Voyage to Alpha Centauri: A Novel (38 page)

“Let’s go for a walk”, I said. We headed toward the nearest staircase, went down to Concourse C, and along it until we found an art alcove. It was one I hadn’t visited before. Or maybe the exhibit had been changed. I don’t pay much attention to that sort of thing. A quick glance at the “art” within convinced me that this was an excellent place to talk, since it was a hologram sound-and-light display by someone unavoidably famous named “Artanarchist” who had lived in the early twenty-first century. It was noisy and distracting, but good cover.

“Do you remember me?” my visitor began.

“Sorry, I don’t.”

“Remember the day you were handing these out at the maintenance elevators? I told you that I recognized the picture as Dave Ayne’s. At the time, I believed he’d been transferred to Propulsion.”

“Oh, yes, I remember you now.”

“At first, I thought it was a case of bureaucratic mix-up.”

“Bureaucratic mix-up? But they said your friend didn’t exist—never had existed.”

“I know, but I felt it must’ve been a case of misspelled names—you know, some kind of dumb clerical thing. I figured DSI’d solve the problem. I didn’t waste any more time on it. Figured I’d bump into Dave at the fish’n’chips place one of these days, so I just put it out of my mind.”

“After all, the accuser was out of
his
mind, right?”

“Uh, right. I’m not so sure now. I’m kind of certain you aren’t crazy, doctor, and I have this feeling that something not good has happened.”

“Any proof?”

“No, but it’s how long since Dave was transferred? It’s gotta be at least two years now. I sorta forgot about him, and I feel bad about that. The thing is, lately it hit me that we haven’t crossed paths once in all that time—not once—and we used to see each other fairly often outside of working hours, usually at the Irish pub or the Brit’s fish’n’chips place. And then there’s the computer files. My
max
and the main computer say he wasn’t with us—ever.”

“Doesn’t that strike you as rather odd?”

“Yeah, it’s weird. So I’ve been asking myself where the hell he got to. I did some checking on the quiet with the maintenance people who work in Propulsion, the cleaning people, I mean. They all say the same thing. He never showed up. They never heard of Dave, and they say no one was transferred into their department as far as anyone knows. And P and M are sealed off from each other for safety reasons. Of course, sometimes duty rosters and personnel schedules can get messed up, and a name could slip through the cracks, so maybe he got transferred to another place on the ship. The
Kosmos
is pretty big.”

“But this doesn’t explain why you haven’t bumped into him. Do you know where he lived?”

“His room number you mean? No, we weren’t close friends, just working buddies. But then most of us are like that down in M.”

“Do you know if anyone else was close to him, a girlfriend maybe?”

He shook his head. “I’m not saying he didn’t have a girl, but I didn’t see it. He was the kind of guy who kept to himself mostly, liked to read his book on lunch break, went straight home at the end of shift. Nice guy, but never said much. You know, the sort who doesn’t get invited to parties—not that we can have much of a party in our rooms. A four-people party ain’t no party.”

“How did you find my private room number?”

“I followed you home one day. Saw you in the cafeteria and trailed you back here.”

“Why didn’t you just stop me in the hallway and talk to me?”

“I . . . I don’t know. Maybe I had a feeling it wouldn’t be a smart move.”

“Well, you’re right about that.”

He glanced nervously around the alcove.

“I think places like this are safe”, I said. “What’s your name?”

He told me (I won’t write it here).

“So, what do we do?” he asked.

“I ran out of ideas a long time ago.”

“Maybe he had an accident, and the authorities aren’t broadcasting it because they don’t want to upset people.”

“I can assure you that the authorities definitely do not want to upset people.”

“But I don’t get why they’d erase his records. Are they hiding something?”

“Oh, yes, they’re hiding something. And I think it’ll stay hidden. DSI knows that most people avoid getting upset unless they feel personally endangered. All the tracks have been covered, and we have no way of finding out what really happened. My advice to you is, stay calm and look for opportunities to discuss this with people you trust. But don’t tell anyone you’ve had a chat with me—not anyone.”

He peeked out the alcove entrance and scanned the corridor. “Okay. I gotta go.”

