I've received several requests to post my multi-part stories as single posts, and I've decided to comply. For those unfamiliar, these are portions of much larger stories, but (in all likelihood) their lifecycle here at Irreverent Irrelevance is complete. Further work on them (if there is any) will be done for the purpose of appearing in other media.
Anyway, the second piece to be "completed" here is a science fiction story - with heavy nods to Arthur C. Clarke, Robert Heinlein, and John W. Campbell - called Gateway.
"Gateway"
The smell of cedar is out of place. Israel is not to the south and there are no trees. He doesn't know what death smells like - perhaps it does smell like wood - but he is resolutely certain that fear should smell like something else. The nitrocellulose in the air does little to staunch the odor. Cedar among blood. It's an interesting scent and its... Read More
"Surface"
Matt feels like he's swimming, though he knows that's impossible. He's unsure why it's impossible, but he knows it is. He almost drowned once, a long time ago, but never developed the fear of water that his parents thought he would. They even went around for a time telling friends that little Matt was afraid of water because of the incident... Read More
"Equation"
Falling from an aircraft and experiencing flight the way only a liar can feels nothing like falling from a planet. Or in this case a moon, Samuel reminds himself. The landscape here doesn't vary and the dark skies make it hard to gauge how high up he actually is. His head hurts, an infection-inspired vertigo, and that his eyes constantly... Read More
Showing posts with label title: Gateway. Show all posts
Showing posts with label title: Gateway. Show all posts
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Equation
*Follows Gateway and Surface
Falling from an aircraft and experiencing flight the way only a liar can feels nothing like falling from a planet. Or in this case a moon, Samuel reminds himself. The landscape here doesn't vary and the dark skies make it hard to gauge how high up he actually is. His head hurts, an infection-inspired vertigo, and that his eyes constantly readjust from his inclination to stare up at Saturn and down at Iapetus make the very act of focus - visual or mental - almost impossible. But he can't help it. This facade of flying is too addicting.
***
"Jesus fuck," Vasquez mutters as he loses his balance. The impact doesn't hurt much - the gravity here is roughly two or three percent of Earth's - but the complicated act of landing properly makes him feel like an albatross.
"Ah, shit," Estevez screams in frustration as he undertakes the same clumsy action.
Roarke can't help but smile, knowing that Estevez and Vasquez are from the same part of the United States and react similarly to almost every situation. The group - five survivors from an initial squad of 13 - has been walking/flying for about 70 miles. It was determined a short time ago that whatever is jamming their transmissions to the orbiter is not coming from Gateway. Instead, it seems to be coming from the moon. Though Roarke swears she can occasionally see the Capricorn orbiter in the sky - a perception shared by none of the others - she knows that the odds of the crew spotting five lonely spots on the surface of Iapetus are slim to none... and closer to none.
"Sipalia," Roarke calls out over the comm-set, "the men are tired."
Sipalia responds with a grunt. The labored breathing Roarke hears lets her know that Sipalia is well-aware of the team's exhaustion. They've been fighting all day - perhaps more than a day - and though the light gravity allows the team to move quite rapidly, the frustration of not being able to move efficiently is taking its fair toll.
"Oxygen check," Sipalia orders. Though Roarke had led the team for much of the operation, Sipalia re-assumed his proper authority upon leaving the station. They hadn't been accosted by the Things since abandoning McDaniels in the airlock and the thought of sleeping is quite attractive.
Everyone reports in at least 60%. Good news, thinks Sipalia, and he begins mentally to put a sleep schedule together. Then he realizes only three reports came in.
"Nduom?"
Silence.
"Nduom?" Sipalia repeats in that command voice that leaders who prefer subtle approaches hate to use.
***
The zenith of the flight arc provides a wonderful view of the equatorial ridge. It is a strange natural formation that spans nearly the entire waistline of the moon. The skyline screams of being man-made - or intelligently-designed, as it were - but he knows that's impossible. The entire moon would have to be an artifact, were that the case. Thoughts struggle to form pedestrian theories as a pressure suit slams into the ground. The memory of a paratrooper's poeticism from the early 21st century begins to sing in imaginative choir.
"Give us wings... and we'll still fall."
***
"Nduom!" Sipalia's yell fails to snap Nduom out of whatever trance he's in and Sipalia watches as the pressure suit smacks a rock, then rolls over limp. "Estevez." It is a simple order and even without being able to see Sipalia's command expression, Estevez reacts immediately and bounds over to Nduom's unmoving suit.
"Hang on, brother," Estevez radios out, "I'm coming." The anxiety in the medic's voice betrays his knowledge that if, in fact, Nduom needs medical attention, he's not getting any out here.
"Anybody see what happened?" Sipalia asks the others. Some shake their heads, then respond "no" once they remember that the pressure helmet hides any such body language. "Well, that's just fucking great."
"How far do you think we are from the ridge?"
Sipalia turns to Roarke instinctively. Even without being able to discern a woman's voice, he knows that she's the only one who would ask such a pragmatic question in such a dicked-up circumstance. He holds his thumb toward Gateway, estimating their distance traveled, then turns around and compares it to the base of the ridge. "We're over half-way," he answers.
Roarke fails to transmit it, but Sipalia imagines a small sigh of relief. The ridge is their last hope of making contact with the orbiter - or so they think - and the orbiter is their only chance of survival.
***
Samuel can tell his body is being rolled over into a supine position, but he can't tell by whom... or by what. His thoughts continue to enjoy the meanderings of flight, finding an imaginary permanence over a random peak of a random mountain. Iapetus, he muses, is only about one-tenth as beautiful as Earth's own moon. Somewhere in the back of his mind there's a laugh at such an arbitrary and subjective conclusion.
His eyes finally recognize Estevez' face through the half-reflection of a gold-lined faceplate. The medic is talking to him and though the receivers are inches from his ears, Samuel has no idea what is being said. Instead, his thoughts begin to accelerate, concocting mathematical formulas that have no basis in logic.
