Alien Impulses

"Not exactly five-star, is it?" I said, with a chuckle, taking my seat.

The computer's voice started up, a little annoyed. "The Phoenix was modified for use in order to keep you alive for forty years and then safely enter the Earth's atmosphere and land in one of its lakes. It is not designed to furnish luxurious accommodation or sumptuous food." I couldn't help laughing, but felt the need to apologise.

"OK, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. What's for starters?"

"Cream of mushroom soup". The replicator did its work, invisibly as always, and a steaming bowl of creamy soup emerged in the output tray. I transferred it gingerly to my makeshift table and brought out the spoon from the dining kit attached to the wall. The soup was outstanding and I ordered three more bowls before the computer reminded me that this was the first starter of several.

"Am I not going to get really full doing this?" I asked, still getting used to the idea of communicating with a computer.

"Take these", it seemed to demand, and six orange pills emerged from the replicator. "They are metabolic stimulants. Your digestive system will operate at 4000% its normal capacity and processing rate. This will have certain consequences, but you will be able to take in nourishment at a much accelerated pace."

I ordered a glass of ice water and downed the pills. Next out of the replicator was a plate of breaded shrimp with a Thai chilli sauce, not too spicy at this early stage. The batter was perfectly crisp and the shrimps were succulent and tender. The final starter was a range of crudités and dips -- mustard, thousand island and ranch -- which I demolished, relishing the fresh, vitamin-packed crunchiness of the vegetables, which managed to taste like they had been harvested only an hour before.

Then the entrees. A huge steak with all the trimmings. How they managed to make Dijon mustard, or indeed any of this, taste so real was quite amazing. Then thick, juicy pork chops with vegetables. And then a rich chicken stew, packed with flavour and stocked with great chunks of potato and carrot.

I took a moment. I had been eating for about two hours, at quite a leisurely pace, and according to the computer had put away over 14,000 calories. This, it revealed, was about 20% of my expected intake during the waking process, which must be complete before we began the burn to decelerate as we approached the Earth. I visited the bathroom once more and returned to find an enormous slice of chocolate gateau, laced with cognac and piled with cream. I destroyed it in moments. This was followed by a similarly gargantuan portion of tiramisu, then just the biggest damn heap of ice cream I ever saw.

I took a couple of hours' rest after all this, sipping a Brazilian coffee and checking over the readouts. I guess I must have dozed off, my first genuine sleep in forty years, because the computer woke me with more Bach, my favourite sections of the Christmas Oratorio and the joy of the Gloria from the Mass in B Minor. As the final measures of the Cum Sancto Spiritus faded away, the computer had a question.

"Are you ready for the psychological evaluation?" I answered that I was, and requested more information. "This is chiefly a test of memory and of psychological stability. This will enable us to assess whether you are ready to undertake the assignment on Earth."

'Assignment'? I had cooked up this whole scheme, and now somebody else was going to decide if I was 'ready' to go and save my planet? I felt a flash of anger. Who the hell else was going to do it? Who else knew what was coming? It was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard.

"I believe I am ready, but test me if you must", I said, plonking my empty coffee cup down on the panels with an irritated gesture.

"Where are we?"

Oh, hardest questions first, I see. "We're approaching the planet Earth. My home. The reason for this little escapade."

"Where have we come from?"

"Takanli", I answered, "by a roundabout route involving a trip to Numkli on the way to Jakalzzi, then Gaspiri, and then at near light-speed to Holdrian and thence to their science station where I entered the worm hole vortex and was brought back to 1967. Since then we've been on a course between the vortex location and the Earth." I paused, satisfied with myself. "Good enough?" I asked with a self-confident flourish.

The machine ignored my protests. "And what is your mission?"

Jesus, this was fucking retarded. "To stop the acceleration of environmental damage caused by human activity, and then to repair the damage already done. Also, to reduce the chances of global conflict by addressing resource problems and certain damaging elements of the market-driven economic system." I folded my arms.

"Describe the workings of the Chrono-Travel vortex."

That's better. A test, at last. I laid it out as best I understood it. The computer had a couple of points to make, fine-tuning my reply. I agreed. Then, "describe in terms of Special Relativity how certain types of engine can propel a small mass past the speed of light." I gave this one a good try, too. Again, the machine had some interesting observations. We were getting along a lot better.

