Destination Europa: Chapter 17

Code

This is Destination Europa, a psychological sci-fi thriller set aboard the R. G. Leifr, a colony ship headed towards Jupiter to establish a settlement on the ice moon Europa.

← Previous chapter

→ Next chapter

Navigation Index

Previously, after learning of the terrorist threat to the Leifr, Quill woke up to find a mysterious message painted on the wall opposite his cabin. The Captain has restricted movement while the Security team conducts an investigation.

“You definitely didn’t see anything? Hear anything?”

Quill shook his head. He still felt a little light-headed, but the shimmering aura around the edges of his vision had faded. “I was fast asleep.” He didn’t tell her about the shrooms.

Safira took a small spoonful of porridge and watched him, her eyes sharp. Around them, the volume in the mess was noticeably lower than usual. Most people were eating quickly and on their own. A few small clusters of twos and threes spoke in subdued voices. Everyone seemed to be watching everyone else, no-one was lingering, and no-one appeared to be simming. Every few minutes, a Security officer circled back round, scanning slowly back and forth. Safira took another tiny bite. They hadn’t said said anything of consequence so far, but her next question surprised Quill.

“When you were a kid,” she said, licking a fragment of oat from her spoon, “you ever play Darmok and Jalad?”

Quill gave her a puzzled frown. “Sometimes, yeah. Like, a family Christmas game or whatever.”

“You any good?”

He scratched the stubble on his chin. It was getting itchy. “OK, I guess. My brother was better.”

She nodded. “I was Olympus City under-18s champion one year. Proudest moment of my youth. Other than snogging Nestor Lozano at the sixth-year dinner-dance, of course.”

She was still looking keenly at Quill, her eyes trying to communicate something. Does she want to play Darmok? Wait.. no.. maybe she wants to use that kind of riddling to get around AiLeifr. Darmok and Jalad was an old game, but there had been a craze for it around the time Quill was in high school, with players competing to communicate a word or phrase to their partner before an ai opponent could guess it. The more context and culture players shared, the easier it was to speak in cryptic hints and metaphors the ai was unable to grasp.

“For me, it was probably when I caught the winning ball playing rounders one time,” he replied slowly, hoping he hadn’t misunderstood. The catching-a-ball metaphor had been a common move to let your partner know message received. Safira nodded, and now there was a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.

“So,” she said. “A sportsman, as well as an engineer. No misspent hours training to be the next Zhang Xu?”

Quill drank some coffee, his brain churning. Zhang Xu. Where have I heard that name? A flash of memory of Standard Grade Art History. Was he the drunken calligraphy guy? Is she asking whether I did it under the influence last night? Crap, she’s way better at this than I am.

He shook his head. “Not I.”

She stirred her porridge contemplatively. The Security officer passed their table, slow but alert, and they said nothing for a minute.

“What did you find harder, James Joyce or quantum mechanics?”

Quill looked down at his cardamom bun and picked a bit of the crust. James Joyce. QM. Both hard to understand. Nobody knows what they mean. She’s asking what the text on the wall means. I think.

“Uh, James Joyce, I guess. But not all of his work was that difficult…”

“Oh yeah?” Safira raised her eyebrow at him. Go on.

He chewed slowly, recalling the words painted on the wall. Come out of her, my people, lest you take part in her sins… Revelation 18. Approaching judgement. Can I use The Pilgrim’s Progress, flee from the wrath to come? No, I don’t think she’ll get that reference.

“The Merchant of Venice,” he finally said. I hope Olympus City schools studied the same Shakespeare we did. “‘The quality of mercy is not strained.’ You remember that bit?”

Safira frowned and closed her eyes for a second, then recited the next line. “‘It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven.’ Goodness, that takes me back. Am I right? The pound of flesh and all that?”

“Yeah. The court scene.” Crap, I don’t think I’m communicating the idea all that well.

Safira looked confused. “I never did get Shakespeare, really.”

He thought again, feeling a burst of inspiration. “It’s like, you ever play Vampyre Hunter: Passage?”

She nodded.

“The bit where you need to get the civilians out of that castle-y dungeon thing before your team goes in and burns Xixuegui’s nest?”

“Oh yeah,” she said. “I remember that.” She nodded again, approvingly. Got it. A warning of judgement. “There’s something that always confused me about that game,” she went on. “Like, why you have to warn these civilians and not others.” Why there? Why our corridor? Why opposite your door?

“No idea.” Quill shook his head. Though I guess that’s not quite true. I mean, I’m sure it is significant. It fits with what Saf told me about EXODUS. But what are the chances of it being someone Biblically literate, putting it right where I couldn’t miss it? Odds are it is aimed at me, somehow. But why? He felt a chill creep down his spine. The Security officer walked past again. They would have to finish up soon; although they’d been eating slowly, his pastry was almost gone, as was Safira’s porridge. “Except…”

“What?”

He started to hum a tune, as quietly as possible. The Birdmint Bandits had been obscure ghostbard folk-rockers playing the Martian States circuit in their spare time until one of their ballads, Rust Red Rover, had been adopted by the Martian independence movement. Everyone knew at least the chorus:

So raise the rust-red freedom flag and pour another beer,
The Earther lads’ll turn their tails and all of Mars will cheer.

