RIFT BREAKER
RIFT BREAKER
TRISTAN MICHAEL SAVAGE
First published 2014 by Magabala Books Aboriginal Corporation, Broome, Western Australia
Website: www.magabala.com Email: [email protected]
Magabala Books receives financial assistance from the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts advisory body. The State of Western Australia has made an investment in this project through the Department of Culture and the Arts in association with Lotterywest.
This manuscript was developed through the support of the State Library of Queensland’s 2013 kuril dhagun Prize which is part of the State Library’s black&write! Indigenous Writing and Editing Project.
Copyright © Text Tristan Savage 2014
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this publication may be reproduced by any process whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher.
Cover design Mark Thacker Big Cat Design
Cover illustration David Hardy © 2014
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Savage, Tristan Michael, author
Rift breaker/Tristan Michael SAVAGE
9781922142467 (paperback)
For young adults
Identity (Psychology) – Fiction
Space travelers – Fiction
Science fiction
Outer space – Fiction
A823.4
One
Two choices: go outside and weld a broken transmitter, or stay in the cafeteria and be pummelled by an ill-tempered amphibian. Milton’s boots dangled over the white, polished mess-room floor. His arms poked haplessly from the clenching fist of a gigantic webbed hand. His heart thumped rapidly — no doubt the amphibian could feel it, going by the smug look on its warty face.
‘I’ve got three-to-one on the frog,’ announced Tazman, leaping onto a nearby table, his tail whipping the air.
‘Will you shut up?’ Milton spat at Tazman in a whisper. The amphibian grunted, puffing its airbag of a throat. Its huge digits tightened on Milton’s body. ‘Oh not you,’ he said charmingly. ‘You can say whatever you want.’
The frog glared with unmoving purple eyes. ‘Thirteen gold on me,’ it croaked, wiping the smile off Milton’s face.
Milton’s fellow engineers, of varying size, shape and colour, crowded in, jangling tokens in a cacophony of hysterical interspecies chatter: ‘Hey, don’t let that Human boy fool ya, my money’s on him — I heard they can breathe fire.’ The scene was multispeciesism in its extremities. Fights broke out all the time.
Tazman leapt nimbly from table to table, crouching to gather bets. He was a hairless simian called a Freegu, half a head shorter than Milton and quite animated, considering the number of harghs he was expected to clock. He smiled cheekily with a slender face. His yellow skin was dotted with patches of brown and his pointed ears poked out from a lump of shaggy brown hair. His outfit consisted of baggy non-standard trousers and a faded, dark Nova Corp shirt with its long sleeves rolled to his elbows. Shoes were unneeded; his four-digit feet with opposable toes were tough enough.
He had a thin tail, almost as long as his body. It often wandered into inappropriate places, getting him into a lot of trouble. He swore it had a mind of its own — doubtful claim, yet one he could sell to anyone. With Tazman, the truth was always relative.
Milton couldn’t understand Tazman’s concept of friendship. Tazman probably couldn’t either. They were pals every other day, but just when Milton was getting comfortable on the Reconotyre, this happened. Really, he didn’t mind that the amphibian had taken his steak, considering the muscle mass of his slimy crewmate.
Apparently the compromise, to Tazman, was unsatisfactory, and he had made it his business to let the amphibian know with a projected wad of brown foodstuff, which was currently oozing down the amphibian’s back. Apparently the amphibian wasn’t making a compromise either.
A deafening roar silenced the chaos. The crew turned their attention to a hairy and well-groomed beast with a data board in his left paw. His neatly pressed Nova Corp uniform meant he was from the upper levels. In a language Milton could only just make out, the creature called for a volunteer to go outside and repair a broken transmitter tower.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Milton, his arms and legs still dangling like a children’s toy. ‘No problem.’
Before Milton could gather his thoughts, he was rushed through the Reconotyre’s engineering levels doing his best to decipher the growling dialogue of the Nova Corp superior. The problem antenna was in danger of breaking off and needed urgent welding repairs.
They walked to the giant double doors of the hangar. Milton punched in the keypad code. The hairy guy slapped him on the back and left.
The doors opened with a hiss. Heavy, yet-to-be-greased mechanical chains ground against the spiked wheels inside the walls. Nothing was graceful or elegant about the Reconotyre; everything had to make toilful noises of exertion.
Down in the hangar, a cargo loader fastened its clamps to a supply crate. The driver, with a cigar between his tusks, hit the rig’s breaks to let Milton pass, giving a friendly nod with smoke wafting from his nostrils. Milton gave him a grateful wave and scurried past the forked clamps.
The peaceful silence and homely smell of engine oil was a relief after the mess hall. The yellow-striped repair pods waited in a darkened alcove of designated parking bays. Milton crossed to the one he believed to be the safest.
The compact vehicle was equipped with an array of specialised tools. Its body was mounted between two sets of electromagnetic tracked wheels and had a number of robotic arms folded along the sides.