65 miles to the ridge. Just over 100 klicks. 15 klicks up the designated peak. Just over 9 miles. 189 total integers that don't create a sum but add together anyway. The acceleration of gravity here is .223 meters per second squared and indefinite flight can be achieved with a jump creating just over a half-kilometer per second force. The orbiter should still be tending to Gateway's satellites, which are geo-synchronous, which technically allows a rendezvous with a well-aimed push. 60% oxygen is an ample supply. 40% carbon dioxide might be enough to plant a tree. Landing in a tree should be easier than landing on a rock one can barely see. I just want to fly.
Samuel knows he was scratched by one of the Things. He couldn't figure out if it were a claw or a tail that got him... maybe even a tooth or a fang... but it didn't draw a lot of blood so he had kept his mouth shut. He watches Estevez stand and can tell the medic's posture is dour. The Things are poisonous.
100% fatal.
***
Estevez double-checks the vital read on the suit before he calls Sipalia. "He's dying."
Sipalia is confused, but doesn't harp on it. "From what?" There's nothing out here.
"I don't know."
"Can we carry him?"
"Sure, but without opening the suit there's not a damned thing I can do."
Roarke's radio keys and Sipalia prepares himself to counteract her typical "no man left behind" argument. Instead, she merely offers a suggestion. "Transfer his oxygen to the others."
Each man can hear her tears. The Icy Bitch finally melts under Saturn's rings of ice.
***
Nduom lies still on the moon's landscape. Left with ten per cent oxygen - the others hoping that his wound will kill him before the asphyxiation - his mind once again returns to flight. He briefly considers this to be an out-of-body experience, but discounts the consideration when he fails to see his body. Only stars in one direction and a large, ringed planet in the other. There is no wind, no gale to ride, but the flight is as spectacular as any he's ever taken.
He smiles as another pressure suit approaches. Perhaps one of his friends - probably Roarke - is refusing to let him die alone. It towers above him, though Nduom knows that he is flying above it. How odd that ground and sky can each be touched but out of reach at the same time. There is cheerful laughter as he sees that there are wings on his new companion. An angel to take him home.
200 billion stars means 200 billion chances for life. There is alien life here, of which I am one. One killed me. And one returns me to zero.
It is a horrible mathematical interpretation, but as he is carried away from the surface, he knows that the formula is sound. Breaking free of atmosphere, he spies the peaks that his friends head toward. Somehow, they will survive.
Falling from an aircraft and experiencing flight the way only a liar can feels nothing like falling from a planet. Or in this case a moon, Samuel reminds himself. The landscape here doesn't vary and the dark skies make it hard to gauge how high up he actually is. His head hurts, an infection-inspired vertigo, and that his eyes constantly readjust from his inclination to stare up at Saturn and down at Iapetus make the very act of focus - visual or mental - almost impossible. But he can't help it. This facade of flying is too addicting.
***
"Jesus fuck," Vasquez mutters as he loses his balance. The impact doesn't hurt much - the gravity here is roughly two or three percent of Earth's - but the complicated act of landing properly makes him feel like an albatross.
"Ah, shit," Estevez screams in frustration as he undertakes the same clumsy action.
Roarke can't help but smile, knowing that Estevez and Vasquez are from the same part of the United States and react similarly to almost every situation. The group - five survivors from an initial squad of 13 - has been walking/flying for about 70 miles. It was determined a short time ago that whatever is jamming their transmissions to the orbiter is not coming from Gateway. Instead, it seems to be coming from the moon. Though Roarke swears she can occasionally see the Capricorn orbiter in the sky - a perception shared by none of the others - she knows that the odds of the crew spotting five lonely spots on the surface of Iapetus are slim to none... and closer to none.
"Sipalia," Roarke calls out over the comm-set, "the men are tired."
Sipalia responds with a grunt. The labored breathing Roarke hears lets her know that Sipalia is well-aware of the team's exhaustion. They've been fighting all day - perhaps more than a day - and though the light gravity allows the team to move quite rapidly, the frustration of not being able to move efficiently is taking its fair toll.
"Oxygen check," Sipalia orders. Though Roarke had led the team for much of the operation, Sipalia re-assumed his proper authority upon leaving the station. They hadn't been accosted by the Things since abandoning McDaniels in the airlock and the thought of sleeping is quite attractive.
Everyone reports in at least 60%. Good news, thinks Sipalia, and he begins mentally to put a sleep schedule together. Then he realizes only three reports came in.
"Nduom?"
Silence.
"Nduom?" Sipalia repeats in that command voice that leaders who prefer subtle approaches hate to use.
***
The zenith of the flight arc provides a wonderful view of the equatorial ridge. It is a strange natural formation that spans nearly the entire waistline of the moon. The skyline screams of being man-made - or intelligently-designed, as it were - but he knows that's impossible. The entire moon would have to be an artifact, were that the case. Thoughts struggle to form pedestrian theories as a pressure suit slams into the ground. The memory of a paratrooper's poeticism from the early 21st century begins to sing in imaginative choir.
"Give us wings... and we'll still fall."
***
"Nduom!" Sipalia's yell fails to snap Nduom out of whatever trance he's in and Sipalia watches as the pressure suit smacks a rock, then rolls over limp. "Estevez." It is a simple order and even without being able to see Sipalia's command expression, Estevez reacts immediately and bounds over to Nduom's unmoving suit.
"Hang on, brother," Estevez radios out, "I'm coming." The anxiety in the medic's voice betrays his knowledge that if, in fact, Nduom needs medical attention, he's not getting any out here.
"Anybody see what happened?" Sipalia asks the others. Some shake their heads, then respond "no" once they remember that the pressure helmet hides any such body language. "Well, that's just fucking great."
"How far do you think we are from the ridge?"
