Murmurs of Silence

At a distance, John Koenig sat on his gelding, watching.

The old man had said the proper words and the final spade of earth was tamped down on the shallow grave. Alan Carter and Paul Morrow, almost in unison, wiped the sweat off their brows, warmed from their exertions despite the bitter wind that blew across the prairie. Replacing hats removed out of respect for the dead, the men stretched their backs, relieving the aches garnered from digging the man-sized hole in the cold, hard sod.

Koenig continued to watch the two foreigners as they looked around, Carter obviously searching the crowd of faces gathered near. No doubt he was looking for the dead man’s wife. He found her quickly enough, already taking comfort in the arms of a recent widower. Carter snorted. Morrow looked at him, then looked to where Carter pointed his chin. Morrow shrugged. Well, Koenig had to admit, life does go on. A tall, thin man in heavy blue-dyed cotton twill pants and a plaid shirt led a saddled horse up to Carter. The outlander handed his digging tools to his fellow and mounted, wheeling the animal around to rejoin the other mounted men.

Koenig turned up his coat’s collar to keep the cold winds from finding their way down his back. Time to move on. He caught the eye of the second gravedigger and gestured him near. “Morrow, get that crowd moving. We’ll do what needs to be done, then be on our way.” Koenig’s voice was barely recognizable to himself, weather-coarsened as it had become.

Paul nodded shortly, and returned to chivy the crowd back to the wagons. No one looked back. They knew what was about to happen was as necessary as it was painful. As soon as the last woman had climbed in and the wagons had been turned to head off, Koenig, Carter and the other riders stampeded the spare oxen over the new grave. It was the best way to protect the sanctity of the dead from scavengers and grave robbers.

Another death. They had lost a triple handful of the one hundred fifty who had started the trip, mostly to accidents or illness. Indians had claimed a few more, and Koenig hoped those poor souls were dead. The stories about what could happen to a captive man were bad enough to cause your piss to run cold; what happened to the women and children was worse. That is, if you believed the stories told by cityfolk back in Chicago, and he wasn’t so sure he did anymore. Many of the so-called ‘truths’ had turned out to be flat out wrong.

They had another two or three miles to make today. Koenig was fairly certain there was a sweet-water spring on up ahead, and they’d all rest better knowing that necessity was close to hand. He knew the wagons pulled by mules could make it by sundown, but those with oxen were slower and that was the pace the train had to travel.

As the wagons moved off, no one looked at the remains of the crumpled wagon that lay all but crushed down a small ravine. Derek Wayland had been a good man. He’d been a capable scout and hard worker. It was just sheer bad luck something had spooked his oxen into backing up unexpectedly, the wagon then sliding down into that unseen gully. The weight of the loaded wagon had pulled the oxen off their feet, resulting in the massive animals falling down on top of driver and wagon. The beasts’ frantic struggles had splintered the wagon bed and killed Wayland outright. Koenig shook his head in regret. They had retrieved what they could from the debris, distributing the load among the other wagons. From what he had witnessed at the burial, Mary Wayland had joined the wagon of Nigel Smythe. So be it.

Koenig let his eyes range up and down the wagon train. All appeared well. The mounted men had stationed themselves on either side of the wagons to watch for threats, with the experienced cowboys in the rear guiding and guarding the spare horses, oxen and the few sheep they had. Hoof beats cantered up from the rear, and Koenig turned in his saddle. The Australian stockman sat his horse easily, that odd-looking saddle of his marking him as an outlander even before he opened his mouth. As Koenig could attest, Carter could ride any horse in the caravan, but he did look like more than a little foppish in that lightly-built saddle that more closely resembled a European officer’s tack than a proper cowboy’s seat. No matter. Carter had turned out to be a man who could both think on his feet and follow orders. Just what Koenig needed.

Carter’s Australian twang still fell oddly on Koenig’s ears. “Are we going to make it? We only have three or four hours of daylight left.”

“Barring any other disasters, we’ll make it.” Koenig wasn’t sure if he was just speaking of today, or of their journey. How had he come to be in charge of such an assortment of settlers? He had only wanted to find a home out west, a home where he would not be judged as a Jew who dared to marry a gentile. Where Helena would not be ostracized by kin and community. Somehow, others had joined their migration, and now he led a band of white-folk and colored, free and freedmen, outlanders and even unmarried women. It was a heavy burden; but his shoulders, at least up to now, had been broad enough to carry the load.

Carter shot him a look. Whatever the man saw must have reassured him. The Aussie kicked his horse and cantered off to take point. Koenig watched the wagon train for a few minutes longer, than followed.

~~~~~~~~~~

Helena could hear John’s hoarse voice calling to others outside. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was one she recognized and it reassured her greatly. Despite everything that had happened, was happening, John Koenig was in charge of the situation.

~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone was bone-deep tired, the setting sun casting deep grooves into faces much too young to be so old. The animals had scented the sweet water a mile away and had pulled their loads with a will. Now parked around the spring, and barring another unforeseen disaster, the beasts and wagons would be settled for the night within the hour.

Koenig and Morrow unhitched the mule team, gave them a rough rubdown and turned them over to the care of one of the men whose job was to see the beasts got water, good graze, and rest. In the morning the animals would be returned for their day’s labor.

Koenig looked at the man whose job had become driving the lead wagon, Koenig’s wagon. Paul Morrow was laconic to the point of being silent. When he did speak, the cultured British accents never failed to surprise Koenig. Morrow passed himself off as a common British seaman sent to land due to some injury or another; Koenig rather suspected he had been an officer. Everyone had some reason for going west, but Morrow’s reason was his own.

Morrow was good with the animals, but it was obvious to Koenig the man had not been raised on a farm. Over the past weeks the former seaman had become competent in the saddle, but had made it clear he preferred to drive a wagon. Good enough. Koenig used that preference. Morrow’s competence in dealing with the fractious cowboys and his cool head with the argumentative settlers had impressed Koenig, and he had given Morrow his highest mark of trust: guarding Helena. Now, if only Helena could...

“Mr. Koenig.”

Koenig jerked his attention back. The dark-eyed former seaman was studying him closely.

“Yes?”

“First watch or second?”

Koenig flogged his tired brain to think; he’d been up since midnight the night before. Well, that then was his answer.

“You take first watch, Carter second. I’ll pick up third.”

“Very good, sir.” Morrow nodded, gathered up his kit stored under the wagon seat, and slung the bag over his shoulder. With his rifle held in his free hand, Koenig watched as the Britisher headed off toward the dinner fires. Koenig suspected he’d find a pretty girl to share her dinner with him in exchange for some fresh game at the next opportunity.

Koenig yawned. He would wait until Morrow returned, and then he would get some sleep. First though, and he looked around for the bondwoman who cared for Helena and their wagon, he was famished. A hot dinner would help him get a good night’s rest.

~~~~~~~~~~

Her mind felt as if it were wrapped in cotton wool, the thoughts forming so slowly. She knew what she should say, but the words would not take proper form. Why couldn’t she speak?

The creak of wood, the flapping sound of canvas not lashed down tightly, the scent of a wood fire. This did not make sense, and yet, she knew it should.

~~~~~~~~~~

Standing behind Mr. Koenig, Sandra scrubbed the iron skillet clean. She doubted he even knew she was there, and that was very acceptable to her. It was better than being noticed. She watched the lean, dark-haired man as he sat on his heels by the fire, eating his meal. Again and again he glanced toward their wagon, the worry plain in his long face. Sandra approached the fire, gathered up the remaining biscuits, and placed them on the man’s tin plate. He looked up at her.

Sandra spoke in her usual quiet voice. “I will be taking dinner into the Missus directly. She will eat. No need to worry.”

“Thank you.” With that, Mr. Koenig handed her his empty plate and dirty utensils and strode over to the wagon, climbing into the covered bed to check on his wife, fatigue blurring his usual agility.

Sandra finished washing up and carried the heavy iron skillet back to the storage box sitting by the wagon. She was not all that fond of that storage box; it was always infested by spiders. Big, hairy spiders. She shuddered at the thought. Gathering up her nerve, she lifted the lid and quickly placed the skillet inside. She added the cleaned plates, utensils, and metal cups, then closed the heavy wooden lid, careful this time not to catch her fingers or skirt hem. Mr. Koenig or one of the other men would load it up in due time, spiders and all.

Sandra waited patiently outside the wagon for Mr. Koenig to settle down. In one hand she held a plate she had put aside earlier with still-warm cornbread and meat drippings covered by a clean kerchief. In her other hand was a cup of strong coffee. The Missus needed her food, especially as she had gone strange in the head and could not remember to eat unless someone put it in her hands and watched to make sure she did not put it aside.

Sandra counted herself lucky to have been appointed this task. Her fate could have been so much worse, especially with so many wild men about. The mistress who had ‘acquired her services as a lady’s companion’—and Sandra scoffed at the euphemism Mr. Koenig always used—had been one of the first to die. She fully expected to be taken as a concubine after that, and was not surprised when Mr. Koenig had ordered her to his wagon. To her surprise, he had instructed her to care for his pretty wife. That lady had turned strange shortly after their trip had begun and no longer talked much or cared for herself. All Miss Helena would do was sit and stare and run her hands over the lovely quilt she was wrapped in to ward off the chill. Sandra rather thought Miss Helena had made that quilt.

Another blast of cold wind raked across Sandra’s thin frame. A quilt to wrap herself in right now would be very welcome, she thought. One of Sandra’s prior owners had taught her how to quilt. It was a task that was unusual to one born on a Portuguese merchant ship to an Oriental concubine, but her nimble fingers took to it readily. She had learned how to piece many of the unique patterns that were popular in New England, and then had added patterns common to the Ohio River Valley region when that mistress had followed her husband out west. It was the death of that kind lady in childbearing that had caused Sandra to be sold to the matron who, for some inexplicable reason, had taken it in her head to go to California. Sandra sighed, and pulled her shawl closer. She had only her dead mother’s stories of Burma to hold to, but she dearly hoped California would be something like that warm and tropical land.

The wagon rocked gently as Mr. Koenig settled down for some sleep. As much as being out in the open at night made her uneasy—you never knew when a ghostly nat might possess you—Sandra waited a few discreet moments for Koenig to settle, then climbed up to see what needed attending to first.

~~~~~~~~~~

Helena knew it was John who walked by her bed, but she couldn’t reach out to him. She now understood that was forbidden. If only she could warn him, to make him aware of the danger they all were in. She had to show them the answer. She couldn’t speak with words, but she’d find a way.

~~~~~~~~~~

The quarter moon was low over the southern horizon and its thin light was bright enough to guide Sandra’s way, if not exactly bright enough to help her discern blue from red. Once Miss Helena had eaten and been settled to sleep, it had taken courage to ask Mr. Koenig about the quilt. He had been obviously surprised by her question, but had answered her, if curtly. Miss Helena had made it, and many others, as part of her dower chest. To her surprise, Mr. Koenig had then pulled out a small cedar chest from under Miss Helena’s narrow bunk and, without a backward glance, shoved it in her direction. After he had laid back down to sleep, Sandra had carefully opened the chest. Inside she had found needles, a silver thimble, scissors and threads. The bounty had pleased Sandra and had led to her current self-appointed task.

The other women in the wagon train were, for the vast majority, kind to her. Once she explained her mission, most could find a faded and tattered piece of clothing or bedclothes. What might be too worn or frayed for a shirt or pants might just be salvageable for a pieced quilt.

Her arms now almost full, Sandra made her careful way back to the lead wagon.

~~~~~~~~~~

Good. The means had been provided. Now, if only she had the time before it was too late.

~~~~~~~~~~

The full moon was cold and bright, high overhead, casting shadows everywhere. For the past week Carter had watched as the scrub prairie changed under the waxing moon’s light. It was a harsh land, but it had a beauty of its own. Not so dissimilar to the Outback of his home, in truth. He stood and made his way with seeming unconcern up and down the length of the wagon train. Those who didn’t know him would never realize how attentive he was to any small detail that was out of place. He caught one man asleep at his post, a fact that earned him a swift kick in his arse. He also came across a fat rabbit that wouldn’t need to worry anymore about surviving winter. He’d leave it for that pretty little bondservant of Koenig’s to cook. Carter licked his lips in anticipation of a good rabbit stew.

He stood at the very rear of the caravan, staring back the way they had come. The herds were off to the south side of the wagons, their munching of coarse grass loud in the silence. The wagon wheels had left a groove in the earth that was plain to see in the moonlight. Usually he was too busy, too cold, or too dang tired to wonder what had caused him to link up with this odd group. Traveling he understood: he’d always liked to see what was on the other side of the hill. But risking your women-folk when you had no idea what awaited you? That he wasn’t so sure about.

Something caught his attention... something that wasn’t right. He searched the prairie for what had caught his attention, the short hairs at the base of his scalp starting to prickle with unease. Another rabbit volunteering for the stew pot? Or maybe one of those unnaturally large spiders scurrying about? No…that wasn’t it. More like he was being watched. Like this time he was the prey. The stories of evil spirits who had escaped from the Dreamtime seemed all too real just now.

An uneasy time later, Carter moved on. He’d keep his weapon primed and ready, and tell his mates to do the same. It was a good thing he didn’t need much sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

There. One square was done. It wasn’t—quite—what she had aimed for, but it was a good beginning. The yellow should have been a rich orange. Helena rested her hands that ached from the many needle pricks on tender fingertips.

