Her final words in this little memoir were:
I am alone. But I am not alone.
That night, the team gathered with me in a large dining room off the KC main foyer, and I celebrated a Mass for the souls of the deceased. Each morning thereafter, we met for Mass, and often in the evenings for night prayer.
We ate our meals in the dining room also, after warming our food in the adjoining kitchen, since its cooking apparatus was not unlike ours at home, though it lacked our cookers’ electric coils, which glow red. These machines had glossy square tiles that looked incapable of doing anything at all, until with one touch of a button they became instantly hot. We slept in the private bedrooms ranged up and down the hall of the KC flight staff residence. The mattresses and coverlets were all in a state of deterioration, dry and fragile, crumbling at the touch, but we had our own bedrolls and blankets.
Throughout the ship, lights were dimmed or raised at regular intervals, leaving only small trains of miniature lights along hallways and in other public rooms, to guide our steps if need be. It left us with an uncanny feeling at first, and imagination could easily have inflated the phenomenon into a grand overseer watching our every move. When we realized that it was the ship’s system regulating the illusion of night and day, we adjusted to it quickly.
During the “days”, our attention was pulled in a thousand directions. My fellow team members will be writing their own accounts of our exploration. Therefore I will pass briefly over the practically inexhaustible details of our various researches, with a few exceptions. After the first day or so, when they had satisfied their initial fascination for the history and anthropology of the Kosmos people, they turned their attention to scientific matters, the gathering of technical information and artifacts.
The physician was perpetually busy in the medical wing, collecting smaller instruments and making notes and drawings of larger machines. As did all of us, he rued the absence of the newly invented photographic apparatus, which would have made a better record. But there were only six such prototype instruments in the laboratories of Regnum Pacis, and even if permission had been granted for one to be brought along, it would have been extremely difficult to transport about the ship (too large and too heavy for even four men to carry).
The chemist disappeared into the pharmacies, cataloguing and collecting samples from an inexhaustible store of medications.
The electrical engineer applied himself to finding his way into the labyrinth of the energy system, its nerves and entrails, so to speak. Since the ship was still “live”, this would be a perilous venture. He found the access portals on PHM on the fourth day, and thereafter we seldom saw him, though he returned to our headquarters late each evening with filled drawing pads and copious notes. Whenever we asked him what he had learned, he usually shook his head in some bewilderment: “Everything and nothing”, he said.
The astronomer searched for information pertinent to his field, limiting his activities to the Command center of KC, where there was a division with a large room of its own, labeled Astronomy, next door to a room labeled Navigation. He and the computer theorist, often assisted by the mathematician, knew that what they sought was asleep within the memory storage in the ship’s complex “brain”. Daily consultations between the three, and occasionally with the electrical engineer, brought them no closer to accessing whatever that mysterious power had been. Computer screens would light up at the tap of a lettered keyboard, but displayed nothing and responded to no amount of experimental typing on function command keys.
Knowing that their time was limited, these four men grew increasingly frustrated. They had hoped to obtain advanced optical instruments, presuming that these were connected to the astronomy computer terminals. For example, an inscribed label above a screen might say: Telescope 4, Navigation-14. Another might read Telescope 2, Stellar Obs-3. The actual telescopes were surely buried somewhere in the zone of the ship’s observation functions, but the locus of these was never found. From accounts of the original journey from Earth, we knew that there were also mobile lenses or “cameras” that had flown alongside the Kosmos. Our investigators eventually found their storage chamber in a subsection of the shuttle concourse. It contained several dozen identical “machines”, with parts that none of us could understand, other than their glass-like, optical lenses. Though cumbersome, the machines were lightweight, and six were stored in our shuttle’s hold.
The pilots and navigator were mainly occupied in the forward section of KC. They reported that several instrument panels appeared to have been damaged at some point in the past, and repaired. Here too they were met by nonresponse from the myriads of components. As a result, they restricted their activities to making exact diagrams and notes on the layout of the numerous piloting and control stations, meticulously drawing any and all labels they found, copying every number, symbol, and alphabetic letter, and their exact positions in the Command center.
Leaving me to my own random searches, the two other historians went off on forays through the several libraries, though their investigations proved to be fruitful only in the single library containing real books—pleasantly heavy in the hand, dusty, and smelling faintly of their bindings. None of these volumes were about technical subjects, being mainly works of the humanities. The electronic “books” and library terminals doggedly refused to activate.
Day after day, as we moved through the ship, we learned that not a single such electronic apparatus would respond to our touch. All computer terminals that we happened upon, both public and private, were found to be nonfunctioning. They lit up at the tap of a lettered keyboard, displaying a glowing blank screen, but would go no further. Whether this inaccessibility was by design or by accident, we did not know, and perhaps will never know.
