Orion’s Dendrites

by Lawrence R. Dagstine

Table of Contents
Part 1 appears
in this issue.

part 2 of 4

A shapeless thing with two glaring orange eyes came bearing down on him. It turned into a giant insect, when a big four-wheeled vehicle — blue team's old lunar transport from way back — with a man in a spacesuit similar to his sitting down at the controls, tried to run him over. Orion flapped his arms wildly, then realized it wasn't blue team's veteran astronaut Sam from up above. This was someone else, a man who felt he was getting too close to something and had decided to take him out. He had seen him prying too close to the UB4 outpost, and had purposely put on an extra burst of speed.

There was no escape.

The lunar vehicle came hurtling toward him, its round cylindrical wheels with their razor-sharp spiral blades filling the ravine from wall to wall...

“Cut!” Observer Stevens commanded. “This is where it must have started. So, whatever is there is important enough to kill a decorated cosmonaut with twenty-three years experience. How very interesting.”

“Would you care to see the next scene, sir?” the master technician asked.

“Yes, yes,” said Stevens, like an overexcited schoolchild. “Fast forward!” Then the simulcast of Orion's memory of those particular events skipped a few minutes ahead. “Right here is fine,” he muttered. “Sharpen the image, otherwise we'll have to rewind back to where his eyes first went astray.”

In the broadcast, Orion knew what would happen if those blades on the lunar vehicle tore at his suit. Outside, the three-week lunar day was only minutes short of six in the morning, earthen standard time. The temperature was nearly 450°F. Higher than the boiling point of water and human blood. Add to this pressurized vacuum a gust of wind so hot and intense that pieces of metal, except titanium, of course, weld themselves together spontaneously when they come in contact. And then you have a phenomenon known to scientists as “decoction”.

This meant that the interior of the exposed human body would boil. Bubbles would begin to form — first in the lungs and mucous lining of the mouth and eyes, then in the tissues of other vital organs, such as the liver, heart and kidneys — and then on to the brain where the real seething would take place. Death would occur within minutes.

He had to keep clear of those flashing, blade-like spokes. But looking back he saw that there was no room on either side. Only two things were possible. Jump to a nearby rock, in hopes the feeble gravity would be with him, or hit the ground and let the monstrous two-ton vehicle roll over him. Its weight in the pressurized vacuum-like atmosphere was only half a ton and this was further modified by the wheels which flattened out at the back like soft tires in order to achieve traction.

There was a slight depression a few feet behind him, which he hadn't noticed up until now. He swung around and went sprawling into it, face down, struggling at the scoriaceous volcanic rock, clawing before it was too late. His plastic helmet was clearly the most vulnerable part of him. But it was lined up with the recess in the rocky floor — the ravine and UB4 outpost being overly narrow — and prevented any maneuvering by the lunar vehicle.

Silently the mysterious driver came rolling over him, blotting out the light. A second later an intense pressure slammed into his back and legs, almost crushing him against the rock. Call it panic, call it shortness of breath, call it whatever. Air exploded from his lungs in short gasps. His vision momentarily darkened. Then the first set of wheels had passed over him and he was lying in the darkness some three or four feet beneath the twenty-foot long vehicle, watching the second set of tires come hurtling toward him.

He saw it too late. A low-hanging, box-shaped piece of equipment. It rushed at him and slammed into his backpack, spinning him over. Immediately the pack and air supply hose was torn from his shoulders. The hissing in his ears suddenly stopped. Heat seared his lungs. Then the back wheels crushed into him and pain exploded through him like a black cloud.

There was a brief pause.

Observer Stevens turned his head from the events on screen for a moment. It seemed Orion wasn't as doped-up as he thought. A side effect of the probe? What he witnessed wasn't something to be happy about, but as the cosmonaut sat up in the anti-gravity chair, suspended by wires from his cerebral cortex, this particular event caused his face and body to twitch something awful.

“A recurrent nightmare?” Stevens asked himself. “No, can't be. These events are real. How long ago was this again?”

“About six weeks ago,” the master technician replied. “It is now proposed that intervention was necessary, which you will see in a couple of scenes from now.”

“Then perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he isn't a space rebel. Seems somebody wanted him dead.”

“He got too close for comfort, sir.”

“Yes...but close to what?”

The General Observer would be sure to make a note of it in his report.

Meanwhile, back on the tube, Orion held onto a thin thread of consciousness. He knew he would be finished if he didn't. Intense light scorched his eyes, and as he climbed out of the depression, he struggled sluggishly forward through what to him felt like physical torment.

