By Jerry A. Boggs | September 2014
What could shock you more than knowing you’re going to die in just a few seconds?
It was Megan’s birthday, and Navigator Kasey Abernathy was depressed more than usual about her daughter’s death two years earlier. Today Megan would have been nine.
Abernathy stood in her mag boots inside the spacecraft’s weightlessness and sucked on a tube of cold coffee that had all the flavor of liquefied cardboard. For maybe the tenth time since reaching space, she fingered the wide purple head-band she’d slipped on post-launch to make sure her brown shoulder-length hair — a length that snubbed company rules — would not float around into her eyes.
She padded across the metal-plated deck in less-than-graceful steps, from the control room’s food-server niche back to her nav station inside The Raven. The craft was a new Earth-Mars shuttle fresh off the Mars City assembly line. She and test pilot Toby Lewis were putting it through the paces for their employer Creighton Astroline.
Abernathy’s depression, heart-ripping at any time, stabbed her harder each time she realized Megan had died at her hand. Not literally, but nearly so. She had been killed in a car crash simply because Abernathy had been too impatient to reboot her vehicle’s unresponsive guidance system. Unaccustomed to doing her own driving, Abernathy had begun a turn just a split-second too late on a curve one mile from their North Carolina home. The vehicle bounce-rolled down a steep embankment until it smashed into a huge oak tree. Abernathy incurred severe strains and a broken left shoulder, but little Megan had been crushed under her side of the car roof that ended up closer to Abernathy than Megan was.
As a tribute and offering to her daughter, Abernathy had cajoled the The Raven’s programmers, an agreeable if harried bunch, into reconfiguring the shuttle’s computer system to respond to “Megan” and speak in Megan’s voice — a task they’d completed after compiling a database of words from the volumes of Abernathy’s audio and video recordings of Megan. A voice mimic/synthesizer filled in the words Megan had never spoken. When the computer spoke in seven-year-old Megan’s voice, Abernathy could close her eyes and easily picture her daughter alive and standing in front of her.
But she soon realized that the reconfiguration hadn’t been the wisest thing to do. Hearing Megan’s voice didn’t serve as a tribute and fill her with anticipated joy as much as worsen her guilt and depression.
A huge lump took up residence in her throat, and welling tears stung her eyes. Swiping at the wetness with her fingers, she wished to God this test-flight would hurry up and end.
Pilot Toby Lewis, a 50-ish prickly sort who predictably had scoffed at Abernathy’s computer reconfiguration, didn’t turn his cold blue eyes her way as she strapped herself in. Instead, he hunched forward a bit and froze, his attention lasering on a read-out.
“What? How? Megan! Why are we—”
“Did you hear that?” Lewis looked sidelong at her. His face showed no emotion except for a twitch in the pallid flesh below his eyes.
Abernathy heard it. Faint at first, the noise quickly grew. A memory flashed before her eyes. When she was an 11-year-old, she often stood at the rusty cyclone fence surrounding a junkyard near her home and watched as the huge compacting press flattened old cars before they were hauled off to a recycling center for further processing. That sound, the hard, brutal crunching of metal, was what she now heard echoing throughout the control room.
The instrument panel in front of her got her attention. A small rectangular button that registered the health of the starboard thruster had switched from its steady green to flashing bright red: WARNING! WARNING!
“Crap!” She toggled a lever below a small screen, then recoiled. “The nacelle!” she shouted in disbelief at the view provided by an outside camera and light. “It’s collapsing! How’s that possible!”
“According to my skin sensors,” Megan broke in with an uncanny cheeriness, “the starboard thruster is malfunctioning. Will attempt to repair… Attempt failed.”
“You might also have noticed,” said Lewis, his face now blotchy red and his carotid artery visible on his neck, “that we just came to a dead stop. How’s that possible?”
“Megan!” yelled Abernathy. “Hail Ops with an SOS!”
“Sending SOS…SOS failed.”
Another warning flashed next to the first. Abernathy leaned and flipped another lever. “Now the port nacelle’s collapsing! We have no thrusters! Look — they’re…folding into the shuttle!”
Megan droned happily: “Port thruster malfunctioning. Will attempt to repair…. Attempt failed.”
“Shut the hell up, Megan!” snapped the pilot.
“Don’t talk to my dau—” Abernathy checked herself, breathed in, let her anger drain. They hardly needed to be at each other’s throat.
“I would like to think,” Lewis said in a tight voice, “that this craft is so screwed up structurally that somehow Mars’ gravity—”
“No no no! Even if Mars’ gravity were strong as Jupiter’s, it wouldn’t do this—”
“Don’t patronize me, Abernathy. I’m well aware of the effects of gravity.”
Metal groaned and screeched, the din rising to a near-deafening pitch. The control room began to vibrate under their feet. Black smoke drifted in, first in tendrils, then in billows all around them. The smell of burnt wiring and hydraulic fluid assailed their nostrils. In the overhead panels, a series of electrical sparkings sent small globes of fire showering down over them, burning flesh where their flight suits gave no cover.
Abernathy unbuckled, scrambled out of her seat, then crouched, clinging to the arm rest. She glanced wildly about in the smoke-filling control room, desperately trying to make sense of it all. No clues to the insanity were to be seen. And no escape route.
“Megan! What is going on—!” she screamed, her voice choking off.
“Multiple systems malfunctioning,” Megan replied with a giggle that Abernathy barely heard. “Will attempt to repair…. Attempt failed.” Megan set off the overhead red emergency flasher and the ear-splitting two-tone klaxon. “I’m afraid the shuttle must be abandoned.”
“Christ!” said Lewis, coughing, still in his seat. In the decreasing visibility, Abernathy could discern that his eyes were darting from one instrument to another. A diagnostic monitor, level with his head, began to flicker as green data feeds rapidly rolled up. Then in a spasm of blinking and fluttering, the monitor went black as coal. “The whole shuttle— We gotta get out! It’s — imploding!”
“All systems failing across the board,” said Megan sweetly, “including Megan. Will attempt to….”
In one violent motion, the ceiling of the control room shuddered, then dropped 12 inches, and the floor surged upward, slamming them up against the lowered ceiling like rag dolls.
In agony, they struggled in the weightlessness to position their feet and re-anchor themselves somewhere, anywhere, and gain control.
Another violent spasm of the shuttle, and a huge, jagged, roughly triangular opening appeared in the hull near the control console. Abernathy glimpsed the blackness of space. Instantly, the air and every object not secured to walls and consoles — papers, laptops, remnants of a recently eaten meal — were cannon-balled through the opening. Abernathy and Lewis, their arms flailing and grabbing, followed as if flung by a catapult. A sharp ragged edge of the breach sliced open Abernathy’s upper arm. The snag set her slowly swirling, like a bizarre ballerina, as she plunged out into the void. The blood erupting from her arm encircled her and froze so quickly that had there been air, she would have heard the soft tinkling of delicate wineglasses shattering. She made a desperate, soundless attempt to scream. Instantly, the saliva on her tongue boiled off.
Not yet lifeless, she could see the receding Raven with each turn of her bloating body, as if viewing it in a series of photographs. The shuttle had folded onto itself several times and was now a black and silver, beach-ball-sized clump from which streams of smoke belched.
Abernathy’s joints, because she had in effect been heaved in one second from the bottom of an ocean to its surface, were jack-hammered by the bends. Without atmospheric pressure, the blood in her veins and arteries boiled as she simultaneously began to quick-freeze on the outside.
In the seconds of living that remained, though her lungs screamed for air and her entire body throbbed in unbearable pain, Abernathy tried to focus on Mars, the sun, and the stars gently whirling around her, their light dim and blurred through her iced pupils. The near-absolute-zero cold dulled her pain. She suddenly felt relief, an almost euphoric calm. She thought, “I’m free at last. I’ll never again have to grieve over my precious Megan.”
Swirling away toward Mars, she caught one last shocking sight when she again turned back toward the shuttle. Perhaps one kilometer on the other side of the smoldering shuttle — her experience helped her judge the distance — was the answer to The Raven’s self-destruction: The sun-lit underside of a motionless, city-sized alien craft equipped with what appeared to be row upon row of huge turrets girding a massive bow that was pointed straight toward Earth.
Mars: Astronomy Now Magazine
Frightened Abernathy: defunct Imagination Sci-Fi Mag, June 1957, p. 6
First, consider this at Wikipedia:
“Much of the earnings of those in the top income bracket come from capital gains, interest, and dividends, which are taxed at a maximum of 20 percent.”
Then this at MarketWatch.com:
“The market is really just a yardstick of our confidence, right? Actually, no. That’s because most of us who own stocks don’t hold much and most people don’t own any stocks at all. How is the market a reflection of this silent majority? The reality is that stocks are not only owned by a minority of Americans, but by a minority of that minority – and a very wealthy minority at that. The wealthiest 5% of Americans own 82% of directly owned, publicly traded stocks, according to the Federal Reserve. Mr. Favilukis concluded ‘changes in inequality are correlated with stock returns’ and that ‘stock market participants are on average richer and benefit disproportionately from a stock market boom.'”
Now this at The Atlantic.com:
“It turns out that wealth inequality isn’t about the 1 percent v. the 99 percent at all. It’s about the 0.1 percent v. the 99.9 percent (or, really, the 0.01 percent vs. the 99.99 percent, if you like). Long-story-short is that this group, comprised mostly of bankers and CEOs, is riding the stock market to pick up extraordinary investment income. And it’s this investment income, rather than ordinary earned income, that’s creating this extraordinary wealth gap.”
The last four years witnessed a meteoric rise in the stock market, bought into mostly by the well-off. The wages of lower- and middle-income Americans remained stagnant.
If Mitt Romney or any other Republican were president, the dramatic difference between Wall Street and Main Street would have been seized upon by liberals and the Democratic Party as undeniable proof of Romney’s lack of concern for wealth/income equality, for the poor, for minorities, for women….
The sharp difference between the “Streets” would have been portrayed, if Romney were president, as an on-going Republican strategy to help the rich at the expense of the poor. That portrayal would have gotten top billing and been showcased daily by the liberal press, most significantly by ABC/CBS/NBC/MSNBC/CNN and The New York Times. Ideologues such as Ed Schultz, Al Sharpton, and Lawrence O’Donnell would be yelling for people to get out and protest, perhaps even to march on both Wall Street and the White House.
But because Obama is president, these pundits and the liberal press seem utterly oblivious of the Streets’ difference.
Regrettably, the same can apparently be said of the Republicans.
As a former HUD employee, I worked closely for years with HUD’s approved housing counseling agencies. The purpose of the agencies is to provide advice on buying a home, renting, defaults, foreclosures, and credit issues. A question for liberals and Democrats:
How many of you see the need for similar agencies to help low-wage Americans learn how to save and invest for their future — to begin doing as the wealthy do? Among low-wage earners are millions who play the lottery and casinos, smoke and drink excessively…. Many may be driven to do so by depression, but the point is they do it. Could not they be encouraged to forsake one or two of these vices and save, say, $20-$30 per month until they had enough money, first, to create an emergency fund, then enough to buy into a mutual fund (an easy way to invest in the stock market; I’ll plug Vanguard’s index funds), then continue saving until they had enough for a fund’s minimum investment on a regular basis — so that five, ten, or 20 years from now they could profit from the next meteoric rise in the stock market? (A main reason for the stock market’s run-up in recent years is that there is no competition from the low interest paid to savings accounts, CDs, and bonds, all of which are where low-wage earners traditionally put their savings.)
“…[S]tock prices, which are a function of perceived future earnings, would rise substantially, inducing a wealth effect as people see their 401(k)s and mutual funds rising in value.” -John Steele Gordon, in the Wall Street Journal, December 30, 2014, listing the reasons we should remove the corporate income tax.
But I can already hear the Robert Reichs: “Low-wage earners can’t save, low-wage earners can’t save!” That belief alone is the hammer-blow to most political efforts to help low-wage earners save and invest. But promulgating it, I suspect, is intended to divert attention from the very real possibility that if low earners begin investing in stocks, many of them may become a lot more supportive of business and might demand government do likewise — a conservative position countless liberals have long denounced as hurting the poor! If the poor are helped in this manner, many more might vote Republican.
“Most Americans didn’t share in those gains, however, because most people haven’t been able to save enough to invest in the stock market.” -Robert Reich, SFGate.com
“The poor really cannot afford NOT to save or buy insurance….they risk losing health, home and any assets.” -Patricia [last name withheld], commenting at The New York Times
Because of liberal/Democratic hammer-blows, one significant effort that would have helped low-wage earners invest — and have something to pass on to their children — failed rather quickly. In his second term, George W. Bush wanted to give young workers the option of investing part of their Social Security contributions in private accounts. The rate of return, he said, “would be higher than in the traditional system; the accumulation could be passed on to children and grandchildren.”
“Social Security is not sustainable over the long term at current benefit and tax rates. In 2010, the program paid more in benefits and expenses than it collected in taxes and other noninterest income….” –National Review, July 30, 2015
In my view, the Democrats who opposed Bush’s idea of giving the young the option of investing a small percentage of their income ought to hang their heads in shame.
One of the Democrats’ objections to the idea of young workers investing a very small amount in the stock market may have been that, in their view, even this relatively tiny investment by only a small segment of the population posed a risk to the Social Security fund and hence a risk to all recipients. (Think about that as a testament to the Democrats’ faith in the U.S. economy.) What they effectively said to young workers is this: “You cannot decide how to spend just a few dollars of your money which we forcefully take from you; we must spread low-wage earners’ wealth around.”
Now comes another liberal/Democratic hammer-blow — Obamacare. Its insurance subsidies may help extend the poor’s inability to save and invest: the low earners who are incentivized to cut their hours or to leave and stay out of the workforce, for whatever reason, will, despite all the benefits extolled by Democrats, have less money to put aside for their and their children’s futures. (Read about unintended consequences of the Affordable Care Act in “Does Obamacare foster early retirement?” at BankRate.com, whose poll found that “23 percent of Americans would retire early if they could get affordable health insurance outside of their jobs….”)
Obamacare is also causing involuntary cuts to low earners’ pay: “Cities, counties, public schools and community colleges around the country,” says The New York Times on February 21, 2014, “have limited or reduced the work hours of part-time employees to avoid having to provide them with health insurance under the Affordable Care Act, state and local officials say.” How many of these part-timers are seniors who must work to supplement a fixed-income pension, or who want to save and invest for their children to give them a leg up? Will Obama address this problem? Apparently not soon, given that “For months, Obama administration officials have played down reports that employers were limiting workers’ hours.”
Many Democrats, I sense, inwardly want the poor to believe they cannot save. After all, if the poor learn to “do as the wealthy do,” they might begin sympathizing with business and capitalism, and the Democratic Party might lose a huge portion of its dependent base (which Obamacare will enlarge).
