NO-9 Spaceport

Palorian whisky. That was what glittered as it fell from a chrome red decanter into a crystal glass. Straight on the rocks but with a cocktail of light sliced across its flowing surface, cast from the cobalt neon of NO-9 spaceport and Laran’s F-type star blazing in the darkness. The whisky swirled around the spherical cut ice, rising to the rim of the glass, before the decanter was set to one side and Paul Kalman let out a sigh.

“Cheers… to twelve… wonderful years.” Paul smiled falsely at his own dishevelled reflection in the mirror behind the bar, and drank as one with lengthy experience in the task would do.

He set the crystal glass back, half full – half empty in his mind – and the low drone of a cleaning bot sailed by around his feet, hoovering up what he had spilt from his mouth. Spotless. The whole spaceport, spotless. To keep the risk of disease to a minimal. A whole host of bots and an army of sensors and two terabytes of processing power, all to eradicate anything that may compromise the guest’s health. All this in place, only to miss one of the most powerful diseases known to living kind, which spread throughout the port and clung to Paul Kalman like Hofman-nanomeds to cancer cells. Though in this case they were not there to cure, only to cripple. A disease that had Paul knock back the rest of his whisky and use another cubic inch of recycled air to produce a tired sigh. The spaceport was sick… sick with loneliness, and had been for twelve years.

“Good evening.”

Paul almost fell off his stool. His hand flew to the inner pocket of his frayed jacket, only to find that he had left his AP-virus in his cabin. He proceeded then to stare at what seemed to be the first impossible event in his time aboard NO-9, which wasn’t one concocted from his excessive drinking.

“I’m sorry if I have startled you, Paul.”

“I… you…” Paul’s first thought was to reach out and reassure himself that he had not gone mad. But in doing so, with this casual tone directed toward him, that action might just prove the contrary. Had he been in a different mood, he may have smiled at the irony, but instead he slowly retrieved his hand and asked, “Do I know you?”

The man next to him smiled. For it was indeed a man. An elderly one at that, with bleached hair that shone grey in the gold and cobalt lighting that crossed blades at the bar. He had wrapped around him what could only be described as a jet-black bath robe with gold trimmings running its centre and collar, and a pair of jell sandals designed Vetrixin fashion.

The man’s smile faded somewhat and he looked confused. “Drank a bit too much this time? Surely you haven’t forgotten me?”

Paul gave his empty glass a flick of the eye and turned back to this… who? Who was this man?

“You may have to help me out here,” he began apprehensively.

“I see… it’s one of those days,” said the man, his expression falling to one of seriousness. “Follow me, you’ve found this method to work best.”

Paul felt himself obeying the stranger. He pulled his jacket together so the magnets clicked in the stillness and shuffled behind him. They took a route around piles of dissected equipment, with their electrical innards spilling out and across the panelled flooring, making the seated area of Deck 2 look as if an Uknab Assault Squad had just swept through with Close-Quarter-Lasers and mistaken metal for flesh. Past this massacre ran the viewing bridge, which linked recreation to work quarters via a ten foot tunnel. Here, the metal sheets gave way to walls of glass and the entire spaceport could be seen stretching its thick limbs out into space. Below, was an unblocked view of Laran.

But there was nothing much to see. Only a water world. No jigsaw patterns of vast continents peppering the deep blue with browns and greys. Just a droplet of seawater, obeying the laws of physics by hugging a sphere of rock in this void of a universe. Paul saw white clouds swirling beneath the part of Laran he was orbiting over. There would be a storm later, he managed to muse.

He remembered the thundering of rain on rock and the view of a matter-field seen from beneath, as if a pane of glass had been thrust over his head, the droplets of water splashing their ripples across energy currents before they were deconstructed. Sarah had been with him then.

“This way, Paul.”

“Sorry?” Paul had momentarily forgotten where he was. Right, strange man. Yes, I’m meant to know him. He shook his head and tore it away from the view of Laran. The stranger was gesturing toward the darkness of the pod beyond, a place which held his cabin. Paul obliged, maybe because his AP-virus was in there and it would make him feel safer. If only he could slip it into his hand when the man wasn’t looking.