It made no sense to us Why did the ship continue to maintain all life-sustaining functions so faithfully, while at the same time it refused us access to even the simplest knowledge reservoirs? Had we misunderstood the meaning of computer in the old documents written by the pioneers? Had we misinterpreted certain details in their memoirs? It did not seem so, but then how were we to know for certain? In any event, after the pattern was found to be consistent, we reached the conclusion that either something very far beyond our understanding had broken down, deep in the system, or else the last authorities had simply locked it up and thrown away the key.
We had brought rations sufficient for our two-week stay on board. As it turned out, we need not have done so, since we soon found the food storage holds on PHM. Much of the dried materials (grains, for example) had disintegrated into dust. However, the refrigeration facilities had not failed, and large quantities of frozen foods were discovered, certainly enough for many people’s needs for years to come. We thawed a few samples and cooked them in the kitchen on KC deck. Despite the risk, I volunteered to take a test bite of something or other, the name of which (all food packages were labeled) I had never heard before. It was delicious, though the flavors were strange to my tongue. We did not much trust these provisions in the beginning, but by the second week, we were eating them exclusively.
Water was a concern at first. Washrooms, both private and public, still had hot and cold running water. Most spigots had begun to rust, and some produced nothing but screeches of metal grinding upon metal. The ones that did work issued streams of liquid that ran red for a few minutes and gradually cleared. Our biologist examined the liquid closely under a microscope and pronounced it free of biological contaminants. “Of course, they may have nuclear radiated it”, he conjectured. “And we have no instruments for detecting how dangerous that is. Judging by what we know from the records, whatever that power was, it wasn’t good for living organisms.” He shook his head and put a cup under a faucet. “But if they drank it, I think we can drink it without harm.” And so we did, without any ill effects then or since. The water was odorless and strangely tasteless, as if it were utterly devoid of minerals, reduced to the basic hydrogen and oxygen components. It satis
fied the body’s needs, and we did not fear it, but we all felt some uneasiness about the substance. Perhaps our feeling was based in mankind’s love for living water, or an instinctive sadness over sterility in any form. I do not know.
Regarding the whole problematic nuclear question, there is not much to tell. We knew that it had its base on the PHM level, and eventually we found the rear propulsion section, and an attached section that was the ship’s internal energy source. Entrances to both were well-marked with their names and with hazard symbols. We did not go inside, and I expect that we have suffered no loss by leaving well enough alone.
When I began to write this interim report, I had intended to present a linear chronological account of my arrival and exploration of the ship, but I have failed in this, which I expect is due to the mind’s sensory overload. It is difficult to configure intellectually—at least at this early stage—our encounter with an older civilization that was far in advance of ours. I fully intend to write a more coherent, detailed account during the year (or years) to come, but this interim report, I fear, must suffice for now.
I will now continue with random moments, images, and, one might go so far as to say, illuminations:
One of the more impressive memories I retain from the time we spent on board is the great central park that had its base on Concourse D and soared all the way up to the ceiling of Concourse A. We located it in short order by simply following a trail of sallow vine tendrils that had spread a ways down the two long avenues bordering the park. All the side entrances were choked with impassible thickets and rope-like vines. With the aid of handsaws and hatchets, the younger men cut a path through into the interior of the forest, where we found the mossy remains of old stone pathways. We who were older followed close behind.
It was a living habitat, chaotic and tangled with a wide variety of plants struggling for life. The air was rank with the smell of rotting vegetation, though it was also mediated by the perfumes of new growth. From some of the trees hung seeds and fruits, from others, flowers. In every direction, great disorder reigned among shoots and saplings and fallen trunks, all of them species I had never seen before. It was a wondrous thing to behold this living memorial of the planet Earth. However, unlike natural forests, there were no insects or birds, no sounds other than the occasional water droplet from the system’s hydration apparatus, the snap of a falling twig, or the flutter of a few small leaves wafting down from above.
Looking up through a gap in the forest crown we spied the ceiling, which pioneer accounts had described as looking very much like a real sky. It was now revealed as a sheet of unknown substance, similar to glass, I would think, since it was transparent and reflective. Wherever they struck this layer, the topmost branches of trees had bent back down toward the ground. A few vines had cracked the “glass” here and there, penetrating to the region above, which looked as if it had been painted uniformly black and dotted with numerous instruments for projecting light or imagery.
To penetrate any farther into the forest would have demanded time better expended elsewhere, and so we left with many a backward glance. I asked the biologist how the pollination of flowering shrubs and trees had occurred in the absence of insects. He had no certain explanation to offer, but suggested that gardeners might have done it by hand. I replied that there had been no gardeners on board during the past two centuries. He thought about this for a time, and then said it could have been done by regular cycles of artificial high wind. As an afterthought, he conjectured that members of the original expedition might have unknowingly brought insects back to the ship as stowaways inside clothing.
One night, out of curiosity, he and I unrolled our sleeping pads by the doorway where we had first entered the park. We discussed the possibility that there could still be unsuspected creatures living there, too shy to make a daylight appearance. We had our manual mobilights ready by our sides, in case of need, and drifted toward sleep telling each other about the different findings we had made.
