by John Lumpkin
Becker joined the European colonial program not long after, hoping to build better worlds. He had been part of the crew that opened up Esperance, way back in ’08, and he had taken part in dozens of wormhole openings since. But his dissatisfaction with mother Europa had only grown; its masters regarded the colonies as sources of prestige, not places to build a new, better society. Disgusted, he joined the United Nations’ colonization effort, aimed at helping troubled and displaced peoples start over, on a fresh world. It hadn’t always gone well; he had wept when the government on Commonwealth had collapsed, turning the planet into a lawless anarchy.
Now, he was captain of the last remaining U.N. ship capable of building the wormhole bridges that linked the stars. The major powers had slashed their U.N. funding to pay for their own exploration and military fleets, and the other U.N. and Red Cross wormhole breeders were either mothballed or on permanent lease to other nations.
No other vessels plied GJ 1167, the fingertip of a wormhole chain that extended into Coma Berenices, another constellation near the desert’s edge. It was a busy time on board. Within days, they would launch an antimatter-fueled Valkyrie, a tiny robotic vessel carrying the mouth of a new wormhole, toward a G7 star eight light-years distant. Long-range telescopes had located a candidate world there, with the telltale signs of an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. Only a close survey, however, could determine whether humans could live there: Any number of issues, like too much carbon dioxide or chlorine in the atmosphere, could render it uninhabitable. His crew was also readying a second Valkyrie, to launch toward another red dwarf, a lily pad to a second potentially habitable world.
His handheld beeped: his first officer, Abrego, calling from the bridge.
“Jurgen, the supply freighter has arrived in the system,” Abrego said. The Perez de Cuellar was about 300,000 kilometers from the only wormhole out of the system, close enough for almost instant communications with any emerging ship. “The captain wants to speak with you regarding a special request. Also, he confirmed another virus has knocked the comm links at every wormhole between here and Entente off-line, so we’re still in the dark.”
“Any word from the Grau?” The Peruvian frigate, hired by the U.N. to deliver the precious antimatter for the Valkyries – was supposed to remain as an escort until they launched the wormhole carriers. But her captain had messaged some of their water recyclers had failed, and they had to return to Entente as quickly as possible.
“No word,” Abrego said. “I will put the freighter captain through.”
Becker’s handheld screen told him the call was audio-only. Becker accepted it.
The voice on the other end spoke English with an American accent.
Odd, Becker thought. We don’t get a lot of Americans out here.
“Captain Becker, glad to meet you,” the voice said. “This is Bill Cole aboard the Freedom’s Hope. We’re about 36 hours from your location, and, well, we’ve brought a surprise for you. If you can provide a dining room, we’d like to share some Christmas turkey with you.”
Becker smiled. He was no Christian, but Abrego and a fair number of his crew were, and tomorrow was Christmas Eve. It would mean some protocols would get bent – with all the antimatter on board, any guests were supposed to be carefully watched, and a party would make that pretty difficult. But his crew could use the break.
“Captain Cole, that sounds delightful. We shall look forward to your arrival.”
A maneuvering thruster on the Freedom’s Hope fired briefly, imparting a brief rotation that was quickly countered by another thruster firing in the opposite direction. The skeletal space train, now alongside the roomy mass of the Perez de Cuellar, extended an umbilical, and the two ships were joined.
Becker, Abrego and several of his section chiefs waited outside the airlock as the freighter crew cycled through.
“Looks like all of them,” Abrego muttered. Becker silently counted thirteen people, twelve men and one little woman with Asian features, crammed into the airlock chamber. They weren’t wearing spacesuits – the umbilical was pressurized, but the airlock was the only way to board the ship. Nor were they wearing uniforms.
The airlock’s door retracted into the wall, and Becker felt a slight pull of air.
“Captain Becker, I’m Bill Cole,” one of the twelve said. He looked about 40, a pale, mustached man with sandy brown hair and a thick build. He did not approach or offer his hand. His eyes darted around.