~~~~~~~~~~

The off-key singing of the blond foreigner walking past the wagon woke the young woman from her fitful sleep. It wasn’t that Mr. Carter sang loudly, it was just Shermeen was too cold and in too much pain to sleep deeply. The snoring and regular breathing of the others in the wagon told her she was the only one awake. Under the modesty of her quilt, the young woman rubbed her aching limbs. She was too young to be so riddled with pain! As she ran her hands up and down her calves, she felt new areas of tenderness. She didn’t have to look to realize there’d be new bruises. Tears ran down her face. She was so cold, and so very hungry. Even if there was enough food to fill her stomach, she couldn’t eat it. Even her teeth hurt. It wasn’t fair.

~~~~~~~~~~

Another morning dawned bright, the air holding that quality of snow soon to come. The sounds of a whistled Brahms violin concerto drifted through the canvas covering of the wagon, reaching out on the thin wind to bring a few smiles to those gathered around fires for warmth and companionship. Victor Bergman would have preferred to play his beloved violin, but he was loath to expose the fine wood to the harsh winds and occasional sandstorm that so typified these climes.

The chill in the air encouraged Victor to quickly finish his morning ablutions. Quite soon, his sideburns carefully brushed, he climbed down from the wagon he shared with several other men of dignified years. Victor stamped his feet and waved his arms about to encourage circulation, all the while focusing on getting that tricky cadenza correct this time. He slowed down slightly, both his steps and his whistling, and focused on that complicated series of trills. Successful, he cheerfully picked up both his gait and his tempo and made his way over to the lead wagon, nodding congenially as he passed the women in their sunbonnets working over their fires.

The lead wagon was a solemn place, he noted not for the first time. The entire community was a bit on the humorless side, and with good reason he admitted, but Koenig was downright dour. As he approached the wagon, he saw Paul Morrow roll out of his bedroll under the wagon. Such a location was for the young, Victor noted, the kinks in his back just now loosening up.

“Sir?” An accented feminine voice came from behind him. Victor realized he was being offered a plate of hashed potatoes with onions and a cup of pungent coffee.

“Thank you, Sandra is it?”

The delicately built girl ducked her head in acknowledgement. “I am called so, yes.”

“Mr. Bergman, I am glad to see you.” The voice of John Koenig interrupted any further questions Victor might have asked.

“Ah, good morning, sir! Another fine day I do believe.”

“If you like tumbleweeds and rattlesnakes,” came a sotto voce Australian whisper from behind. Victor took advantage of the interruption to sip his coffee. It was hot and strong. Victor saw Koenig send a repressive glance in Carter’s direction that did apparently little to cow the younger man.

Koenig turned his attention back to Victor. “May I have a moment of your time, sir?” Without awaiting an answer, Koenig walked off toward the open prairie, his rifle casually resting over his arm. Victor, perforce, followed. Not knowing when the next hot meal would come his way and loath to leave his breakfast behind, he carried it with him. They walked a distance, far enough so that the voices of the wagon train were muted.

“Mr. Bergman, you are a well-educated man, and I have heard it said you have studied astronomy. Can you tell how far north and west we have come?”

Victor stalled for time by turning his back to the winds from the approaching snowclouds and taking a few bites of his breakfast. “Do you mean, how long until we reach the pass?”

Koenig nodded, staring off into the distance. “The Army dispatches say the weather is kinder on the other side; that we can reprovision our wagons in a town at the base of the other side of the mountains.”

Victor finished his plate, wishing he had an apple or such to refresh his palate. “Things are not going well, are they Mr. Koenig?”

The dark-haired man studied Victor before speaking. “No. And unless we find that pass soon, they won’t get any better. Our coordinates, Mr. Bergman?”

Victor wiped his mouth on his handkerchief. “I’ll address that immediately, Mr. Koenig.” His thoughts already turning to the task at hand, Victor absently tucked the soiled handkerchief into his coat’s front pocket, pulled out his pocket watch, and considered where to start first.

~~~~~~~~~~

Pleased, Helena smoothed the fabric. Yes, it did rather resemble a pineapple. Two done. Progress.

~~~~~~~~~~

Another day heading north by northwest. The mountains they’d been chasing had finally come closer. The pass should be somewhere soon. As soon as the stock had been watered in the small, thankfully unfrozen, stream they would push on. Koenig couldn’t rightly recall how far they had come since setting out this morning. In truth, given the current situation and his bone-deep fatigue, he didn’t have the time to worry about it. He knew he had to get his people through the mountains before winter fully set in, and before they ran out of food. Hunting and foraging only went so far with winter hard on their heals, and he knew a diet of just meat wasn’t good for you.

“Mr. Koenig?”

Koenig turned to address the colored man who stood behind him, waiting politely, hat in hand. “Dr. Mathias,” Koenig nodded. He was pleased to see the man was starting to look him steady in the eye. Anyone who was a trained physician—trained in France even!—should carry himself with pride, no matter what his color.

“We may lose a woman tonight.”

Koenig grimaced. “Who?”

“Shermeen.” At Koenig’s blank look, the dark man added, “The English girl, the one who likes plants.”

Koenig remembered her now. A young woman, a girl really, who always seemed to have a flower in her hair.

Shermeen was a young indentured girl originally from London, England, her speech and clothes marking her as being of the poorest class. She had arrived at Ellis Island only a few scant months before this wagon train had been assembled. Koenig had worried about her scrawniness in the beginning, but she had looked robust then compared to her current state. She had become listless and pale, and her teeth were falling out.

“Can you tell what she’s dying of, Mr. Mathias?”

The dark man looked somewhat puzzled. “I’m not sure if it’s just one thing, but she’s bleeding internally, which is the worst of it.”

Koenig raised an eyebrow, waiting for more information. None came. “A female problem then?”

Mathias looked mildly scandalized at such presumption from someone not in the medical field. Koenig snorted. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen foals and calves born—and he was a married man, after all.

“No. It’s a loss of another kind.”

“Ah.” From her guts then. “Can you do anything to stop it?”

“Again, no.” The healer looked sincerely regretful. “I can’t cure when I do not know the cause. A diet of fresh meat might help build her up, but...” Mathias shrugged. “At least no one would argue blood-letting as a treatment in this case.”

Koenig shuddered slightly. Therapeutic bleeding had always seemed wrong to him.

The doctor led the way back to the large wagon assigned to his use. A team of six mules pulled it, the driver being an agreeable man by the name of Collins. They exchanged nods and Koenig climbed up into the back of the wagon. Taking his hat off and passing it to the colored woman present acting as nurse and chaperone, Koenig sat on the cot next to the girl.

Koenig looked briefly at the all-but-dead girl’s limbs. The poor thing was covered in bruises. He looked at Mathias in alarm. “Has someone here been beating the girl?”

“No, sir,” Mathias replied emphatically. “She’s been under June’s watchful eye since she took ill a month ago. Those bruises are part of whatever is killing her.”

Koenig rocked back on his heels. He’d seen something like this once, or maybe read of it. He was missing something here... He chewed on his lower lip for a moment. Maybe it would come to him later. In any case, what could he add that a trained physician could not?

“Do your best, Mr. Mathias.”

~~~~~~~~~~

John was close, so close. She knew he had almost figured it out. The silence was unnerving. She looked at the stylized rose she was piecing. She had to get her message through soon—or it would be too late for them all.

~~~~~~~~~~

The new moon helped to hide the wrongness of this place. Paul Morrow wasn’t sure what he made of this land, so very different from the sea. Even here, approaching the foothills of the looming mountain chain, the plains were so very flat, and so very still, with none of the comforting motion of the sea. He was a man out of place, forced so by means he couldn’t quite fully recall; he had been unjustly accused, that much he knew. Despite his lingering disquiet, however, he continued the duty assigned him, the keeping of the middle watch. No one would ever denounce Leftenant Paul Morrow of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy for dereliction of duty.

He walked in a straight line of what had to be a dozen ship lengths before turning to cover the same distance on the other side of the wagon train. The loop took half of an hour, and eight such covered his watch. He continued his assigned sentry duty until a malodorous squish brought him up short. He sighed. It didn’t help that the dark of the new moon also hid such treacherous footing as fresh buffalo chips. Knowing it was futile, he scrapped his boot on a downed cactus, which only resulted in the malodorous effluvium assaulting his nostrils in earnest. It was worse than a seaport, much worse. What he wouldn’t give for the clean smell of ocean air.

He had never, ever imagined he would be landlocked. All this silence wasn’t natural. On a ship there was always some noise: the creaking of hawsers, the slapping of water on wood. Out of long habit, he checked that his sidearm was primed and at the ready. It was a comforting thing to do when so much was unsettling. Suddenly, Paul crouched low, stifling an oath as his rifle caught on a snag on the ground. Something had swooped low, missing his head by mere inches. His heart pounded as childhood tales of ghostly spirits haunting the forsworn raced through his imagination. He peered in the blackness overhead.

There! What he had thought was the normal twinkling of stars was nothing of the sort. His night-adjusted eyes traced a blacker-than-black trail high in the sky between him and the stars, back to the approaching mountain range. The trail was made up of thousands of small creatures flying overhead; tens and tens of thousands, even. Another of the creatures broke off from its fellows and swooped low to snag a flying night insect, once again mere inches from his face. Bats. He shuddered.

Paul remained crouched as he watched the small things flitter in and around the wagons. They seemed attracted by the few late-season insects that had collected around the still smoldering firepits. Good enough. Anything that ate the pests was welcome. Unless, of course, they turned to man-flesh once the bugs were gone. Goose-flesh creeped down Paul’s back at that thought. Maybe one of the Eastcoasters in the train would know. He hoped so.

He began the sixth loop.

~~~~~~~~~~

Helena picked up a faded black mourning shirt. Her fuzzy mind could not recall whom it was she mourned. She would have preferred to piece a bright chickadee or a lyrebird, but she did not have the colors for those. This would do well enough.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning sun, Koenig studied the grade of the trail ahead of them as it ascended into the mountains. The maps and directions they’d been given, along with Mr. Bergman’s excellent help, had finally guided them to the pass. Now, if the wagons could just make it up and through, they would quite literally be on the downward side of their journey. The incline was steep, but should just be manageable. They had to try. The supplies of food and water were just about exhausted.

The two men he had come to regard as his lieutenants stood behind him and awaited his decision. He counted himself fortunate to have their unquestioned support. Memories of a time when he had stood alone frequently troubled his rest, but seemed to fade into hazy indistinctness once he awakened. He wished he could speak of these things with Helena. She had a way of seeing events which balanced his own. Together they made a most excellent team. His thoughts shied away from thinking of how Helena was now. She was fading away before his eyes. She was so very thin and withdrawn and silent. All she would do, and then only sporadically, was needlework. He was losing her, and he had no idea how or why.

“Mr. Koenig, look!”

Jerked out of his reverie, Koenig shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight glistening off patches of ice here and there and searched for the caller. It was Carter, and he was pointing to the mountain ahead of them. Koenig heard the scout’s horse before he saw it as the galloping hoofbeats came down the trail in front of him.

“Mr. Koenig! There’s a town up ahead!”

~~~~~~~~~~

The town was nestled in the narrow pass between two tall mountains. It wasn’t on any of their maps, which rather surprised them all, but it had a raw, new look about it. Perhaps that explained the discrepancy.

An early twilight had started to fall as the train entered the outskirts of the small town. Koenig left Morrow to see that the wagons settled down for the evening and that the animals were tended to. He wanted everyone to stay with the wagons until a welcome was assured.

Koenig, Carter and Bergman slowly walked down the main street—the only street given the narrow pass. It was difficult to make out many details of the buildings in the deepening shadow the mountain cast. The town appeared empty, eerily so. At one point they thought they had heard a cry, but a stray wind whose whistling filled their ears ripped all other sound away. No one looked out of the windows or came into the street to meet the strangers. No dogs barked. The men shot worried looks at one another, and Koenig and Carter unsnapped their holsters and disengaged the weapon safeties.

The twenty or so building facades were for the most part well kept, the signs legible although written in a peculiar script, the multi-paned windows intact. One building had the appearance of a dry goods store, another of a livery barn, most had the feel of homes. At the far end of the street, the very last building was a white clapboard single room church. That was common enough, but the steeple had an oddly bulbous quality, almost as if someone had stuck a gigantic onion on its spire. The steeple was out of proportion to the room below, and its overly tall spire projected high enough that its peak was still in the waning sunlight. There was a gold glint from the very top.

As Koenig cautiously led the others down the street and closer to the church, he realized what he had thought was a very wide door was in truth a narrow door flanked by dark panels with stylized images of thin people wearing ornate crowns. As they drew near, they could see the narrow door was swinging back and forth in the winds. Koenig wondered how long things had been this way. Where was everybody? He came to a standstill, the other men halting also. They looked back down the empty street they had just walked, the only movement that of the settlers near their wagons perhaps half a mile away.

“This place feels like a ghost town,” Carter muttered under his breath.

“A Russian ghost town, to be precise,” Bergman added

“Russian?” asked Koenig. “Are you sure?”

Bergman nodded. “Fairly, at least until I get a closer look at those paintings. The iconography is distinctive.” Without waiting for the others, the older man headed off.

Carter was still looking around, not that interested in the church. His nerves were obviously getting the best of him. “Could it be the plague? I hear it’s common hereabouts.”

Koenig shrugged. “No dead bodies. You’ll have to ask the doctor. But I think we’ll move through here quickly tomorrow—and I don’t want anyone in the buildings just in case.”

Carter took a deep breath and let it out. He feared plague, but sometimes there just weren’t any options. “I’ll go through the buildings and look for food. If I find any I can load it in the rear wagon and drive it myself. We might need it.”

Koenig looked hard at Carter, considering. “You mean, when we get to the point where it’s risk the plague, or death from starvation?”

Carter didn’t say anything. Koenig nodded curtly.

There was movement by the door of church. Bergman stuck his head out of the church, and seeing them gestured them to hurry. “Mr. Koenig, Mr. Carter, come quickly! A survivor!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Sanctuary. She could sense, somehow, that there were answers within.

