“Listen to her voice,” he murmured as the song reverberated around the vast bowl of the chamber. “So much regret. And distress.”
“Fucking distressed me.” Seriously unsettled by the eerie tonalities, Rosenthal didn’t care if she stepped on the captain’s rhetorical toes. “What the hell was she doing out here? How the hell did she even get here, on an alien ship, crashed on an alien world? Poor thing.” She hefted her heavy F90 rifle, a companion to the ones carried by Cole and Ledward. “Not liking this one bit, Captain.”
Oram didn’t respond. He stared at the holo, fascinated as it shifted position inside the chamber. As they watched, the figure looked over its shoulder, silent for a long moment. As much as he was able to tell, the image looked nervous—or scared. Then the singing resumed, as ethereal as its insubstantial vocalist.
“If I were stuck here,” Rosenthal added under her breath, “I’d want to go home, too. Even to West Virginia, wherever it is. Or was.”
Unable to repress his curiosity any further, Oram approached the figure. It ignored him and continued its mournful lament. Until he swept his hand through it, at which point it shut off completely, sound as well as visual.
Having had enough of ghosts, Rosenthal had shifted her attention to the enormous slanted chair in the center of the room. Climbing into it, she played her light around the interior of what appeared to be additional instrumentation. As Oram had discovered, it was as dark and dead as the rest of the ship. Nothing reacted to the light from her beam, the movement of her limbs, or even contact with her hand. Everything she touched was as cold as the water that dripped and ran through the vessel’s disturbingly organic corridors.
“God,” she muttered, remembering the suits in the corridor and comparing them to the size of the console. “They were giants.”
“Maybe not.” Always hard to impress, Lopé used his light to study the exterior of the seat-console. “Maybe they were normal-sized, and we’re a race of midgets.”
Oram’s expression twisted. “I’m afraid I don’t believe in giants.”
Hanging from a chain around Rosenthal’s neck was an ancient symbol—a Star of David. Reaching into her shirt she pulled it out, brought it to her lips, and kissed it. Metal though it was, it was less cold than her surroundings.
“I do,” she said simply.
Not far from the chamber and off a side passage, Daniels and Walter encountered a number of smaller alcoves. Most held objects smooth, twisted, and generally incomprehensible. Both human and synthetic were shocked when they peered into one that had been turned into a semblance of living quarters—for a human.
Walter moved on to inspect another alcove further down, but Daniels lingered. As she shined her beam inside, it was a glint of gold that caught her eye and drew her attention. The last thing she expected to see on the alien vessel was a crucifix, but that’s exactly what it was, gold and straightforward, hanging by its chain from a bent piece of conduit.
She beckoned to Walter.
“Over here. I’ve got something.” Wary as always, she waited for him to join her so they could enter together.
The alcove had been made into the equivalent of a ship’s cabin. There was some furniture, plainly hand-made, a bed, and a desk with a chair. Atmospheric moisture had taken its toll on any of the contents that were organic in origin. Although it could use a polish, the gold crucifix and chain looked as new as the day they had been forged.
The same couldn’t be said for the moldy pile of bound paper lying on the desk. How and where the paper had been acquired, Daniels could not imagine. Perhaps, she mused, it had been manufactured on site. There was certainly plenty of wood available from which to make pulp.
She couldn’t remember ever seeing bound paper anywhere outside of a museum. Yet here it was, in as unlikely a place as could be envisioned. Sadly, much of it had been rotted by the constant moisture, and the contents rendered illegible. But the front still retained recognizable, embossed letters.
“Dr. Elizabeth… Shaw.” Daniels said it aloud.
Nearby, Walter spotted a transparent block. His light picked out an image of two smiling people, floating within it.
“Is that her?”
Walking over, Daniels picked up the block and studied the contents. Frozen in time, space, and the transparent material, a man and a woman stared back at her.
“Seeing that it’s in here, in this place, close to a journal with her name on it, it seems likely,” she answered, “but I don’t know.”
While she continued to examine the image block, Walter played his light into other corners of the alcove-cabin. There were clothes, neatly folded, with some of them decaying like the paper journal, only not as rapidly. Personal items. A smattering of small artifacts, likely gathered from the distant reaches of the ship. A helmet.
Walter went stock still as his light caught the logo on the spherical piece of protective gear. Since the helmet wasn’t made of paper, fabric, or any other material subject to normal weathering, the writing on it was still perfectly clear.
“Do you remember the Prometheus?” he asked.
Daniels turned away from the desk and back to him. “The ship that disappeared… yes. It was major news for a while. Then people forgot about it, just like they inevitably forget about everything.”
“Precisely,” he concurred. “That was ten years ago. The mission was funded by Weyland Industries.”
She stared at him. “So?”
“Look at this.” Picking up the helmet, he brought it close enough for her to see the logo. “If memory serves, Dr. Elizabeth Shaw was chief science officer of the Prometheus.”
Daniels was as stunned as the synthetic had been when his gaze had first picked out the logo on the helmet.
“Crazy.” She shook her head in amazement. “That explains all this.” With the sweep of a hand she took in the alcove and its contents. “But not how she ended up here.” Turning, she peered into the recesses of the makeshift habitat. “There’s no body. There have to be some remains somewhere.”
“Of course,” Walter agreed readily. “Remains. Somewhere.”
X
While less than inviting, the weather was nothing if not consistent. Afternoon looked the same as morning—overcast, gray, with occasional light mist and fog. Local fauna continued to be conspicuous by its absence.
Karine continued gathering, packaging, and labeling her specimens. Ledward continued…
She saw him standing and swaying. His gaze was unfocused, his balance decidedly questionable. Uncharacteristically, he failed to respond when she called to him.
Setting aside her work, she walked quickly over to him.
“Ledward, you don’t look… right.” She moved closer. “Stay there.”
The hasty medical check she performed was done without instruments, but it was enough to tell her he was ill. His eyes had gone colorless, and the rest of him didn’t look much better. Waxen skin, bright lips—if she didn’t know better, she would have said he had gone from healthy to anemic in the space of a few minutes. The speed at which the symptoms had overtaken him was shocking.
Also, she knew that individuals prone to anemia and other, often hereditary conditions were not accepted for colonization—much less into ship security.
He staggered and she took a step back. His breathing was hoarse and uneven. “I have to…” He stopped, started anew, as if the act of forming simple words was becoming difficult. “I have to sit. I’m sorry… I’m really sorry…”