Orb (28 page)

“What standard of measurement do you suggest I use?” Paul asked. “The risk is unquantifiable.”

Thompson faced me.

“He’s right, you know.”

“He always is,” I said. “Sure, I’ll be taking a risk. We all took a risk when we boarded
Desio
three months ago. I’m asking to do this. Besides, as you’ve said, Larry isn’t going for it.”

“Neither may the Orb,” Thompson said, then turned to the one person not heard from.

“Diana? What say you?”

“I’d do it myself if you’d let me.”

Thompson glanced at Kelly, expecting further dissent. She appeared worried, but seeing my resolve, remained silent.

“We’ll float the idea to Melhaus,” Thompson said, making his decision final.

Paul, who had reluctantly come to accept my proposal, had one of his own.

“I’d like permission to discuss the Orb being one entity,” he said. “Whatever he’s working on, perhaps the idea will fill in some blanks for him; perhaps, seeing the increased danger, he’ll reconsider whatever he is planning. There’s little chance of turning him off the destructive path he’s on, but I’d like to give it one more try.”

“Of course,” Thompson responded. “If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“Who are we fooling?” Diana, said, irritated. “Larry won’t accept any of this. Is there absolutely no way to circumvent the laser?”

“None I’m aware of,” Thompson answered.

“If we all simultaneously rush him?”

“You’re fast Diana, but not that fast. The turret servo operates mechanically, but with blinding speed.”

“You’re saying we’re at the mercy of a madman? What’s ‘Plan B’? There’s
always
a ‘Plan B.’”

“I was coming to that.”

Even in the near darkness, I still could see a somber, almost pained, expression come over Thompson’s face. The expression was reminiscent of one I noted just after he hurt his shoulder. No, that was not quite it. The cause was something deeper than physical pain, something I couldn’t put my finger on.

“I’ll be back shortly,” he said, quickly disappearing from view, leaving us wondering aloud where he was going and why. As we waited, Kelly activated the solar lamp, situated it in a central location, then sat herself close beside Angie and me. The orange glow of the lamplight onto our faces reminded me of a rare camping trip I went on as a boy and, rarer still, the campfire I enjoyed. Back in the disappearing forests of Earth. A distant memory in so many ways.

I would have to imagine back a thousand years more, tap into a genetic memory, to conjure up the next image: Thompson emerging out of the darkness and navigating a path through boulders into the center of the enclave, his sturdy features set in relief by light and shadow, his weathered hands clutching a weapon my crewmates had trouble recognizing. While I had no problem identifying the San bow, I had trouble accepting. Accepting the incongruity, the primitiveness, the potential life-saving lethality.

Paul, now recognizing the bow, said, and regretted, “Is
this
what you mean by ‘our better nature?’” Then, quickly and contritely, “I’m sorry. The remark was uncalled for.”

“No,” said Thompson, visibly stung by Paul’s offhand comment. “I’d be disappointed if one of you hadn’t said it.”

Perhaps more than any other, those few words measured the sum and substance of Thompson. I, especially, understood this from the story he told me, the one I had been privileged to hear.

There was a lot more he’d need to explain. Diana would see to it that he did.

“The artifact from your display case. What do you possibly hope to accomplish with that relic?” she asked.

“I assure you, I know how to use it.”

“Have you used it?

“Yes. To hunt.”

“You’d use it on Melhaus?”

“If I have to.”

“Wait a minute!” Kelly said. “Just wait. You apparently hid the bow. When? Why?”

“A few days ago. I’m not sure why. A feeling.”

“A
feeling?
Diana said with strained humor. “Like, uh, maybe a feeling of hunger? Or, better yet, I
feel
like having an ice cream?”

I imagined that this remark, too, hurt Thompson.

“Larry was on a downhill slide,” he said. “I wanted a fallback position. Something he’d never contemplate—keeping in mind he’s a genius. Does that satisfy you? Possibly it’s even true, I can’t say. It’s putting words that make incomplete sense now to a feeling I had then.”

“Obviously you don’t want Larry to realize you have this weapon,” Kelly said. “He’d defend against it. What if he breaks into your cabin and sees it missing? If, like me, he believed the bow to be only ornamental, he’d still have to wonder why you took it down.”

“I’m guessing it’s the one item in my cabin he’ll pay no attention to. If he realizes it’s gone, we’re no worse off than if I didn’t remove it.”

