Satet-Ta

Episode 40

PROLOGUE

"One man's 'magic' is another man's engineering. Supernatural is a null word."

--Robert A. Heinlein

Once there were two trees which had been planted at the same time and were now laden with fruit. One tree had fruit beautiful to behold, sweet to the taste, and its shade was agreeable. Therefore many people hastened to it; but entering under its shade they grew diseased, and eating of its fruit, they died. Now the other [tree] was ill-formed, but its shade healed the sick and eating of its fruit bestowed immortality. Slowly learning this, many people hastened to it and rejoiced at the discovery.

--Mkhitar Gosh, A Fable

**********

The heliotrope spun easily, and east of the lunar rim. Beneath it there was a thirsty, acarpous desert known as the Sea Of Serenity.

From where it came, there was only black terror.

**********

In Main Mission control, Commander John Koenig was jape, his right elbow against the modular panels beneath the big screen. Across from him, Dr. Helena Russell reset the BIOMED feed beneath a monitor that was labeled TURNER.

There were also units available for scrutinizing CARTER, and BALFOUR.

**********

"Eagle One to Moonbase Alpha." CMP Alec Turner responded to the hail. "Confirm, one atmosphere."

***********

"Roger that...." Controller Paul Morrow said, his face losing color.

Koenig was beyond being over-amped. Now, he was just plain angry.

"Ang.'" He accosted the technical manager. "What's up with this Pascal elevation? I'm starting to regret giving Alan and Harry Balfour permission to go EVA. Can their hardsuits withstand the pressure?"

"They're not in trouble yet," Angelina Carter responded from the Technical Station, frowning at the data stream from Ouma's Central Computer. Ben Ouma clicked the mouse and forwarded the latest graph of pressure change to Ang's screen. Bergman leaned over her shoulder, adjusting his reading glasses and scrutinized the monitor.

A copy of the graph was already printing. She knew Bergman well enough that he preferred reading hard copies of data and graphs rather than decipher points in the glare of the monitor.

"Those suits are meant to withstand several atmospheres before failure," she added, noting Koenig's raised eyebrow at the word 'yet'. She tore the sheet off the printer and handed it to the professor.

"So far," he studied the trend, "the increase has been linear. They would be right on top of it and still be well within the safety limit. There should be no reason for concern."

"Right," Koenig marched toward Russell and glance at the biofeed monitors, "but my concern is the cause of the increase in the first place, slight as it may be."

**********

Four hundred meters vacant, Eagle One--acquisition lights blinking--drifted thru dark dreams towards the multicolored vestiges of creation. The heavens were sempiternal, and resting high above. The underworld was below. In between, astronaut Balfour's orange helmet, and body armor exited the murk, and appeared in Carter's Maglite beam again.

"It's definitely no bank holiday." He complained over the Plantronics link. "We're practically bouncing off of each other. It's all elbows out here. Worse, it's a black hole. I can't see how we're going to get on. We at least have to be able to see our hands in front of our faces."

Carter, the mission commander, moved forward cautiously, his Manned Maneuvering Unit leaving behind a trail of Hydrogen Peroxide.

**********

"There's not much we can do about that." Benjamin Ouma told them all, though the barb' was meant for Ang.' "We're in an area where no stars are visible. Incidentally, without support services they're going to have a whole lot of fun landing, too."

He knew he was smarter than she.

"Thank you for your concern, Ben," Ang retorted with slight condescension. She couldn't be bothered with the Computer Chief's smug moodiness. "But that matter is being addressed as I speak."

Bram Cedrix instant messaged her with the thumbs up icon, indicating the placement of the auxiliary floodlights on the pad was complete and the pad crew was ready to receive Eagle One.

Her own counter smugness was short lived as she scanned the latest data from the object.

"One point five atmosphere," she clicked the mouse rapidly. "One point seven five. Two atmospheres. Two point five. Increasing exponentially."

"Commander, I would advise them not to approach any closer," Angelina looked up, alarm breaking through her voice as she stood and stared at the big screen with the miniature, long distance version of Eagle One hanging against the murky backdrop.

Koenig whirled around to the controller's station and reached over Morrow's shoulder, slamming the white transmission button. "Carter! Balfour! Move away from that object! NOW!"

**********

"Alpha, Eagle One." Turner struggled with his own, inconvenient, watermelon helmet inside the command module. "Ready to execute direct abort, and instrument landing."

Snails seemed like superluminal streaks.

**********

"HARRY." Alan Carter lagged--loud...but sure...but petrified--while 10,000 meters below, the azure, barely viable, ghost of the Mare Imbrium revolved slowly in the shadows. "YOU HEARD THE WORD. THE CLOCK IS TICKING. WE'LL RUBBERNECK THIS IN THE LAB."

Where he assumed it would be safe.

Close by--perilously 'dear,' one might say--Balfour's unmoving, approximate boots dangled from the wonky bulk of his own jet pack. Carter could see spellbound fists, still clutching the thruster controls. From out of the twilit depths, archaic points, lines, curves, and surfaces began to radiate--blinding man, and machine in staves of painful cuneiform. Balfour was happy now. Bone dead, but happy. Carter felt wrapped in sudden, iron layers of gravity which, fortunately for him, tackled, but did not mash. Ambushed with nausea, he cried out inside his pressure suit as he was fastballed thru the null.

That there could be no sonics in space was now a joke. The racket, and semivowels that tortured, and maimed began to seem like a barbarically out-of-tune cover of Handel's Messiah. He collapsed into unconsciousness before he could critique the music further. He pinwheeled away as the light, and the reverb encompassed his ship, the Moon, and the assemblage of everything.

**********

CMP Turner hated this beastly tune.

**********

In Main Mission, Umberto Garzon grabbed his ears, and fell backwards, his fall broken by Lars Manroot's cart which was left unattended after the computer technician acquiesced to the agony of inflamed eardrums.

"REPORT." Koenig holla'ed, on one knee and fighting to remain sane.

"IT'S SOME SORT OF DISCHARGE." Paul Morrow riposted, wishing all the while that he could have been born deaf. "LOCATION, UNKNOWN."

Sandra Benes doubled over, her ears still throbbing painfully, as she unintentionally dropped her flimsey to the gray tile floor.

Despite her own extreme agony from tortured eardrums, the Technical Manager kept an eye on her monitor and the sudden appearance of red bars, indicating power phases becoming unphased, and Russell's biofeed monitors. She was gratified to first see wavy, though highly valley and peaked lines for 'CARTER' then less tumultuous but still not normal lines for 'TURNER'. However, the flat lines for 'BALFOUR' could only mean either a transmission/receiver malfunction or....

Ben Ouma clasped the sides of his head, sweating and cursing, as Helena Russell dropped to her knees, with tears streaming down her face. The indescribable pain increased in intensity, as Main Mission, all of Moonbase Alpha, filled with cries of agony.

When blackness began to edge their vision and the prospect of unconsciousness was mercifully within their grasp, the source of their distress began to subside then slowly cease.

For a moment, Angelina, face also wet with tears, thought she HAD gone deaf. Only a persistent ringing in the ears remained, along with a throbbing migraine, but then, slowly, the sounds of Main Mission, the constant closing and opening of circuits from computer filled her head, as did the moans and cries of the her other comrades in the floating prison.

**********

Alan Carter--spinning boot treads, and all--was a new satellite--now three kilometers from the crippled fuselage of Eagle One, and gaining momentum.

**********

"...primary equipment is disabled...." A worse-for-the-wear Turner reported through the black, and white snow of Monitor One. "...also...." He faded. "...also negative talkback from the forward, and aft thruster quads."

"Where, oh where can Carter be?" Ouma proposed, world weary, and inconsiderate of Angs' feelings.

"What's happened to grid?" Koenig asked the technical manager as he stared up at the dark imbroglio of overhead girders.

"According to computer, we're operating on deep cycle storage." The computer chief said, which was preferable to his meanderings about the eminent demise of Eagle One's captain.

"No shit, Sherlock," Ang blasted Ouma with vitriol, "Only morons depend on computer to tell us that," she finished her skewering, not caring how petty she sounded. Realistically, nobody else could really hear her with a dull and aching residual humming in their ears. "As to 'why' the reactors went offline, I can't say...not now anyway."

She rubbed her throbbing temple, squinting and trying to decipher the unending feedback of data from the main power generation area. She hit the communication stud.

"Joe? Are you alive down there?" The moans in the background affirmed they were alive, though probably not well.

"Yeah," the Power Generation Manager answered, out of breath, "I wish I wasn't."

Angelina winced and glanced back at Russell's monitors, BALFOUR was still flat lines but CARTER was not...still.

"What the fuck was that about?" Erhlich continued, weakness in his voice.

"Probably from that object out there," Ang continued, watching Russell, aided by Koenig, return to a standing position while she shook her head, hair flying from side to side like the head of an Old English sheepdog, in an attempt to stop the ringing and regain equilibrium. The physician immediately studied the biofeed monitors.

"There's a fault with Harry Balfour's monitor," she turned toward Angelina.

"According to computer, there is no fault with the receiver for Harry Balfour's biomonitor," Ouma cut in, glaring triumphantly at Ang, at the same time a disheveled Joyce Balfour staggered into the auditorium and fixated on the biofeeds.

"You're an idiot," Ang mumbled under her breath at the computer chief.

"John." Bergman came to the rescue...almost...grasping his afflicted, nuts, and bolts heart with one hand, and a new printout in the other. "It looks like something out there has been splitting atoms."

"Atoms?" The commander was fazed.

The professor nodded.

"But rather than give up their heat, they emitted sound."

"Waves of that sort cannot travel through space." CapCom Farendahl indoctrinated the ignorant. His receding, red bangs were split three ways as a result of the recent trauma. Now, he was more than a pilot. Now, he was Star Head.

"That's what I always thought." Bergman agreed. "But...they just did."

"Harry?!?!?" Joyce Balfour bounded toward Russell hysterically. "HARRY!!!! NO!!! DEAR GOD, NOOOOOOO!!!!!" The doctor tried to comfort then restrain. "No!!! NOOOOOOOO!!! He's DEAD!!!! Harry!!! HARRY!!!!!!" The bereaved widow threw herself against Koenig, attempting to pound on his chest. "HOW COULD YOU HAVE SENT HIM OUT THERE?!!? YOU KNEW IT WAS DANGEROUS!!! WHAT PURPOSE DID SERVE?!? WERE WE EVER IN ANY KIND OF DANGER?!?!? WHY?!?! WHYYYYYYYYYYY?!?!?!?" The woman sobbed hysterically until Russell found the jugular vein and injected the sedative. Koenig, his face an unreadable mask, supported her until she lost consciousness and Harness Bull Stryker became an impromptu orderly.

"Take her to Medical," Russell swallowed, regaining control of her emotions as Joyce Balfour was removed from the room. The physician returned to the monitors marked TURNER and CARTER.

"Nice going, Ben," Sandra blurted coldly from the Data Analyst Station.

"It's a fair question." Bergman posited from his top secret corner next to the commander. "Alan."

Still leaning hard on the controller's workstation, Koenig divined the wheel of fortune morbidity.

"Paul, what's Eagle One's status?"

"She's adrift over Murchison's Crater." Morrow answered comparatively. "Only the command module batteries are operational. Right now, we're looking at a combined landing using one of the freighters."

"How long before Turner interfaces with the Moon's gravity?"

"An hour." The controller double checked using his own calculator. "Or less."

"He could soft land." Pilot Farendahl said wisely. "Unless whatever happened 'happens' again."

From his impartial vantage point, Analyst Sandra Benes looked like a man.

"That's not the problem." Or maybe it was. Koenig drew a heavy breath, his mind filled with morose images of decompressed beta-suits, and ruptured 02 packs. "Ready the orbital response team. Tell them I want them to look for Carter, and retrieve Eagle One."

"Duration of search?" Farendahl, the ice man of protocol.

"No one comes back until those two things are accomplished. Does that sound like a plan?" The commander ruled, making certain that the order was loud enough for Morrow to hear, which was not difficult, considering that he was only two feet away.

The Technical Manager, unconsciously biting her lower lip, was visibly relieved...to a point. She glanced at Russell, watching her jot notes from the biofeed readings. Realizing she was being watched, her facial expression changed from heavy concern to poker face. Too late, though; Angelina Carter had already read the worry.

"Commander!" Sandra Benes announced with alarm as soon as Farendahl acknowledged Rescue Eagle 4 and Pierre Danielle's estimated ETA to Eagle One's position. "The object. It has changed course!"

All eyes turned toward the big screen, squinting, except Koenig, who was now behind the data analyst.

"Where!?!?" the Commander leaned over her shoulder as Benes' petite finger typed with experience and precision over the well worn keyboard.

"Moonbase Alpha," she answered with anxiety and anger.

Koenig, Bergman, Russell, Ang' et al looked up in time to see the feed, transmitted from one of the SATCOM units in the eastern hemisphere. The deadly, cochlea bashing majesty of the object, diamond shaped, had begun to descend, forty five degrees relative to Eagle One's handicapped position. The ship was repelled in the aftershock of impossible decibels. It was an enigma of alien science. Or maybe just a plain, old bomb, and CapCom Farendahl dare not look up.

