by G. H. Holmes
What were the alternatives?
Perhaps somebody had found a way to replicate him.
Ben rejected the notion. So far nobody had achieved that in more than three hundred and fifty years.
But what if?
He thought of Joshua Davidson, the only other person in the universe who fully shared his condition. He hadn't seen Davidson in centuries. Dr. Josh was a brilliant scientist. What if he had replicated his destroyed lab and was now busy transforming humans into aliens?
Ben frowned.
That was contrary to the man's character. Davidson was no fool. He knew about the grave threat inherent in powerful but indestructible entities. They were uncontrollable. They'd turn into dictators and nightmares in no time.
Ben thought of his time on Neo Babylonia and the lonely years in space and shivered.
Davidson knew as well as he did: absolute power by necessity had to go hand-in-hand with goodness—genuine goodness—and stalwart character, and not the lying kind of goodness with which humans so many times fooled themselves. Meaning well was not the same as being genuinely good. A powerful being merely meaning well was a catastrophe in the waiting.
The human heart is a crooked thing and who knows how to deal with it? Ben thought.
Immortals with crooked hearts would only resemble the Greek and Roman gods: lewd, narcissistic and indifferent individuals all. And sometimes cruel. Davidson would never consciously unleash beings like that on mankind. If he knew about Ben on Neo-Ba, he was probably sorry that he'd transformed him so many years ago.
Ben's mind returned to the red fog.
So far he'd only seen footage of it from the drones, which hadn't lent itself to any kind of analysis. If this fog didn't have a source of light at its core, perhaps it was nothing more than illuminated dust in the air.
They'd find out.
***
T1 floated down the entry lane near the station's center and the bridge crew watched the round gate close in like the mouth of a fish. A shudder went through the ship when it connected with the docking module. Ben watched the procedure from the bridge, where the pilot now activated the appropriate cameras and the big screen gave the illusion of standing right by the door.
In T1's hold, the engineers of the MARDET's de-mining squad were nervously waiting for the docking chamber to pressurize and for the door to open. Their moment of truth had come.
On the bridge, the pilot was patiently waiting, too. He stared intently at the red light above the chamber door on the screen.
"What are you waiting for, Skipper?" Ben asked.
"Sir, I'm waiting for the signal to turn green. The station needs to pressurize the chamber."
"And it's not happening?" Ben said.
"That's correct, Sir."
Maybe the problem lay with the skipper. Perhaps the ship wasn't positioned properly. Ben was tempted to tell the pilot to check his parameters, but refrained. The man was no novice. He was surely smart enough to come up with the idea himself.
An uneasy minute went by before Ben said, "Can you pressurize it from ship-side?"
"I'm afraid that's not possible," the pilot replied. "It's something the station has to do. For security reasons. If the atmosphere is contaminated, it won't let us dock. Or if the station's atmosphere has vanished, the vacuum would suck the air right out of the ship."
"I see," Ben said. "If the station doesn't cooperate, but everything is fine with its air, is there no way to pressurize the chamber manually by drawing on station atmosphere?"
"The possibility exists," the pilot said, "but the button to activate the procedure is right inside the station. What I mean to say is: sitting here, I can't give myself permission to draw on the station's atmosphere. I have to get greenlighted from over there."
A steep wrinkle appeared on Ben's forehead. "But there's got to be a way. Surely somebody thought of the possibility that a service crew might want to enter an empty station."
"We are dealing with a C-17 safety module. I assume it was installed here because of its close proximity to the station's command center. I'm sure the station is accessible from entry points in less sensitive areas."
Great.
Ben frowned. This was a development he hadn't foreseen. Neither had his exec. Nor the pilot.
What did that say about them all?
Ben had counted fast and hard on the sleepyheadedness of possible guardians. To fly over to another gate would cost them precious time. Any element of surprise that they might have enjoyed would be wasted. Any guardians of the station would be in a state of alert by the time they'd finally enter. They'd be waiting for them.
In this case, Ben and his troops might never make it to the command center.
The general desired to enter the station at this precise—albeit denied—point of entrance—and fast. There was just no better place.
After a long moment's reflection Ben asked the pilot, "You familiar with the procedure station-side, Skipper?"
"Yes, Sir," the pilot replied.
"Tell me, which button on the control panel exactly needs to get punched," Ben said.
The pilot pointed at the panel on the left side of the door on the screen. "See that big round yellow pushbutton, Sir?"
Ben nodded.
"Exactly the same button exists station-side," the pilot explained. "Now, if a friendly alien would punch it for us, we'd be set…"
Ben began to walk back and forth, thinking hard, wrestling with himself. He'd told the troops that on this mission they'd experience him as a limited human being, just as they were. But now the situation demanded that he be pragmatic. They couldn't waste time here. Who knew what was going on behind the station's closed door already? If the station had any defenders worth their salt, they were grabbing their rifles by now.
On the other hand, if the atmosphere within the station had really vanished or was no longer made up of breathable air, he couldn't let anybody go in unprotected. He'd have to stick his troops into cumbersome spacesuits.