Quill didn’t dare sing the words out loud, but humming the first few bars was enough for Safira to catch his meaning. She hummed along to the end of the first line, when they both faded into silence. “I’m with you on that,” she said. “But that’s what everyone else assumes too, you know.”

“But oranges are not the only fruit,” he said, thinking of another possibility. “What about pudding and pie?”

“Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie, kissed the girls and made them cry?” Safira took a last spoonful of porridge, looking thoughtful. George, Jörg, what if it’s Jörg? “Georgie… You never know. I’ll play some draughts later.” Draughts, checkers, I’ll check it out. She winked at him. “You’re not so bad at this, you know.”

They got up to return their trays. Quill decided to get another coffee to take back to his cabin. “What shall I say?” he asked Safira anxiously as she turned to leave. “You know, if…”

“Stick to the water.” She turned back to face him briefly. “The rest is me and you, babe,” she sang, with a flirtatious shimmy. He recognised the song. It had been top of the charts for nearly a year when he was in high school. Secrets, by Olympus City superstars BlackWater.

Walking back to his cabin, Quill’s head ached with the effort of the elliptical conversation. He wasn’t sure how helpful it had been. Safira could have got the context of the verse from Revelation easily enough by herself. Perhaps the hint about Jörg might lead somewhere. Jörg would undoubtedly be familiar with the text, and might feel enough connection with Quill to give him some kind of warning, if he were the terrorist. But he felt in his bones that Jörg wasn’t involved. Eastern Lightning went in for long-term mission work these days, not acts of violence and destruction.

He slowed down as he swung into the Green Ring at Deck 8. The crowd had dispersed after the Captain’s lockdown order, and the corridor was empty other than one Security officer, Tasha NiDorn. Quill knew her slightly.

“Hi, Tasha,” he said as he approached. She turned from where she was scrutinising the paintwork. She was in the process of scratching off a small amount and putting it in a sample bag.

“Quill,” she said, unsmiling, though her tone was neutral.

He stopped outside his cabin door to take a good look at the whole verse. “How’s it going?” he ventured.

“Don’t loiter.” She was clearly not doing anything else until he was out of the way.

“Right.” He tapped to open his door. “See you then.” She said nothing, and had turned away by the time the door fully closed.

A ping from Tark. Guess my office is out of bounds. What do you want to do?

He sat down on his bunk and composed a reply. Hey, Tark. Going to be a bit radioactive for a while, better avoid my germs. He wondered whether it was too cryptic, or not cryptic enough.

Since seeing the writing, he had become certain Tark wasn’t involved. It wasn’t just that it was written in English rather than Norsk, and that it was aimed at him or at least at the Martian contingent. It was something about the lettering itself, the loop of the “l”s and the dots of the “i”s. Handwriting was no more common on Mars than Earth, but there was still a distinctive look to the way it was taught in different regions, when it was taught. I’m sure that was written by a Martian. And I’ve got to keep Tark safely out of it.

Quill spent the rest of the morning pacing the three steps up and down the length of his cabin, monitoring the SymbioNor chat channel, and wondering what to do with the Fiducezol he still had stashed in his bed, in case there was a search. The laundry, where he’d thought of disposing of the pills earlier, was now out of bounds. His colleagues, meanwhile, were busy speculating on the identity of the writer and how they had done it. Most agreed that the paint looked like the kind of stuff used for the ship’s exterior markings, but it was hard to imagine where that could have come from; it was the kind of thing that would normally be carried in the cargo hold, rather than the stores for the voyage itself. A lot of people were looking up the verse in Revelation and constructing theories about it. Quill forced himself to keep quiet.

He was the only one who wasn’t surprised when Gundarsson, Chief of Security, announced late in the afternoon that they would begin individual in-person interviews with everyone on Deck 8. Everyone else had assumed AiLeifr would have traced the culprit through their optical feed. Speculation in the chat channel went wild. Quill thought back to the person he’d seen at the water dispenser, the hooded aikonless figure. AiLeifr couldn’t see them, and everyone on the ship was accounted for. Whoever this is, the ai is blind to them.

A ping caught his eye. Demas, to their group of four. They’re calling me for questioning. No • surprise. This is discriminatory profiling and we know it.

Hang in there, buddy, Quill replied. He hesitated before adding a few more words. We know it wasn’t you. Justice will prevail. He hoped it was true.

Quill was thinking about going back to the mess for dinner when he got the summons. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to straighten it out, greasy or not, and headed towards the Blue Ring meeting room they’d set up for interviews. He was approaching the room when Demas came storming out, his face pale with anger. Quill sought to make eye contact as he passed, but Demas simply shook his head and muttered a string of expletives.

Inside the meeting room, Chief Gundarsson was sitting behind a desk, with Tasha NiDorn beside him. Gundarsson’s thick blonde eyebrows were drawn in a frown, and the air felt heavy with tension. The door closed behind Quill.

