The Arc of the Universe: Book One: The Shades

The Arc of the Universe

Book One

By Mark Whiteway

Science Fiction

Copyright © 2015 Mark Whiteway

All Rights Reserved.

Smashwords Edition

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For Richard Fry

By the same author

Lodestone Book One: The Sea of Storms

Lodestone Book Two: The World of Ice and Stars

Lodestone Book Three: The Crucible Of Dawn

Lodestone Book Four: Seeds Across the Sky

Lodestone Book Five: The Conquered Shore

Lodestone Book Six: Eternity’s Shadow

www.markwhiteway.weebly.com

Table of Contents

Part One: The Ships

Part Two: The Room

Part Three: The Window

Part Four: The City

Part Five: The Shades

Part Six: The Blockade

"The arc of the… universe is long, but it bends towards justice."

Martin Luther King Jr.

Part One: The Ships

Regan Quinn gripped his son tighter as explosions arced like fireflies in the night. It was Mardi Gras in Rio, Bastille Day in Paris, the Fourth of July in Central Park. Only this was no celebration. Each fading orange flash ignited oxygen, blew bulkheads apart, and snuffed out human lives. Mothers, sisters, fathers, uncles, wives, lovers—the field of humanity burned like chaff.

Beside him, Conor winced. Quinn realised his fingernails were digging into the boy’s shoulder. He released his grip.

What’s happening, Dad? Conor asked.

Colonists gathered before the wide window like soap scum—like seaweed on an incoming tide. They fixed Conor with needle stares as if he were interrupting a religious service.

Quinn struggled to sound reassuring. I don’t know. I’m sure the ship master will make an announcement soon.

The fleet was barely three weeks out from Kapteyn’s Star, bound for a virgin world surveyed eleven years earlier. As a port official, Quinn had watched a score of these wagon trains depart over the years and never felt any compulsion to join them. Then xanthe fever had taken Sarah.

At the post-funeral reception attended mainly by dutiful co-workers, he’d nodded, served drinks, and made small talk. When he finally closed the door on the last of them and gazed about their four-room prefab, its emptiness gnawed at his stomach. He made his decision.

Their destination was a lot less promising a prospect than many others. Pictures showed a harsh, volcanic world plagued by tectonic shifts and sulphur clouds, but stories of lucrative mineral deposits were enough to tempt those willing to put up with shaking furniture and the stench of rotten eggs in exchange for a fresh start, a free home, and no taxes.

Quinn’s handful of friends did their best to talk him out of it. Conor said nothing. He would have followed his surviving parent into a pit of fire, which was not so far from reality. Both of us need time and space to heal. That was what Quinn told himself at the time, but like all sweeping statements, it papered over feelings. The hurly-burly of departure had given him the perfect excuse to avoid the subject of Sarah’s death.

In the darkness beyond the window, vessels burned, their skeletal superstructures lit like glowing embers. Twenty-seven ships had departed Eire, the colony world orbiting Kapteyn’s Star. How many were left?

As a pen-pushing bureaucrat, Quinn knew little of the hazards of space travel. He was certainly unaware of any natural phenomenon that could account for destruction on this scale.

An attack of some sort? He craned his neck but could detect no weapons fire. Since the diaspora had begun, a hundred years ago, the fledgling colony worlds had seen a dozen flare-ups, ranging from border spats to all-out conflicts. But they were a dozen light years from Eire colony, the nearest human outpost. Besides, what would anyone have to gain from attacking a bunch of miners, geologists, engineers, hydroponic farmers, and their families?

A claxon battered his eardrums. What now?

Boom! The floor bucked, and people fell like scythed wheat. Quinn staggered. Conor’s legs folded, but Quinn caught him by the arm and dragged him to his feet. The speaker stayed silent. Where are the announcements—the instructions? Where’s the crew?

Boom! The ship rocked again. Stars danced, and folk swayed in a crazy rhythm. He heard a crack then a hiss. An opaque blemish appeared in the observation window. Jagged lines radiated from the stress point.

A red light began winking above the observation room’s only exit. Decompression protocol. Get out! Quinn grabbed a handful of Conor’s jacket and dragged him towards the doors. The other colonists’ movements slowed with ice-bound indecision. Get out now!

Quinn thumped the wall panel, and the double doors swished open. He staggered through with Conor in tow. The cracking from the window grew louder. A woman screamed. He spun round. Bang! The window shattered, and an instant gale plucked people like weeds and tossed them out through the hole. They cartwheeled away into space, arms and legs flailing.

