Velocity (Jolo Vargas Space Opera Series Book 1)

by J. D. Oppenheim

  “But I’m not here for inspections,” he said. “I wanted to give you something.”

  She starts to step into the corridor, but he pointed inside.

  “It’s kind of a mess,” she said.

  “That’s okay.”

  She stepped aside and he entered her quarters. It was a small cube, tight, but comfortable, with everything an enlisted person would need: in one corner a bed recessed into the wall, a vid screen laying on the table, another corner full of tools and half built engine components. He eyed the mess and she apologized. “The chief’s got me constantly working on something. He’s calls them projects.” They stood there for a moment just looking at each other, trying to think of something to say. Finally she saved them both. “Do you know the moment right before a Gunboat warps, there’s that slight hesitation? You know?” she said.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Calculation time.”

  “No, that’s what everyone thinks. That’s old-school thinking.” And then she realized who she was talking to. “Begging your pardon, Sir.”

  “Speak freely, Ensign Voss,” he said.

  “Well, the old Fed frigates couldn’t jump out fast enough if they were attacked by a stronger force. So they’d launch out those old escape pods, you know, the ones with rudimentary flight controls.

  But recent boats have faster computers. The calculations are made literally the moment the order comes in. So they are much better, but they’ve still got the hesitation. The hesitation is this.” She’s looking at him intently, holding a round ball of wires and logic chips. “Its the dampeners from the warp drives. They have to warm up. Chief says if we can remove that .5 second delay it may save lives in an emergency.” And she went on passionately for awhile about dampeners and he just stared at her, smooth skin and large, dark eyes. The curve of her neck. He wanted desperately to reach out and touch the side of her face. He imagined it. To hell with regulations. But then he realized she’d stopped talking.

  “Captain?” He snapped out of it, but all he saw was her brown eyes.

  “Yes, sorry, I was, uh…” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small box. “I heard you read. I wanted you to have it.”

  She opened it and drew in a deep breath. “Is it?”

  “Yes, it’s real paper. It’s Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast. He was an author long ago in Old Earth. The cover is torn off but the back has a nice picture of him in France. Just keep it in the stasis box and it will last. But when you read it you should hold it in your hands.”

  “You mean, like, turn the pages, manually?”

  “Yeah, it’s a wonderful, visceral experience.”

  “Captain, I can’t take this. It’s got to be worth more than this boat.”

  “Naw, I’d say, more than the shuttle, but not this ship.”

  She reached out and touched his arm. “Thanks,” she said. “If someone asks, I’ll tell them my boyfriend on Markos sent it to me.”

  “You have a boyfriend on Markos?” he said. Like a school boy, he thought.

  “Yeah, and one each on Centauri IV and Plethos.”

  “Oh,” he said, his head dropping just a bit. “Right, of course.” He turned abruptly to go, once again, the captain of a Federation gunboat. I shouldn’t have come, he thought.

  The door slid open and he stepped back into the corridor.

  “Captain,” she said, smiling. “I don’t have a boyfriend on Markos. Or anywhere.”

  He perked up. “Can I see you again?”

  “Sure, but what about regulations?”

  “I’ll be checking on the progress of your dampener project.” He smiled.

  “Of course. I look forward to it.” He started back down the corridor. “Captain,” she said. “If it’s not against regulations, in quarters, you can call me Jaylen.”

  He awoke in the blackness to a rhythmic, steady sound that comforted him. The sound wasn’t mechanical--did not oscillate. It was organic. And then he realized the pod had gone quiet and he was listening to his own breathing.

  Oh, shite, he thought, is the nav control slowing us down, or are we dead in the water? Computer, diagnostic! he commanded.

  Functions beyond simple query logic unavailable, came the reply.

  And then he felt his skin, still smooth, not tight and dry as if the life support functions had gone down. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth. Still moist. And he wasn’t cold, either. So he must still have power, he thought. So we are slowing down. Why?

  Computer, what is the total time in days.