“Sit,” said Gundarsson abruptly, gesturing at the one empty chair. Quill glanced around as he did so, as if to assure himself there was no-one else in the room.

“Uh, Personnel Officer Lund isn’t here?” he asked cautiously. He had half-expected SymbioNor to make sure they had one of their staff monitoring the interviews.

“No,” said Gundarsson, offering no explanation. “O’Neill, where were you between 2300 hours last night and 0600 this morning?”

Quill opened his mouth then closed it again, surprised at the lack of any preamble. “In bed,” he said. “I, uh, won’t the location monitor show that?”

“I take it you’ve seen the graffiti opposite your cabin door,” Gundarsson went on. “Did you have any prior knowledge of or involvement in this vandalism?”

“No!”

“Do you know the origin of the words written?”

“Uh, yeah, they’re from the Bible. The book of Revelation.”

“Do these words have some special significance to you?”

Quill forced himself to take a slow breath. “They are significant, but only—”

“Significant how?” Tasha interrupted.

“Only in how they’re significant to every Christian believer. They don’t have a special meaning to me individually!” He felt his voice rising a fraction, rattled. Maybe I should turn the translator on, instead of relying on my own ability to respond well in Norsk.

“Explain the meaning of these words to you,” commanded Gundarsson.

“It’s, uh, kind of a warning to God’s people to not be contaminated by the world, uh, to escape the judgement that’s coming on, uh, what the book calls Babylon—”

Gundarsson gave an impatient swipe of his hand. “Alright, that’s enough of that crap.” He looked at Quill with scorn. “Can’t believe you Martian morons believe this garbage.”

“Actually, most Martians aren’t—”

“Speculate,” said Tasha coolly. “What are some potential reasons you can see for why someone might have written this text?”

“I don’t know,” said Quill miserably, remembering Safira’s injunction to keep things quiet.

“Is it connected to the recent agitation by certain SymbioNor colleagues?” Tasha went on.

“You can’t call that agitation! It was only—”

“Answer the question!”

Breathe. In, out. Try to look calm. Quill shrugged. “I doubt it.”

“Why?”

In, out. His breath sounded ragged. “I don’t believe any of my SymbioNor colleagues know these scriptures well enough to have made that reference.”

“Nevertheless, this reference could be construed as being anti-FSS in tone and intention?” Gundarsson this time.

They’re trying to trap me. “Any text can be construed in all sorts of ways whether that was the author’s intention or not.”

“Enough semantics.” Gundarsson ran a finger along the edge of the desk as if checking for dirt. “O’Neill, where were you the early hours of yesterday morning?”

Stick to the water, Saf said. I assume that means I can talk about the water dispenser situation. “I, uh, I was on Deck 12. Yellow Ring, sector C. By the water dispenser.”

Gundarsson and Tasha both leaned forward. “Go on,” said Gundarsson. “What exactly were you doing there at that time, might I ask?”

Quill took a deep breath. I need to tell them about the ghost. Safira said they’re not taking the terrorist threat seriously. I need to convince them there’s a problem, but that it isn’t us. “I’m a Habitat Engineer,” he began.

He was interrupted by a burst of static, a hissing and crackling coming through the network, loud enough to make him gasp. Gundarsson pushed his chair back and jumped to his feet in one explosive movement, while Tasha had instinctively put her hands to her ears as if that could block it out. A second later, the volume decreased to a more comfortable level. It was like the snap and pop of particles and antiparticles in the vacuum, given voice. Gundarsson was trying to call someone, but not connecting. Then came a long low-pitched whistle. The whistle repeated, like the ghostly distress call of a long-lost ship, then there was a brief pause before a much shorter and higher-pitched shriek. The noise went on in a sequence of crackling moans and whistles for about a minute, before subsiding back into static, which then stopped as suddenly as it had started.

The three of them looked at each other, the two Security officers startled out of their role as interrogators.

“What the hell was that?” asked Gundarsson.

Quill felt a shiver ripple through him, as if the noises really had come from the cold dark of hell. He couldn’t help thinking about the stories of the Artemis Maní and the Flying Dutchman and the Marie Celeste. Gundarsson walked out of the meeting room, already talking to one of his team and ordering a report. Tasha was clearly scanning her own messages. Quill cleared his throat, wondering what he should do. Tasha glanced across at him.

“We need to deal with this,” she said shortly. “Return to quarters. We’ll continue your interview later.”

The ghostly sequence of whistles echoed in Quill’s mind as he circled round the corridor back to his cabin. Outside his door, a cleaning robot was unsuccessfully attempting to remove the paint from the wall. He sank down on his bunk. That was Morse code, or I’m a mongoose.

-- . -. . 
-- . -. . 
. -.- . .-.. 
.--. .- .-. ... .. -.

← Previous chapter

→ Next chapter

Navigation Index

If you enjoyed this story, let me know with a like, comment or share!

Cover image of Jupiter © National Astronomical Observatory of Japan, colour modification by SDGL.

Divider image: NASA, ESA, A. Simon (Goddard Space Flight Center), and M. H. Wong (University of California, Berkeley) and the OPAL team, adapted by SDGL.