James Wittenbach - Worlds Apart 06

by Crucible

  Columbia regarded his co-pilot. Atreides was a small, dark man from Republic’s City of Reliance. In Columbia’s view, Atreides was a bit too comfortable among the Sapphireans and their undisciplined ways, but nevertheless, he trusted his co-pilot more than any other man aboard Pegasus. And felt secure offering his opinions.

  “TyroCommander Lear is right,” Columbia said. “There is no point in salvaging the other pathfinder ship at this point. It’s a total wreck. It will never be capable of interstellar flight again. I think Commander Keeler realizes it, but can’t bring himself to appear weak in front of her.”

  “I think Keeler doesn’t want our Hyperspace Navigation technologies to fall into Aurelian hands,” Atreides argued. “If the Aurelians figure out FTL, it’s over for us.”

  “So, blow up Keeler with a Nemesis warhead and be done with it,” Columbia said. “All of the crew and equipment we put into that ship is a net loss to Pegasus.” Atreides countered. “We don’t even know what happened to the crew. Don’t you want to know?”

  “It doesn’t matter, they’re gone, there’s nothing we can do about that,’” Columbia persisted. “Perhaps I’m concerned because I don’t want to lose my wife or my daughter to one of Commander Keeler’s ‘miscalculations.”

  Columbia paused for a moment, then he asked, “Suppose you had to choose between Lear and Keeler to command the mission. Who would you choose?”

  “Why, do you think that’s something that …” He was interrupted by a subtle request for attention from his tactical display. “I’m reading something at extreme sensor range.”

  “What is it?” Columbia asked.

  Atreides touched some controls. “It’s the maximum effective range of our sensors, but that’s not important right now.”

  “I’ll thank you not to use Sapphirean expressions on my command deck,” Columbia snapped.

  “Right, I mean, affirmative. I am re-processing the sensor inputs. It looked like our long range scans picked up some kind of energy signature that it matched with the configuration of the alien ship.”

  “Location?”

  “The initial contact came from a source very close into the sun.”

  “How close to the sun?”

  “Approximately as close as you can get to the sun without being actually in the sun,” Atreides answered. “I’ve swept the area with sensors again, but couldn’t pick it up. Radiation levels are extreme in that area.”

  Columbia was quiet. He didn’t want to move closer to the sun, farther from Pegasus. But he knew he had to. “You are certain you detected something.” Atreides checked the sensor data again. “We really ought to be sure… either way. We’ll need a closer sensor sweep to cut through the solar interference.” Columbia knew. “Lay in a course to those coordinates. Task an accipiter to make a close-in sensors sweep.”

  One of the four Accipiters broke formation and flew out ahead of the ship, toward the sun.

  Pegasus – - The UnderDecks

  Queequeg surveyed his handiwork. “Good enough,” he said. “A larger capacitor for the weapon-systems would have been great, but this will have to do. Hand me that spanner.” Hunter picked up the spanner. It felt as heavy as a neutron star and the effort made him nearly black out.

  “Are you okay?” Queequeg asked, flicking his tail.

  “Kitty-cat,” Hunter said. “I’m not getting better, I’m getting worse. I can feel my immune system fighting this disease, but I can’t know for sure if it’s going to work.”

  “Oh, stop crying like a little human girl,” Queequeg told him. “I told you, as soon as I get rid of the rats, clean myself up, eat a little something, and get in a nap or two… I’m taking you straight to a hospital.”

  Hunter retrieved a healing pack from the medical kit. This would be the fourth time he had injected himself. He placed the pack on his forearm, and closed his eyes as the contents were absorbed. “I think it may be too late. And if you take me to a hospital, there’s every chance that the plague could spread to the crew.”

  “I don’t want you to die,” Queequeg told him.

  “You don’t?”

  “I prefer to have you alive and in my debt.”

  Hunter grimaced and began to cough spasmodically. When he removed his hand from around his mouth, it was smattered with blood and mucous.

  “I don’t even think you’ll have that option, Kitty-Cat. The only way to be safe now is for me to get off this ship… before I expose the crew.”