  43.4 days.

  How long since last timestamp check?

  1.37 days.

  And I remember the last day, he thought. The burn, the noise, the stars in the porthole. The girl named Voss. The chief with the mech arm.

  The girl, Jaylen Voss. Her name is Jaylen.

  Computer, search for Jaylen Voss, Federation military.

  No data.

  Search again. She was on a Fed boat. My Fed boat?

  No data.

  Why doesn’t she show up? I want to see her again, he thought. But not in a dream. I need light. I need a nav! He started feeling with his hands carefully for a switch, a lever, something he may have missed earlier when he was freaking out. There’s got to be a nav on this thing. Maybe it’s got manual controls.

  Computer, what are the parameters by which you can id a space craft?

  Size, place of manufacture, military or civilian… and it went on for a few minutes, until …manned or unmanned, manufacturer id plate…

  Computer, stop. Where are manufacturing plates located?

  Select ship type.

  Any manned, escape pod or c-tube smaller than a shuttle.

  Federation guidelines dictate a 10 centimeter by 5 centimeter plate must be present in the forward cone, inner hull.

  Display all escape pods, c-tubes or any craft smaller than a shuttle made in Vellosian space for the last 100 years.

  No data.

  Rerun the search. Omit place of manufacture.

  There are 53,974 matches.

  Great, here we go again, he thought.

  Add parameter: single-manned.

  25,922.

  Made within last 50 years.

  14,137.

  He unfastened all three belts and gingerly floated up towards the cone. His hands felt for the port-hole window and he could just barely reach to where the padding ended and his fingertips could feel the bare metal of the inner cone. He tried to go a little further but felt a sharp tug in his arm. The IV. He hung that arm down and reached up with his other, but only bought himself a few inches. He traced his middle finger along the cold inner hull, just above the padding, all the way around. It was a smooth, seamless design, but he couldn’t reach up high enough to feel an id plate. Then as his hand made it almost all the way around, back to where he started, his finger caught something. It was a flat piece of metal with rounded edges. He couldn’t feel how tall it was, but it might be 10 centimeters long. It had to be the id plate.

  He settled back down, strapped the waist belt, and checked the IV again by feel. Still okay. Even if I could touch the plate, I can’t see in the dark. And then another idea hit him.

  Computer, are id plates stamped with raised numbers, or etched?

  All space craft before 2479 are stamped, per Federation guidelines. 2480 to present are flat etched.

  What year is it?

  Unknown.

  Most recent date at creation of last timestamp.

  2599.

  He fastened his chest belt so he could pretend he was laying down to think. This boat feels old, he thought. It was still quiet in the tube. “I’ve got no memories to back this up,” he said aloud to himself. His hands behind his head. “Just my gut. But I’m willing to bet this is an old boat. If it’s stamped I can read the numbers with my fingers, then query the computer about it. Find the nav. Find the overrides. Find out where we’re going. He laughed. Hey computer, he said aloud, I said ‘we.’”

>   Are you with me, computer?

  Invalid parameter.

  Chapter 3

  Bakanhe Grana Homeworlds

  Beyond the outer reaches of Federation space

  Warumon 5, Humanoid Synthesis and Production Facility

  Merthon padded quietly on the cold, metal halls on his soft feet—feet made to run and swim in a Vellosian home planet half-submerged in water. A world that no longer existed, thanks to the Bakanhe. His feet hurt, his skin was dry, and no saturation tank could make his body feel right again. He felt torn in half. He thought a good ending would be to stand up to a BG warrior, maybe brandish one of their prized energy weapons in front of a high-ranking lord. They would kill him and put an end to the misery that had become his life. But then he thought of Jamis. He said the only thing to do was live. Now live, he thought. He could not leave Jamis.

  So he trudged on towards the birthing pods where his friend waited. They were the last of their kind, the Vellosi, trapped on Warumon 5, a prison planet, to do the the Bakanhe Emperor’s bidding.

