by C. Gockel
“Launch the escape pod,” Alaric ordered, eyes on the windows that wrapped around the front three-quarters of the bridge.
“Away,” said his ensign. There was a faint rumble within the Merkabah and a slight tremble of the deck, and then the pod appeared in the view screen.
“Launch the drones,” Alaric ordered.
“Done,” said one of his operators, and the drones powered into the pod’s wake without even a whisper.
“Charting them,” said a weere priest at the holo-table.
The archbishop said nothing, but he nodded at the priest’s words.
Alaric’s eyes slid to Lieutenant Young. The lieutenant, Sinclair, Trina, and Dr. Bower were the only Galacticans on the bridge. Young and Sinclair were needed to authorize the detonation of the Little Boys, and Young was in control of the suit within the escape pod that would hopefully show up on Time Gate 33’s scanners as a human heat source. Dr. Bower and Trina were present for their knowledge of Gate 33.
Young glanced up at Alaric and touched his temple, the sign that he was mentally connected to the suit within the escape pod and to his Little Boy. Sinclair did the same. Alaric’s jaw ground. They were using “the ether” in its most dangerous way for this mission—via a connection to a human mind and a machine’s mind. The archbishop had argued that since the Luddecceans had the ability available, they should use it. Alaric agreed, but defending the decision later would be difficult. Hence the signals of acknowledgment. No need to bring it to the attention of everyone on the bridge.
“Sir,” said Ran. “I’m detecting an energy signature rising from the atmosphere, approximately 143 kilometers from stern. It’s still beneath the cloud cover, and I can’t get a visual.”
Glancing at his monitor, Alaric knew it could only be a shuttle. “Dr. Bower, I was under the impression that the only usable vessel aboard Gate 33 was an escape shuttle.”
“It is. We destroyed the research shuttle before we left but couldn’t get to the escape shuttle. Still, the only weapon it might have are charges to drop on small quasi-satellites, like the ones they used on the surface.”
“It’s no match for us,” Ran said.
Trina said in a musing voice, “It’s the only vessel aboard me that is capable of traveling through the gate.”
Ran lifted his eyes to Alaric. “If we destroy it, couldn’t we delay their use of the gate?”
“By several months,” said Dr. Bower. “A pod could be modified to withstand time gate jumps, but it would take some time.”
“They’re in a rush to use the gate,” Alaric said. “Why would they risk their only available vessel…?” He glanced down at the holo. It showed the planet, Time Gate 33, and the gate’s visual range, the Merkabah, and a rough estimate of the shuttle’s position. The shuttle was approaching them, and its velocity was increasing. “They’re armed,” Alaric said, instantly certain. “Sound the alert.”
Alarms sounded in the hallway, even as the controller for the first signal relay drone said, “First relay buoy is in position.”
“How could they be armed?” Dr. Bower asked. “It must be a bluff.”
Alaric didn’t have time to explain that a bluff was unnecessary if they didn’t know about the drones’ payloads. If they did know about the drones’ payload, they were approaching from the wrong direction. The better tactic would be to wait near the gate and launch from there. The shuttle had been on a scouting mission, looking for the Merkabah, he was sure of it. And they had something that would make them formidable.
Turning his attention to the Republic’s agents, Alaric demanded, “Young, Sinclair, how are they armed?”
Young’s jaw dropped. “Sir, I don’t know.”
“You’re lying,” Alaric said, eyes snapping between the two. “There is something you’re not telling us.” Just as they hadn’t told him about the Little Boys.
“They’re within visual range,” Ran said. “I’m not getting a phaser heat signature and…that’s odd.”
“Bring it up on the holo,” Alaric commanded.
The holo scene changed to the station’s escape shuttle. It was designed for loading people quickly in the event of a gate failure and to rendezvous with smaller escape pods if necessary. It had a rectangular shaped fuselage broader than the Merkabah’s with time bands that went from bow to stern. Its wings were shorter, designed for hover engines, not lift. What really stood out were what looked like cylinders mounted on each wing. Two meters long by a meter wide, they were, according to the sensors, as empty as the paper tube Alaric’s son had taped to his toy gun.
