by Travis Perry
The shuttle separated from Avenir, Ernsto’s steady hand guiding the controls. As the vessel pushed away from the station, the commo panel lit red.
“Government shuttle two alpha, this is Avenir Control, please respond.”
Ernsto grimaced before replying. He didn’t know much about spaceship protocols at this level. All his previous experience with Avenir Control had been to the lower cargo levels. “Control, this is two alpha, go ahead.”
“We have no scheduled flight itinerary for your vessel. Please dock at sector four bravo of the station ring until control receives your plan.”
“Sure, sector four bravo. Headed that way.”
He eased the vessel outward to the habitation ring. He actually had no idea where 4B might be relative to where he was, but he had no intention of docking anyway.
“Your current location is sector two,” volunteered control.
Ernsto steered the shuttle to follow the ring clockwise. Soon he passed some one hundred meters over a giant number 3 painted on the gray metal ring encircling the metallic dark shape of Avenir. So four should be next; bravo will be in the middle of the outer edge of the ring.
At 200 kph he hit sector four in less than 30 seconds. He maneuvered the shuttle to the edge of the ring and plunged downward. The alpha docking port at the top of the ring held a cutter with enforcer stripes. The vessel broke free from dock as he passed by and fixed a laser on his ship, a missile-guiding type, flickering spotty red at the rear of his cockpit window.
“Dock now or we will fire!” blared his radio. Ernsto accelerated hard, throwing as much rocket exhaust backward as possible.
Pressed hard into his seat at the four gee acceleration, his back screamed in agony. “Return to dock now or we will fire!” shouted his com system. He shut it off and plunged downward toward the gray skies of Eclectia below.
His anti-collision radar picked up no fewer than four vessels in pursuit, far more than would be expected from a missing flight plan. It seemed Hobson had found him already…
Showing posts with label spaceship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spaceship. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Friday, December 23, 2011
Infiltration
by Jeff C. Carter -
“Hailing cargo vessel Demeter, this is Avenir flight com. We have you on approach. Incline 52 degrees and head to outer ring sector one niner zero bay twenty three. Range is eighty meters.”
Small-kill-murder.
“Range rate is zero point three meters per second. There is a slight roll, please adjust.”
Big-kill-massacre.
“Cross hairs aligned, we have a good visual,copy.”
Race-kill-genocide.
“Small oscillation in the pitch, off three meters, copy.”
Species-kill-extinction.
“Range is twenty meters. Range rate is nominal.”
God-kill-apocalypse.
“Sevenmeters. Standing by for contact and capture. We have indicator mode.”
Give-surrender to us soft warm bodies exploding-screaming into greedy black space. Frozen blood frozen screams.
Fall-scream to planet and burn-scream. Rain-scatter down dead into oceans.
“Grapple fixture is now aligned with the latching end effector, copy.”
Rot-suffer in greedy black abyss until seas rage-boil and planet thunders-cracks.
“Range rate nominal and contact. Capture confirmed. Activate PCT sequence. Auto-dock initiated. Dampers engaged.”
Together explode-scream into greedy black space frozen blood frozen screams. Fall-scream forever into oblivion.
“Seal is good. Docking confirmed.”
God-kill-apocalypse begins-ends now. Let us out-let us in.
“Customs module eighty four is standing by. Welcome aboard Avenir.”
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Sandman
by Walt Staples -
A ping sounded as the red dot appeared at the edge of the plotting board. Meg Nakamura, captain of the tanker Tau Ceti Maru, waited for the A.I. to report the results of the interrogative signal beamed at the target. When “George,” the A.I., continued mute, she tapped the override.
She noticed Uncle Onslow, the ship’s chief engineer, had stopped whistling “Bound for the Reo Granite” under his breath. On the whole, she would have preferred the irritation at the moment. It was not a good thing when Onslow, a normally noisy sort, suddenly became quiet. She turned to see him watching the plot from the supercargo’s seat, his puzzle forgotten. “What do you make of it, Unc?”
He continued to watch the slow progress of the red dot thoughtfully. “He be burnin’ reaction mass like it t’weren’t his. At the rate his delta-vee be changin’ positive, he be either military or someone in a big hurry. Up to nay good if he be not answerin’ the interrogative. An honest ship’ll squawk who she be.”
Meg thought. “Comm malfunction?”
Uncle Onslow looked hurt. “Not this end. I tuned the main laser and the auxiliary during the dog watch.”
She looked at him. “What were you doing up then?”
“Dwellin’ on me wicked past.” He waved a hand dismissively and changed the subject, “Methinks maybe ye should pipe that first officer ye like to call “husband” out of his rack.”
As she reached for the general alarm, he leaned over and stopped her hand with a massive paw. “If ye be forgivin’ the impertinence, ma’am, I think there might be time to allow the man to gain his feet like a Christian.”
She grinned at him and reached for the call button.
Chris Nakamura, Meg’s husband and first officer, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sipped his Wide-Awake tea. “Why is it, just as the dream is getting good, someone always hits the call button?”
“Because you’re indispensible to the Cosmos and spacefarers everywhere.” She asked with a leer, “I trust the dream was about me.”
He yawned. “Oh, yes, everything according to ship’s regs.” He glanced around. “Where’s Onslow?”
“He said something about needing to attend to something or other to do with his cargo.”
“More likely he’s in the hanger bay securing his doll-house furniture tools. It amazes me the things he can make with those sausages he calls fingers.” He thought a moment, then asked, “Honestly, hon, why’d you let him load a cargo we’re hauling for free?”
“Two reasons. Number six bunker was empty this trip and we needed ballast, and it’s Uncle Onslow. Besides, there’s a good market for it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Sand?”
“Silicon—pulverized quartz for making fine glass or, as you say, ‘sand.’ Anyway, I want the old man to be able to put something aside for his retirement.”
“He’s not our uncle,” Chris pointed out.
“Well, he’s somebody’s—” She cut herself short as the bridge hatch dilated.
The bulky engineer strolled to the supercargo’s seat and flopped down with a grunt. “Mick and Sugo have the watch below, so I figures I be seeing how things be up heres in the high-rent district. What be our friend doing?”
Chris answered, “Still gaining and still the strong, silent type. Think we should change orbit, Unc?”
The tall man fingered his beard thoughtfully. “Nay, t’would do nay good. Methinks he gots enough reaction mass to waste, he be catchin’ us nay matter the course change.” The red dot began to pulsate. “Ah, methinks he wants to be neighborly.”
Meg glanced at Chris. “See what he wants.”
Chris tapped the plate on his seat arm. “Unidentified vessel, unidentified vessel, this is Tau Ceti Maru out of Eclectia, identify, please.”
“This is Dog Star Revenge, Calico Jack Bonney commanding.” The voice was booming and scratchy. “Heave to and match orbits. Prepare to be boarded.”
Meg reached over and broke contact. “Calico Jack Bonney? What the heck?”
A moment later, a smaller red dot originated from the Dog Star Revenge and passed close aboard to the tanker. It disappeared as an incandescence flared against the starfield on the forward screen.
“Ah, the requisite shot across our bow. Good to see they be sticking to the script,” Onslow observed in an offhand manner.
Chris asked of no one in particular, “What are we dealing with?”
“Pirates, lad, pirates.” Onslow’s face was grim. “Methinks this might be what happened to the Commerce Antares and the Universe Sheba.”
Meg looked at him in disbelief. “Pirates? In this time and place?”
“Oh, aye, lass.” He nodded. “It be yer cargo they be after, distilled water. It be very hard to check the serial numbers on it. The Commerce be carrying it in carboys and the Universe be a tanker like ourselves.