  One of the tall Bakanhe soldiers passed, shiny black armor and one long slit where eyes should be, and Merthon quickly bowed, thumbs together, placed on his forehead. “Bakanhi jan sama,” he mumbled. He shuffled his feet and kept bowing in the direction of the tall warrior until he passed.

  He found Jamis in the birthing room hunched over a tank.

  “Has he made it there, yet?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did you get him out?”

  “It seems a relic Racellian pod from a frigate the Bakanhe conscripted was deemed a health risk. So I had it dumped into deep space with the rest of the trash.” Merthon smiled proudly at his ingenuity, but Jamis stayed on point.

  “Will it make the journey?”

  At this Merthon paused. It was an old escape pod from the Ralcacine wars back when minerals on the Ralcine planets were in demand, back before jump technology was perfected, when you had to abandon ship to live instead of just jumping to another sector like captains did now. The Racellian pods were the highest quality, with fantastic fuel capacity and life support. But that was a long time ago. 150 years ago. Navigation was crude, but effective: dial in one exact point in space and the nav computer calculated the jumps.

  “Fine,” said Merthon, staring off at the endless beehive of birthing tanks, water bots hovering over, making sure everything was just so: temperature, tube fittings, leak checks, electrolyte levels.

  “Is that all?” said Jamis, eyeing his friend.

  Merthon nodded, but secretly he worried about the big dent in the hull right where the life support tech was located. He’d checked it, run the diagnostics, stolen the fuel cells from a shuttle, filled the water reservoir even though it could generate its own. But Jamis’s questions cut through his confidence. He wasn’t sure the old pod would even fire after it was dumped. He couldn’t track it once it launched. If it launched.

  But this was their best chance. They were watched and tracked. But not the man. The BG didn’t know he existed. He was the only free creature on this wretched planet. Whatever his fate, it was better than living like this, thought Merthon.

  “Did you implant the mission?” Jamis said, shaking Merthon free from his moment of weakness.

  “Yes, of course, you worrisome, dryfoot.” Anger is a good antidote for useless worry, thought Merthon.

  “Will it stick? Remember what happened last time.”

  “It will stick. I did not send him to fail, Jamis. I gave him a few, uh, upgrades. He has everything he needs. And quite honestly your lack of faith concerns me,” Merthon said, hoping to sound confident—maybe arrogant.

  “Upgrades?” said Jamis, standing up to his full height, eyeing Merthon suspiciously again. “No, don’t tell me. I’ll just worry more. But did you make it believable? He’ll enter Federation space with no communication.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Listen, Merthon. This is no game we play. The BG are going to kill us as soon as we are finished here. I can’t stall them any longer. They’ll also kill us if another batch, uh, accidentally dies out. This must work.”

  “It will, my brother. It will. There are a few on the ground sympathetic to our cause.”

  “Let’s hope he makes it to the ground.”

  Chapter 4

  Escape pod.

  Deep space.

  The man in the tube couldn’t sleep. He fought with the restraints all night, or what he thought was night. He just wanted to see the girl again. Jaylen. Why was she not in the damn computer database? But what did it matter? He didn’t even know where in the worlds he was.

  He came fully awake and checked the computer’s timestamp. It was 54 days since time began, according to the computer, 11 days since he discovered the plate above his head that he couldn’t reach.

  He looked up through the porthole into the blackness. He was tired of the dark, tired of dreaming, tired of tubes sticking out of him. He wanted to run. Just run like a child. But his angst wasn’t his biggest problem.

  He loosened the chest strap and touched his skin: taught and dry. Then he noticed his tongue was sticky. He took a deep breath of air and his throat was scratchy. He felt the tube going into his arm, wondered if he could feel it if fluids were flowing through. He ran his fingers along the thin tube, it flexed just like it did before, but he couldn’t tell if fluids were actually moving into his body. Then he touched his arm near the IV. The skin was dry. His body didn’t feel right.

