by Jim C. Hines
Shuttle two looked like an old Earth school bus had mated with a fat caterpillar. Its official designation was the unimaginative Pufferfish-S2. Triangular wings were currently folded up around the body. Like its mothership, the Pufferfish-S2 was matte black, painted in an energy-absorbing material that rendered it harder for sensors to find or track.
When the light hit at just the right angle, Mops could see the hair-thin lines of the shuttle’s defensive grid, giving it a scaly appearance. Two small weapons pods ran the length of the ship on either side.
Two other shuttles were locked down in the back of the bay. This one had been moved into the center, its nose aligned with the docking bay doors.
“Inventory looks good,” Monroe called from inside the shuttle. A copy of his checklist flashed onto Mops’ monocle. “All system checks are blue.”
Mops checked her team’s status. In addition to the usual information, her monocle now displayed weapons and ammunition count. Wolf and Kumar each had a single pistol and extra magazine. Mops had taken two pistols for herself. A black combat baton, half a meter in length, hung from Monroe’s left hip. Mops had packed additional ammo in the shuttle, along with a single rifle. If all went well, they shouldn’t need any of it.
Given their luck so far, maybe she should have hunted around for more ammo.
She turned to Grom, who was waiting a short distance from the shuttle. “As soon as we’re clear, close the bay doors and shut down all systems except what’s necessary to keep yourself and the crew alive. I want the Pufferfish invisible until we get back.”
Grom slid closer. “What if you don’t make it back?”
“If you don’t hear from us in two weeks, consider yourself promoted.”
“That prospect . . . isn’t quite as appealing as it would have been a few days ago.”
Mops grinned and climbed into the shuttle, settling into one of the egg-shaped seats built into the interior wall. “Take care of the crew. And if you spend the whole time playing video games, I’ll jam a utility pole up your backside and use you as a dust mop. Is that clear?”
“Vividly clear.”
Mops secured the contoured, padded restraint plates over her thighs. The back of the seat locked automatically to her equipment harness. Additional restraints would secure her head and limbs if the ride got rough.
She glanced toward the front, where Kumar was settling into the pilot’s station, and double-checked to make sure those extra restraints were working properly.
Wolf and Monroe squeezed in and took their seats. The boarding ramp folded shut, the exterior door sliding and locking into place.
“Air circulation in these things is mediocre at best,” said Monroe. “Try not to puke during the flight.”
“Seal and secure your suits for takeoff,” added Mops. If something did go wrong during launch, the suits could keep them alive long enough to get back to the Pufferfish. At least in theory. She double-checked to make sure everyone’s suit status showed blue. “Kumar, we’re ready to go.”
“Yes, sir.”
There were no windows or viewscreens, so Mops called up an exterior view on her monocle. Grom had left the bay as fast as their countless legs could carry them. From the cockpit, Mops heard Kumar muttering under his breath. “Doc, what’s going on up there?” she whispered.
Doc switched to a view of the pilot’s console, where Puffy was happily reminding Kumar not to engage the main engines until they were at least one kilometer away from the Pufferfish.
“I know,” muttered Kumar.
“Did you remember to depressurize the bay? Otherwise . . .” Puffy turned and let out an exaggerated, animated belch. A tiny shuttle launched from his mouth, tumbling out of control like a minnow in a maelstrom.
“Depressurizing the bay,” Kumar called back. The sound of a windstorm outside slowly faded into silence. A short time later, Mops felt the Pufferfish-S2’s docking clamps retract. “Reducing power to docking bay gravity plates.”
Mops’ stomach lurched. She grabbed the restraints without thinking. It felt like she was falling sideways.
Her monocle changed to show the shuttle sliding free of the bay. Doc had outlined the black hull of the Pufferfish against the blacker emptiness of space.
“An external reference point can help with spacesickness.”
“Thanks. Feed that view to the rest of the team, please.” As she spoke, the system’s star rotated slowly into view: a ball of blue-white light surrounded by a faint ring of dust.
“If you replaced Earth’s sun with that star, it would engulf Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, and Jupiter,” said Doc. An icon on Mops’ monocle indicated he was addressing the whole team.
Wolf swallowed. “Let’s not do that, then.”
“Where’s the station?” asked Monroe.
“According to their beacon signal, right there.” A blue dot appeared to the left of the star.
The shuttle lurched hard up and to port, eliciting a curse from Wolf.
“Sorry,” said Kumar. “Thrusters weren’t this touchy in the simulation.”
Wolf glanced around the cramped space. “I don’t know if I can handle thirty-six hours of this.”
“Shift your thinking, Technician,” said Mops. “Consider this a day and a half off your regular duty shift. I don’t know about you, but I intend to take full advantage of the opportunity.”
“Opportunity for what?”
Mops smiled and used her eye movement to queue up a list of files on her monocle. “Allow me to introduce you to the works of Jane Austen of Earth.”
Greetings, visitor. Welcome to the Coacalos Family Generation Ship, a privately owned and politically neutral vessel.