"ALERT CONDITION ONE." The commander declared as he found his way back to the big screen thru the sudden onslaught, as the control tower loop filled with overlapping reports from the perimeter stations, and the tactical hub. Russell joined him. Farendahl resented him. Bergman was left to his bamboozled, wholly understandable chin scratching.

**********

Propelled palms out, and face first in the backwash, a crescent Moon was reflected in the cracked visor of Balfour's helmet. In opposition to this image of the satellite, there was the split retina of a dead man. He scudded up, and down in the molasses of zero gravity--too far away for anyone to notice the ebon, bone haft of the dagger that was jutting from between his water connection hose, and the powerless life support assembly of his suit.

Chapter 1

"It's penetrated the defense screens," Angelina Carter announced with horror but no suspense. She was not surprised in the least. "Thirty seconds to impact."

"Location?" Koenig turned as he was half way up the steps to the computer deck.

"The command tower," Sandra finished somberly.

"Engage the shutters!" Koenig rapid fired but Morrow was already on it, even though he knew it was probably a futile effort. Ouma had computer calculate the likelihood of survival in the event of a direct hit and at the re-entry speed of the object making a beeline at them, the statistical result was approximately 3%.

3.041% to be precise.

"Main Mission Operatives, move down to the lower levels...now!" Koenig continued, literally pushing Emma Black under the left archway. A crowd of operatives headed toward both archways and stairwell beyond in the corridor.

Their chances of survival could be as high as 50%.

The shutters blacked out the blackness of space as the countdown clock ticked past 20 seconds. The emergency bulkhead doors of the archways slammed shut as well as the door to Koenig's office, trapping about half dozen operatives, whose faces were blank, not quite comprehending that they had just fallen into the 3% survival likelihood group.

"Get down!" Koenig pulled Russell and Bergman to the floor as everyone else on the operations level sought refuge under a desk.

The countdown clock ticked past 10....9...8....

The room was silent, though silent prayers screamed loudly within tortured minds.

7....6...5...

Morrow glance up at the clock then caught Sandra Benes' gaze, which was not frightened but utterly pissed off. Death was coming at a very inconvenient time and she was angry. He smiled slightly and touched her hand.

4..3..

Angelina Carter was under the desk with Ben Ouma next to her. She thought it ironic that only a few minutes before, she had pushed the sick at heart feeling out of her head that Alan was once again close to making her a widow. Now it appeared he would be a widower. She prayed silently and thought of Nicky.

2....1.....

Nothing.

It seemed 10, 20 even 30 seconds went by. Time marched on and still....nothing.

"This one's cold, and cruel." Morrow whined--asinine to the end-from beneath the stainless steel stanchions of his own desk. He wiped the perspiration from his brow with a fist, and not a palm. "We should have opened fire on it." He charged Koenig. "After what happened to Balfour, I think it's safe to assume the target is hostile.

"We had time."

"Time to put our worst foot forward." Bergman accepted the challenge, propped on his elbows between Ang,' and Lars Manroot. "We don't know what happened to Balfour yet."

"No, we don't." The commander beamed proudly at his infuriated deputy.

From the world above, there came a familiar trill from the CapComm's station.

"WHO'S REQUESTING LAUNCH CLEARANCE?" Koenig carped.

"It's probably Donovan in the ORT Eagle." Farendahl took the blame. Sandra Benes was hunkered down beside him. She still had an attitude, still looked like a man. "The response crews, and the EMT vessels use blunt ascent."

"So much for competence." The commander said...of himself...smiling amicably...but with tainted long sufferance...and by way of apology. "Use your commlock. Tell the emergency ship to stand by one. Tell them 'sorry'...we neglected to mention that they might get their heads blown off."

Bergman offered a supportive, sympathetic look.

"Why is it taking so long?" Sandra Benes was the first to break into hard bitching. "If we're going to die on our stomachs I would just as soon do it now."

"As would I." Morrow assented.

Angelina, sweating but color returning to pale cheeks, shook her head quietly, interrupted only by her commlock chirping at her belt.

"What!" she answered in annoyance. Michelle Cranston was visible on the micromonitor.

"You're not going to believe this," the other woman responded, ignoring her supervisor's irritation.

"Try me," Ang rebuked.

"That weird object," she continued, glancing to her right, almost certainly out of a viewport. "It was headed toward the Main Mission tower and I could have sworn you guys were goners when it just landed."

"You mean crashed?" Ang frowned.

"No, I mean landed as in engaging thruster jets and setting down. Can't you see it? It's right next to you on the lunar surface."

"We can't see a thing," Ang responded, sitting up as did everyone else. Already, Sandra Benes was at her station, typing commands to train and focus the camera on the roof of the Technical hub on the object. "The shutters are still closed." She paused momentarily. "Is everything ok down there?"

When the Manufacturing Manager gave a positive response, the Chief of Technical Operations thanked Cranston and cut the link. Everyone was on their feet now and Bergman, at the unshuttered viewports with binoculars, was looking down several stories at the immobile object.

Koenig studied the object from the camera image on the Big Screen.

"No movement, no energy, nothing," Angelina announced, analyzing the initial sensor data.

"Scanners confirm," Benes agreed. "The object appears to be inert."

"Appearances can be deceiving," the Commander cautioned from his station and this time Morrow nodded in agreement.

"Commander," Ang asked from her station, "what about Alan...and Eagle 1?"

"We can't take the risk," Morrow objected.

"I DIDN'T ASK YOU," the Technical chief spewed venom at the Deputy. Morrow glared but she did not flinch and her rage at Paul remained; then her face assumed a softer, almost pleading mask as she returned her gaze at Koenig. "Commander?"

Koenig honestly didn't know.

"Victor?" He entrusted the professor.

"We don't know anything a'toll about that object." Bergman stressed. "They may fare well, or they may be destroyed before they exit Alpha space. It's your call, John."

The commander searched their faces.

"When have we ever been completely safe?" Koenig concluded. "Besides, it might be worth the risk to have them out there. Paul, launch the ORT mission."

**********

The object remained inert, a black diamond contrasting the somber gray of the lunar surface. The surface was pitted, scarred from an indeterminate number of collisions with micrometeors. It had a destination, an address to hell.

This was a hell but it was the wrong one.

Chief of Computer Operations Ben Ouma would later discover the software error which caused the object to divert its course.

By then, it would be too late.

**********

Angelina Carter's attention was 95% focused on eavesdropping the conversations between Farendahl at the Cap Com and Tim Donovan in Rescue Eagle 4. Koenig paced in front of his desk behind them, periodically stopping at the viewports to talk with Bergman, who was still glued to studying the object below.

Ang uttered an audible sigh of relief when Donovan announced "We've located Carter." Doctor Helena Russell nearly pushed Farendahl out of his chair to get to the communication stud, rapid firing instructions regarding patient handling, instructions the rescue team was knowledgeable and well practiced. If Russell was in the Eagle, she would have heard Donovan mumble 'pain in the ass' following his neutral "Yes, Doctor" before he cut the link.

"Barbie," Donovan stood up, grabbing his helmet. "Keep her steady. I'll get the Chief."

"Yep," pilot Barbara Conroy nodded, grabbing the yoke. "You can count on me."

Donovan waited patiently as atmospheric pressure waned inside the passenger module. "Opening the starboard doors."

Conroy did not answer but Donovan was not alarmed. He saw Carter and leapt off the platform, twin trails of expelled gas gushing behind him. With one arm, he caught the still pinwheeling pilot.

"Alan?" Donovan spoke but it was clear the Captain was still unconscious. "Alrighty then. Let's get you back. Barbie? I got him."

No response.

"Barb?!?" Donovan called again, frustrated. "Goddamn radios," he assumed, now at the door. Yul Ostrog was going to hear about this when he got back. The hatch to the passenger module of Eagle 4 slid open and Donovan, pulled Carter inside, positioning him on a back board and strapping him to a stretcher while still in zero gravity.

"Barb?" He tried again as he manually engaged atmosphere and gravity control. When earth gravity and atmosphere was restored, he strode toward the command module after removing Carter's helmet and taking some vital signs; no doubt Russell would be harping on him for those the minute he stepped inside the command module. "Alpha," he spoke into his commlock, "Carter is secure and we are going to dock with Eagle....."

 He dropped his comlock as he stepped into the Command Module, gaping in horror.

Barb Conroy sat, in shock, dazed and bloodied. Her face was a gored, raw meat mess, flesh torn away in chunks, skin hanging in flaps. The cause, her hands, still in the shape of claws, were coated with scarlet and to Donovan's horror, he was able to distinguish the object still clutched in the left hand.

Her left eye.

**********

"...CAN'T BE SURE...." Jim Haines--who could best be described as a theorist--verbalized in the overlapping, uncapped aftermath of trepidation, and self preservation.

"...OH, THE HELL WE CAN'T." John Koenig finished the combined, schizophrenic sentence, and slammed his three ring binder closed. "WHEN THE ORT WAS DEPLOYED, CONROY WAS ALIVE, AND KICKING. WHEN THEY RETURNED, IT LOOKED LIKE SHE LOST A FIGHT WITH AN IRON MAIDEN." They never were completely safe, he had maintained, and now he hated his own foresightedness. "I THINK THE THING THAT CRASHED BY THE OXIDIZER WELLS CAUSED IT. I WOULD ALSO SUGGEST THAT ANYONE WHO THINKS OTHERWISE IS A GODDAMN FOOL."

"I have that report ready." Victor Bergman convened warily--where angels feared to tread.

"WE DON'T NEED IT." The commander adjourned the conference.

"Good, because it's not long." The professor described. "Barely a paragraph."

"Could you share it with us?" Dr. Strand said meekly while a standing Koenig glared at him.

"Share." Bergman nodded, biting his lower lip apprehensively. "Well, why not? The heliotrope, as we've come to know it, is a propellantless vehicle, and not a sculpture, which was our initial thought."

"WE ALSO DIDN'T THINK IT WOULD KILL." The commander pontificated at Ang,' but not to her. The homily was intended for all.

"It may use plasma physics." Bergman strolled deeper onto the frozen bed of thin ice. "Tuned resonance frequency. Sonics."

"AND IT'S GRAVITY FED...AND IT WAS DESIGNED SOMEHOW UNDER THE FIBONACCI SEQUENCE...AND IT KILLS." Koenig could not believe that they were still talking about it.

"Barbara Conroy is not dead," Dr. Helena Russell spoke softly and subdued. True, she was in a deep coma and her face was going to give someone in Medical practice in plastic surgery. She also had one remaining eye and likely never to fly again. That fact would be the most crushing blow to her, to any pilot. "The wounds were self inflicted, John. When she wakes up," Russell thought 'if' but kept it to herself, "she should be able to tell us what happened."

"Yeah, she freaked out," Angelina theorized, "but what could have driven her to rip apart her own face?"

"It could be a result of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome." Russell took a sip from her tepid coffee.

"You mean she snapped?" Ang shook her head. "Uh, no. Not Barbie Conroy. Astronauts are regular Rocks of Gibraltar. They have to be. It's not only part of their training but it has to be part of their disposition as well and that goes for the women as well as the men. If Barbie was the type to freak out, she would have been flushed out of the program long before we left Earth orbit."

"I find it interesting that Carter survived." A strangely subdued, and analytical Morrow commented aloud.

"True." Dr. Strand said. "Only Balfour, and Conroy suffered the unfortunate after effects of the alien engine design.

"We don't really know what happened to Balfour." Sandra Benes reminded the physicist, pointing.

"And an alien engine would cause a woman to go nuts and try to rip off her own face?" Angelina joined, not pointing but fixed on Strand nevertheless. "Sorry, but that doesn't make any sense."

Koenig rubbed the rage, and humiliation from his eyes brutally. At least he still had both of them. His misinformation about Conroy--the apparent recipient of a miracle--in no way detracted from his feelings of wrath, which he believed to be ultimately justifiable. Survival was tough enough.

The box from outer space was one more headache that they did not need. He realized, of course, that Russell's revelation would unleash the monster of human curiosity. Since the Moon was blown away, this attribute had proven to be worse than having one's ocular pulled out by the stalk.

"Ang.'" He found a saner sentence. "Who pulled the plug on Alpha? Have you been able to determine why we still have no lights, or heat?"

"Most of the circuitry in 5 of the 6 main transformers was charred," Angelina reported diligently from her open laptop. She looked up. "It was almost like a sudden load was demanded and the breakers could not keep up. Fortunately, the damage is easily repaired and we should have full power within an hour."

The lights flickered on and the HVAC units began blowing warm air. "Or less," she continued. "The black out occurred during the sonic blast, which was heard throughout the base."

"Has anyone stopped to think that there may be a relationship between the arrival of that object, and our utility problems?"

"Possibly." Pete Garforth replied, stricken. "But I really don't see how-"

"I'm not sure either," Ang continued. "I suppose, theoretically it could, but the frequency of the sonic blast was entirely different than an operating frequency of an electromagnetic field which could potentially disrupt and EM power cycle.

"One that we could measure, anyway."

"You're totally dead set against this." Morrow finally figured it out, and made faces at the commander.

