Whatever Gods May Be (14 page)

Since war had been declared more than forty eight hours ago jointly by both the Soviets and the U.S., Smithers had mentally noted the most probable strike hours to himself.  Last night, he had felt sure that all hell was sure to break loose; he was in fact very surprised to wake up and find himself, along with the rest of the world, still alive and faced with another endless day of waiting and wondering what was going to happen next.

Now, Smithers was again reliving the torment of the preceding night.  Any moment he expected to hear the holocaustic siren that would mean an attack was incoming - and that he and Coleman would be forced to perform their last duty before death.

"Coleman," Smithers blurted out nervously.

"Yo."

"Did you, uh, send Mary and the kids away...  you know, someplace?-"

"Uh-uh.  They're still at home.  We just got a tree a few days ago.  Set up all the presents ahead of time.  The kids would have hated me if I asked them just to pick up all of a sudden," Coleman trailed off, then turned to look at Smithers for the first time since the shift started, "You know what I mean?"

It wasn't fair, Smithers racked his brain over and over again.

"Yeah, sure," he answered, this time having no desire to press for further small talk.

A few minutes passed of silence.  Then, a small yellow light appeared on Smithers' screen.

"I've got a possible hydraulic leak on number 2."

"Serious?" Coleman asked coolly.

Smithers checked a few gauges and looked to the television monitor that held the enormous rockets in full view.

"Negative.  If it gets any worse, I'll put in a call to maintenance."

Coleman sniffed and nodded.

"I'll log it in."

Smithers took another look at the clock behind him.  It was now midnight.

"Coleman?"

"Yo."

Smithers swiveled his chair around and faced the man.  "Merry Christmas!"

Coleman froze.  Then he, too, turned and faced his colleague.  It was five minutes before they both stopped laughing.

THIRTEEN

The Rover Starglide represented the ultimate achievement in advanced technology for the Galactic Confederation.  Even more than the impressive utilization of the Hall, the self-contained starships that probed the outer regions of the galaxy far surpassed any triumph the GCPP had enjoyed since the victory over the aging process some five thousand years earlier.  Their performance records to date were perfect; even where a human Planetary Observer that accompanied the sophisticated spacecrafts had come through unsatisfactorily, the Rovers themselves had always completed their mission objectives faultlessly.

Now there was an exception to an otherwise taintless reputation.

The Rover assigned to Earth and Zolan Rzzdik was already guilty of marring the Starglide name.  It had, in fact, already committed several unpardonable errors since its sojourn on the world that would have mystified its fastidious makers.  Part of the blame had to be nailed to the Planetary Observer, in this case Zolan Rzzdik; for though the Rovers were programmed to act independently in regard to maintaining its varied duties, the PO was responsible for attending to the ships' intricate computer works.  Like any machine, the Rovers needed occasional tune-ups and adjustments to insure continued efficiency and longevity.

Zolan Rzzdik had been sadly remiss in dealing with these contingencies, and now, at a critical moment, the Rover was feeling the consequences for such past neglect.  Ordinarily, the ship could have pulled rank and ordered Zolan to have completed the required overhaul to all of its programming.  It could have easily have gotten its way in such matters, simply by failing to provide the man with some necessity, such as food or water, which it produced for the PO daily to save the man any risk of contamination from native foodstuffs.

But the Rover had never resorted to such methods.  The very idea that it never would have considered such an action was coupled to another disturbing programming fault that would have sent its builders into near apoplexy.  For though the Starglides were pure machines, theoretically incapable of emotional feedback, this Rover had committed the ultimate folly to its own kind.

The ship had taken a liking to Zolan; in some abstract sense that would have taken Rover-architects a century to figure out.  In short, the ship's programming found the man appealing.  Consequently, it had allowed Zolan to literally get away with murder when it came to exercising his responsibilities.  Through the years on Earth, the Rover continually reminded Zolan of his duties; many of which were absent-mindedly ignored by the scientist or postponed indefinitely.  But never had the ship initiated disciplinary action against Zolan.  Unfortunately, this over-sight was producing unforeseen ramifications that the Rover only now recognized to be potentially devastating.

Minutes after speaking with Zolan in Five Corners, the ship spotted the bizarre, ectoplasmic ring around the Hall warp.  The warp itself was almost a light year away, but this access portal that Zolan had evoked artificially was only a few hundred thousand miles distant from Earth.

And it was now moving -- something it should not and could not do -- theoretically, anyway.

The Rover had been monitoring the sub access for several hours, recording all physical affectations to the star system and surrounding planets.  Its programming began to give out several thousand silent alarms.  Something was terribly wrong.

Zolan," the Rover called out.

Chugging his way back on a near empty gas tank, Zolan snarled into the intercom in his jeep dashboard.

"What is it, Rover?"

The Hall is no longer stationary.  It has assumed a ballistic trajectory towards this planet.  I estimate an impact to take place in 1.8 hours."

Again, a long silence followed, filled in only by radio sputter.

"What are you talking about?"

"The Hall, Zolan.  Its moving.  And coming towards us."

"Ridiculous.  You're scanning is screwed up," Zolan grumbled.

"Negative.  Scanning perfect."

Zolan stopped the jeep with a screech.

"Rover, you know that the Hall is stationary at all times, including access portals.  Now what are you telling me?"

I can't explain it either, Zolan.  But it has been verified; somehow, this local portal is under power."

"You said its coming this way.  What will happen if...?" Zolan didn't finish; he was sure the Rover caught his drift.  The Rover had not considered the projected consequences of such an event.  Now, it rambled through its four million data banks for a prognosis.  It momentarily blinked in frustration.

