the aquanaut switched on and scowled at his med-scanner, not much liking the data. Turning it off, he decided to try something different. His cousin, Stephanie, had taught them all how to sign. What the h*ll, huh? Worth a shot…
"Hello" and "Friend" he signed, next finger spelling 'name G-O-R-D-O-N.'
But they didn't understand. The girl, though… Gordon had mentally nicknamed her Cindy… crept forward a bit, tapping and swiping all over her shoulders and chest. Her clothing glowed in the areas touched, he noticed, sparking brief flashes of amber and red.
Meanwhile, time was passing. Their cushion had eroded away to a scant fifteen minutes. Not that Lee would let Venus Control open fire, but better to not push their deadline. Said Scott,
"We need to start heading back, Gordon. What've you got that 'll contain them for transport to Thunderbird 3?" From the look of things, these two had not helmed the Half-Moon. They were cargo, not pilots, and didn't have space-walking gear.
"Uh… an inflatable rescue pod," the swimmer replied. "But we'll have to convince them to get inside and keep still."
"Right. Make it happen," said Scott, checking the bulkheads for some kind of usable interface. Nodding, the aquanaut set to work.
Talking quietly all the while, sometimes singing or humming, he brought out a disk-shaped rescue pod. Smiled at the wary kids and said,
"Okay, guys… I'm gonna press this button right here, and then this thing's gonna swell up in, like, five seconds. Whoosh! Like that." He raised both arms over his head. Would have stood tiptoe, but the magnetic boots were stiff-soled and wouldn't allow such gymnastics.
"Right. So, ready? 1… 2… 3… button press."
Gordon depressed a stiff, inset trigger, hitting it twice in rapid succession. Then, with a buzz and loud hiss, the pod expanded, its sensors avoiding edges and bulkheads. What resulted was a tough, airtight raft, roomy enough for two rescued victims. Three, if they crouched.
Scott had been hard at work accessing Half-Moon's onboard system. He was no Hackenbacker or John, but knew his way around shipboard technology, and quickly mastered control of the hull lighting. Flashed a Morse message, stating: All well. Found two. On way back. Hold fire.
Then, turning his head slightly, Scott barked,
"Five minutes, Gordon. Get them inside by choice, or just trank them. We're running out of time."
See, not always did everyone want to be rescued. Sometimes, IR struggled with trapped, fleeing criminals or folks who refused to leave their possessions. They were no strangers to forcing the issue… but Gordon hated to frighten those kids any further. To Cindy and Sam, he said,
"You gotta trust me, okay? We're trying to help you get out of here. I guess… maybe we don't look or speak like what you're used to… but we're people. Your people. You've come home."
Next, he put out a hand. Gently, like trying to smooth down a nervous stray dog. That image brought to mind his snack stash. Moving carefully, approaching a bit at a time, Gordon took out a Crunch Bar and Protein Pal. Unwrapped both and broke them in pieces. Mimed eating one, smiling broadly to show it was good. Then, the swimmer extended the food to the kids.
Might not have worked, except that the left bulkhead started to flash from under its coating of pearl. Displaying a pattern of swift, darting colours, it got the attention of Cindy and Sam. Wasn't Morse, hex or binary. Too complex.
Whatever its meaning, the kids resisted no further. They slowly stood up, looking as sad and forlorn as kittens left in a box at the doorstep. They would not eat the food. Just collected their blankets and bundle, then let Gordon herd them into the rescue pod. Promising,
"It's gonna be okay, swear to God," the aquanaut strapped them both down. "I've gotta seal up this pod so we can hustle you over to Thunderbird 3, but you're gonna be safe. You'll get to see home. We'll do a gene run-up, find your folks, and…"
"Gordon, we've got to get moving," Scott interrupted. Yeah… He didn't know. Hadn't seen that grim med-scan. "Close it up and let's go."
The aquanaut nodded inside of his helmet. Took him maybe three minutes to finish securing both kids; chattering softly of water, beaches, fast food, and home. All the things that he cared for and knew. Sam would not look at him, but Cindy seemed to be trying to listen. Anyhow, he got the pod sealed up and ready for transport. Wasn't certain how much of their time was left, because he superstitiously wouldn't consult his wrist comm.
"Okay, they're…" the swimmer began, just before Half-Moon broke up around them, dissolving like smoke or a shower of up-rushing sparks. One minute, there. Solid as houses. Next minute, gone. No detonation, no energy crackle or burst of freed air. Just Scott, Gordon and one yellow rescue pod, floating in space between Venus and Thunderbird 3.
"… the h*ll?!" blurted Lee, in miniature holo. "Spencer, Godfrey! Y'all okay, over there?"
"Um, yeah," returned Scott. "Yes, Sir. Both in one piece, as far as I can tell. Just… surprised, is all."
Had to claw his stomach back down from the roof of his mouth, having plunged in an instant from high gravitation to weightless in space.
"We're, uh… coming back aboard. Let Brains know that he's going to need to set up a clean-room, with sterile food and accommodations for two."
"Ya found sumthin'?" probed Taylor, making gestures like putting his weapon away.
"Yessir, we did," said Scott, using his gas jets to help maneuver the rescue pod. "Tell you more when we get back inside. I'll need a line to Colonel Casey, too, if she's available."
Lee snorted rudely.
"Available?" H*ll, son, them top brass got nuthin' better ta do than polish their medals n' make up damfool new regs. H*ll, yeah, she's available."
Scott grinned despite himself, approaching the forward airlock. Like Grandma and Gordon, Lee had a knack for making things funny (and therefore, survivable). Be late to his own funeral and then show up drunk, would Captain Taylor, but he'd have a wild story to tell when he got there.
As for those kids… the colony ship that first was and then wasn't… what it all meant… That was for Brains to sort out. For the moment, Scott's job was done.
Couldn't help looking out at the blackness of space, though, and wondering… What had Half-Moon run into, all those years back? Had something alien learnt about Earth? Were they coming?
He just didn't know.