Upon a midnight clear, p.1
Upon A Midnight Clear, page 1
Upon A Midnight Clear
Ian Thomas Healy
Copyright 2011 Ian Thomas Healy
Smashwords Edition
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Cover design by Ian Thomas Healy
Rob Stabler squeezed back into the cramped airlock, exhausted and running low on O2. Fifteen hours in the 'suit and nothing but aching joints and negative sample tubes to show for it.
Asteroid mining was simply impractical. Unlike in the old Twentieth- and Twenty-First Century movies, the Asteroid Belt wasn't a raging torrent of whirling, spinning boulders. A miner could burn his drive for days before he'd come across a piece of rock of any significant size, and what he found was likely to be carbonaceous or stony and therefore useless for all modern purposes. Why should he bother to range out so far from the Inner System in search of the rare mother lode of metal when corporations were strip-mining on the Moon? Or on Io and Titan, quenching the Outer System's thirst for metals and organics? It was expensive and wasteful of resources to try to exploit what few resources were available in the otherwise-empty orbital slot between Jupiter and Mars.
All that changed with the discovery of 2208 Phobos Base.
It was early morning on September 5th when a piece of rock, hurtling around the Sun for millions of years, smashed its way through the bulkhead of Storage Locker 28, voiding the room to vacuum and freeze-curing the quartermaster's illegal supply of Tennessee Gold tobacco. When the repair crew made it into the locker they found 2208 sitting harmlessly amid the shriveled leaves, a quiet, unassuming bit of prehistoric chondrite; but it contained the greatest secret ever discovered by mankind.
Nestled in the deepest nook of the meteorite, the Base's scientists found a dormant bacterial colony of a type completely alien to Earthly biology.
At first everyone believed it was a mistake, or a hoax, or contamination by some bug in the storage locker. The scientists were careful to record all their data, to preserve samples, and to make everything available to anyone who wanted to examine it. Eventually, even the biggest skeptics were forced to conclude that 2208 Phobos Base contained the first ever bona fide example of extraterrestrial life.
All this created a new gold rush as scientists, prospectors, and explorers launched themselves gleefully into space in whatever cobbled-together ships they could buy, beg, borrow, or steal, heading for the Asteroid Belt. Only instead of gold, they sought something far more elusive: life.
That ongoing search is why Stabler had spent the past fifteen hours crawling across a rock slightly larger than his prospecting ship. The standard procedure was to use radar to find a rock in the vastness of space, check its coordinates against the archival data on Phobos, and if it hadn't been logged yet to lay claim to it. After that came the grunt work: taking surface and core samples, spectroscopic analysis, looking for the exclusive chemical compounds which pointed toward life.
A wealthier prospector than Stabler might have used robots for similar work, but he preferred to do it himself; it was the only way he knew for sure things were being done right. Robots were notoriously clunky and stupid machines, incautious and unthinking despite the arguments of their Turing processors to the contrary.
Nobody had yet found any more signs of life in the Belt, and after several years many folks were turning their attention back toward the Colonies as better places to make a fortune. A few diehard souls still trolled the Belt, though, logging rocks, marking those of useful metallic content for later collection by the automatic refineries, and slogging onward to the next rock in the hope of finding something valuable. In his time, Stabler had managed to keep himself comfortably in O2 and real food through a few M-type asteroids with significant amounts of nickel and one nearly awash in mercury. But eventually even those funds would run out and he would be forced to sell his ship, his home, and go groundside somewhere.
"Any luck today?" asked Mona, the ship's onboard Turing. She knew his answer already, and he knew she knew, but they both maintained the civilities of a longtime working relationship. Out here in the Belt, it wasn't unheard of for the prospectors to fall in love with their Turings, often the only companionship they'd have for months at a time. Stabler even knew of one guy who'd married one, although for the life of him he couldn't imagine a padre willing to consecrate such a ceremony. Stabler didn't feel affection for Mona – at least, not in any romantic way. She was more like his assistant manager, running the ship when he was away and keeping things going smoothly.
"Not a damned thing," he replied. "This rock is as dead as the others. Maybe as dead as the entire Belt."
"Shall I make preparations to depart?"
"Yeah, get us out of here," grunted Stabler as he shrugged out of the suit. It stank of him and he of it. Even repeated exposure to vacuum hadn't completely removed the smell permeating the airtight fabric. He might finally have to replace it the next time he put into port. He could maybe spend three more weeks out in the Big Empty before he'd have to turn back and restock the ship's larders and tanks.
"Course?" asked Mona.
"Are there any likely candidates nearby?"
"Negative. I've got nothing meeting or exceeding minimum parameters within a hundred hours."
"Pope's Blood," swore Stabler. "I don't know. You pick a course."
"Confirmed. Acceleration in six minutes unless you want to delay."
"No, no reason to stick around here any longer." As sore as he was from the exertion in his suit, Stabler would welcome the return of gravity, even if it was only from acceleration. He always slept better under a burn.
"Would you like some music? It's Christmas back on Earth."
