CHAPTER 3
For Mike Rialto, the Samaritan’s chief of security, it was a nightmare come true. Ten Fintidierians, none of whom he had any chance to vet, or even meet before today, were now wandering around his ship, mostly unsupervised, getting into who knows what. Rialto knew that Captain Crosby didn’t like the situation any more than he did, but their hands were tied. Ambassador Jesus had made an agreement with the Fintidierians that these scientists now on board the Emissary could accompany the Samaritan as it spent the next two months scouting the Proxima Centauri system for artifacts left behind by the Atlanteans. As usual, political decisions were made without consulting those who had to implement them and, well, it all rolled downhill from there. He and his security detail would have to do the best they could to contain any risk to the ship.
This likely meant that each of the ten scientists—and he seriously doubted they were all scientists—would have a crew member as a “shadow” for the duration, like it or not. Rialto would much rather have them each be intentionally supervised by a crew member, but that was ruled out by the captain and Ambassador Jesus. He was not necessarily worried about deliberate sabotage, since the Fintidierians had likely sent only people they trusted to not create an interstellar incident. However, if he were in their shoes and had the chance to observe alien technology nearly a century ahead of his own, among the various scientists would be a few intelligence gathering experts. In other words, spies. Even the non-spies would be soaking up as much as they possibly could during their time aboard ship. His shadows would mostly try to keep their assigned Fintidierian in sight and intervene only if they did something that looked dangerous or suspicious. The Fintidierians were not stupid and would soon figure out they were being watched.
To top it all off, none of his visitors had been trained for life on a spaceship and nearly all of them had required the vomit bags within an hour of coming aboard. Until they got underway, and the Samara Drive kicked in to provide some acceleration, they would be in microgravity, essentially “no gravity,” with all its usual side effects. He could not be too hard on them for getting sick—nearly everyone did when they first experienced prolonged microgravity. At least being nauseous will likely keep them from making any mischief for a few days.
Rialto was pulling himself down the corridor using the handholds that were installed along the top of each shipboard corridor. They were put there for just this purpose, to expedite moving down the ship’s long central corridor and those that fanned out from it. Plus, it was fun. They were spaced more than ten feet apart and enabled crew members to have a controlled “dive” from one end to the other by pushing off the wall and flying down the corridor to the next handhold. Some of the crew amused themselves by dividing into teams and flying from one side to the other, each group starting from a different end, timing their torpedolike flights to crisscross each other like some sort of synchronized swimming event. Of course, there were those who were less coordinated, and they tended to plow right into another member of the crew, causing some bruising, but, thankfully, no broken bones yet. Ah, the joys of long-duration spaceflight…
“Chief Rialto, please come to the bridge.” The chief heard the summons via his cochlear implant. He reached up and tapped his collar to activate his microphone, exactly like the characters in the old twentieth-century sci-fi shows he watched with his grandfather as a child, and replied, “Copy. On my way.”
He wasn’t far and the trip to the bridge took only a few minutes, seven at most.
The bridge was a flurry of activity as the crew prepared to make way for the first time since they had arrived at Proxima b. The bustle of activity had a positive energy to it, and Rialto liked it. It felt good to be going back into space, even if they wouldn’t really leave the neighborhood.
“Mike, there you are! Come on over, we need to chat.” The speaker was Rialto’s ground-pounder counterpart, Commander Mike Rogers. Rogers. A SEAL, Rogers was one of a few active military who had come along with the Samaritan to Proxima b. He was there in case the locals had turned out to be unfriendly. Rialto was never sure how fewer than a dozen Navy SEALS could hold off an army of Fintidierians, but he didn’t doubt they could, at least for a while, and he was glad they were there. There was something reassuring about the militarily trained and fit can-do men and women in his team. They exuded security, confidence, and serious damned trouble—for anyone who crossed them. He was floating next to Captain Crosby and Dr. Enrico Vulpetti, the man responsible for getting the Samaritan funded and, by virtue of his connections, who got himself invited along for the ride. Of course, the fact that Vulpetti was a brilliant PhD aerospace engineer might also have boosted his qualifications. That, and the fact that he was both extremely helpful and a nice guy.