The front visor of the solo cockpit was a tinted dome; Milton caught his reflection. He had the same messed-up black hair and lost brown eyes as last time, but was looking a tad pale since leaving the sunlight of his homeworld. His was one of only a few Human faces he’d ever seen. Scanning technology told him he was approximately a quarter of the way through his life cycle. But he had no way of knowing his exact time of birth; he and his family held the traditional annual celebration in accordance with the day they found him.
Milton secured the zipper of his hand-me-down engineer’s vest, which he wore over his red insulated t-shirt. His khaki, faded, oil-stained trousers had pockets all over them. The boots he was proud of; his adopted uncle back home on Stoneia had given him the money to buy them. They were well fitted and tailor-made for Human feet.
Milton climbed into the pod. Reaching between his legs, he pulled the adjustment lever and the padded seat slid forward double its length. Some of the guys on staff were huge. He pulled both sides of the cross-strap around his chest and coupled the link. Above, a row of switches lined the inside of the visor; he reached up and flicked them all. The engine beneath hummed to life.
He was familiar with driving heavy machinery, a legacy of growing up on a mining colony. The chassis bounced and shivered as the motor heated. Out of habit, he loosened his fingers and gripped the steering device tightly before pressing the accelerator pedal, jolting the machine from the alcove and into the light. He manoeuvred through piles of cargo and swung into position before the airlock. The pod’s engine noise flared and sank, preparing itself for the task ahead.
He pushed a red button overhead and the large inner doors of the airlock opened with the hollow chunky noise of side cogs turning. When the doors came to a halt, a high-pitched skid of rusty metal echoed through the hollow. He put the pod into gear and drove inside. He relaxed in the seat. The door c
losed behind, sealing him in darkness.
He sighed as the depressurisation sequence began. He was still a little anxious and he contemplated different ways he could avoid the amphibian. He thought of potential hiding places and imagined crewmates who might help. How good was an amphibian’s memory anyway? Maybe it would have forgotten the incident. The outer door began to open and the sight crashed into his train of thought. A band of thick, fluctuating stars dominated the neon-blue glow of the sky. This particular nebula was in the outer rim of the galaxy.
The tracked wheel pads emitted a magnetic rattling hum. Milton accelerated onto the maintenance platform, which then slowly flipped out and levelled itself with the Reconotyre’s blood-red shell.
Milton looked up and smiled in awe at the full-fledged front-row view. This is what life was supposed be about — exploring new sights and experiences — and not trapped on that backwater planet he called home. Displays on the screen showed the direction of the transmitter. He shifted the gear lever and the pod lurched onward.
Milton had only been aboard for a quarter zircle and had begun pondering whether he should sign up for another. He wouldn’t go back to Stoneia in a hurry but he still secretly loved it. The fringe-world mining colony was the only place where he wasn’t a stranger.
His talent for heavy machinery had benefited the community and it was recognised by a Nova Corp recruitment unit passing through. His adopted family had encouraged him to leave and now he was a long way from home. Nova Corp was a great opportunity for travel and adventure — he knew it was. But the itch to be somewhere else frequently crawled over him.
The forest of retractable transmitters appeared and he drove between the pylons, leaning forward and looking up at the damage. One of the towers leaned into its neighbour. The light at the top had shorted, and snapped cable elements floated messily about with the threat of a tangle.
The tower was five times the height of the repair pod. Three of its supports were detached and its arms reached for oblivion. Either a dense chunk of debris had struck or the joints had simply worn away.
After finding the optimal position, Milton reached for two handles on each side of the ceiling and eased them down together. The pod’s robot arms unfolded with a hollow click. He worked their controls and the arms copied his movements. He pushed his right hand forward and, with a turn of his wrist, the clamps closed onto the transmitter’s wandering supports. He drew back, slowly and skilfully dragging the tower downwards.
The frame tilted upright and, stretching out a third arm to stabilise, he slotted the broken joint into place. Fixing the handles above him, he let them go to grasp another set in front. A heavy welding arm extended from the top of the pod. Its thick housing protected gas tanks inside.
A second protective visor closed like an eyelid across the forward pane and darkened the view. Once secure, the welding flame burst to life and the shapes outside became visible again. The flame burned huge. In an atmosphere the chemical torch would be as loud as an afterburner, but space welding yielded a mere hiss. He found welding in space relaxing. The flame, however, consumed a lot of energy and losing track of fuel levels was easy.
Milton watched closely. The crack began to gel. He couldn’t help but think how different he was from the rest of the crew; how he enjoyed the quiet, how he could use a great many of his free harghs pondering. How else was a Human supposed to behave? The mocking instruction he received from other crewmembers wasn’t helpful.
He had heard stories of worlds that were home to billions of creatures. So far Milton had only seen a few space colonies on the outer rim. He couldn’t imagine what a full-blown city would be like. The isolated rural life suited him.
The metal grew red hot. The split was fused and he shut off the torch. The result of his weld was a fine, seamless column of rapidly cooling slag. He shifted the pod and welded the next one. He had trouble with the last. He had to heat the metal, straighten it, then wait for the leg to cool before finally reattaching. When the welding was finally finished he fastened restraints on each transmitter leg. By this time a good two harghs had passed.
