by A. K. DuBoff
Biting the inside of his cheek until it bled, he calmed his breathing and focused on the hatch in front of him. “Open it on my mark… and go!”
When the door silently slid open, he stepped through. He’d expected it to open into a passageway, but the hatch opened into a downward sloping ramp. With few options, and the other exits accessible only through the swarm of horrific machines, Paul had no choice but to advance.
They pushed deeper into the ship, jogging down the metallic grey that seemed to go on forever. After another several hundred feet, the passageway finally stopped sloping, leveling out into a circular room full of terminals built for monsters. The sheer size of the computer stations was intimidating. It caused Paul to shudder; whatever manned these machines were Goliaths, and he’d left his slingshot at home.
“See what you can do on the terminals, Horovitz,” Paul said.
“It could take months to learn their programming code, and the odds of us speaking their language are slim to none. This is a ship; they have to drive it from somewhere. We might be better off looking for the bridge.”
“Okay, then see if they’ve got a wireframe schematic. Something we can use to make an educated guess. We need to hurry before that robot horde swarms us, too.”
The flurry of cuss words coming from the young scientist impressed Paul; he hadn’t thought the boy wonder had it in him. Because of the height of the computer stations, Paul had to lift Horovitz onto his shoulder so he could access the terminal. The bulk of their spacesuits and the stronger gravitational pull made it extremely difficult. It took its toll, and soon Paul was dizzy from the strain.
“Hurry,” Paul gasped “… can’t hold it.”
“Got something!” Horovitz shouted.
Before Horovitz could say anything else, Paul’s muscles gave. The two men collapsed onto the deck in a heap, their groans filling their shared comms channel. The weight of Horovitz’s bulky spacesuit made the tumble even more ungainly, but they managed to disentangle themselves and regain their footing.
“When the machine broke into our core programming, they left part of our language paired to theirs. I think it was how they were learning our language, but I was able to follow that back into their mainframe.”
“English, give it to me in English! Did you find anything useful?” Paul demanded.
“Yes, the hangar bay we landed in was designated for this ship’s command team. We’re already close; we should be able to make it there quickly if we hurry. We just have to follow the symbol that looks like a warped triskelion; it’ll lead us to the bridge.”
“Where will these symbols be located? And do you know what a triskelion looks like?” Paul asked.
“Etched on the decks or the bulkheads. And yes, I know what I’m looking for. The symbol consists of three legs radiating from a central point. You’ll know it when you see it.”
“Right, when we find one of these things, show me what it looks like, and I’ll take point from there,” Paul said.
The two men took off with a renewed sense of purpose. After a few dozen yards, they found the first triskelion symbol painted on the wall. The young scientist hadn’t done it justice; it wasn’t just one triskelion symbol. It was several interlocking three-dimensional representations of them combined into one complex picture. Despite the convoluted marking, the symbol was somehow simple and artistic.
The markings that led to the bridge stood out; the design was painted in a reflective orange color that was garishly unappealing. With their path clear, Paul was able to focus on moving as tactically as possible. It was difficult; the pull of the extra gravity made it feel like he was walking through quicksand. Even with that complication, Paul was able to return his focus on maneuvering at peak combat efficiency while studying his surroundings.
Two hours later, their venture finally saw fruition as they stood outside the hatch marked with a strange symbol. The passageway dead-ended into a massive circular hallway. The inner ring had several smaller access ports and one visible hatch into another room. It was exactly what the wireframe schematic said should be there, except there was a hiccup… they’d have to wade through several feet of scurrying robots to get to the hatch.
“Horovitz, do you have any scraps of equipment we don’t need?”
“Say again?” Horovitz asked in reply.
“Those things started devouring our ship. It was foreign technology, and they ate it like it was candy. I need you to hand me any scientific testing stuff that you have on your webbing. I’ll throw it as far down the passageway as I can. While they’re distracted consuming the device, you’ll run at the hatch and get us in. Be quick. I don’t know how long we have.”