The survivors staggered and crawled towards the doors, faces contorted against the wind. A red light snapped on, and the doors began to close. The automated system was sealing the breach, just as an animal might chew off a limb to escape a trap.

A dark-complexioned girl with Polynesian features bared her teeth and stretched towards him, fingers splayed. Quinn hit the override—no effect. Keeping the door open a second longer than necessary could spell doom for the rest of the ship. Machine logic overrode human compassion. The doors sealed, cutting off the gale.

Conor lay sprawled on the floor where Quinn had dropped him like an old sack. He stared at the doors as if he could see through them to the death and devastation beyond. The claxon wailed as if in grief.

Quinn knelt beside him. Are you all right?

Conor met his gaze. After a moment, he nodded.

Quinn eased the boy to his feet and checked the corridor. It was empty. The comm was still silent. Maybe the system was down, or maybe the crew were all dead. Either way, they were on their own.

A red arrow on the wall signified the direction of the nearest lifeboat. Come on, Quinn said.

He set off at a rapid pace. Conor trailed after him in a daze.

~

Quinn reached the lifeboat station, half expecting someone to have beaten them to it and the berth to be empty, but to his relief, the indicator shone green. The ship shuddered like a creature in agony. Thin smoke and ozone hung in the air. Circuits shorted out somewhere. He had no way of knowing whether damage was confined to this deck or whether the entire ship was crippled. Sweat trickled down his temples as he mapped out a plan. He’d launch the lifeboat and then try to contact the Halley or any other colony ship still functioning and request a pickup.

He performed the airlock sequence as he remembered it from the safety presentation. Inside was a small, round compartment with a raised console at the centre. He pulled down one of the wall-mounted seats, strapped Conor in, and then took the seat opposite the panel. The lifeboat could carry twelve at a pinch, but they couldn’t afford to wait.

An amber light winked in front of him, but he had no idea what it meant. A calm, female voice enveloped them. Welcome. Safety protocol 12A is in effect. Do you wish to override?

The lifeboat began to creak and judder. Quinn gripped Conor’s arm with one hand and his armrest with the other. The lifeboat began to shake violently. Launch now!

"Launching."

Bolts shot back. Thrusters fired. Upward momentum slammed Quinn back into his seat. He screwed his eyes shut. Gradually, the pressure on his chest eased, and he opened his eyes. Conor was wide-eyed and breathing heavily but seemed uninjured.

Quinn forced a smile. Let’s see if anyone’s out there.

He hunted for the external-display switch.

Dad.

What is it?

Those people…

I know, Quinn said. Try to put it out of your mind.

Are… are we going to die?

Not if I can help it.

A rectangle of light appeared over the console, rotating slowly. The view showed hulks burning against a star-studded backdrop. Was one of them the Halley?

Computer. Interface, Quinn said.

"Working."

Transmit general distress call.

"Automatic beacon is already in effect."

Naturally. Has there been any response?

"Negative."

Quinn paused. Show me the positions of all lifeboats in flight.

"No other lifeboats are in flight."

What?

"No other lifeboats are—"

I heard you the first time. Glancing across, he saw Conor’s panicked expression.

Are you saying we’re the only survivors?

"No other life-support systems are functioning."

Quinn’s heart thumped in his chest. He felt as if he were falling headlong off a cliff. Close to twelve thousand people had left Eire colony. Were they all now dead?

He dragged himself back. Distance to nearest planetary system?

"Alpha Corvi—5.7 light years."

The lifeboat had only sub-light thrusters. They’d run out of fuel before they travelled more than a tiny fraction of that distance. The only choices before them ended in either quick or slow death.

The lifeboat started to grind and shake, rattling their seats and their teeth.

Interface. What’s happening? Quinn cried.

"Extreme gravimetric interference."

What? Explain.

"Space in the vicinity of this vessel is being distorted."

Cause?

"Unknown."

Was this what had destroyed the rest of the fleet?

Engage thrusters.

"Course?"

I don’t know. It doesn’t matter… away from this disturbance.

The lifeboat groaned as if in pain. Snap… snap… hiss. Fractures appeared on the wall opposite, leaking precious oxygen into space.

Quinn tore off his restraints, grabbed an emergency pack from beside his seat, and began slapping patches over the breaches. Gradually, the hissing abated, but the seals were only temporary.

"Thrusters are inoperative."

Dad! Conor pointed at the adjacent wall. A dark crack was spreading along its length.

