“Looks like the welcoming committee has arrived,” Billy said, seated next to Nan.
“Go ahead and open the rear hatch and extend the gangway, Sergeant Major,” Jason said, rising to his feet. Outside, he caught sight of six big strapping men dressed in jeans and plaid work shirts, all armed with various energy weapons. Several he recognized as multi-guns.
“Let me guess, you want me to stay with the ship.”
“Sorry, Gail, but yeah. Be ready. If things go tribal, we’ll need to get out of here … fast.”
* * *
One by one they headed down the gangway onto the main street, with Nan and Pope taking the lead. Jason noted Stone had set the Goliath down in front of a three-story building. A burgundy sign out front said Palace Theater. Another sign below it, in a handwritten font, exclaimed Dollywood. The W was a rusted, somewhat off-kilter, butterfly.
Surrounded now by the mountain men, Jason turned around and took in the rest of the surroundings. A town, similar to Main Street at Disneyland—that probably once had quaint little shops and various boutiques and parlors—now had all the charm of a ghost town. In the distance was rollercoaster scaffolding. He saw intermittent train tracks with gaping sections missing.
As the six armed men closed in around them, separating the three brothers out was easy. They were standing in front of the Dollywood sign and they were all over six-five, packed with two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, bearded, and looked like Jethro from the old TV show The Beverly Hillbillies. Brent, Payne, and Larry.
Nan, taking the initiative, stepped forward with her hand out, ready to shake, but suddenly halted, hearing the roar of a big V-8. The distinct profile of a 1959 Ford Fairlane was fast approaching down the town’s main street. As the old automobile approached them, Jason noticed two front-seat occupants—one large and one small.
Bristol looked nervous, seeing the old car barreling down on them and not slowing. “That bitch is out of control.”
Jason heard him, but barely, and doubted the three brothers had, due to the engine noise. The classic car abruptly skidded to a stop, five feet in front of Nan and Pope. The driver-side door flew open on rusty hinges and an immense woman hauled herself out.
“At least we know where the juniors got their girth,” Billy said, leaning close to Jason.
Wearing a formless cotton dress the size of a small circus tent, dotted with some kind of flowery print, Mamma Picket was an imposing figure. Easily six foot three and weighing no less than two hundred and fifty pounds, probably a lot more, she strode up to Nan and Pope with her hand raised—a finger pointing straight at Nan like a Smith and Wesson six-shooter.
“You’re late! That’s disrespecting me and my boys. If this is how you and your kind do business, well, you can scamper your skinny ass back on that space vehicle of yours!” She came to a stop well within Nan’s personal space. Hands on hips, the woman towered over Jason’s ex-wife. If Nan wasn’t terrified, Jason certainly was for her. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but the whole situation suddenly seemed somewhat comical and he was having a difficult time keeping a smile from his face. He glanced to his left and noted Billy wasn’t smiling, but was certainly captivated.
The pregnant silence dragged out to the point things were getting uncomfortable. Finally Nan said, smiling as though the huge woman had greeted her with hugs and kisses, “Mamma Picket, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I have a gift for you.” She back-handed Pope’s chest and said, “Don’t just stand there! Give it to her.”
As if awakening from a dream, Pope said, “Oh … yeah. Here.” He held out a gift bag—colorful tissue paper sticking out through its top opening.
Mamma Picket looked from Pope to the bag then to Nan. “You brought me a gift?” Sounding more than a little surprised, her face morphed into an expression of guilt.
The passenger car door opened with a painful squeal. The young woman emerging was the exact opposite of Mamma Picket—as far as stature. Also wearing what looked to be a homemade cotton dress, her hair was long and stringy, and oily as if it hadn’t been washed in days … maybe weeks. She slammed the car door—putting all her eighty to ninety pounds behind her two-armed shove. Turning back, with all eyes upon her, she said, “Sorry.” She wrapped her thin bare arms around her body then leaned against the front quarter panel of the car.
