♦ ChaptEr 4 ♦
awakening
Narrator Marco Shantel came alive in stages. First tactile: he was lying on something metallic and cold. Then auditory: a low hum. Whispered human voices. The sound of his own breathing. Then finally visual as he opened his eyes. For a moment he wondered if he was on a movie set. That would have made sense, would have matched a life he knew quite well. Then he realized he was a trillion miles from Hollywood, on the colony ship Messenger, on its way to fulfill destiny.
Then he lapsed from consciousness again, as if it had taken all his strength just to absorb his surroundings: the line of recessed lights along the white-tiled ceiling was the last thing he knew before blackness. This time his descent was shallow, and he swam back to the surface quickly, to see the warm, lovely face of Evelyn Welsh, a medic he recognized. She was waiting for him patiently, and he smelled something: protein broth. Not chicken, not beef. Like liquid shwarma, a blend for optimal nutrition and taste, and his taste buds awakened with a vengeance.
She helped him sit up, and slipped the first spoonful between his lips. He thought he was passing out again, but held on for another sip. “Coffee,” he whispered. “Feels like I need coffee, Evelyn. A double mocha latte, please?” He’d only met her briefly on Earth, and found her unremarkable. But Evelyn was the first human female he’d seen in frozen decades, and some parts of his body were perking up faster than others. Her short black hair and heart-shaped face were suddenly angelic. He grinned toothily, applying a little of his wattage. With any luck he’d be laid within the next couple of hours.
“Not yet,” an unfamiliar voice said. “No stimulants. Just try to focus. You’ve been asleep for eighty years and a bit. And call me Major Stype. I will supervise your recovery, sir. Evelyn will continue as nurse.”
Who was that? He wondered if she’d been in the interviews that got him selected to go with Messenger. There had been a half dozen, maybe more. But they were only voices from a computer, and he couldn’t be sure.
“What are we doing now, Major?” He listened with his body. One gravity, he thought: it felt like Earth, except for a sort of pulse he could feel in the floor. He knew that pulse from before they put him to sleep. He was still aboard the starship Messenger, and Messenger was under thrust.
“We’re decelerating,” Major Stype said. “Less than two months before we—well, I’m not sure what the captain has in mind. Things have turned a little weird.”
“Weird? A story I can tell?” Coming alive: the Marco Shantel, actor turned interstellar astronaut. “Narrator” for the documentary that would tell future generations of this great adventure. He couldn’t see a mirror. He wondered what he looked like, how much muscle mass he had lost.
“You tell me, Narrator Shantel. We were observing a world we’re sure is Avalon. Looking for intelligent life. Trying to contact Geographic’s computer. We found a big island that matches the description of Camelot in those early—were you awake when the first messages came through from Tau Ceti?”
Avalon? Avalon? That was where the ship Geographic was heading. Their own destination, Hypereden, had been light-years distant. His mind rebelled. Was he hallucinating?
“Frozen like a rock,” Marco said. Better think of himself as Narrator Shantel. Act like the star he had been. Godsons liked their celebrities. They also liked their leaders strong and certain. This was no time to show doubt. “When I went to sleep, I don’t think Avalon was where we were going.”
“It wasn’t then. It is now, and you’ll learn why another time.”
“But—Don’t I have to tell the story?”
“We haven’t decided what story you’ll tell.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed, Narrator Shantel.”
“Avalon—the Geographic expedition.” His voice made it a question.
Major Stype came into view. Deeply tanned Mediterranean skin, with a face that would have been lovely if not so stern. Piercing eyes. Well-fitting one-piece coverall, officer insignia. Middle-aged—if she’d been one of those selection committee voices, she’d been in cold sleep just like him. “How long have I been out?”
“Nearly eighty years.”
“You, too, then? Because I think I met you.”
“You did. Briefly. Surprised you remember.” Her smile was frozen. “Their plan was to find an island and make first landing there. They did that. Camelot is about the size of both New Zealands. The continent is not far, ninety miles or so, and they should be colonizing that too by now, so we looked.”
Narrator smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. Might take an extra hour, he thought. He said, “Pregnant pause? You know, we’ll be cutting this into my record.”
She smiled now. “You’ve really got your work cut out for you. Eighty years of cameras all over the ship. You’ll have to view all of that, and pick and choose what goes into the log. Take you years.”
“Take me a lifetime. I’m vidding for posterity, for an eternity of schoolkids. What’s happening now, Major Stype?”
“There’s a veldt. A million square miles of it. The green lines in the spectrum aren’t quite chlorophyll. Infrared suggests it’s grass and some tree clumps, little forests. Someone has been writing on it in really big letters.”
Finally, a message from God? Marco didn’t say that.
He’d get reported, or slapped. “Writing on the veldt?”
“Just on the grass. Whatever it is avoids the trees.”
“What does it say?”
“We can’t read it. The letters are cursive, all linked up with almost no breaks. We’re not even sure it’s writing, but that’s what it looks like. No human language, except that there’s one little stretch that’s in English.”
“What’s it say? For God’s sake, Major!”
“It’s in script, no breaks. It says, ‘Ice on my mind.’”
The narrator didn’t have to ask what that meant. He’d just come out of cold sleep, and with his mind intact, as far as he could tell. But that phrase had terrified him when he went to sleep.
“You may thank God we solved that problem,” Major Stype said.
“Ah. It’s probably an obscenity, for them, the ones down there. So you woke me with a mystery, Major? Good. What else?”
She laughed. “Hah!” Her expression hardly changed as she continued, “We got through to Geographic. Well, to an AI that calls itself Cassandra. An AI, built in the old days without a lot of the safeguards we put in now. And still in orbit, not down on the planet. Think about that. Still in orbit. Older AI. The chief engineer is going over the Cassandra plans now, and chuckling half the time.”
“Chuckling?” Humor? Just what kind of story was this? The major, or monitor, or whatever she was laughed again, but not much; something worrying her.
“Chuckling,” Major Stype said. “We learned a lot about AI after Geographic launched. Maybe the First Speaker should have eased into that conversation. The first thing he asked about was the writing on the veldt. Do they have intelligent aliens? Cassandra broke off. Sudden silence. That was three days ago, and we can’t get a peep out of Cassandra since.”
“Why would it do that—just shut up. Ignoring us?”
“That’s one explanation. Paranoia’s another. Maybe it’s making sure we don’t learn any more about Avalon.”
“But—but—”
“You may not recall, Narrator, but the Geographic trustees made it very clear that they wanted no Godsons aboard, nor did they need our help.”
“I recall, Major.” He tried Smile Number Three, the one he used in fashion shoots rather than on the screen. It was authoritative, but vulnerable. “Which is why I am astonished that we are headed to their planet. I assume there is a reason?”
“Not your problem just now. You’ll learn more when you’re fully awake.” She was all business. This one wouldn’t be seduced, not here, and not by him.
But the nurse was still promising. Later, perhaps. Business now.
Marco’s brow furrowed as he went into planning mode. He’d start there, stock footage of Messenger under thrust, then the telescope footage. Avalon, then closer, then the veldt. Then backflash. He had plenty of footage during the two years leading up to takeoff. Cut that a lot. Some tracks from the pacing ships, then it would be all stock from outside.
Prechildren loading, ten thousand fertilized eggs at a time. Then frozen crew . . .
Major Stype was watching him, the tip of a pink tongue touching the middle of her upper lip. She liked watching his concentration. It earned her respect . . and a little more.
Good. Back to two hours again. Less, if he was lucky. “Major? When can I get to work?”