Shatterheart - Chapter 5
Chapter five is here! We're moving back to Station 19 where Isabella has made a terrifying discovery. Is it a false alarm? Is Earth in danger? Or is it part of a much deeper crisis hidden beneath the surface?
Get caught up on the previous chapters here!
- Chapter 5 -
Number of the Devil
“Mr. Burkley?” Isabella whispered into her cellphone, glancing around the hall nervously.
“Mrs. Brown,” came the man’s voice, “What can I do for you?”
“I have something, I need to-” she paused, waiting for a pair of soldiers to march by, “I need to speak to you. Now.”
“I’ll clear my calendar,” Burkley replied, “Meet me in Drop Pod seven-sixty-three in hangar two,” the line went dead.
Isabella, clutching her phone to her chest, hustled up the hall, toward one of the many tram stations set through the station. It was ominously empty, not a soul aboard her chosen car. She knew they were downsizing, but the number of people there had dramatically reduced over the last few months. More than two thirds of the engineering and development department were pulled to other stations.
After a quick five minute ride, the car deposited her in tram station 2b. The station’s lights flickered on as she stepped out onto the rough metal platform. The entire sector was dark, the lights coming to life down the corridor ahead of her as she hurried her way to the hangar. The rows of pods stacked through the hangar cast long shadows, cloaking much of the massive room in darkness.
Isabella stalked through the forest of pods, counting the numbers on the outside. They were like the giant eggs of some strange space monster, stark white and perfectly smooth. Near the center of the room she found her target, p763. With shaking hands, she clambered her way up the ladder to the hatch and tapped in the default access code. With a hiss, the pod depressurized and the door swung outward. It was dark beside a thin line of blue light, the hatch beside the pilot seat barely ajar with a soft blue glow emanating from inside the living quarters.
“Hello,” Austin Berkley said, glancing up as Isabella clambered her way down the ladder into the cramped quarters. There was a small galley area with a counter, stovetop, and oven built in. Opposite it was a table with a three seat rounded bench that followed the contour of the pod.
The young man was seated comfortably at the table, an ankle propped up on his knee. On his lap sat a glowing tablet, text scrolling slowly over the screen. This was the only light in the pod, illuminating everything in an ominous blue light. He was as refined as always, this time wearing a deep navy blue suit with a red tie.
Isabella eased herself onto the cushion opposite him. Something glinted in his hand beneath the tablet. A ring? Something metallic for sure, but she didn’t dwell on it. Carefully, as if scared of breaking it, she laid her phone, screen up, in the center of the table.
“What did you find?” Berkley asked, leaning forward to look at the screen.
“The static we get from the Shatter, usually it’s just a jumble of static and interference,” Isabella started, reaching forward and tapping the screen. A soft static played over the speaker, “We thought it was just radiation noise or the shifting of the landmasses, but I played with it a little bit and found,” she paused, swallowing hard, “This.” She reached forward and tapped the screen again, a strange, muffled voice reaching out through the noise.
“Survivalist Barnes. Alive. Pod gone. Safe for now. Continuing Mission.”
“How?” Burkley asked, his eyes widening.
“I sped up the recording of the noise, it was transmitted over the course of five days. But that’s not all. I checked the backlog for the last five years and, well, I found this,” again, she tapped the phone screen, the recording switching.
“Calling all planet fleets!” called a man’s voice over the speaker, “This is Planet Alpha. We have,” there was a crash in the background, “We have a six-six-six alert, evac impossible. Do not reengage, I repeat, we have a six-six-six alert, evac impossible, reengagement is not advised!”
“Who is that?” Burkley asked, his voice barely above a whisper. If his eyes widened any more they would have popped out of his head.
“I have no idea. But the recording has been played on loop with five months in between playbacks since we started recording. I have no idea how no one figured it out,” Isabella replied, twiddling her thumbs nervously in her lap, “Do you know what Planet Alpha is?”
“I do,” Burkley nodded, “It’s the military assigned name for Earth.”
“But, how?” Isabella asked shakily.
“I don’t know, but alert six-six-six is reserved for worse case scenario involving an artificial intelligence,” he explained softly.
“Like the devil’s number?” Isabella asked, her eyebrows shooting up.
“Named after the SatanAI that was weaponized in the 2100s that nearly detonated the core of Arimus, a planet in the Dwarf Belt,” Burkley nodded grimly, “This is big. May I take your phone?”
Isabella nodded, every muscle in her face and neck tense, her whole body shaking. Burkley scooped the phone into his pocket and rose to his feet, holstering a pistol in the back of his pants. Isabella’s eyes shot from the weapon up to the man’s grim face.
“What was that for?” she asked, panic rising in her throat.
“Insurance,” Burkley responded flatly, giving her a stern look, “Tell no one what you found. You won’t want to be associated with the shitstorm that’s about to hit.”
“What about Arya?” she pressed tearfully.
“If we can find out where or who this transmission is from, we might be able to get her back. Until then, keep monitoring the noise and reach out immediately if anything comes up,” he instructed, “I’ll have a new phone sent to your room. Wait twenty minutes before leaving here.”
Isabella nodded, lowering herself back down into her seat, licking her dry lips. She waited in the darkness as Burkley climbed his way out of the pod, his footsteps disappearing into the hangar. After a few minutes the click of the lights turning back off filled the air, following be absolute silence. Tears welled in the young woman’s eyes, her lip quivering. Breaking down, she pressed her hands against her face, quiet sobs filling the pod.
“Earth Command, what can I help you with, Chairman Hopkins?” asked a young man, dressed in a gray and black set of military fatigues. He stood up straight, hands clasped behind his back, chin high in the air.
“Commander Wilford,” Hopkins nodded, his hands clasped on his desk, the screen before him filling the dimly lit office with a brilliant blue light. Behind the screen, in one of the chairs, sat Burkley, his third glass of scotch clenched in his fist, “Station nineteen has intercepted a disturbing radio message tagged as originating from Planet Alpha.”
“Intercepted?” Wilford asked, his brow furrowing, “I didn’t know it was Warden’s prerogative to intercept military transmissions.”
“It’s not. But this is a unique case. The recording has been slowed considerably and has been played on loop for the last twenty five years, once every five months. We’ve been taking recordings of the noise emitted by Shatter 2b and only just discovered this message,” Hopkins explained, and then he leaned forward and tapped the phone lying on his desk.
“That’s not possible,” Wilford shook his head, “Earth has never had a six-six-six.”
“As I understand,” Hopkins nodded, “We’ve sent a shuttle for a wellness check all the same and expect them to be there in a few days. We’re still processing the information ourselves, but it was an important first step to reach out.”
“I appreciate the heads up, Chairman, we’ll do some of our own research. I can’t guarantee we can divulge anything if we find something, but know what you will be credited,” the soldier gave a gracious nod.
“Very good, thank you for your time, Commander,” Hopkins gave an equally polite nod and the screen vanished.
“I’ll send a message to the Board to request a discussion on this,” Berkley said, rising abruptly from his seat.
“No need, the Board sent a liaison to set up the transition of leadership. He arrived this morning and I have a meeting with him in a few minutes. I want you to accompany me and explain the situation to him. It will mean more coming from him than it will from you or I when he takes it back to the Board,” he replied, waving a hand dismissively.
Berkley nodded, lowering himself back into his seat. He polished off his drink and returned the empty glass to Hopkins’ desk, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. They sat in silence until a knock came on the door.
“Showtime,” Hopkins sighed, heaving himself up to greet the liaison.