"Christmas?" repeated Stabler doubtfully. He wasn't much for holidays. They were wasted on someone like him with no family or friends outside of the cubic meter of Mona's processor in its armored case just aft of the airlock; but he did like music, and Mona had some five hundred years' worth of it to draw upon. "Sure, play some Christmas carols or something. Merry Christmas, Mona. I didn't get you a gift, I'm afraid."
"Merry Christmas, Robert. I didn't get you anything either." A version of Silent Night began to play, sung by some gravel-voiced woman who'd been dead for two hundred years.
"Some friends we are, huh?"
"Stand by for acceleration," warned Mona.
Light blasted forth from his viewscreen, filling the cramped prospector vessel. It wasn't a sudden flash like the polar lightning on Jupiter or an exploding reactor, but a gradual brightening lasting several seconds until Stabler had to throw his arm across his eyes. A moment later the light disappeared.
"What the hell was that?" he cried, blinking away the spots floating in his vision.
"Anomalous energy emission across the EM spectrum," reported Mona.
"Get our ass turned to face it!" A wide-ranging energy surge would include dangerous radiation, and the best shielding would be from the mass of the ship's drive.
"Already turning, Rob. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. What caused it?"
"I don't know. It came from a region of space where there should be nothing."
"Was it a supernova?" wondered Stabler. The wavefront from an exploding star would carry a lot of light and radiation with it.
"Negative."
His radio pinged. He dove for it.
"Stabler, are you still alive?" Bally Lupo's voice was heavily laden with static from the excessive energy in the area but still discernible. Lupo was a more scientifically-minded prospector and the nearest living soul to Stabler, meaning three days at maximum burn.
"Barely, Lupo," replied Stabler. "Did you see that? What was it?"
"Some kind of bright flash. I thought your drive had gone critical."
"No, I'm still here. Anybody else working in that area?"
"I don't have anybody on my logs. Could be an unregistered ship."
A new voice joined the conversation. It was Mel Hostettler, the fellow who'd married his Turing. "Ever'body all right?" asked the large Mars native.
"We're all fine here," reported Stabler. An idea occurred to him. "Hey, can we triangulate the point of origin? We've got three lines of data now. All we need is one more to verify. Frenchie, are you listening in?"
Frenchie was Gaspar Rousseau, an Earther from Canada who'd earned his nickname from his strong accent. "Oui," was his static-filled reply. "I 'ave recovered ze data and am transmitting it to you now."
"Data's coming in from all three ships now," reported Mona. "I've got a fix on the point of origin. It's not far from here. Two hours at maximum burn."
"Two hours?" repeated Stabler incredulously. "How could anybody be that close to us and stay running silent?" There were no laws governing contact between ships in deep space, but the Belters all maintained regular contact with one another anyway, keeping tabs on each other in case somebody needed help. Prospecting was still a dangerous job and they were a fairly close-knit community.
"You t'ink it's a ship in trouble?" asked Mel.
"Don't know what else it could be if it's that close," replied Stabler. "There's nothing natural tha
"Confirmed."
"You sure?" asked Lupo, sounding disappointed. An emergency rescue declaration required all ships within reasonable range to respond. More ships meant more hands if needed and a wider range of possible tools and spare parts, but it also meant all crews had to drop whatever they were doing to respond. That translated to extra fuel expenditures, lost prospecting time, and increased supply usage. The unofficial Belt code rewarded those responders with salvage rights.
"I'm sure. Emergency rescue. Get on out here."
"Bally Lupo, responding. ETA thirty-one hours."
"Mel Hostettler, responding. Thirt'-five hours."
"Gaspar Rousseau. Forty hours."
"Thanks, fellows. See you when you get here. I've got some Callistan moonshine for anyone who'd like a taste."
"White fire-water, eh?" laughed Bally. "Then I suppose I should share my Tennessee Gold."
Mel laughed loud across the miles of empty space. "Tobacco? Out 'ere? Your ship must absolutely reek of it. I bet you've polluted your scrubbers. I've not got any contraband, but I've got soap and detergent for anyone who needs it."
"Oui, I need some of zat. I do not 'ave much but muscle liniment to share."
"And I've got a deck of cards," added Stabler. "Sounds like a real party. See you fellows in three days. I'll let you know what I find."
Mona plotted an intercept course for the origin of the flash. Stabler gave himself a disinfectant sponge bath, wiping away the worst of his odor and accumulated sweat, then dressed in his coveralls and ran a full diagnostic on the ship's systems and inventoried the supplies. Prospector ships weren't large by any stretch of interpretation. The total living space amounted to less than a hundred cubic meters, including bunk, office, flight controls, refresher station, and galley. Half as much volume was devoted toward consumable and recyclable supplies. The rest of the ship's mass was taken up by the reactor, ion drive, and sensor package. Some prospectors named their ships but Stabler had never seen the need. The ship was his home and his job and his transportation; it was his life. If he had named it anything, it would have been after himself, but he wasn't quite as self-centered as that.