Kelly examined the unstrung bow and the well-worn quiver, made from some type of animal hide, secured lengthwise along the bow’s limb. Carefully, and with Thompson watching, she withdrew one of two wood arrows from inside the quiver. The arrowhead appeared to be fashioned from bone. With the meat of her thumb, she deliberately convinced herself of the point’s sharpness. I couldn’t read her expression, but it prompted Thompson to say, “Kelly, the best I could do is what I did, on two occasions: Warn him about unforeseen possibilities.”

Kelly nodded. “I have limited resources to treat him,” she said. “He very likely could die from loss of blood alone. Of course you’re aware of this.” Then, with compassion for what he might be forced to do, “I’d be remiss if I said nothing.”

“Of course,” Thompson responded. “But you’re under the impression using the bow is a sure thing. Far from it.”

Through the grilling of Thompson that followed I kept quiet, preferring not to prolong a conversation I felt he was uncomfortable with. I waited for somebody to ask him how he came into possession of the bow. That didn’t happen, but a chance remark, said only to deride our circumstances, must have further evoked in him the painful memory of killing a man. It was said by Diana as Paul grabbed the lamp and headed out across Red Square in the off chance that Melhaus had left out food or bedding.

“Back to the primitive? Why not take the bow, too? Never mind. We’re hunter-gatherers with nothing to hunt or gather.”

Paul emerged from the darkness triumphantly holding one bedroll and four meal bars; insufficient for our needs, yet beyond what was anticipated. Which was absolutely nothing. And, then again, why only four meal bars when we obviously needed five, and why only one bedroll?

Diana’s explanation, the easiest to believe, was that Melhaus was minimally responding to the last thing he heard from us, which was Paul’s threat.

Kelly and I weren’t so sure. Before the threat was made, Melhaus had mentioned leaving out food. Four bars and one bedroll was his way of telling us that he retained control. Omitting food for Angie only meant he considered her a nonentity.

Paul’s viewpoint, requiring deeper contemplation, was the most disconcerting. He claimed that Melhaus’s behavior was not always predictable and not exclusively mean-spirited. Moreover, some of the contentious points the physicist had raised since touching down on the planet had, like it or not, contained a modicum of truth.

I wondered aloud if our personalities (Melhaus the best example) drive our perception of the truth more than the facts: that reality and truth (so-called) only meet accidentally and not with great frequency. This was a dangerous idea to suggest to scientists, but it was getting late and I got away with it.

Thompson would have none of the conversation. Adamantly refusing a meal bar or bedding—but agreeing to use my towel for a pillow—he succumbed to a shallow, restless sleep.

Kelly, Angie, and I separated from Paul and Diana, the firmament radiating sufficient silvery light for us to find our own secluded patch of ground on the far side of the enclave where we could unfurl the bedroll and whisper without being overheard.

Kelly was quieter than usual, and her body language—the slight, almost undetectable, stiffness to her movements—prompted me to speak.

“You need to hear this. I’m certain Melhaus is going to force me to decide between relinquishing Angie to him or his stranding us here. My idea of trying to enter the Orb with Angie is the only acceptable way I might avoid the choice.”

“Have you asked for Angie’s permission?” Kelly said, trying to smile.

My pooch, again hearing her name, looked up at Kelly, who immediately scooped her up and hugged her possessively.

“She’s quite enamored of the idea,” I said.

“Oh Kyle … Kyle … what will you do when Larry, and you know he will, refuses Thompson’s condition? When you’re faced with the same terrible choice?”

“Will you do me a favor?” I said, looking down. I couldn’t bring myself to look into her eyes. Not when I knew what I was about to say.

“Anything.”

“If there comes a point where there is no other choice for us, I mean … if I’m unable to make the right choice when it comes time, then Thompson, to avoid disaster, would be forced to make it for me. I can’t have that. If I’m unable, if I’m unable, tell him for me … I give her up … I give her up…”

I swallowed hard but was unable to continue. Kelly, too, found it difficult to speak, having clearly glimpsed the difficult choices and painful prospects looming ahead. She put Angie down and together we played with her until we broke into crooked smiles.

The tension we were under had subdued our appetites, but we ate anyway, both of us breaking off portions of our meal and giving them to Angie. Water was not a problem. We refreshed ourselves from the portable filters carried back from the cove.