“If they just want our tech, then we should be okay. We should be able to walk right through them,” Horovitz insisted.
“How, exactly, do you think they’ll react to your spacesuit?”
“Point taken,” Horovitz said as he began handing Paul several handheld devices.
“On the count of three, I’ll throw these. The instant the horde moves, so do you.”
After an audible count, Paul hurled the first boxy handheld device as far as he could manage. It worked, and the tiny robot horde shifted enough to clear a narrow path for them. Paul walked into the opening, stopped, and threw another device even further down the passageway. It was successful, and the breach widened. When there was enough room, Horovitz half-stumbled, half-jogged over to the hatch.
“Better hurry!” Paul said.
Once he steadied himself, Horovitz fiddled around until he hit the sequential pattern that he’d memorized from the first terminal.
“Got it!” Horovitz said, shouting with a voice full of nervous energy.
The horde had just finished devouring the piece of foreign technology when the hatch slid open. Neither needed any further encouragement; they scrambled into the bridge. With his rifle at the ready, Paul scanned the room, but he couldn’t see anything through the maze of massive terminals.
“Keep your eyes open and pay attention,” Paul told Horovitz as he moved. His heart pounded as he glided along the deck, weaving in and out of the various workstations. He struggled to clear every corner, but the corners were endless. Exhaustion began to weigh him down.
Paul endured, with the young scientist gamely keeping up as they wandered around until they reached the center of the massive compartment. The central ring in the room was clear, except for what appeared to be a gigantic orange throne.
“That has to be the captain’s chair,” Paul told his flagging companion.
“Ro… roger. We need to get up into it so we can access the controls. It’s our only chance of making it home.”
The closer they got to the command chair, the more confused they became. Slumped into the oversized seat was a human skeleton confined in armor, much like theirs. Exactly like theirs.
“I’ll check the corpse, you check the command seat,” Paul ordered as he dragged the body to the deck.
Pulling a small handheld device from his cargo pocket, Paul linked the two suits together. It didn’t take him long to access the dead guy’s sensor logs.
“This can’t be right… this can’t be right,” he muttered.
Rechecking the information, Paul confirmed that it was Doctor Terry Mixon. He’d flown onboard the Z-481. Somehow, he’d beat them to this ship, though he couldn’t fathom how that was even possible.
“Horovitz… you’re not gonna believe this, but this is Doctor Mixon. As in, Athena International’s resident genius and CEO.”
“I believe it; I’m reading his notes. Mixon thinks that this ship was abandoned when the life support failed. The robots are just leftover maintenance bots, this tub is running on autopilot,” Horovitz said.
“Wait, the life support’s working just fine,” Paul insisted. “It just doesn’t produce air as we know it.”
“It’s working… sort of. Whatever is coming out of the air vents can’t sustain us and we don’t know enough to fix it
in time. Again, those maintenance bots fixed most of the battle damage this ship suffered. Anyway, Mixon brought a laptop from home onto this vessel and used that as an interface. It worked, giving him a lot of access to the core programming. His Mixon Drive also failed, so he was trying to break into the navigation drives on this ship. If we can finish what he started, we’ll make it home.”
“How long will that take?” Paul asked.
“We have until we run out of oxygen in our suits, or we die,” Horovitz replied flatly.
Paul slumped down, leaning against the same massive terminal as Terry Mixon’s carcass. He began to pray silently, trying to force himself to remain calm and conserve oxygen.
“He was close,” Horovitz said. “If I start on the assumption that he made no mistakes, we can solve this. I can solve this.”
“I knew Doctor Mixon; he made tons of mistakes… if we needed him to be flawless, then we’re doomed.”
“You won’t say that when the good doctor and I bring you home,” Horovitz replied.
“If you succeed, I’ll tell the world that you were right, and I was wrong,” Paul said.