Were T2 and T3 facing the same problems? How were they faring?
"Mr. Yamato, have T2 and T3 already touched down?"
The copilot looked at his screen. "No, Sir. They haven't reached their destinations yet."
"Tell them not to connect with the station once they get to their respective gates. I repeat: they are not to connect. Instead they are to stand by until further orders."
"Aye, Sir," the copilot said, keyed his console and transmitted the general's orders.
Ben looked at the closed gate on the screen in front of him.
"Skipper," he said to the pilot, "I will leave the bridge now and for the duration of my absence I want you to switch your screen off. Switch also any screens off that give the engineers the illusion of looking at the gate."
"Beg pardon, Sir?" The pilot looked puzzled.
"You heard me," Ben said.
He turned around and while he walked to the door, he said, "Mr. LeBlanc, you're in charge until I'm back."
XO Piero LeBlanc looked as puzzled as the two pilots did. They stared at the door for a long time after Ben had vanished through it.
Ben scanned the dim hall to make sure he was alone. The bridge beyond the door behind him was quiet; nobody was following him.
He heard the excited voices of the MARDET in their hold. The troops were wondering what was going on. In a moment LeBlanc would tell them that there was a momentary delay and not to worry.
The general slipped into his state room.
Immediately it began to glow electric green as Ben expanded and lost all shape and vanished into a fading cloud of light.
Suddenly empty, his clothes fell to the ground.
Now imperceptible, Ben floated through the ships innards until he arrived at the closed docking gate.
The waiting engineers, all suited up, were busily checking their equipment when Ben passed them by.
"Hey!" one Marine said. "Where's that wind coming from?" His gaze went to the light atop the d
oor.
But it was still red.
"What wind?" another engineer replied. "I feel no wind."
"Never mind," the first one said. "I thought I felt something."
"What'd you feel?" his buddy asked and cast him a dubious glance.
"Something like a draft."
"For crying out loud, you're wearing a space suit! How are you feeling a wind—unless it's coming from yourself?"
"I said, never mind."
"Even without a suit: if they pump air into that gate, you won't feel it in here," his buddy informed him. "We're talking about ten centimeters of steel on each side."
His buddy ignored him. Remote in hand, he made his robo-dog to walk a few steps.
Ben filtered through the first ten centimeters of steel until he arrived in the unpressurized docking chamber between ship and station. It was exceedingly cold in here. He floated on and slowly filtered through the dense metal of the gate on the other side…
…and entered Kasa Station.
Right here the forsaken station resembled a narrow spaceport terminal with chairs and a counter. The light was off, but the place wasn't totally dark; the sun shone in through vitrum panels and painted crisp shadows onto the opposite walls. It was even reasonably warm.
A quick scan revealed: there were no guardians waiting—unless they were as invisible as he was.
But that was unlikely.
The stores on both sides of the hall were dark and deserted. Unmolested layers of dust covered the ground. It had been a long time since somebody walked here.
Ben was encouraged by this development.
He dashed on into the terminal, looked around and saw nothing threatening. He entered the empty stores, where he slammed through walls until he had seen them all. Their wares were still in place, albeit covered with an inch of dust.
He found no signs of a struggle anywhere. There was no chaos. The doors of some stores stood open, but that hardly qualified as disturbed. It seemed, their owners had left them voluntarily and in an orderly fashion.
Nosy, he went into a bookstore, whose door was ajar, and reached his invisible hand into its cash register. The money was still there. Ben felt the contours of coins and bills.
Why had they left?
And why had they left their money behind?
And why had nobody stolen that money in the meantime?
The twilight by the gate began to glow in an electric blue as the cloud that was Ben began to shape up again—but not fully, because he didn't want to leave traces in the dust by the door. They would have unsettled his engineering Marines. He just needed enough substance to be able to press the button. Within less than a minute he resembled a transparent General Harrow—without his uniform. But nobody saw him to get worried about their boss.
He inhaled deeply.
Kasa Station had breathable air. It smelled musty like it had been sloppily recycled many times and it was a bit stifling, but it was breathable for humans. The air generator was probably operating in economy mode. Once they took the command center, they'd power-clean the atmosphere and would then set the generator to normal.
Ben turned and faced the door. Just as the pilot had said, there was a big round yellow button on the control panel by its left side. He settled his palm over it and depressed it. Valves hissed as the docking chamber was filled with air.
On the bridge of T1 they now probably wondered what—or who—had activated the gate. Ben hoped the pilot had switched off the screens as he'd ordered him to do. He knew human nature. The pilot wouldn't leave the screen alone for long. Neither would his exec, LeBlanc. Humans were nosy and they'd want to know who had pressurized the docking chamber. Ben wished he'd have the time to explore this terminal a little more, but he understood that he had to go back.
Quickly.
The door to the bridge slid open and Ben entered. He was now back in uniform.