Sipalia turns to Roarke instinctively. Even without being able to discern a woman's voice, he knows that she's the only one who would ask such a pragmatic question in such a dicked-up circumstance. He holds his thumb toward Gateway, estimating their distance traveled, then turns around and compares it to the base of the ridge. "We're over half-way," he answers.
Roarke fails to transmit it, but Sipalia imagines a small sigh of relief. The ridge is their last hope of making contact with the orbiter - or so they think - and the orbiter is their only chance of survival.
***
Samuel can tell his body is being rolled over into a supine position, but he can't tell by whom... or by what. His thoughts continue to enjoy the meanderings of flight, finding an imaginary permanence over a random peak of a random mountain. Iapetus, he muses, is only about one-tenth as beautiful as Earth's own moon. Somewhere in the back of his mind there's a laugh at such an arbitrary and subjective conclusion.
His eyes finally recognize Estevez' face through the half-reflection of a gold-lined faceplate. The medic is talking to him and though the receivers are inches from his ears, Samuel has no idea what is being said. Instead, his thoughts begin to accelerate, concocting mathematical formulas that have no basis in logic.
65 miles to the ridge. Just over 100 klicks. 15 klicks up the designated peak. Just over 9 miles. 189 total integers that don't create a sum but add together anyway. The acceleration of gravity here is .223 meters per second squared and indefinite flight can be achieved with a jump creating just over a half-kilometer per second force. The orbiter should still be tending to Gateway's satellites, which are geo-synchronous, which technically allows a rendezvous with a well-aimed push. 60% oxygen is an ample supply. 40% carbon dioxide might be enough to plant a tree. Landing in a tree should be easier than landing on a rock one can barely see. I just want to fly.
Samuel knows he was scratched by one of the Things. He couldn't figure out if it were a claw or a tail that got him... maybe even a tooth or a fang... but it didn't draw a lot of blood so he had kept his mouth shut. He watches Estevez stand and can tell the medic's posture is dour. The Things are poisonous.
100% fatal.
***
Estevez double-checks the vital read on the suit before he calls Sipalia. "He's dying."
Sipalia is confused, but doesn't harp on it. "From what?" There's nothing out here.
"I don't know."
"Can we carry him?"
"Sure, but without opening the suit there's not a damned thing I can do."
Roarke's radio keys and Sipalia prepares himself to counteract her typical "no man left behind" argument. Instead, she merely offers a suggestion. "Transfer his oxygen to the others."
Each man can hear her tears. The Icy Bitch finally melts under Saturn's rings of ice.
***
Nduom lies still on the moon's landscape. Left with ten per cent oxygen - the others hoping that his wound will kill him before the asphyxiation - his mind once again returns to flight. He briefly considers this to be an out-of-body experience, but discounts the consideration when he fails to see his body. Only stars in one direction and a large, ringed planet in the other. There is no wind, no gale to ride, but the flight is as spectacular as any he's ever taken.
He smiles as another pressure suit approaches. Perhaps one of his friends - probably Roarke - is refusing to let him die alone. It towers above him, though Nduom knows that he is flying above it. How odd that ground and sky can each be touched but out of reach at the same time. There is cheerful laughter as he sees that there are wings on his new companion. An angel to take him home.
200 billion stars means 200 billion chances for life. There is alien life here, of which I am one. One killed me. And one returns me to zero.
It is a horrible mathematical interpretation, but as he is carried away from the surface, he knows that the formula is sound. Breaking free of atmosphere, he spies the peaks that his friends head toward. Somehow, they will survive.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Surface
*Follows Gateway
Matt feels like he's swimming, though he knows that's impossible. He's unsure why it's impossible, but he knows it is. He almost drowned once, a long time ago, but never developed the fear of water that his parents thought he would. They even went around for a time telling friends that little Matt was afraid of water because of the incident, and though Matt knew he wasn't, he played along. He was a good little boy, after all. But he never stopped swimming.
Eventually, Matt confronted his mother about the absence of such a fear, but neither of them ever built up the courage to do the same with his father. The befuddled and embarrassed look on his father's face after "little Matt" won his first 50 meter freestyle remains one of Matt's fondest memories. Still, as his swimming career progressed through high school, culminating in a scholarship at Stanford, Matt's father never admitted that he'd made a mistake. Instead, his father told stories about how Matt, instilled by his parents with a sense of resiliency, overcame the fear through dedication and hard work.
Because his girlfriend was going to the University of Texas, Matt didn't want to go to Stanford. But his father, too interested in the prestige involved in having a child at Stanford, pressed the issue. Inadvertently, a comment from Matt's father a few weeks later ended the argument. Watching the news about a low-intensity conflict happening somewhere in an unfortunate corner of the world, he heard his father utter, "Stupid-ass soldiers. Gotta be an idiot to join the Army."
Within 48 hours, Matt enlisted.
That was a lifetime ago, and Matt knew that he wasn't anywhere near water, but he still feels like he's swimming.
***
"Move! Move!" Roarke screams at the top of her lungs, fairly certain that nobody can hear her over the gunfire and even more certain that the other soldiers are already running. Corridor by corridor, Roarke and the remnants of her squad fight their way toward the docking platform. Pausing in a somewhat defensible hallway, Roarke does a quick headcount, counting five others, including an unconscious McDaniels carried by Estevez.
Estevez sets McDaniels down and breaks out a medical kit, quickly dressing McDaniels' sucking chest wound with a flutter valve. Though not a formal medic, Estevez worked as an EMT prior to enlisting, and he knows he's McDaniels' only hope for survival.
In a normal situation - or as normal as these situations tend to get - Rourke would be assisting Estevez in caring for the downed soldier, but something else was bothering her.
"Did you see what I did?" Sipalia asks. Surprising herself, Roarke feels relief that Sipalia is among the survivors. Though she is "Icy Bitch," Roarke knows she's a mere jolt or two away from losing it completely. There is a tinge of guilt as she quietly gives thanks that Sipalia is still alive and that Campbell is dead. Or, at least, missing. Nobody actually saw Campbell go down.