"Yes I am." Koenig realized, and seated himself again.

"John, look, I understand." Bergman said with empathy. "However, this may be a golden opportunity."

"To do what, Victor? To learn to see with one eye? No thanks."

"Sir, you minimize the potential uses of gravity intake." Jim Haines led them all back into the arms of reason.

"You want to bring that thing inside?" Ang turned incredulous toward Bergman. "Here. Inside Moonbase Alpha. Alan was injured. Harry Balfour was killed and something happened to Barbie." She stiffened, sitting back. "That's oh and 3 against that thing for safety, Professor."

"Yes it is." Koenig exalted in this breakout moment, returning from the table with a glass of water after sneak swallowing two aspirin. He polished the remainder off in two gulps, and set it on a low-rider, granite plastic table next to a huge, copper Gorski thinger' that had two heads, but only one mouth. Even if they knew, no one would believe it.

"I'm not saying that." The professor maintained. "I'm simply suggesting that it might be a good idea to go out, and have a look...take a few photographs...run a Geiger counter, and an x-ray spectrometer over it." He intended. "Those diethyl vaults are far enough away, it need not pose any risk to the safety of Alpha.

"The procedure can be handled electronically." He assured. "No human presence is needed. All we're interested in is elemental chemicals. It could give us ideas that would be intrinsic to our future survival."

"We have several instrument packs in orbit that can be manipulated telerobotically." Morrow postulated. "We're preparing to deorbit the Kopernik-500, in fact."

"Ah." Sandra Benes sounded arrogantly pleased. "There is the answer, and with sugar on it. Instead of having the satellite impact on the lunar surface, we can deploy it over the target area, and Farendahl can handle the operation via long range dish."

"I can?" The acting CapComm felt like an overestimated, retainer stooge.

"A mission like this would be child's play." Benjamin Ouma valiantly joined the expedition. "Computer can handle the necessary algorithms. Of course."

"Computer can't even handle the necessary dispensation of bleach for waste treatment." Pete Garforth just couldn't go there, even if it meant losing the chance of a lifetime.

Pierce Quenton, who was standing guard in the rear guffawed.

"That reminds me, the power books in the Security Cube are still shutting down involuntarily." He said. "You were supposed to have Manroot look into that--or at least that was the story I heard a month ago."

"I'll go along with any decision that's made." Bergman tanned, sounding as if he was speaking to the entire group, but mainly to John Koenig. "You all know that, but I also think we should weigh our alternatives carefully."

"If it can be done unmanned," Dr. Russell contributed her opinion, "and the orbiter was being taken out of commission anyway, then I don't oppose. We really need to determine what it is but without risking more lives."

No one would argue with that comment, even John Koenig, who just gazed from person to person around the table, including an almost pouting Ouma.

**********

"...then it just landed, I mean 'landed'," Angelina Carter repeated with emphasis to Alan Carter, " a controlled landing on the lunar surface. I saw the recording and couldn't believe it." She hated the hard white plastic chairs, reminding her of lawn furniture and her back was beginning to protest. She leaned forward, still gently holding his hand with the IV line needle prominently protruding from his wrist. Carter's expression was nearly blank as he listened to her relay the events in Main Mission after his life threatening encounter with the mystery object which left him with a terrible case of the bends but slight changes in his grip on her hand was proportional to his mounting irritation.

He had just emerged from the hyperbolic chamber and still felt like crap. At least every joint in his body was no longer on fire and in constant agony.

"There's something else," she went on, now her grip was tightening with tension. "Tim Donovan and Barbie Conroy manned the ORT flight that brought you in but Barbie was....injured. The injuries were, well, self inflicted, so says Dot Sullivan."

"Self inflicted?" The astronaut balked, attempting to sit up, but having his pain make other arrangements. "Fuck what Dot' Sullivan says. That's the bee's knees, Apricot. You don't know.... Conroy is the most level headed aviator in section, and a military brat from way back. Hell, the old man worked for SAC-NORAD. If anything, she has no compassion, even for herself. I cannot--will not believe that she's one of those Sheilas that would cure her depression by sticking the barrel of a gun in her mouth. If she can put up with Coop' day after day, after miserable day, she can handle the prospect of being trapped inside this tin can.

"What was her supposed method of suicide?" He inquired skeptically. "Throw it at me: The Gospel According To Sullivan."

"I don't know. They think she flipped out, post traumatic stress syndrome or some such thing but I don't buy it. It doesn't make sense."

Carter thought it a twisted joke.

"She's not that old." He revealed. "Sure, she caught the tail end of the Atlantic Dust Bowl--and she was here when someone tossed a match at the nuclear waste dumps--but she got on as well as anyone, considering. She's made of stern enough stuff."

If this was a joke, it would end badly during the next lunar council meeting, he pledged with blood--there was certainly plenty for all on the inside of his pressure suit.

"Another thing, regarding the object." She continued. She had debated whether or not to give him the full update but decided he could take it. "We're taking a closer look at the object but unmanned, of course. We're deorbiting Kopernik-500 in about 20 minutes and getting a good look at the thing. The professor is all excited about it, as are Sandra, Ben and Paul. I haven't seen Professor Bergman this excited in a long time. He's been bounding around Main Mission, whistling and just in a general good mood, taking the lead on this project. The commander is going along with it but its not making his day or anything. Me, I feel the same as Commander Koenig. In fact, I wish the thing would just go away. I have a really bad feeling about it, Alan, and I..." She stopped, realizing she was rambling nervously at an increasing pace, her speech matching the scatteredness of her thoughts. "Well," she continued, softly, squeezing his hand carefully to not displace IV line, "I guess I'm afraid of it."

She felt herself breaking into a cold sweat, then decided it was only a reaction to fatigue and tension.

**********

The awareness permeated the walls of the base before the corporate fact.

Moving away from the fair haired woman, and her best, brute protégé, it floated across the vitreous tile floor of the negative pressure isolation ward--over, and away from the autodoc control console; the 3D lifenet monitor; thru the decontamination exit. It was an odorless, invisible miasma on the unit proper, inspecting the rows of empty beds; the castored pharmacy carts; the power exam table; the dentist's cubicle, where nothing intelligent was going on; the doors to operating theaters A, and B. It revolved 360 degrees to face the halcyon of ceiling lights.

Then there were surgeons in masks, and three-ply latex gloves.

Raul Nunez, RN--his image vague, and filmed over--moved past it on his way to the small, oval Urology Lab.

Passing through the metallic aegis, and insulation, it poised itself--sight unseen--over Bob Mathias' head like an undulating butterfly as he rocked pensively in his high back, office chair. The file on Claude Murneau was a beaut.' He had hemorrhoids now, and this was deserved. The consciousness took time to examine from afar the commlock that rested on top of the desk blotter, and the model of the mushroom-like, human cortex that rested ninety percent unused atop the CARDEX cabinet.

It moved into the corridor, and an amused contemplation of the many characters with white sleeves that moved past the sequence of vision ports, and commstations--en route to and from the small occupancy atrium.

Already it had grubbed, this would be easy.

Chapter 2

He had reached rock bottom, and had started to dig. Still, there were limits.

The rest of the rot-gut, pesticide free, nutrient solution tablets were his, and his alone.

"You don't understand. Pray you don't end up like me." Ed Malcom told his charge, young Nicholas Carter, as he gave up another piece of candy in exchange for ongoing council. "No offense, but any friend of theirs is a friend of theirs--especially the old man. Believe me, twould' have been more merciful for you to have been born an orphan, Big Nick. Don't worry. Ed's here for you. Every day I bust my hump to keep that section running smooth. My only meager request is to be transferred to internal systems. Does she grant that? Oh no. I know what she's going to say before she opens her mouth." He paused, setting aside Caesar the cat so that he could summon the Rich Little in his soul. "Ed, I am the director of this unit. I will decide. You won't decide. I will decide.

"And then she caps it off by saying: 'you're incompetent.'

"She hurt my feelings real bad.

"Of course I'm good enough to spend my valuable, off-duty time babysitting--raising you, as it were; giving of myself so that you won't know the horrors of being a latch-key child on a ruined moon.

"I don't know." He moaned, he groaned. "Maybe it's true what they say: "Those who throw dirt are bound to lose ground."

Caesar immediately gave himself a bath, frantically licking the exact places the fat man had touched his fur with those thick, greasy, soft (and uncalloused from no work) hands, after moving himself out of reaching distance.

Harness Bull Theyland, the real parent monitor in the care center, glanced at Malcom out of the corner of his eye while changing the diaper of one of his three remaining charges. All of the other children were either with parents or with parent's friends but in the case of the remaining children, his own daughter was in the room, as well as the Quenton and the Carter boys. Both parents and close friends were working or in the Captain's case, not able to care for the child. Theyland was tempted to throw Malcom out, not only because the thought of bullying the louse was cheery but he thought the guy might be a negative influence on the kids.

There was enough negativity working against Alpha's future.

Still, Malcom provided entertainment for the cop; he fancied his baby's laughter was in response to the obese technician's bellyaching, and that alone was worth letting the guy stay in the room for a few more minutes.

"Sorry you bad day, Mista Mahcon," Nicky mumbled in a small tired voice, while concentrating and twisting the rectangular sections of the rage of the 1980's toy, the Rubicks cube. Malcom was the only person Nicky addressed as "Mister" on Moonbase Alpha. There was Momma and Daddy, of course, as well as 'Bicta', 'Meweeta' and of course, 'Commanda'. All of the other adults on Moonbase Alpha were addressed by one of two titles, depending on the uniform sleeve color. Anyone with yellow, white or rust sleeves, like his Momma's, was called 'Doc' and anyone with purple or orange sleeves, like his Daddy's, were called "Lootinit".

It was that simple. His father, though, had taught him to address the fat man as "Mister Malcom". Ed Malcom loved it. He seemed to think that the boy was being extraordinarily polite, not like that nasty Profitt twin, who actually dumped his drink on his head the last time he was in the Center.

Nicky Carter was in a mental fog. The nightmares had come for the last several night modes but they would end abrupt and disjointed. He did not wake up screaming in terror but instead, he roused tired, cranky and in a daze, not remembering anything. His REM sleep was incomplete. The child felt uneasy and troubled but couldn't explain why. Nicky didn't speak much. He listened and comprehended but as Professor Bergman said, "maybe he doesn't have much to say." His friend, Gretchen Erhlich, chattered more than he did, often speaking for him. Raul Nunez assured his mother to enjoy the relative quiet now, that the day would come when he won't 'shut up'. That day, though, was not now.

"You know I tried to talk to him once." Ed said. "You know...bread winner. The only guy on the base who relished changing your diapers. I shared part of myself...my goals...my aspirations. You know what he said? Space is a dangerous place.

"Especially if it's between your ears."

Harness Bull Theyland said nothing, even though he agreed with what Carter said, and thought it to be an injunction.

He stuffed his mouth, and ground the green tablets to a pulp in seconds, appreciating the while the hour glass shape that sashayed' past him like a tempting Geisha from forbidden continents. Imagine. The face of a man, and the body of a cheerleader. Then he realized that the rictus was that of Lorna O'Brian, and he felt deep shame, superbity, and sex starved reverence.

"Hello, Ed." She smiled charmingly, all the while wondering if the technician had been the first in the Malcom family to be born without a tail.

Winking at Nicky, she moved up the steps towards the wall mounted, touch and release CD case. She was hoping to find a disc on human growth, and development. It had nothing to do with her specialization, which was materials science, but unlike certain technicians on the base, she thirsted to grow a poetic mind. Or...to just be able to make a monkey out of someone like Malcom. Of course, in that enterprise she could not take all of the credit.

"Virginia." She called to the recently arrived RN as she held open the twin, granite plastic doors, and gazed blankly at the empty racks. "Where did Parker move the optical media?"

Virginia Burton passed Charlie Quenton his nutritional supplement formula. The almost one year old took the double handled sipper cup and chugged the drink, spilling a healthy amount down his chin.

"It should be in there," Virginia bent to clean up the child with a bib and decided to assist the boy in the art of drinking from a cup. "We were going to move it to the reference library but I know we haven't had time to do it yet. Why? What are you looking for?"

"My latest hobby," OBrien responded, while pulling out cases and checking the ends, on the off chance they were labeled incorrectly. "Human growth and development." She became keenly aware of Malcom, staring at her shapely rear end. The physicist with an interest in human anatomy regretted being polite to Malcom, inviting his unwanted attention.

"Is there something I can do for you, Ed?" She directed her next question without turning around, as Malcom was startled out of his stupor.

Caesar the cat suddenly froze in mid-lick. He slowly looked around the room, statuesque and not blinking. The feline's pupils widened until his green eyes were obscured by large black disks. This activity caught Nicky's attention. Caesar hissed then yowled loudly, arching his back and hair standing on end. Harness Bull Theyland, who was holding his daughter, could not explain to himself why he suddenly held her tighter.

The cat was making a fuss over thin air.