All eyes were on him. The faces of Exec LeBlanc and the crew showed that they didn't know what to make of what had just happened. They eyed him, unsure.
What had Harrow done?
Ben noted with satisfaction that the screen was still off. "You may activate the screen again, Mr. Van Buren."
"Aye, Sir." The pilot's touched the appropriate spots on his console and the picture came back. They saw that the docking chamber was now properly pressurized and the red light atop the door had turned to green.
"I meant to tell you, Sir, that something activated the docking process," the pilot said.
"So I see," Ben replied. "Please tell T2 and T3 to proceed. I understand their gates are of a different model. They may commence docking now, too."
"Yes, Sir." The copilot hunched over his microphone and relayed the order.
Ben turned to his exec. "Mr. LeBlanc, let our engineers enter Kasa Station."
The lieutenant colonel was still staring at Ben. He blinked several times before he said, "On my way, Sir."
The officer got up and staggered towards the door. The stress from the journey was still in his bones—and that the general had done something that couldn't be done didn't help either. In his mind, Harrow was a scary character.
Ben sat down in the seat that LeBlanc had vacated. He felt the warmth in the leather. "Mr. Yamato, please keep me posted on the progress of T2 and T3," he said to the copilot.
The black-haired man acknowledged with a nod.
Ben leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs while on the screen the first team of nervous engineers wearing spacesuits stepped from one foot on the other. The gate to the station slid open and they set their robo-dogs loose, just as protocol demanded.
Ben smiled. They wouldn't get blown to bits as soon as they entered the station.
He knew.
He'd gone before them.
After half an hour the engineers of the de-mining platoon declared the immediate era area by the gate to be safe for human visitation. There were no bombs and the atmosphere was free of toxins.
A sigh of relief rippled through the penned troops who'd been waiting patiently for that report in the hold of T1. They were more than a hundred and fifty people. The quarters were crowded and they were getting stir-crazy. There was genuine joy when the command came and the General ordered them to set up camp in the terminal.
The men and women of Aleph Company shouldered their rucksacks, grabbed their rifles and filed out of the transport to enter the terminal.
Once they were out of the way, the logistics detail unloaded the supplies. The FAVs—dune buggies—came out last. Their all-terrain tires left deep tracks in the dust as their drivers lined them up in the terminal and parked them.
Captain Anderson and his troops were waiting for the headquarters staff to disembark, which they did in time. Behind them Colonel LeBlanc came out.
And lastly General Harrow appeared. He paused by the gate and scanned his troops. Nobody was missing.
As soon as the gate had closed behind him, the chamber decompressed with a hiss and T1 moved away from the docking module. Some of the younger troops rushed to the vitrum panels and looked out to see T1 back off.
He really did it, Joel Anderson thought. He broke our bridges. We're on our own.
Surrounded by his headquarters staff, General Harrow went to his dune buggy, in whose back the comm station was mounted.
"What's the word on T2 and T3?" he asked Colonel LeBlanc. "Did they have any trouble entering?"
LeBlanc looked at the comm sergeant working his equipment.
The sergeant shook his head. "No, Sir. They had no problem—no first contact either. Their engineers are de-mining right now."
"Very well," Ben said. "They know what they have to do. And so do we. We better get going."
The sooner they reached the station's command center, the better it was for all involved in this endeavor.
Ben swallowed.
He knew, of course, that the command center would be the best-defended piece of real estate on this station. If anybody was guarding this p
lace, they would do it from there. All that separated them from that center was one thousand meters of uncharted territory.
He wondered what the first surprise would be.
Chapter 12
The engineers had set the terminal up as a perimeter, secured it with two humming Xylon shields that cast a green pall, with two more inactive ones for backup, and now Aleph Company resembled a veritable beehive. Privates were working jack lifts, moving pallets with water bottles, energy ordnance and other supplies into sheltered corners.
Others familiarized themselves with the terminal and found to their great relief that the toilets were still functioning. The water that flowed from the taps had a musty quality to it, but they had endured worse on Terra Gemina. They were Marines, for crying out loud, not merchants of perfume and finery. They only used it to wash up anyway. None of them was dumb enough to drink it.
The initial unease soon gave way to laughter and good-natured banter. Everybody felt: this wasn't so bad.
General Harrow sat in his FAV, his feet propped up, and listened to status reports from Berlin and Chaos Company, who were pretty much doing the same thing as Aleph Company: getting situated.
Within minutes the logistics detail set up microwaves in an abandoned restaurant and ready-made meals were heated. Soon the good old smell of greasy food filled the air and the troops were eating on their feet. The fare was what it was, nothing special, but it helped to make them forget their travails on the pylon road.
Corporals Shanti Kumar and Vesantha Raj, food trays in hand, moseyed into a bookstore, mostly because they thought it was quaint.
Its hardcopy shelves were surprisingly well-stocked.
A blue-and-red cardboard poster on the wall said "Bestsellers from Terra O." But those were only available in electronic form, it seemed, because a download station for e-readers stood below it and there was no shelf.