Mona began decelerating an hour later, shunting the ion jet through the ship's forward nozzles instead of the aft. She announced her radar had definitely pinged off an object at their destination, although of what she couldn't be certain. Stabler activated the approach exterior lighting. Great clusters of LEDs which would illuminate anything in their path powered up along with the grapple. Soon, Mona acquired a visual image of the target object, ran it through the best imaging filters she had onboard, and displayed it for Stabler.
If the object was a ship, it hadn't come from anywhere in the System. It resembled the seashells Stabler had seen on Earth with smooth whorls patterned on a glistening surface with spikes protruding at regular intervals. It shone under the lighting, all blues, greens, and golds. One end was cracked and blackened as if something had exploded outward. Pinkish lights twinkled at the tips of the spikes, brightening as his ship came in on final approach.
The object tumbled slowly through space, particles breaking away from the damaged section in a slow shower of sparkling dust. Mona reported that it appeared to be losing internal pressure. The object was smaller than the prospector ship – maybe 80 cubic meters total displacement.
Stabler shut his mouth, which was hanging open in shock, and activated his radio. "Fellows," he said in a shaking voice. "I've, uh, I've got something here."
"What is it, Stabler?" asked Bally. "A ship?"
"I don't know," said Stabler, truthfully enough. "It might be. I'm transmitting pictures to you all. Stand by."
The others overloaded the comm channel with shocked oaths as they received the images Stabler had sent them.
"It's… it can't be a ship," protested Mel. "Look at it! It looks organic."
"An alien? C'est impossible!" argued Frenchie.
"No, I think it's a ship," said Bally. "And it's damaged. Stabler, you know what this means?"
Stabler gulped and said the two words nobody ever expected to repeat seriously. "First contact. Pope's Blood, I'm not qualified for this. I'm a damned prospector!"
"Look, whatever it is, it's damaged and outgassing. If there are occupants, they're probably in trouble and you're bound to help them. If it's some kind of probe, then it's salvageable. Whatever you choose, either you lay claim or you relinquish it to me, since I'm next on approach. I'll take the damned thing on myself." Bally's ship was larger than his, and he'd have no problem taking the claim.
"I don't have room here for something that big," argued Stabler. "This ain't a cargo hauler."
"Claim it now or relinquish it to me," pressed Bally.
"Pope's Blood," Stabler swore again. "All right, I'll figure something out. My claim stands."
Mona matched velocity with the object. Stabler couldn't quite bring himself to call it a ship. He watched it tumble slowly in the viewscreen. Except for the small porthole in the airlock, his ship had no windows. They were a liability in the harsh environment of deep space, prone to accidental breakage by pebble-sized asteroids whirling through space or allowing harmful radiation and particles into the womb of the ship. If his viewscreen wasn't always on, Stabler wouldn't even have noticed the flare from the mysterious object.
"Can we get the grapple on that, do you think?" Stabler asked.
"Unknown," replied Mona. "I have no way to determine the mass of the object. We run the risk of breaking the grapple and possibly damaging our ship."
"I'll take that under advisement. Do your best to match attitude and spin and we'll try to grab onto it."
"Confirmed."
Mona deftly worked the ship's maneuvering jets until the object's apparent spin dropped to a lazy tumble against the star field.
"That the best you can do?"
"I'm afraid so. Do you still wish to attempt the grapple?"
"Yes," said Stabler, slipping his arm into the control sleeve and pulling the virtual screen helmet over his head. Stereoscopic cameras mounted on either side of the grapple projected images to the helmet, giving Stabler an apparent three-dimensional view of the grapple and the object beyond it.
As it spun slowly before his eyes, he could see the shiny surface wasn't quite as smooth as he'd originally thought. It was marred by long scratches and scars, in turn surrounded by raised edges of the surface material. He drew in a sharp breath of surprise as he spotted a scar that was almost completely sealed over.
It healed itself, or had been repaired. Either way, it made a very strong case for extraterrestrial life.
He reached with the grapple and tried to snag a protrusion as it swung around but the mechanical jaws couldn't close quickly enough. The protrusion banged off the grapple, shaking the sleeve harder than Stabler would have liked. The impact did alter the object's rotation slightly, which implied it wasn't very massive, and gave him hope that he could latch onto it after all. He went after it again with renewed vigor, trying to time the closing of the grapple's jaws in time to clamp onto one of the spikes. After what felt like an eternity, the jaws fastened onto one of the protrusions. For a moment, Stabler was afraid the spike would simply snap off but instead the object ceased its spin and hung motionless relative to the prospector's ship.
Stabler pulled off the helmet and shook his head to free the sweat beaded on his skin, tiny jewels spinning off into the air unfettered by gravity. "Is it stopped?" he asked Mona.
She confirmed it was.
He climbed back into his suit. "I'm going out to look at the damage and see if there are any survivors. I'm staying on a tether. If there's a problem, I want you to reel me back in."
"Confirmed."
He sealed his helmet, ran his systems check, and connected the tether to his air tank. The cramped airlock seemed suddenly homey and comfortable when faced with the possibility of confronting alien life. Or more likely alien death, reasoned Stabler as the lock cycled. The outer door slid open, silent except for the slight sound transmitted through his suit.
