Far Space (23 page)

‘Next time you get advice from another space-faring race,’ the Cohou had said, ‘maybe you will listen. We have told you all this before.’

“We should have listened,” Ian breathed. “We don’t know crud about what’s out there.”

A long mournful moan brought Ian to a standstill and distracted him from his swirling thoughts. He cocked his head to one side, listening to the sorrowful lament.

Ian’s breathing became shallow. He knew it was just the ice settling. In fact, it had been part of his initial in-brief to the base. Knowing the sounds were coming from glacial tectonics, did not prevent goose bumps from rising on Ian’s arm. No one had bothered to explain why the ice sounded like voices of the damned seeking their way out of the frozen hell in which they have found themselves encased.

Ian reminded himself; for all intents and purposes, the crust of Europa was solid. Changes to the surface features happened but at a very slow rate. He had even walked on one of the freshest, pink-colored ice ridges. It had been created when the crust had opened, allowing a slurry of water from deep below the surface to rise from the dark, ice-capped sea sixty kilometers below. This slurry, rich in sulfur-compounds, had frozen solid when its boiling mass had encountered the near-vacuum on the moon’s surface. Still, even this ‘new’ feature was centuries old.

The groaning fell a notch and morphed into a crunching noise. Ian imagined the ice all around him conspiring to crush the fragile walls of the tunnel he occupied like an eighteenth century wooden sailing ship caught in pack ice off Antarctica. It was not as bad as his first experience with an ice-quake. He had experienced it during his first night on Europa. The event had been mentioned in passing at breakfast but no one else seemed bothered it. At least no one who was talking. Ian had not wanted to stand out on his second day as the guy who weirded out because of ‘The Martini’, as the locals referred to the ice quakes. He had already decided there was no way he was going to visit the base psychologist about this, or any other topic. He would take whatever the little moon had to throw at him and then some before he admitted to a shrink he had a little phobia brewing. Ian would just have to suck it up.

After each quake, there would be some minor seal damage between the sections of the connector tunnels or out on the rim. Ian looked around at the thin walls keeping his atmosphere in and the ice out. The image of lost souls from their icy grave attempting to pry their way into the flimsy structures the living had dared place above their final resting ground, sprang unbidden into Ian’s mind. The voices were merely their way to search for any vulnerability, whether they were physical, mental, or structural. All the damned needed was a way in and they would be able to claim new members to their immortal club.

Ian shuddered. He knew there were chinks.

Response crews had always dealt with any leaks and breaches without any reported injuries.

Ian put a hand against the wall and felt the vibrations of the ice shuddering on the other side.

But there was always a first time.

The groaning dropped a notch. The souls seeking the living seemed strained to their limit with the effort of searching from the inky, frozen depths far below.

Ian shook his head to keep his imagination from spinning any further off-course. He wondered who would be the next to snap. And if someone at the base would finally admit it was the lost souls, torturing them day after day, which had driven them insane.

He prayed it would not be him.

The ice-quake ended with a low muttering. The silence which enveloped Ian was in some ways more disturbing than the sounds it replaced. Ian took a deep breath, looked up and down the causeway and started off again on wobbly legs, intent on reaching his destination now more than ever.

There was talk of setting the nano-machines to drill a subway in the icy substrata. Ian would believe that when he saw it. Maybe if there was ever a second ring further out, then there might be a need for a faster way to get from one end of the base to the other. As it was, he needed the exercise.

Ian had chosen passage C-4 to get back to the base core. It was not the closest passage to his office on the rim, but there were good reasons to take this longer route back to his room.

Connector Four, ‘C-4’ to the permanent party folks, was one of two opposing passageways which had a series of sublevels containing the mechanical equipment needed to keep the people throughout the base supplied with fresh air and clean water. It also served as a great place to blow off some steam.

If anyone is missing four large shipping containers, they need look no further than in the warren of pipes, air handlers, and storage tanks underneath C-4. A twisting and quite well-worn path leads the initiated to a low-ceilinged, not-so-well-lit cavern formed when the ‘excess’ containers had been fitted together. The result was not pretty, but no one seemed to care.