Roarke shakes her thoughts loose and returns to Sipalia's inquiry. "I don't know for sure, but I think that was our SOS guy."
"Same here," acknowledges Sipalia. "He had an issue weapon."
"Greene's?"
Sipalia shrugs and nods. They both have the same thought: Greene's definitely dead. Even if he were still alive, there's no way he's staying that way much longer without his carbine. How the astronaut wound up with it is another story. Sipalia catches Roarke's eyes and shakes his head in silent recognition.
Before either of them have time to digest the fact they might be abandoning the very person they came to rescue, Estevez slides up to them.
"How is he?" Roarke asks, referring to McDaniels.
"Not good. Pulmonary aspiration and pneumothorax," Estevez starts. He continues before Roarke can ask for clarification. "Blood's filling up his lungs. The shit's oozing out of every hole he's got."
"Will he make it?" Sipalia asks.
"I fucking doubt it."
"Leave him, then," Sipalia orders, in a cold and calculating manner that only the desire to live can contrive.
"No," Roarke interrupts. "We're almost to the docking ring. No man behind." Her glare is adamant.
As with Campbell, Sipalia is technically Roarke's superior, but Roarke has been the de facto in charge since Greene's disappearance. And Sipalia doesn't want to waste time arguing.
"Fine," concedes Sipalia. "Grab McDaniels," he says to Estevez, "We're leaving." Sipalia runs over to Vasquez and Nduom, tapping them to signal that it's time to move. It's an unnecessary gesture, but Sipalia feels the need to try to establish command.
The six survivors, with McDaniels on Estevez' back in a fireman's carry, bolt through the next corridor, shooting judiciously at anything that moves or they think might be moving. Ammunition is precariously low, and any desire to spray an avenue of approach with lead is overcome by discipline.
***
They make it to the docking ring after what seems like hours, and Sipalia hops into the dropship to check it out. There's an overwhelming deflation of hope as Sipalia calls out that the flight crew is dead. The pilot ripped to shreds like Hashimoto and some of the others, and the crew chief missing.
Roarke inhales slowly, trying to remain calm. Estevez places McDaniels on the floor and whips out a respiratory bag to keep McDaniels breathing. As Estevez squeezes the bag with his hands, blood foams from McDaniels' nose, mouth, and the puncture wound in his torso. Estevez knows he's wasting his efforts, but he keeps at it anyway.
Nduom fires down the corridor at approaching Things while Vasquez slides the pressure door shut. "Are we fucked now?" Nduom asks sarcastically as the door closes and seals. The Things begin pounding on it as if to answer, "yes." It's clear from the impacts that the door won't hold long.
Sipalia reenters the airlock from the dropship and looks like he's about to agree with the sentiment when something catches his eye. He whistles at Roarke and points behind her.
Roarke turns, then turns back and smiles. "Pressure suits."
Sipalia nods and orders, "Count 'em."
Roarke runs to the suit locker and stops counting at six. There are over a dozen suits, but they don't need that many. She gives Sipalia a thumbs up.
"We can go outside to the surface, get far enough away from the jamming source and call the orbiter," Sipalia says, to no one in particular.
"What about McDaniels?" Estevez asks, wiping sweat from his brow.
"What about him?" retorts Roarke, almost offended at the tone of Estevez' question.
Estevez holds out his hands in a defeated gesture. "We have to manually breathe him or he's a goner. We can't do that in the suits. I don't even know if we'll be able to carry him."
Roarke frowns, upset at the prospect of losing another comrade. But she knows that there's no arguing this time; they have no choice but to leave McDaniels behind. Sipalia, sensing Roarke's mood, kneels beside her and places a hand on her shoulder. Fighting back tears that almost escape, Roarke nods rapidly, trying to get her reluctant agreement out of the way as quickly as possible.
"There's another problem," Sipalia starts, leery of adding pressure to the situation. "These aren't tactical suits. Our fingers won't fit in the trigger wells."
Roarke shakes her head. "Will the guns even fire out there?" There's a hint of desperation in her voice.
"Hope we won't need to find out."
It's too much. The ice finally melts. Without thinking, she grabs Sipalia and kisses him on the mouth - an inexplicable attempt at feeling something human for perhaps the last time. There is no passion, but numb from an extended battle with an enemy they know nothing about, she is willing to try. In that futile moment, she attempts to recall every sexual encounter she's ever had, beginning with the loss of her virginity the night before her high school prom and ending with the oral sex she exchanged with a potential boyfriend the morning before the unit left Earth.
There's no arousal. And the only emotion inspired is disgust at Sipalia's confused smile.
"Mount up," she orders the others, motioning to the pressure suits. As she dons her own suit, she can't bring herself to look at McDaniels.
***
Matt's still swimming, but in rough waters now. It seems as though the entire ocean is trying to drown him, as if he mistakenly insulted it somehow. He's aware he's dreaming, but the fear he experiences when he's unable to break the surface of the water is very real. His mind blocked out what it feels like to drown, but his body very much remembers. He can't breathe, and his lungs are filling with fluid.
The dream morphs into nightmare and there's a recollection of combat. Accentuating the memory, bullets begin to zip through the water. He smiles for a moment, knowing for certain that none of this is happening, for the belief that bullets can zip through open water is only perpetuated by the movies. In reality - he knows from experience - bullets only penetrate water a few inches before they cease to be any danger.
But then the bullets stop and Matt suddenly wakes. Eyes open, Matthew McDaniels spits out blood in another attempt to breathe, but can't. The last image he sees is one of the Things rearing back, preparing to tear him apart.
And the last thing he feels is a rush of air.