Paul stepped into the doorway and blinked… for it was not his cabin.

Deck 2. Of course. He mentally slapped his forehead. His cabin was on Deck 4. Instead, he had walked right into one of the spaceport’s storage rooms, this one being for all its computer logs, and in front of him, in replace of a bed, was the access screen, standing in the centre of the room like some dormant sentinel surrounded by its towers of black chrome and blinking data chips.

Paul looked over his shoulder and the stranger indicated with a nod of the head to continue. He faced the screen and took another step. The words ‘Welcome, Paul Kalman’ scrawled themselves across the black velvet glass. With another scrawl of green print, the computer asked him what he would like to access.

Paul hesitated. What would I like to access?

As if a nano-gate had snapped together, linking some vital synapse, he felt his hesitation melt away. He saw himself stood here at a previous time in the last twelve years. Many times, in fact. He did not recall the stranger being there, or the reasoning behind his visit, but he did remember the log he would pull up. He voiced his request.

‘Port’s log: Day 56 of Year 3 aboard NO-9. Year 3174 Standard.’

Paul used the holographic dial to cycle through the times until he found 19:03 in the evening, synced with the spaceports rotation matching that of Laran’s. This was the moment. This was the exact time he replayed over and over in his mind, his nightmares, his drunken episodes – countless as they were. He found the headcam footage of ‘Paul Kalman’s space suit 1’ and twitched his forefinger to play it.

The screen displayed only light and noise, but Paul could smell the synthetic padding of the helmet. He could feel the water tube in his mouth, the glare of Laran’s star, the taste of life-support. He was there, held in the weightless arms of freefall and completing his routine checkup on the deep-space-dish.

“Requesting to flyby someone finally doing their job.” The voice which came over the coms reminded Paul of the rubber pods he had pushed into his ears. And of thundering rain.

“Approved, so long as you don’t treat me like airlock five,” retorted Paul’s lower cadence through the access screen.

“The sun was in my eyes,” she joked.

There were a few static grunts as the camera twisted to face the depths of space sliced in two by Laran’s curved horizon. From between the stationary stars moved a cluster of navigation lights, half consumed in shadow by space-cruiser Leaper. The other half’s white panelling shone in the brightness of the F-type star and tilted now as she banked for entry.

“It’s in your eyes now, should I be worried?”

The space-cruiser sailed closer and Paul could make out the dark interior of its cockpit, with a pale hand giving him a rude gesture. He heard himself laugh.

“Lawrence, prepare airlock two,” she ordered.

“Airlock two ready,” came back a familiar voice.

Paul watched as Leaper passed, its pulse thrusters dying down from a violet jet to a smouldering turquoise, and heard him twist himself so that he could unplug his engineer’s-tablet and reconnect the DSD.

Blue lights came to life on the telemetry pannel and one by one, they went green.

“The DSD’s back online. Anything come through whilst it’s been down?”

“Loading the data,” said that familiar voice.

The camera rotated to face the curved spines of NO-9 and Leaper now creeping closer and closer to one of its airlocks. Paul knew what would be asked the moment those claw anchors slotted into place and prevented the space-cruiser from being catapulted back when the lock pressurized. He even mouthed the words, “So, how was Laran?”

“Collected useful samples from the Baydiga Trench. Should give Hornforn more data for his progressional evolution theory.”

“Wait two minutes and I’ll be in for you to show me.”

“DSD data downloaded. We have one new message.”

Paul swore he could feel the silence of space emanating from the access screen.

“A message? From where?” asked his past self.

“Undiscovered system. Forty-eight lightyears from Laran.”

“I can view it from Leaper,” she said.

Paul clutched the access screen so hard his knuckles turned white. “Don’t let her,” he muttered, his voice laced with pain.

The screen ignored his pleading. “Yes, tell me what it says…” it spoke in his voice, “…or what it shows… I wonder what language it’s in.”

