Space Chase (Star Watch Book 5)

by McGinnis,Mark Wayne

  “Freight Van 412 has sustained forward hull buckling to panels A9, A10, and A11.”

  “Any breaches?”

  “Negative, Driver of 412.”

  “Damage that affects environmental systems?”

  “Negative, Driver of 412. My sensors indicate the RTM gyros were not properly set. A spatial drift occurred and the subsequent—”

  “I already know what happened! I don’t need you to recount events of the recent past, Bella. Why don’t you make yourself useful and ping that ship’s bridge for me?”

  Ryan heard the melodic ping-pong sound as Bella hailed the Paotow Freighter’s bridge. He waited but no response came.

  “Are you picking up some life signs in there, Bella?”

  “No, Driver of 412.”

  “So no one is onboard?” Ryan asked.

  “There are not multiple life signs onboard; there is only one life sign, Driver of 412.”

  “You know, you could have just said that in the first place. Why do you have to make our conversing so difficult?”

  “I do not answer hypothetical questions, Driver of 412.”

  He’d heard that same response back hundreds—hell, thousands of times before. The AI was fully capable of conversing since all modern AIs were programed to do so, but Consigned Freight saw fit to curtail the AI’s conversational capacity. Something about drivers getting lost in nonsensical conversations, attributing to their distracted driving. So Bella, already bitchy and abrupt, was totally uninteresting.

  “I want to leave a vid-message. Go ahead and access the freighter’s HMS.”

  “The vessel’s Hail Message System is currently not accessible.”

  “Shit! Then how am I supposed to let the owner know I’m the asshole who put a colossal dent in the side of his classic retrofit?”

  “I do not answer hypothetical questions, Driver of 412.”

  Ryan lip-synced her standard reply and rolled his eyes. “Have you logged the freighter’s DSCVID?”

  The DSCVID—the vehicle’s identification designation—was assigned by the Department of Space Compliance, which required all space-faring vessels to have a DSCVID to operate within the confines of the solar system, or within any of Alliance’s connected provinces.

  “No, Driver of 412. A valid DSCVID is not available.”

  That complicated things. With a valid DSCVID, Consigned Freight could at least attempt to contact the owner of the vessel via SpaceMail.

  “Any suggestions, Bella?”

  She didn’t respond for several moments. “No, I do not have any, Driver of 412.”

  “Well, log it that I at least tried and that you didn’t have any suggestions. Go ahead and initiate a course plot to the next delivery coordinates. I’m switching to manual helm control.”

  “Drivers are encouraged to utilize AI helm-controlled navigation whenever possible, Driver of 412.”

  “I know that. I’m taking the helm so spare me the lecture.” Ryan was fuming. He’d just plowed into someone’s spacecraft and was now leaving the accident scene. He could lose his job over this incident. Shit, could this day get any worse?

  CHAPTER 3

  “Driver 412, you have an incoming hail from Central Dispatch. I can put that through to you now … if you like.”

  Ryan had just throttled up the van’s propulsion system for what was to be a three-day-long jaunt. He turned and stared at the white, oblong AI-Pac—slotted into the same equipment rack—where similar, yet different, plug and play components were mounted. They controlled every aspect of the space van. The Environ-Pac system, the largest of the pacs, was nearly five-feet-high by two-feet-wide, while the Nav-Pac system was the smallest. There were various others, too—less essential, but still important components—plus the AI-Pac. Ryan specifically knew which pac was responsible for his present conversation.

  “So you contacted CF without my knowledge?”

  “It is my responsibility to notify the proper channels at Consignment Freight when one of their vehicles is involved in a collision. Especially a collision as egregious as yours, Driver 412.”

  Ryan had his suspicions about AI Bella. Not only was she far more capable than she let on, he was also certain she was out to get him. He’d shared such concerns with his friend and fellow driver, Two-ton, who didn’t dispute that possibility, saying the damn things couldn’t be trusted; that they were always lurking—spying on one’s actions and listening—programmed to be both suspicious and duplicitous.

  Ryan continued to stare at the AI-Pac. “Who is it … specifically?”

