Evolution Rising

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. It was the standard hazing line whispered to every space rookie right before their first spacewalk. There was an initiation ritual that went along with it, a rite of passage before you could officially be called an astronaut. But modern-day commanders frowned on that sort of thing. Ever since one particularly odious rookie suffered a heart attack during his first walk. It didn’t matter that the kid was an utter pussy whose wealthy father had bribed the academy to pass him, and had no business being off-planet. After that, the leadership declared space travel to be perilous enough without your fellow crewmates trying to haze you for entertainment, and outlawed the practice. Colonel Roger Benson still remembered his own hazing. It had taken him a solid week to get the smell out of his spacesuit. The saying was true, both literally and figuratively. After all, he’d been standing here screaming into his helmet for the last half hour and no one noticed.

The scoop drilled down into the gray soil, clamped down over the sample, and reversed course. Once free of the dirt, it swung over to the sifter and dumped its cargo. It did this over and over and over again until the sifter was sufficiently covered. It would then retract, wait for the sifting process to be complete, and repeat the sequence. He watched the machine performs its duties. He’d been watching it for the last five hours. What was that old cliché? That doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different outcomes was the very definition of insanity? He certainly felt as if he were going insane. And if the cliché were true, the A.I. running the drill must be fuck-nuts crazy by now. Unlike humans, modern A.I.’s didn’t possess the emotional capacity for self-psychoanalysis. At least that’s what the programmers all said. But every now and then one of them went a little crazy and decided to run hog wild through a facility or a ship doing a fairly accurate imitation of Jack Nicholson in the Shining. So far, no one had been killed or hurt enough to report that they’d just gotten their ass kicked by a hunk of aluminum, so these incidents went largely unreported. A quarter of a million years of evolution still hadn’t been able to eradicate the “Machismo” gene from humanity.

Benson looked around and spotted his third in command lounging on the rover playing air drums, his mic tuned to his personal playlist again. No wonder he hadn’t noticed his commanding officer’s meltdown. The A.I. had noticed of course. It was programmed to react to distress. It scanned Benson’s physical status, determined that he was experiencing a temper tantrum, and increased his oxygen production to compensate. Not even worth notifying the ship about, he thought as he searched for a big enough rock. Finding one the size of his hand, he grabbed it and turned it carefully. Low gravity necessitated more mass if you wanted to achieve sufficient velocity for a headshot. He wound up and fired the rock as hard as he could, watching it float in the thin atmosphere until it bounced off of Lieutenant Buckley’s helmet, not enough to break it but giving him just enough velocity to go flying ass over tea kettle into the gray, alien soil.

He grinned with satisfaction as Buckley righted himself shouting “What the fuck!” Into his mic. It had been twenty-two years since he’d thrown a pitch in the majors but he still had the eye and arm of a true closer.

“Next time turn the music down and I won’t have to resort to such primitive communications measures,” he teased as Buckley shuffled over dusting himself off.

“Looks I landed in a cat box,” Buckley said shaking his shoulders.

‘Probably smells like one too,” Benson chuckled.

“I ain’t taking off my helmet to find out, Sir.”

A chain of tweets accompanied by a flashing red light indicated the sifter was full, and the drill rested back on its mechanical haunches to await reset. It was time for the only human interaction required at this point in the process. Buckley leveled the soil in the sifter and activated it. The low-level sonic waves shook the soil away from the larger rocks and into a bin for analysis.

“Kinda feels like we’re cleaning a giant litter box doesn’t it, Sir?” Buckley asked with a grin.

Benson agreed but didn’t find the similarity all that amusing. “Great epitaph for my career. I’ll be the first space commander to land on a moon not our own and bring back an alien turd from an orbiting shit box.”

“Do you really think aliens shit, sir?”

“Everything shits, Buckley. If it consumes, it shits, and everything alive consumes something.”

“Well, at least it’ll have some scientific value,” Buckley offered, trying to cheer him up. “When my pops taught me to hunt back on Earth, he said you could always tell a lot about your prey from what it ate. Said the same thing about those dinosaur fossils he was always digging up in Utah. He said everything important he knew about a T-Rex he learned from a T-Rex turd.”

“Shitty job,” Benson muttered.

“Earned him the “Golden Pooper Scooper of the Year” award at Cambridge, three years running.”

Benson just shook his head.

“Aw, Colonel, come on. This is exciting stuff,” Buckley said pausing the sifter. “You could be the first human to discover an alien species!”

“By stepping in a fossilized pile of shit? That’s a legacy for you,” Benson snorted as he stored the full sifter basin in the rover and replaced it with an empty one.

Buckley started the sifter once more and watched his commander sulk. “I’ll bet you’ll go down in history for it. Even more than the astronaut who brought back the first moon rocks a couple of hundred years ago.”