**********

As it turned out, problems with the supernatural were just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT IS WRONG WITH IT." Technician Camille Battaglia told Paul Morrow's visage on the monitor, unwarmed by the light of her gooseneck lamp. He appeared to be despising something on his desk as well as the useless conversation. "WE'VE LOST THE NETWORK. ALL OF THE WIRELESS ROUTERS ARE DOWN."

"You can add the translators to the list." Lars Manroot said from his standing position at station three of the mainframe center. "The problem appears to be in the frequency multiplexing." He diagnosed, moving his mouse over the utility shelf.

"The power surges don't exactly help in diagnosing the root cause either," Angelina contributed from her end of the monitor. She was pissed off. She just had the same conversation with Morrow 15 minutes before and here he was, harassing Technical Section once again.

"Estimated repair time?" Morrow asked corrodingly.

"WE CAN'T ANSWER THAT, MAIN MISSION." Battaglia whipped the long hair away from her irritated face. "NOT UNTIL WE LOCATE THE SOURCE OF THE PROBLEM."

Manroot took pity on her.

"Give us about an hour." He delayed like a knight in shining armor. "The units themselves are fine. We just don't have intranet capability. You'll live. As long as you don't need file sharing."

"We don't need file sharing," Ang jumped back in before Morrow could object. "Paul, we are doing the best we can. At the moment, most of my crew is still working to stabilize the power and eliminate the surges. I really don't want to put the servers back online until I am confident that we won't fry them with voltage spikes."

"So what do you want Paul? Power or the wireless link?"

"Try both," Morrow retorted without mercy.

Benjamin Ouma, Moonbase Alpha's expert at knotted speech said in any case, it was not computer's fault.

As if they expected him to say otherwise.

"Unreasonable," Ang shot back. "Estimated repair time six hours."

Even though the display was black and white, Ang could see Morrow's cheeks darkening into increasing ire. "SIX HOURS?!?!" His voice was raised but it was still annoyingly even and smooth. "You'll have to do better than that."

She hit the signal gain. "Sor...Paul...repeat..you....break...up." She broke the link to Main Mission with a loud crackling of snow. Camille and Lars on the other monitor were crystal clear. Camille was smirking. "Power surge, Ang?"

"Yeah, I guess so." She nodded. The image was clear and not a snap, crackle or pop emanated from the speakers. "That's another one for the 'to do' list."

Well, not really. After all, there was really nothing wrong with the Main Mission and Technical hub link at all.

She sighed, sitting back in her chair, gaze fixed on the picture of Carter holding Nicky and both smiling at her. "OK, Camille. Assuming we get the power surges under control in the next hour, how long do you think it will be until you can test the servers?"

Battaglia sought Manroot's competence with a glance.

He responded with two fingers, one for each hour. Of this he felt certain. Then Thomas Edison bowed out, and the complex was cast into darkness again.

**********

"Commander, we're at step three." Pete Garforth maintained, looking squeezed to smithereens within the confines of Koenig's micro-circuited commlock monitor. "To do it proper will require an examination of each, and every fuel cell, and some of them are a mile underground."

"Then I suggest you get busy." The commander retorted abrasively. "We don't need lights for much, Pete--just so we can see, and work, and walk. What about the rest of the ESU? The other registers?"

"...that's a snag...." Victor Bergman mumbled eccentrically to himself as Gordon Cooper applied his T-Square to the fiftieth parallel on the chart.

"It's queer." The technician went on, seeming puzzled. "Except for certain computer protocols--and this--the rest of the system is performing very well. We fancy these figures."

"Oh?" Koenig strolled doubtfully towards the dimly lit map table, careful not to trip, and break his neck, and spinal cord.

"Yes, actually." The AD of Technical Section admitted. "Especially for the recycling matrix. Over time, the overall functioning has degraded somewhere between two, and three percent. We've been able to hold it there--it was either that, or face the prospect of dieing--but now, due somehow to this surge, we're seeing a pattern of growth."

"Growth." The commander heckled as he returned his commlock to his belt. "But no light bulbs? Tell me that doesn't take the cake?"

**********

"Gerik?" CMP Donovan stuck his thoughtful head thru the darkened doorway of the debriefing room. The neck dam of his suit looked like an oversized donut. "We got the word."

Meaning that it was time to search for Harry Balfour, and return him to Alpha in a body bag for forensic analysis.

"I'll be right there." Astronaut Domin replied. Sitting opposite at the round table before an unplugged microphone, his loving wife Bry' had just finished telling him to go to rot in hell, and that their marriage was over.

"Don't worry." Bry' smarted off to Donovan. "I won't keep him."

The other astronaut nodded awkwardly, and disappeared into the corridor.

**********

"Bank 57!" Angelina yelled up the mezzanine toward Carter Jackson, who was checking circuit breakers. Joe Erhlich, completely perplexed, was studying a long register tape of read outs and arguing with Joan Conway.

"57, check!" Jackson called back.

"Banks 58, 59 and 60!" Ang prompted again from the keyboard of the primary monitoring station.

It was dark but in the glow of the emergency batteries, she watched Jackson's shadow against the ceiling in spooky, jarring movements.

"58, 59, 60...check!" He affirmed.

"Station 16," Angelina shouted to verify if Carter Jackson was moving to the next transformer. Angelina made a glance at the main breaker for station 16. Of course it had been switched to the off position but she was never one to forgo double-checking.

"Station 16...Banks 1 through 5 on your word!" He answered.

"Hey, Carter!" Ang paused. "Do you want to trade places? You want to do keyboard duty? You want me to throw breakers?"

"Nope!" Jackson responded good-naturedly. He was one of the most cheerful guys on Moonbase Alpha. "You can keep your carpel tunnel all to yourself!"

She heard him chuckle. "Thanks!" She responded, smirking, "You're too kind. OK. Banks 1 through 5!"

Thirty seconds later, Jackson responded with affirmation and a little mirth.

"Banks 6 and 7!" The former Power Generation Manager called after typing in the traffic sensor prompt. She froze, noticing the main breaker for station 16.

It was up.

"CARTER!!!! STOP!!!!! NO!!!" She was on her feet as she screamed the warning but the arching, momentarily lighting up the mezzanine followed by Carter Jackson's agony from electrocution was the response. Erhlich threw the main breaker as Ang pulled herself to the top of the ladder. To her relief (sort of) she was greeted by the sight of Jackson's unconscious though violently twitching form.

"He's still alive! Get Medical down here now!!" She bellowed, positioning him for CPR.

Chapter 3

Following the electronic dovetail, the corridor hatch opened, and Angelina Carter met a mangled Pete Garforth in passing.

"Your turn." He told the director as he passed the torch of martyrdom. "I'll tell you right now, expect nothing, but the bum. The commander is furious, and Belgarian has had an hour head start. According to him, we're responsible for everything except the destruction of the Earth. Bad hypertext transfer, and inevitable logic bomb. Ouma agrees." He handed her the maglite. "Enjoy your command conference.

"Cheerio.'" He wished cowardly, and made way for the far side of the Moon.

Angelina Carter gaped at the swiftly departing engineer. She couldn't blame him for no longer wanting to be around that area of the base. Usually, technical found strength in numbers in presenting and jousting the command council but this time, Garforth found himself by his lonesome. Unfortunately, other key people were involved in actually working on getting the power back on.

"Don't worry about me, Pete," Ang knew he wasn't and probably could care less at this point, "I can handle them. Take a break then go see of Joe needs a hand."

She already knew that he did.

**********

"Zond Eight is unavailable." Emma Black said impartially. It may have been the bun in her hair that protected her from Controller Zed Astrin's radioactive glower. Three cups of coffee, and he was approaching melt-down.

"That can't be." Astrin boomed. "That's the third on the list."

"We're running out of archaic orbiters." Umberto Garzon stated matter of factly as he laid his report on the controller's desk.

"Haruka is still on-line." CapComm Farendahl promised. "I'm attempting to access it with the digibox now."

"No good," Emma responded, not surprised, as she surveyed the lines of nonsensical gobblegook lines on the screen.

"Michelle, for chrissakes, what is wrong with the orbiters," Astrin turned the tip of his verbal lance on Cranston, who occupied the Technical desk while Ang was getting skewered in the Commander's office. She would much rather be in Main Mission than in her boss's place. She could deal with Astrin.

"I don't know," she retorted, a smartass sharpness edging into her tone, while multitasking between several open screens on her monitor between her keyboard and her mouse. "And right now, Zed, it's bottom of the priority list." She didn't look up and continued the concurrent activities, stopping to jot a note on a scrap paper, eyes still glued to the monitor, then returned to mouse and keyboard. "In case you haven't noticed, the lights are off and the heat is not at full capacity....that problem is just a little bit more important than taking pretty pictures from orbit."

The nerve of these people, standing around or doing very little work while she worked like a madwoman.

"I'm attempting to access the cislunar fleet." Farendahl was frustrated for all of them, and it showed. "I'm starting up the recorders on Artemis-B."

"Is there enough fuel to crash the thing?" Astrin was fed up.

Was disaster too much to ask?

**********

Angelina Carter was in the command conference hot seat. Fortunately, the shadows concealed the frustration, written all over her face.

"I thought there were safeties in place," Helena Russell sharpened her verbal sword and started swinging. "Jackson was very fortunate but his cardiac enzymes are a mess. He's going to be in Medical for quite some time, due to stupidity and irresponsibility."

If looks could kill, Ang had given Russell the death ray. The physician was sitting stiffly in her hard plastic chair, calmly with hands folded over the blue medical flimsie labeled as 'Jackson, Carter'.

"Stupidity and irresponsibility?!?" Ang was incredulous. "The breakers had been turned off."

"That is true," Ouma stepped in with his print off. "The breakers had been disengaged." Ang nodded smugly. "However," Ouma continued, "during the testing they had been turned back on."

"Nobody turned them on. " Ang lowered, challenging not the statement but the implication. "There were three of us on that level and Carter was on the mezzanine." She threw a glance at Truman Starns, having an inking of his thoughts, "and no one in there wants to see Carter Jackson dead. The guy is the most affable and cheerful character on the base; he doesn't HAVE any enemies."

"Look. Ang.' Don't you think-" John Koenig started, but no one wanted the facts to interfere with their opinions.

**********

"Need a spot?" Mission Commander Donovan emerged from the LEB carrying a pair of plastic squeeze tubes.

"You don't mean Ozo do you?" Astronaut Gerik Domin baited from his squatting position at mid-console in the command module of ORT Eagle Eight. On either side, the yokes bobbed up, and down before the sunken acceleration couches. In every way, they were at the mercy of Ben Ouma, and his artificially intelligent bud.' He held the clipboard, and he still knew how to write, but there was nothing to transcribe. It was difficult to do a photonic sweep when the floodlights were devoured by the palpable, eternal night. Domin considered it a simile.

"Try coffee." Donovan gave him the bad news. "Caffeine concentrate."

Domin took the drink. He sucked the paste.

"Good." He lied.

"Any luck yet?" Donovan asked as he opened one of the starboard panels to check the optics assembly.

"Nada." Domin replied, capping his ink pen, and returning it to the utility pocket in the shoulder of his hard suit. "We've already passed Balfour's last reported position. Even accounting for drift, we should have seen something by now."

"Well." The other pilot thought fatefully as he slid back into his chair, and closed out the utterly useless docking target. "We'll keep going. Maybe with a little bit of this, and a little bit of that, we'll put it all together, and get lucky."

"Shrader is working the lab." Domin thought positively. "Maybe something will strike him as funny."

In fact something did strike them, but it wasn't funny.

**********

"Victor, in light of all of this, do you still think we should go ahead with our probe?" John Koenig asked squarely.

"I don't see any harm in it," Bergman answered with his usual calm, lounging back in the chair with legs outstretched and fingers interlocked behind his balding and white head of hair.

When they started this unwilling trip into deep space years ago, Victor Bergman sported salt and pepper hair. Admittedly, most of the Alphan community had grown considerably grayer, if hair was left au naturale, but most held to the vanity of using hair dyes, despite the increase in wrinkles, to restore their color from youth. Bergman, though not appearing to have acquired many more wrinkles, opted to let nature and extreme stress take its course and his hair was completely white.

"It is not going anywhere or doesn't appear to be going anywhere," he paused. The last part of his statement struck Ang as quite peculiar. "But I think the question is not 'if' but 'when'."

**********

Chief Dietician Gonzales cursed the lack of lights as he shined his flashlight in an area known as the 'chicken house.' In fact, the room was the chicken coop, one of two on the base where the growing poultry population was kept and raised by members of Sandra Benes' Service Section.

As usual, the cook was in a perpetual bad mood but this time, it was perhaps justified; Hugo Willet had been pulled away into Technical Section again by that blonde bimbo so Gonzalez was stuck with the egg gathering duty. Kenny, the rooster who attacked and pecked everyone else on the base, assumed his perch on Gonzalez shoulder, lapping up the coos and clucking from the only human he liked.

Gonzalez would bitch; Kenny would cluck in agreement. Gonzalez would gripe some more and Kenny would flap his wings and cluck louder, while the egg gathering continued.

When Gonzalez reached the last 5 cages, he stopped and squinted. All 5 hens were dead, apparently from a heart attack.

