The Comet's Curse Read online

  The lift arrived and Gap and Channy stepped inside. The lift system operated only between sections of the ship. The crew members were expected to walk to every destination within the sections themselves. No laziness allowed.

  “Oh, and speaking of e-mail,” Gap said when the lift door had closed. “Did you see that the Council meeting was rescheduled for eleven o’clock tomorrow morning?”

  “Bon told me before I had a chance to see it.” Channy pushed the button for the crew quarters. “You know what he told me one day, about a month before launch?” She lowered her voice mysteriously.

  Gap smiled inwardly. Channy loved to gossip. “He said some of the scientists back in Sweden thought Dr. Zimmer was the wrong man to put this mission together. They thought he was too emotionally involved with the crew. Bon said Dr. Zimmer made too many decisions with his heart and not his brain.”

  “What would Bon know about a heart?” Gap laughed. “Growing up around the Arctic Circle put ice water in his veins.” They were laughing together when the lift door opened. Then they froze.

  The wall across from the lift opening had been vandalized with a large, red marker. The words screamed out at Gap and Channy:

  THIS IS A DEATH SHIP!

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE COMET’S CURSE: A GALAHAD BOOK

  Copyright © 2005 by Dom Testa

  Previously published in 2005 by Profound Impact Group, under the title Galahad 1: The Comet’s Curse.

  Reader’s Guide copyright © 2008 by Tor Books

  All rights reserved.

  A Tor Teen Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  ISBN 978-0-7653-6077-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  S 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Donald and Mary Testa

  Thanks for the books, always …

  Acknowledgments

  I wouldn’t be the first author to agonize over how to thank everyone who helped to inspire, encourage, entreat, and shove. Yes, it takes a good shove now and then, doesn’t it? “Thank you” just doesn’t seem like enough sometimes.

  I owe so much to the many early believers, including Karen Anderson, Greg Moody, Jennifer Estes, Elaine Dumler, Judy Bulow and Beverly Testa. Your support will never be forgotten.

  Great editors never seem to get enough credit, but Donna Bauernfeind and Dorsey Moore are incredible.

  I am so grateful for the love and spirit of Debra Gano, and I’m happy to know that the world is finally discovering her Heart-light.

  My son, Dominic, is only the most amazing young man in the world, that’s all.

  I am grateful to have a host of true professionals in my camp: agent and gentleman Jacques de Spoelberch, and Judith Briles, as well as Kathleen Doherty, Tom Doherty, and Susan Chang at Tor.

  Very special love and thanks to an educator who not only has made a difference in the Galahad series, but who daily makes an indelible impression on the lives of young people in and out of the classroom. HML to you, Jen Byrne.

  The Comet’s Curse

  What you’re holding right now is kind of like the old-fashioned message in a bottle. Poor souls who found them selves shipwrecked on an island would jot down a message—usually pretty simple: HELP!—seal it inside a bottle and toss it into the ocean. The idea being that someone would scoop it out of the water and come to the rescue. The idea also being that this someone would not be a bloodthirsty pirate looking for possible treasure that might’ve washed up onshore with our poor little castaway.

  Except this message in a bottle is different in a couple of ways. First, it’s a story and not just a simple HELP! It’s full of pretty interesting characters, not the least of which is me, thank you very much. They face danger, deal with issues like fear and jealousy and loneliness—things that make me glad I’m not human—and learn as much about themselves as they do one another.

  And although there aren’t any true pirates, there are some fairly nasty types.

  Second, our heroes aren’t on your typical island. This island is made of steel, the size of a shopping mall, and the sea is a sea of stars. They’re stranded, sure; but they chose to be stranded here because their only other choice was … well, their only other choice was a gruesome death.

  Okay, easy decision.

  Castaways who have been rescued years later often say that— strange but true—in some respects it’s hard to leave the island. It’s become home, a place of security in an ocean of fear. And although deep down they want to be rescued, part of them wants to remain nestled within their cocoon. An observer might think the island a prison; the shipwreck survivor sees it as a haven. It’s all perspective.

  This story has its own island, and its own castaways.

  I guess I’m the bottle. The message—or story—is sealed inside me.

  I like that responsibility. And I don’t think anyone else is better qualified to tell the tale.

  So let’s get on with it. Let’s pull the stopper out of the bottle and see what pours out. I’ll try not to interrupt (much), but sometimes I just can’t help myself.

  1

  There are few sights more beautiful. For all of the spectacular sunsets along a beach, or vivid rainbows arcing over a mist-covered forest, or high mountain pastures exploding with wildflowers, nothing could compare to this. This embraced every breathtaking scene. Mother Earth, in all of her supreme glory, spinning in a showcase of wonder. No picture, no television image, no movie scene could ever do her justice. From two hundred miles up it’s spellbinding, hypnotic.

