The Dreaming Oceans of San Miguel

by James Vincett

  “You were out for eight hours,” he said and smiled. “Spent too much time on the vid earlier?”

  She nodded.

  “Get your bag and rifle. We walk from here.”

  She complied, and they set out into the grasslands. “You'll hear the rindies before you see them,” her father said. “Stay sharp.” Her father had once told her that twenty years ago, the first colonists to settle the more temperate areas of the planet had thought the rindycats harmless, and several people took on some as pets. Much to their dismay, the colonists soon found out about the high fecundity of the species. Once the population reached a critical mass, the creatures turned hostile. Many lives were lost and years were spent clearing the pests. Any found in the settled areas were to be shot on sight; a mated pair could flood a region with hundreds of progeny in a matter of months. In the wilderness areas, even more powerful predators kept the rindycats in check: the lizard-like greentom and the vicious ja-ja loper.

  As they walked through the meter high grass, her father frequently stooped to look at one plant or another. She soon grew bored and tired, but continued to walk, her rifle and bag slung over her shoulder. After an hour they spotted a mound of rocks in the distance.

  “There,” her father said. The rounded rocks were clumped together and looked rust red in color. Some stood four or five meters above the surrounding grassland, but most were smaller. They walked the short distance and climbed up. From here they could see for kilometers. “Stand here and keep an eye out. I won't go far.”

  Caroline held her rifle ready as her father stooped and searched the cracks and gullies between the rocks.

  “Ah. Here we go.” He reached into a crevice and pulled a clump of stems with fine, yellow-white flowers. “Paydirt.” He put the flowers in a sample bag and kept looking.

  As time went on, Caroline grew distracted, looking for shapes in the puffy white clouds.

  “Ouch! God-damn it!”

  Caroline turned to see her father stand up, his face twisted in a grimace. He held his right wrist with his left hand. “Get the first aid kit. In my bag. Hurry.”

  Caroline set down her rifle and and ran to where her father's bag lay on the ground. She retrieved the kit and then turned to see her father sit on a rock. He moaned.

  “Something bit me,” he hissed. “Open the kit. There's a universal poison antidote in there.”

  She rifled through the kit and found the hypo. She stood at her father's side. “My neck! Stick my neck!” His face had turned ashen and his body shook. Her hands shaking, she pressed the hypo against his neck.

  That's when she heard it. “Rrrrrrrrrinnnnnnnnndi! Nirrrrrrinnnnnnnndi!”

  “Get your rifle!” her father gasped. He looked at her with wide eyes, his body shivering. “Hurry!”

  Caroline almost tripped running to grab her rifle.

  “There,” her father pointed. “About fifty meters out.”

  She scanned the grassland. “I can't see it!” There. Some movement. She lifted the rifle and looked through the scope. Warily, the creature stalked through the waving grass. The stripes on its lithe body rendered it almost invisible in the vegetation. It was big, over a meter at the shoulder and haunches, the long back bowed downward and swayed as the creature walked.

  “I see it!”

  “Get a good platform!” he gasped.

  Caroline lay prone, brought the rifle to bear, and looked through the scope. She spread out her legs and placed the inside arches of her feet flat on the rock. The rough surface chafed her elbows.

  The rindycat suddenly stopped; its stripes rendered it invisible in the grass. After a moment it stood on its hind legs. She saw its wide head and massive ears. It sniffed the air through two slits in the middle of its face.

  “Rrrrrrrrrinnnnnnnnndi!”

  She flipped the safety and aimed for the head. She exhaled a long breath and pulled the trigger.

  The magnets engaged, flinging the metal projectile down the long barrel. Just as the bullet left the muzzle, it broke the sound barrier.

  Ka-chinkCRACK!

  The creature’s head exploded in a shower of red gore. “I got it!” she cried. She turned and looked at her father. “I got-”

  Charles William Talbot lay on his back, completely still. She stood and rushed to his side. His eyes were slits and his breathing was shallow. His right hand was a balloon. “Remember,” he rasped in a hoarse whisper, “where's there's one, there's more.”

