Rara, my clone and I guided our ship toward the bright spot reflecting the Dei system sun. We first picked up its “tip, tap” vibrations while patrolling the adjacent starfield’s Yaoeg moons for pirates. Our commander agreed to an investigation. There were no previous reports of vibrations in the vicinity.

 

Analysis proposed that a hollow object of Plexiglas or carbon fibre alternately impacted a solid, multi material surface (tip), and a metal surface (tap) inside a sealed unit.

 

The sound from actual vibrations broadcast through my headset, a rarity in space. My clone, Rara and I communicated telepathically or, with our commander one light year distant, through text. Sound signals from our equipment were digitally generated.

 

Scans confirmed the object was a stationary human-made single person vehicle, holding position in orbit of the Hannishimou home planet. They were not a flight species and would not have known they had a visitor.

 

Transcripts said there had never been human contact, only peripheral observation 200 log calendars ago. The Similitti living on the next planet from Hannishimou reported their attempts at contact. These had failed due to the incompatibility of communication apparatus. (Hannishimou sensory appendages verses Similitti chemical receptors.)

 

We established orbit beside the TipTap, as we referred to the vehicle, and scanned for life. Nothing. After ten minutes TipTap’s com system sent an identifier code. Transcripts verified it’s age: 200 log calendars old, part of the mission to observe the Hannishimou. This vehicle had gone missing without a trace. The family of the lone scientist aboard had been compensated and the case closed.

 

Rara helped with the lengthy process of strapping, priming, and securing the many bits and pieces of equipment to protect me against spacitis (exposure to vacuum, sub-Kelvin temperatures etc.)

 

All the while, the “tip, tap” continued in our headphones.

 

Vehicle's 200 log C’s ago were not designed for space transfer. They loaded and unloaded in-atmosphere. I thought about ripping it open like a tin can but we had to deliver the hulk preserved intact to our commander. He would organize a team to probe it. I was not paid to wonder what good it would do to solve a 200 log C mystery. Our ship’s transporter had a protocol for older vehicles.

 

I wanted to call out, “Hello? Anybody home?” Which is the stupidest thing to say in a tomb.

 

Rara laughed and told me to expect a pile of freeze dried skin and bones if the scientist had remained on his ship. Most likely he landed on the surface. Maybe he was food for the Hannishimou, or a god. But his ship still orbited.

 

The command bay doors opened. A sphere about 3 metres radius hurled past. I jumped back. The sphere reached the end of the command bay, bounced off a wall dashboard full of switches and buttons, and returned, just as the analysis had predicted. It traveled at a constant speed. At the other end, it hit a metal door.

 

During three rotations I scanned it and waited for Rara to report.

 

“Stasis pod. Still operational. Contains one human male.”

* * *

 

Gnanatwain, my clone and I connected the stasis pod to our ship’s life support system.

 

Analysis concluded that excessive deterioration meant that the man must be removed immediately. We began the voyage back to his originating base: Earth.

 

While he “thawed” in the decompression/isolation chamber we speculated on why the pod had started swinging back and forth inside the TipTap. An aberration in the program, undetectable 200 log C’s ago but manifesting after being run for that length of time was our best guess. Or it used the sentience of the man to devise a call for help. We didn’t know if equipment that old had that kind of capacity.

 

His fingers fluttered first. Scans ruled out brain damage. Ten percent tissue decay meant he had aged ten years. His skin sagged around his grizzled, pock marked jowls.

 

His legs jittered and shook on the stretcher. His head repeatedly turned from one side to the other, reminiscent of the sphere ricocheting off the inside of his vehicle.

We administered anti seizure medication. He calmed.

 

His eyes opened wide and his mouth gaped at the ceiling. He sat up too quickly and flopped over. The elastic stabilizers repositioned him on the stretcher. They were not restraints. He sat up more slowly, holding his head. Raspy gasps came from his mouth.

 

Gnanatwain took her sleep shift while I watched the man gain control over his limbs. As soon as he could stand, he ripped out the feeding tubes and IV lines in his arms. He observed me and began to beat on the glass walls of the chamber, first with his fists, then with his head. He screamed. I tried several old-Earth protocols to communicate and concluded that he spoke gibberish.

 

By the time my clone took watch shift, the man hurled himself back and forth from one wall to the next. The chamber was round so his trajectory changed with each impact. Without the IV we could not administer a sedative.

 

We tried soothing music and poetry. We debated whether projected images of Earth as it was would calm him, or images as we knew it would prepare him for reentry.

 

Two sleep shifts from Earth the man uttered a recognizable sentence. “They’re gone.” He made an ululation in his throat like a giggle, clapped his hands and wept. He repeated the sentence and thrashed against the sides for the duration of our voyage.

 

Our commander relayed the diagnosis during our next pirate hunt. “Insanity prior to stasis. Permanent. Incurable. Great, great grandchildren grateful for a good story to tell around the dinner table.”

 

We never learned why the vehicle disappeared, let alone why it reappeared. Insanity is always a risk in space. Couples do better.