This continued for four hours, in a most engaging way. I hadn't used my brain in forty years and this was just the kind of exercise I needed. We talked about aspects of physics and spaceflight, obviously, and then moved onto more theoretical discussions of the nature of matter, its relationship with energy and the confirmation of the existence of a detectable, formative particle which made up both. We talked about the inner workings of the replicator. We even brushed up elements of the plan to help the Earth.

In the middle of this brain-food session, the computer judged me ready for my second meal. We pushed on with an Asian theme. Steaming Chinese dumplings were followed by endless bowls of rice as dishes came streaming from the replicator and were summarily demolished. Spicy chopped eggplants. Fluffy egg and tomatoes with garlic. Thick, green spinach leaves, quick-fried with pork. Chicken with cashews. Bacon and mushrooms, all with modest levels of Sichuan spices. Endless cups of excellent green tea washed it down.

There was a pause after these numerous entrees while the computer quizzed me on human biology, evolution, various environmental cycles and the science of Earth's current problems. I had a good handle on everything, it seemed.

"No further learning will be required on these subjects. However, stored with the portable computer you will take on this mission is a Red Cube prepared by Bassar and Cyto. This will provide invaluable knowledge. There is a condition, however." I listened intently. "You may only access this Red Cube when you judge, in your own experience, that mankind would be ready for the results. You know the kind of thing to expect."

I nodded, understanding what the computer meant. I would have to be very careful about all of this. We had strategies already, some of them massively ornate, for keeping certain secrets from my fellow man. They weren't ready. I knew this to be true. Avoiding chaos wasn't the only reason, though -- I needed peace and time to get these things done. It wouldn't do to draw too much attention to ourselves, certainly not at first.

My third meal was ready by the time this final session of discussions was over. I enjoyed talking to the computer. Apart from the obvious attraction of company after so long asleep, and particularly out here in deep space at three time the speed of light, the Computer seemed socially gifted. We even seemed to communicate in much the same way, handle questions in a similar fashion, express ourselves with a similar grammatical structure and vocabulary. I came to believe, and I wasn't wrong as it turned out, that this machine had been given a personality specifically designed to coalesce with my own. The computer was intended to become my friend.

My final replicator meal (at least for now, I thought), was to prepare me for English cuisine, such as it is. Dover sole, garden salads, roast beef with Yorkshire puddings, vegetables and gravy, full-scale fish and chips with tartar sauce, all the old favourites. For dessert there was sherry trifle, then bread and butter pudding, and finally rice pudding with a huge dollop of raspberry jam in the centre. My mother couldn't have made better.

I took another nap in the pilot's seat. Having hit 40,000 calories and more, a little digestive sleep was probably in order. The ship continued on its inexorable approach to my own solar system. I had about six hours' solid sleep before the Computer woke me once more, this time Handel's Water Music. We were only an hour from the burn. I had to get ready.

There was little physical work to do, but plenty of mental preparation. Decelerating from this speed, irrespective of the 18 hours it was going to take, was a taxing process for both the ship and its passenger. As we came back through the barrier into sub-light speed, there would a range of odd effects. I had the option to sleep through them again, in a truncated version of stasis, but decided to experience this ride for myself.

I tidied up the compartment and stored everything away, strapping down whatever would float away once we lost gravity as the ship ceased its roll. I checked all the systems and asked for a full diagnostic from the computer. Everything was fine. As the countdown to the burn proceeded, I strapped myself into the pilot's seat and enjoyed the easing off of all weight and pressure as the roll stopped and microgravity returned.

The engines started their gentle, 14% thrust. We had turned in space so that the engines now pointed in the direction of flight, thrusting against our outrageous speed and bringing us back to within the classic laws of physics. I kept an eye on the engines, snacking on potato chips and bags of pork crackling (guess the calories don't matter now, I mused to myself) and took the occasional nap as our speed dropped past 2C. Outside, we were passing through, or rather over, the Oort cloud. This unexplored region consisted of millions of tonnes of free-floating ice, in the form of icy asteroids and cometary start-up material. We left this zone behind and pressed on to the outer solar system, streaking past the orbits of the outer planets.