Environmental specs are available for download from any of the forty-two perimeter beacons. If you’ve forgotten to bring your own air supply, the family is happy to provide daily, weekly, or monthly air allotments tailored to your species, for a fair and reasonable price. We recommend using any of the financial kiosks to set up automatic payments to guarantee continued respiratory security.
Your ship will be scanned, registered, and docked by our professional and certified docking technicians. By proceeding, you agree to waive all liability for any damage, injuries, or deaths that may (but almost certainly won’t) occur during docking.
A complete list of rules and regulations are available for download from the perimeter beacons. Any violations may result in fines and/or expulsion from the station. If you are unable to pay your fine, your ship may be kept in payment, in which case you will be expelled from the nearest air lock. Whether you are allowed a spacesuit depends on the severity of the violation.
Remember, if you’re close enough to receive this message, our weapons have already locked onto your ship!
Thanks for visiting the Coacalos Family Generation Ship. We hope you enjoy your stay.
“ARRIVAL IN SIXTY-FOUR MINUTES,” said Kumar.
Wolf groaned. “Can’t you slow us down a bit? I’m most of the way through this damn book, and I still don’t know if Mr. Darcy is going to propose again, or if—”
“The books will be waiting when we’re through,” Mops assured her. After a day and a half in the shuttle, everyone was sore, smelly, and sick of each other’s company. Deliberately postponing their arrival would likely trigger a mutiny.
“It looks like you’re approaching a space station,” Puffy announced. After the first day, they’d broadcast Puffy’s feed through the team’s monocles, just for the distraction. “Remember, everything in space moves. Begin by inputting the velocity of your target. Comparing their vector to your own will tell you how to accelerate.”
“Hold on.” Kumar scanned the area around the pilot’s station. He’d been scribbling notes in white marking pen on every bare surface: reminders and instructions and shortcuts and formulae for everything from fuel consumption t
o changing Puffy’s color scheme. “Station vector was part of the transmission from that beacon we passed . . . got it. Um, sir? I think we’re getting a tight-beam communication from the station.”
“Patch it through to me,” said Mops.
Kumar nodded. “How do I do that?”
“There should be an incoming signal icon,” said Wolf. “Tap it.”
“I did,” snapped Kumar. “I’m tapping it right now. Nothing’s happening.”
A sound like an angry tuba filled the shuttle, making the entire team jump. Mops grimaced. “Turn that down, and run it through the translator, Kumar!”
Wolf unfastened her restraints and shoved her way toward the cockpit, but the transmission stopped before she could squeeze in beside Kumar. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!” Kumar raised his hands, as if to prove he hadn’t touched the controls.
Mops leaned forward. “Please tell me we didn’t just hang up on Coacalos Station.”
“Maybe they hung up on us first,” offered Wolf.
Before Mops could respond, the transmission resumed, this time in deep, gravelly Human. “Are you comprehending this language? This is Coacalos docking control. You have thirty seconds to identify yourselves and your intentions. Failure to comply will be considered a declaration of hostility and result in your incineration.”
Mops cleared her throat. “This is Marion Adamopoulos, in command of the Elizabeth Bennet. There are four of us, all human. We intend to spend a few days relaxing at Coacalos Station.”
A pause. “Your ship’s beacon identifies you as the Pufferfish-S2 of the Earth Mercenary Corps.”
“Does it?” Mops glared at Wolf, who was supposed to have disabled that beacon. “How strange.”
“Very strange,” the voice replied. “Particularly given the bounty the Alliance announced earlier today for the EMCS Pufferfish and its crew.”
“As I understand, Coacalos Station isn’t part of the Alliance,” said Mops.
“True . . . but we aren’t about to turn down a bounty of that size when it flies into our maw. Unless a more profitable alternative presents itself, of course. Before you respond, please keep in mind that we have a confirmed weapons lock on your ship.”
Mops squared her shoulders, pretending it didn’t sting to know the organization she’d served for twelve years considered her a traitor. Technically, she was, but that didn’t make it any less painful to hear. “A more profitable alternative. Tell me, how much does the station earn in an average week?”
“That information is confidential.”
She’d expected as much, but it didn’t matter. “If you turn us over to the EMC, you’ll get your bounty. Then, once the Alliance realizes why we came here, you’ll have several hundred human troops inspecting every square centimeter of your station. They’ll tear the place apart and interrogate every one of your staff and guests. Knowing EMC procedures, they’ll spend at least a week disrupting your business.”
“The Alliance and the EMC have no jurisdiction here.”
Mops lowered her voice. “Given the situation, I don’t think that’s going to matter.”
“What situation? Explain!”
“Not over an open channel.”
“All of our communications are tight-beam, short-range transmissions, encrypted with temporal-variable—”
“It’s not your end of the conversation I’m worried about,” Mops interrupted, glancing toward Wolf.
After a long pause, the voice said, “Please stand by.”
Kumar looked up at her. “What do you think they’re doing?”
“The same thing any of us would do with a situation that could potentially blow up in our faces,” guessed Mops. “Searching for a superior to dump the problem on.” She checked their position. “For now, continue matching course with the station.”