Nan, grabbing the handles of the gift bag from Pope, held the gift bag out to Mamma Picket. “Open it …”
Mamma Picket stole a quick glance over at her boys and snatched the bag from Nan’s outstretched hand. Head bowed, she dug through the tissue paper with one hand and came to an abrupt stop. “No. Um … this is … Oh my, Tanya Pope! No no no!”
Nan, a bemused smile on her lips, glanced back over her shoulder at Jason. Her confident expression said, Go ahead … watch this …
Mamma Picket’s hand came out, holding a bright yellow brick. Obviously gold—there was some kind of inscription engraved on the brick’s top. Jason was no expert but that bar of gold—especially post-Craing war—was easily worth $100,000.
“What’s it say on it … Mamma?” one of her boys asked, raising up his chin in an attempt to get a better look at the yellow brick.
Mamma Picket pursed her lips, continuing to stare at the gift in her hand. “It says … it says …
I hoped I wouldn’t miss you long …
but I still can’t believe you’re gone
and I still miss you just as much as always.
I hoped I’d get you off my mind,
It’s been a long time, but I find
that I still think of you as much as always …”
While the big boys nodded with confused appreciation, Mamma Picket was speechless. When she looked at Nan her eyes were moist and she seemed to be having difficulty breathing. “Lyrics from As Much As Always; Dolly had released that song back in 1982.”
Nan tilted her head then lowered it in such a way that seemed familiar. She’d used that same look on him, too, years ago. It was always effective.
Billy leaned in: “Here it comes …”
It came as fast as a freight train. Mamma Picket’s sequoia-sized arms came around Nan’s waist, pulling her up and off her feet. A bear hug like none Jason had ever witnessed. He caught a glimpse of Nan’s startled face, squished beneath Mamma’s fleshy mammoth-sized arms. Wide-eyed, Nan looked concerned for her very life.
CHAPTER 14
It seemed as if everything was happening in slow motion. Ryan knew the refurbished Paotow Tanker was nearly upon him, but he couldn’t seem to get his arms and legs moving fast enough to get away from it—to get back inside the van. Locomotion in the weightlessness of open space was problematic to begin with. Without gravity, and the ability to push off something else, there was a lot of gyrating around that had little or no effect.
Ryan, now nearly at the midway-point of the vessel, clipped and unclipped his safety lines as fast as his gloved hands could manage. He tried to avoid looking at the approaching vessel, knowing even that small moment of hesitation could, potentially, cost him his life. But it was there in his peripheral vision—dark and looming—like doom itself approaching. He clipped then unclipped the lines to the eyelets—each spaced three and a half feet apart—one following another. He felt as much as saw the tanker vessel moving closer. Fumbling the clip at the stern corner eyelet, he missed getting it secure three more times. Shit! Shit! Shit!
Ryan heard the familiar voice in his helmet. “Your heart rate’s jackhammering, man.”
“I already know that,” Ryan said, swinging around the stern of the van and awkwardly thrusting his body through the open rear hatch. Immediately, his makeshift carryall got caught on the hatchway cowling. Repositioning it, he cursed aloud while worming his way inside—pulling his legs in tight so they’d clear the van’s obstruction sensors.
Ryan yelled, “Close the damn hatch!”
It descended agonizingly slow. Come on, come on … The hatch finally locked into place and he heard the rush of
atmosphere enter the airlock. He decided to keep his suit on, leave the visor portion open, and he wanted to scream at Two-ton to get them the hell out of there. But the propulsion system—not converted—remained only partially disassembled—he still needed to swap reactors.
Ryan’s eyes were glued on the still-blinking red indicator when it suddenly illuminated to bright green. He opened the inside hatch and hurried through the cabin, then up the steps, past the cockpit, and up a second set of steps to the cargo hold area. Everything was laid out just as it was before.
“What’s going on with the tanker out there, Two-ton?”
“Not much. I’m reading one occupant. A quite large occupant. He’s moving.”