As for President Obama, according to the Atlantic Monthly: “Indeed, Obama never uttered the words ‘inequality’ or ‘unequal’ in his 2008 convention speech. And while Obama used Mitt Romney’s wealth against him in 2012, he rarely discussed poverty on the stump.”
For more on Social Security reform and stock market investing, see the National Review’s “Get Rich or Die Trying,” by Kevin D. Williamson, author of the brilliant “The End is Near And It’s Going To Be Awesome.”
See Motley Fool’s advice to millennials.
“Some critics might charge that a Universal Savings Account [like Canada’s] can’t be “pro-family” if it also benefits unmarried millionaires. We disagree. Tax policy is not a tug of war between families and singles: All can win. The autonomy these accounts offer to everyone will make families become—and think like—millionaires.”
“Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.”
Wouldn’t he quickly have been dragged into an emergency meeting with a handful of panicky leading Democrats? “Barack, did you bang your head on a steel cabinet or something? Are you trying to lose your base? Please, get back out there and get our message right: ‘Ask not what you can do for your country, but what your country can do for you.’”
That reversal fairly well gauges where, on the spectrum of evolving political ideology, apparently most liberals have thus far landed since Democratic President John Kennedy uttered those famous words – now infamous, I suspect, to most modern Democrats – in his Inaugural Address on January 20, 1961.
Consider another change, the new trend of Democratic presidents (Obama and Clinton) winning a second term, a rarity for Democrats since FDR.
This trend, along with the Democrats’ shift toward asking for government help, might signal that the USA is lurching toward PIIGSville – the out-of-control spending ways of Portugal, Italy, Ireland, Greece, and Spain. Hence, PIIGS may soon become PIIGSUSA. I pronounce it pig-soosa.
As with PIIGS, the United States does seem to be witnessing more of what Fox News’ Bill O’Reilly calls people who in our “Where’s mine?” age “want stuff.” To them, the promise-them-something-for-nothing Obama is the perfect president; he is, in fact, the president who made roughly twice as many campaign promises – over 500 – as either George W. Bush or Bill Clinton.
In what demographic groups are there more people who demand stuff they believe can be provided for nothing (or by raising taxes on the rich — which to them is never a bad thing, or, more than likely, always a good thing)?
The young, women, and minorities. The groups that elected Obama in 2008 and again in 2012.
Let’s examine why.
In which of the following two groups are there more of those who are knowledgeable about the economy and politics:
High school grads or college grads? (Notice I didn’t ask, “Which group is more knowledgeable….?” That’s framing it the wrong way. If I had framed it that way and you replied, “College grads are more knowledgeable,” you’d suggest that you might believe and want others to believe, especially if you are a college grad yourself, that every college grad is more knowledgeable than every high school grad. Which is extremely improbable if not impossible. Such a suggestion is the danger of dispensing generalizations,* as the media in particular so often do, without, I think, realizing what they’re saying.)
No doubt many high school grads are quite knowledgeable about the economy and politics, and many college grads are not. In fact, some high school grads conceivably are more knowledgeable than all of the college grads.
But we are talking about which group has the bigger number of the knowledgeable. That is college grads by virtue of their higher education and their likely already greater job experience in politics and the economy.
What about the youth vs. the old? The same analysis applies as above: some youth know far more than many of the old. But by virtue of the old’s greater free time and longer experience with politics and economics (and bigger viewership of the network evening news**), the number of the old who are knowledgeable is bigger than the number of the young who are.
And minorities vs. whites? Again, the analysis applies. But whites’ greater number of college grads, office holders, and workers in politics and economics obviously means there are more whites (many more, given their much bigger population) who are knowledgeable about politics and economics.
Finally, what about men vs. women, whose vote Obama won by 11 percentage points? Once again, the analysis holds: there are a lot of women who know a lot more about politics and economics than a lot of men; as a matter of fact, hordes of women may know more than any man in the country.
But men don’t just outnumber women in jobs grounded in politics and economics. Based on my empirical evidence, men also outnumber women among individuals maintaining an active personal interest in the two topics. (My wife admits she doesn’t know anything about politics and economics, and doesn’t care to know. In the ’08 elections, she voted for Obama. We’re still married and talking to each other.) So reasonable people, I think, can say there are more men than women who are knowledgeable about politics and economics. This is supported in a study by the UK’s very liberal Guardian that says, “Women living in developed countries that promote gender equality, such as the U.S. and United Kingdom, either have equal — or even wider — knowledge gaps” than in less developed countries.
It appears the most inexperienced candidate was elected by the most inexperienced voters.
You already know my conclusion: the groups who have the bigger number of the less knowledgeable about how politics and the economy function, and who have the bigger number of those who’d likely adopt the credo “Ask what your country can do for you” because they falsely believe liberal politicians can give them “stuff” with little or no pain – these are the groups who are taking us inexorably down the PIIGSville lane, possibly to Obama’s and Democrats’ glee.
*Decades ago, I learned the value of not making generalizations (though I still make them when I’m too lazy, too tired, or too impatient to do it right!). A writer by the name of Gene Marine illustrated in the 1970s: He said you can’t say — and I take great liberties in my paraphrasing — “Men are bigger than women, suggesting to many that every man is bigger than every woman. Here’s how you laboriously must put it: The biggest men are bigger than the biggest women, and the smallest women are smaller than the smallest men. But in between, a huge number of men and women are the same size.” What this importantly means is that millions of big women are bigger than millions of small men.
**The evening network news programs report regularly on the economic riots and protests in Spain, Greece, and the other PIIGS countries. Thus, they serve somewhat as tutors on both economics and politics. Want to know whether the programs are watched more by the young or by the old? Hint: check out the ads on the news shows.
Young voters hit the polls in droves during the 2008 election and most cast their ballots for Barack Obama. And in 2012, 60% of millennials ages 18 to 29 voted for Obama; only 37% voted for Romney, according to exit polls by the National Election Pool. Voters over 40, on the other hand, were more likely to vote for Romney.
“…[O]ur young adults already have been molded to be the first generation of American socialists.
“It’s not some wacko conspiracy theory. It’s just research that shows the influence of our education system, media and pop culture have instilled in most young people a lack of understanding about economics and free markets, as well as a misconception about the proper role of government in our daily lives.”
“People respond to incentives, although not necessarily in ways that are predictable or manifest. Therefore, one of the most powerful laws in the universe is the law of unintended consequences.” –SuperFreakonomics
What are the unintended consequences as the growing number of insured Americans meets up with moral hazard and a growing shortage of doctors?
By Jerry A. Boggs | Last updated August 31, 2015 | Originally posted on May 21, 2012
Most of us drive our vehicles very carefully, even though we have insurance to cover accidents.
But suppose you had no insurance. Think how much more carefully you’d drive. And how much more slowly. Yes, you would. And you’d likely drive less. (And maybe walk more and become healthier for it.) I think one thing’s for sure: there would be a lot less dangerous texting while driving!
“With automobile collision insurance, one is more likely to venture forth on an icy night,” writes Harvard economist Richard Zeckhauser.
For many people, I suspect, the more vehicle insurance they have and the less their deductible, the more they might tend to drive and the faster and less guardedly. (To check that in yourself, keep imagining how you’d drive without insurance.) That means more accidents in which people are killed and injured. Vehicle insurance is a wonderful thing, preventing bankruptcies and poverty and bestowing peace of mind. But it is disquieting to know that insurance has the unintended consequence of providing these benefits at the cost of more accidents, more injuries, and more deaths than if no one had insurance.
In a report on how to fight pandemics, the March 2012 Discover magazine says the secret to fighting them is “knowing their real cause: disease factories built by people. Ironically, hospitals turn out to be highly efficient disease factories. They allow the proliferation and spread of dangerous germs among patients, and the evolution of those germs to extreme levels of virulence.”
Yet over a decade ago the news from the Journal of the American Medical Association (JAMA) was even more alarming:
“America’s healthcare system is the third leading cause of death in the U.S., causing between 230,000 and 284,000 fatalities per year, behind only heart disease and cancer.”
The report didn’t say the third leading cause of death is poor health. It said the healthcare system itself: in other words, our country’s third leading cause of death is the legions of good-intentioned doctors, nurses, and others whose ultimate duty is to help us avoid death.
“Our ever more sensitive technologies,” Dr. Atul Gawande, a public-health researcher, writes in the May 11, 2015 issue of The New Yorker, “turn up more and more abnormalities — cancers, clogged arteries, damaged-looking knees and backs — that aren’t actually causing problems and never will. And then we doctors try to fix them, even though the result is often more harm than good.”
JAMA provides a breakdown of the deaths caused by healthcare (for other breakdowns, go here):
- 12,000 deaths per year due to unnecessary surgery [Emphasis mine]
- 7,000 deaths per year due to medication errors in hospitals
- 20,000 deaths per year due to other errors in hospitals
- 80,000 deaths per year due to infections in hospitals
- 106,000 deaths per year due to negative effects of drugs* (See also the Nov. 19, 2012, report by Dr. Sanjay Gupta, CNN’s chief medical correspondent.)
“Pharmaceutical drugs are 62,000 times more likely to kill you than supplements.” –Dr. Mercola
To the JAMA list we must add the figures cited in September 2012 by Shannon Brownlee, Acting Director, Health Policy Program, New American Foundation: “The estimates are that tens of thousands of cancer deaths are being caused by medical radiation.” (CT scans, MRIs, etc.)
Then add the nearly 200,000 hospital patients who may be killed each year by blood clots following surgery or illness. (Older patients are also at a higher risk of having a heart attack following surgery for hip or knee replacement.) A growing problem, blood clots are the leading cause of preventable hospital deaths in the U.S., according to David Goldhill, author of the article “How American Healthcare Killed My Father” and the book “Catastrophic Care, released January 8, 2013, citing a report in The Wall Street Journal. (Watch Goldhill’s video.)
It’s almost enough to make one ask, “Why don’t we drop our health insurance except for catastrophic coverage and stay away from doctors except in a dire emergency?”
Of course, I’d never advocate getting rid of health insurance, catastrophes being one obvious need for it. But suppose, for a moment, that no one had health insurance. Because of the law of unintended consequences, lots of things could happen, good as well as bad. A good:
In 2008, shortly after the economic collapse, I was watching TV as a CNN reporter interviewed a woman on the street. She had just lost her job. The reporter asked how she was coping.
“Along with my job, I lost my health insurance,” she said [I paraphrase]. “Now I have to really be careful to watch what I eat, lose weight, exercise, and take better care of myself.” I got the impression that while she had health insurance, she tended to be a bit reckless with her health, figuring she was covered if she got sick.
In January 2014, I read this story:
Chelsea Byers of Flagstaff is insured for the first time in her life through Healthcare.gov and couldn’t be more pleased. She might even go skiing for the first time, now that any injuries from an accident would be covered. –Arizona Daily Sun, January 21, 2014
Some people, maybe many, take on more risk when they feel they have a safety net under them. That’s because, according to a Slate.com article, “Insurance is also the source of what economists call ‘moral hazard,’ where those who are protected against the consequences of their actions take greater risks than they otherwise would.” “The Oregon Health Insurance Experiment” adds: “Although health insurance is expected to improve health through increases in the quantity and quality of health care, it is also possible that by reducing the adverse financial consequences of poor health, health insurance may discourage investments in health and thereby worsen health outcomes.” In the May 5, 2013, Business Insider, Joe Weisenthal says of a study done by the RAND Corporation:
But the study also tracked the health outcomes of each group, and there the results were more surprising: With a few modest exceptions, the level of insurance had no significant effect on the participants’ actual wellness.
In that study, did moral hazard mitigate the benefit of insurance on wellness, since the well-insured might generally be less vigilant about watching their health than the poorly-insured and the uninsured? Similarly, will moral hazard, along with the patient harm created by the increased stress on doctors by the increased demand for their services, offset the wellness gains promised under Obamacare despite its preventative services provisions?
A hint that moral hazard may indeed undermine Obamacare’s goal of better overall health is in a July 2, 2012, Time.com’s commentary: “But in the end, it’s hardly certain that health care for all will give us a healthier nation. It seems logical that when we have insurance, we are more likely to access and utilize healthcare resources, and so we will be healthier. But there’s increasing evidence showing that much of the care we receive probably provides marginal clinical benefit, and that more care isn’t always better. Good health is still determined more by personal choices than insurance, hospitals and procedures.”
“To be clear, there will always be some baseline benefit to being insured versus not being insured, even if you account for the moral hazard. A major Institute of Medicine report in 2009 found that uninsured adults are more likely to be diagnosed at an advanced stage of cancer, more likely to die from a heart attack and less likely to recover from a serious injury.” –Dr. Sanjay Gupta
(The number of people affected by moral hazard can depend on the type of moral hazard; i.e., private insurance vs. a government bailout, which is also insurance. And how legitimate or valid one sees moral hazard may depend on one’s political bent. Liberal Times columnist Joe Klein may not think moral hazard is triggered by health insurance for individuals, but he apparently does think it’s triggered by government bailouts to big banks, which he ought to know aren’t things but collections of people who make decisions just like people such as CNN’s woman on the street. Says Klein, “Sadly, neither President Obama nor Mitt Romney have addressed the ‘moral hazard’ that accrues from having banks that are too big too fail….” See a New York Times argument. There needs to be a non-partisan study of the real, determinable effects of moral hazard.)
Returning to CNN’s interviewed woman: Without health insurance, she became like the driver without car insurance.
And what if insurance — liability insurance for protection against malpractice lawsuits — were unavailable to doctors? Would doctors, too, become like the driver with no car insurance, the result being more-careful doctors, which is to say less injury and death to patients under their care? (Without liability insurance, of course, we’d no doubt have fewer doctors, and healthcare would be harder to get — but perhaps that would not be entirely bad!)
How many more people, because they now have insurance, will pay less attention to diet and exercise like CNN’s woman on the street, and develop medical problems (such as diabetes) that require visits to the doctor that they would not have had to make while uninsured and cautious?
Enter President Obama’s Affordable Care Act (ACA), which requires millions of uninsured to buy insurance.
In 2014, the ACA may bring into the healthcare system an estimated 32 million newly insured people, mostly young adults (though an astonishing 26 million other people will be left out, meaning the ACA is not very universal). Economic studies indicate that these young adults “will try to consume twice as much medical care as they have been,” often, I suspect, merely “to get my money’s worth.” (The rate of consumption may be mitigated by high deductibles and co-pays.) Moreover, the ACA will bring countless others into the healthcare system more often. It’s obviously supposed to do all that, since Mr. Obama rightly wants to spread the health around.
He also wants to spread Medicaid around to include millions of the uninsured poor. Yet according to a large study by the University of Virginia, surgical patients on Medicaid, the expansion of which President Obama himself described as putting “more people in a broken system,” are 97% more likely to die than those with private insurance and 13 percent more likely to die than those with no insurance at all.