**********

"Poultry is not my problem." Sandra Benes said emotionlessly over her shoulder, not even bothering to look at the commstation as she made a note to herself. DR. BELGARIAN. NOT IN SECTION. IDIOTIC STATEMENT ABOUT PM MAINTENANCE. She hated the avante gard. His face appeared on the monitor facing the hatch--and it was not his problem either, really--but Harness Bull Duncan found the response to be, well, lackadaisical, unhumanitarian. They needed food, he knew, and the SS Director was acting like a goddamn bitch. She was, in fact the equality of same.

"Right." He assented to the verdict, if for no other reason than he desired not to interrupt a command conference any further. The birds were probably better off, he felt, and then signed off.

"We must avoid the urge to interpret." The Methuselah' Belgarian told his children. He never came to the realization that no one was listening to him. "You think I'm accusing all of you of unskillful ness, and greenness." His weird, camp-survivor, bowling ball gut rested atop the table like a concealed, second head. "Dr. Carter, I would never point the finger, and say that over the past few months your team has grown lazy. Even if it is true." He turned his charisma on Sandra next. "Nor would I list the shortcomings of moonbase maintenance. I hate this situation--but I do not hate the people who visited it on us."

Belgarian was in trouble, Ang thought, except he didn't know it yet. On the surface, Sandra Benes was physically petite and appeared to be delicate of disposition, an ingénue. This was not the case with the Chief of Services Section. Whether it was due to years existing precariously in deep space or living with Paul Morrow (or both), Sandra Benes could be quite the hardass when provoked; and it did not take a great deal of baiting from this unfortunate 'individual contributor' of her section. Belgarian would be reassigned to the waste treatment facilities for 'further study' of acceleration of bacteria in breaking down waste products.

It would be a 'shitty' assignment which would last not weeks, but likely months.

"Good." John Koenig said. "I feel the same way. Really." He reclined easily in the highback chair. "We should all respect the office of our peers. Even if computer did choke up a combo forecast that killed one of our astronauts.

"I never, ever should have approved that." He grabbed his commlock, swung around, and took to the floor, angrily pacing the stygian surfaces.

"Commander Koenig." Zed Astrin booped' into existence on the nearby monitor. "Artemis is over Murchinson now. We've had reliable feedback for over ten minutes, and we're ready to begin the deorbit burn."

Bergman sat up with great interest and enthusiasm, then bounded up the stairs toward Koenig's desk. "Excellent news. We should get plenty of valuable information," he paused then added, "without risking further lives."

"Only as long as we can control the trajectory of the satellite," Angelina added, somewhat ominously. She wanted to ask Koenig if he would consider allowing Petrov to blast the mystery object near the Command Tower out of existence with one of the laser cannons. The Chief of Technical felt no curiosity and an unexplained feeling of dread.

"Is there a risk?" Helena Russell added to the doom and gloom feeling in the room.

Koenig's shrug was, at best, neutral, but Bergman was positive.

"Hardly." The professor teemed. "After all, those UDMH fuel stores are in the outlands. Should some sort of emergency arise, we'd have ample time to dispose of it. Since we're using remote execution, no one here will be in harm's way."

"Unless it's a bomb, powerful enough to destroy the Moon." Truman Starns formulated.

Bergman's tongue suddenly became tied.

"May our outcomes be pleasant." Koenig saluted his druthers, and opened the big doors."

"The countdown clock is running." Pierre Danielle told the commander.

"The software is downloaded." Zed Astrin told his relief, Paul Morrow. "Time of ignition is five minutes."

**********

"What's the score?" Donovan made himself dutiable again after coming up from the lavatory. He noticed immediately that Domin had the con, and not computer.

"Not good." The other astronaut told him, and grimaced at the altimeter readings. "The command, and data subsystems have gone out, and we're experiencing a ten degree starboard roll."

"Hmmm," Donovan pondered as he hoisted himself into the pilot's couch and rolled forward on the track. A quick glance at the altimeter readings and the latest printout from the onboard computer confirmed the junior astronaut's assessment.

"Engage back up systems," Donovan instructed, though Domin was already in the process of bring them online. Donovan squinted at the troubleshoot data simulations but, not to his surprise, they were not yielding an answer.

"Back ups online," Domin gave an imperceptible sigh of relief. "Starboard roll has been corrected."''

"Good," Donovan assented but he was not relieved. He still did not have a root cause to the trouble and the need to switch to back up. "Main Mission, Eagle 4," the pilot spoke into his headset microphone, then continued after receiving Morrow's droll and neutral response. "Primary command and data subsystems have gone down. Back up systems engaged with no issues. We experienced a 10 degree starboard roll during primary black out but has since corrected. So far, we have been unsuccessful in locating orbital object."

'Orbital Object', Ang thought bitterly, 'in other words, Harry Balfour's body.'

"What's this, then?" Domin exacerbated over the loop.

Koenig blinked, and then made a comforting, albeit useless check of Paul Morrow's status panel.

**********

"I thought we righted that." Donovan said, grasping both sides of the doorway as the ORT Eagle began to list. He could feel the approach of one-eighth gravity in his teetering stomach. The large, avian panel lights began to flicker on, and off, and from the service module, the struggling transients could be heard, alternating between on, and off.

"So did I." Domin shook his head, holding his headset tight with one hand, and the yoke with the other as they began their powerless glide over the Alpine Valley. "Better strap in. In about five minutes, it's going to get ugly."

"Did you choose our crash?" The mission commander asked busily as he made haste for the safety of his couch.

"Yes." The other astronaut told him. "It won't be so bad. At this velocity we'll probably just end up with a wrecked ship."

Infinitely better than two broken necks.

"Where will we put down?"

"Right next to that lampshade from space." Domin decided as he double checked his sextant.

Chapter 4

Command Conference from hell for Technical Section; or so it seemed to Angelina Carter, or at least a continuation of the command conference from hell.

Between Helena Russell's blue flimsies detailing the conditions of Astronauts Domin and Donovan (critical, stable, respectively), the blazing orange flimsie listing the preliminary survey of the damage to the crashed Eagle (recommended course of action: scrap) and the results of the survey of the alien object (inconclusive), Ang sat with left side of her jaw resting in her left palm, staring at the screen of her laptop.

She was completely oblivious (or ignoring) the fact that she was sandwiched between two standing, point and shouting (at each other) Aussies. The one on her right was Gordon Cooper, vociferously defending his section against the man on her left; Alan Carter, her husband and also Chief of Recon, who was none too impressed by the Senior Flight Engineer's past and present efforts in Eagle maintenance.

It was her sincere belief that the only reason punches had not been thrown (yet) was that she was sitting in no man's land between the two highly agitated men.

"SEEMS TO ME, YOU'RE THE ONE WHO'S NOT ON HIS NELLIE.'" Carter drew back his bow, and aimed between the eyes. The wrapped bandage around his own, injured forehead made him look like the stereotypical, native American savage. He could walk just fine, and there was certainly nothing wrong with his mouth. "WE HAVE TO CRUSH ANOTHER SHIP, WHICH STRIKES ME AS FUNNY, CONSIDERING THAT THERE'S NOTHING IN THE LOG TO CORROBORATE A DOWNED REACTOR CORE."

"THANKS FOR DOING MY JOB FOR ME, ALAN." Coop' bit back. "YOU'RE TRUE BLUE. PERSONALLY, I FIND IT AMUSING THAT THE FLIGHT RECORDER DOES SHOW ANELECTRICAL BLACKOUT PRIOR TO THE WRECK. THERE WAS NOTHING WRONG WITH THE BLOODY, FUCKING BOOSTER; NEED I REMIND YOU, DOMIN DID TWO COURSECORRECTIONS OUT THERE USING THE SPS ENGINE.

"IT DID JUST FINE.

"SO, IF IT WALKS LIKE A DUCK THEN WHAT YOU HAVE IS A CASCADING SYSTEMS FAILURE."

"WELL...YOU KNOW HOW IT IS...OR MAYBE YOU DON'T." Carter disagreed. "TRY IT SOME TIME. THAT KIND OF ALTITUDE...NO ALIGNMENT...NO RETROFIRE. EAGLES DON'T DO ENERGY LANDINGS WELL. IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME, TAKE A LOOK OUT THE WINDOW AT THAT FREAKING HEAP OF METAL.

"NO MATTER HOW DESPICABLE A PERSON MIGHT BE, WE ALL HAVE THE RIGHT TO LAND."

"This is getting us nowhere," Koenig swiveled around his chair and stood, once again pacing the floor. "Technical section still does not have any answers,"

'Oh God,' Angelina thought, 'here it comes, another crucifixion of Technical Section.'

"...though not from a lack of resources and effort," Koenig continued while the Chief of Technical was somewhat relieved. At least someone saw they weren't being slackers.

"Ever since that object appeared," Koenig continued postulating and pacing, "unexplained mechanical and electrical failures have occurred within the base and within our Eagles." He stopped. "Victor, do you think it could be more than just coincidence?"

"I don't know, John," Bergman looked up pensively, relaxed as usual in his chair, "It did exhibit quite a large electromagnetic field and it did propel itself to a soft landing. However these seemed to be defensive type capabilities. It has done nothing to lead us to believe it is an aggressive object."

"A potent EM field as a defense screen," the Commander continued down the tangent.

"To keep it safe from outsiders?" Helena Russell offered.

"Or maybe to keep outsiders safe from it," Angelina speculated; anything to move the constant din and criticism away from the broken record of chastising Technical Section.

"Oh please." The never knowing when to shut up, Dr. Belgarian chanced. "Spare us those platitudes.

"It is terrible for my fing." He told John Koenig--as if the commander were dying to hear about the scientist's insides. "I beseech each, and every woman in the room to keep an open mind. Resist your natural tendencies."

**********

Ten stories below, and one hundred meters away from the MMC Tower, hot energy forks dissipated into a discernible, milky view. The dish of one of the ground level microwave antennas gained reality as awareness returned to stranger from a stranger land than Earth. It was pure consciousness at first.

Then came cunning.

**********

"Where did that come from?" Paul Morrow criticized Sandra Benes, though it would make her angrier than a bear with a sore head, or some such retaliatory state.

He was as radical as Lenin, but he still couldn't swallow that one. Suddenly, he didn't know her.

"Given our at best laughable success rate, it seems like a viable course of action." The data analyst contended in low, violent-nervous-breakdown mode. "The object is out there. Rather than waste our time, why not tow it into the base through the western garage. From there, we can ship it underground to the Experimental Laboratory."

Morrow loudly ahemmmmmed,' and caustically flipped his ink pen.

"You." He put Pierce Quenton on the spot. "If we did that, could you guarantee the safety of everyone on Alpha."

"Why not?" The security chief answered modestly.

Truman Starns wasn't so sure.

"No way." He reasoned definitively.

"I agree, Truman," Angelina was determined to state her mind. Sandra just proposed the ridiculous and now she would suggest the radical. "I disagree with Sandra. In fact, I suggest we tow the thing, if it will allow itself to be towed, to the other side of Plato, train a laser canon on it and blast it to pieces."

The suggestion sounded mad, crazy, but she was, in fact, calm in delivery and unwavering in demeanor.

"That is a mad idea." Belgarian adjudged as he waddled his pear shaped ass towards the bright, neon beverage dispenser. "The syllables of one who would look a gift horse in the tooth." Hungarian born, his mastery of western maxims, and analogues was uncontested.

"With all due respect due to an elder," Angelina smiled sweetly, lethally, then her face dropped into a scowl, "Shut up, Dr. Belgarian. No one here has asked for your opinion yet you continue to offer not constructive suggestions but veiled criticism and bitching that is just a waste of tympanic vibrations."

She turned her back on Belgarian, who had opened his mouth then promptly slammed it shut, after seeing that his boss, Sandra Benes, had absolutely no intention of standing up for him against Angelina Carter's verbal assault. In fact, as she looked down at her notes, ignoring Belgarian, a slightly bemused smirk crossed her face.

"Commander," she turned toward Koenig, "from the limited data we have of the thing, it is dangerous and does not attempt to prove otherwise. It is surrounded by an EM field that gets stronger, deadly, the closer you get to it. It has or had the capability of propelling itself and god only knows what effect it's protective field would have on our structural bulkheads if it landed closer than it did."

She sighed, then continued. "Curiosity is a cool thing, if we were still in Earth orbit, but since Breakaway, more often than not, curiosity has almost killed the cat. US." She paused after emphasis. "This is not the Starship Enterprise, Commander. This is not a 5 year mission. This is survival. Odds are, that thing is hostile. The only way I would waiver from my position is if that thing showed any sign of life; but it isn't even doing that.

"So, what's the point, Commander? What's the point of bringing that thing inside and endangering all of us when, so far, it has shown to be a hazardous object?"

"The point?" John Koenig thought aloud. "I'm not sure. From the very beginning, unlike Controller Morrow, you have all known where I stand. I consider this a few girders shy of an erector set, and ever shall proclaim it. If I had my way, we'd smelt the thing down--at the very least, we'd find a better place for it. The better place, of course, is in space.

"Away from Alpha."

"That judgment is not leavened with good science." Belgarian appealed as he twirled the Bromo-Seltzer in his mug of tomato juice. "Victor? Tell them."

