Onward

                                                                                              Onward



Deep breaths broke the tense atmosphere of the darkened control room, with the eyes of all fixed on the images of the long, empty corridor as the robot was guided down the steel gray opening, looking for people -- to no avail.

The robotic probe's operator moved the joystick on his control console, and the robot turned down another empty corridor, until it came to a ladder.  Slowly, it ascended the ladder, stopping at the top to peer closely into the shadows the emergency lighting lanterns failed to illuminate.  Still, nothing.

The probe's microphone picked up something skittering past and the automaton whirled to the right, trying to catch it.  It failed, and its camera saw nothing. 

The skittering sounds came again, to the left and rear this time. Now prepared, the joystick operator spun the robot around and, this time, it did find the source -- a piece of paper being pushed along by the blasts of air still emanating from the overhead air vent.

The probe turned forward again, continuing along the corridor at the top of the ladder.  Like the others, this passageway was empty.  The camera focused on a sign that read “Bridge” with a red arrow pointing starboard.  Moving right and then left up another ladder, it came to a large sliding door.

The robot's operator flicked a switch on his console and a thin red beam of light played over a black square of smoked glass to the left of the sliding door.  Seconds later, the glass emitted two quick green pulses and the door slid open.  Somewhere, sight unseen, someone took a deep and very audible breath and let it out slowly as the televised scene moved into the bridge.

“Found them,” the operator croaked through a throat gone dry.

On camera, the entire crew was present on the bridge, all ten men and women.  They were seated at their regular stations, as they should have been when preparing to land.  However, none of them moved. 

Another unseen voice gasped audibly, but the operator ignored it, ever so carefully easing the joystick forward. The image on screen centered on the captain’s chair.  A bearded man with salt-and-pepper hair stared straight ahead, oblivious to the visitor to his control deck. The reactions were the same from the other nine crewmembers -- lifeless eyes staring at nothing.

Save for the last one.

The camera had just started to move away when the woman’s mouth opened.  The probe zipped back in front of her and began to get a close-up of her face.  Her eyes went wide as her mouth opened wider, as if she was going to say something.

"I think we've got a survi..."

The operator never finished his good news.

On the screen, some thing flew out of the woman's mouth and the operator jumped back in his seat.  Behind him, a scream caught in a woman's throat. A metal tray clanked loudly on the deck, but no one turned toward the source, too rapt and shocked to react.

Professionalism regained a foothold and the operator checked his controls. Words and numbers popped up in a little box in the upper right hand corner of the screen before disappearing again. The operator frowned. His diagnostics check said his probe worked, but, on screen, he saw only blackness. 

Wait.

There was movement or, rather, it looked like movement. A throbbing was more like it, directly on the robot's camera lens. The operator could not discern what it could be.

Could it be something...alive?

Just then, a large crack spread across the camera's lens, followed by the sound of metal rending and whatever clung to the lens made sure no one would see it again as the picture jumped to static and then died altogether.

The operator pushed several buttons, but got no response.  He turned on more infrared lights in the control room and looked at the woman next to him.  She was breathing hard and looking at him, in disbelief.  Glancing back over his shoulder at the men and women behind him, he could see they were all terrified and sickened.  He took another deep breath and then activated his radio.

“Alien contamination confirmed, sir,” he said, at last.  “Exploration ship Titus lost on Catralia with all hands.  Recommend sierra delta immediately.”

“Roger that,” a disembodied voice replied.  “Titus confirmed lost to alien contamination.  Standby on sierra delta.”

“What’s going to happen now?” the woman asked.  “We’re not going to let the fleet just sit here, are we?”

“We’re going on,” the man replied, with little emotion.  “The Cassius is slated to land on the next habitable world.”

“But, what if the same thing happens?” she asked, incredulously.  “Why are we doing this?”

“Because we have to,” the man replied, solemnly.  “We can’t go back.  Columbus didn’t go back.  Magellan didn’t go back.  We have to go onward.”

“Sierra delta for 'Titus' confirmed,” the disembodied voice boomed out.  “Begin sequence.”

“We all knew the risks when we left Earth,” the man said as he punched a few buttons.

“Easy for you to say,” the woman grumbled.  “You’ve already made your name.  First person on Locus.”

“No, I was the first person off Locus,” the man corrected, eliciting a gasp from his co-worker.  “Everybody else died -- toxic dust storms, spontaneous tornadoes, ravenous wildlife.  You name it, we found it. Or it found us."

The man shivered at the memory.

"Let's get back to work, okay?" he suggested, eager to change the subject.  "Begin sequencing for sierra delta.”

The woman gave the moment some deep thought and then sighed in resignation. 

How many people had died for Man to move forward and evolve?  Who was she to halt the pioneer spirit of the human race? Especially from the relative safety of the exploration fleet flagship, hundreds of miles above Catralia.

"A memorial service for the crew of Titus will be held at zero-one-hundred in the conference room," a voice on the public address system announced.

"Do you ever wonder'?" the woman blurted, as the seriousness of the situation hit her after that announcement.

"Is it worth it?" the man replied. "Or why we call the cleansing process sierra delta instead of what it really is?"

"I meant is it worth it, worth all of this," she clarified. "What if we never find any worlds to colonize? Or intelligent alien species to communicate with."

"I wish I knew," the operator replied, with a long face.  "I really wish I knew."

The woman pondered the man's words for a moment.  Finally, sure that her line of conversation was going nowhere, she blew a stray tress out of her eyes and reached forward to a large button on her console.

“Confirming sierra delta,” she acknowledged with sadness.  “Self-destruct sequencing initiated for Titus.  Countdown has started. May God have mercy on their souls.”

The operator made the sign of the crucifix and looked away. "And may God have mercy on ours."