“It’s like we’re handing out bus tickets and the bus is already full.” -Perry Pugno, vice-president for medical education at the American Academy of Family Physicians, Bloomberg’s “Doctors Brace for Health Law’s Surge of Ailing Patients,” September 24, 2013
And let’s not forget that every day for the next 18 years, 10,000 Baby Boomers, whose health on average is very poor and getting worse, will reach age 65 and become eligible for Medicare. Many Boomers will seek healthcare services before losing their employer insurance, and many others who’d had no insurance and had put off healthcare will put it off no longer.
Moreover, we have a fast-growing obesity epidemic (chart), especially among the young, for whom obesity, a condition worse than smoking, has jumped from 9% of the adolescent population in 2000 to 23% in 2008, and threatening to overwhelm our health care system. The main threat is the costly diabetes that is often obesity’s side effect — some people call it diabesity — and the costly Alzheimer’s disease that is often diabetes’ side effect. (But see a less alarming report on obesity at PsychologyToday.com.)
We also have these troubles brewing:
- More than four in 10 U.S. physicians said they were emotionally exhausted or felt a high degree of cynicism, or “depersonalization,” toward their patients, according to researchers whose findings appeared in the Archives of Internal Medicine.
- “The high rate of burnout has consequences not only for the individual physicians, but also for the patients they are caring for”…. –Reuters, August 21, 2012; more at Medscape.com in a report dated March 28, 2013
- Six in 10 physicians said it is likely many of their colleagues will retire earlier than planned in the next 1 to 3 years. –Every Day Health, March 21, 2013. Even more doctors may want to retire earlier than planned if Kathleen Murphy, running for the House of Delegates, has her way: she wants to require Virginia doctors to accept Medicare and Medicaid patients despite these insurers’ much lower reimbursements.
The pressure and stress on doctors may explain why President and CEO of the Mayo Clinic John Noseworthy, drawing from his nearly 30 years as a neurologist, could say of his experience even before the Obamacare patient surge: “Probably 30 percent of the patients I saw were misdiagnosed, had the wrong tests done.” (He hopes this is redressed by modernizing reimbursement methods to “motivate and stimulate moving towards a more efficient system.”)
Finally, “one flaw in the Affordable Care Act,” says Business Week, “is that by prohibiting insurers from taking health risks into account in setting rates, it gives people no incentive to lower their premiums by losing weight….”
Against this worrisome backdrop, millions more may soon engage the overburdened healthcare providers who are, according to JAMA, our nation’s third biggest killer.
End-runs are underway, though possibly thwarted by dubious funding, to address the insufficient number of primary care physicians: “As Obamacare Looms, New Medical Schools Open To Address Doctor Shortage.” (See also this Bloomberg report.)
They’d better hurry. The number of doctors working less than full time is increasing at an alarming rate: “In 2011, 22% of male physicians and 44% of female physicians worked less than full time, up from 7% of men and 29% of women from Cejka’s 2005 survey.”
(See a contrary view: “We don’t need more doctors.”)
A monkey wrench has already been hurled into the efforts to address the U.S. shortage of 91,000 doctors expected by 2020 (according to the September 2012 Wired magazine): The Association of American Medical Colleges “worries that the funding may soon not be there to support residency programs for this larger number of medical school graduates in the next two to three years. The Balanced Budget Act of 1997 [enacted in President Bill Clinton’s second term] capped the number of available slots for residents coming out of medical school as part of the law’s reduction in spending on Medicare, which largely funds residency programs.”
Once Obamacare is fully up and running — but with the cart before the horse — could our healthcare system then become, according to the audio book “Killer Cure,” the second leading cause of death? Or even, in the worst of ironies, the first?
I ponder this as I listen to the PBS Frontline documentary, “Hunting the Nightmare Bacteria,” which aired October 22, 2013. Its subtext is that at a time when bacteria are becoming highly resistant to antibiotics, makers of antibiotics are getting out of the business — this at a time when Obamacare will bring thousands of more people into hospitals, most of which, says Frontline, “aren’t required to report outbreaks to the government, and most won’t talk publicly about them.”
I realize the nature of politics tends to be “You must get what you can when you can in whatever form you can.” (That’s largely why government inherently is ineffective.) But when you do that and forge ahead despite the torpedoes in such an important, complex, vast-scale undertaking as the Affordable Care Act, you are, I think, flirting with disaster.
Do we really know what we’re doing?
“Prescription Drugs More Deadly Than Car Accidents, Guns, and Suicide” -The Daily Beast, May 25, 2014
“We’re Still Not Tracking Patient Harm” -ProPublica, July 17, 2014
The UK’s universal healthcare system produces a huge demand on medical services. To read about the consequences at one hospital, where hundreds of deaths occurred needlessly, go here. Also read “Britain told social inequality has created ‘public health timebomb’.”
* Source list regarding prescription drug abuse, compiled by Mercola.com:
- Morbidity and Mortality Weekly January 13, 2012 / 61(01);10-13
- CNN November 14, 2012
- Congressional Testimony May 24, 2011
- CNN November 14, 2012
- NYTimes.com April 20, 2007
- University of North Carolina April 25, 2011
- CNN November 15, 2012
- JAMA. 1998 Apr 15;279(15):1200-5.
- Altern Med Rev. 2010 Dec;15(4):337-44.
- Arthritis & Rheumatism, Volume 54, Issue 11, pages 3452–3464, November 2006
- The Journal of Neuroscience, 6 April 2011, 31(14): 5540-554
- Psychol Sci. 2006 Dec;17(12):1032-9.
For those who think the answer is a UK-styled healthcare system run entirely by the federal government:
By Barbara Kiviat | Time Magazine | April 19, 2010
American consumerism is a force to be reckoned with. Turn a few hundred million of the world’s most sophisticated shoppers loose on an industry, and watch companies scramble after their business. In realms from washing machines to stock trades, quality goes up and price comes down as companies look for an edge over the next guy to win customer dollars.
Not in health care. Congress has overhauled the industry, but the revolution has largely been about increasing access to health care, not simplifying it. We are left with the same opaque system of perverse incentives–paying providers for more tests and procedures, not necessarily effective ones. And we lack even the most basic element of the free market: price information. I recently went to a doctor and asked how much my office visit and X-ray would cost. Staffers told me that they didn’t know and, since I have insurance, I shouldn’t care. (See what health care reform means for you.)
I should care, though. In fact, I do. There are many reasons health care costs are spiraling out of control, but the simplest one to understand is this: nobody knows what anything costs. Providers get paid through a tangle of insurance-company agreements and billing schedules that change from patient to patient. No wonder a hospital can sneak a $100 box of Kleenex onto your bill and the price of an MRI can range from a few hundred to a few thousand dollars. If you don’t know what something costs, you can’t know if it costs too much.
There is a bill in Congress that would attempt to fill in the blanks. The Transparency in All Health Care Pricing Act of 2010 would require health care providers–including hospitals, physicians, nurses, pharmacies, pharmaceutical manufacturers, dentists and insurers–to post prices, including on the Internet. Discounts and subsidies would be listed too. “The public will discover what people in health care already understand, that the price of any health care service is whatever they can get,” says Representative Steve Kagen, a doctor who ran a practice for 25 years before being elected to Congress.
High-deductible health insurance, which shifts greater costs to individuals, already works on the premise that enlisting the price-sensitive American consumer will lead to a more efficient marketplace. When people have skin in the game, they should use health care more prudently. But so far, such efforts have reached only a small portion of the population and have had little measurable impact on health care costs.
One reason can be found in New Hampshire, where the government has been posting on a website the cost of 31 common procedures, like ultrasounds and knee surgery, at medical facilities around the state. According to an analysis by New Hampshire’s insurance department and the nonpartisan Washington think tank the Center for Studying Health System Change, the range of prices charged by providers hasn’t narrowed. But that has less to do with consumer behavior–surgical and imaging centers report an uptick in patients selecting facilities by price–and more to do with the fact that most providers in New Hampshire, a fairly rural state, don’t face much competition. There is anecdotal evidence, though, that some high-cost hospitals haven’t upped rates as fast because those changes would be quickly and publicly visible.
Now consider LASIK. Over a decade, the cost of the conventional version of the sight-correction surgery has dropped 30% after inflation is taken into account, according to the Center for Studying Health System Change. As doctors rushed to add the lucrative procedure, the market was flooded with price signals about how cheap the surgery could be. Unlike with other procedures, such as in vitro fertilization and getting dental crowns, obtaining an estimate for LASIK usually didn’t require an office visit. A phone call would do. The result: even though people tended not to cross certain price bands (at some point, “cheap” signals low quality), transparency still drove down prices through competition. When consumers have clear alternatives, posting prices works.
But perhaps even when the supply of doctors (or hospitals, or pharmacies) is limited, consumers can benefit. After all, what a person really cares about isn’t just price, but price matched against quality and outcome. If your doctor recommends a digital mammogram, maybe the high quote on the sheet she hands you will prompt you to ask why the scan needs to be digital instead of on film. Does a digital scan lead to better results? In some cases it doesn’t. Next thing you know, you’re having a conversation with your doctor about what’s going on and why, the sort of conversation people should have with their doctors but rarely do. Nothing gets shopaholic Americans talking like a price tag. And that may have benefits well beyond cost control.
Copyright © March 2013 Jerry A. Boggs
Dedicated to my adorable granddaughter, Olivia, whom I hope to inspire, for as long as I live, to look upward, to gaze beyond the moon, beyond the sun, and to learn, and to know, and to wonder….
They fled one disaster only to find themselves facing another. Then they stumbled onto something that shocked them to the core.
The thundering, brutal vibration whipped his weakened arms against something hard, again and again. Where the hell was he? In a box? A coffin? Was he speeding down the world’s worst road in the world’s loudest truck?
Thirty merciless seconds dragged by before he gained the strength to pin his arms against his sides and grip his thighs. He might have been juddered senseless if not for the padding underneath him and the restraints across his forehead, chest, and ankles. Did his captor have a kind streak?
He was about to open his mouth and shout “Let me out of here!” when he was jolted by:
“Captain Jason Pearce.”
The metallic female voice rang out even above the fierce booming. It blared from above and reverberated in all directions.
“Are you fully awake and comprehending, Captain?”
He realized he hadn’t opened his eyes — couldn’t open them. But he knew he was in total darkness. No light passed through his eyelids. He worked his jaw, struggled to clear the slime in his throat.
“Who…the hell…are you?” His garbled voice shook in the vibration. “Where am I? Hold on. I’m…Jason–?”
The memories crashed in and sent a shock wave through him. He was aboard Hope, the craft that was supposed to have delivered him and 104 others to a new home!
“Yes. Air is reestablished,” the voice said. “Nutrients were supplied. Atmosphere is reestablished. Avionics and lighting up. Your cylinder’s preservation gel has been siphoned away. Your brain and heart are functioning normally. The Restoration Handbook states that all personnel must remain on board for three hours to allow their body’s gel residue to be fully purged by the ship’s oxygen.”
The gel residue thinly coated him from head to toe and smelled a bit like charcoal. He brought a hand up and cleared his eyelids, fighting against the angry vibration. His gummy eyes finally opened. In the dim red light, he saw his cylinder’s translucent canopy less than ten inches from his nose.
He realized that the rattling, now like a series of rapid explosions, had joggled awake the ship’s computer. The computer in turn had processed him from his preserved state – had “restored” him, as the scientists would’ve said.
He was taking a thrashing, but at least he had survived. Thanks to the gel.
The final instruction regarding the gel and other matters had been given to him by Project Manager Victor Powell:
“You’ll have the Restoration Handbook but won’t have much need for it. Just direct your questions about the gel and almost everything else to the AI. It will handle the whole shebang. Your role is minimal, a backup if the AI fails. The only area the AI can’t help – and you can thank the corner-and-cost-cutters for that – is medical, in cases of injury or illness. You’ll have a doctor on board for that.”
The AI was called DORIS, the acronym for Destiny Organization’s Restoration and Invigoration System. DORIS’ data and computational/analysis capability had been rated by Destiny’s engineers as 99 percent reliable and one percent error-prone.
“Primary velocity was reduced 85 percent prior to approach,” DORIS said. “To terminate the roughness of atmosphere-entry and mitigate restoration and invigoration, I am taking Hope into orbit above the atmosphere.”
Moments later, the roar and bone-buffeting vibration subsided. Pearce heard only the distant, low whine of the ship’s engine.
His nerves didn’t settle down with the ship. Too many questions fired at him like a nail gun. Would the air really be breathable on the surface? Would they find water? Food sources? Would he lead well enough to hold everything together just through the next 48 hours?
Wait. One stomach-churning worry at a time. First, they had to set down on the planet in one piece.
“Prior to restoring you,” DORIS said, “I restored and invigorated Dr. Angela Diaz. Shortly she will be able to begin making rounds. I am proceeding with Commander Faye Sullivan, Lieutenant Tom Ross, Ensign Olivia Appleton, then the civilians.”
“DORIS, were you trying to kill us in our cylinders? Why the hell did we stay in the atmosphere for more than a few seconds? We could’ve been badly hurt. Arms broken.”
“The atmosphere extends higher than my data shows. Hence, the ship penetrated too deeply. Hope was programmed to enter the exosphere for ten seconds to power me up. I was programmed to initiate your and Dr. Diaz’ restoration immediately. The ship remained in the atmosphere three minutes and 42 seconds longer than it should have.”
A chill ran up Pearce’s spine. Could 99-percent reliable DORIS already have screwed up with her one percent unreliable? Even if she were 100 percent reliable, how could he put full faith in artificial intelligence after all the negative commentary he’d read?
Would her errors always be unintentional? He’d read about that, too.
Snap out of it, he told himself. He’d also read quite a bit pro-AI. And Victor Powell had advised him DORIS wasn’t a concern.
Still, doubt about getting safely to the planet’s surface gnawed at his gut.
A heavy click blasted his ears. The canopy rotated open, mewling on its way underneath.
His bruised arms smarting, he unbuckled his mesh restraints. He then steered himself in the weightlessness to a sitting position.
Holding on with one hand, he wiped the gel residue off using the towel from a cylinder drawer containing his personal items. He dressed, finishing with his dark-blue Captain’s jumpsuit, then his mag-boots.
He gazed down the length of the ship. Hope’s primary compartment sprawled long and wide under a low arched ceiling. The evenly spaced, curved support beams reminded him of whale ribs.
It was a sight he prayed he hadn’t seen for a length of time dizzying to think about.
The five columns of the other 100 preservation cylinders, giant larvae gleaming in the wall lights’ dusky red glow, stretched to the far bulkhead wall, behind which supplies were stored.