Only two hours to go and we were precisely on course, not for the Earth at first, but to join up with the shower of rock and debris left behind by a comet. These rocks, on a predictable, annual cycle, would encounter the upper atmosphere of the Earth and streak into the atmosphere, visible for thousands of miles. This meteor shower would be slightly different to the others, I chuckled to myself, in that it would carry a passenger home. There were those who believed in Panspermia, the concept of life arriving from other planets, perhaps in a meteor shower like this. Well, they had got it right on this occasion.

We approached 1C and things got weird quickly. Time seemed to do the strangest things. A motion of my hand which seemed quick to me actually proceeded glacially across my field of vision, which was itself becoming stretched and distorted, like I had walked into a hall of mirrors. My legs seems to stretch out from my hips, and my feet to disappear through the front of the ship, which itself had become an endlessly progressing point in space, moving outward, onward, with a life and energy of its own. It was like I had been placed on the Medieval rack, as had the whole ship, and we were both being stretched.

I tried to calm myself with the knowledge that these were almost purely visual phenomena, and that the ship and myself were in fact doing well as we decelerated to under 1C for the first time since leaving Holdrian forty one years earlier. As our speed dropped, the phenomena trailed away, my feet returned to their regular position and my vision seemed normal once more. We were crossing the orbit of Jupiter but were many billions of miles away -- both this gas giant and the other, Saturn, were on the far side of the system as we approached it. The sun, however, was making its presence felt. It was already a coin-sized blur of light in the canopy window, and on camera it was a seething mass of boiling gas. It seemed almost too close for comfort, but I remembered that the closest we would come would be 93 million miles. When I landed in the lake.

"Picking up Perseids material", the computer announced. We were joining the stream of suicidal rock particles which had an appointment with Earth. Once our speeds equalised, and we were trundling along at a paltry 0.0004C, the computer announced that our flight track was perfect and that the deceleration procedure had been flawless. It is always nice to hear these things from one's supercomputer, particularly after such a journey. The relief was immense.

There was a hour to get ready, before our entry into the atmosphere. I floated out of the pilot's seat and over to the storage racks. The three suitcases waited patiently. Beneath them were a set of draws which slid out to reveal a pair of comfortable, outdoors trousers, a white t-shirt, a battered green fleece and a Gore-tex jacket. Precisely the clothes I had been wearing when I left the Earth. It was odd seeing them again, but nice to be reacquainted with some of my Earthly possessions. In other draws were my watch, a climber's model with altimeter and barometer. My belt was separate, so I slid it through the loops of my trousers. There was my wallet and car keys, and my backpack which contained only a litre of water, some energy bars, a map and compass, and my cellphone.

I ordered a few things from the replicator and stowed them in my bag -- more water, juice and some snacks for the cold wait on the beach. Another storage rack contained a telescopic fishing pole and a bag of fishing gear. I added these to the backpack and closed it up tightly. Finally, I donned all of my Earth clothes, down to my wallet and watch, and pulled on the exposure suit. This was like a spacesuit, but much simpler, and could be pulled on straight over my head. Double-layer zips extended down the legs, and I made sure these were secure. Finally, I checked the air source, which fed into a scuba-style regulator, and returned to the pilot's seat. Phoenix had turned and the Earth now filled the window the first time.

My heart leapt in my chest. The sight was so familiar, from a thousand documentaries and some gorgeous prints on the wall of my study at home. The continents were laid out, like a map. We were passing over California at an altitude of perhaps 3000 miles, descending steeply alongside the chunks of rock which would hide our entrance. As we passed over Colorado, and then the Eastern seaboard, the computer made its final checks.

"Prepare for atmospheric entry." I checked my seat straps, glanced back into the cabin to make sure everything was where it should be, and stared straight ahead at the Atlantic. We seemed destined to plunge straight into it. Our altitude had fallen to only 200 miles and was diminishing rapidly. In front of me, I could see the first flashes as our companion rocks began to enter the thicker part of the atmosphere and glow red-hot, shedding fragments of rock and a trail of smoke as they went. At 80 miles altitude, our nose was pointed directly at the most southerly tip of Ireland. Phoenix was heating up like a steak on a barbecue, her leading edges glowing red, with a storm of super-heated plasma breaking on the canopy, washing over me. But the ship held firm.

