In the Wake of Alpha-HQ9
I’m ready,” Enna announced. “I’ve remembered enough.”
By Laura Campbell
Enna looked out of the port windows on the shuttle Hephaestion. The stars littered space. This quadrant was known for its beauty; the local nebulae were glorious to behold. The planet Zóhara, with a single ring of glittering space dust, appeared as a sparkling gem set in the cosmos. An Earth colony, Zóhara served as a popular vacation destination. It enjoyed popularity as a honeymoon destination; romantic getaways and carefree excursions formed the backbone of Zóhara’s economy.
Enna’s trip was neither romantic nor carefree.
Space didn’t have left and right, up and down. But Earth spaceships did, based on their architecture. Earth’s seafaring heritage remained in concepts such as port and starboard, bridge and galley, stern and bow.
For this trip, Enna purposefully ignored the timeworn ship seating adage of ‘posh’ — ‘port side out and starboard home’ — as she traveled to Zóhara. In space, starboard and port only mattered to the observer. This wasn’t a pleasure cruise. But, she recollected the old way of remembering the terms: port and starboard, left and right, red and green. The shorter words went together, the longer words went together: port, left, red. Starboard, right, blue or green.
Enna chose the port side of the ship for a reason. Not many had voluntarily chosen that side of the starship. Most of the others on that side closed their view blinds so they could not see outside and glimpse the meteor known as Alpha-HQ9.
Enna peered through the window, eyeing the gray rock now disappearing in space.
She called over a shuttle steward. “That’s it?” she asked, pointing. “Alpha-HQ9?”
Some of the other passengers were uncomfortable hearing her mention the meteor.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said somberly.
Enna knew why the other passengers were mortified by the rock speeding away from them. After the Titanic sank on Earth, other ships in the North Atlantic reported seeing an iceberg, red paint from the doomed ship still scraped into its icy ribs. A similar grim recognition applied to the remaining chunk of Alpha-HQ9
“That’s Alpha-HQ9,” Enna stated calmly.
The steward concluded Enna must be an investigator, sent out to evaluate the disaster.
“Yes, ma’am,” the steward replied. He knew that most of the passengers were being brought to the planet for the grim task of identifying the remains of loved ones. But he had been instructed to answer any questions any of the passengers had as forthrightly as he could. “The current understanding is that the diversionary explosive embedded in the meteor caused part of it to break off. The meteor plunged into Zóhara.
“The part that fell is a meteorite,” she corrected. “Meteors are in space; meteorites are the fragments that enter the atmosphere and may eventually reach the planet’s surface. From what I read in the news feed, an air blast caused by the fragment exploded over the Northern Hemisphere.”
“Fortunately, the Northern Hemisphere is not so busy yet,” the steward replied. “The full season is many months away.”
“What about the radiation?” Enna asked.
“They say the radiation will dissipate rapidly. That there will be time to rebuild, and repair. But not forget, of course. They say we will never forget.”
“They seem to say a lot,” Enna noted.
“It is another Earth tragedy,” the steward said, shaking his head. “Light years away from Earth. We seem to just be getting over one tragic event when another occurs.”
“There were thousands of deaths,” Enna tallied. “A huge hunk of rock falling from space causes grave damage. I think rebuilding will take longer than ‘they’ say.”
“Are you here to investigate?” the steward asked. “I see that your ticket has you listed as an official Zóharan guest, with no charge for passage, lodging, or board.”
“I work with the Swann Initiative colonies, conducting geologic surveys and helping determine the habitability scores of candidate colony locations,” she replied. “But I am not here in my professional capacity. I am here to identify familial remains.”
“My apologies — and my condolences!” the steward said.
“No need to apologize,” Enna told him. “You didn’t cause the disaster. If I recollect correctly, the odds were that Alpha-HQ9’s path represented a near miss. Zóhara acted to deflect it anyway. An unnecessary action, borne of over-caution, with catastrophic consequences.”
“You seem very analytical, given your task.”
“Perhaps I am still in shock,” Enna answered.
“Would you like a drink?” the steward offered, concerned any further discussion might lead to a terrible faux pas on his part. “It is an hour until we land.”
