Sanctuary Page 2

  I’m recording this entry on a pad that I’m keeping in my T-shirt pocket (100% cotton) and being careful not to touch it unless I’ve first washed my hands. I don’t think this solution will work very much longer. I’ve sent Sergei down to ship’s stores to collect as many pencils and paper notepads as he can possibly find, and I’m recommending that recent log entries pertinent to this crisis be printed out ASAP while we still have the ability to do so.

  [Log entries 932–936 lost.]

  10.28.2266 rel/0755 ST/le937/Y. Greer, CO

  Santos-Dumont has been destroyed.

  For whatever reason—no, scratch that; we know the reason—Capt. Mendoza’s crew lost control of their ship. I’m sure they must have tried to regain altitude control, but its orbit steadily decayed. As my people watched from the CC, Santos-Dumont entered TC-e’s upper atmosphere as an immense fireball and broke apart. So far as we can tell, there were no survivors.

  One thousand lives lost. No time to grieve, though. Not if we’re going to save our own lives.

  Santos-Dumont was in a lower orbit than Lindbergh. This gives us a little more time. On the assumption that Kyle’s hypothesis is correct, I’ve ordered the CS [core shaft] and other access tunnels leading aft sealed in order to protect the MFT and hibernation modules. I’m also hoping that the cryogenic temperatures in the MFT will retard the Rot’s spread. I don’t know if these efforts to keep the Rot confined to the CM will work, though, for I have little doubt that Juan tried the same thing. However, perhaps they will buy us a little more time … or so we all hope.

  [Log entries 938–941 lost.]

  10.28.2266 rel/0921 ST/le942/Y. Greer, CO

  This may be my last electronic log entry. On Kyle’s advice, I’ve printed out as many previous entries, by myself and others, as I could. The CC printer is still operational, but only by a miracle. Once this entry is done, I’ll print it out as well and add it to the stack. Further entries will be entered longhand with pencil and paper.

  In short: Lindbergh is doomed.

  Nearly all major CM control systems either fail to operate or are on the verge of total failure. This includes Lindy’s flight control systems as well as power and life support. Emergency batteries and a few flashlights are all that stand between us and the cold and total darkness. I’m keeping warm only because I had the foresight to bring the thick wool sweater my grandmother knitted for me many years ago. At least I’m still clothed. Our uniforms have fallen apart, and some crew members are wearing only cotton underwear or whatever they’ve managed to wrap around themselves.

  Before they lost their lab instruments, Julius, Tonya, and Aaron were able to study the Rot enough to come up with a tentative theory. It appears to be a native microorganism that feeds on substances derived from organic petrochemicals, ethylene and polyethylene in particular. In doing so, it breaks down anything made of these kinds of plastic. Perhaps it evolved on TC-e as a natural response to the decay of organic substances, a biological alternative to the fossilization of dead organic material that eventually allowed humans to develop fossil fuels and their by-products.

  If this is indeed the case, then the Rot is in the planet’s very soil, and therefore contact with and transmission to Lindbergh and Santos-Dumont was unavoidable. Our expedition was doomed the moment the shuttles touched down. The Rot was probably carried back to the ships within the wheel wells of the shuttles’ landing gear, which would have sheltered them from the sterilizing effects of outer space. Without the ability to study this further, though, we may never know for certain.

  It’s obvious that Lindy isn’t going to be around very much longer. Since this vessel hasn’t any lifeboats other than our shuttles, neither of which are flightworthy, abandoning ship isn’t an option.

  Fortunately, we aboard the Lindbergh have one last chance. If we act quickly, we may be able to save our lives and those of our passengers … or at least some of them.

  There is no time to explain. I’m printing out as much of the logbook as I can and will take it with me. With any luck, this will not be my final entry.

  * * *

  [The remaining log entries are written in pencil on loose pages from a paper notepad whose plastic binding has long since dissolved. The dates and times are uncertain, and without an automatic numbering system their order can only be determined by the events described. Underlined text in the original.]

  10/28/’66 1032 Lind./YG

  Have transferred command to SOC [secondary operations center], Deck 10, HM1 [Hibernation Module 1]. CM has been completely abandoned. All members of flight crew present and accounted for.