*Followed by Equation
Matt feels like he's swimming, though he knows that's impossible. He's unsure why it's impossible, but he knows it is. He almost drowned once, a long time ago, but never developed the fear of water that his parents thought he would. They even went around for a time telling friends that little Matt was afraid of water because of the incident, and though Matt knew he wasn't, he played along. He was a good little boy, after all. But he never stopped swimming.
Eventually, Matt confronted his mother about the absence of such a fear, but neither of them ever built up the courage to do the same with his father. The befuddled and embarrassed look on his father's face after "little Matt" won his first 50 meter freestyle remains one of Matt's fondest memories. Still, as his swimming career progressed through high school, culminating in a scholarship at Stanford, Matt's father never admitted that he'd made a mistake. Instead, his father told stories about how Matt, instilled by his parents with a sense of resiliency, overcame the fear through dedication and hard work.
Because his girlfriend was going to the University of Texas, Matt didn't want to go to Stanford. But his father, too interested in the prestige involved in having a child at Stanford, pressed the issue. Inadvertently, a comment from Matt's father a few weeks later ended the argument. Watching the news about a low-intensity conflict happening somewhere in an unfortunate corner of the world, he heard his father utter, "Stupid-ass soldiers. Gotta be an idiot to join the Army."
Within 48 hours, Matt enlisted.
That was a lifetime ago, and Matt knew that he wasn't anywhere near water, but he still feels like he's swimming.
***
"Move! Move!" Roarke screams at the top of her lungs, fairly certain that nobody can hear her over the gunfire and even more certain that the other soldiers are already running. Corridor by corridor, Roarke and the remnants of her squad fight their way toward the docking platform. Pausing in a somewhat defensible hallway, Roarke does a quick headcount, counting five others, including an unconscious McDaniels carried by Estevez.
Estevez sets McDaniels down and breaks out a medical kit, quickly dressing McDaniels' sucking chest wound with a flutter valve. Though not a formal medic, Estevez worked as an EMT prior to enlisting, and he knows he's McDaniels' only hope for survival.
In a normal situation - or as normal as these situations tend to get - Rourke would be assisting Estevez in caring for the downed soldier, but something else was bothering her.
"Did you see what I did?" Sipalia asks. Surprising herself, Roarke feels relief that Sipalia is among the survivors. Though she is "Icy Bitch," Roarke knows she's a mere jolt or two away from losing it completely. There is a tinge of guilt as she quietly gives thanks that Sipalia is still alive and that Campbell is dead. Or, at least, missing. Nobody actually saw Campbell go down.
Roarke shakes her thoughts loose and returns to Sipalia's inquiry. "I don't know for sure, but I think that was our SOS guy."
"Same here," acknowledges Sipalia. "He had an issue weapon."
"Greene's?"
Sipalia shrugs and nods. They both have the same thought: Greene's definitely dead. Even if he were still alive, there's no way he's staying that way much longer without his carbine. How the astronaut wound up with it is another story. Sipalia catches Roarke's eyes and shakes his head in silent recognition.
Before either of them have time to digest the fact they might be abandoning the very person they came to rescue, Estevez slides up to them.
"How is he?" Roarke asks, referring to McDaniels.
"Not good. Pulmonary aspiration and pneumothorax," Estevez starts. He continues before Roarke can ask for clarification. "Blood's filling up his lungs. The shit's oozing out of every hole he's got."
"Will he make it?" Sipalia asks.
"I fucking doubt it."
"Leave him, then," Sipalia orders, in a cold and calculating manner that only the desire to live can contrive.
"No," Roarke interrupts. "We're almost to the docking ring. No man behind." Her glare is adamant.
As with Campbell, Sipalia is technically Roarke's superior, but Roarke has been the de facto in charge since Greene's disappearance. And Sipalia doesn't want to waste time arguing.
"Fine," concedes Sipalia. "Grab McDaniels," he says to Estevez, "We're leaving." Sipalia runs over to Vasquez and Nduom, tapping them to signal that it's time to move. It's an unnecessary gesture, but Sipalia feels the need to try to establish command.
The six survivors, with McDaniels on Estevez' back in a fireman's carry, bolt through the next corridor, shooting judiciously at anything that moves or they think might be moving. Ammunition is precariously low, and any desire to spray an avenue of approach with lead is overcome by discipline.
***
They make it to the docking ring after what seems like hours, and Sipalia hops into the dropship to check it out. There's an overwhelming deflation of hope as Sipalia calls out that the flight crew is dead. The pilot ripped to shreds like Hashimoto and some of the others, and the crew chief missing.
Roarke inhales slowly, trying to remain calm. Estevez places McDaniels on the floor and whips out a respiratory bag to keep McDaniels breathing. As Estevez squeezes the bag with his hands, blood foams from McDaniels' nose, mouth, and the puncture wound in his torso. Estevez knows he's wasting his efforts, but he keeps at it anyway.
Nduom fires down the corridor at approaching Things while Vasquez slides the pressure door shut. "Are we fucked now?" Nduom asks sarcastically as the door closes and seals. The Things begin pounding on it as if to answer, "yes." It's clear from the impacts that the door won't hold long.
Sipalia reenters the airlock from the dropship and looks like he's about to agree with the sentiment when something catches his eye. He whistles at Roarke and points behind her.
Roarke turns, then turns back and smiles. "Pressure suits."
Sipalia nods and orders, "Count 'em."
Roarke runs to the suit locker and stops counting at six. There are over a dozen suits, but they don't need that many. She gives Sipalia a thumbs up.
"We can go outside to the surface, get far enough away from the jamming source and call the orbiter," Sipalia says, to no one in particular.
"What about McDaniels?" Estevez asks, wiping sweat from his brow.
"What about him?" retorts Roarke, almost offended at the tone of Estevez' question.
Estevez holds out his hands in a defeated gesture. "We have to manually breathe him or he's a goner. We can't do that in the suits. I don't even know if we'll be able to carry him."