At 30 miles altitude, most of the rocks were blasted to fragments by the intense heat, and their glowing largely ceased. Some small, yellow streaks ahead of us indicated where the most stubborn rocks were making a last stand against the friction of re-entry, surrendering their last material only a few miles above the surface. But there was one member of the meteor shower which refused to die. Streaking across the night sky, Phoenix was precisely on course as her nose tipped up and we angled south, wing surfaces biting into the thickening air.

"Twenty seconds", the computer informed me. We could see lights beneath us, ships in the Irish sea and then the first villages on the Welsh coast. There was a light house, clear as crystal, its beam circling itself. Black shapes loomed in the middle distance -- the hills of Snowdonia, I knew -- and our target lay in a deep valley between them.

"Ten seconds". Most of the noise of re-entry had ceased, and we were now a silent, gliding shape, heading down a valley, tilting slightly to the north and then pressing down towards the countryside. There it was. Starlight illuminated the lake, glistening off its surface, which was glassy smooth and black as jet. We crossed the shore at only 40 feet and then executed our final dive. At 3.30 in the morning, after a journey of nearly 140 light years, the Phoenix slid almost silently into the lake.

Blackness covered everything. I knew that the lake was deep enough that the decelerating Cruiser would come to a floating stop before hitting the bottom. There was quite a lot of noise, water moving over the control surfaces and probably a lot of steam generated by the super-hot engines and leading edges, but this all happened under water. As far as an observer was concerned, depending on how quickly their eyes had caught the shape of the Cruiser, an object of indeterminate size had fallen out of the sky and plunged, without fanfare, into the lake. We settled out, became buoyant at a depth of around 100m, and floated placidly in the dark waters.

I put my head in my hands for a long moment and just breathed. I was home. Alright, I was floating around deep in a Welsh lake, but it was an Earth lake. That had been Earth's atmosphere, and her continents. The villages we had flew over, silent as a bird, had been filled with sleeping people from my own planet. I felt the most enormous surge of gratitude, to what I couldn't say, but I directed it towards the Holdrian scientists, my friends on Takanli and on the Daedalus, everyone I had met on my journey. But now I had a new journey to begin.

I sat in the pilot's seat for as long as I dared. There was much to do, I knew, but I needed this moment to accept where I was, to dwell briefly upon the journey I had taken. There would be more time for this, but this initial conversation with myself, and comprehension of my surroundings, was critical. I wondered how it was going to feel, emerging from the lake and seeing the green grass, forbidding crags and familiar roads and paths of the National Park. Only one way to find out, I reasoned, and time was pressing on.

"Preparations for EVA are complete." The Computer was all business when it mattered. I brought out my lectern and ran down my personal checklist. Everything was in order -- clothes, exposure suit, gear. The suitcases were roped together and attached to a clip on the belt of my exposure suit. My rucksack fitted into a sealed, plastic bag which would keep it dry. Everything seemed ready.

"Thanks", I offered to the Computer. In response, it simply began the 'Hallelujah Chorus'. Chuckling, I hauled all the gear behind me and manoeuvred myself into the ship's airlock. Closing the door behind me and checking the seal, I glanced around at my gear, then pushed the button which would equalize with the outside conditions. These were normally a cold vacuum. Here, they were a dark and watery. As the water began to fill the airlock I felt the familiar, automatic concern one always feels when faced with rising water. I'm going to drown. But I had faith in my equipment, I thought to myself, putting the regulator in my mouth and breathing deeply. Its only for a few seconds. We'll be fine.

The water reached my chest. I couldn't feel its cold through the amazing material my suit was made from. My suitcases and the plastic bag containing my rucksack began to float up around my knees, and then around my shoulders as the airlock filled completely. The only moment of nervousness was when the water rose up to the level of my mouth, describing a line on the visor of the exposure suit. I just closed my eyes for that part, concentrated on breathing normally, and then opened them again to release the outer hatch.