“There is a strange heat reading in the formations on the wings,” Ran said.
For a moment, time stood still for Alaric. His mind instantly screamed, “Those are their weapons,” and at the same time, his mind played his options: run, engage the shuttle, or continue the fight they’d begun.
“Fire phasers,” he commanded. His jaw got hard. He would fight. He was going to finish this.
“Firing now,” his gunner said, and on the monitor near Alaric’s chair the phaser charge reading dropped to 95 percent.
“Our blasts never reached the shuttle,” Ran said. “Some sort of shielding, maybe but…”
Alaric glanced down at the holo and his eyes widened in alarm. The wings of the shuttle appeared to have disappeared. “Bring the shuttle on screen,” he said, surveying the monitor near his chair. From this distance, the shuttle was a blur, but he could see the cylinders on its wings. To his naked eye, they didn’t look as smooth as in the holo. They looked like—
“Those are grav plates that have been reconfigured,” said Dr. Bower.
“Take evasive maneuvers, but keep us in range of the first buoy,” Alaric commanded, turning away from the window. His body slammed to the left in his seat, but there was no sound of metal collapsing, no tremble in the deck, or scream of hull breaches.
“What was that?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said a weere priest.
“We’re decelerating,” his helmsman said. “Helm isn’t responding.”
Sinclair, standing behind the holo-table, said, “Captain, I think it is some sort of gravity beam…but whatever it is, it is not Republic tech, sir.”
“Fire torpedoes one and two now,” Alaric commanded.
The ship jerked as though it were a fish breaking free from a line, and there was a tremble in the deck.
“I have control of the helm again, sir,” Alaric’s helmsman exclaimed.
On the holo-screen, Alaric watched the remotely guided torpedoes speed toward the shuttle. Instead of heading directly toward the body, they both veered toward the wings.
His weapons officer said, “Sir, they’re veering off course. We can’t correct them.”
On the holo, Torpedo 1 reached the right wing and appeared to crumple as though it were made of paper. The same happened to the second torpedo on the left wing.
“This readout is odd,” said Ran.
Alaric glanced at the monitor near his chair and his eyebrows lifted. The torpedoes were being compressed…but also…
“The missiles disappeared completely,” Sinclair said. “I think it might not be a gravity beam so much as a singularity beam.”
Alaric glanced at him sharply and the android threw up his hands. In unison with Young, he said, “Not our tech!”
“Incoming!” someone shouted.
The stars spun, and a shadow whipped past the ship. One of his drone operators said, “That was the first buoy. We’re out of contact with the drones.”
Alaric watched the buoy’s path in the holo. It streaked toward the shuttle, crumpled, and disappeared like the torpedoes. As soon as it vanished, the ship jerked again.
“Definitely, some sort of singularity device,” Sinclair said.
…and if Alaric didn’t keep it “occupied,” the ship would be pulled into its beams. “Fire phasers,” Alaric commanded. “Helm, get us within range of the second buoy.”
He looked out
toward the stars. If the shuttle was armed, the gate would be, too. “We’ll go to the gate if we have to,” he said, eyes on the Galacticans. His crew he knew would support him. The Galacticans might not. “We are detonating our payload,” he added grimly, eyes on the two foreigners. Young tapped his temple. “Aye, sir.” Sinclair tapped his temple in acknowledgment as well. “Yes, Captain.”
Alaric nearly fell back into his chair. If they’d refused, there wouldn’t have been anything he could do. Now he could see this through if it was the last thing they did. It was convenient that he knew the one civilian aboard he cared about would want the same.
Fear was biting at Volka’s heels, and her ears were flat against her head as she hobbled out of the sickbay with a stolen crutch. The blare of the alarm was painfully loud. Red lights were flashing. The doctor was shouting to orderlies to get ready for incoming and telling them to pay attention to Dr. Walker…when had she come in?
No one had paid much attention to Volka, and she edged out the door just in time to see Sixty in the grip of two Guardsmen. He was sparkling like a Christmas tree, which meant they must have stunned him…he was fully charged now if he wasn’t before. Two more jogged by her nose. The alarm cut off, but the lights remained red.