Quinn dropped the emergency pack, tore open a locker, and dragged out a pair of pressure suits. Quick! Put this on.

Conor unbuckled his seat restraints, and together, they donned the suits. The hiss became a roar as air fled through the crack.

Quinn lowered his headpiece and felt the seals engage then turned to help his son. Conor’s tiny face was lost in the great glass visor.

The rush of air died away to silence. The vibration in the hull had also stopped.

Interface, Quinn called into his suit radio. Report external conditions.

"Spatial compression has ceased."

At least they were no longer being torn apart. Quinn checked the heads-up display. A little over ten hours of oxygen remained. A hundred, a thousand—it wouldn’t have mattered. They couldn’t possibly expect rescue this far out. Conor gazed at him with wide, trusting eyes. I should never have dragged him along. Now he’s going to die and all because of me.

A wild idea came to him. They could cower inside this broken tin can and wait for the end. Or they could embark on one final grand adventure together.

He smiled. Let’s go for a walk.

~

As Quinn operated the airlock controls, the lifeboat complained bitterly that unauthorised extravehicular activity would compromise atmospheric integrity. There’s no bloody air left in here, you idiot. That was what he wanted to say. Instead, he simply countered the lifeboat’s senseless prattle by repeating override until it finally acquiesced.

He stepped through the airlock feeling festive—almost euphoric. He’d heard stories about the odd things people did when faced with imminent death, like rushing back into burning buildings. When fear took over, common sense took flight. Or perhaps dying is the only time in our lives when we truly get to shake off our inhibitions.

The galactic arm spread out before them in a bright panoply. Conor’s eyes widened as he drank in the view. Dad? he said, breaking the silence. Does anyone know we’re here?

Quinn weighed his response. The lifeboat’s automatic beacon is still transmitting. Whoever’s out there will eventually hear us. Eire colony was the nearest human outpost. Someone there might well pick up the signal in forty years or so. I just wanted to say I’m proud of you, son. Last year, when your under-fourteen team made the semis, was one of the proudest moments of my life.

They floated together in the bejewelled blackness. Dad. Conor’s voice sounded strained.

What?

I don’t really like soccer.

You’re kidding.

No.

Why didn’t you say anything before?

I-I don’t know. You worked so hard to get me on the team, remember? The coach was a shipping agent who owed you a favour. Then Mom was so excited. She came to every game. I couldn’t just quit.

You did it for us?

Conor nodded inside his helmet. After practice, I used to sneak off to the gym.

What for?

Me and a few others would play tennis.

Tennis?

Yeah. Sorry, Dad.

Quinn smiled and shook his head. When we get back, the first thing I’m going to do is buy you a racket.

You think Mom would have been disappointed?

Mom was never disappointed by anything you did.

Not even when I rode the cultivator through her flower bed?

Quinn chuckled. You got me there. She was pretty mad at you over that. She made me ground you for a fortnight.

She got sick not long after that.

Quinn frowned. Her coughing had awakened him, but he’d dismissed it as nothing till he saw blood in her spittle. Rounds of doctors and treatments followed, but she just kept getting worse. I’m sorry.

Dad?

After she… was gone, I should’ve talked to you more. I guess I just shut down.

It’s okay, Dad.

No. No it isn’t. The stars swam before his eyes. I dragged you out here. I didn’t give a thought to what you wanted.

But I’ve had a terrific time. I made a lot of new friends. And Daisy is great.

Daisy?

Her father’s a mineralogist.

A girl, Quinn said.

Sure. We’ve been hanging around a lot after classes.

First my son’s a closet tennis player. Now he has a girlfriend. Quinn’s heart surged at the prospect of the man his son might become and then crashed in the realisation that he would never have that chance. Everyone was gone. This floating together in an empty universe was all they had left. What’s she like?

I dunno. We just seem to enjoy the same stuff. She laughs at my jokes.

Your mother never laughed at mine.

That’s ’cause they’re not very funny, Dad.

Hmmm. Quinn hunted for a guide star, like searching for a familiar friend in a crowd. You know, I always wanted to be an astronomer when I was growing up. The thought of what might lie out there in all that immenseness fascinated me. But my math was never up to scratch. I ended up in an office, listing inventories and organising schedules. Engines drive ships, but they can’t fly unless their paperwork’s in order, right?

The comm was silent. Conor’s suit drifted. Something’s wrong. Quinn peered through his son’s visor. The boy’s skin was pale, and his eyes were closed.