Later, I went to the library on Concourse A and browsed a few sites that listed
Kosmos
personnel. I checked some of the departments, a slow roll through hundreds of faces and names without pausing at any, and then went to the list of maintenance people. Here too I casually scrolled down the page, and when I spotted my visitor I didn’t change my pace. My eyes took in the fact that his face matched the name and employment position he had told me. I kept going to the end, then switched to Medical and scrolled down it. This way, no monitors would register that I had paused over the man I had just spoken with. If he was legitimate, then no one would take a second look at him. If he was a DSI scout, then I was sunk anyway.

Day 91
:

We have been here three months now. I’m weary of idleness. At times, I feel I will go insane from frustrated yearnings to experience what every other person on this barge is now experiencing, or soon will be. I suppose there is some compensation in my respiratory system. The ship’s oxygen generators have been recalibrated to increase the onboard O
₂
and humidity to match the planet’s. This, I presume, helps relieve the adjustment discomfort of people who are back and forth between Base-main and the
Kosmos
. It’s also a very welcome change for those who don’t leave the ship often—or at all. I seem to have more energy these days, and generally, when I’m not feeling frustrated, my mood is showing some improvement. The shuttles are constantly descending and ascending, day and night. The base has been enlarged to twice its earlier size, double the living space. There are now forty “pods” with ten private rooms in each. At any given time, about four hundred people can be in residence there. The on-ground labs are growing in number as well. According to the media presentations, the
Kosmos
holds are continually being stocked with Nova’s animal and plant life, as well as tons of mineral samples. We are told that geologists have found rich deposits of precious metals in the mountains and staggering oil reserves beneath the surface. New and exotic chemical compounds have also been discovered, and samples obtained for bringing back to Earth. Even so, a year will not be enough time to fill the holds to capacity.

At our usual study session and bistro drink this evening, I asked Dariush if he knows when he will be able to land on Nova. He sighed and told me that the archaeologists and language people now have bottom position in the scientific hierarchy, since there still is no indication of native sapient beings on the planet. However, all scientists (in fact everyone on board except me) will be able to land at some point. His week at Base-main is scheduled for next month, unless it is bumped by new discoveries that other science teams may make. When he does finally touch ground, it will be as a tourist.

He seemed patient enough about the matter, but I could tell he was low in spirits.

Day 92
:

Placebo at the clinic as usual today. Pia handed me a note, and said aloud, “Here’s a list of some good exercises for your leg muscles, Dr. Hoyos. Please consider doing them.”

“All right”, I murmured.

Back in my room, I read the sheet of paper without interest, then noticed that penciled on the margin was the following:

Wedding soon. Will you come
?

Will I come? Whaaaat! I wouldn’t miss it for the world—for two worlds actually.

Day 93
:

I went swimming last night, hoping to see Paul. He was there with another man about his age, both of them trying to outdo each other in laps. I dabbled my toes at the edge while they thrashed up the water. Later, there was a scant minute to speak together clandestinely.

“You come our wedding?” he whispered.

“I’ll be there. Just give me some warning, and I’ll dress up nice. Oh, and I’ll need an address and street map.”

He laughed. “No need map. Somebody take you, Neil.” Then, louder, “Keep taking pill, Dr. Hoyos. You will feel better. And swim more. I not see you swim too much these days.”

“Yup, too tired these days. Me go sleep now.”

He winked and dolphined away into deep water.

Day 105
:

Today it was announced that throughout the coming week all four shuttles will be used to transport mini-subs to the shores of the seas and major oceans surrounding Continent 1, as well as materials for the building of the mission bases for marine exploration. There’s a flurry of activity everywhere on board and a lot of traffic in space and across the skies of the planet.

Day 108
:

Pia beamed at me while she was handing me my pill cup.

Scribbled on a scrap of paper she surreptitiously passed to me:
Press your best suit. Tomorrow. Be ready after lunch
.

I grinned at her, but when I tried to squeeze her hand, she backed off and frowned, morphing into her professional mode.

Back in my room, I flushed the note.