Staring up at the ceiling, seemingly oblivious to the men grappling with him, Sixty murmured, “I guess he knows.”
“Take him to the brig!” said one of the men.
“He’s stun proof,” another replied.
“What?” said the fourth.
6T9 threw up his hands. “I will go quietly. I don’t want to keep anyone from their battle stations.”
The two new Guardsmen glanced at one another, and then they started hauling him Volka’s way. “He was only trying to help,” Volka protested, and one of the men by the bridge entrance said, “Stay out of the way, ma’am. No one’s a help when they’re in the way.”
Volka hopped toward them anyway, her heart beating in her throat.
“They’re right, Volka,” Sixty said. “Stay in the sickbay. We’ll work this out when everything is over.”
She bit her lip. He was right. Sixty was innocent. Alaric was rational and the captain; this would be sorted out. Still feeling cold from her nightmares, she watched Sixty’s retreating back. In a painkiller-induced haze, she’d dreamed of Sundancer, her hull cracked and gray, and she’d felt a horrible longing for the sun. She’d also dreamed of Carl and Isssh. The werfles had been lying on their backs, eyes wide open, in what had looked like a prison—the brig in her confused mind. Dark water had risen around them, submerging their tiny bodies. Alaric had been in the dream too. He was fighting the water, but all he had was a sword, and the darkness had been oozing up his legs, undaunted. “Carl?” she whispered, feeling his name and imagining his bewhiskered snout and enormous eyes. She got nothing in response.
Had it only been a dream? Swallowing her fear, she hopped and hobbled after Sixty and his captors. The ship shook and nearly knocked her over. With every step, she felt a growing sense of dread. It colored the edges of her vision and made her feel nauseous. When she saw anyone, she flattened herself against the wall. Invariably, they were at a jog, and their eyes were focused on destinations and objectives that weren't her.
At the end of the hallway, 6T9’s captors dragged him through a pair of sliding double doors guarded by two men. They re-emerged a few minutes later and marched past Volka.
Volka hopped over to the guards at the entrance to the brig. They did pay attention to her. “Ma’am, you can’t go in there,” one said.
Tasting bile, Volka swallowed. She didn’t want to go in there. Every hair on her body was standing on end, and her ears were sealed back against her head. But her dream had been so horrible…She adjusted her crutch. If it weren’t for her leg, she could probably take them with it, but to what end? To wind up in a cell herself?
Biting her lip, she tried a different tactic. “I think…I need to go in there,” she whispered.
“And why’s that?” the man asked.
“I had a bad dream,” she responded, and then realized how idiotic that sounded. She blundered on. “About my friend, the little golden werfle, he was in there and the thing…the thing we saw on the planet…it was in there too…” Her voice trailed off. Dumb, Volka. They’re going to think you’re crazy. Scrunching her eyes shut, she bowed her head.
“You talk to the werfles, don’t you?” the man whispered. He had a slight accent—almost Libertan.
It wasn’t right for a weere to meet a Luddeccean man’s eyes. But her eyes did rise in surprise. Instead of disdain, she saw fear in the man’s gaze, and maybe even respect.
“Yes,” she said. “I talk to the werfles. And I feel the thing down on the planet. It is everything we were told robots are. It takes over people’s and animals’ minds, and it is…” She shivered and it wasn’t at all contrived. “...terrible.” Her eyes widened. “Alaric…” She ducked her head. “I mean, Captain Darmadi, he was in my dream. The Darkness was after him, too.” She nodded at the door. “And it’s in there. I can feel it. I need to go in.”
The guards shifted on their feet. The one with the Libertan accent looked down at her leg, and then said, “Come on, I’ll take you in. Watch the door, Joe.”
She looked up at her would-be escort, slightly alarmed at how easy that had been. She couldn’t feel much from the Guardsman. Her telepathic abilities seem to have abated with a full night’s sleep, and she was a little afraid he meant to push her in a cell.
“Well, I can’t let you face the devil alone!” the man said, raising a stunner, and this time his sincerity was so obvious she smelled it.