  “Oh, and how does that work?” Queequeg asked. “How am I supposed to get you…”

  “There are emergency escape pods located eight sections forward of here,” Hunter explained. “If I can get to them…”

  “PC-1 would detect the launch of an escape pod.”

  “That’s where those clever cat cyber skills of yours come in,” Hunter said. He gestured at the dismembered and rebuilt X-Term-O-Bot. “If you can do that, you can get me off this ship, undetected.”

  “Where would you go?”

  Hunter tried to answer, but lost it in a coughing fit; something about a habitable planet below and taking his chances.

  “You’ll never make it,” Queequeg protested.

  Hunter removed another healing pack and slapped it on his forearm.

  “That could kill you,” Queequeg said.

  “At this point, my best chance is a massive overdose of nutrients, serum and nano-knitters,” Hunter said. “It will keep me alive while I set the escape pod up for non-cryogenic stasis – I won’t freeze, but I’ll be in kind of a coma, which will allow the repairs to take place on my body.”

  A pause while he looked at the angry cat.

  “It’s my only chance, Kitty-Cat. If it doesn’t work, we have to protect the crew.” Queequeg scowled. “All right. Can you make it to the escape pod on your own, or do I have to help with that, too?”

  The Surface

  Taurus, Rook, and Max Jordan let their inertial navigation units lead them back to where they had left the Razorback, moving at a near run across the canyon bottom, all with a peculiar sense that something was following them.

  When they got to the canyon wall, their progress slowed as they had to climb it with the ropes, and the assistance of hooks, claws, and pitons that deployed from the gloves and the boots of their tactical gear. It was a matter of several minutes, and one setback when Rook slipped, to get back to the top.

  The electrical storm and fog that filled the canyon seemed to follow them out, rising over the canyon and stacking into flashing banks of stormclouds. Taurus had feared that they might find the Razorback torn apart like the Trauma Hound, but it stood waiting for them, not even a scratch on its silver-blue surface.

  “Let’s go,” Taurus said.

  Rook paused at the edge of the canyon. “Wait a second,” he said. “I want to try something.

  Stand back while I whip this out.”

  He whipped a mini-rocket launcher from his pack and braced it against his shoulder. He fired a threesome of missiles over the canyon. They split into three separate flights. One straight, two angling off, trailing white contrails.

  “What was that for?” Max Jordan asked.

  Taurus already knew, “Reconnaissance rockets.”

  Taurus reviewed the recon rocket’s telemetry and made some calculations. “The storm front is moving toward the Redoubt. We won’t be able to warn them until we get close. If these creatures intend to attack, they’ll move with it to keep their cover until they can strike. And I am thinking they intend to strike.”

  Jordan pressed the accelerator all the way forward. “If they get to our team before we do, they’ll tear them apart like that Trauma Hound.”

  Suddenly, something hit Rook’s suit-shield and spanged off at an oblique angle. Before he could say ‘WTF,’ tens of more shots hit his suit, lighting it up, yellow-white light rippling outward from the impact point.

  “Crap on a cracker,” said Lieutenant Taurus. She grabbed Johnny Rook on the shoulder, and pulle
d him off the edge of the cliff. Hyper-accelerated metal projectiles zipped through the air around them.

  “They’re shooting at us,” Rook exclaimed.

  “Do you think?” Max Jordan called out. He ran to the edge, wielding the biggest gun from the Razorback’s rack. He fired into the valley while his suit lit up with impacts.

  Rook linked his Spex with the imagery transmitted from the reconnaissance rockets. The infrared scanning range was least affected by the electromagnetic interference. It showed columns of shapes moving through the valley at a frighteningly fast speed.

  “Max,” Rook said as calmly as possible. “We have to get ourselves out of here… right now!” Max Jordan didn’t seem to hear him as he unloaded round after round into the fog, screaming, “You want some of this, you alien bastards! I got plenty more!”

  “Warfighter, you’re firing blind!” Taurus yelled at him.