Day 109
:

Early this morning, I had breakfast in the cafeteria and returned posthaste to my room. I showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, then dressed in my finest—black suit, white shirt, and my uttermost special bolo tie (hot purple cord, silver tips, and a bluestone toggle clasp). I pulled on my cowboy boots and sat down on the edge of the bed like a boy waiting to be taken to his first rodeo.

At 1:30
P.M.
, there came a knock at my door. I said, “Open”, and there stood a young black man I vaguely recognized but could not place. He was wearing a flight staff uniform with wings above the three stars.

“Dr. Hoyos, can you come with me?” he said in a British accent, warmed by a hint of Africa. Of middling height, he had a dazzling smile and looked cocky enough to take on the world.

“Where do you want to take me?”

“I think you can guess.”

Then I recognized him as one of the fellows who swims with Paul now and then.

Once we were both out in the hallway, he offered his hand for a shake. “I am Chukwueloka Ibani. Now we must hurry.”

“Right, let’s go! We wouldn’t want to be late for this one.”

I had to scuttle quickly along the concourse in order to keep up.

“You may call me Eloka, if you wish”, he said over his shoulder. “Paul calls me Loka, and so do many others.”

“You’re African”, I said disingenuously, since race and citizenship are rather fluid categories these days.

He shot me a benevolent grin. “Nigerian. Biafran. Igbo. Raised in London. Legally a Brit. Citizen of the World-State. A mouthful, aren’t I?”

“You’re a whole meal, Loka.”

“I’m sorry about your leg,” he apologized as we plunged down a staircase at top speed, “but we must economize on elevator trips today. We’re taking the quiet route.”

Arriving on level D (with my leg beginning to ache in earnest), I silently hoped that we were close to wherever the wedding would take place. No such luck. We walked for fifteen minutes to another staircase, and there we went up! On deck C, we turned left and walked along to the next stairwell, and again went down! Finally, finally, we reached what I presumed was the rear of the ship.

“Not much farther”, he assured me.

Arriving at a nondescript single elevator in a side street, he punched a code into a console beside the door, and it whisked open. We stepped inside, the door closed, and we dropped to the bottom level.

On PHM, we exited into a cavernous hall that looked like the largest railroad station I’d ever seen, about eighty feet high and hundreds of feet long—so long in fact that the chamber continued on past the point where the ship’s curve blocked my view. Numerous chains and motorized pulleys dangled down from above, along with a few AECs looking like model airplanes hung from a bedroom ceiling.

Over the years, I had pieced together a mental layout of this level. Maintenance was in the ship’s forward section; the Holds for food and samples storage were in the midsection (by far the largest); and Propulsion was in the rear section. These were sealed off from each other, and also sealed off from this side-concourse for shuttles, which ran along the portside of the ship, beginning closer to the front and ending farther toward the back end. I supposed there would be access from here into the samples-and-specimens hold, but I couldn’t see it.

Dozens of people hastened this way and that, displaying no interest in us, focusing on their tasks. There were numerous parked exploration vehicles waiting to be on-loaded, and others being lowered from the ceiling on chains. Along the outer wall were pressure-lock bays so large that a shuttle could have sidled inside through any one of them with plenty of room to spare. There was only one in port at the moment, with its loading ramp down and a crew of men trolleying mini-subs into it. I followed my guide into the shuttle, and he led me through its hold, which was crammed with materials, including half-a-dozen subs.

One of the crew informed Loka that the consignment was now completely loaded, and they saluted him farewell. “You’re a pilot”, I said, when we were alone.

“A shuttle pilot”, he answered. “But I double duty on the AECs from time to time. I hope you’re not prone to air sickness.”

“What!”

“Ready for a ride?”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m never serious, but we’re definitely going for a ride.”

“A wedding in outer space?”

He shook his head with a grin. “A wedding on a planet.”

Speechless, I let him conduct me to the portal of a sub. Ducking inside, I saw that it was a tubular, low-ceiling chamber, with a cockpit for pilot and copilot, and immediately behind it, two seats for guest scientists and an empty storage chamber for carrying collected specimens, the latter space about ten meters long and walled with inbuilt aquariums. The passenger compartment was equipped with a front windscreen and side windows like an ordinary jet craft. Loka pointed to a guest seat and asked me to strap myself in. Then he handed me an oxygen mask.