BENEATH - A Novel (8 page)

Or was it? Connelly couldn't remember.

Connelly turned to inspect the shower, but before she could even raise her hand to the curtain, it burst open and a figure, dressed in black, stood inside the shower stall.

Staring wide eyed, Connelly was confused and bewildered. Peterson, dressed like a Navy Seal, was standing inside her shower, gazing into her eyes and flashing his perfect smile.

"What the hell are you doing?" Connelly said.

"C'mon, Kath. Don't pretend you're not happy to see me." Peterson's voice had a tone to it that Connelly had never felt before. But Connelly was no longer noticing his voice, or his smile, it was his hands that held her attention. He was wearing tight, black gloves, the kind you see burglars or murderers wearing in made-for-TV movies. Connelly's eyes returned to Peterson's as he stepped out of the shower.

"Try not to fight it, Kath. I'll make it as painless as possible." With that, Peterson leapt forward and gripped Connelly's throat with both hands and squeezed down.

A wave of panic crashed over Connelly's body. Her chest tightened and hurt as though someone had reached through her ribcage and gripped her heart. Orbs of light spun in her vision. She looked up at Peterson's face, which was twisted with rage. His eyes were glazed over. He was drooling. "How's this for telekinesis, Kath?"

What
?
How did he know
?
Had he read her mind
?

No. That's impossible.

The reality hit her like a fist. Her mind spun madly and her back arched in pain.

Then the tightness was gone, from her chest and her throat. She opened her eyes and blinked in the brightness of the room's bright lights.

"Turn the lights down," a familiar voice said. Robert.

The lights dimmed and a sea of faces came into focus.

"Am I awake?" Connelly asked.

"Yes," someone replied.

She remembered everything now. She had been put into a deep REM sleep so that her psyche could be stress tested. People who passed the test could take a shower, sleep it off, and be back to work the next day. People who failed needed weeks of therapy. It isn't every day that your worst fears, which are secret even from yourself, are revealed to you. Connelly felt the sensors being taken from her forehead and body by unseen hands.

"How did I do?" she asked.

Robert's smiling face filled her vision as he leaned in close. "You, ah, you did great. But you must have had a doozy of a dream there at the end. Your heart rate skyrocketed just before you woke up."

"It was Michael…"

"I was in your dream?"

Connelly held her breath. She forgot that the entire crew watched the reactions of the sleeping subject, so they could see for themselves how the dreamer reacted physically to stress. She turned her head in the direction of Peterson's voice and saw him standing a few feet away. He wasn't angry or drooling, and black gloves were not on his hands.

"Hope I didn't hurt you," he said with a small smile that revealed he knew the dream was bad.

"Actually," Connelly said, "You killed me."

For a brief moment, Peterson looked sad, but a smile quickly replaced the frown. "Still," he said, "it's nice to know you're thinking of me."

*
  
*
  
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*
  
*

For three months, Connelly and her crew had been subjected to personal interviews that delved into the deepest depths of their psychology, subjected to embarrassing medical exams, endured physical training and evaluation, and all that was before the technical lessons that everyone had to learn…just in case the worst case scenario happened—death of a crewmember—or members. If the captain died, Choi would act as pilot. If Choi died, Connelly was next in line. Thankfully, autopilot could handle just about everything, but the scenario worked in multiple situations. If Connelly died, Robert would take over, then Willard and so on. Death would not end their mission. It would simply reorganize their duties. Too much money was being spent to call it quits for one death or even two, maybe even three. It was their least favorite subject to discuss, but all understood the protocol's necessity.

Connelly felt a chill at the back of her neck as she took in the latest in a slew of technological advances that the world didn't even know existed. She, Willard, Robert and Peterson were standing in a small rounded room with metallic walls and no windows. At the center of the room was a chair that appeared to be molded right into the floor, like a smooth, silver throne.

To either side of the chair stood Harris and Choi. Between them and in front of the chair was a small cage containing a guinea pig.
 
The guinea pig squeaked loudly and Willard tensed visibly.

Robert smiled at Willard. "Afraid of the little pig?"

"I was attacked by one of those things when I was a kid," Willard said. "Nearly bit off my finger…It squeaked like that the whole time."

Harris cleared his throat, asking for their attention. "What you're seeing right now is top secret, brand new technology. Without it, this trip wouldn't be possible."

Willard raised his hand. "Um, it looks like a chair. Mankind has had chairs for like, what, ten thousand years?"

"You've never seen a chair like this," Harris said. "Trust me."

Harris nodded at Choi, who walked around to the front of the chair and knelt down next to the guinea pig cage. She opened the small door, reached in and picked up the squealing rodent. She held the guinea pig up and said, "This is Lucy."

"You named the pig?" Robert said and then looked at Connelly, "They named the pig."

Choi moved back to the side of the chair, still holding Lucy. "This is an impact chair. They are designed to aid the human body in resisting the effects of high speed travel. That includes extreme acceleration that would normally kill a man and massive deceleration that would be equally as damaging."

"Sorry to be the continuous voice of doubt," Willard said, "but how does a chair do all that?"

"Watch." Choi held Lucy out over the chair and placed her on the seat. Lucy sat still for a moment, her tiny chest rising and falling quickly. Then the chair began to move. "Lucy has been through this several times, so she knows not to run or panic," Choi said.

The seat of the chair became like liquid, oozing toward and around Lucy's body. It covered her back, torso and eventually head, until all that was left was a lump in the chair's seat—a lump that was breathing.

