Transformation Protocol

by David M. Kelly

  I got back to work. There's an old saying in engineering, at least as old as the invention of indoor plumbing. Conduit: Everywhere you want to be. The next piece came out relatively easily, and I could almost see the distribution junctions I needed to tap into. I sensed movement and looked up to see Logan shuffling down the ladder toward me.

  "To what do I owe this honor?"

  "Figured somebody better check your work," he said, dropping the last couple of rungs to land next to me.

  "If you came to apologize again, there's no need." It was true, at least in the sense that his apology couldn't make me feel better. I pointed at the open panel. "I'm almost at the control circuits."

  Logan ignored my gesture. "Nevertheless, I am sorry, Joe. About everything that you've been through."

  "How's the weather outside? Still sunny?"

  He laughed. "For the next few billion years or so."

  "Then we're good."

  "Are you sure you're up to this?" Logan's voice was a low growl. "I could arrange transport for you back to Earth from Mars."

  He was giving me a chance to walk away. To crawl back into my own little pit and never come out again. Part of me wanted that so badly I could almost taste it, but somewhere buried deep inside, another part of me didn't.

  "And miss all the fun?" I slapped his shoulder. "Besides, it'd be a shame to waste my newfound sobriety."

  Logan didn't laugh this time. He examined my face, his eyes seeming to slice through me as though he could see my very soul. "Only you can decide the journey you take, Joe. That's how it always is. The future's like floating down a river—we never know what's around the next bend."

  "With my luck, it'll be straight over a waterfall." I shrugged. "Right now, we need to focus on getting this thing installed, so we can get on with our real journey."

  He nodded, apparently satisfied. "Let's do it." He started back up the ladder.

  "Hey, Logan?" I remembered my earlier conversation with Hernandez. "Did you okay the MilSec guys to tear up two of the cabins?"

  "Sure, why?"

  "Nothing, I guess."

  He laughed. "You could run a masterclass in suspicion, my friend. They needed some more space. It's not like we're short of it on this run."

  He was right. The Shokasta was large enough to carry thirty people in relative comfort, or perhaps fifty in a pinch, though it would mean sleeping in shifts or being more than good friends. So far, we hadn't had anywhere near a full complement onboard, and I was happy with that. For all I was used to living in cramped conditions, I enjoyed having the room.

  "You better get back to it," I said. "Otherwise I'll be done, while you and Aurora are still playing hide the plumb bob."

  "Care to place a bet on that?" He grinned.

  I'd never won a bet with Logan in all the years I'd known him, and it was pointless trying. "Sure, loser buys the scotch?"

  "Done."

  He left me with mixed emotions. It's painful to realize how far you've fallen. I'd hit rock bottom months ago and kept going down. Could I climb back up again with Logan's help? I picked up the pry bar that had gouged my hand. There was a trace of gore on the end, and I wiped it off. I didn't know what might be around that next bend, but I wasn't ready to give in yet.

  Chapter Six

  Three hours later, I'd dismantled the clutter and installed the new relay controllers. I couldn't do a real test on the system until the others had finished their work, but I made my way back up to the control room to run some preliminary logic checks using simulated data feeds. After that, I'd be able to reinstall the ductwork I'd removed.

  While the logic analyzer ran through the different control combinations, I listened to an Earth broadcast. I told myself I was curious if there was further news about the destroyed Atoll station, but in reality I was checking to see if there was more information about Paek.

  The main display was running the press conference featuring Porter Seckinger and General Eluise Mkandla, a mixed pair if ever there was and not only in skin color. They were so starkly contrasting they could almost have made a comedy duo. Seckinger was the typical vacuous politician complete with bad jokes and cheap suits. On the other hand, Mkandla always dressed in camo fatigues—usually unbuttoned to reveal both her ample chest and the ever-controversial sloganed t-shirts that were her trademark. Today's had a picture of a military assault rifle and the words "Peace Is Always a Stretch Goal."