~~~~~~~~~~

Bergman was standing very still just inside the door. The sanctuary was growing darker by the moment in the gathering dusk, but what little light there was showed a rectangular room empty of any pews, a raised dais at the far end with a lectern for the priest. There were several more of the stylized paintings hanging on the wall behind the lectern, flanking either side of a small door that led further in.

Bergman was taking pains to keep his hands in plain sight and a calm expression on his face. The object of his interest was a young woman who was kneeling at the front of the church, obviously interrupted from her observances. She was very thin and pale, her bodice and skirts wrinkled and unkempt, but for all that she was lovely. She turned her large, dark eyes toward them, and although it would seem impossible, turned paler yet.

“Prizrak,” the woman whispered as she pushed herself up, stumbled and backed away. “Prizrak!”

“It’s alright, really it is.” Bergman was using his gentlest, most courtly voice, moving slowly toward the woman.

“Do you think that’s such a good idea? She might have whatever it was that killed everyone here,” Carter whispered not so quietly.

Bergman looked at him in mild surprise. “I’ll assume that risk, Mr. Carter. She appears to be starving, not ill.”

“How can you tell?” Koenig asked in a low voice, looking from the thin woman to Bergman. “Or are you also a physician, Mr. Bergman, among your other skills?”

“No, no. Just call it a... hunch.” Bergman looked at Koenig, who, after a pause, nodded agreement. Bergman turned back and resumed his slow advance.

“Young lady, we may be able to render you assistance.” Bergman cleared his throat, and then very slowly and deliberately continued. “Vy gavareeteh pa anglisky? Ya ploha gavaru pa Ruski.”

The woman paused in her retreat, still poised to flee, and appeared to concentrate on Bergman’s words.

“You speak Russian?” Carter asked in amazement.

“Not more than what I just said, which is that I do not speak Russian, and I asked if she spoke English.” Bergman answered in an aside to the men.

The woman stood straighter, a cautious look replacing the fear. “A very little, da.”

“Excellent!” Bergman enthused, and quickly made a round of introductions.

“You must speak slower please. My English, it is not so good.” The woman’s accent was thick, but still her English was comprehendible. Bergman smiled, and repeated the names again, slower.

“What happened here, Miss? Are you the only one still here?” Koenig asked, following Bergman’s lead and pitching his voice low.

“You are not ghosts? You have much more... color... than the ghosts. And ghosts do not enter this holy place.”

“No, not ghosts. Settlers going out West. What is your name, my dear?” Bergman took back control of the conversation, his voice soothing.

“Tanya.”

“A lovely name, indeed. You have seen ghosts here?”

“Mr. Bergman, we need to know about her people,” Koenig urged quietly.

Bergman made a gesture to silence any other questions, and smiled encouraging at the woman. “May we go somewhere and sit down? My old bones would appreciate a rest. Perhaps just outside? Or perhaps to one of our wagons? We have food we can share.”

Carter’s immediate protest was overridden by a shake of Koenig’s head. Koenig had to agree with Bergman’s assessment. The woman had a translucent quality that spoke of deprivation, not illness. Precious information was worth a judicious amount of risk.

It was the offer of food that finally won the woman’s hesitant agreement to leave the church confines. She walked next to Bergman, answering his questions when she could with her limited English, not looking right or left at the buildings they passed. Her strength was limited, though, and she stumbled and almost fell on several occasions as she walked the length of the town. When she took the arm proffered by Mr. Bergman, she looked almost surprised to find it solid.

~~~~~~~~~~

“The ghosts took them. One by one they... faded and died. No fever, no cough, just... weakness, then silence, then death.” Tanya sat wrapped in a faded quilt, holding a tin mug close to gather in its warmth.

“How long have you been here, Tanya?” Koenig asked.

A look of confusion crossed the thin woman’s face. “I... do not know. Weeks? Months? It is a blur.”

Sandra approached with a plate of rabbit stew and coarse brown bread. She offered it to the newcomer, then slipped away to the stand in the shadows of the wagon.

“Spaseebo,” Tanya murmured as looked at the food in front of her. As meager as the portion was, it was no doubt more than she had seen in a while.

“Eat slowly, child. Too much too soon would be bad for your digestion,” Bergman advised. Tanya appeared to understand the intent if not the words and ate slowly. Her teeth seemed to pain her.

“Where are your dead?” asked Carter.

Tanya stopped in mid-chew. Her face went utterly blank for a moment, then emotion returned. “Heaven.”

Carter grimaced. That answer was little better than none.

Koenig looked over to the wagon and caught Sandra’s eye. “Find a place for Tanya to sleep. She will be joining us.” Carter’s eyebrows went up at that. “I’ll ask Dr. Mathias to check her in the morning,” Koenig reassured, “but common decency says we leave no one behind. You and Morrow can gather up some other men in the morning and do a sweep for any provisions we can use.”

“You believe her story?” asked Carter.

“No reason not to,” Koenig said with a shrug.

“About the ghosts?”

Koenig snorted. “It wouldn’t be the first time a group of superstitious immigrants misjudged the land and paid the price.” He stretched and cast a look toward his wagon. He hadn’t seen Helena since midday. Tanya’s reports of her people fading and dying sounded familiar. Too familiar.

~~~~~~~~~~

No, John must not disbelieve! How could she make him see, make him believe, the ghosts were real?

All too real...

~~~~~~~~~~

Carter wholeheartedly agreed with Koenig’s plan to not dilly-dally. They would search the town after daybreak for any useful supplies, then move on. He particularly agreed with the ‘moving on’ part. The moon had been just a sliver earlier tonight, not at all useful in lighting up the night, especially on the midnight watch, and especially in a narrow pass. Daybreak seemed years away. Carter would have been happier to move on out as soon as the decision was made to add the Russian girl to their number, but that just wasn’t possible given the livestock and wagons. He unslung his canteen from his shoulder and took a deep swallow. His swallowing seemed unnaturally loud. He knew the mules and oxen were in a herd just beyond the last wagon, but he couldn’t hear a thing. The silence was almost eerie. Like he was the only one out here alive.

The perimeter walk eventually took Carter to the closest point to the ghost town. If they had to be stuck here for the night, the least they could have done was place a decent distance between them and that place. He stood still and stared at the town, more than half expecting to see movement up ahead... a drunk heading home from the saloon, a whore trying to find a customer. Even a dog just out to take a pee. Something.

A light flickered in a window. Carter jumped, a thrill of fear running down his spine in spite of himself. He turned around searching for someone out from a wagon with a candle, perhaps casting a reflection on one of the windows not all that far away. Nothing. One of the stockmen, maybe? No... they’d have no reason to be walking around the wagons. They’d just take a leak out behind scrubbrush if they had too. He turned back to study the town again.

There... another flicker of light. Carter squinted some to try to make out any movement at all in the town. The light had been awfully white, not the yellow of a candle or the reds of a fire. And again! His curiosity was almost overwhelming, but he dare not abandon his watch. Deciding quickly, he headed back to wake his relief and then he would go take a look.

The sound was almost too low to hear. He stopped, and against everything he held holy, he turned back to the town. He heard his name in a sighing whisper.

Like a beacon, the white light flickered a summons.

~~~~~~~~~~

It took until two hours after daybreak for the sun to fully penetrate the pass, the feeble sun not lessening the night’s chill at all. Morrow and three others made a systematic search of the small town, and found only a few bags of flour, a sugar cone, two limes, and spiders in multitudes. What they did not find was a graveyard.

Koenig stood silently, hands on hips, watching as the cowboys helped hitch up the oxen and mules. It had gone unsaid, but it was clear to him that everyone wanted to be gone from here, himself included. The sense of being watched by the dead was just too damn unnerving.

“Where’s Carter?” Koenig demanded of Morrow as the latter returned from his fruitless search without the Aussie.

Morrow shrugged. “He didn’t turn out this morning in time to join us. I assumed he was sleeping.”

“That’s not like him.” Koenig chewed his lower lip. Something wasn’t right here. “Get as many men as you need to search the area. And while you’re at it, take a full head count before we move out.”

Morrow nodded. “As you say, Mr. Koenig.” The Britisher passed the sack of flour to Sandra and moved off to follow Koenig’s orders.

Koenig looked around one last time, then went over to help Sandra load their wagon. After manhandling the storage box back into the wagon, he jumped up to check on Helena. As always, she sat silently, watching nothing, a quilt tucked over her lap and another around her shoulders. The remains of an uneaten breakfast sat next to a stack of quilt blocks on her narrow bunk. He went down on one knee in front of her and took her cold hands in his. She had become so frail, but thankfully her porcelain skin remained unmarred. He spoke quietly, gently.

“Helena? We’re moving on now. We should be through the pass in another day or so, and then it’s only a few more weeks until we reach California. It’s warm there, and the land is fertile. We’ll be able to settle down finally. Have a family. You have to persevere, Helena. For me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

She could feel John’s presence, the warmth of his nearness. Would she remember this, after she woke up?

~~~~~~~~~~

“Dr. Mathias! Dr. Mathias!”

With gentle haste, Koenig returned Helena’s hand to her lap, then pushed past Sandra to jump to the ground. Was someone hurt? Koenig searched for the voice he recognized from the West Indies accent. It was Kano, a freedman.

“Dr. Mathias, it’s the Australian, we found him!”

Koenig hastened to follow the two colored men as they led the way toward the town, barely sparing a glance for Morrow who joined them. Moving at a fast walk, Kano led the way to the livery building, its wide, sliding, stable-like door standing ajar. Mathias ran ahead when it became obvious where they were going. Koenig picked up his pace to come abreast of the West Indian as they entered, then pulling the man out of the light of the window so that Mathias could attend the body on the hard-packed earthen floor.

“Were you the one to find him, Kano?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Morrow instructed us to search the town one last time.”

“Us?” Koenig looked at the three men waiting for them inside the dusty, straw-filled building. They all looked very uneasy, shooting glances toward to dark stalls at the rear of the building. All the men were black. Koenig’s temper started to simmer, and he turned on his subordinate. He hated bigotry of any kind.

“Did you order these men here because of their color?”

Morrow looked taken aback. “No, sir. They volunteered.”

Koenig squinted his eyes. “Volunteered?”

Kano stepped up and nodded. “I am an Obeah Man.” He held up a hand placatingly. “White magic only on this journey. This town is full of darkness, I can... see through it. I found Mr. Carter. We brought him out of the dark place where he lay. These others stayed to guard him; I went to bring help.”

Koenig didn’t know what an Obeah Man was, and he certainly didn’t believe in magic, but the respect paid by the other men was obvious. “Thank you, Mr. Kano.” He shook the man’s hand. “Your help is appreciated. You all can head back to the wagons and get ready to move out.” Kano hesitated, but then left, the other men following, relieved looks on their faces.

“Perhaps you should have asked him about the ‘dark place,’ Mr. Koenig.” Morrow said softly so as not to disturb the work Mathias was doing on Carter.

Koenig looked disgusted. “You don’t believe in magic, do you?”

There was a pause, as if Morrow was choosing his words with care. “I believe there are things we do not understand.” He replied, looking meaningfully outside the window.

The two men stood silently and watched the doctor work. The scents of horse manure and well-cared-for leather tack saturated the air, as did the bits of hay chaff that circulated everywhere.

Very soon, Dr. Mathias had finished his exam of Carter, and was now sitting back on his heels, his hands resting on his knees, a look of puzzlement on his face. Koenig squatted down on Carter’s other side and looked at the very pale man, his face and barely moving bare chest riddled in fresh bruises.

“Dr. Mathias?” Koenig interrupted the doctor’s thoughts.

“He’s not dead, obviously, but about as close as you can be.” Mathias picked up Carter’s shirt and covered the man from the chill. “No gunshot wounds, no signs of broken bones, just all these bruises that are new. It’s like he’s been beaten, but there’s no broken skin. It doesn’t make sense.”

The room darkened. Koenig looked out the dusty window. Clouds must be gathering. He hoped that didn’t mean snow. There hadn’t been any clouds this morning, but maybe weather was different up here in the mountains. “Let’s get Carter back to the wagons. We’d best leave now.”

Koenig beckoned to Morrow to help him pick up the unconscious man. Mathias made to join them, but turned his attention to the back of the livery stable when something there caught his attention.

~~~~~~~~~~

Carter hung suspended between Koenig and Morrow, his arms thrown about the shoulders of the other two men, his head lolling side to side, his feet dragging on the ground. They had made it halfway back to the wagons when they realized the doctor wasn’t with them.

“Damn. Where’s the man got to?” Koenig fumed. This was not a good time to go wandering off. He shouted the doctor’s name several times, but there was no answer. They’d get Carter to the hospital wagon then return to search for Mathias. If the man’s actions held up their departure, there’d be grief to pay.

Koenig realized something felt very wrong. The wagons seemed closer to the town, in truth, the mountains seemed closer, even the sky seemed lower, and not just due to the dense clouds. Everyone in the wagon train seemed spooked, from the settlers right down to the usually phlegmatic oxen. They placed Carter in the care of the colored nurse and Koenig preempted a saddled horse from one of the cowboys, grabbing the reins and moving to the animal’s side to mount.

