James Wittenbach - Worlds Apart 06

by Crucible

  Johnny Rook pointed to the cat-face. “But, come on… that’s obviously something.”

  “May I posit a theory,” said someone, who turned out to be Specialist Hero Eastwood, a soft-spoken Sapphirean of late middle-age, thin rugged build, with a habit of squinting when he thought. He was on the mission as an archivist, documenting the findings. He also worked part-time in the Zoological Core.

  “I thought you were exploring the Redoubt,” Taurus challenged him.

  Eastwood squinted at her. “We needed some additional equipment. There’s another hatch further in. I need something to unlock it. I’ve got a sonic screwdriver somewhere in my landing pack. But anyway, I heard your conversation. I think I have an idea how there could be something here our sensors can’t detect.”

  “Let’s hear it,” said Taurus, tossing her dark pony-tail in a way that made Rook’s uniform tight and confining.

  Eastwood squinted and crossed his arms. “We know there are periodic flares and that these flares scorch the surface of the planet too often for higher forms of animal life to evolve. But we don’t know that the star has always been like that. It could have been stable, and for millions of years before entering its present state. Animal life could have evolved during that time.”

  “But we’ve scanned the area for animal life,” Taurus reminded him.

  Eastwood squinted into the sun, then paused thoughtfully, as though drawing his thoughts together in a long deep breath. “But suppose, in order to survive the flares, the animals had to evolve new traits, to make them more resistant to heat and radiation, reduce their requirements for air and water… and these evolved characteristics had the side-effect of making it harder for our sensors to detect them.”

  Taurus turned to Herald, who shrugged. “I guess it is possible, especially when you factor in the geo-magnetic flux caused by the MegaSphere detonation.” Rook shook his head, and tapped the image again. It was still just a blur, the enhancements making it look like a cartoon. Eastwood squinted at it. “Also,” he added. “That looks vaguely like the survivor’s impressions of the aliens that attacked their world. So, you might want to forget my previous absurd theory.”

  Taurus took this in, then touched her COM Link. “Lt. Moon, this Lt. Taurus. I’m going to call down reinforcements from Pegasus.

  “They’re pretty stretched, lieutenant,” Moon answered.

  “Not for the kind of reinforcements I’m asking for.”

  Lexington Keeler

  Susan glided into Keeler’s landing bay. Auxiliary lighting had been restored to the landing tunnel. Rows of dim white lights guided them in, though about a quarter of them were busted, and some of the rest flickered. In a way, this made the ship look like more of wreck than if the tunnel had been completely dark.

  When Sukhoi and Churchill disembarked, they were received by a Logistics Specialist who advised them which parts of the ship were intact and ready for inspection by the Watch Teams, advised them to check in with Lt Duke at the Flight Operations Center, and advised them to hold on tightly when they climbed up the catwalk because gravity was still a little iffy.

  The Flight Operations Command Center was in a far better state than they had expected.

  Duke had made good use of the portable generators and command stations he had been supplied with. Besides Duke, there were four people coordinating repairs throughout the ship and two floating specialists (literally floating, since they found they got around more quickly in Null-O-Gravity suits) that added help as needed. A tri-dimensional display of the entire ship, with every section, every deck coded and statused, dominated the Command Center.

  Technical Specialist Sperry reported. “Two sets of control thrusters have been restored, one on each wingblade. With the undamaged thrusters on the keel, we now have just enough power to keep the ship in orbit.”

  A cheer of “Huzzah!” went up around the recovery deck. Duke seemed almost pleased.

  “How about the gravity engines?”

  “Intact. Primarily a matter of booting the control systems,” Sperry reported to him. “If we can get the BrainCore on-line, we can move this ship.

  “A most impressive operation, Lieutenant Duke,” Churchill told him.

  “The crew worked hard,” Duke told them, giving them a hard, suspicious look. “When this is over, they should all get about ten weeks of recreational downtime.”

  “Agreed,” said Churchill. “What’s the safest route to TyroCommander Lear in the Secondary Command Center?”