What was responsible for this turn of good luck? As soon as she asked herself the question, she knew. These were people who believed heaven and hell were real places—they were, even though they were human, her people. She bit back a smile of gratitude. “Thank you, sir.”
“Name’s Davies,” he said. “Stay behind me.”
Davies’s companion opened the door but closed it as soon as Davies and Volka were inside. Volka immediately wanted to vomit. She didn’t smell decay or dank waters, but she had the same creeping nausea and sense of unease she did when she was exposed to their stink. She could also smell werfles. Throwing a hand over her mouth, Volka scanned the brig. The space was lit by red lights and was spotlessly clean. There were eight cells—four with open doors and four with closed doors, through which golden light fell at the far end. Every cell had a control panel beside it, an intercom beneath that, and what looked like perhaps a small hatch, about the size of a shoe box, beneath those. Volka would guess the hatch was for giving prisoners—or in this case, the men in quarantine—food, water, and supplies. There was no sign of werfles.
“Looks okay,” Davies said, sounding doubtful and lowering his stunner.
“Is that you, Davies?” said a voice from an intercom at the far cell on the left. Every hair on Volka’s head stood on end.
“Yeah, Russo, it’s me,” Davies replied, walking down to the cell.
“Don’t talk to him, Davies,” said someone else.
Davies stopped.
“It’s got him,” the second voice said.
“It’s just me, Davies. Nothing’s got me,” said the first man, “Russo,” and Volka shivered at the oiliness of his voice.
Davies walked carefully down the aisle, and Volka hopped and hobbled after him. They reached the cells that were second to the last, and from one side, Sixty said, “Volka.” Volka turned to see her friend behind glass in a cell not wider than her arm span. Sixty filled the whole frame of the door. Despite being imprisoned, he was smiling. Turning sideways so she could see inside, he gestured to a fold down bed. “Look who I found.” On the bed lay Carl and Isssh, so tangled Volka thought they must be in a knot. She couldn’t see the head or tail of either of them. Her brow furrowed in concern.
“Don’t worry,” Sixty said. “They’re only asleep. Every now and then they snore.”
&nbs
p; “They helped us.” The voice was Ben’s and it came from an intercom directly behind Volka. She turned to find the Marine wearing the same drab, gray, Luddeccean garb that Sixty wore. It fit him just as well. Without his helmet, she could see his hair was dark, nearly black, but it was cut so short it was hard to tell if it were straight or wavy.
The intercom of the Luddeccean next to Ben crackled. “The little devils killed the bugs inside of us. I could feel it coming.” He shook his head. “But Russo was too far gone.”
The intercom of the cell next to 6T9 hissed, and Volka spun again. “There. Is. No. Bug. You are the infection. You are the disease.”
Russo was in the last cell there. He looked normal wearing the same boring clothing as Ben and Sixty, dark hair military short. There was no shine of sweat upon his brow, though Volka felt like there should be. The man’s lips twisted into a cruel smile, and then he threw himself against the glass so abruptly Davies pushed Volka half behind him. She could smell his fear.
Russo’s eyes caught the protective gesture, and he jumped up and down like a man on a pogo stick and grinned at her maniacally. “Miss Volka? Misssss Volka! The captain’s weere! He won’t want you anymore when we are done. You are sick. Perverts!” Spittle flew from his mouth.
“We get it,” Sixty said in a bored, sing-song voice. “You don’t like sex.”
Spinning to pound the wall between himself and Sixty, Russo screamed. “You are an abomination, Robot! You will all be destroyed!”
“Never thought I’d be more afraid of a man than a robot,” Davies whispered.
“I never thought there’d be a human I wouldn’t want to have sex with,” Sixty muttered.
“Oh, Davies, you don’t have to be afraid,” said the infected man, slinking away from the wall. Hands falling to the side, his voice became too smooth. “You can still join us. We are the way to peace. The only true way.”
Volka’s skin crawled. The human beside her seemed just as ill at ease.
Making the sign of the Three Books, Davies said, “The only way to peace is through God, Russo.”