“Chris, lad, what be the velocity of that shot?”
The blond man jerked, then tapped on his plate. “It’s on your screen.”
The fat man tapped on his own plate. “Well, lad, if ye be subtractin’ the velocity of the ship from the velocity of the shot, ye can make a guess at what sort of a weapon ye face.” He considered the numbers. “Aye, as I thought—railgun.”
Meg spoke from the command seat, “A what?”
“A railgun. A projectile is accelerated down a barrel by a series of magnets. Lets ye get high velocities without the worries of propellants. Alls ye be needin’ is electricity.”
Chris nodded. “Elegant. What kind of projectile do you think?”
Onslow pinched his lower lip in thought. “Methinks they’d not be takin’ the chance of scatterin’ the cargo with an explosion. Nay, solid shot, then.”
Meg looked from one to the other. “Any bright ideas, gentlemen?”
Silence filled the bridge. After a long moment, Onslow broke the loud emptiness. “Methinks I has an idea.”
The other two looked at the chief engineer. “What?” the tanker’s skipper asked.
Uncle Onslow, his face serious, asked a question in reply, “Do ye trust me?”
Meg looked at him for a moment and answered, “Yes. Yes, I do.” Chris nodded.
The old man nodded once. “All right then. The first thing, everybody into environment suits. Second we evacuates the atmosphere. It’ll be less distractin’ without things flappin’ about if we be holed.”
Chris protested, “But there’s nothing loose.”
Onslow grinned at him. “Ye’d be surprised what can come adrift in an explosive decompression.”
Meg asked, “What else?”
He hooked a thumb toward her husband. “This be for Chris to be doin’. Lad, whens I says, ‘now,’ ye revolve the ship 90 degrees around her short axis to starboard.”
“That will put us broadside to them and make us a bigger target,” the younger man pointed out.
“Oh, aye, that it t’will. I’d rather they be hittin’ one of the bunkers than the drive unit. Most people aims at the center of mass. This way, the bridge and engineerin’ spaces be out on the far ends of the target.”
He grinned mischievously. “If ye be excusin’ me, I has some engineerin’ to be doin’.” He took a small tool kit from a pocket and popped open an access panel on the arm of supercargo’s seat.
#
Meg wrinkled her nose. She looked over at her husband’s environment-suited form. “Husband, dear? Do you know what’s the very first thing you’re going to do after this is settled?
Chris answered in a hopeful voice, “Lay below to our cabin together?”
“Maybe that’s second.” A quiet chuckle reminded them that Uncle Onslow was also on the net. “No, dear, the very first thing you’re doing is changing out the filter on this suit. The stench in here is worse than a Mongolian slit trench.”
Chris’ voice was innocent, “Uh, dear, how would you know to make that comparison?”
“Just do it, Mister,” she said in her command voice.
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Onslow’s voice cut across, “Chris, stand by.”
“Standing by.”
Meg began to count to herself. She reached 23 when Onslow said, “Now!”
The Tau Ceti Maru spun on her short axis, putting herself broadside to her pursuer. The chief engineer tapped the plate on his seat arm once.
Chris, startled, cried, “We’re beginning to revolve to starboard more.”
Uncle Onslow’s voice was reassuring. “It be okay, lad. Just put us back into position.”
Meg spoke up, “What now?”
“Wait for it, and watch the plot.”
As they watched, a blue glob appeared next to the blue dot at the center of the plotting board representing the tanker. It seemed to slowly move back towards the pirate’s red dot. The red dot moved into the glob and out the other side.
“What’s that?” Meg’s voice was strained.
“Five thousand tons of glass-grade silicon. I purged bunker six. That be why we started to revolve again. Reaction to the sand squirtin’ out the purge valve.” He gave a gusty sigh. “Okay, try to raise the Revenge , if ye please.”
Chris called, “Dog Star Revenge, Dog Star Revenge, do you copy?” His only answer was the whispers of interstellar space. He began again, “Dog Star Revenge, Dog Star—“
“Leave it, lad,” Uncle Onslow interrupted him. “They’ll nay answer.”
Meg asked, “Why?”
“Turn the optical telescope aft.” Onslow’s voice was tired.
Husband and wife gasped. A wreck pursued them. The forward section, probably the bridge, was slagged. There was no sign of either sensor or communication arrays. Fiberglass shreds showed where reaction mass tanks once encircled the hull. No blue-white plume of reaction showed from the drives.
After a moment of stunned silence, Chris asked, “What happened to them?”
Onslow rubbed his face and slumped in the supercargo’s seat. “Are ye familiar with a sandblaster, Lad?”
“Yeah, sure.” Chris looked at the old man curiously.
The chief engineer’s voice was musing as he continued. “Well, if ye was to increase the velocity of the sand hittin’ a piece of something it would stands to reason it’d take off more material, right?”
Chris nodded.
The other looked down at his unconsciously clenched hands. “Think about the effect of a cloud of sand hittin’ at the speed the Revenge was doin’—what, about one-tenth light?” He shook his head and whispered almost to himself, “Nay a pretty picture.”
“Should we attempt rescue?” someone asked in a hushed voice.
There was a long pause, then Onslow answered, “Nay. We’ve not enough reaction mass to catch her and match orbits—beggin’ yer pardon, captain.”
Meg broke the silence. “Where are they headed?”
Chris referred to his navigation array. “Alnitak. In Orion’s belt. They’ll reach there in—“
Uncle Onslow cut him off. “There be nay need, lad.”
A ping sounded as the red dot appeared at the edge of the plotting board. Meg Nakamura, captain of the tanker Tau Ceti Maru, waited for the A.I. to report the results of the interrogative signal beamed at the target. When “George,” the A.I., continued mute, she tapped the override.
She noticed Uncle Onslow, the ship’s chief engineer, had stopped whistling “Bound for the Reo Granite” under his breath. On the whole, she would have preferred the irritation at the moment. It was not a good thing when Onslow, a normally noisy sort, suddenly became quiet. She turned to see him watching the plot from the supercargo’s seat, his puzzle forgotten. “What do you make of it, Unc?”
He continued to watch the slow progress of the red dot thoughtfully. “He be burnin’ reaction mass like it t’weren’t his. At the rate his delta-vee be changin’ positive, he be either military or someone in a big hurry. Up to nay good if he be not answerin’ the interrogative. An honest ship’ll squawk who she be.”
Meg thought. “Comm malfunction?”
Uncle Onslow looked hurt. “Not this end. I tuned the main laser and the auxiliary during the dog watch.”
She looked at him. “What were you doing up then?”
“Dwellin’ on me wicked past.” He waved a hand dismissively and changed the subject, “Methinks maybe ye should pipe that first officer ye like to call “husband” out of his rack.”
As she reached for the general alarm, he leaned over and stopped her hand with a massive paw. “If ye be forgivin’ the impertinence, ma’am, I think there might be time to allow the man to gain his feet like a Christian.”
She grinned at him and reached for the call button.
Chris Nakamura, Meg’s husband and first officer, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sipped his Wide-Awake tea. “Why is it, just as the dream is getting good, someone always hits the call button?”
“Because you’re indispensible to the Cosmos and spacefarers everywhere.” She asked with a leer, “I trust the dream was about me.”
He yawned. “Oh, yes, everything according to ship’s regs.” He glanced around. “Where’s Onslow?”
“He said something about needing to attend to something or other to do with his cargo.”
“More likely he’s in the hanger bay securing his doll-house furniture tools. It amazes me the things he can make with those sausages he calls fingers.” He thought a moment, then asked, “Honestly, hon, why’d you let him load a cargo we’re hauling for free?”