He searched for the vehicle. Slowly his eyes stopped swimming about. There it was, some fifty yards past him and no longer moving. The man in the spacesuit stood atop the control box, looking back at him. He seemed to be blocking a path of some sort, perhaps protecting something further up the gorge.

Orion gasped for air, but there was practically none. The artery-sized tubing inside his suit no longer carried cool oxygen from the main intake duct at his back and waist. His fingers clawed at the torn rubber on his back where the air supply hose and cylinder pack had been. His mouth opened and his tongue moved dryly inside the dead plastic bubble. “Sam, help,” he croaked into the mike, but it, too, was dead, the wires of the Communication Power Unit severed along with most of the others.

The big man in the spacesuit hopped down from the lunar vehicle. He pulled a utility blade, one often used for carving off pieces of moon rock, from under the seat on the control box and started toward him.

That action just might have saved Orion's life.

The knife meant that Orion wasn't finished, that one last piece of equipment had to be severed. That was when he remembered the pack attached to his waist. It was there in case of malfunctions in the backpack system. It contained a fifteen to twenty-minute supply of emergency oxygen.

He switched it on. A soft hissing sound filled the helmet. He advanced with a plan in mind to steal the other man's emergency oxygen supply, hopefully enough air to get him back up the ravine to Sam or the rocket. He forced his closed lungs to breathe in. Minor coolness filled them. His vision cleared. He held his energy in and struggled forward. His mind started to inspect his upper body to see what was left of it. Then suddenly there was no time for taking stock. The strange man in the spacesuit had, and in this feeble gravity, taken a long but very slow running stride. It was fast up close, but slower from a distance. The enemy bounced once to become airborne and came gliding toward him, light as a bird's feather in the reduced gravity atmosphere.

The man's blade was held low, point down, ready for a quick upward flip that would sever the emergency lifeline.

“It seems this chap was combat ready,” said Stevens, as he watched the action take place. “Let's find out why. Raise intensity levels to seven,” he commanded.

“Yes, but that kind of neural magnitude,” cited the master technician, “and on such a strong-minded individual...Well, it's just that the system might overload.”

“I'm willing to take that chance.” Stevens stood firm. “Do it.”

The master technician nodded. “All right, everyone. You heard the man!”

Back to Orion's memory, the cosmonaut dug his toes into a ridge blanketed in the volcanic rock. He dropped his hands in a single sweep to the rear, and like an acrobat, went for a racing dive. Then he catapulted himself forward, throwing all of his power into the lunge. He found himself soaring through the air with super speed, but wide of the mark. The other man ducked his head and quickly jackknifed down! Orion made a grab at his knife-hand as he passed, but missed.

It was like fighting underwater. The forces were radically different. Balance, drive, reaction time, all was changed by the reduction in gravity. Once a motion was started, it was virtually impossible to stop it or change its direction. Magnets on the bottom of his boots meant nothing out here. He was now gliding up and to the surface at the end of a wide parabola, a good twenty yards away from where his opponent stood. And the low gravity from top-to-bottom prevented him from hopping up and grabbing hold of the ravine's edge.

He swung around just as the other man launched a projectile of some kind. It slammed into his waist, spinning him to the ground. It was a chunk of meteorite, the size of a small boulder. Impossible to lift under normal gravity conditions. It produced a coursing pain which knifed through one side of the cosmonaut's body. He soon shook it off, started to rise. A thermal mitten suddenly came down, went for his helmet and emergency oxygen kit. Before he knew it, the man was already on him.

He slid across Orion and in passing struck at his oxygen hose with the edge of the utility knife. It bounced harmlessly off and Orion brought his right leg up, the heel of his heavy metallic boot meeting the man's relatively exposed plexus panel, and kneeing on a rising angle. The shadowy face inside the plastic bubble opened its mouth in a great silent exhalation, its eyes rolling. Orion's emergency oxygen supply was now at risk. He jumped to his feet. But before he could follow up, the man slithered away like a pit snake and turned toward him, poised to attack once again.

The man in the spacesuit feinted for Orion's throat and aimed a savage foot at his groin, anything to disable or paralyze — prevent the cosmonaut from going any further. The blow missed its target by less than an inch, numbing Orion's leg and almost causing him to lose his balance. Before he could counter, the man jumped up, the feeble gravity acting as his wings, swung around, and followed with a pile-driving rear-kick that sent Orion tumbling forward over the jagged outcroppings of the ravine floor. He couldn't stop. He kept rolling, the razor-sharp stalagmites tearing at his suit. Also, during the reduced gravity tussle, he had almost caught a glimpse of the strange phenomenon that lay beyond the UB4 outpost.