  “Supervisor Tony Post. He is awaiting your response, Driver of 412.”

  Ryan squinted his eyes at the cold metal box and nodded, knowing that Bella’s optical sensors would register the gesture.

  “Chase! What in hell took you so long to pick up? You think I have nothing better to do than wait for your sorry ass to answer a hail?”

  “How you doing, Tony? I was in the head … sorry.”

  “Bullshit! It doesn’t take ten minutes to drop a duce. Why don’t you talk to me about this collision of yours, and why you decided to leave the scene of an accident.”

  “What was I supposed to do? No one answered the damn hail and there weren’t any provisions handy to leave a message. To top it off, the vehicle’s DSCVID is nowhere to be found. Figured I’d keep hailing the ship, at least until I was out of range.”

  “You’re an idiot, Chase! I don’t know how you got this job; who you blew to get it. But I’m going to make sure you’re one of the first sacked when the next set of cuts come along. Collisions mean paperwork … paperwork yours truly is responsible for!”

  Crap! Ryan, already worried about his job, really needed to keep it. Work was extremely hard to find these days and he’d called in more than a few favors—requesting a Consignment Freight application, then getting it moved up to the top of the stack—thank you, Aunty Nan. He didn’t have to blow anyone, as Tony so crudely put it, but he had bought more than his share of rounds at Bottoms Up—the dingy, ridiculously popular pub on space station CRW55.

  “I have a mind to call you back in; have a replacement driver take over your route, at least, until a claim against CF has been entered and evaluated.”

  “Oh, come on, Tony, don’t do that. Look, how about I take on an extra delivery route for the upcoming month …”

  “And why would I want you in the field any more than you are now? Everyone knows you’re a train wreck just waiting to happen. Isn’t that why that girlfriend of yours bolted?”

  “Hey … leave Wendy out of this, Tony. And our breakup was mutual, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “That’s not what she told me last night at Bottoms. Just saying …”

  Ryan imagined his fist delivering a quick jab to his supervisor’s nose, followed by a lights-out upper cut to the man’s nearly imperceptible chin.

  Not hearing a response, Tony Post continued, “Maybe I’ll get the rest of the story from her tonight, since it’s almost quitting time and payday too.”

  Ryan was fairly sure Wendy, his very pretty, and far too intelligent girlfriend for all of nine months—and now his ex—had far higher standards than Tony. At least he hoped she did. What was Tony, thirty-five? Forty? Ryan cleared thoughts of Wendy away, like he had a dozen other times throughout the day—every day. The truth was his heart felt shredded without her—making it through one day at a time was all he could manage. And now he was on the verge of losing his job, too. Unbelievable! Dumped by both Wendy and Consignment Freight within the same few days.

  “What do you want me to do, Tony?” Ryan asked, feeling more resigned to his fate.

  The long silence following was agonizing. “Make that delivery to Erass5B. And I better not hear a peep from you for at least a week. Keep out of trouble that long and you might keep your job … No promises … though.”

  “Thanks, Tony, I …” Ryan halted mid-sentence, realizing the connection had already been severed.

&nbs
p; CHAPTER 4

  Ryan initiated a series of in-depth safety evaluation routines that he knew Bella had yet to perform. It might be overkill, but it had been a substantial collision. He’d heard of drivers becoming frozen icicle sticks; killed due to micro-cracked oxygen feed hoses, or misaligned hatch seals, or a handful of other critical life-ending catastrophes.

  “Bella … have you done an assessment of what’s in our cargo hold? No sense heading all the way out to Erass5B, then finding we’re delivering damaged goods.”

  “Container sensors are all showing green, Driver of 412.”

  Ryan was standing up at the helm—something he did fairly often on long-ass hauls such as this. “You know, saying Driver 412 at the end of every sentence is totally unnecessary. I’m the only one on board. It’s redundant … not to mention … super annoying.”

  “AI Speech Guidelines are pre-configured for every Consignment Freight vehicle, Driver 412.”

  The overhead alarm klaxon blared Bwamp … Bwamp … Bwamp! Ryan, worried that something related to the environmental systems had indeed failed, reviewed the console indicators before him. “Talk to me, Bella! What the hell’s going on?”