Something is wrong, Becker thought. The men behind Cole seemed tense.
Abrego, a former soldier, sensed it, too. He pulled his handheld from his belt.
Cole pulled a pistol from his jacket and shot Abrego in the chest. He toppled backward, the back of his skull striking the floor and bouncing off. His body floated limply in freefall. One of Becker’s section chiefs screamed.
The captain thought, I don’t understand, and something that felt like a plate of forge-hot iron slammed into his chest. He was spun into a bulkhead and was surprised to see his own blood had already splattered against it.
Every breath hurt, but somehow, he didn’t pass out. He still had some residual rotation from the bullet hit, and he couldn’t seem to move his arms or legs. So he spun, slowly, brushing the bulkhead with each rotation. He had brief views of the men rushing by. They all looked northern European, sort of. All carried guns. He heard a few more shots echo through the ships, and, at one point, the lights flickered off and were replaced by emergency red strobes.
Static hissed from every handheld on the ship. Becker heard Cole’s voice: “Everyone, we’ve had an accident on board, and some sections of the ship have decompressed. Please stay in your quarters or move to the cafeteria as quickly as possible. Keep your decompression bubbles handy.”
Becker knew how the crew would react to that. They were scientists and engineers and would do as they were told. Most of them probably had no idea what was happening. His own handheld beeped several times, but he couldn’t find the strength to operate it.
Why would the Americans attack us? Are they trying to prevent us from reaching our stars so they can grab them first? He didn’t believe it. America could be greedy, but murdering a U.N. crew was beyond the pale. Wasn’t it?
He spun slowly for another hour, fading in and out of consciousness. All at once, the crew of the Freedom’s Hope strode through the corridor, pulling two bulky masses in their midst.
The antimatter units for the Valkyries! The antimatter is worth a fortune, but the Americans produce enough of their own. Are these simple thieves?
Becker tried to speak, but he produced only a croak.
But Cole heard him, and he stopped his motion on a handhold outside the airlock and pushed himself toward Becker. Cole put a gentle hand on Becker’s shoulder, at last stopping the rotation. It was a relief.
“Captain Becker, I’m so sorry,” Cole whispered to him. “I thought you were dead. We would have tried to ease your pain. I’m doubly sorry this act is necessary. I ask you to make your peace with God, for there isn’t much time left.”
Cole and the other men left. Becker could see the umbilical retract, and the Freedom’s Hope broke away.
Jurgen Becker tried to find some peace within himself, but all he could detect was anxiety and regret. I would have liked to have seen the infant stars of Orion up close.
He wouldn’t allow himself to pray to a god he did not believe in; it simply felt wrong to make his last act one of hypocrisy.
In his ship’s core, a small amount of antimatter, left behind by Cole and his men, was released to merge with normal matter.
A great flare of silent light consumed Jurgen Becker and the Perez de Cuellar.
About the Author
John J. Lumpkin was born in 1973 in San Antonio, Texas, and educated at Texas Christian University and lately at the University of Colorado at Boulder. A former national security reporter for the Associated Press, his experience includes covering 9-11, walking the halls of CIA headquarters, and racing
through Baghdad and Kabul in military convoys. He may also be the only person who has had a drink with both Donald Rumsfeld and Steve-O from Jackass (but, to be clear, not at the same time). Now a writer and teacher, he lives outside of Boulder, Colorado, with his wife Alice and their daughter Charlotte and son Theo. His web site is www.thehumanreach.net.
About the Illustrator
Winchell Chung, who provided the cover art for Through Struggle, the Stars and The Desert of Stars was born in 1957 in California. He started out life as a science fiction illustrator, most famously providing the iconic images of the Ogre cybertank for the eponymic wargame. He later gravitated toward computer programming, and his lifelong hobby is applying the tools of science to the game of science fiction. This culminated in his Atomic Rockets web site, which is probably the most popular online term paper ever written. He lives with his wife and two adorable, insouciant black cats.