The cylinders’ occupants would soon emerge. Each except for the children possessed dual skills in such fields as carpentry, architecture, farming, community organization, and law and order. All had volunteered and been selected by a lottery.
Pearce’s thoughts returned to the wrap-up of his final briefing in the office of Project Survival’s increasingly sullen manager….
Victor Powell had been ordered by the U.S. president to stay on and complete the mission. Military troops were posted to make sure he did. Two of them stood on the other side of the door, listening, each holding an M36 rifle Powell knew had been programmed to fire only when he was the target.
“You know the finals were completed without the usual certifications,” the unshaven, drained-looking Powell said. “Not enough time or people. I did some quick diagnostics on DORIS and the cylinders four days ago during a walk-through in those god-awful mag-boots. I’m sure I was a real hoot to the troops that went up with me — and to those idiot union workers still there doing structural checks.”
Pearce thought it best to say nothing.
“The secondary ship…,” Powell said. “Damn it, it’ll just go to waste!” He swept a mess of papers onto the floor, some scattering at Pearce’s feet.
“Mars will never be son-of-a-bitching colonized! I – we were so close! All we needed was four stinking more months and everything would’ve been in place for a go! If only the grav tug rocket hadn’t malfunctioned. Those worthless union people! And screw those greedy-ass nations that left everything to us!”
He sat motionless for a moment, then sniffed. “If you think the Pilgrims had to rejigger their lifestyle…. Assuming, of course, you get there. And survive past the first day or two.”
He leaned back and smirked. “Tell me, Mr. Captain Man, do you think we humans deserve to live on?”
“We’ve failed. We’re violent and full of hate, wars almost everywhere. The world has allowed unions to strangle everything. We don’t know how to manage ourselves. It’s our just desserts we’re getting now. Face it, 99.9 percent of all species have gone down this road. Why should it be any different for humans? We’re just another animal.”
Before Pearce could respond, Powell frowned and said, “That’s it. My last words to you?” He flipped a hand. “Just get out.”
Outside the office, the Captain paused inches from the closed door.
“Bastard,” he said, too low for the soldiers to hear.
Powell had never trafficked in warmth, he knew, recalling the gift of a broken nose the project manager had bestowed on a union leader who refused to end a strike. But this was the first time he had given Pearce the genuine scum-bag treatment.
He sighed. He had to chalk it all up to one simple, brutal truth: the man knew all was lost for him, and soon he would be dead….
The other cylinders in Pearce’s row clicked and whirred. Moments later, he heard Commander Faye Sullivan, his 35-year-old First Officer whom he’d admired for several years and called Sull, say in a hoarse whisper, “If this worked, I’m a six-legged Easter bunny.”
She’d donned a jumpsuit identical to his except for her commander’s insignia. Her shoulder-length black hair, in Hope’s weightlessness, drifted about her head and face like sea grasses in gentle currents. It would soon be bound up on the back of her head.
The Captain stared as he took in her gaunt, blanched appearance.
She smiled. “Pretty sure you look every bit as strange as I do. Wouldn’t worry. You’ll get your rugged handsomeness back in no time.”
“Yeah?” He was relieved that she sounded okay and looked as good as could be expected. “So will you — I mean, get your, uh, prettiness…back.”
She chuckled, her pleasant gaze lingering, then withering.
“If it worked, guess we’ll know soon enough,” he said. “Glad we’re not DOA, wherever we are.”
Despite his pre-flight psych counseling, grief sucker-punched him when he realized how much he already missed his parents, his friends, his neighbors….
He even missed his daily routine. He’d rise early in his Florida coastal bungalow, pad into the kitchen, check the sky through the window over the sink, and collect his cereal and coffee. He’d then settle down with his iPad to pore over his latest writing project, “What ET Really Looks Like: Not So Different.” His premise was based on the convergent-evolution theory stating that species from different taxonomic groups evolve toward a similar form.
He’d taken a writing course beforehand. “Before laying down one word,” the instructor had said, “gather all available facts and examine them, think carefully about each. See where they lead.” That was the lesson drilled into his head over and over.
His eyes stung when he could no longer hold back thoughts of his ill wife Amy. He’d spent many heart-breaking months taking care of her, until she, never a smoker, succumbed to lung cancer in a hospital bed six months before Hope left.
All this was gone. Maybe unthinkably long gone.
A figure approached. It was Lieutenant Commander Angela Diaz, Hope’s Flight Surgeon and counselor. “On the wrong side of 50,” as she put it, she preferred the tag “Doc” over “Lt. Commander.” In the weeks before launch, she discussed with everyone ways to cope with what lay ahead – though she’d admitted that what lay ahead wasn’t something she could easily imagine.
Near-zombie-looking like everyone else, Doc apparently had already come to terms with their staggering achievement. She smoothed out her white smock with one hand and frowned at the med scanner held in the other. Both the smock and the scanner had been pulled from one of the wall storage units containing small items of immediate need.
“Ahhh! Who can expect me to do much with this piece of retro crap?”
She sighed richly, then studied the Captain over the top of her glasses.
“How are you coming along?”
He tilted his head toward her scanner. “Weight considerations, natch. Must have beat out the latest version by at least a milligram. Hey, I’ve been shaken worse than a Moscow Mule just like all the rest of us, to answer your question.”
He waved off her offer to scan his vitals. “I’m good with DORIS nominally green-lighting me — with her limited capability. Damn near feel fine, now that I’ve stopped marinating in my misery. Doc, I need all personnel except my crew secured in the rear seats to wait for my instructions from the cockpit.”
Her eyes gauged him. Presumably she was assuring herself he was up to par. She then nodded a “got it,” the motion bouncing her grey-streaked, banded hair, and left, as purposefully as her mag-boots would allow.
“Just remember,” she said without looking back, “my limited equipment means we’ll run into trouble if there’s an emergency. Contagion or such.”
She stopped, turned her head his way again. “Oh, one more thing. DORIS says it’s 90 degrees Fahrenheit in most of the desirable landing sites in the summer hemisphere. Thanks in advance for remembering my low heat tolerance and not including me in your away team. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have made old bones.”
Pearce remembered the thyrotoxicosis she had developed in recent months. If the landing site turned out to be a hot house, she’d stay inside for the remaining days of the ship’s cooler interior, venturing out on short stints only as necessary. No need for her to suffer through the adjustment until she had to.
He levered himself off the pad and let his mag-boots engage. He watched Diaz’ less-than-graceful retreat — heel-toe, heel-toe. Now that the lights had finally brightened up, his gaze drifted past her to the stirring civilians. Most were talking, examining themselves and each other, and flexing their limbs. Some were high-fiving. But more than a few stood bent and sobbing uncontrollably.
Evidently doing fine was 27-year-old Lieutenant Tom Ross, flexing his joints at his cylinder on the other side of Commander Sullivan’s. His dark-brown hair billowed atop his rangy, six-foot-three frame.
When penciled in for Project Survival, Ross had been serving for nearly a year as a combat flight instructor at Naval Air Station Key West. Before the Navy, he had trained in emergency care. To maintain his medical skills, he had often volunteered at the NAS Key West hospital.
He stopped flexing and planted his eyes on 25-year-old Ensign Olivia Appleton standing at the cylinder next to his.
“’Morning, Livvy,” he said with a grin. “Sleep well? Say, just wondering – you jonesing for me again yet? Or still working that same old attack-doggy persona of – we hope – oh-so-long ago?”
She gave her jumpsuit a few yanks at the hips and knees.
“Problem with your onesie?” Ross said. “Too small probably.”
“Don’t crank me so soon, Tommy-boy. I attack only he who’s got it coming. Go stick your Roman nose in somebody else’s business.”
Four months prior to launch, Appleton had been transferred from Radiation Safety Training to NAS Key West as one of Ross’s combat-flight students. She soon found herself romantically involved with the Lieutenant.
She turned her back on him, twisting her russet hair, shoulder-length in gravity, into a floating mess around her head. Banding it at the back, she said, “By the way, was it necessary to watch me dress?”
Ross’s face contorted. “Still wearing your hate face. Got some deep scar tissue, y’know that, Appleworm? Oh, a by-the-way for you: Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Pearce’s jaw dropped. Without acknowledging anyone else around them, and despite the nightmare they’d all been through – and the hellish uncertainty still awaiting them – the two of them were picking up right where they’d left off before Hope launched.
He’d heard the backstory on the couple, how their marriage plans had been whacked a few weeks before departure.
Early one morning Appleton had wanted to surprise Ross with a breakfast carry-out from a restaurant on the base where they and the rest of Hope’s passengers were secretly sequestered and being prepared.
Approaching Ross’s small condo in her car, she spotted him outside standing beside a white SUV, a long-haired blonde at the wheel. Ross bent and kissed the woman, then stood waving as she pulled away.
Ross explained that she was a close cousin he’d grown up with. She’d obtained permission to stop by and congratulate him on his engagement and see him one last time before leaving to be with her family.
Appleton sneered. “And if I called her, I’d hear a lie you two concocted just in case!”
In despair over a string of bad relationships that included a brief marriage, she had been convinced she’d mindlessly dived into this latest one as a kind of solace for the horrors awaiting her and everyone else. She’d given back – thrown back – the ring that Ross supposedly still carried in a zipped pocket.
Hearing the story, Pearce had worried the couple might be a problem, but it was too late to find and prepare replacements.
He gestured for the two, still antagonizing each other, and Commander Faye Sullivan to follow him.
“DORIS, open the cockpit door.”
They entered the low-lit compartment and the bickering between Ross and Appleton evaporated. All eyes riveted on the scene occupying most of a side viewing window: the huge, bright, fuzzy arc of the planet’s night side against the black oblivion of space.
Pearce and Sullivan took the two forward seats at the curved instrument panel.
“Still having a hard time processing this,” she said.
Pearce pulled the Captain’s Log from his safe and began his update, his trembling hand a hindrance.
Sullivan let her breath out. She keyed her access code into the chronometer.
“No one needs to be reminded,” Appleton said, her voice low and taut, “but our departure date was June 3, 2037–“
“Then why remind–” Ross said.
“Brace yourself.” Sullivan toggled a switch.
Ross snorted. “Cruel joke’s all I’m bracing for.”
Red lights sputtered behind a read-out panel. Numbers that were being calculated from a shielded radioactive-decay-based “clock” raced incomprehensibly fast.
An agonizing 20 seconds later they stopped. The cockpit’s occupants sat dumb-founded.
“DORIS, cockpit only,” Pearce said, laying aside his log without taking his eyes off the numbers. “From your own internal system, can you independently confirm the date we see?” His breathing halted as he waited for what seemed an eternity.
“The current Earth time and date,” DORIS replied without the reverberation normally heard throughout the ship, “are as follows: 3:19 p.m., Wednesday, December 9, 139,023.”
Pearce felt his cheek twitch. He looked at the commander. She looked at him. Neither spoke.
He knew the AI wasn’t 100 percent error free. “DORIS, scrub your date and time data, recalculate, and give us just the Earth year.”
Three seconds later: “The Earth year, Captain Pearce, is 139,023.”
Ross let out a soft whistle. “That is one mind-melting long time to be mothballed.”
“DORIS, state the distance traveled,” the Captain pressed, “and ID this planet.”
“Distance traveled: 20.517 light years. Planet: Gliese 581g.”
“DORIS, I assume your ID is based on the atmospheric signature and the planet’s location in the GNS.”
“That is correct, Captain. To be brief, Hope’s fractional angular shift relative to the locations of The Twenty Pulsars in the Galactic Navigation System’s Sub-Region Two corresponds to the exact distance and direction from Earth to this star.”
“Was that brief?” Appleton said. Nerves speaking?
Pearce fought his own shock.
“If anyone wants to let the tears flow,” he said, “or throw up, go ahead. We can forget we’re suck-it-up military for a moment.”
“We did it!” Appleton’s voice was tight.
“Suitable landing site,” DORIS said, “located in an otherwise hilly terrain near an ocean.”
“An ocean. Thank God!” Sullivan said. “DORIS, what’s the atmospheric composition relative to Earth’s?” She breathed to herself, “Never mind that it’s way too late to fret about such things.”
“The atmosphere contains one percent less nitrogen and nearly three percent less oxygen than Earth’s and four percent less than Hope’s. You will be able to adapt with modest side effects that will cease in a short time.”
“DORIS,” Pearce said, “I do worry about your one percent unreliability. Can we take your word on this?”
“The information is from the Handbook and from my own spectral analysis.”
Pearce couldn’t believe their luck. But he knew better than to get cocky. He toggled the all-personnel speaker. “Dr. Diaz, what’s up back there?”
Her voice cracked on. “Everyone’s settled down now. All seem to be coming to grips. Health-wise, some upset stomachs, headaches — things I’d expect from the preservation and restoration, not to mention the stress of—”
“Good,” Pearce said. He looked at Sullivan, who nodded.
“Attention, everyone. Commander Sullivan and I have just verified that our journey…” — he hesitated for effect — “…is a success! We have reached Gliese 581g!”
After a full second of silence, the cockpit speaker exploded with noise.
“Buckle up and prepare to descend! But don’t turn off your mag-boots until we’re safely grounded. DORIS, I believe you said we must remain on board three hours before disembarking to allow the preservation gel to be fully purged from our bodies?”
“Captain, you can disembark immediately after landing. The three hours have already elapsed.”
The last thing Pearce heard before Hope again smashed into Gliese 581g’s atmosphere with a deafening roar and a violent shaking was applause and shouts.
Hope delivered its 105 passengers to the planet’s surface, the ship’s huge bulk coming to a rest on a level field next to a gently sloping hill.
Pearce gripped his armrests and took a couple of deep breaths. Up until now the dangers had pretty much been known. Now they weren’t.
Fingers shaking, he made a notation in the Captain’s log of the date and time of the landing.
He hurried aft with his team of three officers to the compartment where the still-buckled-up civilians were seated. He made a brief, earnest statement about their historic journey. He then told them that before anyone could leave the ship, he and his team would go out and explore the ocean coast, search for drinking water, and determine the area’s security level, weapons at the ready.
DORIS spoke, her powerful, metallic voice plangent throughout the ship: “Captain Pearce, you need not worry about security. The planet is at a stage roughly comparable to Earths’ Cambrian Period in the Paleozoic Era of 570 million to 500 million years ago. Only marine invertebrates likely exist.”
Pearce couldn’t hide his annoyance. A machine telling him what not to worry about!
“May be, DORIS, but I can’t take comfort in your hedge words ‘roughly’ and ‘likely.’ This is an alien world. Unlike Earth’s Cambrian, it has soil and plants, so it might also have a velociraptor or two. Please don’t come up with ideas that can get us killed.”
“Could be DORIS is operating from her unreliable one-percent error zone,” Ross whispered. Was he being sarcastic?
“DORIS,” the Doc said, “reconfirm the exterior temperature, please.”