“Two Mikes. What a concept,” Vulpetti said with a smile. “Maybe you guys should open a sandwich shop or something.”
“Ha! Not like we’ve never heard that before,” replied Rogers. Rialto nodded and smiled.
“While Dr. Vulpetti and I go over the list of suggested destinations provided by the Fintidierians, I want you two to work together on security plans for aboard ship, which Chief Rialto will be responsible for implementing, and for any landings and site visits, which Commander Rogers will run. The chief and I have discussed at length what to do with our guests aboard ship and I want our SEALs to help out where they can. But let’s be clear: if anything arises, I want the chief’s people to be the first to intervene. We don’t want to escalate beyond neighborhood policing unless we absolutely need to do so. That said, the safety and security of this ship and its crew are my top priority. Anything that jeopardizes either of those cannot be tolerated, and it’s up to you, both of you, to make sure nothing happens,” Captain Crosby ordered.
“Yes, sir. My team is good with that,” Rogers noted, nodding toward Rialto. “Mike, shall we go to your office to discuss?”
“Absolutely.” When Rialto first met Rogers and his team, he was wary of their real orders and intentions and whether or not their two teams would end up in conflict during the long trip. All his fears were unfounded, and both men ended up being fairly close friends. He was looking forward to strategizing with Rogers about how to keep their Fintidierian friends out of trouble aboard ship. He was also wondering what Rogers had in mind for security if they found any sign of the Atlanteans within the system. If the Atlanteans were as advanced as the records indicated they were, who knew what dangers they might encounter.
* * *
Crosby watched his two security leads swimming away through the air down the corridor, eagerly engaging each other, no doubt already brainstorming possible scenarios and everything that could go wrong. That was exactly what he wanted them to do. He then turned his attention to Vulpetti, who was also watching the two Mikes depart.
“Do you think we’ll have any trouble?” Vulpetti asked as he was turning his head back toward Crosby.
“I have no idea. I hope not, but I cannot bet on hope,” Crosby replied.
“I understand. I’m just glad we have them.” He paused, then continued. “You asked me to pull together some destinations for us to investigate after we get the radio measurements for Dr. Gilster, and I have some ideas. I met last night with the lead Fintidierian scientist, Mr. Bob—he’s an archaeologist who specializes in all things Atlantean—and we drew up a list of potential destinations.”
“Whoa. Wait a minute. ‘Mr. Bob’? That doesn’t sound like a Fintidierian name,” interrupted Crosby.
“It’s not. His real name has so many consonants in it that Earth humans can’t pronounce it without insulting him and his entire family. He finally gave up and asked somebody, one of ours, what name he should pick, and the smart-ass suggested ‘Mr. Bob.’ So, it stuck,” Vulpetti explained.
“Another question. How is it that they have an expert on Atlantean archaeology? I thought Misropos was off-limits and visiting it was tantamount to a death sentence.” Considering that the Fintidierian secretary general had nearly firebombed a Terran ground team out of existence for merely visiting Misropos, he was sincerely curious. Even the secretary general seemed surprised when she learned of the ruins there that pointed toward the existence of the ancient Atlantean visitors to her world. Is she that good of a liar?
“Well, I asked the same thing and all I got was a smile and a cryptic answer that went something like this: ‘There are forbidden subjects and then there are forbidden subjects. For some, me included, forbidden just makes a subject more enticing.’”
“Remind me to ask Rialto to have his best people shadow Mr. Bob while he is on my ship. I’ve told them there are definitely some forbidden areas on the Samaritan. Please continue.” Crosby’s curiosity was now in overdrive. Learning about the Atlanteans, and what capabilities and technologies they might have or have had, was becoming something of a hobby for Crosby. He had pored over the photographic records taken in Misropos, chatted with everyone who was there, and spent more than a few sleepless late-night hours wondering what else the universe had in store for them to uncover during this trip. He felt a little bit like Captain Robert FitzRoy, with the Samaritan being the modern version of the HMS Beagle.
