by T. R. Harris
When they arrived, they went to the private-access airfield, rather than the crowded commercial terminals. There was security here, but the false identities and prior notice Cross had provided got them through the gate without a problem. They followed along a row of huge metal hangars, where the wealthy and sport-flyers of Colorado Springs kept their air- and spacecraft. After reaching the designated building, they entered through an unlocked door.
It was dark inside the hangar until Angus found the light switch. By the sour look on his face, he wished he hadn’t.
In the center of the large room sat a piece-of-junk starship…literally. Zac agreed they didn’t want to attract any attention, but this flying rust bucket would do just the opposite as intended, as people marveled that something so rundown and ugly could actually fly. This part of the plan hadn’t been thought through properly.
The REVs scanned the interior of the hangar for the pilot, but it was empty.
“He’s probably inside,” Angus said.
“Or he ran off for the hills when he saw what he was expected to pilot.”
Angus shrugged. “Cross said he has a rich benefactor. You would think he could’ve done better than this piece of shit.”
“One would think.”
The men moved to the entry hatch where Zac punched in the access code given to him by Dr. Cross.
The craft looked like a typical private jetliner, but with stubbier wings and the ubiquitous gravity generators bulging out of the aft end. It was about a hundred feet long with a row of portholes running along the fuselage. The dark cockpit was visible through a wrap-around window at the forward end. There weren’t any obvious gun ports, although civilian starcraft often had a few weapons hidden away for self-defense.
But what made the REVs nervous was the fact that the hull was covered in splotches of rust and gray primer, with a plethora of dents in the composite outer shell. How a private starship would acquire such dents was a mystery. Even flying through an asteroid field wouldn’t do this, since, contrary to widely held belief, these regions of space were sparsely populated by the tumbling clumps of iron and nickel. Besides, any rocky material hitting a starship would obliterate the vessel, and not simply dent the hull.
Zac shrugged as the door cycled open. At this point, everything was moot, in Zac’s opinion. The damn ship probably wouldn’t even make it out the hangar, let alone the transition into space….
And then his jaw dropped.
The doorway led directly into the ship’s main cabin and not into an airlock—that entrance was in the aft section. Instead, Zac found himself inside a luxurious central compartment with a padded carpet floor, molded leather furniture and sparkling off-white walls. It was a lounge area, designed for comfort and convenience, including fold-away tables and a small galley to the rear. A narrow corridor ran aft from the cabin, with two doors—one on each side—and a pressure hatch at the end, leading to the engine room. The ship was too small to have its own landing bay or shuttlecraft.
Angus bumped into Zac’s back, distracted by what he saw. Both men were stunned into silence.
Zac turned to his left and passed through an open pressure door that separated the pilothouse from the lounge. Angus was at his elbow, craning to get a look over his shoulder.
The cockpit was as classy as the lounge, with a pair of high-back pilot and co-pilot chairs and a sophisticated control panel spanning both stations. Monitor screens—now dark—rose above the panel, but not enough to block the view through the three-sided front window. The room was tight and compact, with additional banks of equipment lining the bulkhead to the left and right of the control stations. The command seats were heavily padded, off-white in color and made of soft leather. The waist and shoulder harnesses had shiny chrome buckles that looked as though they’d never been used. In fact, looking at the carpeted floor, not a single footprint disturbed the fibers, save those of Angus and Zac.
Considering the immaculate condition of the rest of the interior, Zac didn’t think anything of it. Someone could have just vacuumed the floors. Still, he left the cockpit, looking for the pilot. He moved to the back corridor, and opened the side doors, peering into a pair of identical staterooms. They were small with fold-away beds, individual bathrooms and a compact entertainment center with a desk and bolted-down chair.
They moved to the engine room next. As expected, the place was spotless and filled with fully-integrated modules that fit together like a work of art. There wasn’t an inch of wasted space, and the layout made sense. They weren’t engineers or mechanics, so they weren’t really sure. It just looked like it made sense. And like everything else aboard the ship, all the equipment looked to be showroom new.
The ship was also unmanned; it wasn’t big enough for someone to go unnoticed. The pilot wasn’t aboard. Zac and Angus went back into the hangar and looked around some more, even going outside to see if he or she was there. No one was around, not even in the nearby hangars.
“Bugger me,” Angus said when they reentered the starship. “Cross can’t be expecting us to fly this thing, can he?”
“Why should he?” Zac said. “He’s known us our entire careers. He knows we have no pilot training, either military or commercial.”
They went into the cockpit to have another look around. This time, however, the small compartment took on a different aura, seeming more intimidating than before. There were a lot more gauges, buttons and levers than they’d noticed the first time. Zac looked along the back bulkhead for any kind of manual or disk container, anything that would give them a clue how to fly the ship. There was a single bookshelf, with not only slots for computer disks, but also a three-volume set of spiral-bound binders. He pulled one of them off the shelf and was rewarded with prominent black type on the white cover that read:
Operating Manual #2
Zephyr Class Model C-101
Starliner Deluxe
Encouraged, Zac opened the book. Angus looked over his shoulder. Both men gasped.