  I ordered Core Inspection Shaft B reopened just long enough for everyone to push themselves down the tunnel through the MFT until we reached HM1, then the hatches were closed at both ends and the shaft was vented to space. I also ordered the crew to bring nothing—nothing!—with them except the clothes on their backs (if they still have any to wear … we’re all barefoot now, and some crew members were either naked or nearly so). Most personal belongings were left behind, especially if they were made from or contained any sort of plastic materials. Only a few items were brought (Sergei insisted on his sketch pad, which I’ve allowed).

  Hopefully these measures will keep the Rot away from the rest of Lindbergh for the time it takes for us to do what needs to be done.

  Lindy doesn’t have lifeboats, but its designers did not leave the ship entirely helpless. Realizing that it may be possible that the main engines could experience some kind of major C1 [Criticality 1] malfunction, they took the precaution of making it possible for the crew to jettison the MEM [main engine module] and detach HM1, HM2, and HM3 together as a single unit. These three modules can then be maneuvered away from the rest of the ship via reaction-control thrusters and deorbited under control from the SOC. Once the stack aerobrakes and achieves successful atmospheric entry, it can be brought to a safe landing via retro-rockets at the base of HM3 and parachutes on top of HM1.

  This is all theoretical, of course. No attempt was ever made to rehearse the procedure while any of the Exodus Project ships were under construction, so no one knows if this will actually work. Nonetheless, my training included this contingency, and Kyle, Floyd [McGee, helmsman], and Susan [Kim, navigator] assure me that they practiced it as well … although Floyd admits that he and Susie rehearsed this procedure just once during training and no one took it very seriously at the time. I’ve requested that they take it seriously now.

  Tonya and Aaron are helping Dr. Wolfe prepare the biostasis cells. They will be switched to emergency power just before the MEM is jettisoned, but on Jane’s advice, the passengers will remain in hibernation until after we land. To revive them now, in the midst of a crisis, would only disorient them and perhaps cause a panic. We can only pray that the Rot stays away from this end of the ship until we’re on the ground. While the passengers are still in their cells, they’re intubated and hooked up to IV lines and catheters, all of which need to be removed before the Rot can get to them. But not now.

  I’ve consulted Julius about possible landing sites. He agrees with me that LS1A is our best bet: It’s on the equator, isolated, and has been surveyed already. I’ve ordered Floyd and Susie to plot our emergency landing there.

  Running as fast as we can. No sign of Rot, but that won’t last long.

  10/28/’66 1147 YG

  MEM jettisoned. Module stack successfully detached. Deorbit burn achieved. We’re on our way down.

  Last look at ship. CM dark. No control possible.

  Lindy will soon tumble into atmosphere. Got out of there in the nick of time. Goodbye, ship.

  Fingers crossed. Praying.

  10/28/’66 1732 LS1A/YG

  We have landed on Island 1, with our touchdown point close enough to LS1A that it’s virtually the same. Commendations to Floyd and Susan for superb plotting and piloting. We all owe them our lives.

  Landing was successful, but the touchdown was very hard. The parachutes and retro-rockets
were just adequate enough to keep it from being a crash. Floyd tells me that, in the last seconds of descent, it felt as though the planet just reached up and yanked us down. The stack remained upright and didn’t fall over on its side, but there’s a 5° list to one side that suggests it won’t remain vertical indefinitely. We will need to evacuate what’s left of our ship as soon as we can.

  No fatalities, but many injuries: broken bones, spinal injuries, concussions, severe bruises, etc. Jane has drafted every able-bodied crew member to help tend to the injured. They take priority over the passengers, but Jane insists that the biostasis cells be opened as soon as possible. She continues to be concerned about how the Rot will affect the cells, and I can’t blame her. The idea of a plastic breathing tube disintegrating while it’s still in someone’s trachea makes me shiver.

  For this reason, we’re leaving the hatches closed for as long as we can, so as not to expose ourselves to the native environment until all the injured have been treated and the passengers have been revived. It appears that the modules’ outer hulls are Rot-resistant; thank God, no one ever figured out how to build plastic starships!