“Since we’re going out to five astronomical units for the radio measurements, we should have our infrared telescopes on wide-angle scan and our radiation sensors set to maximum sensitivity once we’re two AU from the star. Chances are that any technological artifacts in deep space had some sort of nuclear power source, fission or fusion, and once they are activated and used, they take a long time to cool off—in terms of waste heat and radioactive decay products, which can cause the heat. Depending upon the amount of initial radioactive material, it could still be shedding alpha particles for tens of thousands of years. Granted, we would need to be fairly close to detect anything and, given the volume of space around a star, the chance of accidentally stumbling across something is very small. But it isn’t zero and sometimes dumb luck pays off.”
“What about the other planets?” asked Crosby.
“Since we and Emissary will be going out a hundred eighty degrees apart, we’ll be passing closer to Proxima Centauri c, which would be best to visit on the way back in since its only at one-point-five AU from the star. Given the size and dimness of Proxima, c is likely to be in worse shape than Mars—which is about the same distance from the Sun. There are eight dwarf planets about the size of Ceres between c and the system’s Kuiper Belt. I’ve consulted with navigation, and they’ve plotted a trajectory that should allow the Samaritan to easily visit three of them on the way back to c and b. Emissary can hit four, leaving only one that we can’t easily reach,” said Vulpetti.
“Only planets, then? You didn’t need to consult with Mr. Bob for that,” Crosby observed.
Vulpetti smiled. “I saved the most interesting for last. Mr. Bob said that his study of the ancient records and pictographs suggests that the most likely location to find something interesting is on c’s innermost moon, c Prime. The planet has three moons, all ranging in size between Phobos and Deimos—in other words, pretty small. He showed me a pictograph that in the background seemed to depict the Proxima Centauri star system and there was a big starburst right next to c and two other moons. In the foreground were a bunch of Atlanteans walking out from what looked like a tall, skinny pyramid. I think it is some sort of lander and the artist is conveying that those getting out of it are from the star around Proxima c.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting Mr. Bob. Why don’t you and he join me for dinner tonight in my cabin?” Crosby asked.
“I’ll ask him. And have you decided on a departure time?” asked Vulpetti.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“That soon? Wow. That’s great news. I haven’t been this excited since we left Earth,” declared Vulpetti, once again grinning.
* * *
“So, you’ve been to Misropos?” asked Crosby, between chews. Since they were still in microgravity and not the useful and mild one-fifth gravity that they would experience once the Samaritan activated its Samara Drive and began accelerating the ship to its first destination, they were eating ZG rations. ZG standing for “zero gravity.” The food wasn’t bad, it was just unappealingly packaged in plastic squeeze tubes. The evening meal was fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans—mush style. Mealtime in zero gravity was not the sexiest part of deep space travel.
“Twice. The first time was when I was a student at the university and beginning my research. We all knew something of Misropos, the part about it being contaminated and off-limits, but none of us believed it—at least, we wouldn’t admit that we believed it. The foolishness of youth. We had heard rumors of ancient ruins there, of buried treasures, lost secrets of the ancients, and more. From what I have read, you have similar legends.”
“We do, and based on what we found here, we are rethinking a number of them,” said Vulpetti.
“My friends and I knew there had to be something there. Many legends have as their basis some sort of factual event or person. We were convinced that the stories we had heard as children and adults had some basis in fact, and, as archaeologists, we decided that it would be up to us to find them and bring their secrets to the world. So, we rented a boat, bought enough provisions for our own miniature archaeological expedition, and set out for Misropos. Given all we had heard about the forbidden nature of the continent, we expected to see a large military presence blockading the route. In case we were stopped, we had a plausible cover story rehearsed and ready to provide. To avoid being stopped, we had several alternate routes planned to our final destination—which, I might add, was not far from the ruins you investigated,” Mr. Bob said.
“But how? We found the ruins using hyperspectral imaging from space. They were mostly hidden in the forest,” Vulpetti inquired through a partial mouthful of foodstuff. He swallowed, nodded, then squeezed a bit of mashed potato into his mouth. “Go on. Please.”