“You remember that guy’s name?”

“No, sir.”

“Neither does anybody else. Finish sifting this batch while I run the samples back to the ship.”

Benson climbed into the rover and started the engines. As he drove off, he looked in the rearview mirror and could see Buckley shaking his head and singing. He’d loaded his personal playlist again completely against all safety regulations. It was as if the boy simply didn’t acknowledge his own mortality.

“If I were half the commander I used to be, I’d go back there and beat some discipline into him,” he thought. But he wasn’t that man any longer. Hadn’t been for some time. The only reason he’d been given command of the Bellerophon was to ensure that he didn’t publicly fight being forced out of NASA. The new administration couldn’t afford the bad publicity now that space travel was being privatized. This low-impact mission with little risk and no reward was their version of a gold watch and a confidentiality agreement he’d earned for his forty years of loyal and exemplary service.

He brought the rover to a stop at the top of a rise and looked down at the sample site. The sifter was still cycling and Buckley had moved on from air drums to dancing, the low gravity giving him far more ability than he possessed. Benson sighed. Buckley wasn’t an undisciplined officer. He was just hyper-enthusiastic about the mission which Benson found inexplicable. The first year of astronaut training consisted of drilling into your head all the horrible ways you could die in space. The second year involved educating you on what to do, should what you learned in the first year become reality. If you made it to year three without wetting your pants or having a nervous breakdown, the real training began. It's why astronauts were such an uptight, serious breed. Buckley, oddly enough, had aced every class. He excelled at crisis intervention and graduated at the top of his class. That’s why Benson had chosen him for the mission. He should have known from the way Buckley reacted to his assignment that the kid would be a handful. After the obligatory handshake and thank you, Sir, the kid walked out and started whooping and hollering and running around the halls like a lunatic. Even kissed the Admiral’s chunky, buck-toothed daughter right in front of dear old dad without breaking stride.

Benson started the rover and drove into the valley towards the ship. He should have waited until Buckley finished, a protocol that Buckley knew by heart. But he needed some alone time. Something else he was sure that Buckley knew. When his retirement had been announced just prior to launch, everyone clapped and saluted and said it was an honor to be on his last mission. Everyone except for Buckley.

The kid waited until they were alone in the hanger and then quietly said “They’re making you leave, aren’t they, Sir?” He hadn’t said it to be mean or condescending. The kid had been genuinely disappointed. He knew his commander was sharp as a knife and in better physical shape than a lot of lesser officers half his age.

“We all gotta go sometime, Lieutenant” Benson replied.

Pulling himself up into the tightest form of attention he could muster, Buckley said “Then let’s make sure they regret it, Sir.” He then snapped off a perfect salute and marched over to the rover to drive into the landing bay. Benson had nearly cried that day.

The rover crossed the valley under the giant eye of Jupiter. The sheer size of the planet was nearly as breathtaking as its surface. Buckley had been in absolute awe of the gas giant when they arrived. He’d been giddy as he bounced along the surface of the moon. If his grin had been any bigger it would have cracked his helmet. The same view made Benson feel even smaller and more insignificant than the day his retirement had been made public. Why was he being so morose, he wondered. Why couldn’t he muster the same enthusiasm for the mission as Lieutenant Buckley? Where had his wide-eyed wonder gone? He’d had it during the Mars missions. He distinctly remembered feeling larger than life when the first Martian colony was built. He’d felt absolutely heroic when the central government building was named after him. He’d had it when he married Bethany in his full-dress whites covered in medals. He’d had it during the construction of the orbital commercial spaceport which he oversaw. He’d had it when the first lunar defense systems were brought online to maintain peace and safety on mother Earth.

He pulled up alongside the docking ramp to the Bellerophon and began unloading the sample containers. Looking down into the gray goop, the exact moment he’d lost his enthusiasm became clear. The day he realized he was becoming Earthbound. He was having his usual dinner with the Admiral on the last night of his deployment. After their customary steak and red wine at the officer’s club, they sat in the salon to discuss the upcoming missions. This was always his favorite part of the meeting because he literally had his pick of any projects the Admiral rattled off. This time, however, the Admiral quietly informed him that he was being reassigned to the Moon Run. The current administration had decided to award him the easiest and shortest route giving him more time to spend with family here on Earth. A chance to reacclimate as it were before getting back to normal life where he could enjoy the fruits of his long and illustrious career. Basically, he was being forcibly retired.