“Sending transmission to space-cruiser Leaper.”

“No, Lawrence, for once, don’t follow orders,” sobbed Paul.

“Received.” It went quiet. Only a sharp intake of breath came from the helmet as it left the DSD platform and sailed towards another airlock on NO-9. Then a tear splattered on the screen and she said, “I’m seeing it. I… I don’t know what to make of it. It’s some sort of code? Maybe Telerarexian? A simple greeting message? Wait… somethings happening to my computer…”

“Space cruiser Leaper is being infiltrated by a foreign source,” warned the familiar voice.

“What do you mean, Lawrence?” inquired that of Paul’s.

“Paul, it’s taking control–”

“Leaper has been exposed to a computer virus.”

“But how? Can you fight it?”

“Negative.”

“Paul…” she interrupted.

Paul felt his throat tighten at hearing the worry in her voice.

“Paul, it’s firing up the Tunnel-Drive.”

“Lawerence, shut Leaper down!”

“Negative, I have been completely disconnected from Leaper’s computer.”

The breaths from within the helmet started coming out short and fast. NO-9 spun, the camera focused on the space cruiser, and it quickly began to grow as space suit 1’s jets were throttled to maximum. “Get out of Leaper!”

“I’m trying. I’ve been locked out too.”

“Break the glass if you have to…” Paul’s speech trailed off as the anchor claws retracted and Leaper disengaged from NO-9.

“The manual override’s not working, either!” came her desperate shout.

“Lawrence, get me a cutter at airlock two!” Blast hatches were closing over the turquoise flames of the thrusters and the hatches next to these were opening to reveal the hexagonal depths of the Tunnel-Drive’s engines. “Lawrence, now!”

“Your odds at reaching Leaper before the Tunnel Drive engages are less than one percent, Paul.”

The dark well of the engines glowed red.

“What have I told you about assessing the odds!”

“Paul, they’ve already engaged.” There was a brief radiance of red light and then Leaper winked from viewable existence, the last words of hers cut short on the comms; “I love–”

“SARAH, NO!”

The camera floated towards empty space and Paul stopped the recording.

He shuddered in a breath. From behind him, the low hum of a cleaning bot entered the storage room and roamed between his feet, hoovering up the tears that had fallen there.

“How…” he choked on the next word, swallowed, and tried again. “How could I forget.”

All these years he had been waiting. Waiting for Sarah to return to him after a deep space message had infiltrated her ship and forced it to tunnel through space… and time. He remembered now his terror of the DSD and also his dependence on it. How he kept it on, even though he wanted more than anything to never interface with it again, in a hope that she would send him a message from where Leaper had taken her. For one had arrived, a year after the incident, reading only two words: ‘I’m trying’.

For Sarah, that could have been seconds after she tunnelled. Paul couldn’t believe he had momentarily forgotten his plight, even for a second.

“Thankyou, Lawrence, for showing me this.” Because, of course, that was who the familiar voice belonged to. This man he had thought stranger.

“You are welcome, Paul.”

He turned to where he stood and was shocked to see the doorway empty.

“Lawrence?”

“Yes, Paul?” The voice had come from the doorway, but no one stood there.

“Where are you?”

“On Deck 1.”

Paul assumed his voice was coming from the coms. He found his feet, stepped over the cleaning bot, and hurried out the storage room to Deck 1, desperate to thank his friend and feel the company of another on this desolate spaceport. He made it to the freefall elevator and floated down a level – down being towards Laran. But the moment his feet made contact with solid ground, he stopped.

There was no need for him to search, the deck he had entered comprised of one, large, circular room. In the middle of it sat a pedestal. It’s feet, made from Telerarexian memory crystals, glowed golden and held steel frameworks, which encased flashing Terra-Drives, cooling pipes, stellar cards and hardware ports. Lawrence was no person. Lawrence was NO-9 spaceport’s computer. Because Paul was waiting. And he was waiting alone, the strength of his heart valiantly keeping the madness at bay until, one day, its longing could be quenched.

“Cheers, Lawrence… to twelve years more.”