  "How are off-Earth developments progressing, Minister?" a reporter asked from off-camera. "What's the USP's official position on the loss of the secret Wright Atoll?"

  "At the moment, we're working with the Atolls to clarify the details and identify how many of our citizens were there." Seckinger smiled, running his hand nervously through his mop of blond hair. "But it's misguided to suggest their base was a secret. It's a known scientific establishment and has been operating for almost two years."

  "Will the USP take action in retaliation for the death of USP citizens?"

  "We... that is, the Council of Ministers, have made no decisions on any action or response so far." Seckinger glanced at Mkandla before continuing. "But we are taking advice from MilSec as always in times like these."

  "General, are you anticipating any response?" someone else asked. "Will our troops see action?"

  Mkandla paused as if filling her lungs with enough breath to blow the entire press contingent out of her way, but when she spoke her voice was controlled and surprisingly gentle. "As Minister Seckinger stated, right now, we're trying to understand the facts. Any discussion of a military response is premature and inflammatory. Who should we respond against? The Atolls? It was their station. The PAC? Old Europe? United Africa? They all had personnel there. At this moment, we have nothing to indicate military action is needed. I suggest that those with calmer heads should advise the more excitable among us."

  "Is your shirt a comment on the current situation?" someone called out.

  Mkandla waved the question away. "It's a statement of fact. Now as much as any other time."

  The press loved needling people to make comments that could be manipulated and sensationalized. No doubt the headlines tomorrow would be full of speculation on Seckinger's "failure" to provide answers. I heard a noise and glanced over my shoulder. It was Hernandez, and I muted the broadcast.

  "Your boss looks like one tough lady." I locked the simulator test controls to make sure I didn't screw something up accidentally.

  He gestured at the news broadcast on the screen. "Anything new?"

  "Just a bunch of journalists blowing off hot air. They were trying to rattle Mkandla and the minister."

  "Fat chance of that." Hernandez crossed his arms. "You couldn't rattle her with a fusion bomb."

  "You know her?" I waved him to a spare seat.

  "Mostly by reputation." He sprawled back, crossing one leg over the other knee. "Came up the hard way. Unconventional, but tough as TiCaLam armor. They call her Carbide Mkandla."

  Aurore came in and walked over to her station. "What are you guys plotting?"

  "Hernandez was telling me about General Mkandla. Apparently she's a tough cookie and icier than Pluto."

  "Why is it that guys always see strong women as cold, while men are ruthless or ambitious?" Aurore said. "She's only doing what's necessary to survive."

  Aurore was right—men often characterized women that way. It was probably a defense mechanism because so many felt intimidated by strong women, but Mkandla's square-jawed appearance lent support to Hernandez's assessment.

  "Have you met her?" I asked him.

  He shook his head. "The only interest she has in guys at my level is gland-to-gland combat."

  "This is the best you guys can think of to discuss when I'm around?" Aurore shot us both a withering glance. "Grow up."

  "Only saying what I've heard," Hernandez shrugged. "Didn't say I like it. I'm not a saint. But that sort of thing screws up morale."

  Aurore finished her checks and marched toward the door
. "And I'm sure you'd say the same thing if it was one of the male officers."

  She left and Hernandez's face split with a grin. "Sorry, Ballen, I know she's your friend."

  "She knows me well enough not to be too disappointed." To be honest, I agreed with him. Relationships like that are poison in an organization—whatever the justification. "Were you looking for me?"

  "Logan, actually. We've got two SMPTs we'd like to put together and could use some help." My face must have betrayed my feelings because he held up a hand. "I know—you guys are busy. I only want to get it on the table."

  "I'm sure it won't be a problem once we've finished the ship updates." The truth was I was glad to hear we had them onboard. The Space Mobility Personnel Transports were the military equivalent of the Hoppers we used for construction projects but designed to accommodate more than one person. Depending on what we found, they could be invaluable. While the Shokasta was a marvel of technology, it wasn't the most maneuverable of ships. They'd give us a much greater range of flexibility in our operations. "I'll talk to Logan about scheduling them in after Mars."