  “Max, we have to go,” Rook called, trying to be calm.

  With a snap, crackle, and pop, Max Jordan’s suit-shield failed. A projectile spanged off his helmet. “Ow! Excrement!” He withdrew from the edge of the canyon, and the climbed on board the razorback with the other two.

  “Can we get a message to the base?” Rook asked, as Jordan fired up the ignition.

  The clouds above answered with a conveniently-timed electro-static discharge. Taurus used it to illustrate the point. “Electrically-charged storm clouds, just enough interference to cut us off from the base.”

  “Then, let’s get out of here,” Jordan put the Razorback into reverse, and pulled away from the canyon, spitting dirt from its tires.

  Chapter Twenty

  Way Out In Deep Dark Space

  In the midst of the debris field, almost at the exact same spot where Pegasus had emerged 67 hours earlier (give or take some stellar drift), a glowing, egg-shaped bubble of glowing blue and purple appeared. Little bits of debris that had previously occupied the space where the bubble appeared ceased to exist.

  The energy bubble lasted no longer than a few tiny units of Planck time before it cut and run back into subspace, leaving behind a gleaming silver spaceship in the shape of half an egg.

  Pegasus – Keeler’s Quarters

  Keeler’s attempt to pass out and sleep was interrupted by a call from Primary Command.

  He lifted his face up from the couch cushions. The imprint from the waffled design of his Panrovian High Brandy bottle marked his cheek. “Mrrut Mrrfit, Lirftrrftt Crrff?”

  “Excuse me, sir?” said Lieutenant Navigator Change, whose face had appeared in the oblong screen of the nearest COM Link.

  Prime Commander Keeler spit out the foreign matter that had somehow lodged in his throat. It proved to be the wrapper of a chocolate snack, with the chocolate part still inside.

  This provided some indication of how much he had been drinking.

  “What is it, Lieutenant Change?” he repeated.

  “Sir, one of the small spaceships we found at the Chapultepec StarLock has just appeared at the edge of the system near our entry point. It’s on an intercept course and broadcasting an encrypted message.”

  “Thanks, lieutenant. Transmit the message to my quarters.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Keeler sat up – halfway at least – and stared at the COM Link. Senseless orange sigils danced across the display screen. Across the top, a legend appeared: Please input decryption code.

  “Mother of God,” Keeler muttered. “Lieutenant Alkema…” he tried to think of what the command was. “Me want talkee Lieutenant Alkema,” he told the computer.

  A moment later, Alkema appeared on the screen. His hair was wet, and he appeared to be out of uniform. “Alkema, here,” he said.

  “Do you have my decryption codes?” Keeler asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Well, then, decrypt the message I’m sending you and transmit to my quarters… and if it’s really long, just give me the gist of it.”

  “You bet, captain.”

  “You go away now,” he told the image on the computer. The image went away. “Did I fall asleep or did I pass out?” Keeler asked.

  The ghost of his ancestor shimmered before him. “A little from Column 1 and a lot from Column 2.”

  Live Keeler nodded. “I have to throw up now.” He dragged himself to his hygiene pod, and did exactly that thing.

  Dead Keeler wavered, vanished, then re-projected himself into the hygiene pod. He hovered over his descendant as the commander emptied his guts into the bowl of the euphemism. “Still drunk?”

  “Worse,” Live Keeler moaned.

  “Hung over?” Dead Keeler persisted.

  “Worse.”

  “Worse than hungover?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Commander Keeler rolled over onto his back and moaned, “I think Lear might be right.”

  Dead Keeler stared at him, his dead eyes judging him.

  Live Keeler wiped off his mouth and elaborated. “When we left the Sapphire system, this was supposed to be a peaceful mission of exploration. Find a lost colony, collect data, move on to the next colony. For that type of mission, my background in Colonial History, and my brilliant ability to run an organization full of eccentric freaks made me eminently well-qualified.”

  He paused to see if he had had the foresight to bring the container of Panrovian High brandy into the hygiene pod, and was delighted to see that he had. He pulled off the stopper.

  “We didn’t have a clue about the Aurelians, or the Tarmigans, or whoever those bastards are.” He waved drunkenly in the direction of the engineering deck, but it was clear he meant to gesture toward space and the alien ships.

  He swigged the brandy. “Like it or not, this is a military mission now. And I don’t know if I’m the right guy to lead it.”

  “Times like this, I wish I could download my consciousness into an android, just so I could slap you,” his Dead Ancestor snarled at him. “Of course, there’s no android neural matrix that could accommodate my massive consciousness, my centuries of insights, and the locations of all those space-drifters I buried.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Maybe, I could just have that damb cat program an android to smack you upside the head for me. I remember once when some women stole my first officer’s brain and rigged him up with a remote control. We used to make him bring us booze and snacks during ship’s poker games. He was a hoot.”

  “Didn’t you try to recover his brain?” Live Keeler asked, not really bothered this time that he had gotten sucked into another one of the old man’s stories.

  “Nah, we thought it would be best to keep him as he was. You had to know him, but it really was best. Besides, the women seduced us. I think his brain was running their planet or something. The point is, you can’t predict what’s going to happen. Some days you encounter overly evolved meta-humanoids bent on galactic conquest, or other days some child-like Amazon women steal your first officer’s brain to run their utopian society. The galaxy is a rich pageant like that, but lying around getting drunk and wallowing in self-pity doesn’t change anything. Hence, my desire to slap you around with android claws.”

  “Androids don’t have claws.”

  “Oh, mine would,” Dead Keeler said reassuringly. “You can bet your ass mine would. Now, are you ready to stop whining and take back your command.” Live Keeler took another drink. “I’ll meet you halfway,” he said pulling himself up to sink level. “I’ll take back my command, but whining is still my prerogative. Change!” he shouted.

  When nothing happened, he remembered there was no COM Link in his hygiene pod. He also remembered his acting first officer had a rather ambiguous surname. He stumbled back out into his main quarters. “Keeler to Bridge, PC-1… whatever.”

  “Lieutenant Navigator Change here,” Change answered.

  “Is Ex-Commander Lear on her way back this ship… ideally in handcuffs and leg irons.”

  “Negative, commander.”

  “I want her off Keeler,”
he said. “I don’t care how you do it. In fact, you figure it out. Just bring her back here.”

  He closed the COM Channel and turned to his ancestor’s ghost. “You know, that’s not a bad idea… that whole android body thing. Lear and I could download ourselves and fight to the death. That would be an interesting way to settle this.”

  “Except that she would kick your ass,” said the Dead Man.

  Lexington Keeler – The BrainCore

  Goneril Lear, at that moment, was in Lexington Keeler’s Primary BrainCore, or, at least, one of the main access points looking down on the BrainCore, flanked by Sukhoi and Churchill.

  The BrainCore itself was a thick, disc-shaped device 30 meters in diameter and three meters tall, with a pattern of excitingly ribbed metal extending down the sides. Thick columns of cables ran from the center above and below, the nervous system of the Pathfinder Ship, extending into every system and every section.

  Technician Scout was on a catwalk that extended to the control consoles in the center of the drive, at the point where the cables connected to the BrainCore. She touched the input pad and began to key in the re-initialization sequence. Suddenly, a pulson bolt of charged plasma slammed into the monitor and fried it out. Scout, not the excitable type, turned around to see who was shooting at her.

  In the dark shadows of the catwalk she saw three shadowy forms, and a fourth form that was half in shadow, and half glittering with tiny lights like a Christmas tree. He was pointing the pulse weapon at her. “Move away from the input screen,” he ordered.

  “Who the Hell are you?” Scout asked.

  Sukhoi and Churchill drew their own pulse weapons and pointed them at the other four.

  Matthew Driver and Trajan Lear drew theirs.

  “Identify yourselves!” Churchill ordered.

  “Move away from the input screen,” Christmas repeated. “Now!”

  “I’ll shoot,” Churchill said. “Identify yourselves.”