  But the stack won’t remain airtight for very much longer. Although Kyle was among the injured, he took it upon himself to inspect the lower decks in HM3 as soon as he was able to make it down a companionway. He confirms that the Rot has already attacked the seals on the outer airlock hatches, and he doubts that the modules will retain atmospheric integrity much longer.

  Since we have only about 24 hours of air left to us anyway, this means we’ll have to pop the hatches … well, sooner than we like. Once the Rot gets in, it’s only a matter of time before the emergency lights start going out. Then we’ll be trapped in a dark, skyscraper-size tower that’s slowly falling apart from the inside out. Like it or not, we’ve got to leave this place, and soon.

  Welcome to Tau Ceti-e. And we still haven’t decided what to call this damn planet.

  10/29/’66 1201 LS1A/YG

  We opened the hatches earlier this morning. We had no choice. The Rot was coming in.

  After Kyle and Floyd reported signs of Rot in the passageways outside the HM3 airlocks, Jane and her “nurses”—namely, anyone able to use a first aid kit who wasn’t busy doing something else—worked like madmen all through the night to unseal the biostasis cells and resuscitate the passengers. There were 16 fatalities, people who’d suffered critical injuries during landing and perished in hibernation. We can only hope they died while still asleep and didn’t suffer much. A number of other passengers were less severely injured, but most of those cases were relatively minor and they received treatment as soon as possible.

  Note: Jane points out that most of her medical equipment will soon become useless. This includes not only diagnostic equipment but also surgical supplies such as ampoules, sutures, etc. We can also expect to lose some medicines as well, mainly those contained in gelcaps. She continues to treat her patients as best as she can, but believes that she will soon be reduced to 19th century medical techniques.

  At 1015, a couple hours after sunrise, Julius, Tonya, Kyle, and I went down to Deck HM3-15 and found an airlock that was already decompressed. It was unsettling to find a breeze coming in through an open porthole where seals had failed, letting the glass fall out. Blowout training instinctively took hold and I reached for an air mask, but what I pulled out of the cabinet disintegrated in my hands. This sort of thing is now happening throughout what remains of my ship.

  The four of us pushed open the hatch and climbed out, and for a minute or so none of us said anything. We just stood beneath the long shadow of the module stack and looked about at our new home, a world we’ll never leave again.

  TC-e is beautiful: I will give it that. It ought to be. We’ve sacrificed enough to come here.

  10/29/’66 1642 LS1A/YG

  We won’t be alone very much longer. The Cetans are coming.

  I’d just finished rigging a canvas tarp as a temporary shelter for myself—as captain, I rate that, at least; some of our people aren’t so lucky to have even this—when Giovanni came running back from the beach, where he and Tonya had gone to assess the likelihood of being able to do some net-fishing (for whatever passes for fish on this world). What they reported caused everyone to drop what they were doing and run or limp down to the black-sand, boulder-strewn shore, where we gazed across the dark blue water at what they’d spotted.

  Sails on the horizon. The ship we spotted from orbit a couple of days ago, all but forgotten until now.

  The inhabitants of the nearest neighboring continent must have spotted Orville and sent a vessel to investigate. Now the ship is in sight of us, and while it’s still hard to estimate distances on a world where the sea-level horizon is so much farther away than it is back home—damn it, this is home now! I must remember that!—I’m guessing it will be off the coast of our nameless little island by the end of the day.

  Whoever the Cetans are, whatever form they take, they’ll find a shipwrecked alien crew: reduced, confused, near-naked, frightened, utterly defenseless. Explorers turned refugees, uninvited immigrants.

  I’ve just looked at one of my earlier log entries, the one I wrote shortly after we discovered that TC-e is inhabited, and it’s embarrassing to see the arrogant contempt with which I regarded the Cetans because of their “primitive” technology. Not to mention ironic. Now we know why they don’t have the things we have … and they no longer seem so primitive.

  All we can do now is await their arrival. I pray that they’re friendly, and that they will offer us sanctuary.

  About the Author

  Allen Steele worked as a freelance journalist before becoming a prolific science fiction writer. He has garnered multiple Hugo Awards for his novellas and novelettes; his novel Orbital Decay won the Locus Award for Best First Novel in 1990. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Begin Reading

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2017 by Allen Steele

  Art copyright © 2017 by Gregory Manchess