Roarke frowns, upset at the prospect of losing another comrade. But she knows that there's no arguing this time; they have no choice but to leave McDaniels behind. Sipalia, sensing Roarke's mood, kneels beside her and places a hand on her shoulder. Fighting back tears that almost escape, Roarke nods rapidly, trying to get her reluctant agreement out of the way as quickly as possible.
"There's another problem," Sipalia starts, leery of adding pressure to the situation. "These aren't tactical suits. Our fingers won't fit in the trigger wells."
Roarke shakes her head. "Will the guns even fire out there?" There's a hint of desperation in her voice.
"Hope we won't need to find out."
It's too much. The ice finally melts. Without thinking, she grabs Sipalia and kisses him on the mouth - an inexplicable attempt at feeling something human for perhaps the last time. There is no passion, but numb from an extended battle with an enemy they know nothing about, she is willing to try. In that futile moment, she attempts to recall every sexual encounter she's ever had, beginning with the loss of her virginity the night before her high school prom and ending with the oral sex she exchanged with a potential boyfriend the morning before the unit left Earth.
There's no arousal. And the only emotion inspired is disgust at Sipalia's confused smile.
"Mount up," she orders the others, motioning to the pressure suits. As she dons her own suit, she can't bring herself to look at McDaniels.
***
Matt's still swimming, but in rough waters now. It seems as though the entire ocean is trying to drown him, as if he mistakenly insulted it somehow. He's aware he's dreaming, but the fear he experiences when he's unable to break the surface of the water is very real. His mind blocked out what it feels like to drown, but his body very much remembers. He can't breathe, and his lungs are filling with fluid.
The dream morphs into nightmare and there's a recollection of combat. Accentuating the memory, bullets begin to zip through the water. He smiles for a moment, knowing for certain that none of this is happening, for the belief that bullets can zip through open water is only perpetuated by the movies. In reality - he knows from experience - bullets only penetrate water a few inches before they cease to be any danger.
But then the bullets stop and Matt suddenly wakes. Eyes open, Matthew McDaniels spits out blood in another attempt to breathe, but can't. The last image he sees is one of the Things rearing back, preparing to tear him apart.
And the last thing he feels is a rush of air.
*Followed by Equation
Friday, December 4, 2009
Gateway
The smell of cedar is out of place. Israel is not to the south and there are no trees. He doesn't know what death smells like - perhaps it does smell like wood - but he is resolutely certain that fear should smell like something else. The nitrocellulose in the air does little to staunch the odor. Cedar among blood. It's an interesting scent and its strange pleasantness makes it nearly intolerable. He's not sure how much more of it he can stand, for it reminds him of a Lebanese woman he was once in love with. She's a wonderful image that he would welcome under normal circumstances, but he needs to control his fear; not fight it. There is already an enemy here and memory need not join the fray. He heard, years ago, that scent triggers memory better than any of the other senses, but he only now believes it. The last thoughts he has before he shakes the distraction is that he's thankful he's not a bloodhound. And that he's afraid.
***
"What the fuck are those things?" Campbell screams, less a question and more an excuse to vent frustration.Whatever those Things were, they just kept coming. Campbell, a soldier who tends to think in ratios and statistics, is all too aware that each rifleman in his unit was only issued 300 rounds of ammunition each. He is also all too aware that he has less than 50 rounds remaining... barely a magazine-and-a-half.
"Calm the fuck down," Corporal Roarke orders, even though she is the same rank as Campbell. Technically, Campbell is her superior since he's the Bravo-Team leader and she leads Charlie-Team, but she has a reputation for being extremely calm under pressure and had fast become her squad leader's favorite. Still, she wonders the same thing as Campbell. The Things seem endless in number and ammunition reserves are, without doubt, on everyone's mind. Unlike Gerstmann, the other woman in the squad, Roarke keeps her hair long - she prefers femininity when not on duty - and notices dried blood obscuring her brunette locks. She had been standing next to Hashimoto when the Things appeared out of nowhere and practically decapitated him. Anyone else might have frozen in shock at the sight, but Roarke didn't earn her "Icy Bitch" moniker for no reason. Regardless, she remains terrified, just like everyone else. The rescue team, after all, is in dire need of rescue.
***
Project Gateway was in its sixth year when the distress signal reached Earth. It was short and consisted of a simple message: "Help me." Controversy immediately spread across the various space agencies involved in the project. The foremost issue was with the message itself. Help "me." Project Gateway involved 37 deployed astronauts and those in the psychoanalytical industries felt it rather strange that the pronoun hadn't been "us." The base conclusion was reached that the message meant the other 36 people on Iapetus were already dead when the message was sent, but the bureaucrats running the project ignored that interpretation and chalked the message up to panic and the sender being in an otherwise irrational state of mind.
The second controversy was a rehash of one of the original debates surrounding Gateway. A few legislators, upon the recommendation of high-ranking military personnel, tried to insert law enforcement and combat personnel into the mission, but their concerns went unheeded. Despite the general history involving space exploration, in which a majority of the astronauts and cosmonauts were of military background, the space agencies felt that since no one had ever knowingly went into space armed for combat, there was no reason to start now. Critics of this pointed out that no one had ever knowingly ventured so far away from their homeworld, and every possibility - including alien encounter - should be considered. The recommendation went unheeded, and the 37 astronauts eventually selected for the project were all from science, medical, engineering, and construction backgrounds.
For the rescue mission, dubbed Operation Gatekeeper, the military perspective won out, and a 13-man squad of infantry - hastily trained for space service - was launched from Vostochny on a course for Saturn's moon. A second ship, one loaded with more scientists, doctors, engineers, and builders, would launch from Cape Canaveral a few days afterward.
That was seven months ago.
