Home Planet: Awakening (Part 1)

HOME PLANET

PART I: AWAKENING

(First Edition)

by

T.J. SEDGWICK

It felt like only seconds since I’d blacked out, but I knew it was far longer from the translucent layer of grime on the stasis pod’s canopy. Over a century if all had gone well. Letting out a series of heavy, wet coughs, I expelled the viscous fluid from my lungs. It didn’t go spilling over my slick, skin-tight stasis suit, but formed globules big and small, which floated through the air with the momentum I’d given them. The artificial gravity must have somehow failed, yet the preservation fluid was receding nonetheless, the suction system doing its work. I reflexively gasped for breath and took in the first lungful of air for many years. Was this how newborns felt using their lungs for the very first time? It tasted musty and dry yet nourishing to my awakening body.

The last of the fluid disappeared from the pod around my feet. The suction noise relented, giving way to a deafening silence broken only by my raspy breathing. I wondered for a moment whether I was dreaming or dead. I wasn’t sure whether heaven or hell existed, but I was pretty convinced that it wouldn’t look like this. Besides, apart from the lack of gravity, this was a textbook wake-up sequence in the same stasis pod I’d gone to sleep in God knows how long ago. It meant only one thing: we must have arrived in the Aura system, sixteen light years from Earth.

I held my breath, focusing intently, looking for some source of noise, some reassurance that everything was normal. I heard the gentle omnipresent hum of the ship—quieter than I remembered, but still something. The occasional distant creaking punctuated the almost inaudible background noise—probably the transmitted noise of the ship’s expansion and contraction, with luck in the heat of the alien sun. I started breathing again, surprised by its loudness. I tried to survey the world outside my pod, but the grubby plexiglass canopy wasn’t the only thing obscuring my sight—a film of rheum covered my eyes, blurring my vision. I went to rub it away, but my right hand went nowhere, stuck fast by the wrist restraint that had failed to release as it had done in training. That’s when I noticed I wasn’t floating around in zero-g because
all
restraints had failed to open. I tried to remember back to training. The restraints were there for just this eventuality—loss of artificial gravity. But they should have auto-released with wake up.

The throbbing headache had grown rapidly as my sleep inertia died away, impeding my thoughts. It originated from the crown and spread like tentacles around to my temples, forehead and jaw.

“Damn it,” I muttered, keen to get free from the confines of the pod.

My first croaky words for one-hundred and twenty years were not happy ones. I felt for the emergency mechanical release, finding the recessed button with my right index finger. I applied pressure, my finger joints cracking after years of inactivity. The button moved easily—lubricated with preservation fluid—untensioning the wrist restraint. With my hand free, it was a trivial task liberating myself from the other restraints. I floated freely in the pod, but I wasn’t exactly a pea in a tin can—at six foot five and two-twenty-five lean pounds, it was always going to be a snug fit. I pushed myself back down so I could get a good look at the small status display built into the canopy at eye-level. The display was there, but it was dead. There should have been a status message summarizing the ship’s location, the year, a basic sit-rep and instructions on what to do next. I tapped the screen in case it had gone into standby. Nothing.

I tried rubbing the inside of the canopy to get a better view. Even with its grimy veneer, the stasis module was a lot dimmer than I remembered.

Shouldn’t it seem
brighter
if I’ve just opened my eyes?
I thought.

The dirt was all on the outside, so wiping the inside had little effect. I still had no idea what was going on. There was only one way to find out. I just hoped life support—air and warmth—hadn’t failed along with the ship’s gravity. If it had, I’d have less than a minute to locate and don an emergency space suit. But I knew where they were … where they still should be, anyway. The headache had eased, helping me remember something else I should try first—the intercom badge still pinned to the chest of my stasis suit. Designed for short-range, intra-ship communications, the penny-sized device could connect me directly with any of the 12,521 others on board. I double-tapped it to switch it on. It didn’t disappoint me, its shrill four-note tune indicating a successful power-up.

Hopeful of some assistance, I said, “Tiro, connect me with the nearest crew member.”

Tiro was the AI-interface of the ship’s computer network.

My spirits sank as the intercom’s pre-recorded message replied instead of Tiro.

The calm, eloquent female voice said, “Tiro is unreachable. The communications network is inactive.”

I tried again—same result. For a while, I closed my eyes and thought hard. Then I remembered what to do.

I said, “Intercom, initiate direct badge-to-badge communications. Any node.”

“No active intercom nodes within range.”

“Intercom, repeat last command.”

“No active intercom nodes within range.”

Something must have happened, something that had taken down the comms network. So I tried the old-fashioned method, pounding on the canopy with my fists and bare feet, shouting at the top of my voice.

“Hey! Is anyone there? Helloooo!”

Over and over, I repeated my calls. No reply.

It didn’t do my headache any good and would be fruitless if there really was no air outside of my pod. After a few minutes, I relented to maintain my sanity and the eerie quiet descended once more. The reality was, that if the ship was so compromised that only the vacuum of space awaited me, then I was as good as dead. Likewise, I couldn’t stay in the pod forever, either. My sense of hope told me everything would be okay. Maybe I was just the first to be woken. Perhaps the network was down or the fusion reactors had gone offline. I was beginning to feel the icy coldness from my surroundings seep through the stasis suit and into my bones. This made up my mind. There was only one choice—to open up the canopy and take my chances.