“You’ll do more than that; you’ll buy me a steak at one of those fancy restaurants. Now leave me to get to work.”
While Horovitz worked, Paul leaned back against the computer terminal and brought his rifle onto his lap so he was ready to defend them should the need arise. He tried to slow his breathing to conserve his oxygen levels, using every meditative technique he’d ever learned or seen on late-night infomercials. Minutes ticked by until he began to despair that he’d die on this strange alien ship.
“Eureka!” Horovitz shouted, interrupting his downward spiraling malaise.
“Give it to me,” Paul said, his voice barely audible.
“I did it. I solved the equation. We’re going home!”
Paul smiled grimly as he entered the data into the terminal. “Well, we may have lost our original ride, but I think we can still call the first FTL test flight a success.”
Still looking down at Mixon’s corpse, Horowitz said, “We might not be going back to the same home we left. Somewhere along the way, a lot of time passed.”
“All part of the adventure,” Paul replied reassuringly. “But at least we’ll have a hell of a story to tell.”
THE END
— — —
About the Author
J.R. Handley is a pseudonym for a husband and wife writing team. He is a veteran infantry sergeant with the 101st Airborne Division and the 28th Infantry Division. She is the kind of crazy that interprets his insanity into cogent English. He writes the sci-fi while she proofreads it. The sergeant is a two-time combat veteran of the late unpleasantness in Mesopotamia where he was wounded, likely doing something stupid. He started writing military science fiction as part of a therapy program suggested by his doctor, and hopes to entertain you while he attempts to excise his demons through these creative endeavors. In addition to being just another dysfunctional veteran, he is a stay at home wife, avid reader and all-around nerd. Luckily for him, his Queen joins him in his fandom nerdalitry.
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A FAIR TRADE
A Folding Space Series Prequel
by A.M. Scott
Stomach rumbling, Saree stopped in front of her favorite station eatery, the QuickEatWell. At least, that’s how the owners translated the name, and she wasn’t familiar enough with the Antlia languages to know better. Besides, the name fit.
Saree brushed her hand through the ‘Order’ holo floating in front of the kiosk. Despite the late off-shift hour, the proprietor, a mature neuter Antlian with the unlikely name of Mom, popped up in the window. “Your order, Scholar?” the slightly mechanical voice of the translator asked.
She smiled with a closed mouth and bowed slightly. “One Puffer please, Mom.” She waved credits from her holo to the kiosk.
Mom bobbed, the closest an Antlian could come to a bow and said, “Right away, Scholar.” A puff from a maneuvering valve and the yellow, two-meter-round bag of light gasses spun, the four long, skinny appendages darting to build her Puffer. A three-fingered hand pulled a dorad air fish from a tank floating above Mom’s gasbag, a knife hacked off the head of the fish, another hand pulled out the guts and disposed of them, while the third stuffed the fish with air weed and other vegetable equivalents, and the fourth added the special sauce—a spicy, creamy mixture native to Antlia Nine. Saree didn’t know what was in the sauce, and she’d been warned by other humans not to ask, just enjoy.
The air fish was placed in a heating device for two minutes before being pulled out and wrapped in veg plas, and finally placed in the kiosk airlock. Saree removed the Puffer from the airlock, a faint hiss of light gasses accompanying the pop and crack of the Puffer reacting to the change in pressure.
“You should have your airlock checked, Mom. I don’t think it’s emptying correctly.”
“Yes. Next twelvesday. Eat well, Scholar.” The Antlian bobbed again and sank out of Saree’s sight.
Every time Saree bought a Puffer, she told the Antlian the same thing and got a different answer in return. The repair appointment was for some future time, always farther away. No matter—a high, squeaky voice from the leftover helium was a small price to pay for a Puffer. Besides, oxy-breathers were lucky to have dedicated passages on Antlia Nine Station; she could be in a suit right now and never have the pleasure of a fresh, hot Puffer right from the source. She’d had them on the human-centric Antlia Five Station, but they weren’t the same.