  “Rrrrrrrrrinnnnnnnnndi! Nrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrinnnnnnnnndi!” The calls rose above the grassland. They seemed to come from all around. The fear pierced her heart and she felt like she was going to throw up. She sat cross-legged beside her father and scanned the area.

  There! She brought the rifle up and looked through the scope. She saw another rindycat moving stealthy through the grass toward the rocks. She exhaled and pulled the trigger.

  Ka-chinkCRACK! She missed.

  Take your time.

  She looked through the scope and exhaled.

  Ka-chinkCRACK!

  The cat dropped into the grass, its chest covered in blood.

  “Rrrrrrrrrinnnnnnnnndi!”

  She twisted around and spotted another one. Ka-chinkCRACK!

  Then another. Ka-chinkCRACK!

  The calls rose up as even more appeared. She wiped the tears from her eyes as she took shot after shot. Her arms felt on fire. Most of her shots were hits, but even more of the creatures approached the rocks. There must have been more than a dozen.

  Click!

  The magazine is empty!

  She rolled over and picked up her father's longer, heavier rifle. She pulled back the charging lever, sat on the rock cross-legged, and took aim again. No matter how many she dropped, they still kept coming. Several stood at the base of the rocks and looked up at her, their ears erect.

  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrat!

  She looked up and saw a skimmer, the long oval platform banking overhead. Figures on the vehicle shot at the rindycats, dropping several in seconds. With one final round of cries the rest fled into the grass.

  The skimmer touched down gently near the rocks. Three men and three women leapt off the vehicle and scrambled up to where Caroline stood holding the rifle. She sobbed, the tears covering her face. She pointed. “My father!”

  They crowded around him, and one began pumping his chest. “What happened?”

  “He got bit!”

  One of them returned to the skimmer to get a first aid kit, while the others took turns pumping his chest and giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. One of the people, a man with a beard and dark brown eyes, stood and surveyed the situation. He pointed at the rindycat carcasses. “Did you do this?”

  “I'm-I'm sorry!” She couldn't hold it in any more; she dropped the rifle and started to bawl.

  The man knelt and hugged her. “That's alright, child. That's alright.” He grasped her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “What you did here was amazing. What's your name?”

  She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Caroline. Caroline Talbot.” She looked at the badge on his chest: Imperial Exploration Service.

  A woman stood and walked towards them. “He's gone.”

  Chapter 13: To Be Left Behind

  The HSS Popovich was a bucket, a forty year old patched-up tin can twenty meters long, with five crew and a year's worth of supplies stuffed into it. The hyperdrive and reactionless drive, along with the reactor, took up almost half the space. Sleeping quarters were coffins; the command deck was three stations crammed into the forward compartment; the lab was the size of Kessler's first apartment back on Portia Station. The crew, consisting of a commanding officer, an engineer, and three scientific staff, had long become accustomed to each other's body odor.

  My first command.

  Duty on an exploration scout was the least glamorous in the service. Some people spent their entire careers on these vessels, either by preference or circumstance. Kessler hated it; he was meant for bigger an
d better things. Crews spent months, even years, performing stellar cartography and astronomy, mapping the locations of navigational hazards like asteroids and comets, collecting data on planetary nebulae, and other minor but necessary surveys to ensure the smooth functioning of interstellar travel.

  Plus anything else the brass wanted to send their way.

  “There she is,” Kessler said. “Picking up the transponder transmission. Yep. Quasi-particle Beam Dictor Array G-825610-S. I'm decelerating and matching its course and speed.”

  “Have you ever seen one of these relay stations before?” The Popovich's engineer, Lieutenant Artur Vilcins, stood at the console to Kessler's right.

  “Nope.”

  “It uses a radioisotope energy core for power. Ancient technology.”

