Colony worlds, p.30
Colony Worlds, page 30
"Zig-zagging, sounds like the tacking of a sailing ship," he ventured, wiping the back of a finger across his upper lip to remove coffee froth.
"That's it. I knew I'd it seen it before; probably in an old video." She bent over and kissed him on the top of the head, warm breasts in his face, separated from him by a thin layer of fabric. The honey-blond hair, released from its ponytail band, fell around him. He inhaled a heady mix of the perfume she always wore, jasmine, and her own underlying muskiness. Henning found the fragrance intoxicating and trembled at the deliberate intimacy. He knew she was only playing games with him but he reckoned he should enjoy it while it lasted.
"You clever old bugger," she continued, lingering in the contact slightly longer than necessary.
Henning flushed with pleasure. "I wouldn't put too much value in the idea. It makes little sense to tack in space. The energy cost alone would be prohibitive."
"But it fits the scarcity of facts we have."
* * *
"You're really not going to believe this," Willy said on Henning's arrival for their next shift.
"Try me," he replied.
Her perennial bored expression was absent today, her eyes sparkling like topaz, "The U-1 intercept probe has just sent back the first visuals. It's unbelievable."
"So, you keep saying."
"Shut up and watch gramps."
She tapped the embossed grid of her touch screen. The CGH logo on a large overhead screen dissolved into a semi-transparent, blue-grey image on a black background, shot through with pinpricks of light from stars behind. Despite the low resolution at this distance, the image was unmistakable. As they watched, the ancient square-rigged sailing vessel heeled over and changed course. It had been coming on a direct line towards the probe but now the bowsprit jutting above the figurehead swung through their point of view and headed in a new direction. The camera tracked the change but the probe didn’t alter its intercept course.
"It's a galiot," Henning said as if stating a fact.
"What's a galiot?" asked Willy.
Henning looked up into the smiling face. "It's a particular type of old-world sailing ship."
"You mean Earth?"
"Old-world is Earth. Isn't history taught anymore?"
"Sure, it is. In the beginning was Armstrong, and Armstrong said, 'That's one small step...'"
"That’s space history, not Earth history nor the beginning. Besides, Armstrong wasn't Dutch and ships like that," Henning pointed at the ghost-like image on the screen, "sailed a couple of hundred years earlier than Apollo 11."
Willy placed a soft hand on his gnarled one, "How do you know all this stuff, Hen?" she asked, regarding him with fondness, he hoped.
"I read a lot of old Earth myths and mysteries: monsters, lost continents, UFO's, unidentified flying objects like our U-1."
She leaned close, immersing him in her perfume again. Pleased to have her full and intimate attention he continued, "the zigzag course suggested a sailing ship. It's arrival here suggested a particular sailing ship, so last night, I looked up an old legend. This ghostly appearance lends credence to what I've found."
The office door opened. Willy jumped to her feet to intercept Ronald, breaking the mood. Willy stood between them. Henning had the impression she was protecting him, but as usual she was Ronald's target.
Ronald looked smug as he spoke, "This time you've gone too far Hendrikson. Tampering with the intercept probe is a Section Four offence. I can have you dismissed or at the very least demoted. As of now, you're suspended. I'm sending out a second probe myself."
Willy smiled and looked even smugger than Ronald. "Go for it, princess."
Her lack of concern for her future employment seemed to disconcert Ronald. Henning had reserved judgement on the probe's image but could see that for Ronald, a sailing ship in space was beyond reason. For him, it had to be a hoax and Wilhelmina Hendrikson had to be behind it.
Henning watched him glance at the monitor as if to reassure himself the vessel hadn’t disappeared. It was now less transparent. The taut sails had taken on a pale-yellow colour, the hull a greyish brown. "It has to be a hoax, right?" he asked looking to Henning for validation.