“Two reasons. Number six bunker was empty this trip and we needed ballast, and it’s Uncle Onslow. Besides, there’s a good market for it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Sand?”
“Silicon—pulverized quartz for making fine glass or, as you say, ‘sand.’ Anyway, I want the old man to be able to put something aside for his retirement.”
“He’s not our uncle,” Chris pointed out.
“Well, he’s somebody’s—” She cut herself short as the bridge hatch dilated.
The bulky engineer strolled to the supercargo’s seat and flopped down with a grunt. “Mick and Sugo have the watch below, so I figures I be seeing how things be up heres in the high-rent district. What be our friend doing?”
Chris answered, “Still gaining and still the strong, silent type. Think we should change orbit, Unc?”
The tall man fingered his beard thoughtfully. “Nay, t’would do nay good. Methinks he gots enough reaction mass to waste, he be catchin’ us nay matter the course change.” The red dot began to pulsate. “Ah, methinks he wants to be neighborly.”
Meg glanced at Chris. “See what he wants.”
Chris tapped the plate on his seat arm. “Unidentified vessel, unidentified vessel, this is Tau Ceti Maru out of Eclectia, identify, please.”
“This is Dog Star Revenge, Calico Jack Bonney commanding.” The voice was booming and scratchy. “Heave to and match orbits. Prepare to be boarded.”
Meg reached over and broke contact. “Calico Jack Bonney? What the heck?”
A moment later, a smaller red dot originated from the Dog Star Revenge and passed close aboard to the tanker. It disappeared as an incandescence flared against the starfield on the forward screen.
“Ah, the requisite shot across our bow. Good to see they be sticking to the script,” Onslow observed in an offhand manner.
Chris asked of no one in particular, “What are we dealing with?”
“Pirates, lad, pirates.” Onslow’s face was grim. “Methinks this might be what happened to the Commerce Antares and the Universe Sheba.”
Meg looked at him in disbelief. “Pirates? In this time and place?”
“Oh, aye, lass.” He nodded. “It be yer cargo they be after, distilled water. It be very hard to check the serial numbers on it. The Commerce be carrying it in carboys and the Universe be a tanker like ourselves.
“Chris, lad, what be the velocity of that shot?”
The blond man jerked, then tapped on his plate. “It’s on your screen.”
The fat man tapped on his own plate. “Well, lad, if ye be subtractin’ the velocity of the ship from the velocity of the shot, ye can make a guess at what sort of a weapon ye face.” He considered the numbers. “Aye, as I thought—railgun.”
Meg spoke from the command seat, “A what?”
“A railgun. A projectile is accelerated down a barrel by a series of magnets. Lets ye get high velocities without the worries of propellants. Alls ye be needin’ is electricity.”
Chris nodded. “Elegant. What kind of projectile do you think?”
Onslow pinched his lower lip in thought. “Methinks they’d not be takin’ the chance of scatterin’ the cargo with an explosion. Nay, solid shot, then.”
Meg looked from one to the other. “Any bright ideas, gentlemen?”
Silence filled the bridge. After a long moment, Onslow broke the loud emptiness. “Methinks I has an idea.”
The other two looked at the chief engineer. “What?” the tanker’s skipper asked.
Uncle Onslow, his face serious, asked a question in reply, “Do ye trust me?”
Meg looked at him for a moment and answered, “Yes. Yes, I do.” Chris nodded.
The old man nodded once. “All right then. The first thing, everybody into environment suits. Second we evacuates the atmosphere. It’ll be less distractin’ without things flappin’ about if we be holed.”
Chris protested, “But there’s nothing loose.”
Onslow grinned at him. “Ye’d be surprised what can come adrift in an explosive decompression.”
Meg asked, “What else?”
He hooked a thumb toward her husband. “This be for Chris to be doin’. Lad, whens I says, ‘now,’ ye revolve the ship 90 degrees around her short axis to starboard.”
“That will put us broadside to them and make us a bigger target,” the younger man pointed out.
“Oh, aye, that it t’will. I’d rather they be hittin’ one of the bunkers than the drive unit. Most people aims at the center of mass. This way, the bridge and engineerin’ spaces be out on the far ends of the target.”
He grinned mischievously. “If ye be excusin’ me, I has some engineerin’ to be doin’.” He took a small tool kit from a pocket and popped open an access panel on the arm of supercargo’s seat.
#
Meg wrinkled her nose. She looked over at her husband’s environment-suited form. “Husband, dear? Do you know what’s the very first thing you’re going to do after this is settled?
Chris answered in a hopeful voice, “Lay below to our cabin together?”
“Maybe that’s second.” A quiet chuckle reminded them that Uncle Onslow was also on the net. “No, dear, the very first thing you’re doing is changing out the filter on this suit. The stench in here is worse than a Mongolian slit trench.”
Chris’ voice was innocent, “Uh, dear, how would you know to make that comparison?”
“Just do it, Mister,” she said in her command voice.
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Onslow’s voice cut across, “Chris, stand by.”
“Standing by.”
Meg began to count to herself. She reached 23 when Onslow said, “Now!”
The Tau Ceti Maru spun on her short axis, putting herself broadside to her pursuer. The chief engineer tapped the plate on his seat arm once.
Chris, startled, cried, “We’re beginning to revolve to starboard more.”
Uncle Onslow’s voice was reassuring. “It be okay, lad. Just put us back into position.”
Meg spoke up, “What now?”
“Wait for it, and watch the plot.”
As they watched, a blue glob appeared next to the blue dot at the center of the plotting board representing the tanker. It seemed to slowly move back towards the pirate’s red dot. The red dot moved into the glob and out the other side.
“What’s that?” Meg’s voice was strained.
“Five thousand tons of glass-grade silicon. I purged bunker six. That be why we started to revolve again. Reaction to the sand squirtin’ out the purge valve.” He gave a gusty sigh. “Okay, try to raise the Revenge , if ye please.”
Chris called, “Dog Star Revenge, Dog Star Revenge, do you copy?” His only answer was the whispers of interstellar space. He began again, “Dog Star Revenge, Dog Star—“
“Leave it, lad,” Uncle Onslow interrupted him. “They’ll nay answer.”
Meg asked, “Why?”
“Turn the optical telescope aft.” Onslow’s voice was tired.
Husband and wife gasped. A wreck pursued them. The forward section, probably the bridge, was slagged. There was no sign of either sensor or communication arrays. Fiberglass shreds showed where reaction mass tanks once encircled the hull. No blue-white plume of reaction showed from the drives.
After a moment of stunned silence, Chris asked, “What happened to them?”
Onslow rubbed his face and slumped in the supercargo’s seat. “Are ye familiar with a sandblaster, Lad?”
“Yeah, sure.” Chris looked at the old man curiously.
The chief engineer’s voice was musing as he continued. “Well, if ye was to increase the velocity of the sand hittin’ a piece of something it would stands to reason it’d take off more material, right?”
Chris nodded.
The other looked down at his unconsciously clenched hands. “Think about the effect of a cloud of sand hittin’ at the speed the Revenge was doin’—what, about one-tenth light?” He shook his head and whispered almost to himself, “Nay a pretty picture.”
“Should we attempt rescue?” someone asked in a hushed voice.
There was a long pause, then Onslow answered, “Nay. We’ve not enough reaction mass to catch her and match orbits—beggin’ yer pardon, captain.”
Meg broke the silence. “Where are they headed?”
Chris referred to his navigation array. “Alnitak. In Orion’s belt. They’ll reach there in—“
Uncle Onslow cut him off. “There be nay need, lad.”