  "I better check with him." Hernandez looked embarrassed. "He's the boss on this trip."

  His words felt like a slap in the face, but he was right and I tried not to let my annoyance show. "Go ahead."

  "There's one more thing."

  I waited for him to continue, wondering what else might be going on. As Logan said, I'm a suspicious SOB.

  "Do we know where we're going after Mars?" He made an all-encompassing sweep with his arm. "It's a big galaxy out there, and I'd like everyone to know what's coming up. Including my team."

  I leaned back in my chair. "You're right. Everyone should be in on the decision."

  "Huh?"

  "The truth is, unless Logan has more information than he's shared with me, we don't know where we're going."

  "But..." Hernandez scratched his ear. "I thought you guys had a plan."

  "We do. We just haven't figured out what it is yet."

  He looked at me as if I were insane, and he might have been right. "We should get everybody together after we finish up today. How about eight, ship's time?"

  Hernandez pulled back a little.

  "Don't worry. I'll clear it with Logan and get him to confirm it with you."

  "I'll make sure my team is on deck."

  *

  We were all in the wardroom while I reviewed what little we knew about the Sacagawea's planned journey. I'd spoken to Logan, and he'd pushed me into running the meeting even though he was the one in charge. I got the feeling he was still testing me, but it was hard to tell what was going on behind that hard-edged exterior of his.

  "What's the problem?" Grant growled, fingering his black mustache. "We know the planned route, so we follow it until we find them, no?"

  "That's one option," I said.

  "Not a good one." Logan looked around. "Our ship can't go any faster than the Sacagawea. If nothing's happened to them, we'd be on their tail all the way back to Earth. That's a ninety light-year wild goose chase."

  "How long?" Sullivan asked.

  Logan looked across to me.

  "Hard to say." I sucked on my tube of coffee. "A single ship in a star system is a very small needle in a very large haystack."

  "They'll have a military transponder," Hernandez said, his voice brashly confident. "That should let us find them pretty easily."

  "Assuming it's functioning." I rubbed my hand, trying not to scratch at the MediSkin patch. "If not, then it gets a lot harder. Aurore?"

  "If there's no transponder, we have to look for other signals. We'd pick up radio, though there are other sources that occur naturally. Searching for their heat signature is a possibility, but it's time consuming and not necessarily conclusive. Or we could travel a long distance to find them using parallax, but it would be almost impossible to tell the difference between a meteor, a comet, or a ship."

  "What's your best guess for checking a complete solar system?" I asked.

  "With the detection gear we have onboard and assuming no active signals from the ship"—Aurore looked around, then her confidence seemed to falter and she sighed—"a month, maybe more."

  "Their planned route touches eight systems. We can assume they aren't at Sirius. The Atolls have a station there with regular traffic. That leaves us with potentially eight months of searching."

  Sullivan groaned, burying his head in his hands. "Man, I had a date lined up."

  "The only date you had was with your right hand." Giotto smirked, suppressing a giggle. "What's your suggestion, Ballen?" she asked, ignoring Sullivan.

  "We take the reverse route from the Sacagawea and hope we find them somewhere along the way."

  "That could still make for a long journey." Hernandez sighed. "But I don't have any better suggestions."

  "What about those two extra-long Jumps?" Logan held his hands out palm up. "How are we going to tackle those?"

  I hadn't forgotten about them, but I didn't have a plan either. Even the thought of Jumping into open space made me shiver. "Let's hope we find out what happened before we get to that point."

  There was some general chatter after that, but no one came up with any better suggestions. After about thirty minutes, I decided it was time to call it a night.

  "I suggest everyone gets some sleep." I headed toward the door. "We'll be testing the CASTOR system tomorrow, and it might get rough."

  *

  My cabin felt especially empty. The warm orange glow from the lights offered a fake promise of comfort that they couldn't fulfill. I heard several of the others pass by, the thin walls letting the noise of footsteps through as I lay on the bed, staring at the featureless ceiling.

