Termination Point
Fiction - by Alexandra Peel
The Circle Gate was barely visible this morning. Soft chalk-white-blue sky clear through the transparent circumference. Danylo, with his years of experience, was able to see the disc that hung over Black Lake, suspended some thirty feet above the placid water. It was, to him, as beautiful as the first day he had seen it as a boy of nine years of age, skimming stones.
“I don’t know how you keep doing it.”
Danylo turned. Smiled. Took the outstretched hand. “Pryvit, Michael.” The men embraced warmly. Michael thumping Danylo’s heavily padded back as though he were a horse. “Okay, okay, you don’t need to break my spine. I have an important delivery to complete.” They held each other at arm’s length. Assessing who had aged more. Grinning.
“I want you to meet someone.” Michael ushered over a couple who had hung back.
Danylo saw a man in his mid to late thirties. Spectacles fogged over from the cold air, grey beanie hat pulled down tight, the logo too small from this distance to make out. His quilted coat bore the same emblem. The other person was a female. She wore the same style beanie and quilted jacket, the same logo. Her nose pinched pink. Both carried what looked like small titanium sampling cases.
He gestured for them to follow him to the cabin. Danylo had not wanted one of the new-fangled thermal silica alloy homes now offered. It will be warmer, they said. We can automate heating, lighting, entertainment. But he’d preferred a traditional build. Besides, who wanted wall-to-wall news updates daily? The port, landing strip and storage facility were of course modern builds. No choice. So when he sat fishing, he was glad that the majority of it was at his back, so he didn’t have to look at the hunks of shiny blocks.
Danylo pushed the door with his shoulder. He caught the look on the faces of the two visitors. Smiled inwardly. Could imagine them thinking, why on earth would anyone want to live somewhere that wasn’t automated? Ah, but they’re young, he allowed. He indicated chairs around a table. Went to brew a pot of coffee. Again, the looks of astonishment and, was that pity? as they took in the homemade, hodgepodge of materials that furnished his home. Old wood tabletop with aluminium composite legs, plastic flooring, stone fireplace, carbon composite kitchen.
“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Mister Ivanenko.” The woman pulled off her hat and unfastened her coat. Danylo could see she was younger than his youngest daughter Kristina, who was twenty-four this year. She spoke halting Ukrainian, and he gestured for her to speak English. She relaxed.
Her companion shook Denylo’s hand. “I’m Ryan Elliot and this is Olivia Harris.” His accent was American. His manner was brusque. “We’re from —”
“WFP. I know.” Danylo indicated the clothing logos. As they’d entered the cabin, he saw the laurel wreath encircling the fistful of crops.
“O, WFP,” said Olivia Harris. English. Proper. Sad, he thought.
“Sorry, old habits,” Danylo said. “Off World Food Organisation.” He corrected himself.
“We’ll get straight to the point, Mister Ivanenko,” the American started.
“Danylo, please.”
“We’re closing the gates, Danylo.” He looked at Danylo, his expression unreadable.
“What?” Danylo gasped. “You can’t. What about all those people? How are they supposed to survive?” He was aghast. “I’ve been taking supplies for almost forty years. They can’t survive without our aid.” He shook his head, no, this was all wrong.
“Danylo.” This was the English woman. “We know that you, and other Circle Gate Transporters, have done excellent work. You have been unremittingly helpful. Devoted, I might even say. But our resources are running low.”
“What do you mean?” This had never been mentioned before.
“Earth’s resources are not unending.”
She clicked open her metal case. Extracted a data pad. Showed him charts and numbers and statistics. Many coloured lines plotting downwards. He didn’t understand everything she said. But he knew what a descending line meant. All of Earth’s crops, ocean life, flora and fauna were reduced.
"Besides,” Ryan Elliot interjected, “We don’t really know who these, people, are,” he said the word with deliberate emphasis.
Only the Circle Gate Transporters had ever been through the Gates. Men and women carefully selected because they were resistant to the radiation, physical stress and psychological impact of the approach to the suspended rings. Let alone what was on the other side. Only they knew, so Earth’s governments relied on the transporters for details of this other planet.
At first, when the gates had appeared—all over the planet, scientists and soldiers had been sent to investigate. All but a few had returned sick, demented or weakened in various ways. No one could get through. Nothing came through. What were the gates for? So they were studied from the ground. Then someone noticed the regular pulsations in the coronas. SOS. A human distress signal. When Danylo was eighteen, he volunteered for the initial exploratory expeditions. He and a handful of others were trained in using what became called Cargo Boats. Specially designed and constructed containment vessels. Part spaceship, part rowboat. Something about a slow approach meant the crew would digitally ‘row’ their way to the gates, before entering at speed.