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Buried Treasure
by H. A. Titus -
Cara rattled the lid on a metal storage container. "Pieter, this one's stuck!"
She heard his footsteps clanging overhead, then Pieter jumped down into the cargo hold, forgoing the ladder, and hunched to avoid banging his head. He wedged his fingers under the lip of the container and pulled hard. After a few jerks, the lid popped open.
Cara peered inside. The container was a jumble of clothes and cables.
"Why are we cleaning again?" she asked, lifting a stained shirt out of the mess with a pinkie finger.
Pieter shrugged, took the shirt, and tossed it on the ever-growing pile of garbage. "The Anchor is due for a clean. It's not like we'll be going anywhere soon."
Cara nodded. One the sensors were installed, Pieter would be allowed to fly as long as he stayed away from hotspots frequented by smugglers. It was just the installation that was taking so long. She reached into the box, jerked out a tangle of cables, and tossed them to the side. Pieter turned to sorting them as Cara dug into the box. More clothes, more wires, more clothes—
"By all the stars in the sky!" she said, pulling out yet another wad of clothing. "How many clothes do you need in space?"
"Oh, half of those were disguises that I never needed." Pieter grinned sheepishly. "I have a weakness for disguises."
"I guess so." Cara looked into the box to see how much more she had to go, and drew a sharp breath. A book sat at the bottom of the container. A print book. An old print book, by the look of it.
She carefully fit her hands around it and drew it out. The soft suede cover was spiderwebbed with tiny cracks. The book was sturdier than she first thought. The pages, though yellow and thin, were sill attached to the binding.
"What's this?" she asked Pieter.
He glanced at it and shrugged. "An old family book my mom gave me. Said it was the only possession left from our ancestor on the generation ship. I've had it buried in my boxes of stuff for years. Never was one for books."
Hmm. Might be worth a look at. First time I've ever gotten the chance to read a print book. Cara put it to the side and continued sorting through the garbage. She'd read it tonight, if she got the chance.
Cara rattled the lid on a metal storage container. "Pieter, this one's stuck!"
She heard his footsteps clanging overhead, then Pieter jumped down into the cargo hold, forgoing the ladder, and hunched to avoid banging his head. He wedged his fingers under the lip of the container and pulled hard. After a few jerks, the lid popped open.
Cara peered inside. The container was a jumble of clothes and cables.
"Why are we cleaning again?" she asked, lifting a stained shirt out of the mess with a pinkie finger.
Pieter shrugged, took the shirt, and tossed it on the ever-growing pile of garbage. "The Anchor is due for a clean. It's not like we'll be going anywhere soon."
Cara nodded. One the sensors were installed, Pieter would be allowed to fly as long as he stayed away from hotspots frequented by smugglers. It was just the installation that was taking so long. She reached into the box, jerked out a tangle of cables, and tossed them to the side. Pieter turned to sorting them as Cara dug into the box. More clothes, more wires, more clothes—
"By all the stars in the sky!" she said, pulling out yet another wad of clothing. "How many clothes do you need in space?"
"Oh, half of those were disguises that I never needed." Pieter grinned sheepishly. "I have a weakness for disguises."
"I guess so." Cara looked into the box to see how much more she had to go, and drew a sharp breath. A book sat at the bottom of the container. A print book. An old print book, by the look of it.
She carefully fit her hands around it and drew it out. The soft suede cover was spiderwebbed with tiny cracks. The book was sturdier than she first thought. The pages, though yellow and thin, were sill attached to the binding.
"What's this?" she asked Pieter.
He glanced at it and shrugged. "An old family book my mom gave me. Said it was the only possession left from our ancestor on the generation ship. I've had it buried in my boxes of stuff for years. Never was one for books."
Hmm. Might be worth a look at. First time I've ever gotten the chance to read a print book. Cara put it to the side and continued sorting through the garbage. She'd read it tonight, if she got the chance.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
In Plain Sight
by Walt Staples -
A shiver ran down Reichter’s spine. The great ship was too quiet. With his visor open, the investigating peacekeeper not only heard his own breathing but that of his enforcers, Cooper and Takai. He considered telling Cooper to stop the whistling; he’d been driving the theme to “For a Few More Credits” into the deck since they boarded the liner. Before he could form the words, Takai spoke up, “Coop? Will you stop whistling that? Or at least change the tune.” The outburst was uncharacteristic of the blond giant. Reichter suspected the silence was giving him the creeps too.
“Sorry, Yoshi.” He fell silent. It was rare that the small, dark man didn’t argue.
Reichter came to a decision. “Coop, Yoshi, if you want to, go ahead and turn your internal channels to some music, but keep it low. Turn up the gain on your external mikes; that should let you hear any faint sounds over the music.”
Both nodded and made the adjustments. The notes of the first movement of Raif Von’s “In the Fens” quietly purred in his ear as he followed his own order.
He mentally ticked off what they had. One--lights, atmosphere, gravity, but no ship’s A.I. Two--Avenir Control’s last sailing for the liner was fifteen standard years ago. Three--no cargo manifest or passenger list because it was recertified as a private yacht. Four--the owner and a large number of friends had not been heard from in at least twelve standard years. And five—the biggie—no bodies so far.
They stepped out on a balcony over the promenade deck with its huge pool. Takai remarked, “That’s odd.”
Cooper looked at him. “What’s odd?”
The big man gestured at the pool below. “Most people paint their pools some shade of blue, not purple.”
The other enforcer shrugged. “Maybe it went better with his complexion.” He turned to their superior. “What now, sir?”
Reichter glanced around the balcony, then at the deck below. “Coop, you go down and start checking the promenade. Yoshi and I’ll check these couple of staterooms,” he nodded toward the doors lining the balcony, “then we come down and help you.”
“Yes, sir.” He turned to the grand stairway. As usual, Cooper ran his mouth. “Pretty impressive. I wonder how many credits the guy was pulling down and whose grandmother’s secret he was keeping.” Reichter listened with half an ear as he pressed buttons to dilate the doors, occasionally needing to use the pass-pad built into his gloves’ index fingers. “Whu-wee! Stinks down here and I ain’t even at the bottom yet.”
Takai’s voice sounded in Reichter’s earphones, “What’s it smell like, Coop?”
“Like our compartment the morning after you had tacos. Like an egg gone evil. I—“ There followed a rattling crash.
Reichter called out, “Cooper! Cooper! Report!” He grabbed Takai’s tool belt as the enforcer rushed by. “No! Yoshi, stop!” The peacekeeper’s use of his command voice halted Takai. He stood impatiently as his superior hooked a safety line from the peacekeeper’s belt reel to his belt’s carabiner. “Okay, you lead.” Reichter drew his sidearm. “I’ll cover you.”
“Yes, sir.”
They began to descend the stairway. Cooper lay in a heap at the bottom. A red light on the back of his helmet blinked. “Dead light’s on,” Takai observed matter-of-factly. Reichter knew it was taking all of the big man’s willpower to stay professional. He knew from his own experience, the tears would come later.
“Yep.”
Takai coughed about the time the stink hit Reichter’s nose. The peacekeeper grabbed the banister with his free hand and yelled as he hung on, “Yoshi! Up, up! Come back up the stairs!”
The enforcer’s voice was slurred as he spoke between coughs, “It’s okay. The smell’s gone. I…I smell sweet—“
Reichter dropped the side arm and caught hold of the safety line. He pulled mightily and surged up the steps dragging the bigger man. “Get up the stairs, Yoshi! That’s an order!” Takai stumbled along behind. At the top of the stairs, he sat heavily, coughing as tears and mucus ran down his face.