“Ninety-one point three degrees Fahrenheit.”
“Ouch. Wouldn’t do me well at all.”
“I’ll need to take a lot of drinking water with me,” Ross said.
“Want to drag along a Johnny On The Spot?” Ensign Appleton said.
Chuckles rippled across the group.
The Captain continued: “While my team and I are away — no more than 24 hours — Dr. Angela Diaz will mind the helm. If we don’t come back, well, you’re in capable hands.”
He paused, swept his eyes over the sea of anxious faces. “There’ll be plenty of time for all of your questions later — but I will take one right now. Just one.”
A hand shot up. It belonged to 15-year-old Ted Mitchell, Dr. Diaz’s nephew and one of the eleven teens.
“Sir,” he said, a polite smile on his face, “could anyone on Earth have survived the impact?”
Pearce breathed in, collecting his thoughts.
“Consider first the instant massive earthquakes and shock wave tearing around Earth’s crust. Maybe a billion were killed in a flash. Of course, lots of people survived that, but fires, hundreds of millions of them, were sparked worldwide when the white-hot impact ejecta that was launched high into the atmosphere rained down. That dramatically raised Earth’s temperature – global warming on steroids – and poisoned all the oceans.”
He paused. Not a soul moved.
“In the following months, a winter holocaust developed, created by the shroud of ash and toxic chemicals that spread globally, blocking sunlight, ending photosynthesis, and putting Earth into deep-freeze. Remember, this asteroid was three times larger than the one that wiped out the dinosaurs 65-million years ago. The consensus was that it had too much speed and mass for our nukes or laser cannons to have an effect. So to answer your question, no – no one could’ve survived for long, no matter how deep underground.”
He looked down at the floor, pushed the edge of a thumbnail back and forth across his forehead. “Here’s the thing, though. Everything I just said is nothing compared to the real damage. Nearly all the leading scientists considered the asteroid so massive it might not just alter Earth’s rotation. It was likely to also nudge Earth out of its orbit into a spiral toward the sun. I’ll say out loud what probably most of you have already accepted.” He could barely get his mouth to form the words: “Earth is gone.”
Ted’s smile had not left his face, but it had left his eyes.
Captain Jason Pearce and his team of three, each with a backpack, advanced down Hope’s ramp. The utter absence of sounds, except from their boots, surprised him. No, disturbed him. Were eyes watching from the adjacent hill’s sporadic baobab-like trees? Or from close-up, from the lime-green grass blanketing the field Hope had set down on? Had their scent already been detected by a hunger-crazed, velociraptor-like carnivore baring ten-inch teeth? Would this beast any second now come galloping over the top of the hill, smashing down every tree in its path to get to them?
He eased his hand up to his weapon. The quietness, he hoped, meant the ship’s roaring retros had scared away all the creatures within ten klicks.
A warm breeze lapped against the side of his sweaty face. He thought he smelled ocean water. That tiny bit of familiarity, for the moment at least, notched down his stomach-turning edginess a bit.
The planet’s red-dwarf, early-morning sun peeked over the horizon between distant silhouetted mountains forming claws and sharks’ teeth. Its peach-orange radiance shot long black shadow-fingers across the landscape.
Overhead, shards of mauve and pink clouds stretched across the blue-green sky. Nearly opposite the sun, just clearing the hill-top, was the tiny pair of faint, milky-silver disks that were the planet’s moons.
The heel of his hand still rested on his weapon. Raking his gaze from side to side, he led his team 75 yards out to the foot of the hill, where he stopped. He took two deep breaths, as much to vent his tension as to gauge how his lungs would accept the air. “Well?”
The other three, glancing at each other and their surroundings, shrugged and nodded.
Olivia, your clunky old Geiger’s acting civil,” Pearce said.
Ross had found the Geiger counter in a back room of the base antique store. He’d given it to her on her birthday. It worked and she loved it. “Older than I am,” she’d said, giving Ross a hug. “I’ll keep it forever.”
So far, after smuggling it on board in three separate pieces, she’d kept it for over 137,000 years.
She extracted her weapon. Twice a red-hot line hissed, and two smoldering foot-deep holes were seared out high on the hill.
“A double-tap of that’ll give our velociraptors something to ponder.”
Ross’s grin was copious. “What a sharp-shooter! Hit a mountain standing right next to it.”
Pearce hailed Angela Diaz on his comm. “Doc, so far the air’s good to go. Hopefully long-term.”
“…Big relief,” the five-by-five voice said. “Don’t die out there.”
“Heading out. Give me 100 percent antenna. Put together a rescue team, just in case. And start unstrapping and moving essentials to the off-load deck.”
“Copy that, Captain. Good hunting. Buzz me if you find something interesting — as if nothing on the planet were.”
Pearce pulled his palm computer from the side of his backpack, studied an aerial photo downloaded by DORIS.
“The ocean’s that way,” he said, pointing toward the top of the hill. “About three klicks. Half that distance up the coast is a feeder river. Hopefully with decent water. One problem on the other side of this hill: a pretty dense forest, containing who knows what.”
The three seemed to reflect on that with minimal angst.
Ross jostled his backpack higher on his shoulders. He nodded toward the hill and said to the Ensign, “Need me to carry you, Apple Of My Eye?”
Her snicker erupted in a way that told Pearce she was more nervous than she was letting on. Like he was.
“Surprised you think I need you for anything. Pretend you’re nice and quit while you’re way behind.”
Commander Sullivan gave first Ross, then Appleton, a sour look. “Can you two not just…not? Try keeping your eyeballs on the surroundings, not on each other.”
The three officers fell in line up the hill behind Pearce. The Captain, feeling the warmth of the rising orange sun and the 90-degree temp, wound through waist-high thickets of brush. When they reached the spine of the hill, a silver curve of ocean water sparkled in the low sun just beyond the forest that loomed darkly at the hill’s bottom.
Pearce jammed the small field glasses he’d been peering through into a side pocket. He’d spotted nothing curious and detected no movement within a 180-degree range.
He put a finger to his lips. “Let’s move.”
“Yup,” Appleton said, in a reasonably low voice. “Not good to ring the dino dinner bell, especially in a sky line.”
They descended to the line of towering broad-leaf flora that bordered the forest.
“Leave a trail,” Pearce said. “Our butts might need saving. Knives out. Weapons in the other hand.” He eased into the dark forest.
For the next hour, they weaved through multi-colored under-brush and chopped lower limbs off the tall flora. They hacked as if a swing too hard might bring a herd of ravenous creatures down on top of them. On occasion they paused to inspect and smell various odd-looking vegetation — with alert eye on the broader environment and weapons in tight grips.
Although the sun had climbed higher, the light reaching the forest floor was still less than optimal.
“Wasn’t a mountain I hit,” Appleton said. “A hill.”
Ross looked at her, continuing to step forward. “What?” As he turned his head back, he said, “For crying out–” and walked his face into tree limb, the encounter audible. He grunted in pain and clasped a hand against his nose.
“The bad news for me?” Pearce said. “You’ll survive. Damn it, pay attention.”
Ninety minutes later and tiring, they entered a tennis-court-sized clearing at the base of a treed slope about 500 feet long and 200 feet high.
Pearce dispatched sweat from his brow. “Let’s take a beat.”
“I’ll take that as an order, Cap,” Appleton said.
Ross swilled from this canteen, the second time in the last half hour. Pearce wondered if he’d considered slowing down.
Weapons were holstered and backpacks lowered. Commander Sullivan, hands on her hips, surveyed the forest up the slope and around the opening.
“Not a single little critter scurrying around anywhere. Maybe 99-percent-accurate DORIS is right.”
Appleton’s lips did a borderline-rude raspberry burst. “Pretty sure her faulty one percent was dominant. My money says the little critters would be hunted by the big critters during the day, so they dig in till night.”
“Makes sense,” Sullivan said, “except where are the big–”
“Doc,” Pearce said after hitting his comm, “no threats to report – yet. Negative on breathing issues. No worse than the Mile-High City.. Why not go ahead and start off-loading, after you harden up around the ship. Establish a perimeter, sensor fence.”
“How wonderful to copy that!” Diaz said.
“Remember to always close the airlock behind you, coming and going.”
“Don’t have to worry about that.”
“There, see?” Appleton took her weapon back in hand. “The Cap feels the same way. Doesn’t want a five-ton meat-eating thingy wandering on board when everybody’s guard’s down.” She raised her brows. “Make sense too?”
Ross apparently couldn’t stop himself. “Meat-eating thingy? Tell me, when you were a kid — not terribly long ago, factoring out our little trip across the void — did your nightmares turn you into a bed-wetter?”
Her eyebrows gathered and she started talking to herself.
Ross turned away, headed up the slope. “Reminds me. Going to the potty.”
“Not surprised, water-holic,” Sullivan said under her breath. “Watch your step. And stay mindful of meat-eating…thingies.”
Ross’s fist pumped. “Not to worry. No thingies on this planet.”
“Famous last words,” Appleton said to Sullivan. To Ross: “Should the Cap go with you? Hold your hand and talk encouragement?”
As Ross continued to climb, his fist reappeared and sprouted a middle finger. He boomed, “I’ll tell you what you can hold.” Eight seconds later, he vanished up into the forest.
“Well, if the thingies didn’t know about us before, they do now,” Pearce said.
Commander Sullivan frowned at Appleton. “You know, Olivia, I worry about dangerous creatures, too. But honestly, if a T-Rex came crashing through here, I don’t think either you or Tom would notice.”
Captain Pearce eyed one, then the other. “Chow time.”
They plopped down and pulled water and MREs from their backpacks.
“What delicious, synthesized entrees do we have for our first meal in more than a thousand centuries?” Appleton asked. She wriggled around into an alert face-out guard position and leaned against her backpack, MRE in her lap and weapon on the ground by her hip.
“Chicken and roast beef,” Sullivan said. “But word is they taste the same.”
Appleton clucked her tongue. “So one could say we have chicken and chicken?”
“Or roast beef and roast beef.” Sullivan put up a finger. “No, wait, I’m going with a mélange of roasted—”
Pearce sighed. “Any chance you two can just eat?”
Appleton half-turned his way. A little smile played on her lips. “Going to write us up in your Captain’s Log?” Her smiled collapsed. She glanced off Pearce up to the sky. Slate clouds had moved in, darkening the clearing. With a little shudder, she refocused on the surrounding forest.
Sullivan did a slow look-around, saying to Pearce, “Acting silly — it’s a relief valve, Jason. I guess that’s how–“
“Hey,” Appleton said. “I just realized — the smell of this crappy food could attract—“
A rapid crunching sound stilled her. Her hand arced to her weapon.
“Relax,” Pearce said. “Tom’s finished killing vegetation.”
Appleton had a wicked grin. “Knew that. Was just going to graze his ear for practice. Have to be sharp if a velociraptor shows up for a meet and eat.”
Ross loped down the slope into full view. “Tell ’em, Apple. You missed me. You always miss me. Always will, right?”
She wagged her weapon. “Yup, I’ll always miss you — just barely — because stockade.”
“C’mon, admit it, you still have a few embers burning for— Whoa!”
His foot whipped out from under him. He collapsed onto his side with a heavy thud and rolled into the clearing just two yards away from Appleton.
“Awww, still alive. Bummer, dude” was the Ensign’s dry offering after she gave Ross a quick once-over and lifted her head again toward the cloud cover.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Livvy the Lizard.” He scrambled to his feet. His eyes sought out the spot where he’d tripped.
Sullivan shook her head. “Tom, what is the matter with you? The second accident in, what, two hours? This is not you. You’re one of the most cautious and careful people I know. If you and Olivia weren’t always at each other’s throat, you would’ve had a better eye on where you were stepping. You could’ve hurt yourself and jeopardized our mission.”
“Duly noted, ma’am. Now what the hell did I—?” He hurried a short way back up the incline and dropped to his knees next to something dark poking out of the downward side of a small mound of forest-floor debris. He nudged away the little sticks and mixed-colored leaves covering the object. “Hey, take a look at this. Chunk of metal sticking out of the ground, looks like.”
The other three joined him.
“Probably a meteor,” Sullivan said.
“Meteorite’s the word you want,” Appleton said. FYI.”
Ross looked at Sullivan with a scowl. “She does that. Corrects people. FYI.”
“Nuh-huh,” Appleton said under her breath for all to hear. “Another unforced error.”
“Unclench, you two,” Sullivan said. “Enough of the insult-fest.”
After she let that sink in, her lips formed the tiniest smile. “Sidebar notation: I do believe you two still love each other and are trying like the devil to hide the fact.”
While Ross and Appleton protested in unison, Pearce and Sullivan glanced at each other. The color had returned to her cheeks and she looked beautiful – still a bit frazzled, but beautiful. It hit him. Was he hiding something, not just from her but from himself as well? Did he have budding feelings for her? Had he begun making a transfer from a love no longer possible, his wife, to one that was? Was Sullivan hiding something? Guilt and embarassment clamped down on him, and he pushed the thoughts away.
“Mates,” he said, “focus.” His index finger pecked toward the object.
The protrusion was oblong, its rounded, 12-inch-thick tip extending eight inches or so down-slope at an angle parallel to level ground.
“What about fossil bone?” Sullivan asked.
“Too smooth for that or a meteorite,” Appleton said. She had knelt on the side opposite Ross and now wiped away the remaining soil from the dark-grey surface. “It’s not radioactive, if you’re about to ask. My Geiger’s quiet, like I wish Tom would be.”
The Captain bobbed his chin at Ross. “See if you can jog it loose.”
Ross grasped the object with both hands and pulled sideways with increasing exertion, until his face was blotchy red and his neck veins stood out like cords. Zero movement.
Appleton peeled away from the group and returned in less than three minutes with an arm-load of small collapsible shovels taken from their packs. “Let’s dig.”
Dirt was heaved in all directions. The pungent smell of damp soil and semi-rotted leaves hung in the air. Twenty minutes later, four times as much of the metal was exposed.
“Shaping up to be right-triangular,” Pearce said.
Ross scowled. “Where does this thing end?”
The more they dug, the farther they had to excavate up into the slope in both depth and width.
On his knees and sweating in the heat, Pearce took a hard look. About seven feet of the object lay exposed. True enough, it was smooth, polished, and shaped like a right triangle. With his next thought, the hairs on the back of his neck bristled.
He pushed to his feet. Trying to control his breathing, he regarded the other three.
“This thing – pretty obvious it’s an artificial structure, made by civilized beings here.”
He let his shovel drop, then half-stumbled backwards down the slope a few feet.
“A better guess is it was made by extraterrestrials who came here thousands of years ago, from who-knows-what planet. In fact, if I’m right, this thing is how they got here. This,” he said, arcing his arm, “is part of an ancient alien spacecraft.”
Appleton’s lips parted.