"Insufficient data to develop satisfactory hypothesis.  However, a solution should be found that would in any way preclude such a possibility of impact occurring."

"Just a feeling, Rover?" Zolan asked in a strange voice.

The Rover hesitated momentarily.  "Affirmative, Zolan.  A bad feeling."

"Rover, I have the soda with me.  Can we clear the corrosion in time to shutdown the Hall while we're still on land?"

"Negative, Zolan.  I suggest that we complete launch, then attempt a seal from within the Hall, as originally planned.  Furthermore ..."

The Rover stopped mid-sentence because something else had now caught its attention.  Double checking its instrumentation, it studied new data inundating its programming.  Preoccupied with Zolan and the dilemma with the Hall, the Rover had again failed to coordinate its varied operations effectively.

And in a single moment of horror, the Rover realized that this final mistake might very well cost Zolan his life.

"Uh, Zolan, there is another problem ...

But as Zolan listened to the Rover begin, he too, was distracted by a paralyzing discovery.  From behind the distant 117 hills, he could see rising into the sky, a wavy fleet of contrails piercing upwards.

And though very distant and barely audible, Zolan could make out the haunting whine of an attack siren, which signaled the immediate arrival of incoming missiles.

Zolan lifted his communicator watch to his mouth and whispered hoarsely:

"Rover," he said softly, "get us out of here."

FOURTEEN

John Phillips opened his eyes and blinked.  He had been napping again, in and out of reality for ten or fifteen minutes.  Arms folded, and legs stretched out on the pilot console, he neither spoke or moved a muscle.  He simply stared out the bay windows of the shuttle and listened to the incessant drone of computer ware hum around him.

He turned his head slightly to the right towards the co-pilot seat.  Cathy was staring at him.

"Hi," he said sleepily.

"Hi.  Were you dreaming of me?" she asked.

He smiled.  "Passionately."

"Liar.  You better not have! You were frowning the whole time."

His eyes moved down to her very pregnant figure, and his smile disappeared, a concerned expression replacing it.  Cathy noticed his change, and lowered her eyes.

"How do you feel?"

Cathy lifted her head slowly, and whispered through tears.

"Scared."

John nodded his agreement.  He stared at her long and hard, squeezing her hand at the same time, then turned to look out the window.  Challenger was somewhere over the southern hemisphere, approaching the giant island partner to Africa, Madagascar.  It was a clear day below, with unhindered viewing, made more beautiful by the fact that ALC-117 was directly behind Challenger and thus invisible to John's gazing eye.

"Looks so peaceful down there, doesn't it?" he asked absently.  "Nothing but sunshine and salt spray."

Cathy said nothing.

"Are you sure?" John blurted out suddenly, "I mean, you could have made a mistake."

The argument was an old one, and Cathy, as usual, was infinitely patient.  She rubbed her swollen stomach with her free hand, while squeezing her husband's for comfort.

"Sweetheart, you know there's no mistake.  We've gone over this before."

"It's just so..." John shook his head in wonder, "unbelievable." He was quiet for a moment, not looking at her.  Cathy shrugged.

"Then why this?" John asked angrily, throwing a careless wave to the Earth below.  "Is this part of some great, divine plan? .

Frustration and sarcasm clashed, and John realized he was on the point of viciousness.

"Ah, hell," John mumbled, "they just screwed up down there, that's all.  Like they're doing right now.  Just plain screwed up!"

"Maybe," Cathy decided on the diplomatic tack.

"Well, come on, baby," John was suddenly beside himself again, "what do you believe? That you're some kind of pseudo Virgin Mary about to conceive...god knows what? It's a bit farfetched, don't you think?" he asked in a strange kind of half chuckle, half whimper.  "Read all about it," he announced in a great, theatrical voice, "Astronaut gives birth to Jesus Christ.  Immaculate Conception in Orbit.  Film at 11."

"John..." Cathy whispered in a pleading voice.

"Colonel Phillips," John continued in a remarkable imitation of Walter Cronkite, "Do you know who the father of your wife's child is? Uh, yes sir, I think I do...  God! Of course, Colonel Phillips.  Happens everyday," John yo-yo'd back and forth in the vignette, "Tomorrow, join us when we talk to Zontar, Thing from Venus.  Until then, this is-"

"Stop it!" Cathy snapped, snatching her hand away from his and leaning back into her seat.  "Just stop it."

John was seething again, but quieted at his wife's plea.  He kicked himself silently; he'd done it again.

"I'm sorry, honey.  I'm sorry." Helpless, John just sank back into his seat and stared out the window.

Though the public disclosure to the world stated that Cathy had become pregnant in space, the truth of the matter was quite another thing altogether.  In fact, after a battery of extensive examinations and transported medical experiments, it was confirmed by the best NASA doctors on the force that Cathy's actual time of conception took place only one day following her arrival in space...not one month, as the official headlines so enthusiastically reported.

Notwithstanding John and Cathy's firm position that they had abstained from sexual relations during the entire pre-mission phase of the Challenger launch, a more remarkable discovery surfaced that prompted an immediate security clamp by NASA, and outrightly deceptive rhetoric to the rest of the world for the following months concerning Cathy's pregnancy.

The early blood tests themselves had changed medical history - as well as a few religious practices within the small minority of researches involved with the case of Cathy Phillips' mystery conception.  For while the gestation period had been verified, and the fetus' blood corresponded to Cathy's own 0 positive blood type, there was one added element in the findings that proved conclusively that the American Medical Association was going to be kept very busy for a long time concerning the herebefore comforting science of obstetrics.