Reichter breathed in and out swiftly, hyperventilating slightly as he flushed his lungs. He leaned over Takai and checked his readouts. “Blood Oxygen,” “Heart Rate,” and “Blood Pressure” were at the lower end of the green, but rising. “Oxygen Intake” went from yellow to green as he asked, “You feeling better, son?”
The younger man wiped at his blond handlebar mustache as he asked, “What happened?”
The peacekeeper’s face was grim. “Something hiding in plain sight and I didn’t think of it.” He put a hand on the enforcer’s shoulder. “Are you okay, now?”
Takai nodded. “I…I think so, sir.”
Reichter unclipped the safety line from his reel from the enforcer’s rig. He then took a line from Takai’s belt reel and hooked it to his own carabiner. “Okay, Yoshi, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to go down and get Coop. When I’ve got him secured to my line, you’ll pull me up while I pull his up. Understand?”
Takai nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The peacekeeper smiled at him. “Good. Okay, now you just sit there and rest until I get him hooked up. Then I’ll give you the high-sign.”
Reichter berated himself as he turned and did what he should have done in the first place—he closed his visor and went on internal atmosphere. He set his sniffer so as to confirm the element he knew he would find below.
#
Takai broke the silence on the cruiser’s bridge as they headed back to Avenir, “Sir, it wasn’t your fault.”
Reichter smiled sourly. “I doubt, Yoshi, the council will agree with that opinion when we get back to the Cop-Shop. But, thank you all the same.”
The enforcer shook his head. “Hydrogen sulfide. Where did it come from, sir?”
“That fancy fish pond on the promenade deck. It was a swimming pool when the liner was in service. Apparently, the new owner decided to turn it into a huge koi pond. After the circulation stopped when the A.I. packed up, things died in it and it turned stagnant. Eventually, anaerobic bacteria had a field day and the hydrogen sulfide was the result. That purple color of the pool was the little critters themselves.”
“So the gas killed the people?”
The peacekeeper tilted his head and squinted an eye as he considered. “No, probably not. Water recycling shut down with the A.I. The only food left I found was dry stores. I suppose they tried drinking from the pool; that probably did a number in. It must have been very bad for the last ones--there’s all that water sitting there in plain sight, but they know it’ll poison them. That’s probably why they were huddled in the promenade staterooms.” He fingered his beard as he gazed into space. “Yep, in plain sight.”
A shiver ran down Reichter’s spine. The great ship was too quiet. With his visor open, the investigating peacekeeper not only heard his own breathing but that of his enforcers, Cooper and Takai. He considered telling Cooper to stop the whistling; he’d been driving the theme to “For a Few More Credits” into the deck since they boarded the liner. Before he could form the words, Takai spoke up, “Coop? Will you stop whistling that? Or at least change the tune.” The outburst was uncharacteristic of the blond giant. Reichter suspected the silence was giving him the creeps too.
“Sorry, Yoshi.” He fell silent. It was rare that the small, dark man didn’t argue.
Reichter came to a decision. “Coop, Yoshi, if you want to, go ahead and turn your internal channels to some music, but keep it low. Turn up the gain on your external mikes; that should let you hear any faint sounds over the music.”
Both nodded and made the adjustments. The notes of the first movement of Raif Von’s “In the Fens” quietly purred in his ear as he followed his own order.
He mentally ticked off what they had. One--lights, atmosphere, gravity, but no ship’s A.I. Two--Avenir Control’s last sailing for the liner was fifteen standard years ago. Three--no cargo manifest or passenger list because it was recertified as a private yacht. Four--the owner and a large number of friends had not been heard from in at least twelve standard years. And five—the biggie—no bodies so far.
They stepped out on a balcony over the promenade deck with its huge pool. Takai remarked, “That’s odd.”
Cooper looked at him. “What’s odd?”
The big man gestured at the pool below. “Most people paint their pools some shade of blue, not purple.”
The other enforcer shrugged. “Maybe it went better with his complexion.” He turned to their superior. “What now, sir?”
Reichter glanced around the balcony, then at the deck below. “Coop, you go down and start checking the promenade. Yoshi and I’ll check these couple of staterooms,” he nodded toward the doors lining the balcony, “then we come down and help you.”
“Yes, sir.” He turned to the grand stairway. As usual, Cooper ran his mouth. “Pretty impressive. I wonder how many credits the guy was pulling down and whose grandmother’s secret he was keeping.” Reichter listened with half an ear as he pressed buttons to dilate the doors, occasionally needing to use the pass-pad built into his gloves’ index fingers. “Whu-wee! Stinks down here and I ain’t even at the bottom yet.”
Takai’s voice sounded in Reichter’s earphones, “What’s it smell like, Coop?”
“Like our compartment the morning after you had tacos. Like an egg gone evil. I—“ There followed a rattling crash.
Reichter called out, “Cooper! Cooper! Report!” He grabbed Takai’s tool belt as the enforcer rushed by. “No! Yoshi, stop!” The peacekeeper’s use of his command voice halted Takai. He stood impatiently as his superior hooked a safety line from the peacekeeper’s belt reel to his belt’s carabiner. “Okay, you lead.” Reichter drew his sidearm. “I’ll cover you.”
“Yes, sir.”
They began to descend the stairway. Cooper lay in a heap at the bottom. A red light on the back of his helmet blinked. “Dead light’s on,” Takai observed matter-of-factly. Reichter knew it was taking all of the big man’s willpower to stay professional. He knew from his own experience, the tears would come later.
“Yep.”
Takai coughed about the time the stink hit Reichter’s nose. The peacekeeper grabbed the banister with his free hand and yelled as he hung on, “Yoshi! Up, up! Come back up the stairs!”
The enforcer’s voice was slurred as he spoke between coughs, “It’s okay. The smell’s gone. I…I smell sweet—“
Reichter dropped the side arm and caught hold of the safety line. He pulled mightily and surged up the steps dragging the bigger man. “Get up the stairs, Yoshi! That’s an order!” Takai stumbled along behind. At the top of the stairs, he sat heavily, coughing as tears and mucus ran down his face.
Reichter breathed in and out swiftly, hyperventilating slightly as he flushed his lungs. He leaned over Takai and checked his readouts. “Blood Oxygen,” “Heart Rate,” and “Blood Pressure” were at the lower end of the green, but rising. “Oxygen Intake” went from yellow to green as he asked, “You feeling better, son?”
The younger man wiped at his blond handlebar mustache as he asked, “What happened?”
The peacekeeper’s face was grim. “Something hiding in plain sight and I didn’t think of it.” He put a hand on the enforcer’s shoulder. “Are you okay, now?”
Takai nodded. “I…I think so, sir.”
Reichter unclipped the safety line from his reel from the enforcer’s rig. He then took a line from Takai’s belt reel and hooked it to his own carabiner. “Okay, Yoshi, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to go down and get Coop. When I’ve got him secured to my line, you’ll pull me up while I pull his up. Understand?”
Takai nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The peacekeeper smiled at him. “Good. Okay, now you just sit there and rest until I get him hooked up. Then I’ll give you the high-sign.”
Reichter berated himself as he turned and did what he should have done in the first place—he closed his visor and went on internal atmosphere. He set his sniffer so as to confirm the element he knew he would find below.
#
Takai broke the silence on the cruiser’s bridge as they headed back to Avenir, “Sir, it wasn’t your fault.”
Reichter smiled sourly. “I doubt, Yoshi, the council will agree with that opinion when we get back to the Cop-Shop. But, thank you all the same.”
The enforcer shook his head. “Hydrogen sulfide. Where did it come from, sir?”