Unfortunately, from Orion's gravitational perspective, it looked as if the flock of scientists and technicians, as well as the General Observer, who were all circled around the probe with great anticipation, were finally going to see what it was the cosmonaut had seen.

Not so.

From the corner of Orion's eye he saw the man unzip a back pocket, pull out a weird-looking laser and take careful aim at him. Still flying about uncontrollably, he grabbed at an outcropping, brought himself to a sudden halt. A streak of blue-white magnesium light laced past him, exploding against the ravine wall. It was a storm gun. A cutting tool and weapon, most often used for lunar expeditions. He saw the man recharge it. Orion launched himself at him.

It was now or never.

The man dropped the space toy and evaded the two-fisted punch aimed at his chest. He brought his knee up, making a last vicious lunge at Orion's unprotected groin. Orion took the boot in both hands and twisted. The man went down like a felled tree and before he could move, the cosmonaut was on top of him. The man flashed his utility knife toward him. Orion chopped the side of his gloved hand at the exposed wrist. His fingers closed around the man's wrist and twisted. At first the knife wouldn't drop, but then he twisted harder and felt something snap. The man's arm went limp, and now his suit was torn as well.

At the same instant the hissing in Orion's ear stopped. His emergency supply of oxygen had run out. Searing heat stabbed into his lungs. He had to filter some air through the remaining artery-sized hose or it was all over. Maybe, just maybe, he could hold his breath for four minutes, like they had taught him in aeronautics school as a boy, but no longer. And physical exertion was impossible.

Something raw and frighteningly painful suddenly cut across his wrist with a shock that almost made him open his mouth to breathe. The man had shifted the knife to his other hand and lacerated his skin beneath the suit's fibers, forcing his fingers open. Now the man in the spacesuit flung himself past Orion, cradling his injured arm in his good hand. He stumbled along the ravine, dampness filling his plastic bubble, and a plume of water vapor rising from his backpack.

A dim sense of survival sent Orion crawling toward the dropped laser. He did not have to die. But the voices in his ear said: Air! Give me air! Both men's lungs practically screamed for it. His fingers scrabbled out, reaching for the storm gun. Air! His lungs kept shrieking the same words. It was getting worse by the second, darker. Fingers closed around it. No strength, but he pressed the trigger anyway. The explosion of light was so blinding that he had to cover his eyes. And that was the last thing he remembered doing...

Now a great big starship appeared onscreen. Orion's memory patterns slowly deteriorated, the image slowly split up, and any past experiences disappeared and the visuals went completely black.

“And so this is where our people intervened,” said the master technician. “We were lucky. There was still enough air in his lungs when we found him.”

“I take it his bodily fluids were sustained,” said Stevens.

“Not a problem... as was resuscitating him.”

“And the man who drove the lunar vehicle?”

“Nowhere to be found. He vanished before we could comb the grounds.”

Stevens studied his report carefully. “We may never learn of that spaceman's identity or role in this. Still, we salvaged Jacobs. Were any brain cells lost during the episode?”

“Probably not. If his brain would have been deprived of oxygen, the dendrite probe wouldn't have been able to filter what you saw here today.”

“This won't be enough,” said Stevens, throwing the report away. “I'll need you to perform a more in-depth log. It's mandatory that we double the work effort on this particular subject.”

There was a moment's silence.

Finally the General Observer said, “Let's try something new. Wake our friend here up.”

“What will you have my workers do?” the master technician asked.

“A game,” replied Stevens interestedly. “A game of mind over matter.”

“Anything now could risk system overload, sir. It wouldn't only be hazardous to the patient, but this station as well. What would you suggest?”

“Well, visuals and probing of previous events proved nothing. Here we stand, wondering....” Stevens stopped short. “Wondering what it is Mr. Jacobs saw down on Lebros at the UB4 outpost. Just a minor glimpse and a few footsteps too close were more than enough to get our friend here almost killed. Now the government that sent that armed man is still unknown to us” — and as he spoke now he made sure everyone's ears were listening — “though most likely a politically unfavorable organization which is in heavy competition with our own.”

“So they are protecting something,” said a curious scientist in the back.

“They were protecting the contents of the ravine, and our lab rat's unexpected discovery,” explained the master technician. “We are after that.”

“Yes, precisely,” smiled Stevens. “And our friend here saw it for what it is and what it was, but for only a fraction of a second. They know our people want it.”

To be continued...