Bergman bristled uncomfortably though not noticed by Belgarian. The professor believed association with Belgarian would be a distinct disadvantage to his position and he was probably right. He turned away slightly from Belgarian, though still relaxed in position.

"Well, caution should always be a prime factor in judgment and the Commander, Dr. Russell and Dr. Carter are certainly justified in voice concern." He stood up and stretched, moving slowly to the viewports and gazed at the object below. Bergman returned his attention to the lunar castaways gathered around the round table. "Survival is key but perhaps we are overlooking the fact that whatever that thing is, the mysterious power it has demonstrated for generating E&M fields could perhaps be studied, tapped or recreated, even, and used for our survival. We are always looking for a more efficient energy source or even," he paused, not liking the possibility but also aware that it was something that would appeal to the more practical and military minded in the room. "Or even a more efficient defensive weapon." He walked toward the table again. "You have to admit, John, if we could harness that field around the base, it would be a highly effective and almost impenetrable screen."

**********

8=!!!!!!%%%%%%%%%2,000-13

The sign read.

So, the intelligence concentrated again.

8=!!!!!!ON%%%%%MMABLE2OR0-

Better, but still total, scrambled nonsense.

Beneath its feet, the prehistoric sands of Plato crumbled slowly in mil after lifeless mil. On the opposite side of the squat, storage dome, a revolving, red light could be seen highlighting the terrain in strobing previews of perdition.

8=NON%%FLAMMABLE2STO-13

NON-FLAMMABLE STORAGE

This was the eventual focus as the lexicon morphed into sensibility. Beneath the label, there was an arrow that pointed towards the high security fence. Opposite the portal, a row of brightly lit windows hove into view.

**********

"Those symbols," Angelina Carter pointed with the laser pointer at the digital picture of the alien anomaly and the fuzzy shapes on the outside of the object. The hull of the mysterious object was covered with them. "Sandra, do you suppose it is a language, a communication of some sort?"

"Who knows." Benes responded, unflummoxed.

"Break the seal." Morrow put forward. "Then we'll know."

John Koenig thought that was so, so, so misadvised.

"We tried cross referencing the icons with our own philology." Emma Black said in a fragile voice, and handed out the shortest print out ever--computer at its worst. "There was nothing on Earth to compare it to."

"Ahhhhhhhhhh.'" Bergman felt the need to clarify as he poured more Vita seed from the tabletop urn. "That's because it's extraterrestrial." He tightened the lid of the thermal carafe. "Now, I'm as full of questions as the next person, but if we decide to continue our investigation we will need a new awareness, of things that are known--and a healthy respect for the things we don't know."

"Yes." Belgarian applauded with honeyed enthuse. "Precisely. Everything is within walking distance if you have time."

"Eh?" Pierce Quenton scratched his beard.

Angelina rolled her eyes, though Belgarian did not see the gesture. "But you can see that the symbols cover most of the object and they repeat themselves," she pulled them back from the land of bad metaphors. She laser pointed to the image on the wall. "It's the same communication? Message? Over and over again."

"Perhaps it is an introduction," Emma Black volunteered, studying the symbols with renewed interest.

"Repeating itself several times?"

"Or a warning," Emma answered mysteriously and thoughtfully.

"Warning." Ang tried on the word like it fit perfectly. "Against what?"

"Oh come, come, come," Belgarian objected. "There you go again presuming the worst." He leaned toward Ang, portly and smiling with a condescending demeanor. "It's obvious you have made up your mind that the object is hostile when the only evidence you have to that effect is circumstantial."

Angelina was readying to perform a verbal smack down on Belgarian when the privacy door slid open and Ouma rushed through, handing a long register tape printout to Doctor Russell. She took it, sliding it through long elegant fingers then stopped, at the same moment a look of surprise crossed her face.

"Are you sure?" she asked Ouma.

"Of course we're sure," the Computer Chief answered indignantly.

"What is it, Helena?" Koenig stopped pacing the floor.

"Something inside the object is showing signs of life." Russell reported with barely concealed amazement.

**********

Even more epic, it was showing signs of life, and tearing down gates.

The intruder grabbed the charged, chain link, and brought it to the lunar surface with a shower of sparks. Alert, it spiraled in the darkness, looking fearfully for signs of detection. Stepping over the remains of a metal sign that warned DANGER HIGH VOLTAGE, the foil wrapped, bipedal mummy stepped under the high turret of the Main Mission tower. Seeing the inner brightness beyond the windows, it peered secretively at the dense, thick browed ectomorphs who were seated at a table inside. Behind them, a panel of oscillating squares were active in soundless signal.

**********

"Have they decided what they're going to do yet?" Bruce Stanton Hodge, PhD conquistador of the superstring asked Jim Haines who was busy modifying a solid state receiver with a screwdriver.

"No." The senior researcher confessed. "Actually, I've given up on the idea of anyone making anything so bold as a decision. The way things are going, it will probably lay out there, and rot. You got that metric wrench?"

Hodge had the willies.

"Have you ever felt like you were being watched?" He allocated, and rubbed his elbows like a frozen sissy.

**********

The spectator retreated before the other long hair could catch a glimpse of her.

As it moved with patient hugger mugger to the next transparency. Stooping to conquer, the being paused...horrified, and elated to see the dark, obsidian dagger that opportuned its way to her. Numb in the void, it retrieved the knife and in doing so, noticed the small, red, pen light that was only a hands breadth away.

The relic had no idea how to operate the manual override. In truth, it didn't even know that inset was a manual panel, but there were unfamiliar characters that bore further concentration.

!!!!!!!!PR+4590**@@@

And then:

!!!DEPR=45IZ**@@@

And finally:

DEPRESSURIZE

There were six keys in total, and a circuit box.

Somewhat reluctantly, the visitor stowed the dagger beneath the metallic wrappings of its suit, and actuated the airlock pumps.

**********

"I don't see anything," Bergman pronounced uneasily while gazing through the viewport down at the object below with Koenig's binoculars.

They were now in Main Mission and besides the brief indicator of life sign, there had been no other sensory data from the object.

"A fluke perhaps?" Sandra Benes evaluated and re-evaluated the sensors, shaking her head.

"I don't see how," Russell doubted from her position next to Bergman. The professor handed her the binoculars and she took a long hard look. Angelina remembered her open laptop on the conference table in the Commander's office and decided it would be more useful to her in Main Mission than in Koenig's empty office. She moved up the stairs, and through the open big doors past Koenig's desk and into the pit. The laptop screen was lit up like a Christmas tree with several small instant message windows 'pinging' her attention. She closed the laptop, temporarily shutting down the insistent calls of her people, placing it under her arm and turning toward Main Mission.

It was then that she noticed the figure of an obvious humanoid in an EVA suit which was totally alien. The face place obscured the being's face, if that really was a 'face'.

Instead of fright, Ang's first thought was 'Quenton's boys are slacking off.'

She stared at the stranger, locking or at least she was hoping it was locked, in her gaze as her hand slowly and inconspicuously reached the hazard button on her commlock. She depressed it with her ring finger.

Chapter 5

Before opening a dialogue with the alien, Commander John Koenig had to forestall Quenton's urge to shoot on sight.

"Who are you?" He inquired, stepping into the dark, sunken floor of the office conference room.

The alien in silver suit and helmut with dark, frosted faceplate, stood immobile with hands slightly raised. Doing so had halted the aggressors, though, the stranger was confident they could be overcome despite the weapons of destruction. The intruder had assumed that the woman was the leader and was more than surprised that a male was not only permitted to be equal to the females but could actually dominate them.

It was this fact, more than anything else, which immobilized the alien.

The unknown being studied the female who now had a male beside her, in a protective stance by her side. The alien was amused and assessing her environment at the same time. All the females in the room appeared to be protected by the males. A female with strong features and platinum blonde hair stood behind the male who spoke to the alien.

The alien's hands raised ever so slowly to unlatch the helmut, then lifting away to revealing the rictus. It was the face of an angelic female. Her skin was a flawless peaches and cream complexion with angular yet soft bone structure. Her eyes were golden, sparkling under beautiful though plentiful cosmetics. Long jet black hair was sculpted into an elaborate array of braids intertwined with golden strands of ribbon. Her full, red lips pouted below a perfectly slender and feminine nose.

The only aspect of her beautiful face which was unnerving was the large, unblinking third eye painted on her forehead. Although it was apparently cosmetic, it sent a chill down Koenig's spine.

"My...naaaa," the woman paused thoughtfully, practicing the movement of her tongue inside her mouth, "name....I c-call....me...."

Her face, though clearly showing the struggle to comprehend and communicate, still remained beautiful and gentle.

"I call me," she continued, "Satet-Ta."

Then, before Koenig could react, she reached out and took the Commander's hand, smiling elegantly. "Peace."

"Peace." Bergman affirmed benevolently, but the commander still was not smiling though his grasp was confident.

The alien relinquished her handshake, and then took to smoothing her pallor, reinvigorating blood that had spent untold ages in cryogenic suspension. She was busy admiring the Gorski, dreck-filled shelves when Truman Starns arrived late, his lungs raging for air, and breaking his teeth like a Mongol.

Through it all, Paul Morrow stood unperturbed, arms folded over his chest.

"We have no need of your services, inspector Starns." Belgarian was cocky. "At this point you would serve only to transform this august, historic moment with acts of wanton cruelty."

"Stuff it." Starns retorted, reddened and humiliated by his overreaction.

"It's alright, Tru.'" Quenton arbitrated. "Tell your mates to stand down."

"How can we help you?" John Koenig asked the visitor, finally awkward. "Do you require medical attention?"

"Attention...." Satet-Ta veered narcotically away, drowsy and surreal.

"Perhaps you would like to rest." Helena Russell suggested, but the chief of staff was not being kind, accommodating, facilitating, or even pleasant. She was butch. Her voice sounded pinched, and the whole time she was waving the wand of the bio-scanner over the intruder's anatomical parts like she was searching for a second head, and hidden fangs.

Then the corridor hatch slid hydraulically away, and Sam Thackeray of Tactical, and Defense entered.

"Dr. Carter." He handed the sealed communication to Angelina. "The colonel would like you to contact him ASAP. Every alarm in the tower has been tripped, and he would like to know why there has been no follow-up action from Main Mission."

The Chief of Technical Operation's attention had been fixed on the alien. Already, most of the males in the room seem....mesmerized by Satet-Ta, especially Belgarian, who nearly leered at her. She turned, smiling at him with the innocence commingled with barely restrained sensuality of a 17 year old. She was forbidden fruit which was begging to be plucked. Even Paul Morrow was beginning to relax, taking on the expression of a man admiring a piece of fine art.

The only men in the room not affected were Koenig, Carter and Starns. Starns studied first Belgarian, then the others in the room. Carter studied the alien, not dreamily, but with the wariness one regards a death adder. Koenig remained stern and unreadable.

Angelina took the sealed communication from Thackeray, who grinning like an idiot at Satet-Ta; the alien lowered her gaze in a shy, slightly flirtatious glance. "Thank you, Sam," Angelina nodded for him to leave. "I will contact him."

She was already instant messaging Petrov on her commlock and noticed Thackeray still standing beside her, staring and grinning. "You can return to your post, Sam." She continued. He did not move. She continued to tap on the commlock keypad then pushed the send key.

"Sam?" She nudged verbally. "Wake up."

The Defense Specialist's eyes unglazed and he glance around the room for a split second, only slightly disoriented. Koenig saw the whole thing.

"Yeah," Thackeray responded awkwardly, nearly embarrassed, "right. I need to get back." He was getting a headache. Instead of walking by the alien again through the side entrance he opted to exit through Main Mission.

**********

"TYPE-Y?" Bob Mathias asked incredulously. "What kind of rot is that? I've never heard of TYPE-Y blood."

Unless it was 'Y' for 'Lost In Yonkers.'

That made sense.

He was afraid to ask Nunez about the RH Factor. His ignorant answers.

"Maybe he needs to get back too." Carter chided, leaning against the lab table. They asked him to join the fact finding expedition, and look at the revelations they had unearthed. Russell had corn flakes for nurses--spaced out in more ways than one.

"I didn't mean it that way...." Nunez reconsidered. "What I meant was, 'why' are we doing blood work at all if there has been no injury.

"Why?" Mathias grinned like a petulant loon.' "Maybe because we like it. Perhaps that's how we learn things."

The physician shared his sarcastic piety, and rictus of disgust with Ang.'

"Would you like me to run it through the IDENTI-SCAN again?" Nunez capitulated, seeing as how he was spiritually outnumbered.

"I'm afraid our hearts are set on it." Mathias rebuked, even as he opened the door to the adjoining facility for him with his commlock. "You'll make one hell of an RN some day, Nunez."

"What were the results of the IDENTI-SCAN the first time?" Angelina asked Mathias since it was probably a waste of time to ask Nunez. Raul Nunez seemed to be infatuated with Satet-Ta; she batted her eyelashes at him as he applied the tourniquet before drawing blood and he responded by flirting shamelessly with her. She giggled, remarking how he was such a handsome male; Nunez ate it all up.