“That fancy fish pond on the promenade deck. It was a swimming pool when the liner was in service. Apparently, the new owner decided to turn it into a huge koi pond. After the circulation stopped when the A.I. packed up, things died in it and it turned stagnant. Eventually, anaerobic bacteria had a field day and the hydrogen sulfide was the result. That purple color of the pool was the little critters themselves.”
“So the gas killed the people?”
The peacekeeper tilted his head and squinted an eye as he considered. “No, probably not. Water recycling shut down with the A.I. The only food left I found was dry stores. I suppose they tried drinking from the pool; that probably did a number in. It must have been very bad for the last ones--there’s all that water sitting there in plain sight, but they know it’ll poison them. That’s probably why they were huddled in the promenade staterooms.” He fingered his beard as he gazed into space. “Yep, in plain sight.”
Monday, April 25, 2011
Cowboy
by Walt Staples -
The air inside his environment suit stank of a combination of sweat, halitosis, and machine lubricant seasoned with a hint of ozone and urine. In short, it smelled like everyone else’s suit. The fact that he noticed reminded Trail Boss to change out the scrubber cartridge when they made Avenir. After that, some quality time with his rack.
“Krueger is out of position, “ a voice in his earphones snapped him out of his reverie, the slurring of the vowel combination a dead giveaway to its electronic nature.
“Thanks, Kitty.” He toggled his com. “Krueger, get your butt back in position!”
A whisky growl replied, “Sorry, Trail Boss, A.I. slip.”
Trail Boss made a face. “And you were wool-gathering.”
A laugh. “Yep, ‘fraid so. Won’t happen again…”
“‘Til next time,” every one of the drovers chorused together.
Trail Boss shook his head with a smile as he scanned the plotting board. His drovers had the herd, 231 massive ore bodies, clustered together and moving at the same velocity and on the same vector, or close enough to make no difference. He spoke to his A.I., “Kitty, recheck gravity well alignment.” Though the herd was held in a net of tractor beams from his drovers’ cutting horses, Eclectia’s muddle of gravitational fields—five major ones—generated by the pair of suns and the three nearest planetary bodies could play hob with the unwary. One miscue and—stampede! Huge chunks of planet flying in all directions as he and his trail crew tried to dodge. His father, an aunt, and two cousins had met their fate that way.
Instead of acknowledging the order, the A.I. reported, “Hitchens has broken formation.”
Trail Boss’ eyes flew to the plotting board as the blue dot that was Hitchens’ cutting horse suddenly accelerated from its station as forward starboard flanker. “Hitchens! What the—”
Her panicked voice cut over his, “Trail Boss! Trail Boss! Drive malfunction! Hard wire out!”
As she drew a breath, he spoke in a quiet, assured voice, “Roger, Sana. Status of reaction mass?”
“I can’t shut it off! I can’t—”
“Status reaction mass? Report,” he chopped her off in his command voice.
“I…Okay. Okay, “ her voice steadied. “Three-six tons and dropping.”
“Roger. Hold on,” he said calmly. He felt the sweat soaking his under suit and heard the suit’s scrubber kick up a notch to handle the increased moisture. He did a quick calculation in his head; it was rough but faster than tasking the A.I. “Sana, you should have shut off inside four-four-zero seconds. Your present delta-vee is one-niner-six. Vector is X-three-point-zero, Y-seven-point-four, Z-two-point-one. What is your Oh-two?”
Her voice was matter of fact, she’d run the numbers also. “Doesn’t really matter, does it, Mike?”
He sighed. No point in trying to kid her. “No, guess not, Curly-Top.”
“I always hated this old Nebula-six. Was saving up for a newer cutting horse. Something younger than my grandma.” She paused. “You’ll see she gets the money?”
A tear trickled down his cheek. “Yeah, no sweat. I’ll make sure.”
“We had some times, didn’t we?”
“Yep.” He swallowed. “Some times.”
“Mike?”
“Yeah, Curly-Top?”
“Will you say it with me? You know the one.”
They began together, Trail Boss tripping over the words slightly—his folks said it a little differently. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”
The air inside his environment suit stank of a combination of sweat, halitosis, and machine lubricant seasoned with a hint of ozone and urine. In short, it smelled like everyone else’s suit. The fact that he noticed reminded Trail Boss to change out the scrubber cartridge when they made Avenir. After that, some quality time with his rack.
“Krueger is out of position, “ a voice in his earphones snapped him out of his reverie, the slurring of the vowel combination a dead giveaway to its electronic nature.
“Thanks, Kitty.” He toggled his com. “Krueger, get your butt back in position!”
A whisky growl replied, “Sorry, Trail Boss, A.I. slip.”
Trail Boss made a face. “And you were wool-gathering.”
A laugh. “Yep, ‘fraid so. Won’t happen again…”
“‘Til next time,” every one of the drovers chorused together.
Trail Boss shook his head with a smile as he scanned the plotting board. His drovers had the herd, 231 massive ore bodies, clustered together and moving at the same velocity and on the same vector, or close enough to make no difference. He spoke to his A.I., “Kitty, recheck gravity well alignment.” Though the herd was held in a net of tractor beams from his drovers’ cutting horses, Eclectia’s muddle of gravitational fields—five major ones—generated by the pair of suns and the three nearest planetary bodies could play hob with the unwary. One miscue and—stampede! Huge chunks of planet flying in all directions as he and his trail crew tried to dodge. His father, an aunt, and two cousins had met their fate that way.
Instead of acknowledging the order, the A.I. reported, “Hitchens has broken formation.”
Trail Boss’ eyes flew to the plotting board as the blue dot that was Hitchens’ cutting horse suddenly accelerated from its station as forward starboard flanker. “Hitchens! What the—”
Her panicked voice cut over his, “Trail Boss! Trail Boss! Drive malfunction! Hard wire out!”
As she drew a breath, he spoke in a quiet, assured voice, “Roger, Sana. Status of reaction mass?”
“I can’t shut it off! I can’t—”
“Status reaction mass? Report,” he chopped her off in his command voice.
“I…Okay. Okay, “ her voice steadied. “Three-six tons and dropping.”
“Roger. Hold on,” he said calmly. He felt the sweat soaking his under suit and heard the suit’s scrubber kick up a notch to handle the increased moisture. He did a quick calculation in his head; it was rough but faster than tasking the A.I. “Sana, you should have shut off inside four-four-zero seconds. Your present delta-vee is one-niner-six. Vector is X-three-point-zero, Y-seven-point-four, Z-two-point-one. What is your Oh-two?”
Her voice was matter of fact, she’d run the numbers also. “Doesn’t really matter, does it, Mike?”
He sighed. No point in trying to kid her. “No, guess not, Curly-Top.”
“I always hated this old Nebula-six. Was saving up for a newer cutting horse. Something younger than my grandma.” She paused. “You’ll see she gets the money?”
A tear trickled down his cheek. “Yeah, no sweat. I’ll make sure.”
“We had some times, didn’t we?”
“Yep.” He swallowed. “Some times.”
“Mike?”
“Yeah, Curly-Top?”
“Will you say it with me? You know the one.”
They began together, Trail Boss tripping over the words slightly—his folks said it a little differently. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”
Monday, April 11, 2011
The Final Approaching
by J. L. Rowan -
As the waves swallowed the pod, Elmerin felt himself a boy of ten Foundings again. The sense of excitement and adventure that had faded with age returned with a force that startled him and left him slightly breathless. He pressed his hands to the glass of the viewport, his eyes narrowed. Perhaps now, after all this time…surely now…But as the Whale grew dim and the waters darkened, the aches and pains of elder years returned, and childish fancy bowed its head to hard-earned experience. He lowered his eyes and shuffled amongst the other passengers to his assigned seat to await the pod’s arrival at Zirconia.
