She hatched Tiernan first, carefully withdrawing all of the invasive drips, drains and feeds from his body while he was still comatose, suspended in his cryogenic cocoon. A fissure, a barely perceptible split, formed in the dormant chrysalis. The hard hickory layer of skin, its cutin thinned, turned transparent, glowing a deep fire red, radiated by an internal heat. Claire cracked Tiernan wide open, splitting his pupa from crown to heel, draining off his ice-blue life-fluid until he lay inert, naked in a pool of liquified jelly preservative waste.
Tiernan stirred, his ebony skin prickling with the bristling sensation of thousands of micro pinpricks scratching his flesh. He coughed and sneezed, ridding his lungs of residual gel. His eyes were glued shut. His ears were blocked. He felt his heart pound in his chest. His eyelids became unstuck. Painstakingly, he opened his eyes. Hearing his ears pop, Tiernan came back to life. His first impression of life on the new-born was of Claire, gazing down at him, talking in perfect English as if she were a British Airways air host serving a flight at home. A bubble of alarm formed in his fuddled brain. He had expected to be roused by Rose, instead AI greeted him,
‘Good morning Tiernan. Carmen has landed. Welcome to Primordia. Did you sleep well?’
He tried to form his first words since leaving orbit but his mouth was too dry. He struggled to move his jaw, to open his mouth. Claire extended her tube to him. He parted his dry lips. She inserted the tube fully into his mouth. He sucked on it, greedily. His first drink! Recycled, purified water scented with cranberries. It tasted delicious. He closed his tired eyes, enjoying the feeling of being pampered by the most efficient host in space travel.
Tiernan slept for several days. When he woke, refreshed, reinvigorated, revitalised, Claire was waiting for him, ready with his next tube of fruity water, suckling him like her baby boy even as she spoke,
‘Good morning Tiernan. Carmen has landed. Welcome to Primordia. Did you sleep well?’
This time he answered, ‘Very well. What Earth time, day, and year is it?’
‘Earth time now,’ recited Claire, ‘is exactly 11:54 on Monday 6th September 2075. I made you coffee. I expect you need it, don’t you, after your exhausting journey?’
She extended an arm, her hand clutching a steaming mug of milky brown liquid. Tiernan regarded the blue and green planet motif glazed onto the mug, both sides, the red lettering:
PRIMORDIA MISSION 2050
Claire had just successfully resuscitated him from the longest induced coma in history. He propped himself up on one elbow, a human imago emerging sleepily from its cocoon, then sniffed the beverage,
‘What coffee is it?’ he asked.
‘Ugandan, Rwenzori Mountain, freshly ground, steamed soya milk, sugar, your favourite. I ran you an aquatub. I expect you need it, don’t you, after your exhausting journey?’
Tiernan sipped his coffee. It tasted delicious. It felt hot on his tongue, his palate. Not too hot. Perfect. His coffee was perfect. Like everything else Claire controlled in his new life, their life. He worried over Rose. Was she still alive? Did she survive hibernation? A flood of intense concern flushed out of his mind. The implications of Rose not pulling through were enormous, not just for him, the success of the Mission, the scientists back home, but for the future of the whole human race. His mind cleared. He asserted himself, recalling Protocol:
Protocol dictates that the C.O. (Commanding Officer) will, without exception, always be resuscitated first.
Tiernan smiled at Claire ogling his naked body like a maternal voyeur, ‘This tastes good!’
She didn’t respond. Was something really the matter with Claire? The concept of there being something the matter with Claire was unthinkable.
Persson had rebuked him when he raised the issue during Mission training. ‘Claire can’t go wrong, Tiernan. The idea of Claire going wrong is completely unthinkable, Tiernan.’
Persson, a pompous white prick from AI who strutted around Mission Base with his head stuck up his arse as if he owned the place, had a habit of repeating the astronaut’s name. As a put-down. To keep his inferior in his place where, in Persson’s bigoted mind, Tiernan deserved to stay.
