The doctor fell straight back, hitting her head on the edge of the berth. The scalpel flew from her hand. MoSteel lunged for the doctor but he was awkwardly positioned and now, as he tried to lean over Tamara, the baby was clawing feebly at his chest and neck.
It didnt take long to realize that the doctor was not moving. Wasnt breathing.
Help! Someone help me down here!
MoSteel coiled his legs and leaped across Tamara, hit his head on the deck, and came up, brain swimming, swirling. The doctor was still. He fished for the scalpel but was knocked violently off-balance by a kick from Tamara.
He went facedown and the Marine was on him. They struggled, shoving and pushing to find the scalpel.
Jobs appeared, tumbling down the stairs. He stepped on the scalpel just as Tamara touched it with outstretched fingers.
Cut the cord! MoSteel yelled. He yanked Tamara back with all his strength. He was strong, but the whipcord Marine sergeant was stronger. Her hands closed around his throat and already he was seeing double as she stopped the flow of blood to his brain.
Jobs knelt, picked up the scalpel. He made a quick, slashing cut, severed the cord, and instantly the death grip on MoSteels throat loosened.
MoSteel pushed Tamara back and slid out from under her.
The Marine sat up, then bent forward and began vomiting. The baby lay on its back, gasping, staring blindly.
More people arrived, running to respond to MoSteels earlier cries.
Too late. Way too late. The doctor was dead.
CHAPTER NINE WE DIDNT LAND. WE WERE CAPTURED.
Miss Violet Blakes mother was alive. Her father was not.
Violet had seen her father, and the image had been burned so deeply into her thoughts that she could not imagine ever closing her eyes again without seeing his poor face disfigured by those countless holes.
A hideous death. More horrible for her than for him, perhaps. He would have been, should have been, unconscious when the thing happened to him.
She prayed hed been unconscious.
So many dead. A world dead. And now, new death, murder even, perhaps. Some said the Marine sergeant, Tamara Hoyle, had struck blindly, a panic reaction in part caused by the confusion of waking from a five-century nap. MoSteel said no, it had been deliberate. The woman herself, the sergeant, said nothing and no one had yet questioned her.
What would Violet say to her mother when she awoke? How could she console her? She had never been close to her mother. Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake was her daughters polar opposite. An entrepreneur, a businesswoman who had built the software giant Wyllco Inc. from scratch, starting with three employees and some aging tablet computers. Her signature software RemSleep 009 had made Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake a billionaire. And it had made her indispensable to NASA.
It would have been easier for Violet Blake if her father had been the one to survive. Shed always been her daddys little girl. It was her father who had first introduced her to art, to serious music, to literature. It was her father who had given her Pride and Prejudice, and it was there, in the mannerly, elegant, understated, and unhurried world of Jane Austen that Violet had found her place in the world.
Violet was a freak in the world of school, because to reject a world dominated by soulless technology, a world where no thought ever seemed to go unspoken, where no feeling went unexpressed, a world devoid of politesse , a world without delicacy or tact, to reject that world was seen as unnatural, perhaps even dangerous. When she refused to wear a link even her teachers turned on her, demanding to know how she could stand being so out of touch.
Violet had felt wrong growing up, wrong deep down in her soul. And shed gone on feeling wrong till she found other girls like herself, girls who wanted to be girls . The frilly dresses and carefully piled hair were just the outward signs of a much deeper sense that the world had conspired to deprive girls of a unique girlness , and to deprive everyone of privacy, peace, contemplation.
It wasnt about playacting. Miss Blake knew she was not living in early-nineteenth-century England. Unlike some Janes, she did not attempt to copy the speech patterns of Austen characters. And it was not about being passive or witless. On the contrary, Austens heroines were strong, determined, unafraid to make judgments or to express opinions.
Violet loved art. She enjoyed simple rituals. She enjoyed conversation. She enjoyed silence. And none of that found a place in the world of 2011.
Her father had understood immediately. Her mother had laughed at her, first in disbelief, then with outright contempt.