“What do I do next with the fusion drive module?” Ryan asked, staring at an open panel on the bulkhead where he’d previously patched thirty to forty wiring harnesses.
“Go plug in the Aldo Pack—the fusion module. Easy-peezy … everything’s plug n’ play.”
Doing his best to ignore the presence of the nearby tanker, Ryan hefted up the shiny rectangular module. “It seems bigger than the other one. The fusion reactor that’s in there … no?” he asked.
Not waiting for a reply, he made his way down both sets of stairs and entered the main living cabin. He had to turn sideways in order to move past the small dining table in the kitchenette section. He set the Aldo Pack down near the stern, just to the side of the airlock hatch. He then grabbed a portion of the metal deck grating and pulled it straight up. Swinging it around, he placed it on the deck behind him. He stared down at the van’s integrated propulsion system and what he saw made him want to punch something. Fists clenched, he looked up. “Just as I said, they … are … different … sizes!”
The AI took a beat before answering. “Yes … an Aldo Pack is a far more complex piece of equipment, Ryan. That kind of technology takes up some serious real estate.”
Ryan, wishing Two-ton was alive just so he could beat him silly with a wrench, or perhaps the fucking Aldo Pack, said, “If you’re screwing with me …”
The AI cut him off: “Look … yes they are different sizes. But this will work. You’ll have to leave the removable deck plate off. The Aldo Pack will stick out a half-foot into the cabin so be careful not to trip over it.”
Ryan reached in, finding the three separate thumb-latches that secured the ion reactor module in place. While two came away easily, the third was giving him a problem.
The van shook. Ryan stopped futzing with the latch and waited. Had he caused the van to shake or … the van shook again. This time far more violently.
With his head and upper torso immersed below the living cabin deck, Ryan yelled, “What is that, Two-ton?”
“Keep going … continue what you’re doing.”
The thumb-clamp was beyond stuck. He repositioned his hands so he could get both thumbs positioned on top of the thing. Straightening out his arms, he put all his weight down on the clamp and pushed. The clamp stubbornly resisted until, finally, it sprang free. He grabbed the sides of the grimy box and pulled it upward. He felt the unit’s card edge connector disengage first, then the module became loose, sitting within four metal guides. With a groan, he slid the box all the way out and looked around for some free space on the deck to place the ion unit. He leaned it up, length-wise, against the left-hand bulkhead, then reached back for the Aldo Pack. Picking it up, he flipped it around so the card edge connector was facing down as he positioned the thing over the open section of the deck.
“You sure about this? We’re not going to blow up or anything … are we?”
“I don’t think so. Perhaps you can ask Orloff Picket.”
That was not the answer Ryan was looking for, but at least the van had stopped shaking. Carefully, he lowered the module and was encouraged when he saw that the metal guides did in fact line up with the four edges of the Aldo Pack. The unit was the same size for width and height … only its length was different.
He let the fusion reactor module slide all the way down until he felt its card edge connector come to rest on its receiving connector, directly below it. If the Two-ton AI was correct, the contacts would be a perfect match. He put slightly more weight on the box and felt the connector seat itself.
Quickly, he repositioned the three thumb latches into place and exhumed himself from the sub-compartment. He was in the process of reaching for the deck plate behind him when he remembered the Aldo Pack module was now sticking out of the opening. He left it as is and stood up.
“Done. What else do I need to do, Two-ton?”
“Get to the cockpit … we have a problem.”
* * *
Standing at the helm console, Ryan’s view through the forward observation window was completely blocked. The rusted orangey-brown hull of the refurbished Paotow Tanker sat mere feet in front of the bow.
“Why haven’t you gotten the propulsion system online, Two-ton?”
“The process has been initiated. There’s a twenty-minute self-test. Fusion malfunctions are best to be avoided, since they typically result in a vessel, along with its occupants, being atomized.”
Ryan was beyond the point of losing patience with the AI. It doled out information only as it saw fit while here he was—mere feet away from some kind of psychopath.