Ross blinked. “Wha…? You mean we have ourselves a real Area 51, only 21 light-years east of the phony one?”
“Sull?” Pearce said. “Look like the tip of a wing or tail fin to you?”
She pushed the back of her hand across her forehead. “Yes, yes. Was afraid to say.”
“A first encounter…,” Appleton said, quiet amazement on her face.
Pearce keyed his comm.
“Go ahead, Jason,” Dr. Diaz said after a few long seconds.
He kept his voice and breathing steady. “How about a progress report first.”
“Sensor fence up. Off-loaded some priority items: dome homes, food, water. Charles Duncan is doing the heavy lifting in his exo-skel—”
“Good. Doc, go private. You said buzz you if we found something interesting. Ready?” He described their discovery, then heard silence. “Doc?”
“I know. Incredible. But I need you to keep a lid on this for now, Doc. It’d create an uproar, maybe a lot of fear. They need to stay focused on their tasks.”
“I want to get inside this thing, assuming there’s more to it than meets the eye.”
If it was a stabilizer fin, it had better be the horizontal stabilizer. Otherwise, the craft would be on its side and likely in pieces, limiting or prohibiting interior movement.
“I’m hoping we can extract useful material and technology — if everything isn’t too degraded and we can work around the alien language. Doc, listen, we need help. Dispatch a crew of four or five, equipped with all the excavating tools available. And explosives, C4, whatever. Need four head lamps, oxygen tanks, masks. Include Duncan in your crew. His exo will remove trees. They’ll see our path on the other side of the hill. You can’t tell them why I need them. Out.”
When Dr. Diaz’ crew entered the clearing, 15 feet of the object lay visible within the three-sided, ever-widening cavity that now rose seven feet at its highest up-slope point.
The crew stopped, their faces frozen, then quickly erupted into fast-clip, back-and-forth chatter: “Can you believe this?” “Can’t be possible!” “What the hell is it?”
Pearce approached the exoskeleton, worn by the helmeted Charles Duncan, a 36-year-old, 6-foot-five, brown-bearded Scot and former cyber-security cop who had trained at the National Security Agency. The exo-skeleton was a tall, intimidating robot-looking apparatus of bulky metal arms and legs moved by cables powered by a fuel cell on its back. The outfit rendered Duncan, a muscular weight-lifter who looked capable of wrestling a grizzly to the ground, 75 times stronger.
Pearce greeted the towering man, who gave a curt nod and fixated again on the sight before him.
“No need to explain,” Duncan said. “I’ve processed it. Wasn’t easy.”
“I’d like you to first try to dislodge it. Maybe a wing or fin’s all there is. At least in this area.”
“Charles!” Lieutenant Tom Ross called out. “For warm-up why don’t you hurl Olivia into the ocean.” His crooked grin said he savored his little joke.
Olivia Appleton, standing fifteen feet away, twirled a finger. “Bzzzt. No question — you’re the anchor holding back my ship.”
Eyeing Pearce, Duncan chuckled. “Navyspeak for ‘You’re a drag’? Bring these two along for comic relief, did you? Not a bad idea. Heard them right out of the box, so to speak. Genuine tension breaker for a lot of us.”
Pearce thought about that. He had to admit the couple’s quibbling sometimes amused as much as annoyed, and so on occasion did provide him a bit of relief from the stress. Maybe it did the same for them. Maybe escape from their nightmarish reality was the unconscious reason they acted like kids, as Sullivan had said. How ironic, he thought; the two people he’d pegged to get on everyone’s nerves might actually be helping, in some small way, to prevent everyone’s nerves from unraveling on their new, frightening world. And the big burly Charles Duncan had recognized this before he had.
He dispatched another member of Diaz’ crew to check out the other side of the slope. Maybe another wing or fin was protruding there.
Duncan strode away to the huge slab of grey metal with surprising fluidity. His exoskeleton’s cables and pulleys chirped and chirred as the titanium-carbon Frankenstein thudded across the forest floor. He stopped at the tip where Ross had tripped hours earlier. He crouched, then extended his left mechanical hand underneath and flattened it up against the metal. He tapped a red, nickel-sized button on the left side of his chest-plate. This activated for 60 seconds the powerful magnet in the left hand to prevent slippage. He reached under with his right hand and placed it over his left.
He strained upward. The exoskeleton’s “muscles” protested with jerky fits and starts. Three more frustrating attempts and Duncan erected himself.
“That would’ve lifted the front end of a bull elephant.”
As asked, Duncan cleared trees from the slope to a distance of some 40 feet above the cavity. An immediate benefit: more light filtering through in the waning day.
The crewmember returned from the other side of the slope with nothing to report. Pearce instructed an explosives duo to insert low-power C4 packs with blasting caps into the soil several feet above the metal. He then scurried off, shooing everyone away.Ten seconds passed, then: three loud bangs. Dirt, stones, and root pieces flew high into the air, rained down and clattered on the metal surface.
“Jason!” Pearce did a little jump. Diaz had barked over his comm.
“Talk to me, Doc.”
“I’ve got an ill civilian. Not one of those who were sick after restoration. Nothing serious — I don’t think. Mild nausea. Low-grade temp. Weakness.”
Pearce hesitated. “Psychological after-effects? PTS?”
“Haven’t ruled it out. I’m not overly concerned at the moment. Will continue to monitor. I’ll try immunity enhancers and antibiotics, though I’ll have to go sparingly. Thought I’d give you a heads-up you right away.”
He hurried back up the slope. He told the regathered shovelers, including Ross and Appleton, to remove the debris pile-up on the metal and set more explosives.
Commander Sullivan appeared at his side. As she plucked debris from her hair and jumpsuit, Pearce told her about Ted. He then asked her to dispatch a pair from Diaz’ group to the coast to find the ingress river and test the water.
Two hours later, some 50 feet of the metal lay exposed in the massively dug-out slope.
Charles Duncan stood on the structure with a shovel in his hand, facing the dirt wall that rose two feet above his head and oozed tendrils of smoke. He rammed the shovel blade into the soil at waist level. A loud clank rang out.
Everyone froze, eyes on Duncan’s shovel, buried about twelve inches into the dirt. Rock? Or metal? Duncan did several more thrusts along a roughly level line. Each time, the same unvarying clank. Definitely a metal-on-metal clank.
A grin cut across Duncan’s bearded face. “Found something!”
“Good work!” Pearce said.
The explosives duo inserted a series of low-power C4 packs into the bank six feet above the expanse of metal. But Pearce signaled them to hold on. The teen boy’s illness returned to mind, and a thought chilled him: What if any alien remains inside harbored pathogens that he and the others had no immunity against? Was he about to open Pandora’s box?
Commander Sullivan drew up from behind. Her brown eyes measured him. “Afraid your curiosity will assassinate the cat.”
“Should I be rolling the dice with the few human lives left, after what we’ve gone through and been given a second chance?”
Her hand touched his arm. It had been there often, helping to assuage his misery in the months before and after his wife died. He remembered how comforting the gesture was, and felt grateful for Sullivan’s kindness. When she touched him, was it her way of showing she cared? Or just her way of communicating? To his surprise, wondering about her no longer loosed a swell of guilt..
“I feel the same way,” she said softly. “But you know as well as I do we can’t ignore this. Sooner or later, we’ll go inside to extract any needed matériel.” Her touch changed to a slight squeeze. “So it might as well be now while everything’s in place and a minimum of us are exposed. We’ll take precaution, hang back for a while after we come out. If something goes wrong, there are still nearly 100 others back at the—”
A sizzle on his communicator interrupted. “Go, Doc. What’s the good news?”
“You’ll have to get that from somebody else,” Diaz’ tinny voice said at his ear. “Ted has worsened. And five more have become ill. Same symptoms. Now I’m concerned. About a contagion.”
Pearce felt his stomach rising in his throat. Weren’t the Pilgrims nearly wiped out early on by disease, as well as by starvation? Was a wipe-out awaiting Hope’s people? After all they’d been through?
“I don’t have a lot of arrows in my quiver,” Diaz said. “Can’t do a proper diagnosis, not even comparative blood tests or a chem panel for toxicology. And not a single simple oximeter on this ship to measure blood oxygen. I feel like an 18th-century quack.”
Pearce heard her sigh, then say, “I fed all the known facts to DORIS, knowing full well she wasn’t programmed for this kind of work. She was just a little more helpful than my magboots. Tells me only if a brain and heart are ‘Normal’ or ‘Not Normal’–”
“Could we’ve brought a flu bug with us?”
“No, but most of the symptoms do mimic influenza – fever, weakness, fainting. Remember, before launch, Hope was scrubbed and all of us were found to be free of anything more than a cold. As for harmful agents on the planet that might cause sepsis, my chem detector — glad I have that — hasn’t found any. I may give one or two more of them antibiotics to see if I get a difference in—”
“What about radioactivity in the soil, though Olivia hasn’t detected any yet?”
“No,” she said. “The symptoms would be very different. But it’s an alien world. We checked anyway, 200 yards out in every direction. About 150 samples taken with the soil tester we thankfully have. I can test the soil better than I can my patients! The sick didn’t go anywhere the others didn’t go. Didn’t do anything out of the ordinary.”
“This does not inspire confidence. Want us to come back?” Pearce asked, half wishing she’d say yes.
“And do what? Get sick so I can quarantine you, too? If that’s an alien craft, put on your masks and go in there. Maybe you’ll find medical equipment that can help me — assuming we figure out how to use it. Gotta go.”
Pearce called Ross and Appleton over and briefed the two and Sullivan on Diaz’ reports on the mysterious disease. After they had recovered somewhat from the blow, he waved a go-ahead at the explosives team.
A minute later, light dirt and debris showered down. Pearce, who’d crouched behind a tree, rose and took a step forward. He gasped. Clearly exposed was a sizable curved wall of dark-grey metal that dispelled all doubt about whether here on this planet was a long-buried alien craft.
In the fading daylight, something caught his attention: the indistinct outline of a door! His heart pounded. Access to the interior!
Not overly large, the door must have been for maintenance and/or escape. Its size and position meant that the structure they had dug out below it was a tail fin, a horizontal stabilizer.
While everyone else gawked in silence, Pearce quickly bridged the fin to the hull and wiped dirt away along the door’s edges. He called out to the explosives team, “How about a dabble of C4 all the way around?”
Pearce warned everyone that the escaping air might be noxious, and told them to stay 100 feet away until he gave the okay.
The C4 warped the door but left it attached and unopened. Several gaps along its edges would let Duncan wrench it off.
Twenty-five minutes later, Pearce could wait no longer. He nodded at Olivia Appleton, who donned her mask and O2 tank and carried her Geiger to within five yards of the hull. The Geiger began chirping.
“Harmless,” she said, her voice loud but muffled. “Only nine microsieverts. On Earth, average natural background yields two. You get four to 88 with a dental X-ray. Source is probably a well-shielded nuclear engine, since this is the only area that has tickled my needle.”
“The green light,” Sullivan said at Pearce’s side.
Pearce flipped a hand at Duncan. “Grip and rip!” He swallowed. The moment of truth.
On the fin, Duncan inserted the rivet-jointed fingers into a gap on each side of the 40-inch-wide door. He pulled. Metal groaned and screeched, the sounds rippling through the forest like the keening cries of strange beasts. The door snapped free of its internal hinges and anti-blast moorings. Duncan carried it, parts dangling, out of the way to the far side of the fin, where he carefully laid it down.
In the dimness of dusk, Pearce saw a vertical rectangle of ominous black. His spine tingled. This was it, human beings’ first encounter with extraterrestrials, dead though they were. At the very least, it was a first encounter with alien technology. A good second best.
Lieutenant Tom Ross edged closer to Pearce. “If it’s too dangerous, send Livvy in first.”
Appleton, who’d removed her mask and rejoined Pearce, flipped Ross the finger. “So brilliant, you shine like a black hole.”
“Thinking out loud’s all.”
“Loud, yes. Thinking, no. I’m thinking you’re truly a sign of the apocalypse.”
“Haven’t you heard? We already had the apocalypse.”
Pearce eyed the two with pseudo-sternness. “C’mon, stay on-problem. You’re both coming in with Sull and me. Olivia, I obviously need you, to continue rad-checking. And I need Tom’s medic background if somebody gets hurt. Anyway, four sets of eyes beat two. All right, tool up. Tom, grab your med-case. Everybody, masks, tanks, head lamps. Weapons we have but shouldn’t need.”
Diaz’ voice sputtered: “–you there, Captain?”
“Doc!” he said, “‘Fraid to talk to you!”
“You wanted good news. Got some, but it’s qualified. My sick-bay numbers are still growing — eight more have acquired symptoms. The good news, three of the first ones appear to have stabilized.”
“The ones that received antibiotics?”
“They were the last ones brought in. They’ve deteriorated somewhat.”
“Hmm. Part good news, part bad. Is that what you meant by ‘qualified’?”
“No. Over the years, I’ve seen a lot of people stabilize like this and even improve, only to relapse and die.”
Pearce took a breath. “Right, shouldn’t get too optimistic. All we can do’s play wait and see, I guess. We do have good news here. It’s a tail fin and it’s attached to a hull that looks to be in good shape. A door’s already open!”
“It’ll be hard to keep this to myself.”
“Mum’s still the word, Doc. We’ll be going in pronto and we’ll be out of contact until we come back out.”
“Is it a crashed ship?”
“No way to tell yet,” he said. “If it is, that could mean aliens aboard, though they’re probably just clumps of alien dust. And they may be hard to get to, depending on how mangled the interior might be. If it’s not a crash, we may have something even more interesting to figure out. Wish us luck on humanity’s first close encounter. Which reminds me. If things go sideways in there, humanity’s all in your hands. Gotta jump. Stay frosty.”
Pearce turn to Ensign Appleton. “Tom’s right. You have to take point on this. The second that ticker beeps trouble, you back us out of there.”
“This ought to be above my pay grade.” Was that a pout on her face? She seemed careful to avoid eye contact with Ross, no doubt to deny him the chance to gloat.
But Ross twisted the knife: “Great T-shirt idea – ‘Sacrifice Ensigns First’.”
Sullivan gave Appleton a glancing look with a half-smile, then gazed back at the craft. “Fun fact: nobody gets paid anymore.”
Pearce told Charles Duncan to return to Hope if they weren’t back in sixty minutes and to talk about this in private only with Dr. Diaz. “She’ll know what to do.” He faced his three officers. “Check your time. We have one hour of O2.”
At the door’s blackness, Olivia Appleton tweaked her green-back-lit Geiger counter to its highest sensitivity. The team of four strapped on their oxygen masks and head lamps and lined up.
Behind Sullivan, Ross said in a mask-dampened voice, “Sweat not, Apple. Got your six.”
“A real howler, Tom. Somehow that worries me more than not having my 12 covered.”