Golden-brown toasty goodness with a hint of hot spice and brine wafted up to her nose. Saree almost drooled. She bit down. The light, crispy crust gave way to the firm, delicious flesh of the air fish, then the crunch of vegetables coated in almost too spicy, but amazing creamy, saucy goodness.
Ah. Saree smiled after each bite, wiping the corners of her mouth to prevent staining her Scholar robes. Scrumptious.
She crunched through half the Puffer and a bite or two more, full, but unwilling to stop eating.
Fresh Puffer was so good, but it didn’t keep. She’d been warned to never reheat Puffer but had stupidly tried it anyway. Saree shuddered a bit, remembering the four days of cleaning to get the stink out of her shuttle.
She pulled out her knife and very carefully cut off the eaten portion of the Puffer, shoving the scraps in her mouth despite her already groaning stomach, leaving a little less than half in the wrapper. Saree strolled, her footsteps thudding slightly on the plas decking of the cramped, meandering station passageway, and enjoyed the lack of beings until she reached the Mourner.
The first time she’d traveled this corridor, she’d thought the pile of rags off to the side was garbage, refuse missed by the auto-cleaners. But then she’d seen a being, a bipedal species she didn’t recognize, stop in front of the pile and bow. Curious, she’d watched the Gentle place a credit chip down in front of the rags, step back, and bow again.
An appendage, completely covered in ragged, mottled brown layers had darted out and snatched the credit chip. Three seconds later, a beautiful but sorrowful melody in wavering high tones and alien pitches came forth, a multi-toned drone below the melody, much like the drone of an Old Earth bagpipe. Saree’d hurriedly switched her vid recorder on and listened, completely enthralled.
After the music stopped and the pile of rags did nothing else, she’d returned to her shuttle. Saree had found nothing in her records to match the sounds. She’d sent the recording to Centauri University, but her thesis advisors had never heard this particular music, either.
After she carefully questioned some of the vendors and workers on this passageway, she’d been told the being just appeared one day. The only understandable word anyone heard was “home,” said in Standard. Attempts to move the being by persuasion or force were useles
s—somehow, it remained anchored to the decking and avoided every force shield and tractor beam. The energy just passed through the being like it wasn’t there. Imaging attempts were the same—no one knew what was under the pile of tattered cloth. But since the song seemed sad, the station residents nicknamed the being ‘the Mourner’ and took pride in ensuring it was fed and protected.
Saree’s cover as a poor Scholar of Ancient Music wouldn’t allow her to give credit chips away, but the Puffer she couldn’t finish? Why not try? The Mourner evidently liked Puffer, because it disappeared and the gorgeous but slightly unsettling alien music rang out. Every time she indulged in a Puffer, she gave the uneaten part to the Mourner.
She did the same now, crouching to place the Puffer on the deck in front of the Mourner. After the meal disappeared, Saree impulsively asked, “Can I take you home?”
Why had she asked that? She had a shuttle, not a folder. It didn’t seem likely the Mourner was from Antlia. If she was taking the Mourner to a solar system other than Antlia, she’d have to contract with a fold transport first, since her shuttle, like most, wasn’t fold capable. Saree thought wistfully of the small Mermillod fold-capable shuttles. If only she could fold space and cover the immense distances between systems without relying on outsiders. She sighed. She’d never earn enough credits for one of those.
Recalled to her task by the first notes of the Mourner, Saree straightened and turned on her recorder. The music this time was not only beautiful, but joyful. Saree took three quick steps back when the pile of rags rose. It rose a meter, then higher until it was level with her face.
“Home,” the being sang jubilantly.
Saree blinked, astonished. Had no one asked before? And where was home? How would she get the Mourner there? An urgent message pinged in her holo and she swept it up, bewildered. A set of coordinates from an unknown originator. This must be the Mourner’s home.
She brought up a connection to her virtual assistant. “Hal, where are these coordinates located?”