***
The sensation of fireworks fades into reality, revealing themselves to be ballistic flashes from the end of a gun barrel. There's little opportunity for the eye to interpret the color on the walls. It is not a rainbow if no one is around to see it, and here there is no rain. Darkness engulfed the corridors to begin with, and the spitting light ruins his ability to devolve into the nocturnal creature he desperately needs to become. He secretly wishes his fingers were made of eyes so he could touch what little light there is, but his hands tightly grasp his weapon and he would've remained blind regardless. Shadow does not seem to work here and only creates more shadow. He tries to ignore the false realization that there is something tactile in the instants between the bursts of gunpowder and the abysmal void, but he is unable to. He is fighting through a black hole whose gravity is not only robbing him of his ability to see, but his ability to comprehend. The absence of light is a wall his fear cannot break through. This rabbit hole provides no looking glass.
***
"ACE in," Roarke shouts as she hurries to apply a pressure dressing to Sipalia's - the Alpha-Team leader - bleeding forearm. Campbell is far too unstable at the moment and nobody has seen Sergeant Greene since the first wave of the Things appeared, so Roarke was ostensibly in command. She already knows everyone is dangerously low on ammunition and that the only casualties are Hashimoto and Sipalia - and perhaps Greene - but reverting to a standing operating procedure helps her control her growing fear. If she loses it, there is a strong possibility that the rest of the squad will, too. The unintentional arrogance behind the thought makes her crack a smile, but she knows it's true. She can't help who she is. Never could; never will. All she can do is her job and hope they can shoot their way to the light at the end of the tunnel... if there is one.
Eight ammunition, casualty, and equipment reports yell in from the rest of the squad. At first Roarke is alarmed at so few a number, but quickly realizes that eight is the number she should've expected. The total ammunition count is less than ten percent of their issue. Defending their position against another onslaught is going to be next to impossible. The dropship is on the other side of Gateway and contact with the Capricorn orbiter was lost during the second assault, so there is no way to coordinate any feasible extraction with the ship's crew, if they are even still in orbit. Last Rourke knew, the Capricorn had docked with one of three Iapetus survey and communication satellites in order to run diagnostics.
The squad is holed up in one of the prefabricated corridors that the original Project Gateway team had brought with them, so there is a bright side - as bright as irony will allow - to things. Behind them is the incomplete science lab, which is habitable and whose only current access is through the prefabbed corridor. The only other way out of the corridor is into Gateway Station itself, which means that Roarke only has to conduct a defense in one direction. Unless, the thought fearfully creeps its way into Roarke's mind, the Things can live in space. No, no... Vasquez had blown one out of an airlock and the Thing had seemed to die. They should be all right, in that sense.
Sipalia winces as Roarke finishes patching him up. "We're going to have to fight our way out of here, you know," he says, as plainly and unemotionally as possible. Through the doorway into the rest of the station and back to the docking ring where the dropship awaits. Neither Sipalia nor Roarke has any idea if the pilot and crew chief are still alive to fly them out of there.
Roarke nods. "Once more into the breach, my friends. Once more," she mutters, barely audibly. She's never sounded so unconvincing in her life.
***
The breeze doesn't betray its source. Movement or pressure, the wind keeps its lips sealed. Could it speak, it might not say what he wants to hear. His attempt to stay as quiet as possible reminds him of how crickets compose their songs, with toothed wings vibrating against each other. He's had this thought before, the very first time he made love to a woman. Penetration creates an interesting sonata of bodily fluid and function, and obsession with noise turns into lustful symphony visualized. No matter how silent, it is deafening. Here, his weapon is his percussion; his screams of fear his brass; his breath his woodwind. The disturbing humor that listens in the back of his mind now plays for him a requiem of violin, viola, and cello.
Ahead of him light slithers its way through cracks in a door like the serpent in the garden. Let there be should be an invitation as warm as the bosom of an eager harlot, but he knows it is merely a harbinger of danger. The doorway warns him that the apple should not be taken while it taunts him that there is no other option. It is no matter, for he has long passed the point at which a physiological or psychological effect begins to be produced.
As he walks through the threshold, into the company of the Things, his mind returns from its sojourn to the unknown. He finally remembers what happened to the others and how he's survived for seven months, but not, it seems, how he obtained a military-issue carbine. Overwhelming are the sensations of color and poetry, flesh tearing from bone, the scent of a Lebanese woman's skin and the taste of her nipples, the inhalation of blood, memories of earning diplomas and doctorates, the impact of hitting water, the glowing smile of his first girlfriend...
... and a vague recollection of being born.
*Followed by Surface
***
"What the fuck are those things?" Campbell screams, less a question and more an excuse to vent frustration.Whatever those Things were, they just kept coming. Campbell, a soldier who tends to think in ratios and statistics, is all too aware that each rifleman in his unit was only issued 300 rounds of ammunition each. He is also all too aware that he has less than 50 rounds remaining... barely a magazine-and-a-half.
"Calm the fuck down," Corporal Roarke orders, even though she is the same rank as Campbell. Technically, Campbell is her superior since he's the Bravo-Team leader and she leads Charlie-Team, but she has a reputation for being extremely calm under pressure and had fast become her squad leader's favorite. Still, she wonders the same thing as Campbell. The Things seem endless in number and ammunition reserves are, without doubt, on everyone's mind. Unlike Gerstmann, the other woman in the squad, Roarke keeps her hair long - she prefers femininity when not on duty - and notices dried blood obscuring her brunette locks. She had been standing next to Hashimoto when the Things appeared out of nowhere and practically decapitated him. Anyone else might have frozen in shock at the sight, but Roarke didn't earn her "Icy Bitch" moniker for no reason. Regardless, she remains terrified, just like everyone else. The rescue team, after all, is in dire need of rescue.