“Morrow, get the wagons moving. I’ll go back and look for Mathias and catch up with you.”

Morrow hurried off in the direction of the lead wagon, but stopped when a small woman hurried up and took his arm. Unheard words were exchanged, then Morrow pointed in Koenig’s direction and continued on. Koenig recognized Sandra as she approached him, even before he saw her worried expression. He mounted his horse, then looked down to meet Sandra’s wide, haunted eyes.

“What’s happened to Helena?” he demanded.

Sandra opened her mouth, but seemed to have difficulty finding her words. Koenig didn’t have time for this. He reached down, grabbed the woman’s hand and pulled her up behind him. He kicked his horse and galloped to the wagon, Sandra hanging on to him for dear life. He pulled the horse to a halt so sharply it almost sat on its haunches.

“Morrow! Have you checked on Helena?”

“No, I...”

Koenig swung off his horse, and leaped into the wagon. His heart sank. Helena was there, lying on her bed, her arms folded over her chest, her beautiful face thin and drawn. She looked as if she had been laid out for her funeral.

“Is she...” He turned to Sandra who had followed him in.

Sandra squeezed past him, pulling her skirts in and doing her best to make sure nothing of her brushed against the upset man. She touched Helena’s chest lightly, her shoulders sagging in relief when she felt a shallow breath. Her voice was very hesitant and quiet as she looked at Mr. Koenig.

“She just... fell over. She and Tanya finished sewing the quilt top together, and then Missus just... fell over. I made her comfortable and covered her. I could not find the doctor anywhere, then I saw you...”

Koenig’s heart was torn in two. He needed to stay with Helena; he needed to get his people away from this haunted place. He realized someone was missing. “Where’s Tanya?”

Sandra looked about the small space, as if just then realizing the Russian woman was missing. No words had to be said to convey her confusion.

“Stay here, with Helena. Understand?”

Sandra nodded her hasty and relieved compliance, and set about tucking the unfinished quilt top over the still, chilled body of her charge.

~~~~~~~~~~

She was so cold. Like the cold, white light of the moon. So cold.

~~~~~~~~~~

Koenig sat on his borrowed horse, shivering. He was freezing, inside and out. If he could get everyone past this town and down onto the warm plains, it would be alright. He just knew it would be. First though, he needed information on what in the world was happening. He called to the first passerby, a tall young man by the name of Jimmy Haines.

“You there, find Mr. Bergman and tell him I need him. Now!”

The man sped off. Koenig watched as the wagons finally started to move, the lead wagon, his wagon driven by Morrow, just about to enter that be-damned town. Was it his imagination, or were there fewer people about? Maybe they were all huddled in the wagons for warmth. He pulled his gloves out from under his belt, then stopped. His hands were covered in bruises. Resolutely ignoring his fear as he slid hands into gloves, he peered through the gathering gloom. It was high noon, why was it growing so dark? His question was answered almost immediately: snow.

“Let’s move, people!”

The animals were preternaturally silent as they moved out, the creaking of wagon wheels the loudest sound. He’d have been happier to hear the typical cacophony of braying mules and lowing oxen to this unnatural silence.

The silence was broken by a whistle. Not a proper, shrill whistle of a cowboy calling to his charges, but a melodic tune of the type usually heard in concert halls. Through the thickening snow Koenig saw a dark, muffled form. It was Mr. Bergman looking right and left as he was buffeted by the strengthening winds.

“Mr. Koenig? Where are you?”

“Here!” Koenig directed his horse toward dark form, stopping the animal where it could stand as a windbreak for the older man. The howling winds were growing stronger by the minute; he had to raise his voice to be heard. “What do you make of all this, Mr. Bergman?”

“A snowstorm, obviously. Must be due to the microclimate caused by the mountains. Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything of the sort, however.”

‘Microclimate’? That lost Koenig.

“Best we take shelter in the town until it blows over, don’t you think?” Bergman by now was hanging onto Koenig’s leg to keep from being buffeted about.

Koenig shielded his eyes from the whipping snow. He couldn’t see any of the wagons. Where was Helena? His anxiety rising, he pushed on to rejoin the wagons, Bergman clinging to his leg for support and direction. Certainly Paul would have the common sense to batten down, wouldn’t he? They needed to get out of this damned pass, but they needed to survive this storm first!

The horse whinnied in alarm as it stumbled and fell. Koenig jumped off in time to keep from being pinned. He stumbled hard into Bergman and both men went to their knees. The horse was dead.

“Mr. Koenig, we need to find shelter!”

“We need to find the wagon!”

“If we don’t find shelter, we’ll die!” Bergman took off his belt and looped his and Koenig’s hands together. The older man leaned in close, his wispy hair flying in the wind, and shouted, “Can’t afford to get separated!”

Visibility was down to mere inches. The men groped in front of them. The town had to be near; it wasn’t as if they could miss it in the narrow pass! After an eternity, Koenig’s hands felt wood. He pulled Bergman up from where the man had stumbled, and the two felt along the wall until they found a door. The very large door of the livery building. It took concerted effort, but finally the door slid open. They were all but blown inside by a fierce gust and fell to the ground. Unbelievably relieved to be out of the winds, Koenig scraped enough of the snow and ice off his face to find the door and force it shut. He leaned against the door, resting his head against the wood that swayed from the storm winds outside.

Silence.

“We made it Mr. Bergman, but...” Koenig turned around and stopped.

The old man lay unmoving on his back, purple bruises all but covering his scalp and face.

Koenig got to his knees and stripped off his gloves. He ripped open Bergman’s buttoned coat and put his hands on the man’s cold chest. The heart still beat, but barely. Koenig covered Bergman back up and looked around quickly. They needed warmth. Through the windows all he could see was the white of the blizzard; inside, the building was shrouded in gloom but Koenig just made out a stack of wood against the near wall. He gathered up several small logs and hastily prepared a small firepit on the earthen floor. He pulled out his firestarter, took out the final lucifer and struck it against the small box’s side, smiling grimly at the resulting small orange flame.

The wood wouldn’t light. More angry than discouraged, Koenig again looked about. The livery building’s stable-like interior had no desks that would be hiding matches; perhaps there were saddle bags left in the stalls. Most folks carried firestarters. He walked to the rear of the livery and started a groping search of the stalls. Maybe at the least he could find some old horse blankets they could use for warmth until the storm blew past.

He had almost reached the last, most distant stall, when a flicker of light caught his eye. He stopped and looked back to the front of the building. Was the storm breaking up? He realized then that the light had not come from the windows, but from a stall across the way he had already searched. It flickered again, and again. Puzzled, Koenig left the stall he had not yet finished searching and returned to one he knew was empty.

There was a—window?—where the hay manger had lately hung. This made no sense. The window was hanging on an inside wall where it abutted the next building; why would a window be just there, even if he had overlooked it before? Koenig walked closer to see if his eyes were betraying him. It was a window, but a strange one. It was one huge piece of glass, without any mullions to hold small pieces of glass in place, and it was covered in grime. All strangeness aside, Koenig could just make out a light shining through it. A very bright light that now seemed to hold steady, not flickering as one would expect a fireplace or lamp to do. Using the side of his arm, he cautiously wiped off a small circle. The dirt was persistent, but he thought he could just make out movement on the other side. He scrubbed harder at the window... and then all but cried out in shock. Helena!

~~~~~~~~~~

It is done.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

50 days after Breakaway

Helena forced herself to awaken, clawing her way back to consciousness. She felt as if she had been asleep for a hundred years, her body was so stiff and awkward. What had happened to her? The last she could recall John had issued a Yellow Alert because... why? She couldn’t remember.

Her arms and legs felt cold and heavy, but the pins-and-needles sensations she could just now start to feel told her circulation was returning. It took all her effort to open her eyes. Her vision was poor, as if there was a hazy film blocking her sight. No it wasn’t her vision, she squinted to focus on the ceiling panels overhead, the air was full of... dust? That seemed out of place. Not on Alpha.

She focused on taking several deep breaths, then coughed. Repeatedly. The dust was thick, and it tasted very bad, almost as if something was rotting. With great effort, she raised a hand and brushed off the dust covering her face. She looked around, struggling to understand what she saw. She was in her quarters, that was clear enough, but so dim and dusty!

Helena had to get up. Something was wrong. She forced herself to stand up, a wave of vertigo almost bringing her to her knees. She caught herself on the bedside stand, knocking off her reading book and clock. How long had she been unconscious? She couldn’t tell, but she did know, vaguely, that somehow the book was important. Laboriously, she picked up the leather bound volume and returned it to its resting place.

Standing, more carefully this time, she took a step, and her foot landed in something soft that gave so much she almost fell back against the nightstand. A cloud of dust rose from the floor, sending her into fits of coughing. She looked at the floor, surprised. Her bed was surrounded by piles of grayish dust, each about half a liter in volume. There had to be over a dozen of them.

Leaning onto tables, chairs, whatever she could reach, she made her way to the commpost. There was a haziness to the viewscreen that she could not wipe off. An image? Her calls to Main Mission, Security, and most concerning, John’s personal commlock, went unanswered. She had to sit down, and did. Head in her hands, she fought back her fears. What had happened? Where was everyone?

The air filtration system at least appeared to be working. She no longer had the overwhelming urge to cough. She did shiver, though, and violently. It was cold. Very, very cold. Finally able to stand up, she found a jacket and pulled it on over her uniform. Attaching her commlock to her belt, whose small screen showing the same haziness as the commpost, she carefully made her way out to the corridor. She wanted to go to Main Mission, but Medical Center was closer. There first.

~~~~~~~~~~

The corridors were dim, and once again the air was filled with a fine dust. A random thought passed through her mind: she hoped whatever it was wasn’t carcinogenic. Or hallucinogenic.

She found the first body as soon as she turned the corner, a security guard who looked like he had fallen between one step and another. He was alive, and after a quick check, Helena rolled him onto his side and moved on. The next ten bodies were also alive, but some bore horrific bruises on their exposed skin. A few had bloody saliva trickling from their mouths. She tried each commpost she passed, but all had that same static-filled image, and now she appreciated a barely audible hiss.

Finally she made it to Medical Center. The lights were on night-mode, but still bright enough to see easily. She was grateful that for reasons of safety, it was never completely dark here. The doors closed behind her, and she stopped abruptly. Every bed was filled. The air was so dust-filled she couldn’t make out who was here; but the unnatural silence and cold, so like that of a tomb, made her mouth run dry. She walked closer to the nearest beds, and then in a rush of relief realized that the monitors over beds showed rhythmic pulsatile waveforms.

It was bitterly cold in here, even more so than in her quarters. She pulled down blankets and quickly covered those she found on the exam beds: Victor, Paul, Sandra, Tanya, David and Alan. Who was running Main Mission?

Where was everybody? Her nurses? Bob? Was everyone in this state? A quick survey found Bob in the trauma bay, on the exam table and covered in bruises, although his darker coloration hid most of the damage. Except for the two intensive care beds, all the exam beds in Medical Center were full.

Helena went back to the main triage room and turned the lights on full. She stood for a moment, running fingers through her dusty hair as she thought. The tasks ahead were almost overwhelming, but the first priority was to get the personnel who staffed Main Mission back on duty to ensure the safety of Alpha. After that they could figure out what had happened—and find John.

Alan lay unconscious on the exam bed closest, his face, chest and arms covered in bruises. A quick survey found no internal damage, although he was much thinner than Helena ever recalled, with a color to his skin that warned of significant malnourishment. His cerebral waveforms indicated he was in a deep sleep, but cycling toward consciousness as she watched; she’d give him a chance to awake on his own. Victor was beyond Alan, also terribly bruised and thin. A quick check of Sandra, Tanya and Paul found the same, although Sandra had faired better than most. David was physically stable, but his cerebral cortex implant made the encephalograms a challenge to interpret. If he didn’t wake up with the others, she would examine further.

Beyond Victor, next to the wall and laying on her side facing away from the main room, was a yellow-sleeved woman Helena carefully rolled onto her back. She inhaled sharply as she recognized Shermeen Williams, the gifted teenager who had been visiting Alpha at the time of Breakaway. The young woman was in very bad shape—her face was as pale as a corpse, her hair dry and brittle, and her eyes were terribly sunken in. There was a small amount of bloody saliva present, and when Helena examined her mouth, she found Shermeen’s teeth were all but falling out.

Helena finished a quick exam, and discovered large brown spots that were raw and open on the girl’s legs, red tissue fluid weeping onto the bed below. What skin wasn’t weeping, was covered in bruises at every stage of healing. Only the monitors overhead told Helena she was still alive. Shermeen looked like she had been beaten and starved to within an inch of her life. What in the world could have happened to cause this?

Helena worked intently to stabilize the girl, then did quick survey exams of the others in Medical Center, before returning to see if her interventions were helping. Thankfully, Shermeen’s injuries were the worst.

“Will she survive, Doctor?”

Helena had to throttle a cry of surprise at the unexpected voice. She turned to see Paul sitting up on his bed, looking shaky but alert. Alan was also making efforts to move, as was Sandra.

“I hope so. How are you feeling, Paul?”

The Controller sat quietly, as if making an internal assessment. “Cold and hungry, and very tired. Do you know what happened?”

“No, not yet. You are the only other person I know for certain who’s awake. I haven’t been able to reach Main Mission.”

“The Commander?”

Helena shook her head. “I don’t know.” She quickly summarized her findings.