Ian opened a hatch marked, ‘Maintenance Personnel Only’ and entered the stairwell leading down to the support areas. The metal stairs were constructed of steel gratings around an open well. This allowed a stomach-churning view straight down for almost seventy meters. Luckily he only needed to go down two flights of steps.

The odor of rotten eggs rose up from the deep bowels of the base. Europa’s icy crust contained many sulfur compounds, thanks to upwelling from the murky ocean below the frozen surface. Test drillings had confirmed the composition of the moon’s sub-surface oceans but had yet to find any sign of life. Although there were metal and permacrete walls, floors and ceilings, the sulfur smell invaded everywhere. Ian had nearly gagged when he first entered the base and was surprised by how quickly he had gotten used to it. The smell was not nearly as bad in the living and work areas where the air was constantly circulated. Down here though, where water was purified again and again in an attempt to remove impurities, the air always reeked.

Finding his way through the smell and between the familiar maze of sweating pipes, Ian crossed a walkway over a massive, but slowly spinning fan and found himself at the entrance to the bar. He smiled to himself at the sight of the picture of the broken stick of dynamite with the block letters “C-4” overlaid on the blossoming explosion. Evidently, the artist had never seen a block of C-4 blasting material or simply thought the dynamite made a better visual.

The sublevels he had passed through were not well lit but were like daylight compared to the interior of Europa’s finest drinking establishment. Ian took a moment after pushing through the thick curtains sealing the inner sanctum from the rest of the base. He had to squeeze up against the pressure door to let a staggering couple pass. Ian patted the door as his eyes adjusted to the new gloom. At least the builders of this secret get-away had thought to include basic safety features. If there were a pressure drop outside of C-4, at least those inside would be able to seal themselves in properly until the leak was repaired or help arrived. Ian just hoped this was where he was if anything catastrophic every occurred on the base. He was sure those inside would use the occasion to throw an impromptu disaster party of mega-proportions.

With the couple out of the way, Ian made his way inside and over to the long bar occupying the entire far wall from the door. A mismatch of chairs
and tables made from crates, other odd materials or simply ‘borrowed’ from elsewhere in the base were jammed into the space. A small dance floor was the only exception over by the jukebox.

The jukebox still puzzled Ian. As far as he could tell, the origin of the CD-playing box was as mysterious as the very existence of C-4 itself. How someone managed to ship the three hundred pound machine with all the weight restraints placed on interplanetary travel was beyond him. But, he was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth and enjoyed music and the lights playing around the jewel-like case as much as the next patron.

Ian leaned against the bar and ordered the house dark ale. The bartender, a moon-lighting, off-duty technician, nodded and filled a large plastic mug. Ian was sure real glassware would someday arrive to replace the plastic imitations. For now he was stuck drinking the finest brew in Jupiter Space out of a cup bearing the Space Corps symbol, obviously liberated from the base dining hall.

Swiping his access card across a scarred and battered reader, Ian added this drink to his tab. Some industrious, and certainly off-duty, computer specialists had managed to wire in ‘excess’ card readers around the bar to better track the cash flow and tips. Since no one on Europa was supposed to need cash, this was the only way to compensate the hardworking volunteers who brewed the drinks, served, cooked, and waited tables. Once a month, the tab bill was deducted from his account as a valid transaction labeled ‘Discretionary Allotment.’ Ian did not know how the C-4 management team coordinated this trick through the finance system either. It certainly had been a more productive use of somebody’s time than the official day he just put in. With the talent at work out here at Reagan, Ian tended to keep a closer eye on his pay stubs than he had in the past. Perhaps C-4 was not the only enterprise able to tap the system.

Ian took a swig and turned his head, taking in the other visitors to the underworld. Seeing no one he knew well enough to socialize with, he downed the first drink and took possession of a full pitcher. He made his way to a table off to the side where he could flip through entertainment channels on the displays mounted on the walls above the booth.

Ian was perusing the latest vids from Earth when he was surprised by someone bumping him over in the bench seat.

