Celia Friedman - When True Night Falls

The author would like to thank Todd Drunagel for saving chapter two from computer oblivion, and Mark Sunderlin for rescuing her from computer hell several times. (Sometimes a world without technology can be very appealing!) And very special thanks to Daniel Barr, for costuming above and beyond the call of duty.

I Can’t Believe we’re doing this.

Colony Commander Leonid Case lay full length upon the damp Ernan soil, his hands clenched into fists before him. This whole plan was insane, he thought. His furtive departure from the settlement, his midnight stalk through these alien woods, and now hiding in this gully like some forest-born predator, alert for the scent of prey . . . in fact, the only thing crazier than the way he was acting was the situation that had brought him here in the first place. And the man responsible for it.

Damn Ian! Damn his delusions! Didn’t the settlement have enough problems here without his adding to them? Wasn’t it enough that people were dying here - dying! - in ways that defied all human science? Did Ian have to add to that nightmare?

The blackness of despair churned coldly in Case’s gut, and panic stirred in its wake. He couldn’t let it get to him. He was responsible for this fledgling colony, which meant that the others depended on him—on his advice, his judgment, and most of all on his personal stability. He couldn’t afford to let despair overwhelm him, any more than he could allow himself to openly vent his fury over his chief botanist’s behavior. But sometimes it seemed almost more than he could handle. God knows he had signed on for better and for worse, well aware of all the tragedies that might befall a newborn colony . . . but no one had prepared him for this.

Thirty-six dead now. Thirty-six of his people. And not just dead: gruesomely dead, fearsomely dead, dead in ways that defied human acceptance. He remembered the feel of Sally Chang’s frozen flesh in his hands, so brittle that when he tried to lift her body it shattered into jagged bits, like glass. And Wayne Reinhart’s corpse, which was little more than a jellylike package of skin and blood and pulped organs by the time they found it. And Faren Whitehawk . . . that was the most frightening one of all, he thought. Not because it was the most repellent; Faren’s corpse was whole, the flesh still pliant, the expression almost peaceful. But all the blood was gone from the body, impossibly drawn out through two puncture wounds in the neck. Or so the settlement’s doctors had informed him. Christ in heaven! Looking down at those marks—ragged and reddened, crusted black about the edges with dried blood and worse—he knew that what they were facing here was nothing Earth could have prepared them for. Monsters drawn from Earth’s tradition, their own human nightmares garbed in solid flesh and pitted against them . . . how did you fight such a thing? Where did you even start? When Carrie Sands was killed three nights later by some winged creature that had accosted her while she slept, he wasn’t surprised to hear her bunkmate describe it as a creature straight out of East Indian mythology. Something that fed on nightmares, he recalled. Only this time it got carried away, and fed on flesh as well.

Jesus Christ. Where was it going to end?

Thirty-six dead. That was out of the three thousand and some odd colonists who had survived the coldsleep journey to this place, to stand under the light of an alien sun and commit themselves body and soul to building a new world. His world. Now they were all at risk. And dammit, the seedship should have foreseen this! It was supposed to survey each planet in question until there was no doubt, absolutely no doubt, that the colonists would thrive there. If not, it was programmed to move on to the next available system. In theory it was a foolproof procedure, designed to protect Earth’s explorers from the thousand and one predictable hazards of extraterrestrial colonization. Like rival predators. Incompatible protein structures. Climatic instability.

The key word there was predictable.

Case looked up at the starless night sky—so black, so empty, so utterly alien—and found himself shivering. What did a Terran seedship do when it had surveyed a thousand systems—perhaps tens of thousands—and still it had found no hospitable world for its charges? Would there come a time when its microchips would begin to wear, when its own mechanical senility would force it to make one less than ideal choice? Or was all this the fault of the programmers, who had never foreseen that a ship might wander so far, for so long, without success? Go outward, they had directed it, survey each planet you come across, and if it does not suit your purpose, then refuel and go outward farther still. He thought of Erna’s midnight sky, so eerie in its utter starlessness. What was a program like that supposed to do when it ran out of options? When the next move would take it beyond the borders of the galaxy, into regions so utterly desolate that it might drift forever without finding another sun, another source of fuel? Was it supposed to leap blindly into that void, its circuits undisturbed by the prospect of eternal solitude? Or would it instead survey its last available option again and again, time after time, until at last its circuits had managed whatever convolution of logic was required to determine that the last choice was indeed acceptable, by the terms of its desperation? So that there, tens of thousands of light-years from Earth, separated by a multimillenial gap in communication, the four thousand colonists might be awakened at last.

We’ll never know, Commander Case thought grimly. The bulk of the seedship was high above them now, circling the tormented planet like an errant moon. They had brought all the data down with them, each nanosecond’s record of the ninety-year survey—and he had studied it so often that sometimes it seemed he knew each byte of it by heart. To what end? Even if he could find some hint of danger in the seedship’s study, what good would it do them now? They couldn’t go back. They couldn’t get help. This far out in the galaxy they couldn’t even get advice from home. The seedship’s programmers were long since dead, as was the culture that had nurtured them. Communication with Earth would mean waiting more than forty thousand years for an answer—and that was if Earth was there to respond, and if it would bother. What had the mother planet become, in the millennia it had taken this seedship to find a home? The temporal gulf was almost too vast, too awesome to contemplate. And it didn’t really matter, Case told himself grimly. The act that they were alone here, absolutely and forever, was all that counted. As far as this colony was concerned, there was no Earth.

He shifted uncomfortably in his mossy trench, all too aware of the darkness that was gathering around him. It was a thick darkness, cold and ominous, as unlike the darknesses of Earth as this new sun’s cold light was unlike the warm splendor of Sol. For a moment homesickness filled him, made doubly powerful by the fact that home as he knew it no longer existed. The colonists had made their commitment to Eden only to find that it had a serpent’s soul, but there was no escaping it now. Not with the figures for coldsleep mortality in excess of 86% for second immersion.

He heard a rustling beside him and stiffened; his left hand moved for his weapon, even as he imagined all the sorts of winged nightmares that might even now be descending on him. But it was only Lise, come to join him. He nodded a greeting and scrunched to one side, making room for her to crawl forward. There was barely room for both of them in the shallow gully.