“A drink would be nice,” Enna answered. “Martian scotch.” She looked out at the disappearing remnant of Alpha-HQ9. “On the rocks.”
“We can’t get this wrong,” the middle-aged man said to Enna.
Enna hated to admit it, but she had been impressed with Zóhara. The planet seemed to be nothing but a beautiful beachfront. A watery world covered in a crystalline blue sea, with ribbons of land featuring soaring mountain ranges at their spines, radiating ribs of tropical rainforest, all fleshed out with sandy golden beaches. Volcanic activity still bubbled molten lava beneath the surface of the sea in some areas, creating spectacular sprays of steam that cast rainbows in the sunny sky.
Yes, Enna thought. This is a beautiful place for romance. Licit or illicit.
“We use DNA, of course, but the government wants multi-factor authentication,” the man warbled on. “So, science plus the identification. And we would like you to release the remains to us. We plan a cemetery and memorial for those who died.”
“You could just send images of the bodies and copies of the paperwork to wherever the family is located,” Enna observed. “I arrived here quickly, because I live at the Dafne Colony, just a shuttle jump away. And I must say that your explanation seems odd; it doesn’t take that long to process DNA. This isn’t the twenty-first century.”
“There are thousands of bodies, and we are double testing. And not everybody has a DNA profile in the databases. Some people opt out of voluntary banking. There are bodies, perhaps only a few, that we will probably never identify.”
“And Zóhara doesn’t check identity too closely as long as the trip is paid for in advance.” Enna looked around, noticing that they were far enough away from the lingering radiation zone. The planet seemed to be managing the disaster. She had a sense they were prepared to instigate cover-ups when needed.
“Due to the discretion we afford our visitors, not all our guests use their real names,” the man admitted. “We accommodate that. Some of our guests are VIPs. Others just want to stay off the grid. Anonymity is one of the services we provide.”
“There is a cove in Aicia, in the Northern Hemisphere, named Muuta Rakkautta,” Enna reminded him. “The name of the place is based on the Earth Finnish language. It means ‘other love.’ Those other lovers don’t want anonymity: they want to avoid having evidence of their tryst.”
“Regardless, it would be horrific to misidentify them under these circumstances,” Mr. Ethtali stressed. “We wish to handle everything with decorum.”
“My guess is that Zóhara doesn’t want too many images of the dead going off the planet,” Enna said. “It would deleteriously impact your tourist destination status to have mangled, burnt bodies associated with Zóhara. Better to let what happened on Zóhara stay on Zóhara.”
“We just want to do the right thing,” Mr. Ethtali objected. “We have consecrated a substantial plot of land in the Northern hemisphere to serve as a memorial garden. Victims of the meteor will be buried here if the family wishes. It will all be very tasteful.”
“Meteorite. Victims of the meteorite.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind. Let’s just say that I’m a little cynical,” Enna replied. “I expect a gift store will eventually be located next to the impact crater. But I do believe you when you assert that the planned memorial grounds will be gorgeous. I can imagine the place now: gazebos and koi-filled ponds. Flowers and exquisite marble statues.”
“You seem very dismissive of our tragedy,” Mr. Ethtali said, as he ushered her into a dark mobile building attached to a massive, black-topped industrial tent.
“You demand that I hop across space to come here and perform the grim task of identifying remains, all while abiding by your directives, and now I am expected to react as you like?” Enna scoffed. “This is my tragedy, and I will react as I need to.”
“Mrs. Enna Greyfields has arrived,” Mr. Ethtali announced as he pressed a button.
“Dr. Enna Greyfields,” Enna corrected. “You’re about to inscribe names on grave markers, Mr. Ethtali. Make sure you have everyone’s titles and name spellings correct. It’s bad enough your government nudged part of a space rock into its own atmosphere and killed thousands of people. Let’s at least make sure you get the clean-up and cover-up done correctly.”
“Never in human history has anything like this ever happened!” He objected, dismayed by Enna’s attitude.
“In 1490 tens of thousands were killed by a meteorite that impacted the Earth city Ch’ing-yang,” Enna replied. “And around 1700 Before the Common Era, a meteorite hit the Earth city Tall el-Hammam; geological evidence shows that pottery shards and rocks were heated to over 7760 degrees Celsius in an instant. The air blast associated with that event rendered the area incapable of sustaining life for centuries. You don’t put party planners in charge of astronomical decision-making for a reason. The stakes are too high. Your government made a mistake; consequently, I must go and identify a body. I have every right to be angry.”