“Understood.” Paul looked around, then stood up, grabbing the exam table for support. Several of the others were by now sitting up. “Alan, Sandra. We need to go to Main Mission. Doctor, please send Tanya and David once they are able.”

Alan stood up, and almost slipped in a dust pile. “What the...” Alan broke off in a coughing fit as the fine particles filled the air.

Helena backed up some and gestured to another nearby pile of dust. “They’re everywhere, Alan.”

“I will work on maximizing the air scrubbers, Doctor Russell,” Sandra said as she covered her nose with her sleeve. “The odor... is awful. Like something is dead.”

Alan took a poorly advised sniff, and ended up with another coughing fit. “Stupid me, but yeah, you’re right, Sahn. It stinks alright, but it smells kinda like hydrocarbon fuel.”

Under any other circumstances, Helena would never have allowed them to leave, but as things stood, she watched the trio depart with mixed feelings, leaving the Medical Center again in silence. At least she knew she was no longer alone. Helena sat down and took a moment’s respite, letting her eyes wander over the occupied beds in front of her, and through the transparent polymer windows of the room divider into the intensive care unit beyond. She should start a systematic search of Alpha; no doubt she’d find people who needed those beds.

Movement in the ICU caught her eye. Had another Alphan come to? She shook her head; she had thought those two beds unoccupied. She stood and walked toward the bay, when the wrongness of the image hit her. Nobody on Alpha wore a hat, much less a cowboy hat, blue jeans, and vest. Something niggled at her memory. Well, that wasn’t quite true. Dave Reilly had taken to wearing his hat during his off hours, but she hadn’t seen him among those here, and he never wore a leather vest. Then the shocked face below the hat registered. It was John, and he was staring at her in equal open-mouthed amazement.

Gathering her wits, she hurried around the partial wall that provided privacy and potential containment... and gasped. John was on the floor, sprawled unconscious, face and hands covered in bruises—and wearing his usual black-sleeved uniform.

~~~~~~~~~~

A red telltale flashed on her console. There was no way of knowing how long it had been trying to gain the attention of someone, anyone. Sandra crossed the width of Main Mission, sitting in her seat gingerly so as not to irritate her bruises any more than necessary. She pulled up the report—and closed her eyes for the briefest of moments to center and calm herself. Quickly then, she confirmed the data and turned to find the Controller.

“An alien ship is approaching rapidly, Paul.” Sandra’s voice was crisp and calm, belying the fact she had just arrived from Medical Center a mere moment ago, and had been unconscious ten minutes before that. “Computer reports its trajectory as...” She paused, puzzled, regarding the data again. “Computer is unable to give a trajectory.”

“Just what we need,” Alan muttered pushing his hair out of his eyes, as he took his chair at Eagle Ops and immediately started to call up information. “The vectors are changing too rapidly, but my guess is that it’s aimed straight for us. Likely impact zone 200 to 1000 kilometers outside our near perimeter.” He started a remote sensor search to do a fast head count on the Eagles and to see if there was any movement in the Eagle Bays. “That’s bloody close Paul, but survivable. For us.”

Paul returned from the rear of Main Mission where he had pulled the unconscious bodies of Bill Fraser and Annette Bouvier. They had been slumped over Paul and Sandra’s consoles, apparently among the last to succumb. “Does Computer report anything else? Are any of the Eagles available for launch?” he asked as he scanned his data screens.

Just then, a voice blurred with fatigue startled them over the commline. “Eagle 12 reporting to Main Mission.”

Alan looked up from his computer search, shooting a surprised look at Paul, then slapped the button to open the link. “Eagle 12, status?”

“Sitting on Launch Pad 5, Captain. Not sure what I’m doing here, I don’t remember...”

“Doesn’t matter, Tim. We’ve got a bogey heading straight for us. I’ve just sent the coordinates to your screen. Get up there and make sure they know we’re awake and aware of them.”

“Affirmative, Captain. Main motors being engaged now.”

“Can one Eagle be a credible threat?” Sandra asked, concern obviously growing as the realization sunk in they were quite probably under attack.

“It’ll have to be,” Paul said, “unless there are any other sleeping pilots out there. Send a wake-up call to all the Eagles, Sandra, and then try to hail the alien ship.”

“What the…” Paul studied the Big Screen. The incoming ship was more visible now, its spindly appearance deceptively harmless-looking. Sandra’s calls received no reply, neither from the Eagles, nor the alien vessel. “Alan, get to Weapons Section and see if you can get anything online there to provide us some cover.” The ship’s apparent size quadrupled in the time it took to say that one sentence.

Sandra looked up, her face draining of all color. “Paul, it is closing...”

Paul nodded, his face still professionally neutral, but equally pale. “I see it. Never mind, Alan. You’ll never get there fast enough to make a difference.”

“Eagle 12 to Main Mission, I’m in position. The alien ship is closing fast. Very fast.” The pilot’s voice was taut. “Orders?”

Sandra looked at the two men near her, unsure what to relay. “Acknowledged, Eagle 12. Await orders.” She looked at Alan, and realized he was studying the Big Screen intently. “Alan, Eagle 12...”

“Slingshot!” Alan cried out. He pressed open the line to the Eagle. “Tim, get the hell out of their way!”

Paul immediately understood and moved to hit the Red Alert alarm.

That quickly—much more quickly than Paul could move—the alien ship filled the Big Screen, then filled the direct vision viewports of Main Mission, then was gone. Paul, Sandra and even Alan ducked reflexively anticipating the direct hit... which never came.

Almost simultaneously came the orders: Paul’s “Sandra, switch to the scanners on the Far Side!” and Alan’s “Eagle 12, follow that ship!”

Sandra pulled up the image from the Far Side, then split the Big Screen image to pull in visuals from Eagle 12. The huge, spindly ship was skimming the lunar surface as it circled around the far side, its speed, if possible, increasing further. Then, slowly, almost too slowly to appreciate, but then becoming more and more obvious, the ship pulled away from the lunar surface, and headed out into space, its direction changed by the effect of the lunar gravity. It was soon lost to sight in the glare of a distant sun.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Here, Helena, let me help you get him up.” Bob Mathias’s voice was very welcome indeed. In short order, John was laying on the ICU bed, still unconscious but with stable vital signs.

“Helena, what happened? Why is Medical full?” Bob’s eyes had a slightly glazed look, but that was fading quickly. Helena filled him in on what little she knew.

“Bob, when you first saw John, was there... anything different about him?” Helena hesitated to say more. Perhaps it had been a hallucination. Had to have been a hallucination. “Never mind. Let’s get to work.”

Almost everyone in Medical was coming to, except Shermeen.

~~~~~~~~~~

He was finally warm. He been so cold for so long he had almost forgotten what anything else felt like. John opened his eyes and blinked away the sleep. The blue light bathing normally white walls seemed out of place, until he recalled the Intensive Care Unit in Medical. Memories rushed back—astronauts afflicted with magnetic radiation illness, their faces hideously disfigured, their eyes milky white and unseeing. Involuntarily, he raised his hands to his face.

“Ah, you’re awake, Commander!” The pleasant voice of Dr. Mathias, and then the physician himself, entered the small space.

John looked down at his uniformed body. He seemed unhurt. “Why am I here? Is anyone else hurt? What happened?” He sat up—and all but fell off the bed.

Mathias quickly put out an arm, gently restraining. “Easy there, Commander. You’ve lost significant amount of muscle mass and tone.”

More carefully this time, John sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He was briefly lightheaded, but that passed quickly. He brought his hand up to rub his face, but stopped when he saw the bruises. He held up both his hands to look at them closely, then pushed up the sleeves on his tunic, finding more bruises almost too numerous to count. He looked more closely at Mathias, and saw bruises on him also.

“What...”

“John!”

Dr. Russell entered. For just a moment, he expected her to be... what? Dressed differently? Her hair to be longer?

“How are you feeling?” Helena’s voice was low and calming, just like he remembered, except he didn’t want to be calmed just now. He wanted answers.

“Fine. Will someone please tell me what has happened? Where’s Paul?”

Helena smiled briefly, then became somber. “Paul is in Main Mission with Sandra and Alan.” She looked at Mathias and nodded, and the man left. “We don’t know what happened yet, John, we’ve only been, well, ‘awake’ for a few hours. We were all unconscious, the command staff here in Medical, most everyone else at their posts or in their quarters. As best we can tell, it’s only been three or four days, but many of us look like we haven’t eaten in weeks. Some have lost up to thirty percent of their body mass.”

John again attempted to stand up, but remembered this time to hang onto the exam bed. “Did we lose anyone?”

Helena shook her head. “No, but Shermeen is in a very poor state, much worse than anyone else. I’m still waiting on lab results to try to explain her findings.”

John was trying to remember exactly who Shermeen was. Helena picked up on his confusion.

“The British botany student, the teenager, sent up as a reward for her breakthrough research proposal. She was to be here only a month.” Helena looked sad. John knew she had tried to take the girl under her wing and make sure she found friends.

“What findings, Doctor?”

Helena raised her eyebrow at his formal address. They had been on a first name basis for weeks now. “She is terribly depressed, almost catatonic. She is bleeding from all her mucous membranes, and there are open, weeping wounds on her legs and arms. She must be hungry, but refuses to eat because her mouth is so painful.” She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. “I just haven’t had time yet to put it all together, but I’m certain there is an explanation.”

“But everyone else is alright? You are alright?” At her nod, John relaxed marginally. “I need to get to Main Mission.”

~~~~~~~~~~

John found the walk to Main Mission to be more tiring than he could have imagined. Helena had protested, had even tried to order him to rest, but they both knew he had to find out what was going on. He had the feeling she hadn’t told him everything. Paul, at least, would make a complete report.

He made it to his office and collapsed in his chair; he’d rest and get his strength back for a few minutes first. He reached for the water pitcher on his desk and poured a cup of water to help wash the nasty taste of the air out of his mouth. Someone must have anticipated his need. Maybe Helena sent a message on ahead? At least the air wasn’t as full of the ash as Helena had described it being.

He took a few more deep breaths and then used his commlock to open the sliding door to Main Mission. He could hear Paul’s voice above the hubbub even before the door was fully open.

“Tanya, do you have those status reports ready yet? The Commander will want those as soon as he arrives. And I’ll also need your report on the static interfering with the commnet. Sandra, has Alan contacted you about the progress of that ship yet?”

That caught John’s immediate attention, and he stood to walk down the steps into Main Mission proper. “What ship, Paul?”

“Commander! It’s good to see you.”

John nodded tersely. He was appalled at how beaten up everyone looked. Even Sandra and Tanya had livid, purple bruises across their delicate features. He looked around. Most of the daywatch was present, and a few nightwatch staff, but where was Victor? He scanned the monitors in front of him, noting the ordered chaos, but no evidence of emergency.

“I want a staff meeting in five minutes. It seems I have a lot to catch up on.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It took more like twenty-five minutes for everyone to assemble, but John used the time to sit in his chair and unobtrusively gather strength. He thought back to the final things he could remember before his awakening in Medical Center.

He had been pacing through the all-but-deserted corridors of Alpha, the lighting subdued as befitted the ‘nightshift’. The events of Terra Nova were still too recent and too unsettling to allow him restful sleep. Had Lee Russell been real? Or some alien who had delved into Helena’s memories? He favored the latter, but would never tell Helena that. The depth of compassion he had felt for her grief, and the raw (he had finally admitted it to himself) jealousy he had felt at the thought of Helena and ‘Lee’ together had struck him to his core.

He had been walking past the Biodome when his commlock had chirped. He had answered it, and... he couldn’t remember anything after that until Medical Center.

The sound of Paul clearing his throat broke into John’s reverie. Paul, Victor, Sandra and Helena were seated about the round conference table. Alan sent word that he would be another ten minutes. David would join if his input was needed, otherwise he and Tanya would continue the task of giving Alpha a thorough going-over.

John sat up straight, and started the meeting. “Alright, I want to know what happened.”

Paul and Victor looked at one another, and Victor took the lead, leaning forward in his chair and steepling his fingers together. “Well, John, we really don’t know just yet. Computer’s recordings of events stop eighty-one hours ago, and resumes five and one-half hours ago. The interval is...” and here Victor opened his hands wide, “a blank.”

John had a hard time believing that. On a moonbase whose very existence depended on sophisticated machines constantly monitoring and communicating with one another, there most certainly had to be records somewhere. “No readings anywhere? No telemetry from our remote sensors? Nothing?”

Victor shook his head. “That time in Computer’s memory is just so much random electrons. Obviously Alpha continued on as we are all still here, but as to what happened, we must search further.”

John leaned back in his seat. “Paul? Anything to add?”

Paul looked tired, hollow-cheeked, and, like all present excepting Helena, terribly bruised. He had been rubbing his jaw gingerly when John looked at him, but now he sat up to address the group. “David and Tanya are working on the static that preempted communication for the first hour. David insists there is a pattern, that it might even he a language.” Paul shrugged. “Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”

The door opened just then and Alan entered. He paused just long enough to take in everyone present and then walked to the empty seat next to Helena and sat down.

Watching Carter, John was again struck by how thin most everyone was, but that thought passed quickly. When the pilot was seated, John asked the question he had been waiting to ask. “I hope you can tell us something about this mystery ship, Alan.”

“Yeah, I can. That’s why I’m late. Eagle 12 followed in its wake until it could get some real good long-distance scans. A patch of space dust was in its path, and the ship didn’t make any effort to shield itself or shoot down the bigger hunks. It was hit right amidship, atmosphere venting every which way.” He aimed his commlock to the commpost and images of the strange, spindly ship appeared, which shortly became twisted and warped as an asteroid stuck the vessel. “But the strangest thing was the one course correction we saw. After the asteroid hit and deflected its course, the ship reoriented back on that sun. As soon as the maneuver was completed, it just imploded. What’s left of that thing is a dead ship on a one-way suicide mission that will end in that dwarf sun.”

“You don’t think it will slingshot around the sun like it did us?” John asked as he watched the ruins of the alien ship move out of visual range.

“Nah. I don’t think there’s anything alive on that ship. It’s a ghost ship now.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Victor said quietly. “One must ask what the connection is between that ship and what happened to us.”

Helena tilted her head as she regarded the professor. “You assume there is? A connection that is?”

“It seems most likely, my dear. Otherwise it is simply too much a coincidence, what happened to us, and their presence.”

“Did we do something to defeat them?” Sandra asked, bemused. “How could we? Why do we not remember?”

Victor smiled gently at the young woman, then looked about the room, his eyes pausing on Paul.

Watching Victor, John saw an odd look come into the Professor’s eye. A look Victor often got when a random musing struck him; a musing that might—just—turn out not to be so random after all.

Victor turned back to Sandra. “Alphans are ingenious sorts. We’ll find out if we’re meant to understand. Now, if you all will excuse me, I have an idea I wish to explore.” With that, and receiving a nod of permission from John, Victor stood, and headed back to Main Mission, patting John on the shoulder as he passed and smiling in reassurance.

Helena next began her summary from Medical. John listened with only half an ear as she summarized the widespread bruises and signs of starvation, as well as the emotional distress shown by many. He watched Victor go, and sighed to himself. While Victor might love a good mystery, John much preferred answers.

He focused on Helena, and the debriefing continued.