Well, congratulations, Dallas, her mother told her once, youve finally found the way to take a shot at me. I guess every teenager has to go through a phase like this.
Mom, I am just trying to live my own life, Violet had responded. And I would consider it a kindness if you would call me by my chosen name: Miss Blake.
Miss Blake? Good lord. Whats that? First name Miss?
Dallas is not a name that pleases me. And the one great advantage of this day and age is that everyone feels free to change their name. Ive chosen Violet as my first name. Violet Blake. You can call me Violet, but Id prefer Miss Blake.
Violet? Your name is Dallas. It has meaning. Its the city where you were born.
And with each use of that name I am reminded of an event that I dont even remember!
Thats not the point. I remember, and its an important memory. Youre my only daughter. Dont you understand what Im saying?
Yes, Mother, I do. I always do, shed answered, but of course the insult was lost on her mother.
Her father had comforted her. He had called her Violet.
Once she declared herself as a Jane her vague interest in art became a true avocation. Let others delve deeply into the cold minds of machines, let others unravel the secrets of the double helix; she would learn the timeless truths to be found in art. It was a perfectly useless thing to learn, according to her mother. It would never earn her a dime, never get her a place in a competitive university. It would never make her rich.
And yet, now, as Miss Violet Blake gazed out over the landscape below the shuttle, she alone understood what it represented.
The young man named MoSteel was descending, hand over hand, one powerful leg wrapped around the thin cable. He landed on the back wall of the shuttles cargo bay. Then, still holding the wire, he tightrope-walked out along the declining edge of the tail and finally hopped to the ground.
He stood almost directly on the impossible dividing line between the gray canyon and the brilliant meadow.
The canyon was unmistakable to Violet. It was an Ansel Adams. A photograph, not a painting.
The meadow, with the frenetic river cutting through it, was more difficult. Not a Cézanne, the colors were too bold. Van Gogh? Perhaps. Monet? Yes, possibly. But, if shed had to pick one answer on a multiple-choice test shed have said Bonnard. Pierre Bonnard.
MoSteel was kicking his way through impossible plants that seemed to have been assembled out of swatches of lavender and emerald, apricot and gold.
Careful, Miss Blake, dont lean out too far, Jobs said. He was at her elbow.
Violet drew back. I suppose youre right. She glanced over her shoulder. She kept expecting her mother to come striding up, ready to take charge and begin rapping out orders. But Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake was only in the earliest stages of revival. Two others had assumed complete consciousness, their awakening perhaps accelerated by the horrific event that had resulted in the doctors death. In any case, all three had been in berths close to that tragedy.
MoSteel walked a little distance out into the colorful meadow. He looked up and waved, his face a broad, slightly deranged grin. Come on down. It is deeply weird down here.
The girl 2Face yelled down, Okay, Mo, stay close, okay? Then, in an aside to Jobs and Errol, said, Weird doesnt begin to describe it. One or the other, maybe, but two totally different environments divided so sharply?
It occurred to Violet that there was irony here. 2Face, a girl whose own fa
ce encompassed two entirely opposed concepts, the lovely and the hideous, found this bifurcation disturbing.
It has to be artificial, Errol said, not for the first time. Youd almost think it was man-made.
If I may . . . Violet Blake began.
Olga Gonzalez came up the stairs and an-nounced, We found some water!
She carried a translucent plastic gallon jug, three-quarters full. We were able to bleed it off the hibernation machinery. She was in one of her more manic moods. Violet had seen these moods turn to despair within a moments time.
You think its safe to drink? 2Face asked.
Olga shrugged. We have the equipment from the storage lockers. The chemical testing strips are all long gone, of course. But the microscope still works and at least I dont see any obvious microorganisms. Its as clean as distilled water. Which is not to say there arent other contaminants. I gave it a taste. No alkali taste. Nothing obvious. I wont bore you with a list of colorless, tasteless, odorless pathogens that might be present in fatal concentrations.