  “There is an emergency hail from a Consignment Freight vehicle. An incoming message from Driver of 211.”

  “That’s Two-ton’s van number, Bella. What’s the intersect ETA for Coordinate 5899321?”

  “Fourteen minutes and twelve seconds at our current—”

  “Okay … got it.” Ryan locked on to the coordinates and engaged the drive, quickly bringing the propulsion system up to redline limits. He staggered backward, as inertia-dampeners began to compensate for the increased speed.

  “ETA?”

  Bella said, “Eight minutes and forty-three seconds, Driver of 412.”

  “Bella, open a channel to Two-ton … Um, driver of CF vehicle 211.”

  “Channel has been established, Driver of 412.”

  “Two-ton! Do you read me? Don? Over …”

  A fractured and distant-sounding voice crackled once.

  “Come back on, Don. I did not understand your last transmission. Over …”

  Ryan heard nothing.

  “The channel has been lost, Driver of 412.”

  Ryan stared out the forward observation window, straining his eyes to see something, anything, resembling a spacecraft. His thoughts turned to Don, whom everyone, including himself, referred to as Two-ton. He was big, more than actually fat, like an overgrown Jethro. Twenty-four years old, the Kansas-born hayseed was a good guy and a good friend to Ryan. They’d planned to meet over the next few days. Two-ton was a technology genius, continuously modifying his delivery van in such undercover ways that biggies at corporate remained completely oblivious to any changes he’d made. Like improvements to the propulsion system, including removal of speed governors and, more importantly, changes to the onboard AI. All drivers named their AIs: In Ryan’s van, the AI was called Bella; in Two-ton’s, the AI was called Maggie, named after someone he knew in high school back on Earth. Two-ton wanted them to meet up; said he had a special present for Ryan—one that would put Ryan in his debt for the rest of his life.

  The van’s proximity sensors chimed and Ryan saw the familiar outline of the Consignment Freight van showing up on the console screen. Now, less than a minute out, Bella began reducing their speed. He continued to stare at the virtual representation of the space van. Something seemed off about it. Using his forefinger on the touchscreen, he manipulated the screen image 180 degrees, and the van’s opposite side hull appeared, somehow dramatically distorted. He looked up and watched Two-ton’s delivery van come into actual view. Sunlight reflected off the ship’s exposed side.

  Ryan adjusted his navigation joystick toward the right and began a slow arc around the rear of the small delivery ship ahead. He gasped. The forward third of the vessel on its port side was crushed in. Sparks flared up, then quickly dissipated in the vacuum of space. Atmosphere was escaping at various points, like spray from an old-fashioned aerosol can.

  “Two-ton … Don … do you copy?”

  No answer.

  “Life signs, Bella?”

  “Life signs for Driver of 211 are present, but weak. He is in need of immediate medical attention, Driver of 412.”

  “I’m going over.”

  “Negative. Spacewalks are not permitted without proper management pre-authorizations, Driver of 412.”

  Ryan ignored her. He engaged the RTM gyros, then headed from the cockpit hatch and down a short flight of stairs. Consignment Freight delivery space vans basically had three separate levels, or decks. The forward cockpit was positioned between the upper and lower deck. The topmost deck, commonly referred to as Cargo, or the hold, was where all deliverables were stored—either for delivery or for pick up. The lower deck, where the van driver lived, held a head, a kitchenette, and two bunks, as sometimes two drivers were assigned to a van. A tiny communal open space was at the rear of the lower level, plus a double, man-sized, airlock. Spacesuits, by early twenty-first century, had progressed dramatically from their late twentieth-century counterparts. The influence of Caldurian tech—although a far cry from anything the U.S. Fleet or Star Watch possessed—allowed for lightweight spacesuits made of exotic materials. A highly durable tensile fabric, they were the latest environment suits of a non-military nature. Consignment Freight vessels were required to contain no fewer than three operational environ-suits available for use at all times. One never knew when a hull breach would occur—something that happened with more frequency than many realized. At least, that’s what Two-ton told him several weeks past, advising him to always keep a suit handy—stored inside a locker right within the cockpit.

  Within the confines of the airlock, Ryan fitted his body into one of the hanging environment suits. Perfected over the years, they were designed for a rapid suit-up. Yearly, every driver was required to train for the possibility of a hull breach, which meant getting to the airlock and into an environment suit within sixty-seconds. Wearing the oversized suit—which would become more body fitting, more body conforming, once pressurized—Ryan reached up and unslung one of the three helmets hanging above him, which also held a pair of gloves inside. Using both hands, he stretched the helmet over his head and put on the gloves, pressure-latching them at the cuffs, then did the same to the environment suit pants, latching them at his boots. Lastly, he secured the helmet’s neck-fitting latch and waited for the heads-up display, the HUD, to come alive. According to the bright-violet display readouts—less than thirty minutes of compressed air remained stored within the three small oblong cylinders located around the back and sides of his helmet. Ryan momentarily considered retrieving an environ-pac from the adjoining compartment. Though it would give him several extra hours of breathable air, it would also take up valuable minutes. He just wanted to get over there as quickly as possible and help Two-ton. He double-checked, ensuring the inside hatch was secure before he hit the oversized, green-lit, vent pad button. Once it flashed red, he heard the air around him being sucked into storage tanks somewhere beneath his feet. The vent pad stopped blinking—remaining bright red.

  Ryan, hurrying to unlatch his space van’s outside hatch mechanism, waited for the door to slide up and disappear into the bulkhead. Thirty feet away, Two-ton’s nearly identical-looking van sat damaged.

  “Bella … get us in closer.”

  “Repositioning now, Driver of 412.”

  “Hey, Two-ton … you receiving?” Ryan listened hard to the still silent channel. “Hold on, buddy … I’m almost there.”

  Ryan watched as his own delivery van’s thrusters, positioned both above and below the rear hatch, began to spit out momentary bursts. Though the other van seemed to be moving in his direction, he knew it was only an optical illusion. Bella maneuvered the van within three feet’s distance of the other—close enough for him to reach over and strap a lifeline cable onto one of the metallic eyelets provided for just such an occasion. He swung his body ove
r and onto the other van, briefly assessing his friend’s ship’s condition. He felt his stomach’s contents go sour. There was horrendous damage—much worse than he’d first thought. It looked like a gigantic hammer had struck the van, leaving behind a huge, perfectly rounded indentation. How could anyone survive such an assault? His earlier fender-bender was nothing compared to what had happened here.

  Bella said, “Driver of 412 … I am in communication with the AI of vehicle 211. Our systems are synchronized. Shall I open the rear airlock?”

  “Yes, and hurry up,” he said, mentally preparing for what he was about to see inside.

  Ryan watched the rear hatch slowly open until it looked like a wide, gaping black mouth.

  “Go ahead and open the inside airlock, too, Bella. I can already see where sections of the hull were breached so there won’t be any atmosphere inside, anyway.” He moved past the inside airlock’s open hatch. Since the van’s gravity generators were non-functional, he had to haul himself—hand over hand—into the lower deck cabin. Two-ton kept his ship far tidier than he did his own, he noted, even making up the bunk—something Ryan rarely, if ever, did.

  The hatch entering into the cockpit was partially raised. Ryan swung underneath it and floated into what remained of the ship’s cockpit. For several beats, he couldn’t mentally process what he was actually seeing: He never expected to find Two-ton, wearing an environment suit and helmet, to be right there—facing him. But an arm and leg were missing. Crude tourniquets were tied—one at the elbow and one at the knee. In the dim light, his environment suit looked to be covered with a black substance that Ryan realized was blood. Two-ton’s eyes were open—staring—but unfixed on any one thing—his lifeless body floating weightless five feet away.

  Ryan, noting something substantial coming into view in his peripheral vision, didn’t have time to duck away. The object smacked the side of his visor, leaving a gooey, dark red smudge behind, before bouncing off and twirling away. It was Two-ton’s lower left leg, still attached to his size sixteen booted foot. Ryan, gagging, vomited into his helmet.