On this spread alone were paragraphs of 10-pt type, along with several line diagrams. Although the words were in English, they were written in a language completely foreign to the REVs. There was mention of damping fields and pressure settings, voltage charges and filtration membranes. Zac flipped the pages…and found more of the same, if even more technical in nature.
He returned to the bookshelf and found volume one of the guide. Starting at the beginning, the REVs began to get a better idea what they had.
This was one of the most advanced private space yachts in existence, not only luxurious, but highly complicated. The first several chapters spoke of the features of the ship, along with sections for safety protocols and warranty information. It wasn’t until page forty-eight that a layout of the command console even appeared, and then it was labeled in terms such as yaw stick and trim controls, well-depth indicator and cycling meter.
After five minutes, Zac set the book aside. He and Angus were in the command chairs—comfortable—yet completely defeated. Even if they wanted, it would take a year just to grasp the basics of the ship’s controls, gravity drive and life support systems. They didn’t have a year. Hell, they didn’t even have a day.
“This is ridiculous,” Zac said. “There must be someone coming who knows how to fly this thing. Maybe he just got delayed or misunderstood when to be here?”
Angus snorted. “I wish I had your optimism, mate, but considering how things have been going for us lately, I think we’re on our own.”
“Then we’re screwed. We may as well hijack a ship rather than take a crash course on how to fly a thing like this. It would be faster and far less dangerous.”
Angus noticed a button on the console with a vertical black line splitting the hemispheres. It resembled the ubiquitous on/off switch found on most electronics. He reached over and pushed it.
The command console and several of the monitors came to life. Zac and Angus bolted upright in their chairs. “What the hell, Angus, watch what you
’re doing! The ship could shoot straight up through the hangar, killing us both, or worse.”
“What’s worse than both of us getting killed?”
“You know what I mean.”
The men leaned forward and began to scan the screens and illuminated buttons and knobs.
“What does this look like to you?” Angus pointed to a button with a series of lines radiating out from a central point.
Zac took up the manual and flipped to the detailed line schematic of the console. He ran his finger over the page until he found the button. It was as they suspected.
“Voice control,” he said.
Angus pushed the button.
“Welcome, I am Steven,” said an omnipresent voice through hidden speakers. “I will be your auto-pilot and master control monitor. Please enter your authorization code.”
The REVs looked at each other, their eyes wide and bodies cascading to a level of excitement and vitality. Now they were getting somewhere.
“Authorization code?” Zac asked. “We don’t have an authorization code.”
“You entered the ship…therefore you must have a code.”
Zac searched his pockets for the sheet of paper with the printed door code. He repeated the numbers.
“That is incorrect. That is the door code. You need the full access code.”
Zac was crushed. That was the only number Cross had given him.
“What about the hangar number? Weren’t there some other numbers on that side of the sheet?” Angus asked.
He was right. Zac flipped the page over. The hangar was number eighteen, printed in large, black numerals. But there was another set of numbers, smaller and handwritten, below them.
“One-eight-eight-zero,” Zac recited.
“Access granted,” said the mature male voice.
“Great Steven. You said your name is Steven, is that right?”
“Yes. For convenience it can be.”
Angus shrugged. “I thought most of these things had sexy female voices,” he said obliquely to Zac.
“I can change the preferences,” said a sweet female voice. “I am designated Amber.”
The men looked at each other, eyebrows raised.
“That will do,” said Zac.
“Very well. I am Amber, I will be your auto-pilot and master control monitor. Welcome to the Zephyr Model C-101, Deluxe Starliner from Boeing Custom Starship Corporation.”
“Thanks, Amber,” said Zac impatiently. “Can you fly this ship off the planet?”
“That is possible, after pre-flight protocols and ground control clearance. Do you have an assigned itinerary?”
Zac flipped the single sheet of paper over again, finding nothing on it he’d missed. “Eh, no we don’t. Do we really need one? Can’t we simply shoot into space and then go where we want? After all, it’s space.”
“Once clear of the system, we would have more latitude. Yet leaving the surface of the planet by commercial means requires certain procedures be followed. Such governmental regulations are strictly enforced.”
“Can you guide us through those procedures?” Angus asked.
“Am I to take commands from both persons present, or only from the one with the access code?”
“Yes, from both of us,” Angus insisted.
“I am sorry. If so, I will need authorization from the primary code-holder.”
Zac smiled, hesitating a moment as he considered whether to give Angus access or not.
“Don’t be a bloody jerk,” Angus Price said with a scowl.
Zac smiled. “Yeah, sure. Give us both equal access.”
“Access granted.”
“Now, to the matter at hand,” Angus said with authority, and a trace of anger. “We need to leave the Earth and go to ES-10, the planet—”
“Yes, I know ES-10, the planet called Crious, in the native language. It is ninety-eight light-years from Earth, on a zero azimuth, eighteen degrees forty east course from our present location. Once in clear space, the travel time is approximately six days, four hours, nine minutes. Time estimates will depend on traffic within the designated stellar system and landing protocols.”