“What’s he doing in there … can you tell?”
“The sensors on this van are rudimentary, at best. Even with the beefed-up AI functionality. The van is being held securely to the tanker by some kind of docking clamp.”
Ryan looked downward out the window and saw something there—an extended section of the tanker that could very well be a clamp of some sort. Swaying suddenly, he was forced to take a step backwards due to sudden, increased, inertia. “What just happened?”
“We’re moving … a whole lot faster,” the AI said.
“I thought you said our propulsion system was conducting self-tests?”
“We’re moving along with the Paotow Tanker. Orloff Picket must want us along for the ride. I’m sorry, buddy. There’s nothing more I can do at this point. I have no idea what his intentions are; what he wants with you.”
“What do we have in the way of weapons on board?” Ryan asked.
“Consignment Freight does not provide, nor sanction, its drivers to be armed. With that said … together … we might be able to come up with something moderately effective. I suspect we’ll need to do that task prior to him reaching whatever intended destination he has in mind for us.”
CHAPTER 15
With the forward observation window blocked, Ryan watched the console display. The two vessel icons—one small, the freight van, and one large, the Paotow Tanker—were right on top of each other. He manipulated the settings, broadening out the spatial reference area around them to one light-year’s distance. The closer fringe of the Oort Cloud now came into view. They were moving in the same general direction Ryan had intended to go—where he’d look around—make contact to be rescued. Orloff Picket, driving the tanker, obviously had his own reasons.
“Hey … I may have an idea,” the AI said.
“What kind of idea?” Ryan asked.
“I don’t want you to dismiss it … just because it sounds crazy,” the Two-ton AI said.
“Bring it. At this point I’m open to any and all suggestions. It’s not like there are many options. Who knows where this guy is taking us? Nowhere good … I can tell you that.”
“Good, you’re being receptive. I like that.”
“Uh huh. Why don’t you just spit it out,” Ryan urged.
“You’re already suited up … right?”
“You know I am.”
“There may be a way to get away from that spacecraft.”
Ryan was already shaking his head no. “If you’re thinking I’m going back out there, with that lunatic clamped onto this van, you’re crazy … or malfunctioning.”
Ryan stood up and paced the small cockpit for several minutes. Nothing could be worse than this—having
no control over his own destiny. He always prided himself on the fact he was his own man. When his parents were killed, during the Craing molt weevil invasion, he was sixteen and he’d run away. His famous aunt wanted him to come stay with her, even pleaded with him. But he was angry and needed to deal with the inner rage he was feeling in his own way. So Ryan joined what was left of the U.S. Navy. All military branches were devastated by the invasion. Millions of soldiers were either killed or cocooned—later to become peovils. Tall for his age, Ryan looked somewhat older than his years. Requirements for potential pilots to hold a Bachelor’s degree first went by the wayside. With lots of training and plenty of testing, he took to flying like a duck to water. He spent the next three years piloting virtually everything—from helicopters to fixed-wing fighters—then on to an assortment of spacecraft. That was how he’d qualified for his current job.
He stopped pacing. “Fine … tell me your idea.”
“I’ve determined the clamping mechanism on the tanker is a Strom & Lewis 569 retractable clamp.”
“So?”
“Well, Strom & Lewis 569 retractable clamps are used throughout the mining industry. Tankers, raw material space-trucks, and freighters all use this clamp, or a derivative of this same model clamp.”
“Again … so?”
“So I have the disengage instructions. Surprisingly simple. These same clamps are often used for space station docking berths and are typically programmed for remote activation. That’s not an option for us but we can do things manually. The only problem is … you’ll need to go outside and open a small maintenance panel on that tanker. It’s situated near the extended area of the clamp.”
“You want me to just stroll over there and start screwing with his ship? He’ll see me.”
“My sensors inform me he’s plopped down mid-ship. Sitting at some kind of desk or workbench. He appears to be engrossed in what he is doing.”
Space Chase (Star Watch Book 5) Page 7