  Which made saying good-bye even more difficult.

  The ship sat still and silent in the cold, airless vacuum of space. It was a massive vessel, but against the backdrop of the planet below it appeared small, a child teetering at the feet of a parent, preparing to take its first steps. Soft, twinkling lights at the edges helped to define the shape which could not easily be described. Portions of it were boxy, others rectangular, with several curves and angles that seemed awkward. To an untrained eye it appeared as if it had simply been thrown together from leftover parts. In a way, that was true.

  Its dark, grayish blue surface was speckled by hundreds of small windows. Two hundred fifty-one pairs of eyes peered out, eyes mostly wet with tears, getting a final glimpse of home. Two hundred fifty-one colonists sealed inside, and not one over the age of sixteen.

  Their thoughts and feelings contained a single thread: each envisioned family members two hundred miles below, grouped together outside, staring up into the sky. Some would be shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun, unable to see the ship but knowing that it was up there, somewhere. Others, on the dark side of the planet, would be sifting through the maze of stars, hoping to pick out the quiet flicker of light, pointing, embracing, crying.

  Many were too ill and unable to leave their beds, but were likely gazing out their own windows, not wanting to loosen the emotional grip on their son or daug
hter so far away.

  The day filled with both hope and dread had arrived.

  With a slight shudder, the ship came to life. It began to push away from the space station where it had been magnetically tethered for two years. Inside the giant steel shell there was no sensation of movement other than the image of the orbiting station gradually sliding past the windows. That was enough to impress upon the passengers that the voyage had begun.

  Galahad had launched.

  After a few moments Triana Martell turned away from one of the windows and, with a silent sigh, began to walk away. Unlike her fellow shipmates’ eyes, her eyes remained dry, unable, it seemed, to cry anymore.

  “Hey, Tree,” she heard a voice call out behind her. “Don’t you want to watch?”

  “You won’t notice anything,” she said over her shoulder. “It might be hours before you can tell any difference in the size. We won’t have enough speed for a while.”

  “Yeah,” came another voice, “but you won’t ever see it again. Don’t you want to say good-bye?”

  Triana slipped around a corner of the well-lit hallway, and when she answered it was mostly to herself. “I’ve already said my good-byes.”

  With the entire crew’s attention focused on the outside view, she had the corridor to herself, and appreciated it.

  2

  The discovery of a new comet usually didn’t cause much reaction. Astronomers, both professional and amateur, would make a fuss, but the general population was rather immune to the excitement. What was one more in a catalog of hundreds?

  Yet this one was different. A rogue, named Comet Bhaktul after the amateur astronomer who had first spotted the fuzzy glow amid the backdrop of stars, was slicing its way towards the sun, and its path would cross just in front of Earth. Several early reports had sparked a brief panic when some astronomers wondered if the comet might actually be on a collision course, possibly impacting in the North Atlantic ocean. But soon it was confirmed that Earth would instead coast through the comet’s tail, an event that might cause some glorious nighttime light shows, but nothing more.

  Dr. Wallace Zimmer would later recall that for two days the sunsets were indeed brilliant. The horizon appeared to be on fire, with dark shafts of red light streaking upward. Comet Bhaktul’s particles at least provided a romantic setting for couples in love.

  The truth was that the particles were providing much more than that. They were delivering a death sentence to mankind. No one knew it at the time. Earth swung through the remains of Bhaktul and continued on its path around the sun, and life went on without missing a beat.

  Seven months later Dr. Zimmer pulled up a news report on the vidscreen in his office in Northern California. Just a blurb, really, but as a scientist he was immediately interested.

  The story called it an outbreak of a new flu strain. Not just a handful of cases, but dozens, and—this was what amazed Zimmer the most—not concentrated in one region. Most flu variations began in one part of the world and spread. Not this time. These reports were scattered across the globe, and yet the symptoms were all the same.

  The lungs were being attacked, it seemed. The only difference was how rapidly the illness progressed. According to the news story, some people slowly fell into the clutches of this new disease, with breathing difficulties and intense bouts of coughing that might last weeks or months. Others were hit more quickly, with paralysis of the lungs that brought on death in a matter of days.

  Dr. Zimmer looked at the clock and considered the time difference on the East Coast. Then he switched the vidscreen to phone mode and dialed up his friend at the Centers for Disease Control in Georgia.

  “Not much else to tell you besides what you’ve read,” Elise Metzer said to him. “Of course, hundreds of people have called claiming that it’s some form of germ warfare, and demanding an antidote. The conspiracy nuts are having a field day with this.”

  “What about other symptoms?” Zimmer said.

  “Well, we know that it’s attacking the lungs. Most every case begins with coughing, and eventually coughing up blood. But there’s also been a few mentions of blotchy skin, some hair loss even. That’s probably just each individual body reacting differently.”