~~~~~~~~~~

53 days after Breakaway

Victor, for a change, paid close attention to his fellow Alphans as he walked the corridors after dinner. Three days of mystery after ‘awakening’ had led to a tension in the now-cleansed air thick enough to cut with the proverbial knife. People, even those typically of placid nature, were being irritable, distracted, and downright rude. The outer manifestations of their recent and as yet unexplained experience were healing, but the inner traumas remained. Those who had awoken in Medical Center seemed the most afflicted. Tanya and Sandra in particular were withdrawn and all but mute.

Of the physically damaged, young Shermeen was much improved, and once again seemed like your average irrepressible adolescent. Helena was holding her in Medical Center for a few more days as the wounds healed and her teeth again became set in her jaw. The superficial bruises, which final tally revealed were prevalent on exactly half of the Alphans, had faded to a murky yellow-green, and on most were gone. Even the emaciated appearances of many, and amongst those he had to count himself, were being set to rights by a few good, starchy meals; he now suspected it was no coincidence that those most contused were also the most malnourished. Still, of all the walking wounded around him, the one for whom Victor was most concerned... was Helena.

Oh, outwardly Helena was her usual calm, collected and professional self, but he had caught her, on too many occasions, starring off into the distance. There was a look in her eye that had taken Victor a while to identify and finally put a name to: haunted.

John and Bob had seen those looks also, and Helena had been banned from Medical Center during her off hours. She had protested vociferously at first, but of course, but had finally acquiesced. Now, she was almost as withdrawn as Tanya and Sandra. Most interestingly, to Victor’s sense, she had been taking refuge in the Biodome as he had discovered from John. In fact, a quick check with Computer told him she had been there for the past two hours. He’d had glimpses of her in the evenings the past day or two, at a distance, with a book in hand, and supposed she must be reading. He suspected it was a medical journal, although he hoped it was a leisure book, for her sake. He hated to interrupt her rest, but he needed her expertise to confirm one of his theories.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Biodome was a breath of fresh air when compared to the rest of Alpha. Victor entered through the double door baffle and came to full stop. He took several deep breaths and enjoyed this small slice of Earth.

The Biodome’s recirculating air filters were separate from Alpha proper and here the humidity was high, the oxygen level a touch richer, and the taste of the air citrus. Looking about this section, Victor could identify plants from the northern hemisphere’s subtropical zones: a pair of dwarfed Live Oaks with their Spanish Moss epiphytes, Sweet Gum trees, a wax myrtle, several clumps of saw-grass, an elderberry bush in bloom, and the dwarf lime trees sitting carefully in elevated planters. The latter he knew were especially treasured by the botany staff. Victor nodded at what he next saw—but of course, Helena would be sitting by one of those very lime trees.

Those little trees had an interesting history. They had been brought up to Alpha as seedlings by the very first botanist, their growth carefully nurtured as Alpha itself had grown over the past decade. The story went that they were a symbolic gift from Oxford, given to the first scientists embarking on a trip as long as those once endured by British sailors of bygone eras. The term ‘Limeys’ might be considered pejorative by many, but Victor had always considered the descriptive term a small triumph for that early naval surgeon who had made the connection between the age-old sailor’s curse of scurvy and vitamin C.

“Victor? What are you doing here?” John spoke quietly as he came around from the far side of a pergola threaded with blueberry canes. It was a location, Victor noted, where John could watch Helena as she sat on the small bench near the crepe myrtle and yet not himself be seen. Victor smiled at the man’s not-so-hidden concern. He rather suspected John would be the last person to realize what was so evident to the others in Main Mission.

“Oh, to see Helena. How is she doing? If she is up to it, I might have a question or two for her.”

John looked dubious, but then shrugged. “Maybe getting back to work would help her more than sitting around. Come on.” He led the way over crushed-stone paths and over the small ‘stream’ that held several small, brown cichlid fish. “Helena?”

The blond woman looked up from her book, startled. A tired, smile soon graced her face as she looked between the two men. “John. Victor. I imagine this is not a coincidence?”

Victor chuckled, both at Helena’s comment, and more so at John’s expression of open admiration. “You see right through us, my dear. May we join you?”

Helena scooted over some to make more room. “Of course.”

Victor sat down, but John remained standing by the lime trees, failing in his effort to look casual, or so Victor thought.

She did look more rested, but her eyes still had that vaguely unsettled look. Victor hoped what he had to say might help that. He opened his mouth to ask his question, when the book Helena held caught his attention. It was a real book, and not one scanned into computer and being read on a monitor, and it was old, very old by its cover, which appeared to be made of a natural material—leather?—binding. “Helena, what an interesting book! Yours? May I?” He held his hand out in a silent request.

Helena passed it over, her eyes filling with compassion. “I found it in among the personal effects of one of the technicians killed during Breakaway. I believe it is a family heirloom of sorts. It’s been fascinating to read, but I’ve not finished it yet. I was most of the way through when...” She paused, then shrugged.

Victor took the book, running respectful fingers over the leather cover as he turned it over in his hands. The edges of the deckled pages were a faded ivory, with the occasional small scrap of gingham cloth protruding, or the edge of a photograph. He carefully opened the cover and saw written in a delicate, feminine hand on the upper outer corner of the dedication page:

Elena Elizabeth Townsend

Born May 4, 1832

Chicago, Illinois

My journey to a new life on the Oregon Trail

Victor smiled, enchanted. “A journal!” He carefully opened the book and skimmed through the first dozen or so pages, then skipped to the middle for a few pages, and then the back where the final few pages were blank. “From what she writes, it seems it was a perilous journey to the unknown. Not so dissimilar to our own fate, eh? Did she finish her story, I wonder?” Victor smiled and handed the book back. Helena took the book, looking at Victor with an odd expression on her face.

Victor saw but did not register Helena’s look. He turned his attention to the small lime trees as he started asking his question. “Helena, I’ve been reading. Humans must ingest certain vitamins to survive, correct? Without them we become ill and die? My readings tell me that we can store certain minerals and vitamins, but eventually our reserves run out. Could you please review for me which vitamins humans cannot...”

The lack of any response caused Victor to look up. He saw Helena’s eyes flit to John, back to himself, back to John, and then to the lime tree. Her face went ashen, her eyes rolled up in her head, and she seized.

~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~

The lime orchards in front of her were bountiful with their fruit. Not the oranges she anticipated, but citrus nonetheless.

She could hear their voices. Her friends were alive. They had made it. They would survive.

~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~

“Please step back, Commander.” Dr. Mathias’s voice was firm. “I need room to work.”

John reluctantly stepped back from where he had placed Helena on the exam bed. In his haste to get Helena to help, he had carried her himself, Victor calling ahead to put Medical on alert. The doctor and nurses now worked in a frenzied, coordinated fashion that left no room for outsiders.

“John. Walk with me.” Victor took John’s arm and pulled him aside. “She’s in the best of hands.” John allowed himself to be pulled away, but only as far as the other side of the observation window.

The next three-quarters of an hour passed slowly. Finally Mathias walked over to them, replacing his stethoscope around his neck. “She should be fine, Commander. I can find nothing that should have caused the seizure. What were you doing just before it happened?”

John’s shoulders sagged in relief. He looked at Victor before he answered. “We were in the Biodome. Victor was asking medical question. That’s it.”

Mathias looked skeptical, cast a glance at Victor who nodded his agreement, then shrugged. “If you had said you were discussing something emotionally charged, I might have attributed the seizure to emotional shock given all we’ve been through lately, but perhaps it is all just simple exhaustion. She’s going to be confused and tired for a few hours. I’ll watch her here overnight, and if nothing declares itself, I’ll release her to her quarters in the morning. I don’t want her returning to duty for another few days yet.” Mathias paused to see if there were any questions.

“And Commander? Helena may well not remember what happened before her seizure. That’s to be expected, and I suggest not referring to it. May I assume you will back me up, Commander?”

John nodded, then picked up a nearby chair and walked over to Helena’s bedside and sat down. He’d wait the night out here.

~~~~~~~~~~

John awoke from his doze to the sounds of a very intense, very polite, argument carrying on just over his head.

“Bob, I am fine, you said so yourself.”

Bob snorted. “Fine... except for an albumin of one, the mild hypotension, the multiple electrolyte deficiencies, not to mention...”

The list got John’s attention. “Dr. Mathias, you told me she was ‘fine’?”

Helena shot Bob a look of triumph, but Bob didn’t back down. “No, Commander. I told you I didn’t find any cause for Helena’s seizure. She will be fine, if she will just rest for a few days and eat.” Mathias looked pointedly at John, and then at Helena. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Bob...”

John stood and stretched oh-so-casually. “Helena, would you care to join me for breakfast? I’m famished. After that you can show me that book you had in the Biodome, once we get it away from Victor.”

“Victor has it?” Helena looked slightly confused, but then she looked at the two men in front of her. She squinted her eyes slightly as she took in the innocent expressions. “You two had this planned out.”

Without saying another word, Mathias handed Helena her uniform and gestured for a nurse to bring over a modesty screen. Once she had dressed, during which the two men had carefully studied the far wall, John simply extended a gracious arm toward the door and escorted her to breakfast.

~~~~~~~~~~

The cafeteria was only lightly crowded at this odd hour in the middle of the ‘morning’. Helena was surprised to realize she had slept for ten hours straight, but that did certainly explain her hunger. It was the first time she found herself truly interested in food since she had awoken in her quarters covered with that strange ‘dust’.

She helped herself to toast and the Alphan version of coffee, but then John added fruit and a helping of protein-casserole he must have coerced the kitchen staff to release before lunch. He ate his own late breakfast, answering a few calls on his commlock while he ate. It didn’t take long for him to finish.

“Has anyone reported their findings about the dust?” she asked John between bites of toast.

John was leaning back in his chair, just watching her. She found the situation oddly flattering, as she did the knowledge he had sat by her bedside overnight. She saw him shake his head slightly, as if his thoughts had been elsewhere.

“We can hold a meeting later today to see where everyone stands. Kano has been working on the audio files of that white noise on the commlines, and Victor has some theories he’s been holding tight to his vest I’ll be curious to hear.”

“And the ‘dust’?” she asked again. Helena knew the filtered particulates had been submitted to various research labs for analysis. She was interested professionally, and personally, about where it came from. While found throughout Alpha, the small piles of dust had turned out to be concentrated in Medical, Hydroponics, the Biodome... and her quarters.

“Victor’s to bring that report.” John studied her almost empty plate. “After you finish your breakfast, we’ll track down your missing book and head back to the Biodome. I’d like to hear what’s in it.”

Helena laughed. “As if you don’t have more important things to do.”

“Actually, I don’t.” He regarded her with piercing blue eyes. “Ensuring the well-being of Alpha’s CMO is my priority this morning. Ready?”

~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the morning passed very pleasantly. The walk through Alpha to Victor’s lab to get her book was just the right amount of exercise, and the time spent in the Biodome with John almost had the feeling of a school holiday. She had read to John from the beginning of Elena Townsend’s journal; the tales of covering a thousand miles over six months in nothing but a small covered wagon were engrossing. Helena felt a kinship with the long-dead pioneer, and hoped the Alphan’s journey would end in a place with as much hope as California had held for Elena.

