Golden Fleece

Aaron flipped the first in a row of toggle switches on the bench. It hummed to life, and its electroluminescent display panel began to glow bright blue. There had always been a glitch in this unit that caused some garbage characters to appear on the screen whenever it was booted up, but neither Aaron nor Wall had figured out what was causing that. Oh, well. That kind of substandard performance was typical of machines that weren’t built by other machines.

Aaron flipped four more switches, and the bench began sending metered HeNe laser pulses through the fiber-optic nervous system of the landing craft. “Start audio recording, please,” said Aaron.

I thought of the similarity to a coroner doing an autopsy, but said nothing. To me, that was funny—I most certainly do have a sense of humor, despite what some programmers seem to think—but Aaron might not have agreed. Anyway, I activated a memory wafer hooked up to the microphone in Aaron’s radiation suit helmet and dutifully recorded his words.

“Preliminary examination of Starcology Argo lander Orpheus, Spar Aerospace contract number DLC148, lander number 118.” Aaron’s voice was monotonal, sapped of energy. Still I was surprised that he knew both the contract and lander numbers off the top of his head—I’m always surprised by what data they seem to access easily and what data eludes them. Of course, Aaron had spent the last two years watching over ships that weren’t doing anything, so I suppose there had been plenty of time to memorize the numbers. “Lander was taken into the ramfield by Dr. Diana Chandler the day before yesterday”—he glanced at his wristwatch implant, a perfect example of them not having access to important information, such as what day it is—“October sixth, and is still highly radioactive.” He paused, perhaps remembering Kirsten’s words of the day before, then looked up at my ceiling-mounted camera unit. “Any thoughts on that, Jase?”

I had prepared my reply to this inevitable question hours ago, but I deliberately delayed responding to give the appearance that I was mulling it over just now. “No. It’s quite perplexing.”

He shook his head, and I, polite fellow that I am, lowered the gain on his microphone, so that if he ever played back the recording I was making for him, he wouldn’t have to listen to the whiff-whiff of his hair rubbing against the helmet interior like God’s own corduroy pants.

Clearly, despite Aaron’s determination to blame himself, Kirsten had indeed fanned those small embers of doubt enough to revive them to a dull glow. “She was only out for eighteen minutes,” he said. Closer to nineteen than eighteen, but I saw no point in mentioning that.

Walking around the lander, he continued to dictate. “Ship had never previously been flown, of course, except at the Sudbury test range back on Earth. It appears undamaged. No overt signs of hull breaches. Well scoured, though.” He leaned in to look at the burnishing effect, caused by the sleet of charged particles. “Yeah, she could use a new coat of paint.” He bent over to examine the wing’s lower surface. “Ablative coating seems unscathed.” Usually when he was inspecting the landers, Aaron kicked the rubber tires at the bottom of the telescoping legs, but today, it seemed, was not a day for such lighthearted gestures. He continued around back and peered into the engine cones. “Both vents look a little scorched. I should probably get Marilyn to clean them. Aft running lights—” And so on, circumnavigating the ship. Finally, he returned to his little test bench and consulted its readouts. “On-board automated systems inoperative on all but remote levels. Life support okay; communications, ditto. All mechanical systems, including landing gear and air-lock doors, seem functional, although, of course, they’ll have to be tested before being used again. Engines are still usable, too, apparently. Mains have been fired once, ACS jets a total of seven times. Oxidizer shutoff sensors, port and starboard, still operational. Small clog in number-two fuel lead. Fuel tank reading—Kee-ryst!”

“What is it, Aaron?”

“The fuel tank is eighty-three percent empty!”

Pause. One. Two. Three. Speak: “Perhaps a leak…”

“No. Bench says it’s structurally sound.” He tried to put his hand to his chin, succeeded instead in rapping his gloved knuckles against the faceplate of his radiation suit. “How could Di use up so much fuel in just eighteen minutes?”

This time I did protest. “Closer to nineteen, actually. Eighteen minutes, forty seconds.”

“What the hell difference does that make?”

What difference did it make? “I don’t know.”

With a sweep of his hand, Aaron shut down the test bench and headed toward the exit from the hangar. As he drew closer to my camera unit mounted above the door, suddenly, for a brief instant, I thought I did see something, some hint of the inner mind in his multicolored eyes. In their very center, tiny flames of doubt seemed to be raging.

THIRTEEN