"If it is, it's a bloody clever one. The probe doesn't carry any sort of recording device. It beams everything straight from its camera to us." Henning tapped a readout, "This tells me the signal is definitely from the probe." His finger shifted, "and that shows there is nothing other than our control signal going out."
Reflected in the monitor, Henning saw the smirk on Willy's face broaden.
"I know that, I'm not stupid, but she could have added a recording chip before she sent it out." Ronald's tone was pleading as if trying to get Henning to back his assertion that the phantom ship was just an elaborate hoax perpetrated by Willy.
"Be real, Ron. The probe is too small. Anything large enough to store and play this would muck up its power to weight ratio I also checked our records. The last time any of the probes were in operations for repair was over a year ago."
"So, you think it's a hoax too?"
"No, Ron, I think it's an extraordinary event. I'm checking everything to rule out things, like a hoax. Whatever explanation this leaves, no matter how incredible it might seem, like an old wooden ship sailing through space will be close to the truth."
"But... that's a god-damned sailing ship," Ronald shouted.
Henning winced at 'god-damned sailing ship' with its echo of the Flying Dutchman legend he'd been reading up on.
Ronald continued unaware of Henning's reaction, "It can't even fly, let alone lift into space."
Henning pointed out that all the other readings from the probe remained consistent with the image and thus represented a real-time event, however weird it might be. The constantly decreasing magnification, for example, was consistent with the distance between the probe and the ship closing.
"It's still a hoax, an illusion generated inside our systems." Ronald glared at Wilhelmina.
"But Ron," Henning said, his tone gentle, "the terminals at ports Paget and Justice have confirmed U-1 is indeed a galiot, circa 1700 AD, Gregorian Calendar, Earth. And despite its zigzag course it's on a direct line for the Cape."
Henning glanced at the probe's monitor. Increasingly, as the probe drew closer, the ship became less ghostlike and the enveloping halo of bluish light around it steadily decreased. If it didn’t disappear soon, as it always did in the legends, the likelihood of it being the Flying Dutchman also decreased. He was glad now he hadn’t mentioned that bit to anyone. Who would believe anything he said if the ship solidified and landed?
Speculation on its true nature reached a peak. In the most favoured explanation, the ghost ship, as they dubbed U-1, was a technically advanced spacecraft, disguised as a galiot, to hide its alien nature. The theory being that a strange yet familiar phantasm, approaching slowly, would be an excellent, non-threatening way for aliens to make first contact.
The stern of the vessel came into view. The figure standing at the helm appeared strangely dressed for the twenty-third century but as Henning knew from the gold braided, dark blue jacket, appropriate for the legend. Resolution had improved enough to see the man look directly at the probe and shout something. The screeching whistle from an invisible wind scraping across the probe's microphones wiped away his words. Until now, no one had ever thought a space probe would need to deal with a wind noise.
As if he understood the reasons for the lack of response, the captain raised an arm and waved. Henning activated an instant replay. "See that. Whoever it is, is aware of our probe, has figured out it's watching him and has responded."
"Now what do you say, princess?" Willy said with provocative emphasis on her nickname for him.
Henning fancied he could feel the heat from Ronald's glare. He stepped up beside Willy.
"It's impossible. The probe is too far away for anyone aboard to see it with the naked eye; this can't be real," Ronald yelled through a thin-lipped mouth. He reminded Henning of a ventriloquist. To be fair, he thought Ronald had a point. But then again, what was one more impossibility in this impossible set of circumstances?
"When I find out how you're doing this, Hendrikson, you're history," Ronald ground out.
"In your dreams."
Teeth clenched, Ronald glared at her for a moment longer, then strode back to his office. Henning watched his futile attempt to slam the door against its hydraulics.
After he had gone, Willy whispered to Henning, "He's in danger of having me cancel his nickname. That’s no way for a princess to act."