Over Appleton’s shoulder, Pearce saw the airlock ablaze with light. Its interior door was partially open. Appleton stepped in, the other three following. They moved through the airlock onto a narrow catwalk that ran 30 feet to a ladder descending into darkness.
“Still harmless rads,” Appleton said, her voice mask-dampened.
“Good. Soldier on, Ensign.” Already Pearce’s nerves were jangled.
They negotiated the ladder to the bottom and found themselves standing between two bulkhead walls in a ten-foot-wide passageway that apparently spanned the craft’s full width.
Lieutenant Tom Ross glanced around and up.
“Not one alien scribble or symbol anywhere. Embedded, I’m guessing. Nothing shows up till she’s powered up. Just like Hope. The catwalk and ladder are similar in size to ours.”
“Not surprised,” Pearce said. “The aliens – assuming they aren’t robots and the ship itself isn’t one – probably aren’t a lot different from us. I believe the evolution of intelligent beings favors a physicality like ours. Factoring in the influence of gravity, etcetera, ETs probably range in size from primordial dwarfs to the tallest basketball players. If we find a preserved alien, or at least some clothing, I think it’ll support that.”
“Want to spec on the ship’s origin?” Commander Sullivan asked.
“Been wondering. A good candidate: 118 Libra c. Just 15 light years from here, directly opposite Earth. It’s in its sun’s goldilocks zone, and spectral analysis showed its atmosphere could support organic life.”
“Why didn’t Earth receive signals from the planet, if it has an advanced civilization?” Sullivan asked. “Television. Radio. Heat signatures.”
“Technologically they lag Earth, I imagine. Let’s say it took the aliens 100,000 years to get here in this ship – which so far looks no more sophisticated than ours. Add another 10,000 for the ship to become buried. A hundred and ten thousand years ago, Earth had already been gone for 27,000 years. And 27,000 years before these aliens left their planet, their ancestors probably hadn’t even learned how to send smoke signals to each other.”
“If you say so, Captain Einstein,” Appleton said.
Sullivan put her light just below Pearce’s face. “Buried ten thousand years! In all that time, no second effort? No rescue attempt? Makes me think their planet–”
“Was threatened and might be gone, too,” Ross said.
“Life…it’s so much more fragile than I ever imagined,” Appleton said. “Aren’t going to make it, are we?”
“Damn it,” Pearce said, “we didn’t come all this far just to die as soon as we got here. Somebody once said, ‘There is no education like adversity.’ Let’s plan on becoming very educated.”
He strode to a door he’d lit up seconds ago. He knew they were aft and which way was fore, based on the pitch and shape of the tail fin they’d uncovered. The door’s location told him it would lead them the way they wanted to go.
He threw the recessed lever and slid the door open. In the alien craft’s tomb-like quiet, the colder, eons-old air from the ship’s deeper interior washed over them.
A huge, empty compartment sprawled before him. Straps with carabiners littered the floor. They were connected to rows of evenly spaced bull-ring retractable tie-downs. Long, intertwining scrape marks led to a huge side door that likely opened out and down to serve as a loading ramp.
“No indication so far that the ship crashed.”
“Then what the hell happened?” Ross asked.
“Patience, please. Olivia, Geiger talking to you?”
She entered and stood next to him without answering. Pearce caught a flicker of fear in her eyes.
He palmed her shoulder. “We’re going to be just fine.” If only he totally believed his own words.
They hurried across the compartment to a corridor about 40 feet long and ending at an open area.
Pearce’s nerves threatened to explode his skull. What in God’s name would they find?
Appleton crept down the corridor. Her hand skimmed the wall as if for protection.
At the opening, she stopped. Pearce heard her thick breathing.
She took two more steps, hesitated, then turned out of sight.
“Olivia, wait!” Pearce said. His head throbbed. Was he about to lay eyes on alien remains and confirm his theory that extraterrestrials looked far more like humans than not? And on technology they might be able to reverse engineer or at least scavenge for parts?
Appleton reappeared and almost bumped into Pearce, startling him. Her light blinded him for a second. Above her mask, her wide-opened eyes darted.
“I– I can’t believe this!” she said.
The other three pivoted into the opening. Their shaking lamps lit up what appeared to be the ship’s computer main-frame.
Pearce’s mouth opened but emitted no sounds. He staggered back, reaching for a wall and trying to wrap his mind around what he was seeing.
“What the—?” Ross’s voice choked off.
“This is not possible,” Sullivan said.
Pearce stared in stunned silence at the dull-silver inscription across the upper edge of the mainframe:
RESTORATION AND INVIGORATION SYSTEM
“DORIS…,” Appleton said.
Pearce ripped his mask off and flung it over his shoulder, letting it dangle. A cough burst from his lungs. He sucked in the stale air he knew was being replaced by outside air. He bent and clasped his knees. He wanted to say something but the words stuck in his throat.
When his strength returned, he brushed the sweat from his forehead and straightened.
“This is the smaller ship assembled in orbit alongside ours. It was to be used either to rescue Hope if Hope had gone to Mars and run into trouble, or to send more supplies and settlers.”
Ross tore away his mask. “Wait, what?”
Pearce took a moment. “To know anything for sure, to answer all the questions flying around in our skulls, we have to get into the cockpit, find the Captain’s Log. Let’s pray it’s a preserved hard copy like mine.”
The other two removed their masks. Commander Sullivan, leaning against the bulkhead, nodded, her lamplight dancing up and down on the opposite wall.
“It obviously left Earth months after us,” she said, catching her breath. “Had to be reconfigured, a crew trained and prepped–”
“It’s smaller,” Pearce said. “With the same engine as Hope’s. Higher speed. That’s how it arrived here apparently thousands of years earlier.”
“What in God’s name happened – on Earth and here?”
Sullivan turned to Ross. “Know what’s almost as shocking as this? We found the ship because you tripped on the damned thing. The odds against–”
“Another reason I’m a little spun,” Ross said.
Appleton’s glance put her light on Ross for less than a half second. “Me, too.” Was there a bit of cordiality toward Ross in that? “Don’t take that the wrong way.”
“I won’t. Thanks anyway. Oh, and don’t take that the wrong way.”
“Ice it, you two,” Pearce said. “I want to do this quick and clean.” He trained his light on a door opposite the main frame. “Let’s move.”
“Do what clean and…quick and…?” Appleton asked.
“On me, Ensign.” Had she not fully recovered from her shock?
They laid their O2 tanks and masks on the floor to be collected later. Pearce angled toward the door.
Sullivan shoved her hand in his way. “Wait. The asteroid — it must have missed.”
“Or did far less damage than projected.”
“So if civilization survived, why is this ship here?”
“Main reason we need the log.”
“And the ship’s passengers. Did they soon die off? Otherwise, think about it – in all that time, wouldn’t they have reproduced exponentially, built whole cities, states, nations?”
“Die off? Or killed off, by an error DORIS made? Jesus, they might still be in their cylinders.”
“Tom…,” Appleton said. “Feeling funny…hot….”
She dropped her Geiger. It hit with a jarring clink! Commander Sullivan scooped it up and secured it to her belt.
Appleton’s knees buckled.
“Livvy!” Ross yelled. He caught her and laid her down her on the cold metal floor. He kept one hand under her neck. “Look at me!”
Her glistening forehead knitted as her eyes struggled to focus on his face.
“Talk to me!” Panic was in his voice.
“Tom—? My wingman… You — really did always have my six. My…bad. Go on…without me. Will wait…. Embers burn– burning for you.” Her voice weakened. “Commander, please don’t lose my — Geiger.”
“Livvy, no way I’m leaving you. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“Is she…really your cousin?”
“Wha–? Livvy, was! Damn it, yes, she was my cousin. Look, the most dangerous thing anyone in the universe could ever do is get between Tom Ross and Olivia Appleton.”
He twisted, fixed his headlamp on Pearce and Sullivan. “She’s running a temp. You two go on. I can get her up the ladder. Charles’ll help me take her to the ship.”
“Looks like she has what Doc says the others have,” Pearce said. “Don’t speak to anyone but Diaz about this ship. And remind Charles and his crew to keep quiet. Some civilians will ask about Sull and me. We’re still exploring and will return shortly. I don’t want rumors flying around. And panic. I’ll explain everything to them when we get back, hopefully with some clues about this mysterious ‘disease’–“
“And the story on Earth,” Sullivan said.
Ross hoisted Appleton to her feet and heaved her limp body up onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. “Hasta la vista.”
Pearce turned to Sullivan. “Full throttle up.”
Captain Pearce and Commander Sullivan dashed into a long, wide compartment, then halted in their tracks. Their lights bathed row after row of preservation cylinders. All were open and empty.
At least DORIS hadn’t murdered them in their sleep.
He tapped her elbow. They raced past the cylinders toward the cockpit. The pounding of their boots echoed off the bulkhead walls.
He kept his light steady ahead. “The cockpit! Don’t need the C4 I brought along.” They ran faster.
Inside, he found the safe in the same spot as Hope’s. He wrenched the handle and pulled, the hinges screeching an animal’s soft cry. “Thank God, a log just like mine. Good old ink-pen technology.”
He unbuckled the log on a pull-out shelf, Sullivan standing on the other side. “Christ. Listen: Last-entry date 17 November 124,583. More than 14,000 years ago.”
He glanced at Sullivan. She was shaking her head in obvious disbelief. He scanned the log, his finger tracing down the lines of the first page.
“The essential personnel data. Crew names, ranks. Passenger list. Fifty total. Ship’s captain is…Norma Binson. The ship was renamed Hope II. Decent of them. Here. Departure date 24 May 2039. Two friggin’ years after we left.”
“So what in holy hell happened?”
“Binson must’ve made notes…. Wait, bingo.”
He read aloud from a section she’d dated 14 May 2039, ten days before they left Earth. Binson had dubbed the section “Pre-Lauch”:
“Immediately after the grav-tug rocket malfunctioned and veered away from the asteroid, people everywhere in the Global Media began demanding that nukes and the orbital laser cannons be used to deflect it, despite scientists’ warning that even if both the cannons and the nukes were used together, they would be useless to deter an object of this mass and momentum.
Several countries — Russia, China, and France, as well as the U.S. and others — coordinated a simultaneous launch of hundreds of missiles programmed to detonate together as laser cannons fired. This effort did alter the asteroid’s path, causing a near-miss of Earth. But the blasts splintered off a 2-klick-wide chunk that slammed into the caldera at Yellowstone National Park.
The impact and the subsequent bouncing of the Earth’s crust set off a series of massive earthquakes that killed hundreds of thousands. It also created such a perturbation in the caldera that volcanologists predicted an extinction-class eruption in the caldera to occur sometime in early June 2040.”
When Sullivan gasped, Pearce realized he was holding his own breath. He exhaled. Extinction-class! He knew about the huge caldera. The 70-kilometer-wide volcano beneath it erupted roughly every 600,000 years, the last eruption occurring about 640,000 years ago. An eruption could end life as efficiently as the asteroid.
In the oppressive darkness and silence of the buried Hope II, he felt numb. If you shook a can of pop, then snapped off the tab — boom. That was what the asteroid chunk set up to happen with the magma and poisonous gases trapped below the caldera.”
He looked at Commander Sullivan, keeping the edge of his light out of her face just enough to see her eyes glistening up.
“Jason…we’re the last of the human race.”
Did she just now realize that? Or had she until now clung to the hope that life on Earth somehow hadn’t perished and would go on? Who would not cling to that hope?
“Why,” she said, anger in her voice, “did Hope II make a 124,000-year journey to a planet that might turn out to be uninhabitable? Why not just stick the ship in a Lagrange-point orbit around the sun for a few thousand years to give Earth time to heal?”
“Snowball Earth, my guess. They couldn’t take the chance. But let’s see if Binson…. Hell yes. She brings it up in the very next paragraph:
Scientists feared the winter holocaust might soon turn Earth into a freezer locker. A snowball Earth, completely covered over with mile-high glaciers.
It had happened once before, in Pre-Cambrian times, and had lasted millions of years — far too long to be suspended in the preservation gel.
He returned to the log. “Oh — the day before Hope II launched, Project Manager Victor Powell committed suicide. Probably wasn’t picked for this trip, either. Would’ve meant he had nothing to live for. Bet millions of people took that route.”
He shoved that last thought out of his mind and flipped to the last pages of the log in Captain Binson’s “Post-Arrival” section.
“Her handwriting has deteriorated.” His finger zig-zagged over the next two pages, then stopped. “Believe I have something:
“Date 7 Nov. 124,583, 13:46: Johnson and Tarasov became ill this a.m., and later Dr. Sato. Sato described her symptoms as flu-like but ruled out a virus. She will do more tests with the minimal equipment she has. But her energy is fading.
“Date 8 Nov., 09:15: Four more are ill. Sato has quarantined herself and the others in a dome home on the fringe of the camp. She’s communicating via radio, though her voice is weakening. She said her air and soil tests revealed no toxins.”
The Captain looked at Sullivan. “This—”
“The same thing affecting our people!”
A tightness constricted his breathing again. He forced himself to concentrate and resumed:
“Date 10 Nov., 21:36: Five more sick. Dr. Sato is barely able to work. Moments ago she said she initially had wondered if DORIS had erred in her analysis of the atmosphere. So she scrapped DORIS’s analysis result and had her do another from scratch. The exact same analysis was reached. The doctor then reviewed the data on the effects of 581g’s atmosphere. A table in a pamphlet displayed a range of extremes of atmospheric compositions and where in that range humans could endure. She confirmed that 581g’s air fell within that endurance range. She admitted to being perplexed. She said she will continue thinking about it, but her physical state is deteriorating quickly.
“Date 11 Nov., 10:19: Dr. Sato is dead. So are Johnson and Tarasov. Another six have become ill. We have converted two more dome homes into quarantines, even though I think this is of little value, since I do not believe we have a contagion.
“Date 15 Nov., 18:27: It’s hopeless. Forty-four have died as of last night. We have filled a total of six dome homes. I, too, have become ill, and it is difficult to write. A disease ‘that cannot be a disease’ has spread throughout this tiny group of brave souls, and has made it certain that we will not achieve the objective of starting a civilization to await the passengers of Hope.”
“Date 17 Nov., 07:33: My final entry. Only three of us are left. Rachel and Phillipe, who still have a little strength, will turn on the transponder, though it will last only a few years. They will open or unlock all interior doors. Then we will exit Hope II for the last time, sealing it up as we leave. There won’t be a Thanksgiving for us.”
“To: Captain Jason Pearce of Hope: If by some miracle you find this, please know it greatly saddens me, what awaits you. I pray that somehow you and your people are able to escape this ‘disease’ that has killed us. May God be with you.”
Pearce slammed the log shut and tucked it under his arm. “We’d better get back pronto and figure this out. Otherwise, game over.”