  “There isn’t one,” Duke answered. “The decks between here and there were pancaked after the planet’s atmosphere blasted away. However, a logistics crew is scheduled to take her the replacement control interfaces for the BrainCore. That is what you’re here about, isn’t it? The sabotage to the ship’s BrainCore.”

  Churchill smiled tightly. “That’s exactly why we are here.” Duke paid the smile little mind. “The logistics crew will reach SC-2 through a relatively less unsafe route.”

  “What route is that?” Sukhoi asked.

  Duke pointed into the Hangar Bay. “Through the airlock, over the hull to External Access Juncture 27, then backtracking to SC-2.”

  Churchill was taken aback, “That’s the safest route to the Secondary Command Center?” Duke was looking over another workstation now. He tapped the COM Link. “Team Ida-5, Don’t bother with Deck Plus Nine. It’s completely depressurized in your section. Move on to Deck Plus Eleven.” He turned back to Churchill. “I didn’t say it was safe. It is, actually, quite unsafe. For that matter, the first three hours we were here, the hull plating over the adjacent Hangar Bay was stressed to the point of failure. Fortunately, we surveyed it before it gave way, and were able to reinforce it before the trans-atmospheric detonation, because had it failed, everyone on this ship would have died. This ship is a lot safer than it was. The probability of its destruction has gone from inevitable to somewhere around fifty-fifty. When we get all the load-bearing structures reinforced, all the critical hull-plating secured, all the power units and fusion reactors have been secured from overload, and after we have scouted every deck for Aurelian infiltrators, when we have defensive and navigation systems on-line, and when we have an active Artificial Intelligence to coordinate them … then, the ship will be safe.”

  “You must be a Guildsman,” said Churchill.

  “I’m not wearing my jacket, so you must have read my personnel record,” Duke answered.

  “Nay, it’s just that Guilders take a particular delight in scaring the Hell out of planet-dwellers with tales of destruction and death in space.” A thin smile graced the edges of Duke’s lips. “I like your attitude. And just for that, I’m making sure you get one of the good spacesuits.”

  The Surface

  Max Jordan and Johnny Rook completed a reconnoiter of the immediate vicinity of the Redoubt and were met by Lt Taurus. “Welcome back, boys. I arranged for some reinforcements.” She gave a whistle, and her huge, scary-ass reinforcements entered the front of the cave through the veil of the waterfall.

  These were trauma hounds; armor-bound robotic dogs as tall as a man, with claws that could tear through titanium armor and glowing red eyes that could sense fear in any range of the electromagnetic spectrum. Their metal gleamed, the black works of their locomotion systems turned smoothly as the two beasts drew themselves to their mistress’s side.

  “Warfighters,” Taurus said. “Meet Rex and Spot.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” said Spot, offering his paw… tipped as it was with massive, razor sharp, steel-reinforced claws

  “Indubitably,” Rex agreed.

  Taurus patted Rex on the snout. “Good boy, have you accessed the imagery from Warfighter Rook’s suit.”

  “We most certainly have,” answered Spot.

  Taurus was pleased. “Good boy, your mission is to make an extended patrol sweep of the area, and run-down any animal life-forms you encounter.”

  “Run down?” Rex questioned. “Do you want us to extermin
ate it, or merely contain it.”

  “Contain it if you can, exterminate it if you must,” Taurus explained. “If it’s not a threat to the team, take your scans and leave it be.”

  “Ah, very good,” Spot said.

  “To the hunt, then!” Rex exclaimed.

  The claws of the two beasts clattered and made sparks against the stone floor as they ran outside.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pegasus – The UnderDecks

  Torrents of water rushed through the primary conduit that ran along the ship’s centerline.

  From there, water rushed through the secondary conduits that connected the primary conduits to processing and pumping stations.

  And finally through the tertiary conduits that distributed the water to where it was needed.

  And these rapids carried along with them a silver and white tabby cat bound in a sack. The cat was drowning.

  Water, turbulence, confusion, cold… these things would make a cat panic and die. So, Queequeg chose not to panic, because he would not let himself die; not at the grimy paws of vermin. Psychic or not, they were still vermin, lower on the food chain.

  The wet bag clung to his body, which meant that by kicking his legs, he could steer it a little bit. The churning water tossed him, he could not tell up from down, but he had his cat senses, which told him where needed to go just the same. Steering the, he felt it brush against the sides of the conduit. The first hit was smooth. He banged against the side again. Smooth again. He knew he didn’t have much air left. He banged it again and felt a ridge, one of the connecting joints on the side of the conduit. He jammed his legs hard against it, anchoring himself. Precarious positioning though it was, it provided him the leverage he needed to tear through the sack with his claws.

  He tattered the sack and broke free, emerging into a wet, chilled, midnight-dark riptide that carried him through the tertiary water conduit at the speed of drowning. His head pounded, and his sides ached with the fierce compulsion to draw breath. His cat brain squelched the thought. Queequeg focused on finding the next quaternary diversion valve, the difference between having seven more lives, and none.

  He caught the elbow of the quaternary conduit a few seconds later. The conduit was about the width of his feline body. He jammed himself into it, filling the space at the juncture. A human mind would have reflected at this point its good fortune in finding a low-pressure quaternary water conduit. As a cat, Queequeg simply felt entitled to good fortune. As he blocked the flow, the conduit in front of him emptied. Now, he could breathe again. There was not much air, but enough to refill his lungs and give himself another five or six minutes to survive this thing. He paused in the juncture and let out his old breath in the form of a yowl, a mighty, ancient and terrible sound.

  When he felt like he had recovered much as he could, he took a deep breath and let go. The water pushed him into the quaternary channel, and the low pressure in front of him made it a speedier ride through a smaller space. He had some control now. For a cat, this made all the difference. He rode the current, like underwater surfing, except that the cat hated it. He knew he was going to live, now. He had always expected to, in a broad sense of surviving, but now the details were filling in.

  The water soon carried him to a filtering unit, a cylindrical apparatus with a hexagon gridwork along the inside. He slammed against it with the weight of his furry body and dug his claws into the screen. He pulled himself up and undid the latch that covered the filtering unit from the inside. He pulled himself upward, the weight of his wet fur and the force of the current making it a very hard pull. Finally, he heaved himself onto the deck. He lay there for several long seconds panting, and not grateful for survival.

  “I,” the feline growled.

  “Am,” he hissed.

  “Pissed!” he howled.

  He shook his entire body of wet fur. Twenty seldom-used, but incredibly strong and sharp claws unsheathed on his front and rear paws. He paused, sat down on the deck, and began deliberately licking every part of himself dry.

  And his eyes burned with the desire of exterminating every rat on the ship.

  Even if that included a few of the nice ones.

  Lexington Keeler – Deck Minus 12

  They – Driver, Trajan Lear, Christmas, and Muffy the Sex Slave – entered into the ruins of a Botany Bay. It had burned and depressurized in the aftermath of the attack, leaving only sterile grey dust, charred trees and vines, and the twisted, blackened remains of the frames in which the plants had been held.

  Driver paused at the hatchway, activated the data panel next to the hatch. When it activated, he noted the seals and warning displays next to the location indicator and inventory.

  “Biohazard warnings? In a Botany Bay?”

  “This is where we stored some of the more aggressive plant-life from Wolf’s Head and Emeishan,” Christmas explained.

  “Aggressive plant-life?” asked Trajan Lear.

  “Carnivorous, in other words,” Christmas explained. “It kept escaping the Vivaria on the Upper Decks and attacking people – fatally, in a few unfortunate cases. We created a secure holding facility so it could be better studied.” He frowned. “It’s a shame it’s all been destroyed.”

  “Why?” Trajan asked, imagining how much worse conditions would be if they had to deal with man-eating plants.

  Christmas shrugged. “Their leaves made a tasty addition to any salad… and they wiggled, which stimulated the visual palate.” He met their expressions of surprise. “Before I died, I liked to cook.”

  “Getting back to the reason I examined the plate by the door,” Driver continued. “We’re eight sections forward and 12 decks below the Secondary Command Center. In other words, we’ve overshot it.”

  “It’s not too late,” Christmas insisted. “There is nothing to suggest the Primary BrainCore has been reactivated. But we must hurry. If they have reached the Secondary Control Center, then, by now, they have discovered that I removed the Interlinks. It’s only a matter of time before they by-pass or replace them.”

  “At which point, he would try to kill off the rest of the crew,” Driver finished.

  “Or worse,” said Christmas.

  “Worse?” Trajan asked.

  “Or, worse, he might try to take over your ship, given that his is so badly damaged.” Christmas crossed a powdery grey stretch of what had been hydroponic pseudo-soil medium.

  He pulled some dry, spidery vines aside and pried open an emergency egress hatch.

  He gestured for them to go inside. “Quickly. He has been trapped in the BrainCore since the aftermath of the attack. If your repair crew succeeds in restoring him, he may vent his terrible anger on the first humans he detects.”

  Lexington Keeler – Secondary Command Center Lear tapped impatiently on the side of her command chair. There were four working displays in the Secondary Command Center, and none of them were displaying any information that was of us to her. Merely updates on the progress of repairs throughout the rest of Lexington Keeler transmitted from Lt. Duke back in the landing bay.

  If anything, she resented them. The progress had been marginal so far. Maneuvering thrusters had been restored along the aft, starboard quarter. Hull breaches where the bases of the command towers had stood had been sealed. Power systems were being re-initialized in the sectors surrounding the landing bay. It was not much, but it was much more than she had achieved in SC-2.

  “Someone’s coming,” Move-O-Bot reported. “Would you like me to, I don’t know, challenge them or guard the perimeter or something.”

  Goneril Lear sat straight up in her command chair. “Identify them and stand by to take defensive measures.”

  “Too damn bad for you I’m not a security-Bot… Burn!” Move-O-Bot rolled himself into the corner, giggling.

  She wanted to curse the machine, it wasn’t Lear’s style. Her style would have been to curse out whoever had given the machine speech capabilities. She cocked her sidearm and waited for the secur
ity hatch to cycle. The hatch released its security locks and slid open. She leveled the sidearm, then lowered it as four men in Odyssey Project spacesuits entered the room.

  “TyroCommander Lear,” said one of the men, as he removed his helmet. He introduced himself. “Technical Specialist Korea, we’ve brought replacement command interfaces for the Central BrainCore.”

  “Very good, Specialist,” she gestured, but her gaze was fixed on the Watchmen, Churchill and Sukhoi. “You can access the BrainCore through the hatch in the deck, located at…”

  “We know where it is, TyroCommander,” said Korea. He and the other specialist were already moving toward the hatch. Large toolpacks on their back presumably contained the interlinks.

  “… position 15 on the deck coordinate system,” Lear finished over him. “Report to Technician Scout, and then report back to me when the interlinks are in place.” They acknowledged her, then disappeared into the hole. When they were gone, she turned to Churchill and Sukhoi. “What are you doing here?”

  Churchill answered her. “Prime Commander Keeler ordered us to bring you back to Pegasus.”

  “Under what authority?” Lear demanded, crossing her arms.

  “His authority as Prime Commander,” Churchill replied. “He did not cite a particular code or covenant. He only said to bring you back.”

  “There’s a very large bruise on your temple,” Sukhoi observed. “Are you injured?” Lear ignored Sukhoi. “And will you do so?”

  Churchill demurred. “Unless you have a spacesuit, I don’t think it’s practical to move you at the present time. There’s no direct route to the landing bay from here. We had to walk down from an airlock on Deck 5.”

  Lear jogged her head toward Move-O-Bot. “Can you do something about that?” Churchill did not understand it. “What would you have us do with it?”

  “Deactivate its speech protocols and personality matrix,” Lear ordered.

  “It’s just a mechanoid,” Churchill said.