Contact

by Susan Grant

  Jordan spread her hands. “Are we clear on what’s going to happen once we go downstairs?”

  “Yes,” they chorused.

  “It isn’t whether you win or lose,” Natalie pointed out defiantly, “it’s how you exude attitude.”

  “Well, we’re going to win,” Jordan told her, wanting to believe it with all her heart. Grabbing her flashlight, she led the way, descending the staircase from the upper deck of the 747 into the deeper darkness below. The three shaken flight attendants trailed her.

  Shaken, indeed. Jordan bet she looked ten times worse. She’d never forget the sight of that dark hole engulfing the airplane, the feeling of helplessness in her inability to escape it. And the icy nausea as she wondered if those breaths she’d gasped would be the last ones she’d ever take. Oddly, her life hadn’t flashed before her eyes. Only a powerful desire to remain alive.

  At the bottom of the stairwell, she faced a stonily silent group of first- and business-class passengers. Some were tourists, judging by their resort outfits and wilted leis; others were businessmen, dressed in cotton shirts and trousers that looked like they belonged with suits.

  Ann handed her a megaphone. All airliners had one or two. They were kept aboard to direct the passengers if the PA was inoperative, as in a case of total power failure—a rare event. When it came to an advanced aircraft’s power supply, there were backups to the backups, which usually handled any emergency.

  Not this time.

  Jordan walked forward and centered herself in the aft area of the business section that bordered coach. There she could be heard if not seen by those in first and business class as well as the people seated in economy. The passengers’ scrutiny was so intense that she imagined she could feel every eye boring a smoking hole into her uniform. She guessed they’d feel a whole lot better if she were six-feet-three, silver-haired, and possessed of an Oklahoma twang. But instead of the stereotypical airline captain, these people were getting a petite thirty-two-year-old blond, whose freckles and curly hair made her look even younger. But whether they liked it or not, or she liked it or not, she’d just stepped into the void left by Brian Wendt’s death.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Jordan Cady. I started out the day as your first officer. I’m now your captain.”

  That elicited more than a few murmurs. She took a breath and spoke over them. “Brian Wendt, the captain, is dead. He suffered a heart attack.”

  Passengers met the news with gasps. Some started to cry.

  Oops. Too blunt. She needed to soften her approach. “I know you’re concerned, so I’ll try to explain what’s going on to the best of my knowledge. We never landed. But we’re no longer flying, either.” She cleared her throat. “As far as I know, we were taken involuntarily into something that now holds our entire plane. It could be a hijacking.”

  Some screamed. The few who were weeping began to cry louder. She probably was screwing this up. But should one sugarcoat the impossible: being snatched out of the sky?

  “Your crew is well trained and in control!” she shouted above the noise. “We’ll get you through this.”

  A lanky man with carrot-colored hair and an Irish accent stood on his business-class seat and shook his fist. “What are we going to do in the meantime—sit here like sheep and wait to find out?”

  Indignant was how his question made her feel. But, somehow, her reaction came out sounding like determination. “No sheep here, sir. We’re going to fight back.”

  There were a few whoops, mostly male, and the Irishman grinned approvingly. She thought of what her father would do, her brother John, too. They’d try to keep the crowd motivated and focused. Easier said than done. Fists clenched, she forged ahead. “We hope that everyone inside is on our side. But, should you see anyone waving anything that could remotely be used as a weapon—knitting needle, plastic knife, you name it—or if someone announces that this is a hijacking or that they have a bomb, every one of you should immediately throw things at that person. Magazines, books, pillows, eyeglasses, shoes. Anything to knock them off balance and distract them. Then we throw blankets over them and wrestle them to the floor. And keep them there.” In the darkness, she made eye contact with as many passengers as she could. “Remember, there are only a few of them”—she hoped—“and almost three hundred of us. The odds are on our side.”

  Cheers met her off-the-cuff pep talk. Her confidence inched a little higher. “Three things to remember!” she yelled over the noise. “We don’t panic. We stay in control. And we anticipate and prepare. Your crew is trained and capable of leading you out of this alive. But we need your cooperation to do that. Remain in your seats except when using the lavatories. We’ll distribute food and water as needed, but conservation will be paramount until we better know our situation.”

  Hostage situations could take days, maybe longer, and she had no idea whether their captors would be willing to feed them.

  “It’s also going to be dark. There are only twelve emergency flashlights, with a battery life of two hours each. With no way to charge them, they’ll be out of light in no time. So”—she met as many flight attendants’ eyes as she could—“the emergency flashlights stay off unless we absolutely need them.” To the passengers, she added, “If you have your own flashlight, feel free to use it. Just remember, we don’t have extra batteries.”

  “What about cell phones?” someone shouted from the back.

  She hadn’t thought of the phones in the midst of everything. “By all means, use them! Has anyone been able to get ahold of anyone?”

  There was silence. “They don’t work,” came replies. “No signal.”

  Her burst of hope faded. “Keep trying.”

  She turned to Ben. He was the purser, the flight attendant supervisor. He could take much of the load off her. “Get everyone working on what we discussed. Secure the exits and keep an eye outside. Use passengers you feel you can trust, if you find yourself shorthanded. I’ll be in the cockpit for a while.” Maybe there was something she could do there that she’d missed.

  There was a disturbance from the rear. Two passengers made their way forward through the crowd. They introduced themselves—Father Sugimoto, a short, squat Catholic priest from Oahu, and Pastor Earl, a minister who looked more like an NFL linebacker, returning home from Hawaii with his choir and an entire church group from Detroit. “We’re here if you need us,” they told her.

  “I do,” she said. “Do what you can to calm everyone down.” She dropped her voice to a private tone. “And the captain’s upstairs. I . . . I don’t know what religion he practiced, but something along the lines of last rites wouldn’t hurt.”

  She turned away. Father Sugimoto stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We are available for you, too,” he said. The Detroit minister nodded along with him. Goodness glowed in their eyes—so at odds with the evil that she feared had detained their aircraft.

  Jordan’s fingers drifted up to the photo in her pocket. But she made a fist and dropped her hand. Somehow, she kept her own emotions and fears encased. “Thanks,” she said. “I might take you up on that later.”

  As she walked away, she heard the minister’s deep voice booming over the megaphone. He led the passengers in a general prayer, fit for a variety of religions, and followed up with a moment of silence for the captain. But it wasn’t silent, really. Several people wept softly and infants howled. And Jordan’s own heart thudded in her chest.

  She trotted up the stairs. Where did that spurt of energy come from? It had to be from adrenaline. She stopped, breathless at the top of the stairs and wiped the back of her hand across her face.

  Her body was damp with perspiration. Without ventilation, the airplane was beginning to feel stuffy and warm. The jetliner wasn’t pressurized, and thus wasn’t airtight. Suffocation wouldn’t be a problem, but poor air quality would. Something would have to be done about the conditions onboard the airplane, and soon. Bad air, sick people, stagnant air—these were the makings of a
big problem.

  A problem that now rested entirely on her shoulders, she reminded herself as the passengers’ distant voices joined together singing “Amazing Grace.”

  Chapter Three

  On the bridge of the medium-sized starcruiser Savior, Kào Vantaar-Moray paced in front of a backdrop of stars stretched into threadlike streamers due to the ship’s faster-than-light speed. With its winged target snatched from the atmosphere and now stored safely in the cargo bay, the Savior accelerated away from Earth, from whence its new cargo had originated.

  Earth. Kào pondered the exotic if guttural-sounding word. It was the planet’s name in one of its people’s languages, according to the Savior’s eavesdropping linguist. And now Earth was destroyed. Its vast and varied population obliterated; its history, its culture, snuffed out.

  A vague wrenching pulled at Kào’s chest. Running, terrified, the ground burning the soles of his shoes, he couldn’t find his mother, his father, couldn’t see, blinded by light that was as hot as fire and seared his eyes, his skin—

  Kào shoved away the memory imprinted in his mind when he was barely three years old. Even years as a combat-hardened soldier couldn’t erase the horror of what he’d witnessed as a child, that single snatch of memory: the complete and utter obliteration of his home world and his birthright.

  Other than that single snatch of memory of escaping that fire, he had no other recollections, and none of his birth family, aside from vague impressions that hit him at the oddest times. His tender age at the time of trauma was the reason for the lack of memory, he’d been told by Commodore Moray, the man who had rescued him, adopted him, and raised him on a succession of starships, each one larger than the last. Since then Kào had traveled many roads.

  Perhaps too many.

  Residual adrenaline from the rescue kept him pacing the dais in front of the stars, despite his bone-deep—perhaps soul-deep—weariness. The two years in enemy prison had taken their toll. After four standard months spent recuperating aboard the Savior, he hadn’t yet returned to his pre-POW physical state. What muscle tone and athletic ability he retained, he owed to the genetics of his hardy ancestors, not the exercise that was once his routine. Not that it mattered; in the war against the Talagars, he’d lost far more than his stamina.

  “Here, son.” The voice of Kào’s adoptive father brought him to a halt. Commander-elite Ilya Moray handed him a fluted glass containing a mildly alcoholic juice beverage. “A little zabeesh?”

  “Thank you, sir.” Kào brushed one thumb over the delicate rim. The refined, cool glass felt odd in his hands. Prison was behind him, yet how long would it take before he again was comfortable in this world? A soft laugh escaped him. “Can you believe I have not tasted this drink in over two standard years?”

  Moray didn’t lose his smile, but Kào noticed the slightest tightening of the man’s lips. “You have not been amongst the civilized of our galaxy, that’s why. All the more reason to drink.”

  “Commodore,” called one of Moray’s aides. “Incoming message for you, sir. Alliance Headquarters. Regarding the rescue.”

  “Put it onscreen.” Moray threw back what was left of his zabeesh and let out a gust of air as he lowered his glass. It was typical that he’d made quick work of the drink and with such obvious pleasure. He was a big man with an even bigger gusto for life. Much more reserved by nature, Kào remembered as a boy feeling overwhelmed by the officer. But now Kào equaled him in height, at least, if not in bulk or outward enthusiasm.

  A colonel wearing Intelligence Corps insignia appeared on the main screen as a three-dimensional image. The communication was two-way, allowing the colonel to observe the crew on the bridge of the Savior as clearly as they could see her. She was an older woman, regal and confident in a midnight blue jacket with silver braiding.

  Kào had worn that uniform, but with lieutenant’s stars on the shoulders and Space Force insignia on the breast. Now it was gray-blue Perimeter Patrol garb that he donned daily, stripped of any trace of military rank.

  The officer introduced herself. “Colonel Anipa Frenton.” She smiled cordially at the small crew manning the bridge—several ensigns, untried and young, and a pair of Moray’s aides. Her gaze swept to Kào and stopped. Censure chilled her smile.

  If Kào had any doubt that his actions in the war had disgraced his father, they were erased in that moment. He stood at attention, using his military bearing as a shield against the colonel’s brief and penetrating scrutiny.

  Her cool green eyes went to Moray, and her expression reflected forced cordiality before she gave in to her awe. Moray was a living legend; his humanitarian efforts and exploration of the farthest reaches of the galaxy were celebrated. But even the commodore’s staunchest supporters couldn’t look him in the eye without thoughts of Kào intruding. Like microscopic cracks that weakened a battleship’s hull over time, speculation and rumors over his son’s reliability had chipped away at Moray’s once-flawless reputation.

  Colonel Frenton’s smile was genuine now. “Commodore,” she said. “It is my honor and a pleasure to deliver this message from Alliance Headquarters. You saved a previously unknown ethnic group from the brink of extinction. Congratulations to you, sir. Once again.”

  “I did so with the help of my crew,” Moray replied humbly. He still glowed with the heady gratification of saving the Earth people, now homeless refugees. Clearly, he was a hero who enjoyed his work. “How we came upon this uncharted world was a fortunate miracle, a blessed accident, and I thank the Seeders for placing me nearby so that I could save them. As you know, Colonel, the Savior isn’t a rescue craft.”