"Many of the proteins appear to be similar to human hemoglobin but others are completely foreign." Helena Russell responded before Mathias could answer. "We were able to uncover some components which appear to be very complex amino acids."

"So?" Ang inquired with raised eyebrow. "Layman's terms, Helena. What that does that mean?"

"Well," the physician continued, brushing away a strand of wayward hair from her face, "more complex amino acids imply a greater evolutionary time. In other words," she continued, reading the not quite comprehending expression on Ang's face, "Satet-Ta's race has been around for quite some time, much, much longer than homo sapiens."

"Why would that be important?" Angelina continued to press.

"I'm not sure that it is," Russell answered, holding up a vial of the alien's urine to the light before placing it in the spectrometer." Although, it could mean that the alien is highly evolved. Our other examinations show not so much physically but possibly mentally."

"I can't speak to the mental aspect." Mathias collaborated. "But the information acquired by our triage team shows a kind of nucleic acid that we can't isolate. Not that this makes her a bad person. Just ask our head nurse." He supposed. "It is peculiar, though. Her DNA is an economy meat market; everything, but the kitchen sink, and not a single phosphate is identifiable, and none of it is bound by hydrogen."

"She's from another land." Bergman answered the riddle. "Another world. What do we expect? A genome for all intelligent life?"

"Yes." Mathias could not have disagreed more. "It's interesting how every other form of life we've encountered has been similar to us in that respect, except for Ed Malcom. Analysis on other so-called ET's has revealed Adenine; Thymine; Guanine; and Cytosine. What happened afterwards may have been dodgy, but the basic building blocks were the same. You can build something absolutely freakish on common, domestic foundations.

"Not so, Satet-Ta." Mathias said, and downed a Bufferin dry. "Besides being a bewitching, obviously, celestial Helen Of Troy, she is also the funkiest mixture of water, and chemicals that I've ever seen, in Earth orbit, and not in Earth orbit.

"For my money, I have a difficult time seeing how she appears humanoid a'toll." He stated. "From the list I've seen, instead of being a buxom beauty, you would think she'd appear as a rain cloud. I saw Parker weigh her on the scale, so I know she has mass. It's just not a relative mass."

"Are you suggesting that her appearance is some sort of rouse?" Koenig wondered.

"No." Mathias replied. "We have tissue samples. I looked at them myself. She's there. I just don't know how. There also appeared to be signs of Barotrauma."

"English, Mathias." The commander smiled.

"Sorry...indications of increased pressure on the body."

"Well...." Bergman smoothed his hairline into crazed, standing spikes. "That sarcophagus she was in somehow has the ability to modify gravitational fields."

"Which worked too well, and steam rolled her?" Mathias presented. "I doubt it. The cells were stressed inward, and outward. It was as much an internal process as an external."

"It sounds like she is more of a gaseous being than solid," Ang suggested then shrugged following the silence. "Well, anything is possible. Why not?"

"But she is solid," Helena Russell objected. "Her tissue samples bear out this fact."

"Sure," Angelina continued, "but so is water under the right temperature and pressure conditions. Almost any matter can assume a gaseous, liquid or solid form, under the right atmospheric conditions. When you think about it, that is a powerful ability, to change form, possibly at will."

"It's cellular Roller Derby if you ask me." Mathias opined. "What I saw under that lens was Biology's answer to Agincourt, or Hedgely Moor. It's not reproduction by division--not that I expected any such pedestrian thing--it's reproduction by slaughter; brute force. Whatever survives will constitute 'the host.'"

"This is not pleasant to my ears, nor should it be to yours." Koenig grimaced. "Bob, I know this might sound comic bookish, but let's put all of our cards on the table now. Answer me this: can Satet-Ta change form the way we might put on a clean uniform?"

"Yeah." Carter was bemused. "Or someone else's' uniform."

"No." The physician testified, but not in a court of law. "I don't think so. That would be too refined a process. That would require not only a 'rewritten' code, it would mean brand new, replicated genes. That's not what's happening here. That's like comparing post-modern man to spear shuckers, and head hunters.

"My hat is off to her, in a sense...." Mathias relayed. "Her complete lusciousness, and supple endowments belie a body that must be in horrific pain most of the time." He shrugged. "I don't know. Given the choice--sexy-in-agony, or look like Yasko, I'd probably take what's behind Curtain Number Two."

"Then there's a rainbow on the sky?" Carter prompted. "We've got nothing to worry about, then?"

"So far, nothing we have uncovered points to danger from a medical standpoint," Helena Russell replied matter-of-factly, though she found herself not completely confident of her statement. "We will still, though, have several tissue samples yet to analyze."

Mathias told them that even a caveman can be a con artist, and wear Gucci shoes.

**********

"The electronics for the relays check out, Yuri," Angelina Carter was still perplexed, mired in a report which summarized the conclusion of the security alarm checks: NTF or 'No Trouble Found.' "But computer recorded the breaches and did not raise the alarm."

Alan Carter, standing with arms crossed, smirked, a distraction from watching Sam Thackeray obsessively tapping his pen on his desk. They were in the Tactical and Defense Department, Yuri Petrov's domain, and the Russian colonel was not smiling.

"For once, Ouma is admitting that there might be a software glitch and he's been flogging the Geek Squad to get it fixed. Personally, I find the scale of this glitch, missing every alarm in the command tower, to be very odd. It was almost like all the alarms were triggered at once but that is impossible." She glanced over at Thackeray then whispered. "What's wrong with him?"

"Wrong?" Petrov glared at the technician in annoyance. "Nothing is wrong with him. Nothing that has not afflicted almost every male on this base: Satet-Ta. I would not be among that contingent of silliness."

Ang believed him.

"The alien has no effect on me. I do not see her as anything other than an alien and likely a menace. Experience has borne this fact time and again and yet we have a sizable number of men who are acting like giddy women." He nodded to Ang. "No offense intended, of course."

"Of course," Angelina acknowledged his attempt to exclude her from his somewhat dim view of females. "Regarding Satet-Ta, though, nothing has really come up to conclude that she is some sort of bug eyed monster under all that beauty. Yet, anyway. Still, Carla Wellingham is working on trying to decipher the inscriptions that were all over her ship...or whatever you want to call the thing that brought her here."

The word "tomb" came to mind but Angelina Carter did not share her thought.

**********

Astronaut Gerik Domin was in the hot seat, in every way.

At least he could say that he survived kiss of death when his ship cracked up.

"Didn't think I'd see you again." Payload Specialist Randall Flavia was pleasantly surprised. They were on the fifth floor of the medical complex. This was the visitor's floor. This level boasted comfy' clamshell chairs. There was coffee, instead of surgery. There were food automats, and not death. The wide, bay vision ports made the lunar surface look abnormally picaresque...at least more appealing than a coffin. Glass partitions spoke of architectural conquest. The blue ridge, deep pile carpeting, and red border was a welcome relief from the sealed airlocks, and the trapped in the submarine drummelousness of deep space survivalism. On the other hand, his size ten boots were too small, and crunched his feet. "I heard that last abort landed you on the sick list."

Domin waxed funny, and waited for an overhead page ("Dr. Albrizio report to the pulmonary care unit....") before answering.

"Donovan got lucky." He assured Flavia as he repositioned his gym bag over his shoulder. "It doesn't matter if we both walked to the rescue vehicle after the crash. If you lose your ship, you go to ICU. I think it's Coop's revenge. You know. Like Montezuma. Only without the water. Anyway, Donovan was the MC so he got out quicker.

"Anything new?"

"Just the usual." Flavia seemed critical today. "Morrow faxed a memo to the hub today. All flights are grounded until further notice. No explanation as to why. Just the usual, disrespectful nonsense that we've come to expect from the MCR."

"What about Balfour?" Domin's brow furrowed.

"We're packing it in." The payload specialist updated him. "The search has been called off. Too many disasters in space, and the arrival of Doris, the Amazon has stalled the rotation."

"Amazon?" Domin questioned.

"You don't know, and you've been here the entire time?" Flavia was shocked. "That capsule...the one that orbited the Sea Of Serenity, and then landed? Well, it opened and out walked a bonified extraterrestrial.

"And from the rumors I've heard, she'd make Monica Belluci look like Abe Lincoln."

The older astronaut was appalled, and unbelieving.

Until he ran into her five minutes later on the escalator.

Chapter 6

She nearly ran into him, rounding the corner quickly. His sudden appearance surprised her but Satet-Ta smiled sensually while studying Domin.

Domin thought he saw (imagined?) the third painted eye actually gaze at him, a chilling, penetrating stare.

"I am Satet-Ta," she introduced herself, her command of the language growing with each word. Strangely, her intonation had taken on a deep Texas accent, thanks to listening to and speaking with Jerry Parker, Dallas, Texas native. Domin thought the Texan accent coming from the alien from deep space to be both amusing and disturbing.

"You are not well?" Satet-Ta asked, full lips pouting with compassion. "Would you like me to help you back to bed?"

Suddenly Lenny from Steinbeck's _Of Mice And Men_, Domin was unhinged of jaw, and with broken neck, and couth. The clothing that the brunette alien wore was reminiscent of a flight suit, but infinitely more risqué. There were utility pockets in all of the right places, and in a few that would be deemed worthy of tacky, gimcrack jokes.

"Well?" The astronaut twilled. "Yes, I'm quite well. I never was sick."

He stopped short of delivering a farcical, Hitchhiker's Guide To Moonbase Alpha. The hows, and the whys of the LSRO were classified, and encoded. Even if the information was ate-up-stupid, and risible, it was for his eyes only, and not for her eye, or her forehead eye.

"You must be the alien." He discovered like a natural idiot, and grinned back like Howdy Doody.

**********

"Who's he talking to?" Harness Bull Duncan noted as he studied the picture on the monitor.

"I don't know." Harness Bull Theyland crimped towards him within the confines of the security junction. "I do know the commander said he didn't want any unauthorized surveillances to be conducted. He and Professor Bergman felt it was a little too Orwellian for our people."

"Who's Orwell?" Duncan kept on snooping all the while.

"Some guy who works in Services Section, I think." Theyland wasn't sure. "Who you got there? Gerik Domin?"

"Yeah." Duncan replied, and spun up the focus. "And he's talking a mile a minute to Harvey the Rabbit. The conversation is between him, and four walls. Kind of strange, if you ask me."

"What are you guys doing?" the boom from Velma Hill's sudden appearance behind them made both Theyland and Duncan flinch. They could both be written up by the female shift leader. "You know that unauthorized surveillance is not permitted," she reminded them as she reached over Duncan's shoulder and switched cameras to the escalator up/down corridor view.

"Who's he talking to?" Hill repeated, wrinkling her brows in bewilderment.

"Not a single, solitary person." Theyland informed as he pulled up a chair so the supervisor could join them in conspicuous, hunkered consumption.

"You'd better bring up the number two, track lens, or you're going to lose him." Duncan cautioned Hill.

"I don't know what's worse." Theyland was conflicted. "Domin acting like a nutter, or the fact that five people passed him, and did not notice."

"You want me to turn the speakers on?" Duncan asked with excited secrecy.

"Yeah, why not?" Hill, with her right leg crossed ladylike over her left knee, leaned forward, intently studying the monitor.

The low static crackle whenever Domin stopped speaking was annoying.

"Do we have a work order in for the audio on camera M12?" Hill asked but then realized it was probably not a technical problem. The reception was clear and crisp whenever Domin spoke to no one in particular.

**********

She had gleaned all the information she wanted from this one.

"I find the males of your race very attractive," Satet-Ta batted her long eyelashes at Domin as they rode up the escalator. She had already impinged deeply into Domin's personal space and the astronaut did not seem to mind this fact at all. "Did you know that with many races, the males are quite repulsive and they must charm the females with their mental prowess in order to mate?" She licked her already wet lips after emphasizing the word 'mate'. "I find physical attractiveness in males to be much more interesting."

"Do you have a....mate?" She asked boldly and suggestively, yet her voice retained an innocent quality.

"I am buff." Domin boasted vocally, totally forgetting his wife, and the devolution of his marriage in favor of strange wine. "Why did I say that?" Racked with shame, and scriptural guilt. "I question your choice of topics." He purveyed sanctimoniously, and then rounded the bend on his way to the eastbound travel tube."

**********

"Hello." Mathias said suspiciously as he entered the private room, and removed the clip-board from a molded recess at the foot of the bed. "How are we feeling today? Splendid?"

"Doctor Mathias," Satet-Ta looked up, smiling with homecoming queen charm. "I feel well." She was dressed in Alpha issued blue pajamas and had been comfortably relaxed in bed. The thermo blanket hugged her petite curves with sensuous emphasis. The magazine, an old copy of Cosmopolitan, displayed Angelina Jolie with pouting lips and prominent "BillyBob" tatoo in a skin tight, hourglass forming dress. The teaser "WHAT MEN REALLY WANT IN BED" above "How To Make The Most of Your G-Spot" jumped off the page beside the come hither gaze of Jolie.

"I would like to speak with Commander Koenig as soon as possible," she smiled endearingly. "I must thank him for saving me from eternal and unjust damnation. I am very grateful and owe my life to you."