Willard's mouth dropped open. "The chair ate Lucy."

"Lucy's just fine," Harris said.

Peterson stepped forward. "I'm sorry. I don't understand. How is it breathing in there?"

"Breathing tubes inserted through the nose," Choi explained. "You'll receive nutrients intravenously. Microshocks will keep your muscles from atrophying. A gel will be secreted between you and the liquid metal, creating a buffer that will minimize the effects of intense acceleration and deceleration on your body."

"You mean the effects of a series of nuclear explosions," Willard muttered.

Harris spoke over him. "On board the Surveyor, each of you will have your own quarters. The rooms on board are very similar to what we have here in the training facility. You'll have your own bed, your own private bathroom and an impact chair. But unlike the bed and bath, you will not be using these chairs while we are in orbit. They are only to be used in transit…for the duration of transit."

Peterson raised his eyebrows. "We're going to be in the impact chairs for three months?"

Harris nodded. "Three months, two days and three hours. Unconscious for the duration. When you wake up you might feel a bit weary and slimy, but otherwise you'll be fine. Not quite the stasis chambers you see in science fiction movies, but they get the job done."

"Will we age?" Robert asked.

"Sure will," Harris said. "Three months out and three months back. We're all about to have six months shaved off our lives. But honestly, anyone who doesn't think loosing six months of their life to get a front row seat of Jupiter is crazy."

Striding quickly, Choi walked to the door, opened it and motioned for the others to leave. "If you don't mind," she said, "we have much more to cover today and a very tight schedule."

Harris headed for the door, followed by Willard and Peterson. Robert lingered behind with Connelly. They looked back at the chair.

"Unbelievable," Robert said before the left.

Sitting alone at the center of the room was the impact chair. A silver hump at the center of the chair continued to rise and fall as Lucy continued to breathe in her liquid metal womb.

*
  
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*

Beads of sweat rolled down Connelly's forehead and stung her eyes. She'd been pounding the punching bag for fifteen minutes—her daily routine—and was only now beginning to tire. Her white tank top was wet around the collar and her grey sweatpants clung uncomfortably to the slick skin of her legs.

She'd taken up slugging a punching bag fourteen years ago as a way to relieve stress and anxiety. It made her feel strong, and when she was done, strangely enough, it made her feel more feminine. At the end of every session, Connelly would build her intensity, swinging harder and faster, unleashing tension she wasn't even aware existed. She was surprised that today's workout was one of her fiercest ever. She wasn't sure why.

The day had been normal enough, as normal as possible. The morning was filled with classes on subjects ranging from astrophysics, to space flight, to preparing space meals. She'd had a quick lunch with Peterson, which was pleasant, and then went through several last minute physicals.

Connelly's punches grew stronger. The bag swung wildly with each hit and her knuckles began to burn. Maybe it was that in two days she was going to be launched into space, travel across the solar system in search of life on a moon where risks were high and chance of a rescue, if something should go wrong, was nil. That would make sense, but Connelly knew something else was eating at her.

With a mighty punch, Connelly hammered the bag, sending it in a long swinging arc. Then the bag stopped in midair—caught. Peterson stepped out from behind the bag. He was shirtless, glistening with sweat and smiling his Michael Peterson smile. "Whoa there, killer. Working out some frustrations?"

"A girl can't stay in shape?"

"You're pretty fierce is all I'm saying. Wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of one of those punches. Can't say I mind your shape though."

Connelly did her best not to smirk. "Keep talking like that and you'll find out what one of my punches feels like." Connelly looked at Peterson's slick torso and chuckled. "You get all oiled up to come talk to me?"

Peterson smiled. "I was running. But you're right, the sweat does bring out some of my better features." Peterson jokingly hung on the punching bag so that the majority of muscles in his upper body flexed.

Connelly raised an eyebrow and smiled.

"So I've been meaning to ask you something."

Connelly tensed at the new tone in his voice.

"Call it a hunch, but I've got the impression you don't necessarily want to be here."

"Good hunch," Connelly said. " Can I be honest with you?"

"I won't tell a soul."

"We're going to a moon, in space, with no atmosphere. The chance of us finding life-forms beyond microbes is remote in the grandest sense. And the chance of any microbes we do find being beneficial to the human race is even slimmer. We should be putting our money and interest into understanding our own planet before going to this moon, simply to satisfy our curiosity."

"You know," Peterson said, "we could have just as easily said that about
Antarctica
. No one lives there. What could we possibly learn about life as we know it today. What good is biological history anyway?"

Connelly's lips curled up. "Ahh, but you're wrong. Life discovered in
Antarctica
may be completely foreign to us currently, but they are still
Earth
organisms. They'd provide a glimpse of how life evolved on
our
planet perhaps millions of years ago. Even if we do find life on Europa, it will have evolved under completely different environmental influences. The chances that alien life will have any positive, tangible ramifications on humanity is near impossible. In fact, the true effects may be entirely negative. Sure everyone will be excited that we've discovered alien life. But what if we bring it back, expose people, and later find out that we've brought back the plague of the twenty-first century?"

Peterson's eyes froze for a split second. It was almost imperceptible, but Connelly noticed. He was afraid of that, too.
But why
? She continued with her speech, not wanting him to know she noticed. "You see? There is no real benefit."

"That was a mouthful," he said.

"I just don't want this to end up being a big waste of time."