Now, however, it was time to get back to work.

~~~~~~~~~~

The news of her seizure had traveled quickly through Alpha. While privacy was jealously guarded and for the most part respected amongst the Alphans, Helena knew quite well that the well-being of the Alphan leaders was considered fair game for the gossip net. The looks of concern from those they passed seemed sincere and she responded with smiles, but she greeted their arrival at John’s office with noticeable relief.

“How you feeling, Doc?” Alan jumped up to hold her chair as she took her seat.

“You too, Alan?” She sighed as she rested her book on the table and took her seat.

“What? What did I say?” Alan looked over at John, who sent a reassuring grin as the pilot returned to his seat. The door opened just then, admitting the last to arrive: Mathias, officially representing Medical, and Sandra. Bob did not look pleased to find her here, but she smiled at him and then pushed slightly away from the table to indicate her status as an observer only.

“It’s nothing, Alan. Let’s get going. Paul, what’s our status?”

Helena listened with growing relief as the reports showed Alpha had suffered no long-term effects from—whatever—it was that happened to them while they all were unconscious.

“Ok, that sounds good. Let’s move on. David, what did you discover about that static?”

David Kano, obviously slightly surprised to be called next, nonetheless launched into a highly technical dissection of the audio files of the noise Helena had first heard coming from the commposts after she had awoken in her quarters. The discussion went completely over Helena’s head, but she could see Victor and Sandra following with great interest. Terms such as ‘frequency deconstruction’, ‘fluency’, ‘bytecode’, and ‘lexical analysis’ were tossed back and forth.

“David, in English, please?” John interrupted with a pained expression when it appeared the discussion was becoming more esoteric, not less.

“It’s a language, Commander. Heavily favoring mathematical symbols and equations, but certainly following the pattern of spoken communication, that much Computer can deduce. What was being said, however…” David shrugged. “That will take much more time, if we are ever successful.”

Victor nodded, appearing not at all surprised.

John moved on going counterclockwise around the table. “Alan, anything more about the alien ship?”

“It’s almost too far away now to get any readings, but at last sight it was still heading right toward that dwarf sun.”

John nodded and moved on to Mathias. “Doctor?”

Bob glanced at Helena who was seated across from him, but at her nod answered the question. “Detailed scans of every Alphan over the past 72 hours reveal one of two broad patterns. One half of our population is basically fine, only showing some signs of mild dehydration and the ketosis that is associated with a prolonged fasting state. The other half, however, shows a pattern of collagen malformation, bruises, generalized malnutrition and specific vitamin deficiencies. Shermeen Williams is the most profound example. What I can’t explain is how the damage we’re seeing occurred in less than three days.”

“Can the damage be undone?” John asked.

“Thankfully, yes. Shermeen’s situation approached the edge of irreversibility, but given time, dietary supplements and rest, even she will be fine.”

There were looks of relief on the faces around the table. Victor looked particularly interested in Mathias’s information, but held his peace.

“Alright, Victor, what was found in that ‘dust’?”

Victor scratched his jaw for a moment as if gathering his thoughts, then spoke. “A very interesting mix, John. A right witch’s brew of volatiles and inorganics. Predominantly, the powder was a crystallization of very small amines like methylamine and ethylamine, which smell very similar to ammonia—although if you compared them side by side, the amine smells are slightly more complex.”

“Victor…”

Helena smothered a smile. She recognized John’s attempt to keep their friend from going into full lecture mode. By the smile on his face, so did Victor.

“Alright, John. The powder certainly explains the scents we all experienced. Amines may smell ‘fishy’ or, on occasion, they have that sweet, sickly smell of the early stages of decaying flesh.”

Alan looked disgusted. “Professor, do you mean something got onto Alpha and then up and died?”

Victor cocked his head as he considered. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it is a byproduct of their metabolism, of course…”

Alan leaned over to Bob Mathias and said in a not-so-quiet voice, “Great, that means we were invaded and the nasties took a dump on us.” Mathias struggled to keep a straight face.

“Carter.” John’s voice was remonstrative. Victor continued as if he had not been interrupted.

“…that assumes we were, uh, ‘invaded’ in the first place. It is possible that the chemicals are the byproduct of a non-organic device or devices that were somehow introduced into Alpha. If only the visual recordings of that time had not been lost.” Victor shook his head.

Helena saw Sandra sit up straighter as if she wanted to add something, but John missed her movement and continued to follow Victor down a highly speculative path. Sandra sat back in her chair and Helena caught the younger woman’s eye and smiled encouragingly. Helena knew the data analyst was quiet by nature, and she suspected still rather overwhelmed to be included in the command conferences that routinely included two of Earth’s leading astronauts, not to mention a Nobel Prize recipient. In any case, Sandra was due to speak next, so Helena did not interrupt on her behalf.

Helena let the conversation wash over her. She was very tired. Perhaps she would follow Bob’s advice after this meeting concluded and retire to her quarters for a nap. Her eyes fell on the closed leather-bound journal in front of her. While it would be intolerably rude to open the book to continue reading, she did allow her eyes to follow the contours and colors of the small scraps of cloth that poked out between pages. How interesting it was the Elena had saved tiny pieces of the cloths she had cut and pieced into the quilts she described in her stories; and how amazing they had survived the intervening century and a half. The scraps of cloth seemed very familiar for some reason. Like she had lately seen the fabric they had come from. Impossible.

“Dr. Russell?” A quiet voice startled her from her wool-gathering, and she accidentally bumped the book off the table.

Paul leaned over and picked up the book that had landed open, several sepia tinted pictures and bits of fabric now laying on the floor between them. He handed them all back to her. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I did not mean to surprise you. You’re very pale. Do you feel alright?”

Helena took the book and the bits and pieces. She looked at the tiny scrap of red gingham, the scrap of faded black, and the one still incongruously bright orange. It reminded her of the yellow alert that was her last memory before waking up in her quarters; no, not her last memory. She remembered now, she remembered the feeling of someone else in her mind, she remembered… ...

They sifted through Helena’s thoughts, Helena’s memories. They dissected her biochemistry. They decided to use her as their central test subject; to use her memories upon which to base their exploration.

They needed what the humans on their lifeless rock also needed. They would not, could not consume any life to fulfill their need, not that of the lesser self-mobile lifeforms, nor that of the stationary life forms that had once lived with them. Their own source of hexuronic acid, the small befurred greeblies that had freely provided their need in exchange for warmth and shelter, had died, as would they without a replacement source—and soon.

Their last hope was with these wanderers clinging to their rock, so unexpectedly and fortuitously found just as the decision to self-terminate had been decided. Perhaps the universe still had need of them.

They would not harm these bipeds. It was not their way. If the experiment failed, they would leave them as they had been found, clinging to their lifeless rock.

“... we were a resource to them, nothing more. They were dying slowly of malnutrition since their symbiotic species had died. They recognized in us a similar problem and only wanted to discover how we had ‘solved’ our metabolic deficiency. They divided our population equally by gender and racial backgrounds. One group, the controls, they simply put asleep, and the other they group they actively deprived of Vitamin C, and also somehow sped up our metabolic rates to see how we would solve the problem in a timeframe that suited their needs.”

Helena sat on one of the sofas in John’s office, John on one side, Victor on the other, holding tightly to the sofa’s seat edge, still shaking from the flood of memories that had inundated her. The rush to share the haunting images had eased somewhat, and with that her pervasive sense of wrongness had lessened. Slowly, she released the sofa and leaned back, very grateful for the sofa’s support. She realized she couldn’t remember how she had gotten here. She hoped she hadn’t had another seizure.

It all made horrible sense now. She was trying to place her memories in order: those of Alpha, and the almost more-real ones of the Old West. She looked at the faces surrounding her, her memories superimposing cowboy hats, cotton shirts, and sunbonnets on the beige uniforms. They had been her friends in those clothes. In Alphan garb, there were colleagues.

Paul cleared his throat. He was sitting near her in a chair he must have pulled over from the conference table. Helena looked over to the round table where chairs now stood askew and even overturned, mute evidence of the haste in which their occupants had left them behind. Paul spoke gently, choosing his words with great care. “Dr. Russell, if I may ask, why do you remember the aliens, and none of the rest of us?”

Helena had to admit it was an excellent question; one that bothered her, too. She paused, recalling wispy memories that just tugged at her edges of her mind. Images of an orange planet with beautiful parrot-like birds; an ache of longing stabbing at her heart as she watched the world around her disintegrate in an explosion of matter and antimatter. She looked at Paul, and then to John, her head slightly canted from the effort of remembering. “I’m not sure. It’s like Terra Nova. I... seem to remember things no one else does.” She shrugged helplessly. John slowly nodded. He had shared with her vague feelings of unease whenever he recalled that aborted trip.

Victor took her hand and patted it comfortingly. “Indeed. As was once written by a wise man, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in your philosophy’.”

Helena didn’t reply. She had read scientific reports of psychic phenomena, although she remained skeptical. Still, there was more to the human mind than she understood. Perhaps this fell into that category?

John studied the cover of the leather journal he held in his lap, then looked at her. “So the aliens used your medical knowledge and your memories of this journal to put us in a situation where we just accepted that we were cold and starving?”

His words took a moment to register. An image of John in jeans, a dirty cotton shirt and a cowboy hat flashed into memory. She hadn’t mentioned her dreams. “You…do you remember?”

John kept eye contact with her as he nodded. “We were on a prairie, riding in wagons and heading out into the American West. Yes, I remember now.”

“Yes…yes.” Victor ran a hand over his wispy hair. “Helena, I remember! We traveled for weeks, I rode a horse!” He looked delighted.

Paul looked confused. “I never served in the navy, but I certainly do not like bats.”

“I did take a year of fellowship in France, although I didn’t go to Medical School there.” Bob added, recalling his ‘history’ in Helena’s dream.

David looked frankly offended, and it was Alan who asked him what was wrong. “I must protest, Dr. Russell. I do not believe in magic.”

Alan laughed. “Well, I had a great time. Hunting, camping out at night, riding horses. What’s not to like? Well, it was great up until we found that haunted stable, that is.”

Helena looked at Sandra, but the only thing the younger woman said was, “I do know a little about quilting.”

Helena didn’t know what to say. To think she had been the cause of… of the what? Mass hallucination? Mass dreaming? That she might be the cause of the suffering she had seen in her dream, and had awoken to, was just too uncomfortable to consider.

“What a minute,” Alan interrupted, his expression now slightly angry. “These aliens used us a lab rats to find out what? How we make Vitamin C? I guess we should be grateful they just didn’t dissect us one by one until they got their answer.”

Sandra turned pale and frankly shuddered at that comment. Helena hastened to reassure her, and Alan.

“No, Alan, that was never a possibility. They would not take any life. They were peaceful explorers who lived off of, well, I’m not exactly sure, but they seemed to survive mostly off some sort of deep space radiation.”

Paul picked up on her qualifier. “‘Mostly’, Doctor?”

“Yes, they did need some dietary elements from more traditional sources.”

Helena had to sort through a jumble of memories, only a few of which truly made sense. The memories of the aliens were fading rapidly, while those of the wagon train seemed all too real.

“‘Dietary elements?’ You mean like meat and potatoes?” Alan put it in plain terms as he rubbed a bruise on his jaw. “So, Doc, let me see if I understand. The aliens won’t eat anything they have to kill, and that includes plants. So they survived off sunbeams?” Alan asked with mild sarcasm.

“More or less, Alan. That and the offerings made by their symbiotic species.”

“Offerings of what? Milk?”

“Close, Alan. Secretions. The aliens gathered their Vitamin C from the secretions freely offered by a less intelligent symbiotic species under their care in exchange for food and protection. When that species did not survive on their trip, the aliens had to look for another source.”

“‘Secretions’? Eww!”

Helena smiled. “Most animals we know, at least on Earth, made their own Vitamin C. Humans are one of the few who cannot. We have an inborn metabolic error with an inability to produce vitamin C from glucose. When they found us, I imagine the aliens must have thought we had a similar arrangement with a symbiotic species from our world.”

“Whiteflies.” Victor suddenly said. “It sounds like the mutualistic relationship some ants had with some members of the insect family Aphidoidea.”

Helena nodded. “Yes, aphids. That was what I was thinking of.”

“They were going to keep us a pets if we, uh ‘secreted’ what they needed? That’s disgusting.” Alan’s expression elicited Helena’s agreement.

“Well, I think they would have preferred to keep our source, but only if it didn’t require our deaths or the death of our ‘symbiotes’.”

“Great. Enlightened bugs.” Alan walked over to the direct vision port and looked out for a while. “So, to them, eating meat or even vegetables is tantamount to murder, but it’s alright to...” Alan floundered looking for the right word.

“Ingest?” Victor offered.

Alan considered it for a moment then continued. “Ingest the milk offered by a living creature, even if that critter had to eat something?”

“Apparently the ethics of the situation passed muster,” Victor concluded.

“Alright,” although Alan appeared unwilling to concede the point, “but then how did they figure on learning our solution if we were asleep?”

Sandra nodded agreement to that question. “Why did they not just ask us? If they were intelligent enough to place half of us in a type of suspended animation, and direct the other half in some sort of collective dreaming to provide an answer, surely they could have devised a more direct means to communicate.”

“I disagree, Sandra,” said David. “Their language is just too different from ours. They communicate in mathematical concepts.”

“Perhaps a species that can direct ‘collective dreaming’,” and here Victor nodded approval of the appropriate term, “can also read our minds to see how we solved the problem, all without words.”

“Scurvy.” Paul suddenly said. “The bruises and sore teeth, they’re all symptoms of scurvy!”

“Exactly!” Agreed Victor who pivoted to face Paul. “That was exactly what I was going to ask of Helena yesterday, before she, um, had her fit.” Victor’s voice trailed off. He then cleared his throat and began again, “When I found you seated by the lime trees, I assumed you had made the connection already.”

Helena was heartsick and disgusted with herself. The symptoms that half of Alpha had awoken with should have been immediately identifiable. How could she have been so blind? That she hadn’t started the appropriate therapy within the hour was inexcusable. She looked at Bob, her voice thick with self-loathing, “I should have recognized the symptoms. Shermeen’s a classic case.”

“Helena, don’t blame yourself. You of all of us had been through a lot,” Bob said quietly, for her ears alone. She gave him a look of gratitude, but knew it would be a long time before she could forgive herself.

“But, Doctor Russell,” Paul asked, “we were only unconscious for a few days. Doesn’t scurvy take months?”

“Usually,” Helena agreed, “but if someone’s stores are low to begin with, it can happen in weeks.”

“Still...”

Helena shrugged. “I don’t have all the answers, Paul, but I do know our sense of time is different from the aliens. Perhaps they influenced time somehow, made it pass quicker for our bodies. I just don’t know. Alpha may have aged only a few days, but our bodies aged weeks.”

“It felt like weeks on the wagon train.” Everyone turned to look at Sandra. She was right.

Everyone sat quietly for a while, perhaps remembering events that hadn’t really taken place. Helena’s thoughts whirled around and around, finally focusing on a single point.

“I wish I knew what they had looked like. I can still, just a little, feel them in my mind, but they left no image of themselves behind.”

“That is possible, Dr. Russell.” Sandra straightened, looking more like the confident data analyst she was, took off her commlock and pushed a button. “Tanya, please start the tape.” She turned to face the screen on the commpost, and the others followed suit. The curiosity in the room was palpable. “The data we thought lost to Computer ‘reappeared’ after the alien ship was beyond the range of our sensors. I cannot explain it, but once I realized what it was, Tanya and I have spent hours reviewing the tapes. This is a selection of what we have found.”

The tape started with a montage of images of routine night-shift activities which were suddenly interrupted. The yellow alert had been activated by Bill Fraser when the alien ship had appeared on long-range sensors. Whatever they were doing, Alphans stopped in their tracks, standing or sitting with blank expressions on their faces. Sandra’s edited film flitted across Alpha showing the same scene again and again. It was eerie to watch.

“This lasts for one hour.”

Sandra next called up a data window which showed the temperature lowering across Alpha, steadily decreasing to 10º C, and the ambient light across Alpha deceasing to 25% normal. Once the temperature and light conditions stabilized, between one moment and the next, standing Alphans fell to the floor, and those sitting slumped over consoles. Sandra now shifted their view to Medical Center. One by one, the Alphans who staffed Main Mission during daywatch walked in and laid themselves down on exam beds. Shermeen entered last and took the last empty bed. A final image showed Helena entering her quarters.

“Perhaps the dark and cold is their normal environment?” mused Victor.

A day/time chronometer now appeared in a small window and time passed quickly. It was at the 48-hour mark that the next movement was seen. It first appeared as an intermittent patch of haziness between the lenses and the subjects. Over the next twenty hours the haziness became more frequent, and eventually almost constant.

“Sahn, what’s wrong with the cameras?” Alan finally asked.

Sandra kept her attention on the images. “Nothing, Alan. Tanya and I first manipulated filters trying to eliminate the irregularities, but then we had the idea to accentuate them. This is what we found.”

The view was of Medical Center, each bed holding a perfectly still Alphan. The view seemed to every so often, and just very slightly, become grainy. Next, the background systematically shifted in color or in ocular refraction as Sandra and Tanya had made attempts with different filters. One all-but-invisible patch of graininess became a smudge, then a solid blur, then a spindly snowflake that changed shape as it rotated on an oscillating axis. Pseudopods seemed to extend at irregular intervals to touch and delicately penetrate the humans’ heads around it. For all the world, it looked to Helena as if they were ‘tasting’ the thoughts inside. Many among the observers shifted uneasily in their seats.

“Are they doing what I think they’re doing?” Alan asked with a grimace.

“If you think they are sampling our thoughts, why yes, that would be my supposition also,” Victor replied.

The view shifted and Helena gasped and took hold tightly of Victor’s hand. They were now inside Helena’s quarters and the oscillating snowflakes were almost surrounding her bed. These creatures seemed more animated—more agitated?—their pseudopods frequently dipping into Helena’s body. At this point, the screen split in half and the image of Shermeen, her bed also surrounded by aliens ‘tasting’ memories, joined the first. Small chronometers showed that the events were happening concurrently.

“Sandra, am I correct in believing all the creatures’ movements we are seeing are exactly synchronous?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Sahn, do we have to keep watching this?” Alan pleaded.

Sandra nodded to the screen. “It is about to happen.”

“What?” Alan asked, just as everything happened at once.

In unison, all of the aliens withdrew their pseudopods, they all froze in place, and then... they simply fell to the floor in a silty shower.

“What? Do you mean all those dust piles... were the aliens?” Paul sat stunned.

“Yes,” Sandra said simply.

Helena was shaken, but now she had her images, and they were less fearsome than her imagination had supposed. It made sense now. “When they realized we must ingest vitamin C, that we eat the flesh of plants or animals to obtain it, they accepted suicide. Those here on Alpha, just died.”

“And then they condemned their entire ship? Just like that?” Alan looked at Helena, his eyes sick with the immensity of what they had just seen.

“Yes.”

“But—we could have offered them a synthetic substitute. A damn vitamin pill!”

“I know.” Helena’s eyes filled with tears.

