Richard Russo - Ship of Fools

“Yes,” I replied, “everything’s changed. That’s why you’ve got to come back now. You’re almost at the end of your shift, anyway. We’ve got to be even more careful now with how we proceed. Before we go any further, I want to get some air samples to analyze, measure the temperature and pressure in here, see if we can determine the light source, anything else. We need to take it slowly.”

“I’m with Pär,” Maria put in. “I want to keep going. At least let us go through one of the other doors and see what’s beyond it.”

“No,” I insisted. “If there isn’t anything of interest, it won’t matter anyway. And if there is, you won’t want to come back before doing a thorough examination.”

“Just an hour,” Pär tried.

“Time is not the issue.”

Casterman finally spoke. “Bartolomeo is right,” he said. “We should go back now.”

There was a silence that went on so long I was beginning to fear defiance from Pär and Maria. If that happened, we were going to have serious problems. Don’t do this to me , I silently said to Pär. Don’t do this to all of us.

“All right,” Pär finally said. “Let’s head back.” Then, after a slight hesitation, he added, “You’re no damn fun, Bartolomeo.”

TWELVEhours later we had air samples headed back to the Argonos for analysis, and we had some preliminary findings of our own. The air pressure was slightly higher than Earth normal, but nothing that would be harmful to us. The temperature was surprisingly warm—-26 degrees Celsius; 79 degrees Fahrenheit. But we still couldn’t determine the light source.

Another two days, and we had the stunning news—the air was breathable for human beings.

WEdid not, however, take off our helmets in that room to breathe the air. The lab analysis did not pick up any obvious toxins, but there were tiny, unidentifiable particulates in the samples, some organic; it wasn’t worth the risk.

We could deny it no longer—this region of the alien ship was almost certainly built or adapted for human habitation. Proper gravity, atmosphere, temperature. Far too much for coincidence. At the same time, we still did not doubt that the starship itself was alien, and had been constructed by alien “hands.” The driving question now—one we feared would never be answered—was how this section had come to be built this way. When, by whom, and to what purpose? None of us had any ideas.

Iwas inside the alien ship with Hollings and Cardenas. As I stepped into the circular chamber with its diffuse blue light, I was again reminded of the circular room on Antioch, gateway to nightmare. I struggled to dispel the resurgent tremors of memory, the fleeting but horrifying images of metal hooks and gleaming bones.

Cardenas and Hollings both took a circuitous route down the steps, across the lower level, then back up the steps again. I stayed on the upper level, followed the perimeter to the left, and met them at the first door. No one had yet gone through it.

The mechanism seemed straightforward—a metal handle in the door itself long enough to be gripped with two hands. I tried pulling up; then, when it wouldn’t budge, I pushed down. It moved a quarter turn and stopped.

I had been expecting an automated movement since nearly every other door in the ship worked that way, but there was nothing.

“Try pulling it open,” Hollings suggested.

I did. The door swung slowly, haltingly toward me, as if its hinges had become rusted stuck; although it sounded faint and distant, I could just hear a muted squealing with each scraping movement, which surprised me until I remembered we were now in an atmosphere, where sound would propagate. Light angled out of the new opening, a brighter yellowish light cutting through the blue. I kept tugging at the door, jerking it until it was completely open; a high, wide shaft of light sliced across the circular room, spreading and diffusing as it reached down to the lower level, up the steps and washed across the opposite wall. Beyond the door was a short passage that angled off to the right.

The light frightened me. For weeks we had been exploring what appeared to be a dead, abandoned alien starship. No signs of life, no signs of machinery still functioning. Nothing. Then we reached a section with Earth-normal gravity. Soon after that we had pressurized atmosphere; more than that, it was being maintained, somehow, at a habitable temperature; then some strange, blue light; and finally this—full, day-like illumination. Too much.

I looked at my companions and noticed that all three of us, consciously or not, had moved out of the path of the light and were well back into the shadows.

“I don’t like this,” I whispered.

“I don’t either,” Cardenas replied.

“Why are you whispering?” Hollings asked, although she, too, whispered.

“Sound carries,” Cardenas answered. “Didn’t you hear that when Bartolomeo was pulling the door open?”

“I wasn’t sure what it was. I forgot about sound. You think our voices would carry through the helmets?”

“Probably not,” I said, “but I’m not taking any chances.”

“You think somebody, or something, is in there?” Hollings asked.

“It’s not too damn likely,” Cardenas said, “but I’m with Bartolomeo on this. We can’t take chances.” She unstrapped her hand stunner and gripped it. “Didn’t think I’d ever need this. Still hope we don’t.”

I backed farther away from the door, still keeping to shadow but gaining a greater view into the short passage. Nothing moved, nor were there shadows of any kind. Now I could see that the wall was off-white streaked with soot, or paint the color of soot. Down low on the wall, near the floor, was a raised brown smear. The first real signs of imperfection we’d seen.

“I’ll go in,” I eventually said. “Both of you stay out here until I clear it.”

Neither protested. This was no time for phony heroics.

I set the lantern on the floor beside me. I wasn’t going to carry my stunner, either; I wanted both hands free. I stepped into the swath of light.

The sounds of my companions’ breathing seemed terribly loud, and I was struck by the irrational fear that they would drown out any warning sounds. I hesitated, then stepped through the doorway.

I stopped for a few moments when I was completely inside, waiting, then continued. As I passed the streaks on the walls, I looked more closely at them, but couldn’t determine whether they were soot or burn marks or simply paint. I knelt beside the brown smear—which, frankly, looked like dried excrement—but again, it was impossible to know what it was.

The passage took a 90-degree angle to the right, then opened out into a large room or wide passage, but I had no idea yet how large. Once again I hesitated, keeping back so that I could not be seen, which also meant that I could not see much either.

I took a step into the short, angled section of passage and stopped. In the far left corner—the only corner I could see, and which was ten or twelve meters away—was a pile of torn and rumpled cloth. In the wall nearby was a darker area that might have been an opening or doorway; my angle was too severe to tell.

Two more steps, and I was around the corner, fully inside the room.

A wild, flailing dark form lunged at me. It struck me at chest height, knocking me off my feet and onto my back with a jolt; my head slammed against the floor. Darkness covered my helmet and I cried out, some sound without words. I tried to grab the thing on top of me. I couldn’t see what it was. It squirmed and fought at my arms and hands, pounded at my suit without much effect. I tried rolling to the side and a slice of light came through for a moment. I thought I heard a faint cry or screech; the pounding shifted to my helmet, jarring my head. The darkness over my helmet shifted away for a second, but all I saw were jerking flashes of what seemed to be limbs and claws and fur before the darkness returned.