She was a little unsteady, a little dizzy, had some trouble heading in a straight line, but that was expected after such a long exposure to microgravity. It wasn’t as bad as it could be. She’d been told some astronauts had trouble walking, turning, focusing their gaze.
Gibbs paused in front of her, made an about-face, and sketched a salute at Compton. “Keep the motor runnin’, the home fires burnin’, and all that jazz, Pops.”
Compton raised his left hand solemnly. His right hand held his weapon.
They reached the end of that section of corridor and it changed direction by 45 degrees, laterally. As Walsh reached that point, the lights came on in this new section, individually, one by one, revealing a passageway dotted with doors. Jane counted five doors over the next 30 yards. Each door was taller and wider than human scale and segmented into thick, horizontal bars.
“Anybody else feel like Hansel and Gretel?” Gibbs joked.
Bergen rolled his eyes. “Birds ate the trail they left.”
“Didn’t a witch try to eat Hansel and Gretel?” Ajaya asked. She seemed to realize her gaffe and sent Jane a pleading look. “I wasn’t raised on those fairy tales, you know.”
Walsh ignored the fairy-tale talk and motioned to Jane, pointing at the wall. “Dr. Holloway, you’re up.”
Next to the first door he’d come to, there were two complex geometric symbols at eye level. She moved forward to examine them closely and record an image with her digital camera. They were heavily stylized, embossed into the smooth surface of the wall. Something told her they were more than just labels.
“These were not among the symbols I was shown from the crashed ship in New Mexico. But, based on their location, I think I can deduce—” She pressed the top symbol with a light touch and the door slid virtually soundlessly into the ceiling.
Walsh moved past her in full military mode, weapon drawn. As he crossed the threshold, the room lit up. It was cavernous, subdivided from floor to ceiling by stacks of what appeared to be large plastic crates in meandering rows. It was a storage room of some kind.
Gibbs whistled softly, the sound resonating eerily over the comm. “Damn. Gives new meaning to the word payload, that’s for sure.”
Walsh took long, bounding strides down an aisle. The rest of them filed in. Walsh peered at a symbol stamped into the side of a crate and beckoned to Jane. She snapped a picture of it.
Bergen waved a small, noisy instrument around a crate. “It’s not radioactive.”
“The exterior of the container is not radioactive,” Walsh corrected.
Bergen rolled his eyes.
Gibbs ambled down an aisle nearby, studiously examining the symbols on the crates. “Jane? Am I seeing this right? Are the symbols on all of these containers the same?”
Jane hopped over to Gibbs in a few short bursts. She gamboled with him down the aisle for a bit, examining the symbols. “Yes,” she confirmed. “Every symbol on these containers is the same. I have no idea what it means, of course,” she added, in case they were expecting some kind of miraculous insight from her. “Yet.”
They turned back to join to the others. Walsh had gone deeper into the room. Bergen and Ajaya lingered near the room’s entrance.
“Will you look at that,” Bergen muttered. She turned more fully toward him in time to see him digging his fingers into a recess on the crate nearest the door and lifting up. The top of the container came off.
“Dr. Bergen!” Ajaya exclaimed.
Gibbs made a wry face. “Berg, dude—Walsh isn’t gonna like that you did that.”
Bergen ignored that and shined his flashlight inside the container. Then he waved the geiger counter around inside it.
“Walsh isn’t going to like what?” Walsh’s voice boomed over the comm. Jane turned to see Walsh moving quickly back toward them down the aisle.
Jane had to agree. These things didn’t belong to them. They hadn’t been invited to examine them. And yet, she shared Bergen’s curiosity and went forward to inspect the contents herself.
Bergen lifted a corner of the crate experimentally. Dull, sandy-colored crystals shifted to one side.
Jane wrinkled her nose in bewilderment. Cat litter came to mind.
“Some kind of mineral ore? A mining operation?” Bergen murmured. He was already scooping up a sample in a small vial and bagging it.
Walsh stormed up. “Bergen, goddamnit!”
Bergen didn’t even look up. “Relax. The seal on this one was already broken. We haven’t been exposed to anything. We’re all wearing suits. It’s not radioactive.”
“We have protocols for a reason. Disregard them again and you’ll spend the rest of the mission guarding the capsule.”
Bergen’s lips pressed together and he glared at Walsh. “Noted.”
They filed out silently at Walsh’s gesture.
Jane moved back into the hall and turned to examine the symbols outside the door again. She pressed the top one, to see if a second touch would close the door. Nothing happened. She pressed the bottom symbol. The door shut with a whisper and barely perceptible thud.
She left her fingers resting next to the symbols for a moment, mentally making a connection between the images and the concepts of ‘open’ and ‘close,’ as well as probing within for hidden links to other languages, a practiced mental exercise.
Abruptly, she could see meaning within the pattern. Comprehension breathed life within her mind—open and close, unlocked from somewhere inside.
She stumbled back. Her boot caught. She fell on her rump at Gibbs’ feet.
“Jane?”
Gibbs lifted her by the arm. She swayed in his grasp, gaping at the symbols that now meant far more.
She could see into them, like a hologram.
Open…vastness, yawning…fresh and exposed, loose, lifting up and out, unfurling…expanding, stars and light…communing…forever without end….
Her breath caught in her throat.
Her eyes drifted down. A new experience.
Close…barrier, block…tightly cover, conceal, seal and lock…stifle…dark…inaccessible…halting…murderous, fence, trap, end…. End?
She shuddered and tore her eyes away.
“Jane, what is it?” Bergen’s helmet skittered over hers, pressing her back into Gibbs.
She closed her eyes. Her whole body trembled. Couldn’t they see it too?
The hum was back and it was stronger. There was an unmistakable sensation of vibration and movement. Were there actual bees inside her head?
Her own thoughts were mired while something else—something that was not her—zipped with glee, probing, searching…. Her brain pulsed in response.
Her limbs were heavy. She wanted to lie down.
She felt drunk.
She recalled the first time she’d ever been tipsy with sudden clarity. The bees latched onto that, pushed her toward the memory.
Control spun away. She went along as an observer.
She’d been nine. They were living in Belize at that time. No tourists came in rumbling, rusty, buses that day to hike the trails. It was a rare free day.
Jane batted away a slow-flying insect and looked up from the tattered, yellowed paperback that a tall German woman had carelessly left behind the day before. It was a book by a guy named Sagan, about a girl who was smart and curious, just like her.
She was bored. The daily rain shower would begin soon and she’d be cooped up in the casita for the rest of the afternoon, reading or playing chess.
Where had her parents gone? They were probably giggling under some tree somewhere. She sighed heavily. She didn’t like it when they left her alone, but they’d come if she yelled and then she’d get a lecture about crying wolf.