Zac and Angus were stunned. They had some idea what normal transit times were between star systems; they’d made the trips several times over the last decade or more. The Earth to ES-10 run took nineteen days by military transport on standard drive. Even in combat mode, it was around twelve.
Then something occurred to Zac. He knew a mere Marine colonel couldn’t afford a vessel such as this, and even with Cross’s resources within the military and their near-unlimited funds, he doubted they would authorize such an expensive indulgence. So, as they guessed earlier, the Zephyr had to come from Cross’s anonymous supporter, the same person who purchased the Cheyenne Mountain facility for him. Zac appreciated the help, but with each indirect favor he and Angus accepted, the tab grew larger. Although the REVs didn’t ask Cross’s patron for help, he was giving, and they were taking. And if there was one thing Zac knew, there were no free lunches.
“Who owns this ship?” he asked the AI.
“That is classified; you do not have a need to know.”
He was expecting the response. Even so, he would use the ship; he had no choice. But it also meant that his every move would be tracked and reported back to a mysterious person with his own agenda. For now, it was a price Zac was willing to pay.
“Okay, I understand that,” Zac said to the AI. “But as the code-holder, how much authority do I have over your actions?”
“Complete, within the confines of the mission and my restrictive protocols.”
“You know of the mission?”
“Yes. I have been informed that you are on a mission of discovery, of both personnel and lost documents. I have been programmed to assist in whatever capacity I can within the limits of my safety protocols.”
“What are your safety protocols?” Angus asked.
There was a slight pause from the computer, which for an advanced form of artificial intelligence, was a lifetime. “Need I recite them? They include the standard programming regarding endangering the life a Human through a variety of actions or inactions on my part. They are all quite common.”
Zac and Angus recoiled from the bitchy attitude coming from the sexy-sounding auto-pilot. Along with their lack of pilot or other technical training, REVs had little interaction with advanced computing programs and hardware. They didn’t need it to do their jobs. Apparently, personalities were being included in the programs these days, and very realistic personalities at that. The last thing Zac needed was an AI with an attitude.
“That’s all right,” Angus replied. “Aren’t they something like you can’t allow a Human to be harmed by what you do or don’t do.”
“Basically.”
Zac looked over the command console. Although he had limited experience with AI’s, he knew that most had an eye of sorts that served as a focal point for Human-Computer interactions. All he could hear were words coming from the computer. As a result, he didn’t know where to place his attention. He spoke into the room.
“Besides your piloting skills, do you have access to information files? We’re looking for a Marine general. His name is Bill Smith. Can you help find him?”
“I have access to all internet files, plus most classified databases, both military and governmental.”
“You do? How is that possible?” Angus asked.
“My owner has been granted access within many classified areas. I can track General Smith through his movements within the fleet as it has retreated throughout the Grid. As data is updated, I will receive it. The last known location for General Smith was in transit from ES-6 to ES-10. Your assumptions are correct, although there has been no official confirmation of his arrival on the planet Crious.”
“That’s okay,” Zac said. “We still need to get there. What about those launch procedures and approvals we need before leaving Earth? Can you help us with those?”
&nb
sp; “I have a set of pre-authorized destinations for my owner. We could file one; that will allow us to leave the planet. Yet once we deviate from our assigned course, it will be noticed.”
“Even if we’re light-years away?”
“Each civilian vessel has a registered transponder which is constantly monitored. This is done not only for security reasons, but for safety, so that rescue units can be sent in the case of emergency. Military vessels have similar tracking devices, yet they are monitored by a different system.”
“So, what happens when we deviate?” Price asked.
“It is assumed to be the fault of equipment malfunction or hijacking. A response would be forthcoming either way.”
“And we can’t file a flight plan directly to ES-10?” Zac asked, frustrated.
“The planet is currently under quarantine and Class-2 Marshall Law. Only military, medical and government vessels are allowed.”
The REVs sat silent, trying to work scenarios through their heads that would get them to the surface of the planet. It wouldn’t pay for them to spend six days in space just to be turned away at the last minute.
But first things first. There was a squad of Army Special Forces somewhere in the area looking for them. They had to get off the planet as soon as possible or there would be no mission to pursue.
“File one of the flight plans, either in the general vicinity of ES-10, or at least in that direction,” he ordered the AI. “We need to get moving.”
“The plan has been filed. Approval has been granted. I have the lift-off protocols.”
Zac was impressed. “That was quick.”
“Yes, we AI’s work fast, faster than Humans in every regard.”
Zac looked at Angus and shrugged. And then to the room: “That’s good to know. So…get us moving.”
The slide-away doors to the hangar opened automatically and the ugly starship—at least on the outside—rolled out on powered wheels.
“You are advised to take seats and buckle in,” said Amber, the AI. “Artificial gravity and inertia compensators will not be engaged until we are away from the planet and clear of any conflicting sources. A period of instability will last approximately ten minutes after lift-off. I am taxiing into position. We are third in line for departure.”