More time on Earth. More time with family. More time reconciling with Bethany. The thought landed like an asteroid in his stomach. He knew neither of them wanted that. He’d discovered years earlier that his wife’s affairs were common knowledge among the astronaut corp. He’d confronted her about it once, but she yelled and denied it all to the point of tears as her insufferable Persian cat, Snowball watched from his cat tree with contempt. He accepted her denials and they made love as he flipped Snowball the bird. The following morning, he hired a private detective to follow Bethany around. His next deployment was only a one-month run but should give him enough time. Upon his return, he was informed that his wife was servicing not one, but two of his former flight crew members and that Snowball had pissed in all his shoes.

He spent that night alone in his quarters on base, watching the videos of his wife and crewmates, nursing a beer, and weighing his options. What the hell did he expect marrying someone half his age and leaving her alone six months out of the year? He wasn’t mad at her, just hated the lies and the proximity. Hell, he wasn’t even mad at Snowball. The cat was just doing exactly what his wife had been doing to him for the last few years. 'At least the cat respected you enough not to tell you it was raining,' he reminded himself.

The year that followed had been rough. Bethany finally admitted to being unfaithful, although by that time he didn’t really give a shit. She promised to end the affairs and commit to their marriage during retirement, but the damage was done. Snowball succumbed to a heart attack one summer evening after doing battle with a neighborhood terrier. They toasted his demise graveside with a fine Cabernet. He was actually going to miss the obnoxious little monster far more than Bethany. Benson contacted a divorce lawyer the next morning. He hoped cutting all ties with Earth would push him to the top of the transfer list and he eagerly boarded the cargo run to the Mars Gateway station just after Thanksgiving. He returned a day after Christmas and met the Admiral at the officer’s club for dinner.

A crackling noise cut through his depression as he heard Buckley’s voice screaming brokenly through a miasma of classical rock and static.

Smacking his helmet on the side, he said “Buckley! Say again. Your transmission is breaking up and turn off that damned music!”

Buckley just kept yelling incoherently but Benson was able to make out three words that snapped him into action “Let”, “Go”, and “Help.” Throwing the rover into gear he spun it around throwing gray glop onto everything and took off. As he drove, the comms officer signaled the rover.

“Sir, we’re getting a mayday from Lt. Buckley, do you copy?”

“I’m already on my way,” Benson told her. “Get an armed squad and follow. And put the ship on lockdown!”

The comm officer didn’t reply but Benson didn’t need a “Yes Sir” to know his crew was following orders to a tee. He floored the accelerator as he crested the hillside causing the rover to become airborne before bouncing back onto the surface. A loud repetitive alarm began sounding within his helmet as a mechanical voice said “Warning, radiation event eminent, return to the ship. Five minutes to contact.”

“Shit!” Benson swore into his mic as the warning repeated. Jupiter picked a fine time for an orbital fart he thought as he skidded to a stop next to the drill site and bounded towards his crew mate. Buckley had his arm in the sand up to the elbow and was beating it wildly with the other.

“What the hell happened?” Benson asked grabbing Buckley’s arm to pull it free.

“Knocked the sample tray over and when I tried to pick up the rocks something grabbed me!” He grimaced and stared at Benson with frightened eyes. “Don’t let them take my arm, Sir!”

Benson dug down into the soil and gripped Buckley’s forearm. “Pull Now!” he yelled and the two of them pulled until Buckley’s arm popped free of the surface. His palm was wrapped in a death grip around a pitted rock but his suit was still intact. At least for the moment. It had scorch marks around it as if something superheated had grabbed it. had Benson hauled him to his feet and threw him into the rover. Climbing onboard he slapped a containment sleeve around Buckley’s lower arm as the radiation warning continued to countdown. “Three minutes to contact,” it announced.

The comm officer on the ship announced that the security team was on its way, but Benson shot back “Belay that order. Return to the ship and stay put behind the radiation shielding. You’ll never reach us in time.”

The comm officer replied “Sir, the rover can’t take that much Jovian radiation. It’ll fry the systems.”

“Understood,” Benson replied. “Hold your position until it's safe, then come get us. We’ll hunker down here under the shielding.”

“But, Sir…” the comm officer started to say.

“DO YOU COPY CORPORAL?” Benson thundered back.

“Yes, Sir,” she replied. “Good luck Sir, see you on the other side.”

It was the customary reply when a fellow officer stood no chance of survival. He’d heard it on more than one occasion but had managed to survive so far. Buckley however, had not. Benson could tell by the look on Buckley’s face he was running through year two of his academy training and realizing he was basically screwed.

“Two minutes to contact,” the rover called out.

“Mind telling me what the hell happened out there?” Benson asked as he set the diagnostic controls on the containment sleeve.

“Picked up a rock and something grabbed me, pulled me down. There’s something alive out there.”

Benson looked up to see the aurora borealis of radiation waves building outside the rover and brought down the opaque radiation shielding. It would help keep the majority of the radiation outside. Their suits should filter out the rest but there would still be some exposure. How much and how deadly would depend on how long the radiation event lasted and the intensity of the waves. In any case, the rover itself would be electronic toast.