  Elise scowled and added, “I don’t think the immune systems have any idea what’s going on, and they might each be interpreting the attacking agent in a different way.”

  “Well,” Zimmer said, “with only a few dozen cases I can see why there’s no real data yet.”

  “Uh … ” came the reply from Elise. “That story is a little outdated now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that this morning I heard there are already over a thousand cases, and growing.”

  Dr. Zimmer sat stunned. Before he could speak Elise ended the conversation by predicting that the next news report he heard would be front page and screaming.

  3

  I used to live in a box. Okay, maybe “live” is a poor choice. I existed in a box. And not a very big box, either. Just a small, metal container with patch bays, microchips and a mother of a motherboard. If you ask me about my first memory, I could tell you, but you’d start to nod off pretty quickly. It’s not an exciting tale: a string of ones and zeroes, a few equations, a bazillion lines of code, and a ridiculous sound that signaled when I was “online.” The ridiculous sound would have to go. Roy was a genius, but he had no sense of hip at all. Just look at his clothes.

  Roy Orzini put me together. He used to say that I was “his baby.” If that’s true, then I’ve got a few hundred siblings because Roy put an awful lot of computers together. My oldest brother was born in a cluttered bedroom just after Roy’s tenth birthday, and the little genius has been popping them out ever since.

  I’ll spare you the false modesty, however, and tell you right up front that I’m the masterpiece. The other kids were pretty good; a few of them have worked on the moon, Mars and a couple of research stations around Jupiter and Saturn. But I got the big assignment, the biggest ever. Roy’s pretty proud, and that feels good. I’m proud of him, too.

  These days I’m not in that cramped metal box anymore. I’m everywhere within the greatest sailing ship ever built, sailing to the stars.

  I like the new digs. I like the crew I’m sailing with. I like the challenge.

  Roy called me OC-3323. Remember, Roy is a geek.

  Everyone else calls me Roc.

  Triana sat at the desk in her room and placed a glass of water next to the picture of her dad. She bit her lower lip as images of her home in Colorado flashed through her mind, images of both joy and sadness. Thoughts of her dad came as well, which brought a burst of pain.

  She glanced at the few personal items that dotted the room. There was little that an outsider could have learned about the teenage girl from these clues. Essentials, really. One exception was the picture. Her dad, grinning that grin of his, the one that confessed to a bit of troublemaking behind the outer shell of responsibility. In the picture Triana was still twelve, riding piggyback on him, her arms clutched around his muscular chest, the tip of her head peering out from behind. His broad shoulders concealed all but the top of her head and her eyes—those bright green, questioning eyes. Any grin of her own was concealed, but the eyes conveyed infinite happiness.

  Picking up the picture, she ran her finger around the outline of her dad’s face, looking into his eyes. She wanted to talk with him. All of the fun times they had shared, all of the adventures … and yet it was simple conversation with him that she missed the most.

  Triana finally tore her gaze away from the photo and returned her attention to the open journal on the desk. Most people had given up writing by hand in favor of punching a keyboard, but Triana felt more of a connection the old-fashioned way. There was something about watching the words flow from her hand that gave vent to personal feelings she could never imagine on a computer. With items such as notebooks rationed severely, she allowed herself only a few paragraphs a day. It was enough
for her.

  She scanned the last few lines she had written, then took up her pen.

  It’s funny how such a turbulent world can look so peaceful from space. I know there are storms raging, wars being fought (still), fires burning, people dying … and yet it’s as if it’s all been sealed inside a bottle, and the stopper keeps all the sound inside. And me out. Earth is subsiding, slowly for now, but will soon become smaller and smaller until it disappears. Forever.

  She dated the entry then closed the notebook. After one more glance at her dad’s picture she called out to the computer.

  “Roc, how are we doing?”

  “Are you kidding?” came the reply from the screen. “Did you see that launch? Backed it right out of there without scraping the sides of the space station or anything. I’m sure you meant to congratulate me, but in all the excitement it slipped your mind. Congratulate me later.”

  Triana had trained with Roc for more than a year, and knew better than to spar with him.

  She said, “I’m assuming that means everything is running just fine. And the crew?”

  “Well, that’s another story. Heart rates are very high, respiration is above normal—”

  “Yeah. They’re crying, Roc. They’re leaving home,” Triana said, picking up the water glass. She took a long drink, then added, “By the end of the day things should start to calm down.”

  Roc was silent for a moment, then answered in a voice so lifelike it was hard to believe it came from a machine. “Although you might not believe it, Tree, I understand what you’re feeling. And I’m truly sorry for what had to happen.”

  Triana couldn’t think of anything to say to this. “Thanks” didn’t sound right.

  Roc waited another minute, then spoke again. “I hate to give you something to worry about already, but … ”