“If we don’t survive, we’ve made the last journey humankind will ever make,” Doc Diaz said in a soft, low voice. If she expected a response, none came.
She stood inside the closed cockpit with Captain Pearce, Commander Sullivan, and Lieutenant Ross. None of them took much notice of the outside activity visible through a side viewing window: supplies being carried into dome homes, a rectangle of land being prepped for seeding….
Like Ross, Diaz had mostly recovered from the devastating news about Earth and Hope II’s crew.
She rubbed her upper arm and looked at Pearce. “Damn it, we’ve got ten more sick! No disease, no radioactivity, no toxins to be found. What?”
Exhausted, Pearce dragged the palm of his hand down over his face. He regarded the Doc again.
“You said Appleton, too, has stabilized since you put her in quarantine with the others–“
“Very happy to hear that,” Ross said.
“All of our sick have stabilized,” Pearce said. “Binson didn’t mention that any of hers had — though ‘stabilized’ doesn’t mean our sick are out of the woods, as you pointed out. All of Binson’s people died. They had virtually the same symptoms. The only difference between our sick and their sick is that ours were quarantined inside and theirs outside, according to Binson. The Earth-level O2 is richer inside the ship because we’ve kept it on and kept the airlock closed behind us for safety. But that shouldn’t matter since 581g’s lower O2, which hasn’t changed since Binson’s time, isn’t harmful.”
“Something else….” Commander Sullivan said.
Debilitating despair surged in Pearce. We’re doomed, he thought. Might as well lie down and go to sleep.
No! Fight it! Stay focused! That was what he’d tell anyone else.
He recalled an old habit developed from a research-writing lesson: When you don’t know which way to go, put your assumptions and opinions aside, gather all the available facts, and see where they lead. What did he have to lose with this approach to a possible solution? Just valuable time!
“We have to comb through everything. Grab up all your records: atmospheric data printouts, test results acquired on Earth, anything and everything. I don’t know what to look for, but maybe something will stand out. My very best bad plan.”
As Diaz accelerated away from the cockpit, he spread his hands and said, “I don’t know where to start.”
“They say the beginning’s good, if we’re going to look at everything,” Ross said.
Pearce gave him an acknowledging glance. “Except I don’t know where the beginning is.”
He gazed upward at no particular spot as he often did when hailing DORIS. “DORIS, play back everything you said after Hope reduced speed, arrived at the planet, and made its initial entry into the atmosphere.”
DORIS said, “Beginning playback.”
“Captain Jason Pearce. Are you fully awake and comprehending, Captain? Yes. Nutrients were supplied. Atmosphere is reestablished. Avionics and lighting up. Your cylinder’s preservation gel has been siphoned away. Your brain and heart are functioning normally. The Restoration Handbook states that all personnel must remain on board for three hours to allow their body’s gel residue to be fully purged by the ship’s oxygen.”
Diaz had returned loaded with binders and stapled documents. She lowered them onto a shelf Pearce had jerked out of a bulkhead niche.
“Bear with me,” Pearce told her. “You did verify our air quality, O2 level?”
A hint of irritation flashed in her eyes. “Of course.”
“Excluding me, what about everyone’s heart and brain function?”
“Took a few hours but I checked everyone to the extent I could with my limited equipment. I found nothing and DORIS confirmed my findings, to the extent she could.”
“Okay, a ‘maybe’ area we can revisit later if necessary. And the gel residue? Fully purged from everyone after three hours?”
“You know I don’t have nano probes or even a decent microscope. Couldn’t examine them on a cellular level. Anyway, DORIS said—”
“I know, three hours and the gel’s gone.” Pearce wiped sweat from his upper lip. “But somebody once said, ‘Trust but verify.’ That certainly applies when it comes to a machine without 100 percent reliability and our lives are at stake. You’ve personally verified everything — to the extent you could — except the gel purge. So that’s an unknown, as for as I’m concerned. It’s probably a pointless trail, but we should look at it anyway. Pull out the Restoration Handbook — which Victor Powell told me I’d never need! Find the section on the gel.”
Moments later she rotated the handbook toward him. Her finger tapped. “Here.”
“Have you read it yourself yet?”
“I’ve had my hands full,” the doc said. “Saw no reason to.”
He skimmed, then, as Sullivan leaned in, he read aloud from a mid-page paragraph:
“’In a variety of atmospheric compositions, the gel, which permeates and preserves’ … so forth and so on … ‘was found to be completely purged after three hours…’.”
“Well, I guess there’s nothing here – Wait!” Pearce thought his head would explode. “I–I can’t believe this! It says ‘completely purged after three hours in Rhesus monkeys, lemurs, and other small mammals!’ In goddamn animals! In humans, it says ‘the minimum time for complete purging is three days’!”
Sullivan drew back sharply, her intake of air audible. “DORIS…she made a critical error. Substituted –”
“Hours for days,” Diaz said. Understanding seemed to travel across her face. “If the gel residue’s still in us when we’re outside, the planet’s four percent less oxygen can’t fully purge it, can’t burn it off. The gel is likely trapped at the microtubule level long enough to interfere with normal cell function, blocking adenosine triphosphate from supplying the energy for powering cells…which could lead to a lethal breakdown of organs.”
Tremendous relief exploded inside Pearce. “Doc! You’re our savior! What you did … it’s a wonderful thing. You brought the sick inside. The ship’s oxygen—”
“Is rich enough to break down the gel and burn it out of our bodies—”
“You, good doctor,” Ross said, “saved Olivia’s life. And everyone else’s.”
After falling quiet for a moment, the Doc gazed at Pearce.
“And to think I had begun feeling selfish for keeping them inside the ship because of my heat intolerance, and was seriously thinking about moving them all outside right after you left. I figured the fresh air might help. None of you would have argued with me. Glad I immediately told myself, ‘Quackery. What’s fresh air got to do with it? Might as well be selfish since it makes no difference’.”
Sullivan had an appreciative smile. “Who would’ve ever guessed selfishness would save humankind.”
“Thank our lucky galaxies,” Diaz said, “we have a five-day supply of O2 left.”
Pearce spun around to Ross. “Get everybody inside and lock down!”
Captain Jason Pearce, along with Commander Faye Sullivan and Lieutenant Tom Ross, had grouped up in the computer-systems niche. They stood slightly behind and to the side of Charles Duncan.
Still a hulking presence without his exo, Duncan had lit up DORIS’ holographic monitors. The others watched the former cyber cop intently. Both of his hands gesticulated in the air, his fingers alternately spreading, pinching, and twirling, engaging a large hologram that nearly encircled him. These motions magnified, paused, then backgrounded one layer after another of a complex, hierarchical computer-code schematic.
“Scanned her neural networks, cognitive and learning algorithms – associative memories, all twelve billion or so of her main and sub-routines, ARA — that’s abstractions, problem reformulations, and approximations. No glitches. Nanophotonic quantum phase switching unaltered. Heuristic analysis finally shows….no viruses— ”
“So what’s the subtext here?” Ross said, irritation in his voice.
“Keep your anchor down, Lieuy,” Duncan said, giving Ross glancing attention. “Don’t want to fall through a trap door that DORIS set if she somehow went rogue. I know everybody’s all buzzed up about that three-hours thing. Checking updates, most recent programming activity. Hold on. Rounding third…. Okay, got something. A footprint. Yeah…about that, the three-hours thing?”
He turned at the waist and eyed them for a couple of seconds.
“Not an error we can pin on DORIS’s alleged one-percent unreliability. ‘Tweren’t an error at all. DORIS didn’t retrieve the wrong word by way of, say, a referencing failure due to her aged circuitry. Nope, ‘hours’ showed up in place of ‘days’ solely because of human intervention. A rogue, DORIS is not.”
His finger tapped twice at a line of green code in a narrow data column near the hologram’s edge.
“Right here. It’s time-stamped. The system recorded the deletion and substitution at 22:36, May 27, 2037, a week before we left. This, sorry to say, looks like plain old sabotage.”
Sullivan and Ross stared speechless at Duncan. Shock body-slammed Pearce, then gave way to fierce, throbbing anger.
Ross’s lower lip curled. “What knuckle-shit would do something like that?”
“On both ships!” Sullivan said.
Duncan turned to the Captain. “Any ideas?”
Pearce caught Sullivan’s stare. Her eyes were reading him as they had done many times before.
“Jason? What? Yes. I can see it in your face. You know who it–”
“A lot of the people who were working on the project,” Pearce said, “were angry over not being picked for the journey. But the only person who had everything needed to pull off something like this was Victor Powell. Only he was authorized to access DORIS. He had knowledge not only about DORIS but also about the preservation gel. The only people peering over his shoulder were the troops making sure he stayed on the job, and union workers. None of them could have known what he was doing. He must’ve had the opportunity to make the change during his walk-through of the ship four nights before his final meeting with me.”
He shook his head in disgust. Powell, who’d already laid the seeds for their destruction as he sat briefing Pearce, had reached out across the millennia and trillions of miles in an attempt to kill them off — because he believed humans didn’t deserve to live on.
Sullivan said, “But why not do any one of many other things more efficient at killing us? Why not program DORIS to stay in sleep mode when we entered the atmosphere? We would’ve crashed and all been killed instantly.”
“Let me guess,” Ross said. “That kind of reprogramming would’ve taken a lot of time, enough to attract curious eyes.”
“For sure it would’ve attracted the union workers,” Pearce said. “He was known to hate them and they hated him right back. They would’ve loved to find something that got him into trouble with the troops. I imagine that’s why he didn’t simply steal the gel handbook he wasn’t seen going up with.”
“Well, that’s that,” Duncan said. “I declare DORIS to be ninety-nine point nine percent reliable.” He smiled and shrugged. “Best I can do.”
Dr. Angela Diaz approached from the quarantine compartment wearing the vestige of a smile despite appearing frazzled. Pearce told her about Powell.
She reflected on it for a bit, not too tired, apparently, to show her loathing of the man. Finally her face cleared. “Some good news. All of my patients are recovering, and I don’t anticipate relapses–”
“How’s this for recovery, Doc?”
Everyone turned to see Ensign Olivia Appleton. She’d walked out of quarantine on her own. Though she was pale and weak-looking, her expression hinted she was grateful to be on her feet.
Ross seemed grateful to see her on her feet.
“Most of them are up milling around,” she said, looking at Ross. “They’ll be walking out soon.”
The Doc looked from Appleton to Pearce. “We can bring her up to date.”
A few minutes later and composed, Appleton shook her head. “I feel so terrible for Captain Binson and her people.”
“They didn’t die in vain,” Sullivan said. “If it hadn’t been for them, and the Doc here….”
“True,” Appleton said, “but let’s not forget Tom’s huge contribution.” She directed a rueful smile at the Lieutenant.
Ross stiffened a bit and returned a questioning, semi-hard stare. “Say again?”
Pearce figured Ross had to be asking himself, Now that she’s back to normal, is she back to normal?
“Just think,” Appleton said, pinning her eyes on Ross. “If Tom hadn’t had a bladder issue at that moment, and hadn’t been such a clumsy oaf.”
She edged over to the Lieutenant, her eyes searching his. She wrapped her arms around his waist.
“People are too important, life is too precious. We have to stop being so petty and mean to each other. Can you and I reboot? Tom and Olivia 2.0?”
Pearce fought off picturing his dead wife, as well as the billions of lives lost on Earth. Yes, people were far, far too important. His gaze drifted to Sullivan. It hit him. To him, she was far too important. And she didn’t know it. Was he important to her?
Ross still hadn’t returned Appleton’s embrace. “Well, knock me over with a hummingbird feather. A hug? From you?”
“Still have my ring?” Appleton said, her grin full-fledged. “You can throw it back at me.”
He slapped a side leg pocket. “Right where it’s been for the longest.” His arms finally encircled her.
She rested her head against his chest and looked at Sullivan.
“My Geiger in a safe place?” After Sullivan signaled A-OK, Appleton gazed back up at Ross. “My world is round again.”
She then said to Pearce, “I know it’s not above your pay grade to hitch up couples.”
Pearce laughed. “True enough.”
Sullivan was staring at the floor.
“Suuulll,” he said, “what’s up?”
She glanced over, then off to the side. “Oh, nothing, just wondering.” Her gaze shifted to the other side of Pearce. “Jason, do you think you…and I… we could ever–?”
“Commander, what are you trying to–“
“No no no. I was just, you know, thinking hypothetically–”
She put her hands together and pushed them forward.
“Okay, cards on the table, and I don’t give a crap who hears. Remember when I told you I divorced my ex-husband because he changed his mind about wanting kids? Well, that was only part of it. I divorced him mainly because I fell in love with you. I have loved you practically from the day we met.”
A warmth came to Pearce’s cheeks. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. All along she had cared for him — had loved him — even while he was still in love with his dying wife.
She worked an uncomfortable-looking smile. “There. I thought I’d go for broke, since we might not make it past next week.”
His heart raced. He cleared his throat twice. “Cards on the table? See you and raise you one. What do you think about a double ceremony? I’ll authorize Diaz to do the duty.”
As Sullivan took his hand, her eyes moist, the Doc said, “The more marrying, the better. We’re going to need lots of babies around here to jump-start this new civilization.” She looked at Appleton, breaking into a smile. “Right, Livvy?”
Appleton beamed up at Ross. “The first one’s on the way. She told me I’m two months along.”
Ross had the look of one who realizes he has just been stabbed in the stomach but doesn’t yet feel the pain. “Uh! You — you mean I’m going to be a daddy!”
“Two months along?” Pearce said to the Doc. “After her final pre-launch exam, you kept her pregnancy a secret, even from her.”
“She would’ve had no chance to survive. This way, she did. And we’ll soon have a baby we need.”
“By the way, Doc,” Appleton said, “you’re another one that’s only 99 percent reliable. I’ve been pregnant for almost 137,000 years!”
Everyone laughed. Pearce placed his hand on the small of Sullivan’s back and guided her fore. Inside the cockpit, they admired the colorful landscape of the human race’s new home.
“Under my authority,” Pearce said, “the name of this planet is…New Earth.”
“It really is beautiful,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Good water, fertile ground. We’re going to make it.”
Victor Powell, he thought, had been wrong. He turned to the woman he now knew he loved. “We do deserve to live. We proved it.”
To her quizzical look, he said, “I’ll explain later.” Without the slightest attempt to smile, he added: “There is a way we can thank each other. DORIS – and you’d better be 100-percent reliable on this – close and lock the cockpit door.”
What could shock you more than knowing you’re going to die in just a few seconds? See my much shorter story “Swirling Away.”
Want to contact Jerry? email@example.com
If you didn’t read this story as a download, getting to the end means you possess far more patience than the average Web reader, who apparently skims and then jumps to another site after only about ten seconds! My congratulations on your perseverance.
Tech notes and attribution: