Nan watched others choose compartments. She suspected Jason thought she and Pope were close—an item—but that wasn’t true. Sure, Pope had made personal advances to her over the years, but they were only friends. She didn’t mix business with pleasure. Anyway, Pope wasn’t her type.
Other than Nan, Pope was the last one standing in the passageway. “For appearances … we should stay together,” he suggested.
“That’s fine,” Nan said, “just don’t get handsy. Ex-madam presidents still hold enough clout to have people shot.”
Pope nodded, like he’d heard the same line from her before. Holding a hatch open, he said, “Your quarters, Madam President.”
* * *
Jason took the old military adage—sleep whenever the opportunity rises—to heart, and grabbed an hour-and-a-half shut-eye. He awoke in the semi-darkness and made his way into the adjoining head. Undressing, he stepped into the cramped shower stall. Several minutes passed as he figured out the hot/cold water controls. Since the fixed shower-head was positioned low, the spray hit his body at navel-level. He crouched down and let the warm water flow over his head and shoulders. Thinking about Nan next door, he envisioned her also jockeying around under the shower-head’s low placement. Perhaps Pope’d help her with that? Thinking it, he wasn’t pleased with himself: I’m a happily married man—married to an amazing gal … what the hell’s my problem?
When he stepped out from the stall he realized no towel was handy. He flapped his arms and legs to air-dry before dressing. As he exited the compartment, he tried to recall which unit Billy and Bristol went into earlier. He opened a NanoCom channel and hailed them both.
Billy answered the hail first. “Almost ready, Cap.”
Bristol said, “It’s not two hours yet.”
“Just get your butts out here,” Jason told them.
Billy opened the hatch door directly across from Jason’s own, his hair still wet. He too had taken a quick shower. Another two minutes passed before Bristol appeared, looking groggy, with bed hair.
“Where we going?” Bristol asked, yawning.
“Figured we’d take a look at Engineering. Offer our assistance to this Jeebrie character. Perhaps we can keep this old crate from breaking down in deep space. I’ve been thinking about Nan’s nephew. If he is being pursued by this Orloff character, then every minute we waste could cost him his life.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, they stood outside the heavy cruiser’s Engineering section.
“There usually is an open corridor here,” Bristol said, nodding in the direction of a doublewide hatch.
“I guess Brent wasn’t kidding. They really do keep Craing crewmembers imprisoned,” Jason said.
Billy said, “I don’t much like those back-wood country cousins. Don’t like the way they look at me. Like I’m not fit to be in their presence.”
“Who cares?” Bristol, after shrugging, said, “These yokels wipe their asses with corncobs.” He took a closer look at the hatch-locking mechanism. It appeared similar to those on their sleeping compartments. Lifting up a large metal rail then flipping it over, Bristol pulled on the hatch. When it swung open, he entered first, with Billy and Jason right behind.
Bristol said, “By far, this is the oldest Craing ship I’ve ever seen. What a rattletrap.”
A voice asked, “Who … who is there?”
Jason spun, finding a small Craing standing up on a catwalk, some fifteen feet above them to their right.
“Cap … you seeing what I’m seeing?” Billy asked.
“I think so. Uncanny … huh? Um … my name is Jason. This is Billy and that’s Bristol.”
“I am Jeebrie. What are you doing in here? Master does not permit visitors. We could get in trouble …” The small Craing rubbed the side of his face. Even in the compartment’s dim light, Jason noted the discolored areas on his flesh. Bruises.
Bristol said, “Don’t take shit from them. You do know the war’s over … right?”
The small Craing looked at Bristol with a mixture of mistrust and surprise.
“The war … it is over?”
“For six years now. Humans and Craing no longer kill each other. There’s no reason for you to still be a prisoner on this ship.”
“But … what am I to do? I am not a violent person. None of us on this ship are.”
“How many of you Craing are there?” Billy asked.
“Eleven,” Jeebrie said.
“Listen to me. When this is over, after we do what were here to accomplish, you’ll be freed. I can promise you that. And then we’ll get you home.”
“Home?”
“Yeah … wherever that is. But for now, we need the Pickets’ help in finding someone. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
Jason watched as the Craing, the spitting image of another small Craing named Ricket, moved across the catwalk and descended a metal stairway. Expecting him to head in their direction, he instead hurried toward the opposite side of the compartment. After first stealing a glance in their direction, he slammed his hand down on the console. A klaxon alarm shrieked all around them.
Billy yelled above the noise, “I can’t believe the little shit …”
“He’s scared. I guess the beast he knows is better than the beast he doesn’t.”
The hatchway into Engineering opened and three armed Pickets piled inside.
CHAPTER 23
Showered, wearing a clean pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt, Ryan sat, bare feet propped up on the console, staring out the cockpit’s forward observation window. Although it was too far away to see with the naked eye, he nevertheless stared in the general direction of the Paotow Tanker just the same.
It occurred to him that he’d forgotten, upon escaping, to disable Orloff’s ship. Still, several decent excuses allowed for the memory lapse, like two snapping bear-trap robots shot at repeatedly, and a growing fear he too would end up mounted on Orloff’s trophy wall. The simple fact he was alive and kicking gave him some solace.
On some level, Ryan was beginning to understand his adversary. Maybe understand wasn’t the proper word choice. A better one, perhaps, was fathom. Ryan could fathom what the lunatic wanted. He liked to hunt—that was obvious—and he wanted Ryan’s head. But more than merely that, he wanted the prey he sought to be worthy of the effort. Ryan had proved he was by the simple fact he was still breathing.
“There has to be a way to take the offensive here.”
The AI, silent, didn’t respond.
“We know what Orloff will claim if he’s successful, but the fight shouldn’t be a one-way street.”
“Come again?” Two-ton’s AI asked.
“Think about it. It should be more than I get to live if he’s unsuccessful. There should be repercussions on both sides. What price does he pay if he loses?”
“I don’t think Orloff Picket gives a rat’s ass about fairness.”
“I’m not so sure. There has to be a way I can communicate with him.”
“Now I know you’ve lost your mind,” the Two-ton AI said.
Ryan brought his attention to the AI-Pac that was installed into the rack behind him. It was as near as he could get to actually studying the AI. “Tell me how to communicate with him. Show me how smart you are.”
Ryan waited expectantly in the prolonged silence. “You know already … don’t you?” he finally asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You can send him a message.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “We already know the van’s comms are down.”
The AI said, “No, I mean physically send him a message.”
“I don’t think the pony express operates this far out in space,” Ryan replied sarcastically.
“The thing about space is, once you set something in motion … like an object heading in a certain direction … it pretty much s
tays on course indefinitely, or until the object intersects with another object of sufficient mass. Then, it either stops or its trajectory is altered.”
“I’m not going on another spacewalk,” Ryan said.
“I know that.”
“So how …” Ryan stopped mid-sentence. He suddenly did know exactly how to do it. “The delivery interface.”
“Bingo.”
The delivery interface, or DI, was how Consignment Freight containers were received into the van’s hold. Integrated into the very top of the van—similar to a small airlock with a built-in conveyor assembly—it allowed for the transfer of five specific container sizes: one small enough to fit into the palm of a hand, to the largest, about four feet wide by five feet long. Those objects of non-conforming measurements were not accepted, either into, or out of, the DI.
“I don’t know,” Ryan said. “I’ve never seen a DI operate anywhere accept at a CF depot.”
“I can modify it with a few software hacks,” the AI said.
* * *
Over the next thirty minutes, Ryan contemplated on what he wanted his delivered message to say. He needed to use the largest container to ensure it would be spotted in space—the container sized four feet by five feet. Looking around, he found one such container inside the hold bound for delivery to the glacially frigid Erass5B. It didn’t look like he’d be making a trip to the god-awful planet any time soon, anyway.
Consignment Freight containers were far more complex than simple shipping boxes. Each one was microprocessor-controlled for specific, pressurized, internal environments; environments aligned to the intended planetary destination. One wouldn’t want to experience the opening up of an Earth environment container on Cornica PL5. The pressure differential—as well as a full host of other environmental differences—could prove catastrophic. But since these smart containers are cognizant, always, of their outer environments—locking mechanisms made an accident practically non-existent. Ryan first thought about using one of the containers as a mail-bomb—one that went off as soon as Orloff opened it—but its integrated safety presets rendered that idea nearly impossible, according to the AI.
“Can’t get the thing open,” Ryan said, frustrated with the large container now sitting in the middle of the hold area. “What does the paperwork state is in there?”
“It’s marked Confidential—the contents are password protected. I should also mention the container is insured for two point five million dollars.”
“So … you can’t determine—?”
“Pshaw, of course I can! It’s a micro-replicator … and a pretty good one, too.”
“Well, open up the container. We’re burning daylight.”
“The only way to do that is to duplicate the same environment on Erass5B here within the hold.”
“Can you do that without damaging our own atmosphere?”
“Our?”
“Fine. My … atmosphere.”
“I believe so but you’ll need to go below. I’ll seal the hold off … bring down the temperature and alter the pressurization … then make a few other minor alterations. That should be enough.”
“Won’t I need to be in here to open it?” Ryan asked.
“Nope, it can be opened via a wireless signal from me.”
* * *
Altering the environment within the hold would take ten or so minutes, according to the AI. In the meantime, Ryan headed to the shuttle’s living quarters and went to work on composing a special message to Orloff. He needed to keep it simple. Simple was better. He found a Sharpie and a pad of paper. It took six drafts before he felt satisfied with what he’d come up with:
Dear Orloff:
This has been tons of fun, don’t you think? Hey, I have a riddle for you —
Q: What does a hillbilly do when his dishwasher stops working?
A: He slaps her on the ass and tells her to get back to work.
Funny, huh? Anyway, I’d like to take this — whatever it is we’re doing … to the next level. You are a hunter. A damn good one, if that trophy wall of yours is any indication. You want to see my head mounted up there with the others. I get that. That will happen, probably, if you are successful. But what if you’re not? Are you also willing to pay the ultimate price? Personally, I don’t take any stock in the stereotype that mountain folk have no honor; that they’re cowards. I don’t believe that — not for a second.
If you agree to a few sensible guidelines, we can take this competition to the next level. Here’s what I have in mind:
The winner takes all.
This is only between you and me. No others involved.
We both should be equally armed (send back that Tavor TAR-21 — a real nice weapon. And as many full magazines as you have laying around.)
There is a timeframe of — let’s say — three days, starting right now, as you read this letter. But here’s the thing — If we can’t finish by then, neither of us being dead, it proves neither one of us is a competent hunter and we walk away — no hard feelings.
That’s it for now. Send back your reply, and of course the Tavor and mags.
Yours truly,
Ryan
CHAPTER 24
By the time Ryan reentered the hold, both temperature and pressurization had returned to normal. As promised, the large CF container was registering unlocked across a series of green LEDs, on the top band of indicators and its integrated message screen. He noticed the box’s lid was now askew on one side.
Carefully laying the paper’s composed, handwritten message on the deck, he went to work removing the contents of the replicator unit. Once emptied, he placed the single-sheet note inside it.
“So … irritating that crazed psychopath, that’s your great idea?” the AI asked.
“Among other things. Yup.” Ryan closed the CF lid and waited for the telltale click to indicate it was sealed. “We’ll need specific spatial coordinates. Can you derive them from the tanker’s position?”
“Yes.”
“Go ahead then, and adjust the hold’s gravity level to loading, unloading, parameters.”
All Consignment Freight Vans’ upper hold areas maintained their own gravity generators. That way, when a van’s driver was instructed to either bring in, or push out, a container through the DI, he didn’t break his back in the process. Within seconds, Ryan felt nearly weightless within the compartment hold. Studying the topside of the container, he found the AI had input the intended spatial coordinates. As with any mailing address, it was displayed on a small message screen. The RETURN coordinates read: From Your Buddy Ryan.
“I like it! Good to see you’re getting into the spirit of things.” Ryan, lifting up the near-weightless container, held it in his hands. “You’ve oriented the van? We only get one shot at this.”
“From the centerline of the DI, the van’s spatial X, Y, and Z planes are perfectly aligned with the intended azimuth—the direction of the target. What cannot be factored in are the inconsistencies generated by the DI mechanism itself. The thing is old and worn; parts are showing fatigue. In other words, it is not a fine-tuned, projectile shooting apparatus.”
“Thank you, Professor, I understand. Just do the best you can. You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” the AI replied, its voice expressing little enthusiasm.
As he’d done thousands of times before, loading or unloading freight in and out of the van, Ryan positioned the container. He sent it upward, toward the DI at the top of the hold. Internal sensors, triggering a series of articulating arms, seemed to appear out of nowhere. As the container approached, its sides were grabbed. Then, quickly and efficiently, the box was fed, like a hungry robot, into the DI’s mechanically re-sizing orifice. Within a split second, it was gone.
“Message sent,” the Two-ton AI said.
Ryan smiled. Hurrying from the hold, he fled down the small flight of stairs and into the cockpit. The AI had the console display pre-configured to track the container. Across it, he
could see the Consignment Freight Van icon, the Paotow tanker icon, and the slow, but steady, moving CF container icon.
“Looks to be heading in the right direction,” Ryan said, taking a seat.
“You’re having way too much fun with this,” the AI responded.
Ryan shrugged as he watched. He looked up from the display and out into space. He gestured toward the display. “What is that?”
The AI said, “Small craft … approximately the size of a Consignment Freight Van. It’s about four thousand miles away.”
“I wish there was a way to flag it down.”
“It’s heading in this general direction,” the Two-ton AI said.
CHAPTER 25
The three Picket brothers stormed into Engineering. Looking angry, they raised their weapons.
Jason, palms raised up in mock surrender, said, “Sorry for all the commotion, guys. I think we scared your Engineer. Our mistake.”
Brent glared at Jeebrie, who physically withdrew into himself, his eyes darting back and forth. Staring at Jason, Brent asked, “What are you doing in here?”
“As I mentioned to you before, Bristol is a wizard with propulsion systems of all kinds. Honestly … it was a goodwill gesture.”
“You scared him. He doesn’t like strangers.”
Bristol said, “Or beatings either, evidently.”
“You … mind your own business!” Brent, then turning to Jeebrie, ordered, “Turn that klaxon off before we all go deaf!”
Jeebrie scurried off. A moment later, the voluminous compartment became quiet.
Jason said, “Look, we witnessed firsthand how the ship was laboring just trying to climb above Earth’s atmosphere. But if you don’t need or want our help, it’s no skin off our backs.”
Space Chase (Star Watch Book 5) Page 12