  I wanted a drink. Several. In fact, what I wanted was a whole skinful. Logan hadn't brought any, though, which I felt sure was a deliberate omission, and I'd been too embarrassed to say anything when I'd realized. I needed it now more than ever. Not to get high but to numb my brain. To switch it off so I didn't have to think about everything that had happened and how screwed up my life was—a mental anesthetic.

  Instead, I counted the pop-fasteners on the ceiling in the semi-darkness, imagining each one as another star that we might be visiting. So far, ships had only visited a handful of the closest systems. Even with the Jump drive, moving significant amounts of personnel and materials wasn't easy. The Atolls had set up several research stations, as had the USP. The PAC had their own missions, and nobody knew what the Corporates were up to—they only revealed operational details to their shareholders. No one had discovered a single world that was habitable without significant terraforming, which might be theoretically possible, but not in the near term. All the habitats in other systems were largely provisioned from Earth, except the Atoll ones. Not a very practical solution. The ferrying operations were an enormous undertaking, and even a small misstep could mean disaster.

  Again, the Atolls had the advantage. The basics of atmosphere generation and food production were routine with them, so once a new habitat was seeded it became self-sustaining almost right away. But for the USP and the PAC, it was much more involved, making stations dependent on a delicate thread of supply ships for many months.

  After a while, I forced myself to move. My thoughts were whirling around in tiny circles, and if I didn't do something to distract myself my head would implode. Either that or I'd fall asleep, and I couldn't let that happen. There was too much to do.

  I opened my console and created a new private project area. The transponder I'd installed with Giotto's dubious help had given me some ideas, and I needed to run some simulations to see if they were possible. I started by accessing standard engineering components, cherry-picking through the listings to provide the functionality I'd need. It was drudge work, to be sure but was detail-oriented enough to keep my mind busy.

  After about an hour, I had the first virtual prototype configured and programmed a set of standard boiler-plate testing routines designed to check ba
sic logic functions. It would take a while for them to run, but that was okay. I'd been keeping myself awake for a reason, and now seemed like a good time to scratch that particular itch.

  I slid the door to my cabin aside a few inches and listened. I couldn't hear anything other than the faint hum of background noise. When I felt confident no one was wandering around, I slipped into the corridor and made my way aft.

  As I approached the cabins where I'd seen Hernandez and the others working, I slowed, straining for the slightest sounds that might indicate the soldiers were around. Everything was quiet. I felt like a bit of an idiot hanging around in the half-lit corridor, as if I were some sort of pervy Peeping Tom. I had to know what they were doing in there, and more importantly what was in that box they didn't want me to get a look at.

  I forced my breathing to stay steady, pressing my ear against the cold, textured surface of the door. I couldn't hear anything and grabbed the handle to unlatch it. The lock snapped open, the noise sounding like a gunshot in the night, and I froze. I tried to swallow but couldn't and waited with my pulse banging in my ears like a rivet gun on overdrive.

  The door slid open noiselessly and I slipped inside, closing it behind me. The room was lit only by the dim safety lights around the floor, giving everything a ghostly appearance. I peered into the darkened corners of the room. Nothing appeared to be out of place, but that didn't mean anything. Various weight bars crowded one side, and a rack had been attached to one wall that looked like it held wooden swords, which seemed anachronistic considering the weapons they had available. Then I noticed another rack containing short, bulky service rifles more in keeping with what I'd expect. In one corner stood a resistance training exoskeleton similar to the standard ones we had onboard but heavier, and to the left of that I spotted it—the crate I'd seen Grant carrying.

  Kneeling next to it, I examined the outside of the crate. Nothing suggested what it held, and I reached out to pop open the locking hasps. The metal was cold against my fingers as I forced the latches up then lifted the lid. It was empty. I slumped. There must have been something in it. A weapon? The case was large enough to hold a substantial bomb, but if my suspicion was correct, where was it?