Mr. Ethtali seemed at a loss for words, as he departed Enna’s company.
The door opened into an enormous black mobile building. A young woman in a yellow environmental suit greeted Enna.
“I’m Dr. Esta Sanatlehi,” the woman announced. “You must be Dr. Greyfields. Our deepest condolences.”
“Everyone here keeps popping out of the woodwork, expressing their condolences,” Enna noted. “At least the steward on the shuttle had the good sense to back up his support of my sorrow with Martian scotch.”
“I know this must be difficult,” Esta said.
“You don’t know what this is like,” Enna retorted.
“You work for Swann?” Esta asked, switching from scripted sympathy to more genuine interest in Enna’s situation. “You listed them as your employer on your visitor’s form.”
“I do. I perform habitability assessments.”
“I work for the Herschel Project,” Esta said. “I am a physician on Enceladus. Earth Gov requested Herschel’s assistance in the medical and forensics aspects of this incident response effort.”
“I thought Earth Gov would be controlling every aspect of the operation.”
“Earth Gov wants to distance itself from the tragedy,” Esta explained. “Zóhara is their territory. The planet’s officials are in Earth Gov’s chain of command. Earth wants to cast the disaster as purely natural, despite the mispositioned diversion charge placed on Alpha-HQ9 that precipitated the event. The people who died — they are all saints, according to Earth Gov. Tragedy makes saints out of all its victims. Earth wants to keep it that way. They want the official records kept off Earth. Herschel can keep records here or in a distant repository.”
“What does Herschel get out of it?”
“Probably some territorial concessions,” Esta replied. “People have no idea what really goes on behind the closed doors of disasters.”
“You seem very forthcoming with me,” Enna noticed.
“I could say that we are enjoying the mutual respect and confidentiality shared between us as representatives of the Swann Initiative and the Herschel Project.”
“That would be bullshit.”
“I know who you’re here to identify,” Esta explained. “And that he was supposed to be someplace else, not here.”
“He was supposed to be on Tengral. Negotiating an exclusive resource deal and assisting in establishing an Earth embassy there. He was Earth Gov. Isn’t that ironic?”
“Tengral is many, many light years away. Nowhere near here.” Esta observed. “So, he told the wife he’s on official business at Tengral. He told the office he’s on a romantic vacation with his wife.”
“That’s the gist of it,” Enna said bitterly.
“I appreciate your anger, Dr. Greyfields. Most people are coming here to deal with loss. You are dealing with loss and betrayal. Your husband seemed adept at keeping his secrets.”
“Well, he would have gotten away with keeping them if not for that meddling meteor.”
Esta swiped her palm across a screen, and another doorway opened. The two women walked into a large open area covered by the immense tent top; black body bags covered the ground, neatly laid out in rows and columns. There were thousands of them, organized with section markers. Some bag shapes looked more recognizable as human remains than others.
“What did most die of?” Enna asked, taken aback by the scene. For the first time during the journey, she recognized that this tragedy went beyond her own issues. She had no quarrel with the dead she did not know.
“Asphyxiation,” Esta answered. “Quick, relatively painless.”
“‘Quick’ and ‘painless’ are the nice words you use when neither of us really knows how they felt.”
They walked a distance, Enna wanting to get the task over as quickly as possible.
“I’m sorry,” Esta said as they approached a body bag. “This is the part where it gets hard.”
“Brad never took me anywhere,” Enna recounted, looking at the motionless bag. “Yet, looking back, he had all sorts of required business travel. He said that accompanying him on those trips would bore me. That I would be happier staying at home. And that he would be back soon, anyway. And he did come home. He always looked so happy and fresh. Business must have been good.”
“Are you ready?” Esta asked. “I can wait if you need me. You sound like you have a lot on your mind.”
“I’m ready,” Enna announced. “I’ve remembered enough.”
Dr. Sanatlehi unzipped a bag. “Is this your husband, Bradford Greyfields?”
Enna looked at the body, charred by meteor fire. His eyes were still open. His irises were still bright. She wondered how that could be when the rest of him looked so destroyed.