  No, it certainly was not, Kào thought. The Savior was a Perimeter Patrol vessel, one of a growing number of armed-to-the-teeth military battleships assigned to a new branch of the Alliance Space Force, created to protect the borders. Long hours and mind-numbing isolation mixed with true danger, it was one of those critical-to-peace duties that nobody wanted.

  Kào flexed his jaw as he watched his father converse with the colonel. A man of Moray’s status should have been comfortably situated in a high-level staff position at headquarters on Sofu—and no one could tell Kào that it wasn’t because of his military foul-up that Moray had ended up here, instead. It was Kào’s blunder that had his father working long hours patrolling the Perimeter, the boundary between civilization and the unsettled hinterlands, looking for rogue Talagar vessels eager to violate the “no-shoot” restriction imposed upon them in the recently signed peace treaty.

  Kào glowered darkly. The Talagars, his former captors, were an ancient, fractious, isolationist people who’d continued the practice of human slavery and sexual servitude eons after both were banned by the Alliance, the democratically elected governing body of a mostly peaceful galaxy. Yet in the end, it wasn’t the Talagars’ cruel customs that had strained eons of peace; it was their aggressive expansion into new territory—attacking settlements, pirating trade routes. It was when a Talagarian slaver ship abducted and sold the husband and children of the Alliance’s number-two leader that the long-boiling pot exploded and the galaxy had gone to war.

  Ten standard years the bitter fighting had lasted, costing millions of lives. Finally defeated, the Talagars had come to the negotiation table sullenly. Their unrepentant attitude was what made such a risky business of patrolling the Perimeter—a duty that, though critical, was beneath Commodore Moray’s status. Kào’s father had insisted that he’d volunteered for the assignment, but Kào suspected it was forced atonement for his son’s war record. Kào vowed to make it up to him at all cost.

  Moray’s cheer faded. “I’m afraid that the destruction of the planet was total,” he informed the Alliance colonel, and went on to describe the reasons why. “We orbited briefly, and took the first vessel we encountered, leaving promptly afterward. It was too hazardous to remain. But we left viewing-buoys behind and observed the rest remotely. Standard safety procedure, you see.” In a confidential tone, he added, “Having witn
essed other such catastrophic planetary events, I know that impacts of this type and size trigger immediate and massive devastation. Be assured that once my science staff reviews the recorded data, I’ll forward the full report.”

  “As your duties allow, Commodore,” the woman said with grave deference. “There have been reports of at least one unidentified vessel in your zone of transit.”

  “Yes. I’m aware of it. We’re attempting to trace its flight path. It may be Talagar. But I assure you that we will in no way let our unexpected guests distract us from our primary mission—protecting our borders.”

  “I have no doubt of that, Commodore.” The colonel’s mouth tightened. “Be careful. A cargo-hold full of non-Alliance refugees makes the Savior an almost irresistible target to a people devoted to slave trade.”

  Kào understood her concern. Most would rather die than be captured by Talagars.

  He’d learned why, firsthand.

  Grim, the colonel began typing on her handheld computer. “The refugees will have to be relocated as soon as possible.” She stopped to take a message that someone handed her. Skimming the missive, she frowned before addressing Moray once more. “Commodore, I’ll contact you once it is decided where to take the survivors. It may take some time before we know for certain, as we have other pressing matters.”

  “Of course. I will await your word.” When her image disappeared, Moray turned to Kào. Gripping his empty glass, he smiled broadly. “Finally, fate has turned for us. Today has proved that. The rescue. Yes, indeed, the future will be bright. Bright, my boy!” He reached for Kào’s shoulder and gave him a hearty squeeze. “The Earth craft practically flew under our very nose. We were meant to rescue them. It’s another sign, you see. Perhaps the most telling of all. Our luck has changed.”

  “You deserve a change in luck, sir.”

  “You more than I. The war was a dark time for you, yes? And your imprisonment . . .” He glowered. “We will live to see the day when your record will be cleansed of the matter, and all those involved punished for what they did. Trust me on this. If it’s the last thing I do in this life, I will make it happen.”