He studied the water outside the porthole next to him. As black as space, and as deadly. He quashed the thought with a stab of guilt. The seas held something space never would—the sentient creatures he had spent his life trying to reach. Trying, and failing.
And now, there would be no more trying. He’d told his fellow wizards that he was retiring to Zirconia, but that wasn’t quite true.
Death had stalked him for months, and his failure at the last Approaching had made it clear that he would never realize his dream. No more Approachings awaited him—none but the Final Approaching, the journey all wizards must take.
So many years, and nothing to show for them. With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes. It was a foolish thought, coming here to die. If he hadn’t achieved contact in the prime of his—
A vision blossomed behind his eyelids, a vision of colors and sensations, of joy and welcoming. He blinked, and saw outside the porthole a school of blue and golden fish that fairly glowed. They moved as one, and when his eyes met theirs, he was enveloped by the greatest peace he had ever known. They hovered beside him, shimmering in the darkness.
Come. The intense feeling washed over him, stronger than mere words. Come with us.
His throat closed up, and tears spilled onto his cheeks. Was it possible? After all this time? Their gaze seemed to confirm his deepest dream. A smile spread across his face, and he loosed a soft breath, releasing with it the heartache of years now distant. “I am ready when you are.”
As the waves swallowed the pod, Elmerin felt himself a boy of ten Foundings again. The sense of excitement and adventure that had faded with age returned with a force that startled him and left him slightly breathless. He pressed his hands to the glass of the viewport, his eyes narrowed. Perhaps now, after all this time…surely now…But as the Whale grew dim and the waters darkened, the aches and pains of elder years returned, and childish fancy bowed its head to hard-earned experience. He lowered his eyes and shuffled amongst the other passengers to his assigned seat to await the pod’s arrival at Zirconia.
He studied the water outside the porthole next to him. As black as space, and as deadly. He quashed the thought with a stab of guilt. The seas held something space never would—the sentient creatures he had spent his life trying to reach. Trying, and failing.
And now, there would be no more trying. He’d told his fellow wizards that he was retiring to Zirconia, but that wasn’t quite true.
Death had stalked him for months, and his failure at the last Approaching had made it clear that he would never realize his dream. No more Approachings awaited him—none but the Final Approaching, the journey all wizards must take.
So many years, and nothing to show for them. With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes. It was a foolish thought, coming here to die. If he hadn’t achieved contact in the prime of his—
A vision blossomed behind his eyelids, a vision of colors and sensations, of joy and welcoming. He blinked, and saw outside the porthole a school of blue and golden fish that fairly glowed. They moved as one, and when his eyes met theirs, he was enveloped by the greatest peace he had ever known. They hovered beside him, shimmering in the darkness.
Come. The intense feeling washed over him, stronger than mere words. Come with us.
His throat closed up, and tears spilled onto his cheeks. Was it possible? After all this time? Their gaze seemed to confirm his deepest dream. A smile spread across his face, and he loosed a soft breath, releasing with it the heartache of years now distant. “I am ready when you are.”
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Arrest
by H. A. Titus -
Cara sat on a catwalk, the shadows obscuring her as she watched the smuggler unloading his ship. She’d noticed him last night, handing out bread to a few orphans in the marketplace. He looked nice, so she’d followed him so she could get a look at his ship. She wouldn’t have dared with some of the smugglers, but this man she trusted as much as she could trust anyone.
His ship was a newer model, sleek and pristine. If she ever got her hands on a ship half as good as this one, she’d be happy.
It wasn’t quite fair, she told herself. She liked flying. When she was five Foundings old, she’d snuck on board a trade ship for a round trip to Zirconia and back. But, being an orphan, she’d never be accepted in a flight school, even if she had enough money to pay for the classes.
Maybe this guy would give her lessons. He’d handed out food, hadn’t he? That was more than any of the other smugglers, or even the honest merchants, would do. It was strange that he would care about the orphans, yet disregard the Peace Council’s laws.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Cara stood up and leaned over the railing. Three Enforcers strode down the row of docking bays toward the ship. She looked back at the stack of boxes. The smuggler had gone inside.
She bit her lip. Did she have time to warn the smuggler?
The smuggler ducked out of his ship just as the Enforcers reached his stack of cargo. They stood facing each other for a moment. Cara could see the smuggler’s face, his blue eyes calm, his muscles relaxed. Didn’t he understand what the Peacekeepers were there for?
One of the Enforcers finally cleared his throat and spoke. “Pieter Kinsrol, you’re under arrest.”
Pieter. So that was his name. Cara expected him to make a run for it, or dart back inside his ship and try to escape. Instead, he nodded and spun around to receive his handcuffs.
Cara gently slapped herself. Had she just seen what she thought she’d seen? Who in their right mind would just let himself be arrested?
As the Enforcers led Pieter away, Cara jogged along the catwalk to keep up. There had to be a way to help him. And by the Whale, she was going to find that way.
Cara sat on a catwalk, the shadows obscuring her as she watched the smuggler unloading his ship. She’d noticed him last night, handing out bread to a few orphans in the marketplace. He looked nice, so she’d followed him so she could get a look at his ship. She wouldn’t have dared with some of the smugglers, but this man she trusted as much as she could trust anyone.
His ship was a newer model, sleek and pristine. If she ever got her hands on a ship half as good as this one, she’d be happy.
It wasn’t quite fair, she told herself. She liked flying. When she was five Foundings old, she’d snuck on board a trade ship for a round trip to Zirconia and back. But, being an orphan, she’d never be accepted in a flight school, even if she had enough money to pay for the classes.
Maybe this guy would give her lessons. He’d handed out food, hadn’t he? That was more than any of the other smugglers, or even the honest merchants, would do. It was strange that he would care about the orphans, yet disregard the Peace Council’s laws.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Cara stood up and leaned over the railing. Three Enforcers strode down the row of docking bays toward the ship. She looked back at the stack of boxes. The smuggler had gone inside.
She bit her lip. Did she have time to warn the smuggler?
The smuggler ducked out of his ship just as the Enforcers reached his stack of cargo. They stood facing each other for a moment. Cara could see the smuggler’s face, his blue eyes calm, his muscles relaxed. Didn’t he understand what the Peacekeepers were there for?
One of the Enforcers finally cleared his throat and spoke. “Pieter Kinsrol, you’re under arrest.”
Pieter. So that was his name. Cara expected him to make a run for it, or dart back inside his ship and try to escape. Instead, he nodded and spun around to receive his handcuffs.
Cara gently slapped herself. Had she just seen what she thought she’d seen? Who in their right mind would just let himself be arrested?
As the Enforcers led Pieter away, Cara jogged along the catwalk to keep up. There had to be a way to help him. And by the Whale, she was going to find that way.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Hazard to Navigation
by Walt Staples -
“Captain to the bridge! Captain to the bridge!” Chris Nakamura tried to ignore the canned announcement as he watched the target slowly cross the plotting board. He heard the hatch dilate and sensed Meg, his wife and captain, dropping into her command seat.
“What have we got, Chris?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Not sure, hon. It’s on a closing course and masses about 80 kilos.”
She cupped her chin in a Meg pose of furious thought as she read the target’s changing coordinates. “What’s it squawk?”
He shook his head. “No reaction to interrogation. It must be natural.”
“Do we need to shift orbit?” There were few things merchant captains hated more than expending reaction mass to change from their optimum economy orbit. One would think the credits came out of their personal accounts. In the case of the family-owned tanker Tau Ceti Maru, this was literally true.