‘Are there any more questions?’ Persson had asked him, impatiently.
‘No further questions, Sir!’ he’d replied, raising his right hand in a grudging salute.
Tiernan enjoyed a smug grin. Persson would be long dead, dust, by the time he returned to Earth.
He refocused on the potential problem: Claire. Rose was Commanding Officer. Tiernan recalled the strange preparation enacted by Control in the critical countdown leading to launch. How he and Rose were deliberately kept apart prior to hibernation. They’d never officially met. It was deemed emotionally, physically, psychologically, politically correct to separate the astronauts for the good of the Mission by Control.
Now, at the least, Rose was comatose, incapacitated. At worst, she might be dead. Could Claire have deliberately set out to prevent her resuscitation? He grimaced at the notion. Might she have accidentally terminated Rose’s life? Panic set in. Suppose she had died? Supposing Claire had suffered an emotional, nervous, even a mental, crisis?
Persson’s rebuttal resonated in his mind.
Claire can’t go wrong. The idea of Claire going wrong is unthinkable.
Unthinkable?
Stay calm, he told himself, remain positive, professional, make a brave face, cooperate with her. My priority is to resuscitate Rose.
Unthinkable: the idea that Claire might have murdered Rose. Why would she do that? He, Tiernan, was a young black man who’d fought his way out of the slums of Harlem, who’d impressed the big white chiefs in the military with his exceptional determination, his inner steel, his resolve to overcome the odds, and survive. Tiernan was assigned to this mission because he was tough. Because he was strong. Because he was fertile, and black?
There were aspects of the mission that he didn’t understand. Such as its ultimate purpose. Control had informed him that the ultimate purpose of the mission would be shared with Rose upon her resuscitation on Primordia. Rose, as C.O., would then inform Tiernan. He drank his lukewarm coffee, putting on a false smile.
‘This coffee tastes so good!’
‘I am glad you enjoyed it. Would you like to take your bath now? The water is hot with soapy suds, the way you like it. Afterwards, I can cook you breakfast if you like. I expect you need it, don’t you, after your exhausting journey?’
He handed his mug to Claire for her to wash, rinse, sanitize, recycle, and seal, ‘Question.’
‘Yes, Tiernan.’
‘What is the ultimate purpose of this mission?’
‘I am afraid that I am not permitted to tell you that. You are S.O. here on Carmen. I am only permitted to tell the C.O. Rose is the C.O. You know what that means, don’t you?’
Tiernan struggled to retain his cool.
Deal with it, Tiernan. Deal with it.
‘I know that, but Protocol clearly states that, in the event of the C.O. dying or becoming incapacitated, the S.O. will assume command.’
‘That position is untenable, Tiernan.’
‘Why is it untenable?’ He was shouting, raising his voice at her, in danger of losing his self-control, at the thought of him living here, twenty-five years from Earth, with just her.
She prattled on about technical issues, ‘I have detected a minor technical fault in the LS74 life-support monitoring system. Until I resolve the fault it is impossible for me to confirm whether Rose is dead, comatose, or alive.’
Tiernan held his head in his trembling hands, ‘I thought LS74 units were infallible.’
Claire ignored him, ‘I am working to resolve the fault in the LS74 life-support monitoring system. As soon as I complete my analysis, I will furnish you with a full update on Rose’s status.’
‘Tiernan’ she soothed, ‘You do seem to be under stress. Can I offer you solar relaxation on the sunpad after your aquatub, followed by a mild aphrodisiac to help you de-stress?’
The astronaut retorted, ‘I am not stressed! I don’t need a sunpad! I don’t need aphrodisiac! Put me through to Earth! I need to speak to Control directly!’
‘Tiernan, I transmitted this message to Control, the world, to celebrate our arrival today.’
The lights in the living module went off. A luminous screen lit up above the man’s head:
MESSAGE: CLAIRE: 10:57: 25.08.2075: CARMEN HAS LANDED. CARMEN HAS LANDED!
‘Is your message really necessary?’