  “Well, I'm not getting much of a power reading. Orders say the thing is out of alignment and we've got to set it straight.”

  “So, why are we doing this?”

  “Because the Exploration Service is the bitch of the entire Imperial bureaucracy, Arty. Any bullshit maintenance TradeCom or the Navy doesn't want to do they pass to us. For the amount of money, private contractors wouldn't touch this job with a ten light year pole.”

  A tone sounded and the HUD flashed. Data streamed onto the forward viewport. “It's sensors have picked us up.” Kessler tapped a few keys. “It's sending a schematic and status report.” To Kessler, the array looked like a fine mesh antenna thirty kilometers in diameter, a giant but delicate origami snowflake.

  “Power is down to sixty-two percent and falling,” Vilcins said. “Main computer and relay systems are still up, but the antenna is out of alignment by point nine two degrees. The array's security systems are offline; no internal or external sensor feeds available.”

  “Are the security systems damaged?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Point nine two degrees isn't much.”

  “This array has to target two more almost ten light years away. It's enough to degrade the relay signal.” He tapped a few keys. “See? The quasi-particle signal is degraded by twelve percent already.”

  “Why didn't the array realign itself?”

  Vilcins tapped a few keys and a tone sounded. “Power levels are too low; the computer can't activate the array's attitude thrusters.”

  “Could all this be the result of an energy core malfunction?”

  “Unlikely. These things can run for decades without maintenance.” Arty pointed at the HUD. “The status report says last service was sixteen months ago. I'm thinking micrometeorites.”

  “This far out? No way.”

  The Popovich made its final approach; it flew between the large reception and transmission panels, each two hundred meters wide and attached to the branching arms radiating out from the center control sphere. The control sphere was a hundred meters in diameter and encased in a scaffolding of girders and cables. A single docking point and maintenance hatch provided access.

  “Does the docking collar look damaged to you?” Arty asked.

  “Yeah, like something crushed it.”

  “Could the last maintenance crew have done it?”

  “If so, it's damn sloppy. We need to go EVA anyway, since the control center is in vacuum. God, I hate this handyman shit; we're already late for our next survey. Let's wake up the others and get this done.”

  Doluda was the first to stumble into the mess, his dark hair and beard messy. Nguyen followed, his bald head gleaming even in the low light.

  “Where's Acosta?” Kessler asked “Hungover from his hooch again?”

  “I'm here.” Acosta shuffled out of the narrow corridor leading to crew quarters; his bleary eyes were barely open.

  Kessler summarized the situation. “Arty and Nguyen will check out the energy core. Doluda and I will see if we can re-establish the remote computer connection and then realign this thing.”

  “And me?” Acosta asked.

  “Stay on board and monitor. You can handle that, can't you?”

  They all donned EVA suits. “Cycling air,” Kessler said, and the interior atmosphere of the Popovich disappeared. Using their maneuvering jets, they crossed the short distance to the maintenance hatch. Walkways extended four directions from the hatch and curved around the sphere.

  “The energy core is near the outside of the sphere, in this direction. We'll keep in touch.” Vilcins and Nguyen activated their magnetic boots and tramped down the outside walkway.

  “The hatch is damaged,” Doluda said. “Look.”

  Kessler saw the sliding hatch was open a few centimeters. He tried to access the controls with his pockcomp, but couldn't. “God-damn it.” He pried open the adjacent maintenance cover with a screwdriver and tried to turn the manual control. He activated his magnetic boots to get a good footing, and with a grunt he turned the control and the hatch opened. The interior of the sphere was dark except for dim lights emanating from the wall panels; they both turned on their helmet lights.

  Kessler tapped at the panel on his wrist. “Well, according to the schematic this passage leads right to the main computer.” He led the way, floating past numerous access and control panels. The sliding hatch at the end of the corridor was partially open.

  “Okay, this is getting weird,” Kessler said. “Someone or something other than the maintenance crew was in here.”