Chris tapped on the data plate set into his seat’s arm and answered, “George says no, dear.”
The redhead smiled sweetly at him. “Be a pussy cat and run the numbers anyway; you know how much I trust that computer.”
He mock-scowled at her. “You, woman, are either a Luddite or Captain Bligh.”
A chuckle behind them was followed by a gravel voice, “I’d say a mixture of the two; though, considering the captain’s open boat voyage, there are worse things a spacer could be called.” Uncle Onslow strolled forward, scratching his hairy belly. It was agreed among spacers in Avenir’s system that Onslow was someone’s uncle—it was just that no one admitted kinship. It was also agreed that he was a very fine, if unorthodox, ship’s engineer. The fact that he passed up a number of sweeter offers to sign on the tanker was put down to his natural contrariness.
Meg eyed his wet hair and beard. “I take it we disturbed you at a bad time?”
The fat man grinned down at her. “Three days sweating over that devil-spawned auxiliary burner and just as I gets into the mister, I hears, ‘Captain to the bridge”—oh, aye, lass, ye might, maybe, say that.” He hitched the towel a bit more securely around his waist. “But more yer’s problem; I’m used to the stink.”
Chris asked, “Any ideas, Unc?”
“I don’t suppose ye’ve looked at it?”
Chris frowned, “Look?”
Again the chuckle. “Aye. Look, see, open a window and stick yer head out and feel the vacuum blowing through yer hair, lad. Otherwise that over-expensive optical telescope is so much ballast.”
Chris colored. He hated it when he got a case of the “dumbs.” He powered up the instrument. Twenty seconds later a red and blue strobe appeared against the star field.
Meg asked, “How close will it pass?”
“Actually, considering our velocity, it’s more like how close we’ll pass.”
Meg reached over and gently bapped Chris on the back of the head. “Whichever, husband.”
“George and I both say about point-two-eight klicks. It’s in our shadow.”
Onslow snorted. “Close enough to wave to him as he goes by; though…I doubts he’ll be in a mood to wave back.”
Chris looked around at him. “Who?”
The old man grinned and tousled the younger man’s blond hair. “As a regimental color sergeant I had the honor of decking and drinking with often said, ‘Wait for it, lad.’”
Minutes later, the target moved into the sunlight. Husband and wife both gasped as the human figure appeared. Oddly, though it sported the red and blue strobe, it didn’t display the bulk one would expect with an environment suit.
Onslow rumbled, “Kinder, meet Beach Ranks. Say hello, Beach.’”
Chris and Meg looked at each other. Meg broke the silence, “Ranks? You mean the Deck 14 cannibal?”
The big man’s voice was grim, “That be him, all right. I strapped the reaction unit and strobe on his back me self.”
Cris asked in a hushed tone, “And then you spaced him?”
Uncle Onslow slowly shook his head. “Nay, not me. The peacekeeper in charge of the investigation. It be hair-splitting I know, but…there ye be.”
Meg looked back at the screen. “Isn’t there supposed to be a transponder?”
The chief engineer nodded. “Aye, supposed to be. Must be on the fritz. Ye’ll want to report it as a hazard to navigation.”
Chris quietly asked, “When was he—was it done?”
Onslow thought for a moment, then answered, “Thirty-three standard years ago he left planetary orbit. Another half century, he’ll reach the sun.”
Meg shivered. “A long flight.”
The other scratched his belly once more. “Aye. But then, he’s got all the time in the cosmos.”
“Captain to the bridge! Captain to the bridge!” Chris Nakamura tried to ignore the canned announcement as he watched the target slowly cross the plotting board. He heard the hatch dilate and sensed Meg, his wife and captain, dropping into her command seat.
“What have we got, Chris?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Not sure, hon. It’s on a closing course and masses about 80 kilos.”
She cupped her chin in a Meg pose of furious thought as she read the target’s changing coordinates. “What’s it squawk?”
He shook his head. “No reaction to interrogation. It must be natural.”
“Do we need to shift orbit?” There were few things merchant captains hated more than expending reaction mass to change from their optimum economy orbit. One would think the credits came out of their personal accounts. In the case of the family-owned tanker Tau Ceti Maru, this was literally true.
Chris tapped on the data plate set into his seat’s arm and answered, “George says no, dear.”
The redhead smiled sweetly at him. “Be a pussy cat and run the numbers anyway; you know how much I trust that computer.”
He mock-scowled at her. “You, woman, are either a Luddite or Captain Bligh.”
A chuckle behind them was followed by a gravel voice, “I’d say a mixture of the two; though, considering the captain’s open boat voyage, there are worse things a spacer could be called.” Uncle Onslow strolled forward, scratching his hairy belly. It was agreed among spacers in Avenir’s system that Onslow was someone’s uncle—it was just that no one admitted kinship. It was also agreed that he was a very fine, if unorthodox, ship’s engineer. The fact that he passed up a number of sweeter offers to sign on the tanker was put down to his natural contrariness.
Meg eyed his wet hair and beard. “I take it we disturbed you at a bad time?”
The fat man grinned down at her. “Three days sweating over that devil-spawned auxiliary burner and just as I gets into the mister, I hears, ‘Captain to the bridge”—oh, aye, lass, ye might, maybe, say that.” He hitched the towel a bit more securely around his waist. “But more yer’s problem; I’m used to the stink.”
Chris asked, “Any ideas, Unc?”
“I don’t suppose ye’ve looked at it?”
Chris frowned, “Look?”
Again the chuckle. “Aye. Look, see, open a window and stick yer head out and feel the vacuum blowing through yer hair, lad. Otherwise that over-expensive optical telescope is so much ballast.”
Chris colored. He hated it when he got a case of the “dumbs.” He powered up the instrument. Twenty seconds later a red and blue strobe appeared against the star field.
Meg asked, “How close will it pass?”
“Actually, considering our velocity, it’s more like how close we’ll pass.”
Meg reached over and gently bapped Chris on the back of the head. “Whichever, husband.”
“George and I both say about point-two-eight klicks. It’s in our shadow.”
Onslow snorted. “Close enough to wave to him as he goes by; though…I doubts he’ll be in a mood to wave back.”
Chris looked around at him. “Who?”
The old man grinned and tousled the younger man’s blond hair. “As a regimental color sergeant I had the honor of decking and drinking with often said, ‘Wait for it, lad.’”
Minutes later, the target moved into the sunlight. Husband and wife both gasped as the human figure appeared. Oddly, though it sported the red and blue strobe, it didn’t display the bulk one would expect with an environment suit.
Onslow rumbled, “Kinder, meet Beach Ranks. Say hello, Beach.’”
Chris and Meg looked at each other. Meg broke the silence, “Ranks? You mean the Deck 14 cannibal?”
The big man’s voice was grim, “That be him, all right. I strapped the reaction unit and strobe on his back me self.”
Cris asked in a hushed tone, “And then you spaced him?”
Uncle Onslow slowly shook his head. “Nay, not me. The peacekeeper in charge of the investigation. It be hair-splitting I know, but…there ye be.”
Meg looked back at the screen. “Isn’t there supposed to be a transponder?”
The chief engineer nodded. “Aye, supposed to be. Must be on the fritz. Ye’ll want to report it as a hazard to navigation.”
Chris quietly asked, “When was he—was it done?”
Onslow thought for a moment, then answered, “Thirty-three standard years ago he left planetary orbit. Another half century, he’ll reach the sun.”
Meg shivered. “A long flight.”
The other scratched his belly once more. “Aye. But then, he’s got all the time in the cosmos.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)