Martyn Vaughan - The Cave of Shadows

‘If we survive!’ Jorl growled, looking at the others.

Jon nodded calmly. ‘If we survive.’

The days passed as the starship continued its ineluctable fall towards the dread fusion furnace which formed the centre of this alien planetary system. The image of that inferno was noticeably larger each time anyone dared to look at it. Gradually more and more details could be made out on its surface; great sunspot clusters – the smallest of which was larger than the planet Earth – became easily visible. On the limbs, pale pink tongues of prominences could be seen reaching out into the blackness of space, looking like the delicate feathery fronds of some strange plant of fire but in reality great towers of plasma, hundreds of kilometres high.

And the heat. At first it was not noticeable as the synthetic humans busied themselves learning every aspect of the great starship, learning every nuance of the control commands, teaching themselves how the various systems functioned together.

But there came a day when the heat could no longer be ignored, when the rivulets of sweat had to be brushed away from eyes every few seconds. Like an invisible predator it stalked them, sapping their determination, their drive, their self-belief, sucking away their strength and energy.

Clothes were soon discarded but with nude bodies glistening with sweat, they worked on. Enormous quantities of water were consumed and expelled but they could only force themselves to eat small amounts of solid food.

The arachnoids ferried them a continuous supply of anti-radiation drugs.

Working together, Shev and Jon found that the vessel had the facility to produce a cloaking magnetic field which would deflect the star’s terrible torrent of charged particles by forming a miniature magnetosphere. But the controlling software had been corrupted during the cosmic ray burst. Doggedly, line by line, they reconstructed the code which would allow it to flash into existence. Line by line they worked, snapping and snarling at each other in their exhaustion; huge drops of sweat falling steadily over their work, blurring and smearing the symbols. After many weary hours they could do no more: either it would work or they would die.

Jon sent the command.

It worked.

‘Neutrons will still get through,’ Shev observed gloomily.

‘So they will,’ was Jon’s only reply and then he turned to the next problem.

The heat intensified.

Jarm and the Shanas discovered stores of lead-based creams with which the team liberally plastered themselves, turning them into ghastly white spectres.

‘Isn’t lead poisonous?’ enquired Shana36 with mock innocence.

‘So is hard radiation!’ was the other Shana’s response.

The heat intensified.

The air became blisteringly hot and the metal surfaces painful to touch. Under the lead paint skin began to crack and blister. Each breath brought burning air into their lungs. They shielded their eyes from penetrant radiation with lead infused visors that threw everything into a grey twilight.

Even the simplest task required great effort, both physical and mental. Still they worked at the controls, feeling the shifting gravitational and electromagnetic forces trying to twist the starship’s path into one that terminated in the photosphere. They took it in turns to attempt to sleep on the hot metal floor while those awake battled with the forces which hungrily, mockingly tried to pull them into a fiery death.

At one point Jorl stood up. ‘I’m going to that Regeneration Room you told me about. The shielding is heavier there. I’m not going to stay here and be cooked alive! If you’ve got any sense you’ll come with me,’ with the last comment being directed to the team other than Jon.

The latter stood up and barred his way. ‘You’re going nowhere. We need everyone here, manning the controls. We can’t allow anyone to become a passenger.’

Jorl stared at him. ‘We? You mean “you”, don’t you? Actually, I don’t remember anyone voting for you in the election. In truth, I don’t even remember the election!’

Jon did not move. He stood stock-still on the rocking, shuddering floor of the Control Room.

‘Jorl if I have to knock you out I will. But that means we’ll lose your abilities at the controls. So I’d rather not do it. Don’t make me do it.’

The two men remained staring at each other for some time with the others having turned in their seats to watch the outcome. Finally, Jorl gave a short nod and slowly went back to his machine.

The star had now filled the entirety of the viewscreen which had automatically stepped the blinding glare down by many orders of magnitude. Still it blazed like a sea of molten steel, so close now that only the edge of one sunspot was visible.

The creaking and groaning of the ship’s fabric had blurred together into one continuous roar.

The heat intensified.

And so it was that the entire group had collapsed into unconsciousness as the ship rounded the turning point of the dreadful hyperbola and began its retreat from the thwarted star.

Gradually Jon became aware of his surroundings. His first sensation was of a terrible, oppressive heat that lay over him in a suffocating blanket; then he was aware that the deck below him was shaking and jerking as if in the jaws of a tremendous beast and finally he could hear an all-pervasive roar. A sound, he eventually realised, of great engines performing at the very peak of their tolerances.

He rolled over and slowly pushed himself up so he was resting on his palms and knees. He looked around and saw his companions lying in various positions on the metal floor; some on their backs, some on their fronts, some in a foetal position. To his great relief, he could just make out through the hurricane of noise that they were starting to make sounds of awakening. And slowly, one by one, they did.

For some time they said nothing; did nothing, just showing simple relief for having survived the close encounter with the system’s star; having survived the turning of the deadly hyperbola.

Hour by hour the temperature dropped.

Hour by hour the throats of the braking rockets blazed white-hot as they fought the implacable equation of momentum.

Hour by hour the thunder of the mighty task of those tortured engines rolled through the ship.

Finally Jon said after studying the diagnostics on his viewscreen: ‘We can’t maintain this expenditure of energy. We’ll have no fuel for manoeuvring among the giant planets. We’ll have to cut the thrust.’

He studied the scrolling numbers on the screen while the others waited; waited to hear what existential issue now awaited them. They stood there like wraiths or spectres, still clad in peeling anti-radiation paint, which in several places did not cover weeping blisters.

‘There’s been a significant change in our trajectory. The curve we’re following is now at least parabolic, possibly even elliptical,’ Jon finally announced.

Shana12’s face lit up. ‘An ellipse! That’s a closed curve. It means we’ll come back to this system!’

Jon gave her a grave glance. ‘I said it might be an ellipse. And even under the most optimistic assumptions it would take us out to about a parsec at apastron. I’ll leave you to calculate how long it would take us to get back.’

The little sparks of joy flickered out immediately and their usual expressions of stolid acceptance returned.

Jon stood silent for a moment, staring at his companions, wondering at their reserves of strength and silently cursing the authors of all this suffering – the now incredibly distant Protectorate. But no! – he checked himself: The Protectorate was not distant; it was with them in an invisible form. Somewhere in the Artificial Intelligence that ran this vessel, at the centre of its intangible web, lurked another intelligence – Korok. They could never relax, never declare victory while that threat remained. In any electron flow Korok could be there; hiding in the voltages, secreting himself in the amperages. He had not moved against them, Jon knew, because all they had done had been to preserve the Fatal Scimitar and thus the Protectorate’s original plan.