Conor?

No reaction. Quinn checked the readouts. CO2 was sky-high. Quinn reached for his airline, his gloved fingers fumbling at the connection. He pulled it free, hearing it hiss, and then attached it to the receptor on his son’s suit. It clicked home. As oxygen flowed into Conor’s suit, Quinn’s air reserves dropped. He didn’t care. Pressing his helmet against his son’s, he gripped the boy by the shoulders and shook him, willing him to wake up. The indicators continued to flatline.

Quinn cried out in agony. His chest heaved. Salt tears stung his eyes. Baring his teeth, he ripped out the airline and watched the last of his own air bleed away into space.

Part Two: The Room

Quinn opened his eyes. White light flooded in. He squeezed his eyelids shut and then opened them a crack. The whiteness was unremitting.

He remembered the attack—if that was what it had been. He and Conor had made it to the lifeboat. The lifeboat had been compromised. Then Conor’s suit had malfunctioned, and he had decided to pull out his airline. Yet his life had not ended. And now he was… where?

Hospital. He’d always associated white with hospitals. Some well-meaning idiot had plucked him from the jaws of suicide. But Conor was gone. Everything and everyone he cared about was gone. He wanted to find his saviour and punch him in the teeth.

Forcing his eyes open, he searched for the twinkling monitors and smiling nurses, but there were none. There was nothing except the all-pervading white.

He raised his head. His colony uniform was gone, and in its place was a simple white robe like a hospital gown.

Pain stabbed at his shoulder blades as he realised he was lying on a hard floor. He sat up. He was in an empty room. Floor, walls, and ceiling—all were blinding white, yet he couldn’t see any light source. Where was he? Perhaps the hospital staff had shoved him into a side room and then forgotten about him. He searched for the door but couldn’t see it. The only feature was a wide window that showcased a rolling meadow studded with twisted trees he didn’t recognise—the hospital grounds?

He got up, massaged the parts of him that ached, and went to the window. The meadow fell away to a line of blue-ridged hills in the distance. He turned slowly. Hello? The walls seemed to deaden sound. He raised his voice. Hello! Silence. Dammit—who’s in charge here?

He began a fingertip search of the bare wall. No lines, no cracks. If there was a door, it was invisible.

He tried to think. They were three weeks out from the nearest human settlement. Even if a stray ship had picked up their distress signal and dragged him aboard at the last moment, how did he wind up here?

Hello? Still nothing. He checked himself over. Other than the stiffness in his back and neck, he felt perfectly healthy. So what am I doing in a hospital? Maybe it wasn’t that sort of a hospital. Had the destruction of the fleet and then the loss of Conor turned his mind?

He began a self-diagnostic. My name is Regan Quinn. I am forty-one years, Earth standard. My birth identity code is 4376872*QUI. I am… I was travelling on a colony ship bound for Hades-7. Aside from a heightened state of agitation, which he took to be a natural consequence of being cooped up in this antiseptic room, he judged himself to be quite rational.

He inhaled, preparing to give full vent to his frustration, when a flicker caught the corner of his eye. The window shimmered… and the view shifted.

A crescent moon hung in a starry sky. He looked down on a valley of twinkling lights—some static, others moving in lines, like vehicles on a road. A settlement? He could hear the distant cheep… cheep of an animal.

He crossed to the window and brushed the glass with his fingertips. Was it a projection of some kind, designed to relieve stress? He didn’t recognise this scene any more than he had the previous one. Puzzled, he sat in the far corner, wrapped his arms around his legs, and gazed at the far-off town.

A lab rat. Researchers would place rats in mazes or confront them with challenges to test their responses, but he’d never heard of anyone doing that to another person. There had to be laws against that sort of thing. Besides, there was nothing for him to do here—no tasks to accomplish, no challenges to overcome. Just a window that—

There. The scene changed again. He was looking at a forest, or a jungle maybe. Huge variegated leaves waved almost within touching distance. Beyond them, a line of trees spouted yellow-and-orange fronds that brushed the ground. Above the trees were spindly towers topped by large silver discs. He could recall nothing like them either on Earth or any of its colony worlds.

He felt pressure on his bladder. I have to pee. He glanced around the room. Whoever had shoved him in here apparently hadn’t taken bodily functions into account.

Hey there! Silence. He shrugged inwardly. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

He got up and went to the corner opposite… then took a step back. What the—

The floor opened, forming a round depression that led into a smooth-sided hole. Cautiously, he gave release