“One minute to contact,” the rover chimed.

The sleeve showed that the portion of Buckley’s suit at the wrist was disintegrating rapidly and his face was sweating from the pain in his arm. Benson could hear the crack in Buckley’s resolve as he commented “At least we’ll have a nice view.”

“Don’t you dare pass out on me, Lieutenant! I have no intentions of dying out here. Especially sitting next to some half-ass pussy crying his way into the pearly gates like a …”

A flash of lightning drew Benson’s attention to the screen as the radiation storm enveloped the ship. As he brought his own face shield down, Buckley’s eyes went wide inside his helmet. “I think I’m dying, Sir. I’m … I’m starting to see things.”

“It’s just a little delirium from the radiation effects kid. This should help.” Benson pressed a button on the sleeve and it injected a pain killer into Buckley’s arm. It wouldn’t stop the inevitable but it would chill the kid out for the duration. Within seconds, his breathing steadied and the sweating stopped, but he continued to stare out across the Jovian moon with a look of absolute wonder as a smile crept over his face. “You must be having one hell of a hallucination Lieutenant.”

“Don’t you see it, Sir?” Buckley asked serenely.

Benson sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. He’d seen radioactive eruptions before on long-range sensor probes. They were indeed beautiful and made the northern lights on Earth look like the cheap sparklers kids ran around with on the fourth of July. But they could also microwave your eyeballs within seconds without the proper protection.

“Warning, radiation shielding failure, warning radiation shielding at twenty percent.” The rover chimed.

He listened as the rover’s alerts become more and more erratic, then ceased when the circuitry melted into acrid smoke. He hoped his own end would be as quick.

“Do you think they’re friendly, Sir?” Buckley asked in a slurred voice. He turned toward Buckley and opened his eyes just enough to see the kid was sweating again, but so was he. The rising temperature inside the rover meant the radiation levels had far exceeded the hull tolerance.

“If they are, tell them to turn on the A/C, will ya? It’s getting a little toasty in here,” Benson replied.

Buckley giggled and then raised his wounded arm. “I think they might have heard you, Sir,” he said.

A large thud shook the rover and Benson’s eyes snapped open. The viewport was completely blocked. Something had landed on top of the rover. Something heavy. He could hear the joints in the metal straining and buckling under the additional weight. Something dense and sinuous moved across the surface of the viewport. He could hear it wrapping itself around the vehicle. The rover groaned in agony under the load, and in between its cries for help, he thought he heard the steady rhythmic beating of an alien heart.

Buckley stared down at the containment sleeve on his arm and pressed the release button. It fell away to reveal his gloved hand wrapped around a rock that was now trembling. “I think it’s an egg,” Buckley said.

As the egg trembled, Buckley reached for a sample case to put it in. “Looks like we really did find that alien life form, Sir. They wouldn’t dare kick you out now.”

The body of the rover contracted under the weight of the creature outside. Shrieking metal pushed in closer as the consoles snapped and buckled. Despite Buckley’s awe at the egg-like rock in his hand, Benson was terrified. If the thing inside that rock was its offspring, who knew what it would do to the rover to retrieve it. Grabbing a containment case, Benson peeled the egg from Buckley’s glove and sealed it inside. Almost immediately, a roar could be heard through the crackling radiation storm outside. It was answered by several others in the distance.

Buckley’s head lolled to one side as he passed out as pressure leaked through fissures in the rover’s hull. Slipping his now naked arm back into a containment sleeve, Benson sealed and re-pressurized Buckley’s suit adjusting the oxygen and pressure flow. There was still a chance they would survive if the rescue crew arrived in time, but even Benson was starting to feel the effects of the storm outside.

Why fight it…..he wondered. They’re forcing you out anyway. At least now you get to go out a hero. An odd silence enveloped Colonel Benson as he pictured his imminent life back home in Canaveral. Sitting on the deck of his beachfront home watching the sun rise over the water every damned day, alone. Forcibly retired and consigned to invisibility. Weekly shopping runs on his pensioner's salary with all the other cape cast-offs. Wasting away at the local bar reminiscing about the glory days of the astronaut core. Watching all his service buddies die slowly of boredom. A long, slow death without the courtesy of calling it what it was. He stared out at the undulating flesh as it slithered over what was left of the viewport, unaware that his hand was fidgeting with the release catch on his helmet until a crackle of static shot through his mic startling him. He couldn’t make out the broken message, but he was sure it was the voice of Corporal Windham telling him to hang on, they were coming. As he slipped into unconsciousness, his last memory was a shower of sparks from a metallic saw and a set of shadowy arms reaching out for him under the rise of Jupiter.