Steven McDonald - Event Horizon

What did they expect? There were non-Euclidian geometries involved here, and many human minds could not go around the requisite corners. He knew that his audience resented being thrown back into grade school, but it was the only way he knew how to get even a fraction of the concepts across.

Finally, Justin said, “A straight line.” He had a confused look, as though he was certain something was missing from the answer. The other crew members turned to stare at the engineer, who proceeded to glare back at them, annoyed and embarrassed. “What?”

“Wrong,” Weir said, trying for a sympathetic smile that he knew was forced and looked uncomfortable. Everyone turned to stare at the scientist again.

“The shortest distance between two points is zero.” He held the poster up, folding it so that the first X was over the second. With a fast, vicious, movement he drove the pen through the layers of paper. Melodramatic but functional; Smith hadn’t even complained about the wanton destruction of his pinup.

He lowered the poster, looking at them intently. “That’s what the singularity does—it folds space, so that point A and point B coexist in the same space and time. After the ship passes through this gateway, space returns to normal.” He handed the punctured poster back to Smith, who took it gingerly, looking at Weir as though the scientist might turn rabid at any moment. “It’s called a gravity drive.”

Justin was watching Weir intently, genuinely curious. “How do you know all this?”

There was the $64,000 Question. Weir squared his shoulders and said, “I built it.”

Cooper made a noise that indicated that he was either impressed or coming to a boil. For good measure, he added, “I can see why they sent you along.”

Justin was frowning now, though, obviously putting the bits and pieces of information together and coming up with a result he liked less and less with each passing moment. “So if the ship didn’t blow up, what happened?”

“The mission was going perfectly,” Weir said, frowning, remembering. “Like a textbook. The ship reached safe distance using conventional thrusters. All the systems looked good.” He sat back, his enthusiasm and drive draining as the memories flooded back in. The Event Horizon had torn a hole in the heavens and his life had been sucked into it. “All the systems looked good… they received the go-ahead to activate the gravity drive and open the gateway to Proxima Centauri, the sun’s closest star.”

Weir paused for a few moments, lost in the past, replaying those hours, those days in Central Operations. Everything had come crashing down in such a short span of time, taking the foundations of his entire life.

“She vanished from all our scopes. Disappeared without a trace.” He paused, looked at Miller. The Captain was watching him intently. “Until now.”

Miller grimaced, but his eyes were full of curiosity. He needed to know.

“Where has it been the past seven years?”

Weir sat back, his blanket forgotten. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

The bridge was not a place for fast movement, but Weir I was managing all right, fitting into a corner. Miller had assumed his throne, of course, but had chosen to sit quietly, listening to all that Weir had to say without spending his energy to comment. So far. It was obvious to Weir that Miller considered his crew to be far more than mere functional appendages.

They had gone as far as possible in the crew quarters, then moved up to the bridge for the second part of the show. If the introduction had rattled the Lewis and Clark’s crew, Weir thought, then the next part would freeze their blood.

“We haven’t been able to confirm any live contact,” Weir said, leaning backwards, his arms crossed over his chest, “but TDRS did receive a single transmission.” He felt a little more in control now, a little more together.

He reached out and pressed a key on a nearby computer keypad. The terrifying sound that poured from the bridge speakers had become familiar before leaving Daylight Station, but he could still feel the effects, could still sense the inhuman swirl beneath the static and corruption. Some of the elements rose and fell in a familiar pattern while others seemed to rise and fade in new patterns each time.

Weir watched their faces as the recording played through, watched them

.become pale and fearful as they endured the voice of the Event Horizon. The sounds ceased abruptly, causing them to respond with spasmodic physical movements before anyone could gain control of themselves.

They looked at each other, at Weir.

“What the hell is that?” Smith whispered, all of his posturing and his energy drained for the moment. He was staring at Weir like a lost man.

Peters looked up at Miller, who sat impassively in his chair, then back at Weir. “It doesn’t sound like anything human,” she said, her words coming slowly.

Weir nodded. “Houston has passed the recording through several filters and isolated what appears to be a human voice.” It was stretching things somewhat to describe that voice as human, he knew, but it seemed to be the best that anyone could do at the time. There had been no communication from Earth regarding further refinements.

Weir tapped another key. If the first recording had spooked the crew of the Lewis and Clark, this one shook them to the core. It was a howl from a soul abandoned and despairing on the far edge of hell. Weir felt it in the darker recesses of his soul even now, having heard it several times.

“Jesus,” Smith said. He looked as though the voice had cut straight through him. The other crew members, even Miller, were having a hard time staying put and listening to the playback. DJ had his head down, concentrating.

Miller looked at Weir, intent.

“We’re not even sure that it qualifies as language,” Weir said, as the playback ended.

DJ looked up at him, his expression dark. “Latin.”

Surprised, Weir raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

DJ opened his mouth again, then hesitated for a moment, almost looking inward. “I mean…” He took a deep breath. “It sounds like it might be Latin.”

Cooper stared at DJ, disbelieving. There was no trace of his sense of humor now. “Latin? Who the fuck speaks Latin?”

Starck looked around at Cooper, her lip curling. “No one. It’s a dead language.”

“Mostly dead,” DJ said, his voice firm. He stared directly at Weir, who refused to flinch.

Miller leaned forward, looking down at DJ. “Can you translate?”

DJ licked his lips, then said to Weir, “Play that back, please.”

Weir tapped the key again, and the voice screamed through the room. This time he tried to focus on the voice, tried to sketch words out of the electronic muck.

“Right there,” Weir said, hearing something in the sound. “That sounds like ‘liberate me.’” He frowned, losing the thread. “I can’t make out the rest. It’s too distorted.”

Miller leaned forward, now looking at Weir. “‘Liberate me’?”

DJ turned to face Miller. “‘Save me.’”

Cooper turned back to DJ, a dubious expression on his face. “From what?”

Miller sat back, steepling his hands, his eyes on Weir. “You’re convinced the crew could still be alive?”

“The Event Horizon only had life support for eighteen months,” Weir said, considering the possibilities. He had considered just about everything along the way, including the possibility of some kind of time distortion that might have thrown the Event Horizon seven years forward. “It seems impossible, but in light of the transmission…” He took a deep breath. He had never been able to make the math work for a time distortion. “I have to think that some endured until now.”