2Face took the bottle and raised it to her lips. She had to use a finger to keep the liquid from dribbling out the disfigured side of her mouth.
She handed the jug to Errol. The water made its rounds, everyone desperately thirsty. Only Yago drank too deeply, swallowing more than his share.
Maybe that water in the river is drinkable, Shy Hwang suggested. And there may be edible fruit around.
If I may . . . Violet began again.
None of the food on board survived, Olga said. Not in any edible form, anyway. Theres some powdery residue in some of the freeze-dried packs, but I doubt theres any nutritive value.
Great, so we starve? Yago said.
Lets get down to the ground, then we can see whats what, Jobs said. Whos next?
Ill stay, Errol said. So we can see about belaying this cable in such a way as we can use it to run a bosuns chair up and down to ferry the weak and the wounded. He glanced at Billy Weir, who had been propped into a sitting position. His undead eyes stared out across the landscape below.
And the dead folks, Jobs said. Sooner or later I guess well have to get all these people down and bury them. Jobs continued, Ill stay here with you, Errol. I can work on the bosuns chair. We have some tools now, from the chest. I can strip panels from the bulkheads and make a frame from decking.
He actually seemed mildly excited by the project. A true techie, Violet thought with distaste. One of those people.
I wish I knew what was down there, Shy Hwang said. Its so . . . there could be anything. Wild animals, deadly snakes, things we havent even thought of.
If I may . . . Violet said a third time.
What? You want to say something, Jane? 2Face snapped at her.
If I may, I was going to offer some reassurance. I doubt youd find wild beasts in early-twentieth-century France.
2Face stared at her. Uh-huh. Well, thanks for the update on France. She shot a look to Jobs, a look suggesting the possibility that Violet was crazy, possibly dangerously so.
I believe this landscape was derived from a painting. Monet or Bonnard, I think.
What are you talking about? Olga demanded.
The gray-shade is derived from an Ansel Adams photograph. Or at least from someone mimicking Adamss style. The detail can only be photographic. But this sky, this meadow, that river are all clearly derived from a painting. Pierre Bonnard was a
Shes right! Yago cried. Its a painting. Its not even real. Weve been worrying about a painting.
Mos walking around down there, Jobs pointed out. Its not flat. Its not a painting.
I suggested it was derived from a painting, not that it is a painting, Miss Blake said patiently. I think its likely that whoever created this place used an Adams photo and an Impressionist painting to . . . to imagine . . . these environments.
Who are you talking about? Shy Hwang asked.
Violet was feeling a bit put out. They were staring at her accusingly. She was flustered and couldnt think of a ready answer.
Aliens? Jobs whispered.
Well, someone , Miss Blake said. Surely you see that this meadow and this gray-shade canyon, not to mention that sky, did not occur naturally.
Aliens, Jobs said more confidently now. Thats how the ship came to be standing upright. Thats what happened. We didnt land. We were captured.
Captured by art lovers? 2Face demanded, incredulous.
Most likely that this was done for our benefit, Violet suggested. Perhaps the aliens are merely trying to be polite.
Jobs said, We found a rack of DDsdata disks in the lockers, along with the tools and the decayed food.
Presumably an effort on NASAs part to keep alive some portion of the human cultural legacy, Shy Hwang suggested.
Including art? 2Face wondered. Fine, but youre saying someone created this environment for us? Using the DDs? How? The data was in the locker. It wasnt loaded into any accessible system.
They were on the ship, Jobs said. Whoever did all this, whoever created this environment? They had to have been aboard this ship.
CHAPTER TEN THE BABY . . . SOMETHINGS NOT RIGHT.
Jobs was one of the last to set foot on the planets surface. He had stayed behind to fashion a bosuns chair that was used to ferry some of the less-agile Wakers, as they were now called. Now he was ready to go down himself.
He was reluctant. It wasnt that the surface frightened him it fascinated him. The poet within him found it stirring. But the poet was a subset, a mere file within the hard-core techie. This ship was Earth. This ship was human technology. He could unscrew panels and look inside and understand what he was seeing. He could follow fiber-optic pathways and know why they went where they went.