  He looked up into the blackness where the little plate was stamped to the inner cone. He strapped himself into bed again to assess his situation.

  Computer, how long can a human last without water?

  96 hours on average, depending on body weight, age and other factors.

  He held onto the IV line. Massaged it with his fingers. 96 hours, he thought. He sniffed the air again. Was there moisture like before? He licked his lips and his tongue wasn’t wet with saliva.

  Life support was down, he thought. It was still quiet in the tube and he wondered if his little pod was dead. He’d hold this speed forever. A tiny little ship with a dead guy inside hurtling through infinite space for all eternity. Maybe that was the plan. To keep him alive long enough to wake up, to feel he was alive. To dream of the girl. To want life. And then to die slowly in a C-tube.

  He screamed and his voice was hoarse and he coughed. 96 hours. 96 hours if the oxygen didn’t run out first. I don’t want to die of thirst or lack of air. It was worse than drowning. This can’t be my fate, he thought. I’m supposed to die with a gun in my hand. The gun. He instinctively reached under his left arm, but it wasn’t there. Another memory came. The gun had a wood handle and was made of steel, not like they used on the seemless alacite blended hulls. But real steel like the early boats, before the nyanya’s brought their fuel technology to the old worlds.

  I had a gun, he thought. Not an energy weapon. He lay there for a few more moments playing with the IV line. Then finally he wrapped a finger around the thin tube and yanked it. He felt a sharp little prick of pain, then put the tube to his lips.

  Nothing.

  Fine, it needed to be done. He unfastened the straps and gently glided up into the cone. This time he could make it all the way, about three feet up. There, he was eye level with the porthole. He felt around in the darkness and found a pad like a head rest or pillow on the opposite side, and he wondered if this is where his head should have been all along. He turned and pushed himself into position with his head on the cushion and he could see straight out of the window.

  Then he reached up and felt for the small metal plate. He traced his fingers around the edges of it. Probably the right size, he thought. He paused there for a moment. If the numbers weren’t raised he’d probably die in the dark.

  He brushed his fingers across the plate and felt nothing. He concentrated, held himself in place by pushing his left hand against the inner hull above the padding and very carefully touched the plate ag
ain, but still nothing. Just smooth, cold, metal.

  So that’s it, he thought. I’m going to die here.

  He let out a deep breath and started kicking against the padding until he felt a tug on the tube sticking into his penis. He grabbed the line and gave it a gentle pull, considered another yank to finally be rid of the catheter, but couldn’t go through with it.

  He thrashed around a bit more, screamed into the darkness. He pushed on the pads as hard as he could, until his arms started to shake and his head pressed deep into the headrest. And just when his muscles started to burn he felt something give.

  The headrest bent back a little. So he turned and grabbed either side of it and pulled with both hands. It moved again. He started wrenching it back and forth until it moved even more. One metal brace broke off with a satisfying CRACK. It was a joyous sound. So he worked the other brace, torquing the headrest up and down until the metal sheared off and he held the prize in his hands and yelled triumphantly.

  “Stick that up your hole, you shiteheads!” he yelled into the darkness. He enjoyed hearing the wild, tired voice coming out of his body. “I’m still alive!”

  And then, breathing heavily, still clutching his prize, he relaxed, floating in the pitch black, and listened to the sound of the air moving in and out of his body. He knew he’d just wasted oxygen, but didn’t care.

  After a few minutes his breathing slowed and the muscles in his chest and arms stopped burning, and he felt something jabbing the back of his head. The turned and reached out with his hands so he could find it.

  It was the remains of the headrest brackets. One was pointed straight back and he was glad he didn’t poke himself in the eye. Even though eyes are fairly useless in this can, he thought. He carefully bent down the pointy end so it was more or less flush with the hull and he wouldn’t lose a worthless eyeball.

  When he’d gotten it down far enough his hand brushed against something else. He steadied himself again and carefully reached out with his fingers. It was a rectangular section of metal with raised numbering.