  “Data pirates?” Doluda asked.

  “Probably.” Kessler planted his feet on the wall and with a grunt pushed the hatch open. Soft lights from the array's computer controls and monitors filled the compartment. Kessler shone his helmet and wristlights across the monitors, and then knelt to look below one of the consoles. “Yep. Look at this little item.”

  A reddish green box was attached to the computer below the console. The device had a single display showing some weird icons or characters. “I haven't seen anything like this before.”

  “Neither have I,” Doluda said. “What the hell are those characters on that display?”

  “Arty? You see anything weird out there?”

  “You could say that. Take a look.”

  Kessler tapped a key on his wrist console and looked at the image. A structure like a tree stuck straight out of the sphere. “So, what the hell is it?”

  “It's an antenna, about thirty meters long.” Vilcins replied. “It may be drawing power from the array's energy core. If it is, it's either really inefficient to draw the power down thirty-eight percent, or it is transmitting a powerful signal.” The image zoomed into the base of the antenna. “Yep. Someone jury-rigged this right into the core. Pretty good job.”

  Doluda pointed at the device attached below the console. “This is probably a relay spliced into the computer's main data cable.”

  “Sounds right,” Vilcins said. “It's transmitting a low power signal to this antenna, which is boosted by power from the energy core. No need to lay a wire from the relay out here.”

  “I've heard about these data pirates,” Kessler said. “So, the array's computer could not adjust alignment because of the power drawn from the core by the antenna?”

  “I think that's it,” Vilcins said. “But there's something else.”

  “What?”

  “I think this thing is booby trapped.”

  “You're kidding me.”

  “No. I'm not.”

  “We need to patch this up. Break that antenna down, Arty, and bring the base of it back to the Pop. Doluda and I will get this relay off the computer. Once the power level rises, the array's computer will correct the alignment.”

  “It's gonna take some time to disarm the bomb, but the antennae is easy to disconnect.”

  Kessler and Doluda started to work on the relay.

  “We've got the antenna disconnected,” Vilcins said. “Starting to work on the bomb.”

  They all worked in silence for several minutes.

  “Uh, guys,” Acosta said.

  “What is it?” Kessler said.

  “A ship just appeared on the sensors. I
think it was running under ECM.”

  “How far away is it?”

  “About twelve thousand klicks. It's decelerating, but headed straight for us.”

  “Well, what ship is it?”

  “Uh ... okay. Hang on.”

  “C'mon, you idiot!”

  “Uh ... yeah. Just a sec.”

  Kessler bit his tongue. “Arty, what's the range of the antenna?”

  “Couldn't be more than a light-second or two,” Vilcins replied

  “So, whoever is interested in the data relayed through this station could still be in the neighborhood?”

  “Uh, yeah. I hadn't thought of that.”

  “Have you figured out the ship type yet, moron?” Kessler barked.

  “The computer says it's a Naati ship, a Wolf class,” Acosta said.

  Holy shit! “Are you sure?”

  “I think so.”

  Fucking idiot! “How long until it gets here?” Kessler waited for several moments. “How long, God-damn it!?”

  “Nineteen minutes.”

  FUCK! “Back to the Pop, boys! Now!” A Wolf class was too large to fly through the array's panels and dock with the central control sphere, but Kessler figured it must have a skiff or boarding craft or something. No matter, if they didn't get out of here they'd be dinner. He and Doluda floated out into the main corridor and thrust toward the docking collar.

  Suddenly, the panel lights went dark. “What the fuck happened?” No one answered for several moments. “Talk to me, people!”

  Hard breathing emanated from the suit radio. “The bomb blew!”

  Shit! “Nguyen?”

  “I was blown off the station. I think Arty's injured. We're both caught up in the array panels, but he's more than thirty meters away from me.” Kessler looked at his wrist console. Sixteen minutes. “Can you reach him?”