“Mind if I join you?”

Ian feigned disinterest. He selected a title at random. It was a historical documentary explaining the social impacts of the Panama Canal. The newcomer pressed in close to see the screen.

“Looks like I don’t have much of a choice,” Ian finally said.

“Come on, buy a girl a drink!” The new arrival jabbed Ian in the ribs.

“Ow! I was going to share the pitcher with you. But since you are abusing me, you can get your own,” Ian said, turning to face the interloper.

Captain Teresa Banks and Ian hit it off the first time they had been on shift together. They shared the same dry humor and quickly developed a means of communication between themselves involving raised eyebrows and quick text messages during interminable meetings and briefings, of which their respective jobs on the staff presented no short supply.

“Ah, but I don’t have a cup,” Teresa said. She pouted for a moment until Ian sighed and slid his own mug in her direction.

Ian wanted to believe their relationship could remain strictly professional. But, lately he was wondering how strong he could be out here surrounded by the darkness of the solar system, far from the warmth of the Sun and his new wife. Teresa had been brushing against him more often and touching his hands or arms for emphasis when they were talking. At first he took it as part of her open personality. The looks he was catching from her over the past few days were indications even his thick male mind could not misinterpret.

You are the embodiment of a male pig, Ian thought. He had a wonderful, intelligent wife back on the Moon. And yet, here he was toying with another woman just a few months into his Europan assignment. The physical distance was only part of the problem. Ian felt so emotionally detached from his wife. Having Teresa here with him nearly every day was not helping.

Following Ian’s proposal on board the alien ship, he had wondered if he had made a mistake. After all, Jennifer and he had known each other for only a few months. But, the time he had spent with her, trying to figure out the alien navigation and control system had convinced him (and her) they were not just rushing into things. Ian and Jennifer had approached Colonel Yates halfway back to Earth and requested he perform the wedding ceremony.

With Marsha’s help, Jennifer had been able to overcome Yates initial hesitance. He argued he was a Space Corps commander, not a naval Captain running a ship on the high seas so the rules of the sea did not apply. Marsha, Cheyenne’s computer, had uncovered several examples of non-ordained personnel performing marriage rituals during Earth-Mars runs. Yates had agreed and had even run Ian and Jennifer though a few sessions of pre-marital counseling.

The ceremony was as grand as the crew could make it. The common room had just enough space, with all the furniture removed, to hold everyone on board Cheyenne. Yates trusted Marsha to run the ship for fifteen minutes so the team on watch could also attend. Pearl had provided the rings. He would not say where he got the platinum, but he did give a meaningful glance out the observation port where the alien vessel Six was in plain view, attached to the Cheyenne’s cargo mount. For his part, Pearl played the Father of the Bride. Jennifer asked Adrienne Maytree, the Cheyenne pilot, to be her maid of honor while Ian ended up asking Nick O’Brian, whom Ian had grown to know and like after the retrieval of Six, to be the best man.

With Yates and Ian in their finest uniforms, consisting of clean flight suits and short leather jackets and Jennifer in a white dress made from a set of satin sheets someone had smuggled onboard, the two star-crossed lovers from Saturn Space had tied the knot. Swearing to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, until death they do part.

Well, Jennifer would certainly kill Ian if she saw the look Teresa was giving him now.

Teresa lowered her eyelids and peered at Ian over the top of the mug as she took long, deep swallows of ale. This sultry, needy look was new for her.

God, Ian wished Jennifer was here. He wanted to touch her so bad…

Before he had realized his hand had moved, Ian reached up and stroked Teresa’s cheek. She responded by closing her eyes and tilting her head into the touch.

Ian pulled his hand away and took his drink back. Idiot, he thought, this is not your wife. Yes, Teresa has the dark hair, stunning body, and great personality. But this was not Jennifer.

What was he thinking? He had been married for nine months. It might be a young marriage, but it had everything they needed to make it through; love, trust, shared faith, and passion. Throwing all that out the window for a tryst while deployed was so cliché it almost made him laugh.