~~~~~~~~~~

55 days after Breakaway

It was Sandra’s first nightwatch since the events with the snowflake-aliens. The routine checks that always began a shift had been completely nominal, and now she had several hours to fill. She was sharing this shift with Paul, but he was buried in a book on British naval history. She sighed. This loudest sound on this shift would be the sound of Paul turning the page.

Sandra sat, tapping her stylus against the console, and thinking. Slowly, an image built in her mind’s eye. She removed a blank sheet of paper from a nearby file, stared at it for a few minutes, then sketched a square fifteen centimeters on a side. This she divided equally into thirds both horizontally and vertically to yield nine equal sub-units.

She had never been much of an artist, but she did enjoy playing with shape and color, and the image in her mind begged to be put down on paper. With that, in the center box she placed a stylized waxing moon on a field scattered with stars. Above the moon she placed a row of small triangles chasing themselves about the perimeter of their box, and below the moon an abstract rose. The column to the left of the moon soon included top to bottom an orange, a stylized pineapple and, for no reason but that it felt appropriate, a bat. The final, right, column included a sun at top to balance out the orange, a simple church, and in the bottom, final spot, a snowflake.

Sandra sat back in her chair and studied her drawing. It was most assuredly odd, but it felt somehow right. Perhaps there was a message here? Stranger things had happened. She’d share it with Dr. Russell; for some reason, that also felt right.

~~~~~~~~~~

56 days after Breakaway

Helena walked around an almost empty Medical Center. Except for an Eagle tech still here for a compound fracture completely unrelated to the aliens, this small section of Alpha was slowly returning to normal. Word of the aliens had spread through both official and unofficial channels, and the knowledge they would not return was, in large part, the cure Helena had hoped for.

The collective dream half of Alpha had experienced was fading for all but her. She supposed the past few sleepless nights were her penance for being the source of the nightmares. Helena thought of the haunted town in the mountain pass, the constant feelings of being watched, the freezing winds and snowstorm. She now suspected each of those was the result of her mind trying to cope with the alien’s presence, and their death.

Helena sighed. She had yet to finish Elena Townsend’s journal. Perhaps learning Elena’s fate might help settle some of her ghosts of that long-ago expedition.

“Care to join me for lunch?”

Helena spun around, her heart in her throat. It was John—she hadn’t heard the Medical Center doors open.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were so deep in thought.” He still stood by the door holding two small covered containers.

She smiled her forgiveness, then looked quizzically at containers he held.

He walked over to her, letting her get a glimpse of the ripe apples and hot sandwiches he had brought. He had a smile on his face. “I thought you might like to talk some more about what happened, and I’m hungry.”

The food did smell good. She led the way to her office.

~~~~~~~~~~

John was glad Helena had accepted his offer. Bob had encouraged him to get her to talk, the more the better. She had opened up a little to Bob, but it was obvious to both men that she felt easier speaking with John about her experience. John wondered if it was perhaps because they had shared a more intimate relationship in that dream, or was it in spite of that?

Now seated in her small office, the desk between them, John unwrapped his sandwich. They sat companionably in silence for a while, just enjoying each other’s company, and the lack of any urgent crisis. John found his faux-meat sandwich quite good. The food service staff had been working overtime to provide high-calorie meals for those that needed them, and the substitute mayonnaise almost tasted real. He cast a few glances at Helena to see if she wanted to start the conversation, but she seemed to be off in her own thoughts. He might as well ask a few questions that had been bothering him.

“Helena, why do you think there were so many spiders in our dream? I don’t recall seeing all that many when I was stationed in Arizona, and certainly not in winter.” Helena blushed ever so slightly, beginning to look a little sheepish, John thought.

“I don’t care for them. Spiders just have too many legs. They’re creepy.” She shuddered delicately, and John chuckled at the thought of a young Helena being afraid of a bug. “Spiders and ghosts always seemed to go together in my imagination.”

Logical enough answer, given everything that had happened. “Why do you think Shermeen was included with the others called here? She certainly isn’t part of Main Mission. She’s just a girl.”

“She’s a botanist.” Helena looked at John and must have seen he didn’t make the connection. “The aliens must have gotten enough out of my memories that connected vitamin C and plants, and I do worry about Shermeen, so I suppose she also was in my thoughts.”

“One plus one equals two?” John asked with a smile as he cut their apples into quarters, carefully removing the seeds to be returned to the botany department.

“Something like that.” She took her share of the apples and regarded a slice carefully. “And I think when it finally became apparent to them that Shermeen would die of scurvy, they let us wake up.” She looked at John. “They were not trying to kill or even hurt us, they just wanted to survive. Like we do.”

The apples now eaten, Helena again sat silent, but this time John had the feeling she wanted to speak. Instead she took a piece of paper out of the top drawer of her desk and studied it. “Sandra gave me this today. She said I would know what it meant.” She placed the paper on the table between them. It was the drawing Sandra had made the night before.

John looked at it recognizing Sandra’s precise lines, then squinted his eyes slightly as he studied it. He reached out to turn the paper 180º, then turned it back. He tapped it with his index finger a few times. “I’ve seen this before, somewhere.” It came to him, and he looked up, his eyes wide in surprise. “In our wagon. Sandra used it to cover you up when the snowstorm was starting.” He had never expected to see such a tangible reminder. “I didn’t know you could quilt.”

“I can’t. Elena could, though.” Helena shrugged. “I couldn’t speak, not directly. I’m not even sure I was supposed to be part of the dream, but I was trying to communicate.” Helena pointed at the patterns, going left to right, top to bottom, and named them: An orange, a block called ‘Wild Goose Chase’, the sun, a pineapple, the moon, a church, a bat, an open rose, and a snowflake.”

John nodded, almost seeing the logic of it, at least part of it. “The orange and pineapple for vitamin C.”

“And the rose, rose hips are a good source also,” Helena added.

“The moon and sun, symbolic enough, I suppose,” John said.

Helena nodded. “And I seem to remember the ‘Wild Goose Chase’ being made when you kept ignoring all the clues I was trying to give you.” They looked at each other and exchanged smiles.

John continued his guesses. “The church for the place we found Tanya, and the snowflake for that storm right before we woke up.”

“Or rather, the storm for the dust that used to be the aliens,” Helena suggested.

“Alright, I can see that, but what about the bat?”

Helena frowned as she studied the small sketched block. “Yes, that bat. I’ve been wondering about that myself.” Suddenly, Helena spun around in her chair and started tapping on the data entry keys of her computer. “Ah ha!” She turned around and looked down at the sketch, a slightly smug expression on her face.

“Are you planning to share?” John finally asked.

“Well, this one is rather esoteric, I’ll admit. Bob or Victor might have eventually puzzled it out, though. It is the opposite of the orange and pineapple, more or less.”

John frowned, thought for a bit, then shook his head. “And how about putting it plainly for the biology-challenged among us?”

“Bats are like humans, they cannot make their own vitamin C!” Helena looked at him with a small grin of triumph. “I’d forgotten that I’d ever known that. It must have been the answer to a trivia question during med school.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Odd things make you doctors happy, you know?”

Helena laughed. “I know.” Abruptly, Helena’s mood changed. She closed her eyes tightly for a few long minutes, then opened them to stare straight at John.

Finally, he thought.

“But why me, John? Why were my dreams inflicted upon everyone else? I now know more about the Main Mission staff then they can imagine. I know their fears, and their hopes.” Her eyes burned into John’s. “Did you know Tanya was a collegiate level volleyball champion? Or that Victor once played a duet with Yo Yo Ma? I know all that, and much, much more.” She looked down at her hands resting on the table. “It’s too much.”

John didn’t know what to say, and for a moment he wondered what she had learned about him. Finally, he said the first thing that came to him. “Who better than a doctor?”

“A priest, that’s who,” Helena replied sharply.

John looked at her fondly. He wanted to hold her hand, to let her know he cared for her, but it was too soon. He recalled how light and fragile she had felt in his arms as he had carried her to the sofa after her collapse. No, she’d think he was still under the influence of her dream if he told her how he felt.

“You’re special, that’s why.”

She rolled her eyes just as her commlock beeped. A quick check of its screen and she stood. “I’m needed. I’ll see you for dinner?” He hoped the anticipation he heard in the request was real.

“Call me when you’re hungry.”

She smiled and left.

John watched her go. Even tired and half starved, she was lovely. Helena had asked ‘why her’?” John couldn’t give a scientific answer, but his flip answer was true. She was a very special lady, and he was looking forward to learning more about her.

~~ fini ~~

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