Onward

Onward

Somebody swallowed hard. Normally, that would not have been noticed by most people, but in the tense and deathly quiet atmosphere of the darkened control room, it echoed. Fortunately, though many ears caught it, all eyes in that room were fixed on the images of the long, empty corridor relayed by the robot being guided down the steel gray opening.

The automaton was looking for people and it's search was as empty as the corridor.

In the control center, the robotic probe's operator moved the joystick on his command console, and his charge turned down another empty corridor. It paused at the base of a ladder, contemplated the obstacle and then slowly ascended. At the top, it stopped to peer closely into the shadows the emergency lighting lanterns failed to illuminate.

Still, nothing.

Just then, the probe's microphone picked up something skittering past and the automaton whirled to the right, trying to catch it.  It failed, and its camera saw naught but more shadows. 

The sounds came again, to the left and rear this time. Now prepared, the robot, commanded by the joystick operator, spun around with almost lightning speed. This time, it did locate the source -- a piece of paper being pushed along by the blasts of air still emanating from an overhead air vent.

The probe turned forward again, continuing along the corridor at the top of the ladder.  Like the others, this passageway was just as unoccupied -- no one in the control room dared say the word they dreaded.  The camera focused on a sign that read “Bridge” with a red arrow pointing starboard. 

Moving right and then left up another ladder, the probe came to a large sliding door.

The robot played a thin red beam of light over a black square of smoked glass to the left of the door.  Seconds later, the glass emitted two quick green pulses and the door slid open. Nothing but a low hum greeted the robot.

Back in the control room, someone inhaled sharply. Unlike the hard swallow moments earlier, no one noticed. People were now completely riveted on the televised scene of the robot finally entering the bridge.

“Found them,” the operator croaked through a throat gone dry.

On camera, the entire crew was present on the bridge, all ten men and women.  They were seated at their regular stations, as they should have been when preparing to land. Ominously, none of them moved. 

In the control room, a female voice cracked and quietly sobbed, soon followed by footsteps that, like the sobs, faded away with distance. The robot's operator ignored the unknown woman's sudden departure, carefully easing the joystick forward.

The image on-screen centered on the captain’s chair where a bearded man with salt-and-pepper hair stared straight ahead, oblivious to not just the probe, but everything. The same would be said of the next eight crew members.

With a command from afar, the robot moved up to the last of the crew -- a tall, thin blonde -- and noted her condition before moving away. There was nothing more to be done.

Then, she moved.

The probe zipped back in front of the blonde and began to get a close-up of her face. She was moving or, rather, her face was. Her eyes went wide as her mouth opened wide. However, it was not normal for it opened wider than should have been possible.

"Mary, mother of God, what the hell is..."

The operator never finished his exclamation.

On the screen, some thing flew out of the woman's mouth and the operator jumped back in his seat.  Behind him, a scream caught in someone's throat. A metal tray clanked loudly on the deck, perhaps dropped by whoever had sought to scream, perhaps by someone else. Whatever the source, it mattered little.

The robot operator maintained his discipline and checked his controls. Words and numbers popped up in a little box in the upper right hand corner of the screen before disappearing again. He frowned. His diagnostics check said his probe worked, but, on screen, he saw only blackness. 

Wait.

There was movement or, rather, it looked like movement. A pulsing seemed a better description, almost like a human heart beating or the rise and fall of shallow breathing. The operator cursed under his breath. The...whatever it was completely covered the robot's camera lens. There was no telling what the thing was.

Could it be something...alive?

Suddenly, a large crack spread across the camera's lens, followed by the sound of metal rending and whatever clung to the lens made sure no one would see it again as the picture jumped to static and then died altogether.

The operator pushed several buttons, but got no response.  He turned on more infrared lights in the control room and looked at the woman next to him.  She was breathing hard and looking at him, in disbelief.  Glancing back over his shoulder at the men and women behind him. The only ones not terrified and sickened were the two who had fainted. 

He sighed heavily before activating his radio.

“Alien contamination confirmed, sir,” he said, at last.  “Exploration ship Titus lost on Catralia with all hands.  Recommend sierra delta immediately.”

“Roger that,” a disembodied voice replied.  “Titus confirmed lost to alien contamination.  Standby on sierra delta.”

“What’s going to happen now?” the woman asked.  “We’re not going to let the fleet just sit here, are we?”

“We’re going on,” the operator replied, with little emotion.  “The Cassius is slated to land on the next habitable world.”

“But, what if the same thing happens?” she asked, incredulously.  “Why are we doing this?”

“Because we have to,” the man replied, solemnly.  “We can’t go back.  Columbus didn’t go back.  Magellan didn’t go back.  We have to go onward.”

“Sierra delta for 'Titus' confirmed,” the disembodied voice boomed out.  “Begin sequence.”

“We all knew the risks when we left Earth,” the operator said as he punched a few buttons.

“Easy for you to say,” the woman grumbled.  “You’ve already made your name.  First person on Locus.”

“No, I was the first person off Locus,” the man corrected, eliciting a gasp from his co-worker.  “Everybody else died -- toxic dust storms, spontaneous tornadoes, ravenous wildlife.  You name it, we found it. Or it found us. And I didn't really get away unscathed. To this day, I can't eat anything other than that godawful vitaminic broth. Five times a day, seven days a week."

The woman shivered at the words.

"Let's get back to work, okay?" the operator suggested, eager to change the subject.  "Begin sequencing for sierra delta.”

The woman gave the moment some deep thought and then sighed in resignation. 

How many people had died for Man to move forward and evolve?  Who was she to halt the pioneer spirit of the human race? Especially from the relative safety of the exploration fleet flagship, hundreds of miles above Catralia.

"A memorial service for the crew of Titus will be held at zero-one-hundred in the conference room," a voice on the public address system announced.

"Do you ever wonder'?" the woman blurted, as the seriousness of the situation hit her at the announcement.

"Is it worth it?" the operator replied. "Or why we call the cleansing process sierra delta instead of what it really is?"

"I meant is it worth it, worth all of this," she clarified. "What if we never find any worlds to colonize? Or intelligent alien species to communicate with."

"I wish I knew," the operator replied, with a long face.  "I really wish I knew."

The woman pondered the man's words.  Finally, sure that her line of conversation was going nowhere, she blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes and reached forward to a large button on her console.

“Confirming sierra delta,” she acknowledged with sadness.  “Self-destruct sequencing initiated for Titus.  Countdown has started. May God have mercy on their souls.”

The operator made the sign of the crucifix and looked away. "And may God have mercy on ours."