* * *
The following shift, Henning arrived with a stack of quantum discs under one arm to show Willy, and walked into chaos. The operations centre was buzzing. CGH had diverted or suspended all other traffic until they could sort out the U-1 conundrum. The erratic nature of its approach did not fit Traffic Control's protocols. Henning glanced around for Willy, saw Ronald huddled on the phone in the office and put the discs in his drawer.
Outgoing shift leader Peter Wilson waved him over. Peter had up-to-the-minute intel from the probe. Henning could feel excitement radiating from him and his crew, but when he saw the close-up picture of the captain, he felt sick.
Like the outgoing shift, he waited in tense anticipation for Willy to arrive. Conversation died and every head swung to watch her the moment she entered. After an enquiring glance at Henning, who looked away, she shrugged her shoulders, as if their attention were her due. Henning, seeing it had unsettled her, admired her bravado in ignoring their stares as she strolled to her console and slid effortlessly into her chair. Directing the question to Henning, she asked, "What's U-1's status?"
Henning passed the question to Peter. "It's your discovery, Smithy."
Peter brushed unruly red hair from his eyes, his large forehead wrinkled in perplexity as he focused on Willy. "You ain't gonna believe this."
"Hey, that's my line."
Peter ignored her. "We have a close-up of the man we have been calling the captain," he said and reaching past, tapped her console.
There was a collective intake of breath as the picture appeared on the overhead. There was no mistaking the features: longish honey-blond hair, startling blue eyes in an oval face. The captain could easily be Willy's twin brother.
"Handsome devil," she said into the hush, her face colouring.
Henning noticed her hands trembled.
Ronald rushed out of the office and leaned over her shoulder his expression almost gleeful. "Convince me you still have nothing to do with this farce. Ha, I've got you. And I've reported you," he said with a satisfied smile, then stomped back into the office before Willy or anybody else could reply.
He left behind a stunned silence. When his implication registered a second or two later, the outgoing shift split into two camps, hoax and real.
One of Peter's crew laughed and questioned the date, "It's not April the first, is it?"
Peter sided with Willy, pointing out the impossibilities of faking it.
Willy whispered to Henning, "I want a transfer to his team."
"I'm with you," he whispered back.
With an abrupt click, the unnoticed hiss of the intercom stopped.
Peter tried not to grin.
The handover went quickly after that and the outgoing shift departed but without their leader. Peter hung around. The probe had almost arrived at the intercept point. In a few minutes, they would be close enough to the ghost ship to have sounds with the pictures.
Peter pulled up a chair and they began discussing what little they knew. Except for an occasional wave from the helmsman, there had been no other communication. The imagined force field was fading at the same rate as the colour strengthened leading some to believe the field somehow interfered with visible light. Their best estimate was the field would vanish shortly after planetfall.
"So, what do you think?" asked Peter
"Henning says the ship is a galiot," said Willy. "He's been doing some research."
"And?"
"If this is what I think it is, we really don't want to be seeing it."
"Why not?" persisted Peter,
Henning could feel Willy watching him closely. Her unblinking gaze hanging on his words made him nervous, unwilling to say any more just yet. He didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of her, despite knowing his hope of a future with her was unrealistic. All that bound them was their united front against Ronald.
Still, if he turned out to be right, he wanted the kudos of being the first to see the connection. "Let me ask you a question. What do you know about the legend of the Flying Dutchman?"
Peter scratched his grey side-whiskers with blunt fingers, glancing from one to the other as if trying to see cracks in their earnestness.
"Isn't he the guy condemned to sail forever for shooting an albatross?"
"Not quite. A common confusing with The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Coleridge's long poem; similar in theme and perhaps influenced by the legend."
"Oh."
"There are multiple versions. What they have in common is the appearance of the ship spells doom for seafarers who encounter it. And before you ask, I have no idea if that translates to spacefarers. That it's here at all, worries me a bit. The Legend applies to the Cape of..."
"Here?" interjected Willy astounded.
"No, the original Cape of Good Hope. It's an actual headland near the tip of old South Africa."
"So that's how this base got its name," said Peter. "Go on."
"The original Captain who might not have been real, reached the cape during a monumental storm. The crew feared for their lives and urged him to turn back. He refused, screaming into the storm that he would round the Cape, if it took him till judgement day. He tried every trick of navigation and seamanship he knew to make port but his ship foundered with the loss of all aboard. The ghost ship began appearing during similar storms."
"What a load of bull."
The derision in Ronald's voice carried even through the distortion of the intercom. They hadn't heard him switch it back on. Peter rolled his eyes.
"I don't care how you waste your own time Laarson, but don't bring your half-brained theories into work."
"If you can't get your mind around it, stop eavesdropping, princess," Willy mocked.
Peter, facing away from the office grinned.
Henning felt he obliged not to let the comment go unchallenged. "Even if it turns out to be an alien ship trying to make contact and using the Flying Dutchman as disguise, it's still a good idea to be aware of the legend's details. The fit is extraordinary."
"Makes sense to me," added Peter and when there was no further input from Ronald, he asked, "How would we go about verifying your theory?"
"If it’s related to the legend, the captain’s name will be Hendrik van der Decken." Henning omitted to mention the captain's first name might not be Hendrik but Willem. It wouldn't serve any useful purpose to mention his alternate name coincided with Wilhelmina's. That could make matters worse for her. In the end, he decided he should wait and see what happened when the probe made contact.
"Ah, I wondered why it's called the flying Dutchman. It's because the captain's Dutch like us?" Willy said.
Henning returned her smile.
"And explains your interest." said Peter, treating Henning to a speculative gaze. "Your ancestors came with NSA's founders did they not?"
Henning nodded.
* * *
The difficulty of matching course and speed with the increasingly solid-looking ghost ship only became apparent when the probe reached it. The galiot bucked and weaved over an invisible storm-tossed ocean and invisible winds stretched its remaining canvas to tearing point. Strips of canvas flapped from the top yard. With each course change, unseen hands eerily pulled on ropes to adjust the yards. It was uncannily beautiful to watch.
Attempting to dock the tiny probe manually was Henning's worst nightmare. He was fast running out of fuel for the small attitude jets. Original design calculations had used entirely different assumptions about how objects behaved in space. With deft, two-finger movements, wishing he had a joystick, Henning edged the probe closer. His sweating fingers smeared the screen.
The captain, standing at helm straining against the violence of the storm, was quick to catch on. He glanced up at his sails, adjusted the wheel and threw a hitch over the spoke, then a second hitch before securing the rope to an iron grate on the deck. That done, he strode down the deck to the rigging closest to the probe, leapt onto the gunwale and with rapid movements, crabbed up the ratlines towards the probe.
Henning foreseeing the captain’s intent, helped as best he could, nudging the probe closer towards a point where they might meet. As he did so he reduced the camera's magnification, keeping the captain's head and shoulders on screen.
The captain stopped and with one arm hooked into the upper lines, reached out and pulled the probe out of space.
An alarm pinged on Henning's console as the video motion blurred. "I've lost navigation control."
A deep voice intruded over the top of the alarm. "Have no fear my friend, I will not damage your device, I merely wish to converse with you."
Henning switched the alarm off. The probe’s camera had steadied and was pointing straight down at the deck, a dizzying perspective past bare feet. The bare feet surprised Henning; seamen yes, but the captain?
The view bounced as the captain rapidly descended. Several times it gave blurred views of the deck or the rigging until the camera refocused. When the view stabilised, it pointed at the wheel.
The captain soon reappeared in the picture. He introduced himself in the same deep voice as Captain Hendrik Willem van der Decken, of Amsterdam, bound for Batavia.
"See," chimed in Ronald, "the similarity of his name can't be co-incidental. Hendrikson is behind this whole charade. She's conned the lot of you."
He stopped when Peter frowned at him.