I mentioned the empty swimming pool I had discovered, its water evaporated. He told me about a section in the holds where a large number of creatures from our planet had been stored, including a glass terrarium in which he had found the skeletons of several snakes.
“Are you certain they were snakes?” I asked.
“A label testified to what they were. I also remember the skeleton diagrams from my university textbooks, and these were classic.”
“Was the cage locked?”
He laughed. “Oh, yes, the security system was very tight for this specimen. They were poisonous snakes, you recall.”
“I remember the stories”, I said. “It just strikes me that one or two of them may have escaped from their prison.”
“It’s possible—a male and female maybe.” He smiled slyly, glancing toward the doorway to the forest. “That’s the perfect place for them to set up housekeeping.”
I knew he was having a bit of fun at my expense, and I enjoyed playing along.
“In all my years, I have never seen a snake”, I protested. “Neither have I,” he replied, “but that doesn’t mean they aren’t here.”
“Mmm, yes, we had better stay alert.”
He grew suddenly pensive. “There are plenty of references to them in the old accounts of the Kosmos’ bases on Josephsland. I read that a few people died because of snakes.”
“True, but none of our people have ever been harmed during all the years since then. Not even a single sighting of snakes. I think the bomb or its radiation destroyed them all.”
“But why were there no snakes on other continents?”
“They were not indigenous to this planet. You know the story of the ancient people who came here thousands of years ago. They brought the snakes from Earth. Because they deliberately limited their human population, they lacked the means for expansion. Perhaps they never wanted it and remained on the main continent in order to ensure strict control over their people.”
“Oh, yes, the Lord of the Night-gods”, he shuddered. “Dark stuff. Really bad stuff. And they were very fond of their snakes.”
“Yes, an essential part of their diabolic rituals.”
The biologist yawned and rolled onto his side, pulled a blanket over his shoulders, and closed his eyes. “Well, it was a long time ago”, he murmured sleepily. “And so far so good. But keep your eye on the doorway, would you please, Father.”
“I’ll take the first watch.”
There came a chuckle, and no more was said. I flicked on my mobilight and finished reading night prayers by its glow. After I shut it off, I did not sleep immediately, but this was due to the overstimulation of the preceding days, not to fear of serpents. Or more precisely, not to fear of the material kind.
I reminded myself that there had once been a garden where no snakes had entered—a place like Paradise, a realm of peace. When the serpent came, our first parents did not recognize it for what it was.
A few hours later, we were awakened by an artificial dawn, as the ship’s automated system slowly turned on the lights in the hallways and forest. Without warning, the sounds of various birdcalls issued from the doorway. Startled, we scrambled to our feet, staring at the park’s interior.
I burst out laughing when I remembered something from the memoirs of the physicist Neil de Hoyos. He had mentioned listening to artificial “electronic” bird sounds in this very place. It was an illusion.
That day I went in search of what Marie had called la mortuaire, presumably a colloquial use of a legitimate French word, by which she probably meant a morgue. In her notes, there had been no indication of where this might be located. She had been very old at the time of her friends’ deaths, and I could not imagine her having the strength to transport the bodies far from the infirmary. I searched everywhere throughout KC, paying special attention to each door and alcove in the medical center on that concourse. I found no human remains anywhere.
I had overlooked the fact that two hundred years ago the elevators
might still have been operational, and she would also have had medical trolleys at hand. I found the trail the next day when I wandered down to deck A. Distracted by the continual surprises of seeing in the material realm what I had read about in the pioneers’ memoirs, I decided on a whim to find the sumptuous apartments of the elderly couple whom Neil de Hoyos, in his account, had called “the trillionaires”.
I was gratified when I did find it, for it was no longer as he had described it. It was identifiable only by its marble entrance, the high ceiling of the spacious main room, and a soaring stone fireplace. There was no furniture other than a few rows of simple chairs facing what looked very much like an altar made of wood, covered by a linen cloth. Standing on it, there was an artless wooden crucifix and two candle holders with stubs of melted wax.
Now I recalled that there had been clandestine Christians among the Kosmos passengers. I knew also from the memoir of my ancestor Pia Yusupov that a priest had remained on board when the pioneers returned to Regnum Pacis by shuttle. Fr. Ibrahimi Mirza was his name, sometimes called Dariush. He had been warmly remembered by all those pioneers who had mentioned him in their accounts, and greatly revered by Pia. The priest had also been a close friend of Hoyos. It was good to know that after the fall of the tyranny, the surviving voyageurs had been free to practice their faith openly. They had been blessed to have a priest with them, the inestimable treasure of holy Mass and sacraments. The evidence before me pointed to a regular liturgical life.
Though two hundred years had passed since the last Mass, or the last prayers of Marie, had been offered in this room, I bowed my head and gave thanks to God for his providence.
Walking about the altar, moved and grateful for what I was seeing, I smiled when I noticed little cloth flowers gathered about the base of the crucifix. There was a piece of paper folded among the blossoms, and I picked it up to read. It was in French: