by T. R. Harris
The tiny alien was still shaken from the explosion. He stepped up to the console and stared at the module. “I cannot, not with that unit attached.”
Adam pushed Jym aside and moved to the right side of the three-foot-long metal box. He slammed his left arm into the side of the unit. His added strength bent the metal box but didn’t break it loose. His second hit sent the module flying across the room, requiring Riyad and Coop to jump out of the way before it crashed into the wall between them.
Adam and Jym surveyed the console. The automated unit had been hardwired into the panel. Now orphan wires sparked while others dangled lifeless.
“There,” Adam said.
“What?” Jym asked.
“Make it work.”
The alien stared at Adam for a long moment…before getting down to work.
Jym had been literally born aboard a starship, and grew up scampering around the inner workings of dozens of models. He knew every system and how to fix it. Now, according to Adam’s internal clock, he had about two minutes, forty seconds to perform a miracle.
The alien’s delicate hands joined wired together and rerouted others. Occasionally a spark would pop and Jym would yelp as he contacted live wires. But eventually, he stood back with a small electric unit in one hand and a wire in the other. He placed the wire to a contact.
Atmosphere was purged from the huge chamber and the outer bay doors began to cycle open.
Adam patted Jym on the back. “Well done, Jym. You just saved us all.”
With the doors only a third of the way open, the Rutledge raced into the large chamber and skidded to a stop on the metal deck. Jym removed the wire from the contact and the doors closed.
“Everyone get to the airlock. Be ready to move when the bay pressurizes. I’ll disable the robots. It will buy us a little time, but not much.”
Jym placed the control module on the console and moved toward the exit. Everyone froze when the huge pressure doors in the bay came together—and then suddenly started to open again.
“What the hell, Jym?” asked Copernicus.
Jym returned to the module. He disconnected the wire and the doors closed again. The chamber began to pressurize for a second time.
“The door controls are damaged,” Jym reported. “They will require constant manipulation.”
“What does that mean?” Sherri asked, panic in her voice.
“Making contact once opens and closes the doors. Another contact reverses the sequence. Someone will have to manually make the necessary contacts to maintain integrity and to allow for the ship to exit.”
The team was frozen in place, looking at the tiny bear-like alien.
“Don’t worry,” Adam said. “I’ll stay and do it.”
“Like hell you will!” Riyad exclaimed.
“No really. I’ll get out in the escape pods.”
“What escape pods,” Sherri asked incredulously.
“Remember, this ship was originally built to carry only Klin. You don’t think they’d forget to provide for emergency egress to save their miserable silvery hides, now do you? There are several hundred pods lining the hull. I’ll get out in one after you’re gone.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine.” Adam smiled at her. “Now everyone go. The bay is just about pressurized.”
The team rushed from the room. All except Sherri. She stood in the doorway, looking at him, sadness on her face. The smile fell from Adam’s face. He nodded. Sherri reluctantly turned away and left the room.
A few seconds later, Adam watched as the team scrambled across the deck toward the open hatch of the Rutledge. He saw Nolan at the doorway, and when Sherri went to enter, he grabbed her by the arm and said something to her. She glanced over her shoulder and both she and Nolan looked up at Adam in the control room. Sherri pushed past and entered the ship.
Nolan gave him a sharp salute a moment before he entered the ship and dogged the hatch.
Adam pulled the wire away from the contact and then touched it to the module again. Atmosphere was sucked from the room and the doors began to open. The Rutledge was already up and moving even before the doors opened all the way. It slipped through the narrow opening with only feet to spare on each side.
Adam let the control module fall to the deck. The wire fell away and the doors to the bay began to close. He left the control room door and headed toward the starboard side of the ship.
33
Adam had been right about the AN-9s; they arrived on his tail a moment later. There were three of them. He disconnected their awareness scanners and they rolled to a stop and sat there, unable to see walls or other objects—including targets.
Then one of them reactivated and took off after Adam.
He was monitoring all this on his ATD. He couldn’t afford to have one of the robots sneak up on him and fire a laser beam his way. He was sure his limited mutant abilities couldn’t reattach or regrow sliced off limbs. At least he wasn’t willing to test his hypothesis.
Adam wasn’t lying about the escape pods; he’d noticed them during his survey of the ship’s layout. They were placed along both the starboard and port sides, along two levels. The other feature about the Klin ship he noticed was that there was a wide buffer corridor running along all levels next to the outer hull. This essentially allowed for the creation of a hull-inside-a-hull, allowing crews to move between pressurized compartments and repair damage to the exterior hull with relative ease. It was an elaborate design element, and only possible because of the huge size of the ship. Smaller ships couldn’t afford the wasted space.
It was along the outer bulkhead of the ring corridor where the escape pods were located. Adam slapped an emergency control pad and a panel slid aside. Within was a teardrop-shaped pod with a long, sloping glass panel covering most of the top side. The capsules were designed to carry as many as three Klin, with enough life support to last two weeks or longer. They also had tiny jets, used for escaping the pod tubes and limited maneuvering time once in space. The canopy was already open.
Adam jumped inside and pulled the lid shut. There was plenty of room for just him. The internal controls activated automatically—which caused Adam’s heart to jump.
The one thing he’d failed to tell Sherri and the others: The pods would be picked off like skeet targets by the ship’s short-range defensive lasers if the AI of the ship suspected them of carrying fugitives.
Fortunately, the controls of the escape pods were fairly simple; they had to be to keep them effective and accessible during a crisis. Adam was able to activate the launch controls for dozens of other pods, and soon, a cloud of tiny, jet-powered modules were shooting from the skin of the black starship.
As he expected, a dozen thin rays of light reached out to meet the departing pods. At first, the lasers were able to keep up with Adam’s release of the pods, but soon they became overwhelmed by the sheer number of capsules being launched.
Looking out into outer space from the pod launch tube, Adam remembered the assault on the Klin warship had stopped. Once the long-range lasers had been charged by the incoming flash bolts, the deadly beams of light destroyed most of the attacking fleet. The survivors retreated out of range, and without new cannon bolts feeding the weapons, the long-range beams ceased to function.
The smaller, short-range beams suffered from the same malady. They took incredible energy to operate, just not as much as the larger beams. As Adam watched, the frequency of the beams decreased. They weren’t dead, just recharging. He saw his opportunity and launched.
Adam was pressed back in the cushioned cradle as the pod raced away from the looming hull of the Klin ship. He continued to launch more pods to confuse the lasers that still functioned.
Two bright beams lit up the interior of his pod as they targeted a pair of tiny jets flaring off to his port side. That was close, but even as the tense seconds passed, Adam noticed a sprinkling of twinkling lights beyond the range of the lasers. Dozens of pods had reache
d safety.
But then the lights began to blink out.
At first he didn’t know what was happening. By reality dawned on him, it was too late.
Under normal emergency procedures, the Klin would have deactivated the outer diffusion screen before launching their escape pods. In this situation, however, the screen was still fully active, and Adam was about to come in contact with it twenty miles out from the surface of the massive black starship.
As the pod passed through the shield, all power was sucked away, leaving the capsule dark and the jets non-functioning. Adam felt the circulation vent; no moving air was felt. The pod was dead in space, and without sufficient backup energy reserves for a reboot.
Adam leaned back in the chair and let out a deep sigh. The pod was designed to hold three adult Klin, so the interior would hold a certain volume of air even without resupply. He was also pretty sure his mutant brain cells would allow him to survive longer than a normal Human under similar circumstances. But how much longer, he had no idea.
He opened some nearby compartments and found food, water and thermal blankets. The blankets would come in handy; it was already getting cold inside the small pod without the life support system operating.
He reached out with his ATD in an attempt to contact the Rutledge, and that’s when he discovered his brain interface had also been affected by the diffusion shield as well. He’d never physically encountered such a screen before; it made sense that all power—from all electronics—would be affected.
Adam tried to relax. Perhaps the ATD would recharge somehow. It was a truly remarkable device, so he couldn’t count that out. Otherwise, he was in for…well he didn’t have an answer, at least not one he wanted to dwell on.
He glanced off to his left and at the large, glowing crescent of Anbor-Namin, taking up much of space below him. At least he’d have a nice view…as he died.
It was then that his heightened awareness noticed something strange about the planet below. It was growing bigger.
His tiny escape pod had been captured by the gravity of the planet and he was being drawn in, eventually to enter the atmosphere.
Adam unfastened the safety harness and sat up. He pressed his face against the glass canopy of the pod, looking to each side, trying to get some idea how fast he was falling. It was noticeable.
This is just great, Adam thought. At least it’ll be over quick.
Adam had no idea if the pod was rated for a planetary landing. Why would it? The huge Klin ship was never designed to land on a planet, so the escape pods would be used primarily in deep space.
Adam wrapped the glass canopy with his knuckles. It seemed thick enough, if it was made of the right stuff. And the exterior, what was it made of?
He fell back in the seat again. “Even if I do survive the entry,” he said aloud, “without any systems working to break the fall, I’ll just splat on the surface. After that, , let’s see if all the King’s precious little brain cells can put a pulverized Humpty Dumpty back together again?”
34
Speed became apparent as he reached the upper levels of the atmosphere and gained some perspective. Streaks of white raced across the canopy and he began to feel the pod rocking back and forth. The white streaks were soon replaced with ribbons of flame.
The interior was scorching hot, testing the limits of his mutant tolerance. His lungs felt like they were inhaling fire and his eyes burned as any trace of lubrication evaporated. Yet even through his agony, his mind stayed sharp, if distracted. He noticed that the tiny pod didn’t tumble, but instead seemed to catch the thickening air mass and begin a more nuanced entry, rather than a head-long fall. This was encouraging. The Klin didn’t need to design their pods to be aerodynamic, not unless they intended them to be used for atmospheric reentry….
The long canopy was facing upwards, towards space, so Adam couldn’t tell how close he was to the surface. But there was one thing he was sure of: He was falling a lot faster than what would be classified as a soft landing. Unless the capsule transformed into a glider, he was still heading for the preverbal sudden stop that punctuated most long falls from great heights.
Then it happened. At first he didn’t understand why, and he was in no condition to look a gift horse in the mouth.
A parachute deployed.
The pod was thrown into an upright position, with the narrow point aimed downward and the parachute attached to the thicker part above Adam’s head. It had to be a barometric switch, he reasoned, set to trip the parachute mechanically upon reaching a certain air pressure. For once, Adam was thankful that the Klin calculated for every possible outcome.
He was in a standing position, able to look out the canopy at the approaching landscape. He was near a large city, currently in a state of conflagration. Although much of it was still intact, Adam could tell from the size and frequency of the flames whipping into tornadic funnels above the city that it was a lost cause.
Just then, a sudden gust of wind spun his tiny pod around. Racing toward him was the facade of a burning skyscraper.
He only had a second before the pod crashed into the building, shattering the canopy and spearing him with dozens of shards of glass. Blood covered his bare chest, face and legs before his mutant healing powers stopped the flow. But what sum total of injuries he was to suffer from the landing on Anbor-Namin, that was still to be determined.
The unseen parachute above caught on something and ripped away, allowing the pod to tumble backwards—once, then twice—before it crashed to the ground face down in a pile of broken and smoldering debris.
Adam was still strapped in the chair, but now his face was only a few inches from the ground. He closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. He was on the ground—and although the pod was toast—his body was still relatively intact.
Then something moved outside the crushed capsule. Adam could see a sliver of light on either side, and that’s when he saw the treads of an AN-9 roll up beside the pod. Adam remained motionless, holding his breath for as long as his mutant brain cells allowed.
Six minutes passed before the robot grew bored and moved on.
He waited another five before unfastening the harness and letting his body fall the short distance to the hot, black soil of the planet.
He was trapped under the broken pod, but using his super strength, he braced his back against the pressure seat and pushed with his bare legs and feet. The tiny craft lifted away without too much effort, and with it riding on his back like a turtle’s shell, Adam chanced a look outside.
This part of the city was in utter ruin. The AN-9s must have entered here first and were now systematically moving through the city destroying everything they saw. Adam pushed the pod away and stood up, getting his first full view of the devastation.
To his surprise, there were still hundreds of people on the burned out streets. But most were battered, bloodied and bruised, with empty looks of confusion on their alien faces. The natives were the most plentiful species—gaunt-looking creatures in their own right, with huge, six-inch wide fans growing out of each side of their narrow heads. There were other species here, too, including an eight-foot-tall Juirean Guard with half his green mane burned off. He noticed Adam and stopped to stare for a moment. There was no hatred in his eyes, or accusation. After a moment, he broke his gaze, turned and staggered away.
With Anbor-Namin one of the regional capitals of the Expansion, Adam guessed the population had to be in the billions. Even three million AN-9s couldn’t kill them all, not before their batteries ran dry. But they could kill enough to send the planet back to the stone age.
Cannin had mentioned his robots could operate for six days between charges. They were also capable of tapping into local energy sources for the recharge. Theoretically—until they destroyed all the power plants—the robots could operate for weeks.
Adam was startled by a tremendous rumbling vibration. He looked down the long avenue just as a fifty-story building half a mile away toppled
over. It wasn’t burning or appeared to be damaged in any way. It just falling. Then through the billowing cloud of dust, Adam noticed the glow of laser beams and he understood instantly.
The robots had cut away the supports for the building, causing it to fracture and fall. Thousands of creatures were probably inside the building, seeking shelter from the killer robots outside. Collapsing gigantic buildings full of people was a very efficient way of multiplying the kills.
Flash bolts erupted from a side street. A crowd of terrified creatures ran into Adam’s view, followed by a trio of AN-9s, coming down the street in a configuration he’d never seen before. The rolling tracks had split apart and were now serving as legs, complete with knee joints and footpads. The robots easily climbed over fallen debris and the twisted remains of alien cars and trucks, following their targets.
Adam concentrated on the AN-9s, trying to access the firing controls of the flash weapons. But there was nothing there. He was shocked back to the reality that his ATD was down. He’d had the device for so long that he felt a deep sadness upon its passing. He’d also come to rely on the device more than he should have.
In his reverie, Adam almost missed it when one of the AN-9s noticed him. A laser beam lashed out in his direction. Adam jumped on mutant-enhanced legs, landing across the street before the robot could retarget. He rushed into a still burning building.
More beams penetrated the smoke-filled room he was in, but the AN’s aim was off. Adam was moving too fast for it to get an accurate lock.
The lasers stopped, replaced by a barrage of metal slugs piercing the gloom. Adam dove behind a fallen concrete column just as bullets raked the other side of his hiding place…until Adam heard the gun click several times, out of ammunition.
This was his chance.
Adam burst out into the street, holding a two hundred pound chunk of broken concrete in his hands. The AN-9 was recharging its laser batteries and it was out of live ammo. Adam lifted the concrete block—just as an incredible surge of raw electricity struck his bare chest.