"Don't give it a second thought." Mathias oh heyyyyyyyyy'ed, and placed the speakers of the stethoscope in his left, and right ears. "This will only take a moment."

Satet-Ta sat upright, and lifted her pajama top, more like Bambi, The Stripper than an extraterrestrial.

"I won't need to go there." Mathias explained anatomically, rolling his eyes. "Unless you're heart is located in your pelvis."

It could be said that he had much on his plate. The dining table of life need not include her jugs.

She lowered her top, frowning.

Not lustful, the distant doctor placed the stethoscope's diaphragm beneath her left shoulder blade.

"I admire your morality, and ethics." Satet-Ta pouted, her surreal, blue eye shadow narrowed in a squint. "The Barbers on my world are hacks, and butchers."

"Well...." Mathias trailed modestly away (two minutes, and still no heartbeat). "You have to light a candle for the Barbers. It doesn't take much to be called a 'quack,' or to have a malpractice suit slapped on you. There used to be a faraway country called New York, and trust me, it happened all the time there."

And by the way, you're stone, cold dead, he thought, but remained silent.

"Really? Tell me, Dr. Mathias, on the planet New York did they torture heretics to death." Satet-Ta gave up the brunette, Barbi facade. Now, she was authentically hurt. "Our 'healers' are agents of the state. I've seen furnaces, doctor; frozen corpses left adrift--a charnel, icy ring around Ninth Susperia.

"How does that compare to the quacks of New York?"

"How is it that you understand our language?" Mathias wondered, giving up the examination.

"I don't." Satet-Ta took to flipping the pages of her rag magazine again. "It's a form of thought transference. My mind does it for me. The whole of my race is like that."

"A planet of mind readers?" The physician chided acerbically.

The gig was up, then. She knew for a fact that he didn't like her.

**********

"Where did that come from?" Gerik Domin knelt in worship. "A Bonsai tree. IN MEDICAL CENTER." It was uncontestable love. "I used to have one. My home...on Earth. The farms on Alpha...there aren't any...."

He mind was blank.

"Do you like it? Does it please you?" Satet-Ta, in sexy silver 'flight suit', crotched down beside him as he admired and adored the tree, touching it gently.

"This is just too fucking weird," Thelma Hill, staring at Domin on the monitor, sat back in her chair while her reports, Theyland and Duncan snickered. There it was in living color. Astronaut Gerik Domin was kneeling on the floor, serenading a mop and bucket. Theyland let out a roar of laughter as Domin began caressing the handle of the mop.

"God," Hill made a note. "That's all we need is to have another astronaut go nutter. Who's around Medical?" She hit an internal comm switch to the dispatcher.

"Farrow and Henreid," the monotoned Beverly Nagin responded disinterestedly.

"Send them into Medical, Section M20," Hill continued. "We have a possible psyche case. Subject: Domin, Gerik. Notify Dr. Russell and have them report to her."

"You look wane." Theyland said of Duncan.

"I am." The elder harness bull confessed. "It breaks me heart...to end such a fantastic love affair with a bucket."

***********

Darla Lomax was assigned the task of inspecting and evaluating the instrumentation panel of Satet-Ta's small ship, now moved into Hanger 2. It was an easy task since she had no clue about the function of even one of the (apparent) touch panels and screens. After each digital picture, she typed in a note "Function unknown. Refer to experimental lab for further analysis."

Oh yes. Jim Haines was going to bitch and moan. He would assault her with email nasty grams and eventually she would respond with a simple 'FO, Jim'. There would be a long delay as he would try to escalate the matter to his boss, Angelina Carter, who not only happened to be the wife of Darla's boss but also Darla's good friend as well. Ang, though, would somehow convince Jim that the analysis was probably best done by experimental and he would respond with a snotty email that his 'team' would take responsibility and make some veiled reference to the superior intellect of the experimental group. Alan Carter would casually mention, while half smirking and rolling his eyes, to Darla how telling Haines to 'FO' would not get her the 'team player of the year' award to which she would respond "I understand, Captain." This action would not be documented and done only so that Alan Carter could tell his wife Angelina Carter that he 'spoke' to Darla Lomax about her 'inappropriate comment'.

She was playing the entire scenario out in her mind when her elbow accidentally bumped into a recessed panel. Immediately behind her, a door to a small closet slid open, a sculpture of some sort clattering out onto the floor.

Darla picked up the sculpture and was immediately struck by its horror. On a table or rather altar, lay some sort of being which had nothing recognizable to any person or animal she had ever seen. However, it was apparent that it was in agony as its entrails were clearly on the outside of its body rather than safely inside. Behind the wretched alien stood a woman with an expression of glee and delight with arms outstretched.

Darla gasped, dropping the statue when she realized she recognized the woman.

"You." The astronaut brimmed with territorial animus as a malefactor stepped from the shadows.

"Me." Satet-Ta agreed, and moved center field.

"I thought you were in hospital quarantine." She could think of nothing to throw, other than her ratchet set, or maybe a boot.

"I can't stand confinement." The alien divulged, pointing towards her sarcophagus. "Ten thousand years on my back, in there, was quite enough."

Lomax hissed. "My first impression of you was that you enjoy being on your back."

They waged war, the astronaut hulking her wrench set at the alien who was now, definitively hostile. If she was not before, being showered with sockets dissolved the unspoken treaty. Lomax punched her square in the nose. Satet-Ta grabbed her unbleeding nostrils, and kicked the pugilist square in the gut. The astronaut gave up oxygen, and stumbled back towards the tool rack, fumbling for an electric drill.

"I'LL USE IT." She was adamant.

"I WILL STICK IT SO VERY FAR UP THERE, IT SHALL IMPEL YOUR TEETH." Satet-Ta swore, and continued her advance.

Flashes suddenly blazed before Lomax and for a split second, she thought her dropped digital camera was going off, recording exposures in rapid fire. Perhaps that was the case but when she opened her eyes, she saw blackness. She realized now, while still fumbling for a weapon she was at a completely disadvantage.

"YOU BLINDED ME, YOU BITCH!!" Darla Lomax screamed as her adversary grabbed for her searching wrist.

"Don't insult me," Satet-Ta whispered and with little effort, snapped the bones in Lomax's wrist like dry twigs. The astronaut howled in pain but with her other hand, found the handle of the axe. Despite her blindness, she swung it with accuracy, cleanly decapitating the alien.

Satet-Ta's head rolled away, her vocal chords temporarily silenced but her mouth still moving, lip-synching newly learned obscenities. The alien's headless body released Lomax and turn to retrieve its head. Lomax stumbled to the floor, gasping loudly with relief. When she realized the alien was not dead, she began frantically searching for her dropped comlock.

Chapter 7

Through the Safeplex, window panel, Controller Zed Astrin looked like a character in a silent movie--rushing down the metal steps of the balcony, holding the rail with both hands for balance, looking for the unseen, film grain of a black, and white caboose.

**********

"...one-one-one point two kilometers lunar...." A voice from Perimeter Station Six observed from his too late posting at the opposite end of the network.

"Commander Koenig to Main Mission." Sandra Benes started down the emergency call tree.

"IT MADE IT RIGHT THROUGH, AND NEVER A NATTER?" The flight director exclaimed at Ang,' but not to her. The budding insult was projected for a man with a funny, rotating desk.

"They came in under the radar." Manroot knew his excuse was lame. "All of those upgrades to the orbital drones, and in the meantime we got blindsided."

He shook his head. At twenty million tons, the approaching spacecraft was huge.

"Material composition of the craft is unknown," Angelina Carter reported without surprise or enthusiasm. "No known weapons detected in the initial scan," she continued as data continued to scroll down her screen.

Behind her, Commander Koenig bolted through the left archway followed by Doctor Russell. Both were out of uniform. He was dressed in worn, forest green nylon athletic pants and white T shirt with matching and equally worn zipped windbreaker. Koenig's T-shirt sported a faded Nike Emblem with the words "Just Do It" screen printed across the chest. She wore khaki colored "Lee" corduroys with a dark blue sweatshirt. Mathias had one just like it, though one size larger, bearing the emblem "AMA Space Medicine Convention, San Diego, CA, 1998."

Bergman was 5 seconds behind Koenig and Russell, still wearing his uniform but no less startled out of what he had hoped would be a mindless DVD episode or two of "Gunsmoke" then an early night.

Paul Morrow, in gym shorts and t-shirt, was already gleaming with perspiration as he bound into Main Mission through Koenig's privacy door, out of breath and energy after getting his ass kicked in a racquetball game with Yul Ostrog.

Last under the right archway was Captain Alan Carter. He was in uniform but it was apparent he had quickly dressed and was still awakening out of a deep but never restful slumber. If he had not been required to wait the 3 minutes for a nurse to come child sit Nicky, he would have appeared in the control center in his pajamas.

Carter squeezed his eyeballs, and still the data on the CapComm's console was the stuff of advanced, bedtime stories.

"It's using some sort of hybrid rocket propulsion." He guessed like a rube. "At least for now."

"Computer says ditto." Lars Manroot--one martyred soul--said, but kept his back turned, and his head low--unable to face the scorn, and the condemnation that his last statement would unleash. "There's a definite exothermic reaction taking place."

"...10,000 fps...." From Perimeter Station Nine.

"It's slowing down." Paul Morrow set Astrin's clipboard beneath the gooseneck lamp.

"Communications?" Koenig checked.

"Nothing," Sandra Benes offered. "No response." She shook her head. "I think we are being ignored, sir."

"I would not disagree, Commander," Morrow affirmed the negative assessment. Negative but perhaps realistic, given their experience.

"Doctor Russell." Mathias approached severely, knowing, and oblivious--all simultaneously--with a coiled register tape in his hand. "BIO-SCAN ALERT. Darla Lomax."

Personally, he felt that Satet-Ta was to blame, as impossible as it was to perceive.

Angelina quickly turned away from her screen, jaw drop and expression alarmed, toward Mathias. Helena Russell took the register tape and scanned it impartially.

"WELL?!?" Ang blurted, standing, "what's wrong?!"

Koenig glanced at her with mild admonishment. She slowly sat down, returning to her station and never taking her eyes off Russell.

"I don't know," Russell reassured convincingly. "It could be nothing. A Security team has been dispatched to check on her. ETA approximately 2 minutes."

"John." Victor Bergman gently nudged Koenig. "Does it seem to you that we're not the target. Look at that trajectory. Wherever that ship is going, it's thousands of kilometers in the downrange, and moving further away from Alpha with each passing second."

Koenig's jar relaxed somewhat as he and Bergman moved toward the viewports. Koenig studied the departing ship with his digital binoculars.

"Do you think it's coincidental?" He spoke in a low volume only Bergman could hear. "Or do you think there is a connection? Satet-Ta appears then a ship appears." Koenig had already decided but wanted the voice of reason to balance (or validate) his creeping paranoia.

"Looks to me like it's in a bank." Relieved CapComm Pierre Danielle stood vigil behind the Reconnaissance chief.

The senior pilot looked into electric yellow glare of his digital tracking monitor. Carter then produced a large calculator from the top drawer of his desk, and started to project angles. "It's in a bank, and slowing." He ascertained, and stood. "Kate, what you got as far as momentum?"

"Not a whole lot." Operative Kate Bullen responded, clicking her mouse, and changing tabs compulsively. "Right now, right now it looks like they're going to come to a dead stop over the Sea Of Serenity."

"That sounds familiar." Morrow said as he pushed away from his own workstation.

"Right." Bergman half listened. "Close, and yet so far."

"Ang'?" Koenig grew austere. "What were the precise coordinates where we lost Harry Balfour."

"Above the Sea of Serenity," Angelina validated Morrow's guess. "Less than one kilometer from the present position of the alien ship."

"Ang," Joe Erhlich interrupted from the Technical Station monitor. His face was a mask of tension and stress. "HVAC units in all areas are registering negative feedback."

"Lovely," the Technical Manger responded. They had just restored the lights in most areas and now this development. "Root cause? Estimated downtime?"

As if she didn't know already.

"Unknown," Erlich replied, fulfilling her expectation of a response. "We've dispatched units." He pause. "We may need a couple of guys from Maintenance to help."

"Understood," she nodded. "I'll be down in a bit." She cut the link.

"What's wrong?" Russell asked apprehensively.

"It's going to get cold in here soon," she educated the physician. Koenig, Bergman, Morrow, Benes and Carter seemed to have already understood the conversation. She simplified even more. "No heat."

"Ang,' forget it." The commander superceded as he zipped a windbreaker that bore a patch for STS-598, the space shuttle Pulsar. He wasn't on the mission; never wrote a single mission rule. Someone gave him the jacket, and he took it, which was wise because Moonbase Alpha could be a cold, cold place. "Let Garforth handle the air handler. I want you to accompany Alan on the reconnaissance mission. You're head of technical operations, and that ship out there is as advanced as anything we've seen. Take whoever you need with you."

"Right, sir," she replied irked but hiding it very well. She preferred to help fix the problem with the heat exchangers but Koenig was right. She was in the Technical hot seat now and bigger (though not necessarily better) things demanded her attention. "Jim Haines and Nol Blair." She continued, text messaging both men and hitting 'send' with her mouse.