“In the university library there were ancient books, mostly mythologies, describing the heroic deeds of long-forgotten heroes and their pantheon of gods. Tales of love, conquest, and great heroism—usually resulting in them winning the hand of a princess or some such. Most people considered them pure fantasy. But we found a pattern in the stories. A consistent set of underlying locations and events that seemed common to most, if not all, the great stories. Some of the books had maps describing where the events took place and nearly all of them touched certain regions of forbidden Misropos. We simply stopped reading the stories as literature and began reading them as embellished history texts and it became clear to us that there was something on Misropos that we needed to find and understand. And it all pointed to the region of Atlantean ruins.”
“What did you find?” asked Crosby.
“Not what you found, that’s for sure,” said Mr. Bob, smiling. “But we found enough to convince us we were on to something. We found evidence of prehistoric habitation, the remains of buildings that should not have survived in the harsh conditions of Misropos, and evidence that these buildings were far more sophisticated in construction than even our modern buildings. For example, there was a cave around which were some still-standing square rock blocks, obviously artificially constructed. In the cave, we found evidence of past habitation such as pottery shards, arrow heads, that sort of thing. And then we found some long metal bars embedded within the rock walls to a depth of at least six feet. The bars were not steel, though they were certainly every bit as strong. It took us more than two days to chip away the surrounding rock to get one loose so we could bring it back to the lab with us. We asked a friend, a chemistry student, to help us identify the metal, and he did. It was titanium.”
“I bet that was a surprise,” Crosby added.
“An understatement. The titanium rod was of a purity that our industry was only then beginning to have an idea of how to make. And, based on the artifacts we found surrounding and built upon it, the rod had clearly been in that cave for many thousands of years. It changed our lives forever and was the catalyst for us pursuing as much information as we could concerning Misropos and the ancient civilization that once lived there.”
“I have to ask. It’s our understanding that going to Misropos is punishable by death. And yet, here you are,” Crosby said.
“My friends and I were very careful to not let anyone know where we had been or what we found. Our chemistry friend was extremely curious, but after a fashion he stopped pestering us about it and moved on with his own career. We all eventually graduated and began our own academic careers as archaeologists, officially studying more traditional historical artifacts and cultures. But in our spare time, we gathered and continued our foray into understanding the ruins and lost civilization on Misropos. A couple of years later we took another trip there and found more artifacts, though none as compelling as the titanium rod. On the return trip, we nearly got caught by a military patrol and after we arrived home, we heard on the news about some smugglers caught off the coast of Misropos who were summarily shot for violating the quarantine. At that point, we were a bit older and less bold in our risk-taking. We decided to not make any more trips.”
“How did you continue your work?” asked Crosby.
“You would be surprised what is on display or in the vaults of our world’s museums that point to the ancient civilizations on Misropos. An anomalous tool here; an inexplicable hieroglyph there. Once you look at old things with a new filter, you can sometimes find more than meets the eye,” observed Mr. Bob.
“Mr. Bob and his colleagues have been sharing their findings with our team and I think they will be of immense help in understanding any artifacts we might find out here on the trip. We’re still putting together the pieces, and having locals with firsthand experience in the history and mythology of their world instead of just us outsiders making guesses has been a tremendous help,” Vulpetti said.
“In that case, we need to make a toast,” Crosby announced, reaching into a side drawer built into the table and removing three small squeeze tubes, each containing a red liquid. “What do you think of Earth wine?”
“I’ve not yet tried it,” Mr. Bob said, reaching out to take one of the tubes.
“You are in for a treat. We don’t have much of our supply left, but this is a special occasion,” Crosby remarked as he gave the remaining tube to Vulpetti and opened his own. Crosby watched Mr. Bob’s expression as he took his first suck.
Mr. Bob grimaced but managed a smile. “No offense, but I think I prefer Fintidierian wine,” he uttered as he carefully pushed the tube of wine back onto the sticky mat before them. It was clear he would not be taking a second sip.