It was like a museum, of course. The shuttle and the Mayflower capsule within it were a strange mixture of cutting-edge toys and antique systems. Old and new.
Somehow, it had actually worked. It had carried them for five centuries and more through space. Jobs felt intense admiration for that, for what it represented in terms of human ingenuity.
Their numbers had grown. Jobss little brother, Edward, had awakened, and by a stroke of luck Jobs had been able to keep him from seeing their parents. Or what was left of them.
Miss Blakes mother was awake now, as well as three other kids, a ten-year-old who called himself Roger Dodger, a fourteen-year-old girl named Tate, and a sixteen-year-old guy named Anamull.
And D-Caf had awakened.
That made seventeen people in all. Seventeen thirsty, hungry people.
Emotional breakdowns were common. Grief was a virus that spread from one to another, was suppressed only to mutate, take on some new aspect, and attack again.
Jobs and Errol had worked out a pulley system to allow them to reascend to the Mayflower . That way people could serve watches aboard, waiting for others to revive.
But now it was time, at last, for Jobs to leave the ship.
Jobs slid down the main cable. He would have liked to use the bosuns chair, but he was unwilling to look like one of the lame. Not with MoSteel grinning up at him.
So. What do you think, Duck? MoSteel asked, indicating the landscape.
Down at ground level the weirdness of it was infinitely more pronounced. Jobs straddled the line between environments. One foot was planted in gray dust. The other crunched thick, irregular grass.
To the left a vast canyon yawned, impossibly deep, impossibly steep. Silent, immeasurably huge. Perfectly detailed until you looked too closely, and then you could see quite clearly that the dust was not dust but identical round pebbles. And everything, the rocks, the few gray cacti, were all made up of those same gray-shade pebbles.
Pixels, Jobs said. The original photo was predigital. This is the max resolution, I guess.
MoSteel nodded sagely. Watch this. He picked up a small rock and threw it as far out into the canyon as he could.
Uh-huh, Jobs said.
Shh. Listen. You hear that?
Jobs heard the rock hit
bottom. It had hit bottom long before it should have.
Together they walked into the gray world. They stood at the edge of the canyon and looked down. Impossible not to believe it was real. You could feel the depth of the canyon in your soul. But when Jobs threw a second rock after the first it, too, fell for no more than five seconds before landing with a tiny rattling sound.
Know what else? Look up at the sky. Look at that cloud up there.
Jobs obeyed. He saw a puffy white, lavender-edged cloud moving serenely toward the border between environments. It reached the edge of the gray-shade environment and kept blowing. As it crossed the line it lost all color, gained clarity, and was absorbed into the sky above the canyon.
MoSteel seemed to expect him to say something penetrating, but all he could manage was, Huh.
Jobs walked back into the world of color, bent down, and stroked a single shaft of grass. Of course it was not grass. It was three inches across, a quarter-inch thick, smeared with green and blue.
He pulled at it and it came free. He stared at the root structure with MoSteel leaning over his shoulder.
Look at that, Mo. The root structure looks normal. The dirt looks normal. Not like the dirt over in the canyon. This is like actual dirt. The roots are like actual roots. The leaf, though, no way.
Tastes like grass, MoSteel said.
You tried to eat it?
MoSteel shrugged. Hey, we gotta eat, right? I thought maybe you could eat it. But its like eating what the lawn mower left behind.
Jobs sighed. He looked at the lost, confused, wondering, grieving gaggle of humans, all together in the Impressionist environment. They looked shabby and dull in this vivid landscape. Hard-edged, definite, almost vulgar in their detail. His brother was staring up at a sketchy tree.
What are we going to do? Jobs wondered.
MoSteel shook his head. I was hoping youd know.
I am lost, Jobs said. He took a deep breath. No food. No water. Not much, anyway. Whoever put this all together, aliens or whatever, they got the air right. They got the roots of these plants right. But I doubt theres real water in that river over there.