Control Group

The stern figure of the captain stood in stark contrast to his mood. He had butterflies in his stomach, and couldn't wait to leave the ship. Originally designed for a much larger crew, the ship had performed admirably over its two year journey. Hydroponic gardens continued to function, the rec room was well equipped, and they had an ample supply of movies. Still, the crew would be happy to end their long journey. Captain Adelaide Disraeli had been sure to select people he thought could take the strains of cabin fever, but even these stalwarts had limits.

The journey had been complicated by phenomena common to subluminal travel. Hypervelocity played tricks with mind and body alike, and the crew had all experienced bouts of discomfort. Drs. Theresa Dole and Byron Boucher had even had recurring hallucinations wherein they believed they were being visited by angels. The plucky young physicist and the dour old biologist had overcome their maladies without the need of restraints, but Disraeli had put them under watch for a while. The last wave of disorientation had passed over four months ago.

Not for the first time, Disraeli reflected on the events that had necessitated the mission. On the night of August 11th, 2103, Cameron Reese had become the first human being to be successfully teleported. Unfortunately, he had no permission to do so, and the fact that he did had raised all kinds of hell back home.

The problem was this: the teleporter didn't actually send objects so much as it transmitted information. The scientist who explained it to Disraeli had compared the technology to a radio tower, in that the tower didn't actually send music so much as it broadcast vibrations, which in turn could be detected by crystals attuned to the right frequency. These vibrations were then translated back into sound, meaning the music was in fact a reproduction. In sum, what goes in is not what comes out, although it may correspond to the original in every way. The teleportation of inanimate matter presented no ethical dilemma. Gold was gold, and iron was iron. But a living thing? The legal, political, and moral implications were overwhelming.

Reese had been part of a small maintenance crew assigned to a one year rotation on Caliban station. Mining was largely automated since workers could barely be convinced to take the five year journey, never mind doing hard labour on an asteroid belt. That over two-thirds of the journey could be spent in deep-sleep was moot; hypervelocity negated communications, and nobody wanted to leave Earth that long. Additionally, transportation had become prohibitively expensive. Teleportation technology, still in testing, had seemed a perfect solution for the shipping and receiving of resources. It was not intended, nor authorized, to be used on living things.

For reasons known only to him, Cameron Reese overrode the safeties that disallowed the teleportation of living tissue and sent himself back to Earth. The company tried to suppress the violation but were unsuccessful. Information was leaked, whistles were blown, and the Internet blew up. Reese was perceived as something otherworldly, and social media was torn as to whether he was god, devil, or something else. Government officials were less conflicted, and Reese was placed in quarantine for an undetermined period of time. Reese, for his part, seemed unfazed and showed no evidence of physical or emotional injury.

All teleportation was to cease immediately. Caliban was to be placed on standby and all personnel were ordered back to Earth. Government officials and company representatives met and worked out a deal that would satisfy both the bureaucracy and the public. A mission would be put together and sent back to the station. Once there, they would prepare to receive a live teleport from Earth. A contentious sub-committee battled long into the night, and ultimately decided that pigs would be sufficient for the first battery of tests.

The mission crew was minimal, consisting only of five volunteers and one commander. Captain Adelaide Disraeli had been chosen for his exemplary record, outstanding psychological profile, and utter dedication to the service. His broad chest and sun-yellow hair provided bold embellishments to an already dashing figure. These traits, and more, endeared him to a public clamouring for some kind of action on this new technological frontier.

***

A white and blue sphere appeared on the forward monitor. Captain Disraeli called Lt. Oshway from her quarters, let her grab a drink of coffee, and had her open hailing frequencies. The entire crew had been roused from deep-sleep several days earlier, but catnaps were still frequent as they shook it off. Discipline had slipped somewhat over the two years.

"Caliban, acknowledge entry," Disraeli commanded once he saw the communications link was established. There was a pause of several minutes while the station processed the information being transmitted from the ship. Impatience flashed across Oshway's face. Disraeli noted the further lapse of decorum and reminded himself that a brief speech might be in order before the volunteers opened communications with Earth.

Caliban's automated systems informed them that they could proceed. He set the ship to decelerate, picked up the intercom, and told the crew they needed to be in seats with restraints on within the next fifty minutes. Flynn took his seat; the hefty engineer had patience bordering on the superhuman, and he secured his restraints as calmly as if he were going for a Sunday drive. The others held off for the time being, and Disraeli didn't blame them. He had already decided he could wait a good forty minutes before getting ready. They were all a little restive.

The ship bucked suddenly, and a deep, resounding bass tone went rumbling through its hull. Disraeli staggered around the deck, trying desperately to find some purchase in the suddenly disorienting soundscape. His vision was bombarded by bursts of light, and a mad piping echoed throughout the bridge. Sturdy Joe Flynn was throwing up over the side of his seat.

The ship steadied, but the intercom now spat out a hateful noise. Yet, there was a cryptic regularity underlying the staccato bursts, and it was with some alarm that Disraeli realized that the sounds were not electronic interference. It's speech! The voice was that of a distinguished older male. It was not speaking to them, but was rather giving orders to someone else; the speaker seemed unaware that the intercom was even on. It was impossible to determine what was being said, but the tone and mannerisms of the speaker were deeply disturbing. It didn't command so much as it gloated, and there were curious inflections that hinted at limitless perversity.