***
Project Gateway was in its sixth year when the distress signal reached Earth. It was short and consisted of a simple message: "Help me." Controversy immediately spread across the various space agencies involved in the project. The foremost issue was with the message itself. Help "me." Project Gateway involved 37 deployed astronauts and those in the psychoanalytical industries felt it rather strange that the pronoun hadn't been "us." The base conclusion was reached that the message meant the other 36 people on Iapetus were already dead when the message was sent, but the bureaucrats running the project ignored that interpretation and chalked the message up to panic and the sender being in an otherwise irrational state of mind.
The second controversy was a rehash of one of the original debates surrounding Gateway. A few legislators, upon the recommendation of high-ranking military personnel, tried to insert law enforcement and combat personnel into the mission, but their concerns went unheeded. Despite the general history involving space exploration, in which a majority of the astronauts and cosmonauts were of military background, the space agencies felt that since no one had ever knowingly went into space armed for combat, there was no reason to start now. Critics of this pointed out that no one had ever knowingly ventured so far away from their homeworld, and every possibility - including alien encounter - should be considered. The recommendation went unheeded, and the 37 astronauts eventually selected for the project were all from science, medical, engineering, and construction backgrounds.
For the rescue mission, dubbed Operation Gatekeeper, the military perspective won out, and a 13-man squad of infantry - hastily trained for space service - was launched from Vostochny on a course for Saturn's moon. A second ship, one loaded with more scientists, doctors, engineers, and builders, would launch from Cape Canaveral a few days afterward.
That was seven months ago.
***
The sensation of fireworks fades into reality, revealing themselves to be ballistic flashes from the end of a gun barrel. There's little opportunity for the eye to interpret the color on the walls. It is not a rainbow if no one is around to see it, and here there is no rain. Darkness engulfed the corridors to begin with, and the spitting light ruins his ability to devolve into the nocturnal creature he desperately needs to become. He secretly wishes his fingers were made of eyes so he could touch what little light there is, but his hands tightly grasp his weapon and he would've remained blind regardless. Shadow does not seem to work here and only creates more shadow. He tries to ignore the false realization that there is something tactile in the instants between the bursts of gunpowder and the abysmal void, but he is unable to. He is fighting through a black hole whose gravity is not only robbing him of his ability to see, but his ability to comprehend. The absence of light is a wall his fear cannot break through. This rabbit hole provides no looking glass.
***
"ACE in," Roarke shouts as she hurries to apply a pressure dressing to Sipalia's - the Alpha-Team leader - bleeding forearm. Campbell is far too unstable at the moment and nobody has seen Sergeant Greene since the first wave of the Things appeared, so Roarke was ostensibly in command. She already knows everyone is dangerously low on ammunition and that the only casualties are Hashimoto and Sipalia - and perhaps Greene - but reverting to a standing operating procedure helps her control her growing fear. If she loses it, there is a strong possibility that the rest of the squad will, too. The unintentional arrogance behind the thought makes her crack a smile, but she knows it's true. She can't help who she is. Never could; never will. All she can do is her job and hope they can shoot their way to the light at the end of the tunnel... if there is one.
Eight ammunition, casualty, and equipment reports yell in from the rest of the squad. At first Roarke is alarmed at so few a number, but quickly realizes that eight is the number she should've expected. The total ammunition count is less than ten percent of their issue. Defending their position against another onslaught is going to be next to impossible. The dropship is on the other side of Gateway and contact with the Capricorn orbiter was lost during the second assault, so there is no way to coordinate any feasible extraction with the ship's crew, if they are even still in orbit. Last Rourke knew, the Capricorn had docked with one of three Iapetus survey and communication satellites in order to run diagnostics.
The squad is holed up in one of the prefabricated corridors that the original Project Gateway team had brought with them, so there is a bright side - as bright as irony will allow - to things. Behind them is the incomplete science lab, which is habitable and whose only current access is through the prefabbed corridor. The only other way out of the corridor is into Gateway Station itself, which means that Roarke only has to conduct a defense in one direction. Unless, the thought fearfully creeps its way into Roarke's mind, the Things can live in space. No, no... Vasquez had blown one out of an airlock and the Thing had seemed to die. They should be all right, in that sense.
Sipalia winces as Roarke finishes patching him up. "We're going to have to fight our way out of here, you know," he says, as plainly and unemotionally as possible. Through the doorway into the rest of the station and back to the docking ring where the dropship awaits. Neither Sipalia nor Roarke has any idea if the pilot and crew chief are still alive to fly them out of there.
Roarke nods. "Once more into the breach, my friends. Once more," she mutters, barely audibly. She's never sounded so unconvincing in her life.
***
The breeze doesn't betray its source. Movement or pressure, the wind keeps its lips sealed. Could it speak, it might not say what he wants to hear. His attempt to stay as quiet as possible reminds him of how crickets compose their songs, with toothed wings vibrating against each other. He's had this thought before, the very first time he made love to a woman. Penetration creates an interesting sonata of bodily fluid and function, and obsession with noise turns into lustful symphony visualized. No matter how silent, it is deafening. Here, his weapon is his percussion; his screams of fear his brass; his breath his woodwind. The disturbing humor that listens in the back of his mind now plays for him a requiem of violin, viola, and cello.
Ahead of him light slithers its way through cracks in a door like the serpent in the garden. Let there be should be an invitation as warm as the bosom of an eager harlot, but he knows it is merely a harbinger of danger. The doorway warns him that the apple should not be taken while it taunts him that there is no other option. It is no matter, for he has long passed the point at which a physiological or psychological effect begins to be produced.
As he walks through the threshold, into the company of the Things, his mind returns from its sojourn to the unknown. He finally remembers what happened to the others and how he's survived for seven months, but not, it seems, how he obtained a military-issue carbine. Overwhelming are the sensations of color and poetry, flesh tearing from bone, the scent of a Lebanese woman's skin and the taste of her nipples, the inhalation of blood, memories of earning diplomas and doctorates, the impact of hitting water, the glowing smile of his first girlfriend...
... and a vague recollection of being born.
*Followed by Surface
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