With the control interface down, only a manual canopy release would work. I looked down to my right and could just about make out the transparent lever cover through the gloom. After fumbling around for the recessed hatch handle, I found the slick plastic handhold. Giving it a firm yank, I tore it from its shear pins. The clear plastic cover floated away, bouncing around the inside of the pod. I still had my strength and my close-cropped hair and my nails were no longer than when I’d gone under, my face still clean-shaven. Stasis had literally shut down every process in my body for over a century. Frozen in time, every cell had played dead, every life sign absent. No aging, no muscle wastage, no bone-weakening. I grabbed the cold metal handle and pulled. It moved less than half an inch before ceasing firm, incapable of further travel. I pushed it back down hoping to get some of the slippery preservation fluid into its mechanism. Tugging once more—harder this time—the sliding sound of the retaining bolts withdrawing into the pod rewarded my effort. Now, all that prevented the canopy from being sucked open into the potential vacuum was the airtight seals. Although designed for long-term use, some degradation and stickiness was inevitable. The hinged canopy would open from the bottom, near my feet, first. I steadied my breathing and took a deep breath, hoping it wouldn’t be my last. Pushing with my feet, I easily overcame the seal’s resistance and the canopy flew open.

There was no rushing of air from the pod and as I opened my mouth, no sucking of air from my lungs. I breathed the module’s air—fresher than in the pod, but still a little stale. A feeling of joy rose inside me as I realized that I wasn’t in an airless tomb. Gently pushing myself from the pod, I floated upwards and grabbed onto the now-vertical canopy and looked around. It was colder outside of the pod and only slightly less dim with just the weak radiance of emergency glow strips providing light. But the fact it wasn’t
that
cold and the fact the low-powered lighting strips were working showed the ship had power. To my left and right identical stasis pods lined either side of the steel grated walkway on Level 8. They stretched a hundred and fifty feet or so in each direction, mine being close to the middle of the three-hundred foot diameter cylindrical stasis module. Each level consisted of between one and a thirteen aisles with a total of twenty levels—seven levels below and twelve above where I hung on. With between one-hundred and fifty and seventy-five pods lining each aisle, over twelve thousand men, women and children inhabited the giant cylinder that was Module 5 Stasis. Of the more than a hundred pods I could see along my aisle, only one was open—mine. The place was deserted—no people, no droids, no signs of life.

“Hello! Is anyone here?” I shouted. “This is Dan Luker, Level 8, pod sixty! If you’re there, state your location.”

I listened. Still nothing but quiet hum of some unseen system, the creaking of the hull under some unseen force.

I exhaled, instinctively pulling myself toward the walkway even though I’d be floating unless gravity could be restored. I crouched at the base of my stasis pod and wiped away the scuzz on the info plaque.

It read:

Daniel T. Luker

DOB 10-Nov-2038

United States of America

Colonist JA-01015

If the travel estimated travel time to Aura-c of one-hundred and twenty years was correct then I was 152 years old. Chronologically anyway. Biologically, I was the same thirty-two years old as when I’d left Earth. The
JA
stood for the
Juno Ark
—the name of the ship. The five digits made up my ID number. It was a little like a social security number I guessed—except this one I’d be using and the Social Security number I no longer would. This one-way trip started a long time ago. I wondered if they still had Social Security numbers back home. I was pretty sure they did. Government bureaucracies changed slowly.

Above the plaque was my pod’s status light showing a healthy, solid green. I looked along the row of pods left then right. Only two other lights showed any sign of life—the ones directly to the left and right of me. The left-hand pod was a solid red, the right one a flashing red like the blinker light on an old-style human-driven car. I hauled myself over to the right-hand pod, maintaining a handhold at all times so I didn’t float off. I couldn’t see past the grimy canopy so I wiped the info plaque, reminding myself which side she was in. It was this one, not the left-hand pod.

Katherine M. Alves

DOB 14-Mar-2043

United States of America

Colonist JA-01016

I’d known Kate for three years prior to stasis. The Juno Training Facility, Johnson Space Center, Houston in March 2067 was where I’d met the pretty, petite mid-twenties primary school teacher. Her tan skin, dark hair and beautiful warm smile made her easy on the eye. Since then we’d been good friends and nothing more, although a latent spark never seemed far away. But Juliet still dwelt in my heart, my loyalty to her blocking any romantic inklings I may have had.  I thought back to the last time I’d seen Kate—March 2070, thirty days after leaving Earth orbit. As she’d stood beside her pod, she’d looked small compared to the bulk of the one-size-fits-all capsule. I’d smiled, feeling at home in her eyes. She returned a nervous grin and exhaled.

“You’ll be
fine
,” I’d reassured.

“I’m scared, Dan,” she’d replied. “I’ve got all these butterflies in my tummy.”

I went over, placed a hand on her shoulder. As we made our farewells, we’d held each other, Kate resting her head on my chest for comfort. This good, kind woman, with noble aims and a love for teaching and children was traveling across the stars to make the new world a better place than the old.

“Just lay back and relax. Think of something nice and breathe deeply. It’ll be just like the appendix operation you told me about. One minute you’ll be awake. The next thing we’ll know will be waking up at Aura. You’ll sit up, turn your head and I’ll be there smiling back telling you good morning.”

The noise snapped me back to the present. Sounds of a struggle coming from Kate’s pod—first a
thump
on the canopy, followed by a series of intermittent, dull
thuds.
I rubbed and scraped at the years of dirt on the plexiglass. What it revealed shocked me.