“That’s him,” Enna identified. “Bradford Greyfields. My husband.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Enna replied. She felt more grief than she had expected. More grief than she wanted to feel. “Zip him back up. Please.”
Dr. Sanatlehi closed the bag. She stood next to another bag adjacent to Bradford’s. “The next question is a little less — how do I put it? — diplomatic? When the meteorite hit, your husband died sleeping next to a woman. The registry at the resort lists her as his wife, Mrs. Enna Greyfields.”
“There’s no true way to be diplomatic about this,” Enna surrendered. “Let’s look at me.”
Dr. Sanatlehi unzipped the bag. She opened it up. The woman’s face was still beautiful, even while bearing the charring signature of the meteor’s kiss. Her eyes, also, were open and still seemed to sparkle. “Is this Enna Greyfields?”
“No,” Enna stated. “It’s not me.”
Dr. Sanatlehi zipped the bag up. “Do you know who she is?” she sighed. “We can’t find any identifying information about her. She isn’t in any of the DNA bases — her fingerprints aren’t on record. She doesn’t appear to ever have had any dental work. It’s a rarity, but every now and then, someone keeps themselves off the grid. We even tried familial matching, to no avail. Whoever she was, she wanted to be able to assume identities as it pleased her, from what we can tell.”
“No,” Enna replied. “I feel somewhat inadequate, not knowing. I can tell you if a planet is habitable, but not who my husband was with on another planet.”
“You can ask me any questions,” Esta prodded. “I will tell you what I know.”
“They died of asphyxiation?” Enna asked. The charring bothered her. She looked at all the other body bags, wondering what hopes and secrets had been obliterated in a cosmic instant.
“Yes,” Dr. Sanatlehi said. “The meteor blast caused a rapid evacuation of oxygen from the area; a flash of intense heat followed. They were dead by then, if that helps any.”
“I heard that the meteorite’s victims can be buried here?” Enna asked.
“Mr. Greyfields — your husband — has a grave space already set aside. You just need to sign some paperwork, releasing the body to us.”
“If you can’t identify the woman,” Enna found herself saying, much to her own surprise, “She can be buried here as Enna Greyfields. She died with that name. And she needs something written on her tombstone.”
“Are you sure?” Dr. Sanatlehi looked morbidly relieved.
“I know some people who stay off the grid. Not everyone trusts Earth Gov. Can we blame them?”
“But to bury her under your name?”
“I need to leave part of me here. Bury all the betrayal and loss here. I don’t want to take any of it back with me,” Enna said. “And if you do eventually find her family, tell them that death and I are trying to make an honest woman of her.”
Enna traveled on the starboard of the ship on her way back to the space transit center. Enna and grief were at a weird place; they acknowledged one another but were not engaging.
The steward — the same young man Enna had encountered her on her way to Zóhara — stopped by. He had a Martian scotch on the rocks ready and handed it to her.
“How are you doing, Dr. Greyfields?”
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly.
Enna thought of her husband and his lover and their eyes. Bradford’s irises were still so bright. Had he seen the meteorite falling towards them? Had Bradford thought of Enna one last time? Did he feel guilty? Did he remember her fondly at that last moment?
But Enna knew Bradford; she envisioned him covering his lover, trying to protect her from the blast. He probably had not thought of Enna at all.
“If this is what closure feels like,” Enna told the steward. “It is a terrible, empty feeling.”
“I will be back,” he promised her.
“I will be back,” Enna whispered. “That’s what Bradford always used to tell me.”
But this time, he would not be back.
Enna looked out into the void and saw her reflection in the window of the Hephaestion. Her irises were dull.
Enna took one look back at Zóhara. A beautiful place, upon which sat an enormous room filled with body bags. All that grief, all those secrets, all those things done and left undone by a fragment of rock now invisible to the naked eye.
May you all rest in peace, she thought, watching the planet disappear from her sight. Especially you, Mr., and Mrs. Greyfields.
It took her that moment to recognize her repressed grief as a form of love. And that regardless of the pain of Bradford’s betrayal, her capacity for love still existed.
Finally, grief found the opportunity to wash over her, and for the first time in years, she cried.