He reversed to get a better look at what he’d achieved. The tower was straight and narrow again. He leaned forward and activated the battered computer. The grimy screen lit the cockpit. He wasn’t completely sure how to do this part but he would give it a go. He accessed the tower controls and punched in the command to retract. A heavy, soundless vibration shook the surface of the ship and the tower began to sink. Milton smiled; he was finally getting the hang of things.
After tucking away the robotic arms, he put the pod in forward gear, turned, and headed back to the airlock. As the other towers around him sank back into the ship, his thoughts turned again to how he was going to survive the rest of the shift without being beaten or killed.
He arrived at the airlock and parked on the movable platform. The outer doors below him were sealed. He pushed the red button. They didn’t move.
He tried repeatedly with no response. Maybe the engineers were plotting against him. This might be his punishment for backing down.
He picked up the mouthpiece and spoke. No answer. He searched the channels and found nothing but static. He tried the red button again with the same result.
Well, this was annoying.
Milton cursed and unbuckled the cross-strap. The green glow of the fogged computer screen flickered below him. A thought passed. He leaned forward and wiped off the screen’s dust and dew. Recalling his memorised list of essential commands, he used the keypad to bring up the ship’s schematic. He summoned his location, ran a search and found the position of the nearest access hatch, which, he estimated, would take him forty quanuts to reach.
‘Okay then,’ he said, clicking the strap back on. ‘We’ll do it your way.’ He gritted his teeth and crinkled his brow, violently shifting the gear and pulling away from the doors with navigation systems fixed on the alternate access hatch.
Fifty-seven quanuts later, he came to the rusty opening. After throwing back the cross-strap, he twisted back onto his knees and felt along the wall behind the seat. Every repair pod had a standard issue spacesuit with magnetic boots. He found the handle to the compartment and opened the drawer. A small light clicked on. Five insects fluttered out of the damp storage space. Fantastic. Milton grabbed the folds of the greying material, pulling out the torso section to find that it was way too big. He looked down the neck hole and paused before raising the equipment to his nostrils. The smell forced him back.
Suiting up was no easy task in the confined space. He bunched the tubing of the sleeves as much as he could and still his fingers barely made it through to the glove. He laid the bulky leg pieces over the controls and leaned back on the seat as he slid though. The magnetic boots, if boots were the appropriate name, were wide and generic enough for the multiple species that constituted the engineering fraternity. Milton didn’t have to take off his own footwear to use them. He secured the helmet over the neck hole, only to have the bulky thing lean awkwardly against his head, with the edge of the visor overlapping half his face.
After double-checking with the suit’s unit tester that everything was sealed, he held the headpiece straight and pulled a triangular sequence of emergency levers positioned around the pod’s visor. With a loud hiss, the forward pane swung out on its hinge. Sound disappeared. Only his breath remained. The insects flicked their wings uselessly, tumbling out past Milton’s visor.
He floated out and touched a control on his wrist. The magnetic boots vibrated and clung to the ship. One foot over the other, he steadily marched to the circular hatch handle. Gripping with both hands, he forced the wheel anticlockwise. He felt a click and the hatch swung inward. Milton sighed, shaky with relief.
He stepped inside. Before he could fix his footing, he felt himself being overcome with the Reconotyre’s artificial gravity; he was upside down. His head landed hard on the floor and the rest of his body collapsed awkwardly. The sudden weight pinned him; his magnet
ic boots flung to opposite walls of the cramped space. He turned and shifted inside the one-person airlock, pressing his elbow on the rim of the hatch and slamming it closed.
In the dark Milton fumbled to get upright. He found a keypad and activated the pressurisation sequence. Vents opened and filled the compartment. The hiss started quiet and intensified as soundwaves materialised. Milton became part of the ship again. He turned the locking wheel on the inner door; it clicked and creaked opened to a dark hallway.
‘Finally,’ he cried. He tried to step forward, but his foot gave resistance. He sighed and pressed the button to deactivate his boots. On his first step, he tripped forward and landed face first into the floor grate. His helmet muffled his enraged growl. He unfastened the neck clamps, tore off the helmet and threw it against the wall. It crashed and the sound echoed down a deserted corridor.
Milton dragged himself to the middle of the hallway and rolled over. A light rush of cool air blew against the drops of sweat on his face and scalp. Overhead, a white light pulsed on and off weakly. He breathed and watched the faint glow rise and fall. Then, remembering his induction, he suddenly realised … the bulb was the emergency lighting.
He heaved himself into a sitting position. The lights spanned all the way down the passage, which was large enough to accommodate small vehicles. The ceiling and floors consisted of rust-coloured metal grates through which paths on other levels could be seen. Scanning above and below, he couldn’t see any movement. Something was definitely wrong. The hallways should have been full of activity.
He leaned forward, pulled off the magnetic boots and stood. When he got his balance, he tucked the helmet under one arm, boots under the other and started walking.
To preserve power, the emergency lighting only provided enough to see vague shadows — another brilliant idea from Nova Corp. Milton’s path was dully revealed only momentarily. The hollow metallic thud from his boots echoed back at him. Other than that, the passage remained dead silent. He could hear his heartbeat through the heavy suit.
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