“Thompson has a lot on his mind,” I said to Kelly. “More than you suspect.” I shared with her the story of the bow, violating no confidence by doing so. I finished by describing, or trying to, how Thompson remains conflicted by what he had done.

Kelly took a few moments to reexamine the last few hours in context with the story. “On the face of it, he’s holding up well.” Sadness entered her eyes. “I wish I could take back some of our words. Sentiments that could have been better expressed.” Kelly put my hands in hers and faced me. “For his sake, you were relatively quiet.”

“When the opportunity arises, I’ll explain to Diana and Paul.”

“Yes.”

“I guess we better get some sleep.”

We lay back, Angie curled up and secured between us.

“How did we get into this mess?” Kelly whispered.

“We never left it.”

“Is that what you had hoped to do?”

“Writers can be dreamers,” I admitted.

“Tonight we shall dream together,” she said, and kissed me.

The night was sultry and cloudless. Above, stars beyond counting crowded the sky. A gentle warm breeze passed over us, sending delicate strands of Kelly’s hair to tickle my face. “Scheherazade,” I said, my focus wandering. “One night not long ago I was gazing down on a planet that somehow reminded me of a fable.”

“Shall I weave a story for King Melhaus?” Kelly said sleepily. “Three stories, three more nights…”

Sleep overtook us, ending our waking dreams.

I TRAVELED IN and out of sleep. Somewhere off in the distance I heard several stilted yips of joy: Angie, ears flapping, tongue hanging, bounding toward me across a sunlit dappled field of bright green grass! My little dog, our example. We are fools in our failure to emulate such unbridled happiness. More little yelps and yips, much closer. My eyes agreed to open. Next to me, Angie, still dreaming, emitting the sounds I was hearing, her head and one small paw softly resting on Kelly’s gently rising breast as she, too, peacefully slept.

And in that touching image, in that singular reprieve from the trials that lay ahead, my oft-times foolish heart gladdened and I was encouraged to face the coming day. As stars scurried into hiding from the approach of the bullying sun, I carefully rose and left the enclave. I spotted Thompson, alone in the distance, standing steady as a stone, staring out at the horizon.

Anticipating the sun.

I approached. Standing shoulder to shoulder, we passed several seconds in quiet contemplation of dawn.

“You were right,” I said.

“About?”

“The sun rising. Just as you predicted.”

We watched as a first reluctant blue sliver cut into the sky.

“As Paul would say, it is a
fait accompli
.”

In the distance were several dozen Orb groups, their colors gradually softening with the first signs of light; nearer in, one group, drifting aimlessly.

“We’re not sure what they are, are we?” I said.

“Not even close.”

“Will we ever be?
Can
we ever be?” I asked.

“We like to think so, don’t we?”

“When I consider the Orb, what little we know of them, or of it, I begin to wonder if we humans have everything backward.”

“How so?”

“We’re so damned proficient at complicating our lives with material possessions and technology, with complex social and interpersonal relationships, with personalities and emotions. Would the Orb view this aspect of humanity as wonderful diversity or pure folly? Has it accomplished the opposite? Has it simplified itself to the extreme?”

Thompson, as he is wont to do, took a long time to consider what I said. “Simplicity often connotes innocence and vulnerability—in which case, the Orb may soon be in need of protection from Larry, and the likes of him that follow. On the other hand, it can also impart unity of purpose and of action. In that case, we should not expect the Orb, if and when it defends itself, to passively indulge our ignorance.”

“Six people occupying an entire planet and, shit, we can’t even get that right.”

“No,” Thompson said, “But we must try.”

I sensed—by divining little clues acquired through our growing friendship—that Thompson was looking inward, lifting and looking under stones to find amplification of what he believed.

“I’ve studied more earthquakes than I can count,” he said, “finding as much fascination in their political and sociological implications as their geological cause and effect. Did you know that in 464 B.C. a major quake destroyed the city-state of Sparta, decimating the population and precipitating a slave revolt? Soldiers sent by Athens to assist Sparta in crushing the revolt were turned away, increasing the mistrust between the two city-states. Hostilities escalated and the Peloponnesian Wars ensued. Although the subsequent history is convoluted, the Golden Age of Greek culture was one outcome of the conflicts. The influence of Greek culture on western civilization has been profound. Interesting, in retrospect, how one specific event, an earthquake, was the catalyst to so much that followed. I can’t say if they are rare or not, but sometimes defining moments in human history can also be identified
precisely
when they happen—like when Armstrong touched the moon.”