A shiver trickled down Disraeli's neck. He could see that Flynn had passed out in the chair; every other member stared back at him, eyes wide. Boucher had tears streaming down his face. Colin Rhett, a combat medic of over nine years' experience, staggered from the console he had been leaning against. He looked at Disraeli, his eyes wild. Accusing. "What the hell is this, Disraeli?"

Laughter hissed from the speaker, then a static burst, then a long nothing. The intercom returned to normal, as did the captain's vision. Still looking at the feverish Rhett, Disraeli shook his head slowly, then stopped himself. No. This is some subluminal thing. Temporal psychosis; hypervelocity bends. It can be explained.

The captain fixed Rhett with a piercing gaze. "You are addressing a commanding officer, medic. Maintain yourself. Take a breath, then go to Flynn. The man looks terrible. Then give the rest of us a check. You've got about twenty minutes before we dock."

A brief cry escaped from Dole before she could stifle it, but there were no further comments from the crew. Rhett confirmed that Flynn had suffered something similar to the bends, but he was in no immediate danger Everything had been an effect of subluminal deceleration. Now if that damned Boucher could man up and stop crying, we could save a bit of face. Disraeli frowned as he thought of the ship cameras, which would undoubtedly have recorded every second of what had just happened. Simply unforgiveable.

***

Docking was uneventful, and the crew was relieved to finally disembark. Dole, Boucher, and Rhett manhandled Flynn in a litter through the airlock and into the station lobby, a rectangular hangar with the airlock behind them and two apertures in the adjoining walls on the far side of the room. Captain Disraeli ran a mental itinerary. First, get Flynn up and running. While the station's automated systems ensured oxygen and lights were running well before arrival, Flynn would ultimately be the one charged with repairs or alterations, as well as the orientation of the teleporters.

"Lt. Oshway, directions to medical bay, please."

Oshway glanced at a tablet in her hand and said "Either-or, Captain. The station is basically a donut, and medical bays are at the opposite end."

Disraeli resisted an urge to roll his eyes. Brilliant. "Alright, you three. Take that litter in turns, don't get too tuckered out, he's not in any..."

The whisper of a vacuum seal opening interrupted him. Disraeli's heart dropped; the crew froze, all eyes fixed on the figure that had just entered into the hangar from the righthand aperture. A smiling young man wearing olive coveralls approached them, one hand holding a tablet, and the other extended forwards in friendly greeting.

"Hi! You must be Captain Adelaide! Unbelievable! An honour! We've been waiting for you," he chuckled, taking Disraeli's hand. "A real honour, Captain."

Rhett spoke first, saying "Our man. He's hurt. Deceleration." Boucher and Oshway exchanged a look of relief at the smiling man's presence. Neither seemed to care one whit for the sheer improbability of his appearance. Dole was far less tractable, visibly shying away from the drab technician. Disraeli barely had time to register that fact when the smiling man reached into his coveralls and pulled out a small angular device. With sudden shame, Disraeli realized he had not identified the item until the man started speaking into it, evidently calling for some assistance. Another lapse of attention, he scolded himself.

"We'll have your boy in medical in no time." Both apertures opened and a dozen other workers came out of them. Most of them wore the same olive as their host, but two wore the white smocks of medical resources. Rhett sagged with relief as an attractive brunette woman lead a team to recover and carry Flynn's litter away.

"You should get an explanation, Captain. Your journey took two years... but the station couldn't last! Cameron Scott sabotaged the last ship here, the station had a malfunction, and the workers were doomed... unless radical steps were taken. And Scott had recovered so quickly!"

Captain Disraeli nodded absently as the smiling man talked. His exhausted crew were now being led or carried out of the lobby. "So we teleported the others back to Earth. And they seemed well, so AstromInc and the Defence Department put together another group of volunteers. And those brave souls were sent here before you had even been gone six months!"

Is he taunting me?

"That worked, and its been working ever since. We've teleported about 800 people so far, everyone from scientists to settlers. We've got gardens out there. It's really an age of exploration, Captain! For all of us!"

Disraeli had enough. There was a creeping insolence to the man that was both audacious and familiar. Clenching his fists and grounding his patience, the towering captain looked down at the skinny technician, and growled "Enough chatter. Put me in touch with Earth."

The man's smile froze in place. "No, Captain. That won't happen. We need you to get in touch with them yourself. Person to person. You can talk to the military, Captain. We can't... we only ever get to speak with AstromInc representatives. We'll prepare a teleporter for you."

An inexplicable wave of nausea surged in the captain's guts. "There is no damned way I'm getting in one of those." One hand hovered over his sidearm. He strode towards the right aperture, stopping short as it opened. A worker was just stepping out, and through the closing seal, Disraeli heard a terrified shout. Boucher! Disraeli spun around; he stopped short and jumped back. The smiling man was only a meter away, at most. He had followed Disraeli in uncanny silence. Now, with slow and hideous certainty, Captain Disraeli watched the corner of the man's eyes sag a little. Out of place. A terrible colour shone out, promising spectacular obscenities. Congeries of black buboes briefly drifted into view, turning to reveal golden cat's eyes that peered hungrily at him.

The smiling stepped forwards, hands outstretched. What went in was not what came out. And now there was an entire colony of them, each one as terrible and perverse as that cracked voice from the intercom, as the smiling thing before him. With one fluid motion, Disraeli loosed his sidearm, put it to his jaw, and fired. He felt sincerely grateful for the opportunity: he would not be taken alive.