Whoever the dock controller had escalated the call to, they’d gotten an impressively fast reply. Less than a minute later, they signaled the Pufferfish again. “Attention, Marion Adamopoulos. The Coacalos family will hear your warning. Do not deviate from your present course, or you will be destroyed. Security will meet you at your shuttle after docking is complete. Do not attempt to disembark until instructed, or you will be destroyed.”
“Understood, thank you.” She turned to face her team. “From here on, everyone is on their best behavior. That means—”
“Marion Adamopoulos, you are still transmitting.”
Wolf offered a sheepish apology, then began bickering with Kumar over how to end their broadcast. Puffy chimed in a moment later.
“It looks like you’re trying to disable communications equipment,” Puffy said cheerfully. “Would you like help?”
With a sigh, Mops stretched back to wait.
“You are now free to disembark.” The mechanized voice over their comms lacked inflection—either a cheap translator program or a low-level AI. “Atmospheric pressure is approximately one-fourth Human normal. The use of breathing apparatus is recommended.”
Mops secured her hood and gloves, made sure her team had done the same, and opened the shuttle door. As soon as she ducked through and her feet touched the docking ledge floor, she arched her back and stretched. Her spine let out a series of audible cracks and pops, causing the closest of their Quetzalus guards to jump back in alarm, bristly hair glowing like heating elements.
“Do you require medical assistance?”
“No, thank you.” Mops chuckled. “Rearranging our internal skeletons is just something humans do.”
“That is . . . disturbing.”
The Quetzalus were the largest intelligent species known to the Alliance. They were quadrupedal, with long necks and bright orange beaklike mouths. Scraggly, bristly hair covered their leathery skin. The one who’d spoken was on the small side, barely four meters in height.
When a Quetzalus was at rest, their hair was a dull waxy color. But each strand was internally reflective, anchored deep within bioluminescent sacs that ran the length of the Quetzalus’ body. The tip of each hair could light up like a spark, broadcasting the Quetzalus’ mood for all to see. Older Quetzalus generally controlled and minimized the effect.
A rippling yellow glow suggested this one was both young and anxious. The brilliant red crest sprouting from the head like an out-of-control shrub marked him as a male. Flaps of bare skin stretched between his fore and hind limbs, vestigial wings his species hadn’t used in eons. He and his two companions all carried short-barreled blasters mounted to the sides of their meter-long beaks, along with translators and communications units.
They were big enough and strong enough to physically pick up the shuttle and throw it back into space. And they were clearly terrified of the four humans.
“We don’t want to cause trouble,” Mops assured them.
“Your people are trouble,” the young Quetzalus replied.
Wolf chuckled. “Hard to argue with that.”
“What’s your name?” asked Mops.
“Quil Coacalos.”
“Second child of the Coacalos family, so he’s pretty important,” Doc added. “Try not to scare him any more than you have.”
Mops glanced around the docking bay, an enormous hollow cylinder covered in circular ledges that reminded her of fungal growths. Grav beam generators protruded from metal blisters in the wall. At the top of the bay, a heavy black dome sealed them off from the emptiness of space.
A layer of fine black sand crunched beneath Mops’ boots. An insectlike creature the size of a human hand crept along the wall, twitching feathery blue wings and watching the newcomers with huge, chronically surprised eyes.
“This place is filthy,” muttered Kumar. His hand went automatically to one of the small spray canisters in his harness.
Mops caught his wrist. “Half the station runs on biologics. You have no idea how
much damage you could do if you start disinfecting.”
“This way,” said Quil Coacalos, tromping toward a large, circular air lock door. Mops and her team fell in behind, with the other two guards bringing up the rear. “There will be a brief cleansing process before you’re allowed into the station. Your equipment and weaponry has been scanned and registered.”
The cleansing was similar to a level four decon: chemical spray and low-level irradiation. A fluid sample check followed. They each unsealed their hoods long enough to spit on a long white swab, which was then inserted into a small hole in the side wall.
“To make sure you’re not carrying anything potentially infectious,” explained Quil. Discomfort turned the tips of his hair orange, like someone had set him on fire. “Humans are rumored to be . . . that is, we’re aware of your species’ unique history, and don’t want to risk—”
“We’re not contagious,” growled Wolf.
“Lucky for you, the computer agrees,” said Quil as the holes closed and the inner door slid open. Air and noise rushed in, buffeting the humans backward. The Quetzalus didn’t appear to notice.
“We have had human visitors before,” Quil continued. “Several of your species have even taken up employment on Coacalos Station. The air is adequate to sustain you.”
“Confirmed,” said Doc. “A bit high in CO2, but nothing you can’t handle.”
Mops had seen her share of space stations, villages orbiting whatever star or planet kept them on their gravitational leashes. Each had its own feel. The Stepping Stone back home was primarily a military installation, clean and utilitarian, shared by Krakau and humans. Others functioned as trading posts and supply depots, or shipyards, or exploratory stations with their massive arrays of telescopes.
Coacalos Station wasn’t a village, but a city. Mops was reminded of footage she’d seen of pre-plague Las Vegas on Earth, if Vegas had been built in a hollow mountain instead of the middle of the desert.