Danylo had been unharmed. Through the gate, he had encountered a world astounding in its vibrant beauty. He deposited supplies of raw materials and then returned. Through subsequent visits, he learned that the inhabitants were bipedal, had some recognisable attributes of culture and civilisation—he saw structures that gleamed and undulated in serpentine ways. But the beauty was akin to trying to survive in an exotic florist shop. Inedible, at least now. At some point in the past, he reasoned, it must have been rich in resources for anything to live long enough to create such marvellous cities.
“I do,” Danylo said to Ryan Elliot. “I know them.” He didn’t, of course. Even forty years of visits; once per year, had not been enough to form understandable bonds, learn the other’s language, or know if they appreciated the help the tiny blue planet afforded them. They reached out, and we answered the call, he concluded.
Michael touched his shoulder. He had kept out of the discussion so far, leaning his back against the carbon counter and holding a mug of coffee. “That’s not true though is it, Dan?”
“We understand how hard this must be, Danylo,” said Olivia Harris. “Truly, we do.”
“Are the others being told?” He meant the other Transporters.
“They are,” she replied. “Please understand that there are many elements at work here. One is that we have no idea who or what these beings are. Sending foodstuff has come at great expense because of the resources to simply move you all back and forth through the gates. And our own planet is now unable to feed itself, let alone another.”
“Fihnya!” blurted Danylo, “Bullshit!”
“My friend,” Michael pulled up a chair of plastic and metal and wood construction. “You have devoted your whole life to helping others. You are a hero, no?” Danylo scowled. “Okay. So not a hero, but a bloody good chap, yes?” he smiled, eyes crinkling, warm. “Listen to them, listen to the facts. It costs how much to send your little cargo boat through the gate? Eh?” Danylo didn’t have a clue. He shrugged. “A lot! Okay? And there’s not just yours. There’s hundreds around the world. Back and forth, back and forth like little rescue ships. Except, we don’t see anyone being rescued. We don’t know if we are helping at all. It’s not that we want paying, but a thank you would be nice. Nothing. In forty years.”
“I don’t expect desperate people to say thank you!” Danylo stood quickly. “Besides, how do you know we aren’t saving a whole planet from dying? How do we know we aren’t doing immense good?” His boots thumped on the floor as he trundled to the kitchen to make a fresh pot.
“Danylo.” Ryan Elliot came to stand at the open doorway. “It isn’t just up to us. The OWFP is funded by private and government bodies.”
“Since when?”
“Since the voluntary donations petered out. People aren’t seeing anything for their buck. And if people can’t see the smiling face of a once starving child, then they lose interest. It’s human nature. Governments have been funding the travel costs for the past fifteen years. They’re calling it a day.”
Danylo threw the coffee pot into the stone sink. Glass sprayed up. “I’m not giving up on them!”
“Do you think it might be a futile gesture by now, Dan?” Michael asked.
Danylo could hear Olivia zipping up her coat. Ryan Elliot joined her. “Mister Ivanenko, we cannot change what is about to happen. They wanted to send an e-message to you all. We came as a courtesy. They’re closing the Gates in two days.” Olivia said.
“How?” Danylo asked. “No one knows what they are made of, or even how. So how are they going to close them?”
Ryan Elliot and Olivia Harris looked at each other, then at the floor.
“They’re going to detonate them,” the American said. “I’m sorry, Danylo.”
And they left. Then Michael left shortly after, Danylo not being in any mood to talk.
“Call me when it’s done, my old friend,” Michael said. They didn’t embrace or shake hands.
It took a day to attach the main cabin drive to the bulk of the ship. It would have been less time had Danylo paid more attention to the engineering of his vessel over the years, but people came and did all the repairs and maintenance for him. He surveyed the landing strip and containers holding the last crates of supplies. He worked through the night, loading what he could.
The following day, he boarded his ‘boat’ and started her up. The approach to the Circle Gate was always a little unnerving. He never knew if it would close suddenly, leaving him sailing across Black Lake to land in Turkey or beyond. He felt the familiar anticipation. The comfort of the capsule around him. He had heard this morning, on his old radio, that the ‘closure’, as they were calling it, had begun. Two had been bombed in Australia.
Black Lake scudded beneath him. The boat tilted until he looked straight at the Gate.
The slow row motion of the delta fins felt through his seat. Years of travel had let Danylo learn each and every movement on his boat. As he approached, he felt the tug of the gate. His radio blurted into life.
“This is ground control Odessa. Please return to your posting, Danylo Ivanenko. This is now a military mission. Respond please.”
Danylo flicked the control button to off. A sensor bleeped. Something was heading his way. He was seconds from the gate. He understood this was a guided missile. The Circle Gate circumference disappeared from his vision as he closed on it. The opening was beautiful today. It sparkled like blue crystal. The bleeper increased tempo. Danylo judged his moment. Hit the Speed Drive and was slammed back into his seat. The gate opened. Brighter than he’d ever known. White as starlight exploded all around.
“Harnyy. Beautiful!”