by S. Walker
But Siers zoomed on something else, first. "Here. This is where we arrived, the system launch point." The overall display shrank as a callout expanded to show a huge cloud of drifting vessels, broken metal hulls and metallic debris. "I've been taking stills and running comparisons. This appears to be entirely destroyed ships and what remains of Pilster-3's traffic management and GravComm relay. Quite a lot of destroyed vessels, in fact."
He looked around the room, making eye contact. "I would say roughly six months' worth of system traffic."
"Oh. Oh no." Jamet's sick feeling reflected on Janson's concerned face. "Everyone coming in-system was...?"
"Rammed, most likely." Siers nodded at the red dot of their pursuer. "Unless there were other weapons they weren't showing. The pieces and derelicts were just left in place, expanding into a navigational hazard over time." He touched several places on the system map, indicating smaller clouds of metallic debris. "I've found six other locations where it looks like ships were blown apart. But nothing compares to the cloud around the registered jump-off position."
"What was the purpose?" Paul called across the room. "Is it keeping everyone out, or holding everyone in? And why?"
Siers massaged his eyes with both hands, fingers working on the aches. "That is a very good question. Regardless of whatever reason it-- they? them?-- have it seems we will not be leaving any time soon."
Jamet jerked in surprise. "What? Wait, why can't we leave? We need to inform Corporate, get more warships here to take care of- well, whatever this is. At the very least someone is definitely going to want to recover personnel and equipment, system mining is a heavy investment."
"Stell-" Captain Siers and Janson both stopped at the same time. The big Engineer made an 'after you' motion with one hand, getting a thankful nod from Siers in return. "Stellar drift, lieutenant."
That sounded familiar, something echoing up from her Academy classes. "That's movement of systems, right?"
"Close enough." He agreed. "Everything is always moving, most especially over huge distances involved between systems. What we see now," he indicated one of the bright stars on the system map. "Is light from millions of years ago. The star that cast it has moved over that time: Billions of miles at least. If we just aimed directly at Eblett from here and went straight forward..." He curved one hand away in a flying motion. "Deep space, best case. Worst case we hit something bigger than our forward singularities can absorb and become space dust."
"Drift maps, ma'am." Janson added, then flicked an icon her way. She fumbled it onto the working half of her console and opened it to see a mess of lines and angle notations. "Corporate has a whole division, keeps 'em updated. But they're cheap, so they only calculate one point f' each system to use and give drift angles from there to the nearest next developed world."
She frowned at the chart, then looked at Captain Siers. "So if we can't get back to where we came in, then..?"
"Then we cannot aim ourselves back out." Paul sounded worn down, but that might have been the pain medication.
"That's... awful. And a terrible design. Can't we just start moving, then stop and- I don't know, re-aim the ship?"
Siers made a seesaw gesture. "Maybe yes, maybe no. The problem is distance. How often do we stop and correct? Eblett is over nine light years from here, lieutenant. If we decelerate every five minutes, take a measurement and accelerate again we'll get there over a year from now. But if we stay accelerated longer our drift gets worse and our chances of hitting something go up."
"It's a rough one, ma'am. S'not a bad idea, though-- Emilia said the same thing an' she's workin' on figuring it out right now."
Jamet frowned. Sharing an idea with the shorter, irate Comms technician wasn't a very pleasant thought. "Wait, where is Emilia?"
Captain Siers aimed a thumb upwards. "On the sensor array, trying to salvage whatever she can. Between debris hits and the singularity maneuver we lost quite a bit of equipment from the superstructure of Kipper."
She blinked, reflexively looking up at the overheads. "She's outside the ship? Right now?" The entire idea of deliberately spacing herself while trusting entirely in Corporate-issued survival gear was horrifying. Talking about flipping a coin on life.
He eyed her in return, pointing at her oversized skinsuit. "I thought perhaps you were headed out to join her, Jamet."
Explaining directly to the captain that she was more concerned about an overlooked damage report leading to unexpected hull depressurization didn't seem like a good idea. But then again, neither did exiting the ship entirely. "I, um..."
"Yes?"
"...would have to take it very slow." And get some heart medication.
Thankfully he couldn't hear that last part. "Appreciated, lieutenant. But not right now. If you don't mind please take a look at this and give me your thoughts." He flicked a window her way, awkwardly arranged on her broken console.
"What's this?" It looked like text logs.
"It's text logs." She fought not to roll her eyes as the file split in half, Siers taking one window. "All message traffic across the system that we picked up since arrival. Notice anything?"
Jamet browsed the list carefully, eyes tracking between the message headers and contents. "It's all automated. Mostly warnings from the mining rig; it's in orbital destabilization and slowly falling into the planet. I also see, um, markers for mining sites on the asteroid belt. Some of the derelicts are still sending distress messages. And there's a lot of," she winced. "Lifeboat signals." And all of them reported negative vitals, some with exceptionally long histories.
Captain Siers shared her worry. "Try not to think about it."
She couldn't help it. Stuck in a small space, staring at a silent comm array as you watched life support power slowly dying, hoping for rescue... "Bright stars, that's awful."
He took pity on her, resorting the list. "Here, look at it this way. This is sorted by transmission age, how long each signal took between being sent and when we received it."
Jamet tried to shake off existential dread by focusing on the message headers. She frowned. "They're all hours old. This is all EM, mostly radio? Where's all the GravComm traffic?"
Siers tapped a finger on the list. "Exactly. There's not a single instant-transmission communications signal anywhere in system. Every single one, from the system relay to the station-fixed arrays, is now nothing but a pile of shiny pieces."
"But... but why? And why only the GravComms?"
"I'm thinking our friend out there," they all reflexively looked at the red marker, still idling near the asteroid belt. "Smashed anything that uses singularities or gravitonic force above a certain power level. But I'm guessing it has to be at a high power before it notices-- otherwise our local gravity fields would bring it right to us."
Which wasn't a thought she enjoyed having. "But there are signals everywhere, we're still getting dozens of radio markers. And back before everyone-" don't say died, don't say died- "stopped transmitting so much it had to be blanketing the EM spectrum. It doesn't care about those?"
He shrugged. "Apparently not. And that is the question I'm thinking about right now, which I think we can answer if we get the sensor array back online."
Ship broadcast speakers abruptly popped to life. "That might be a bit longer than I thought, captain."
Everyone jumped, although Siers looked relieved. He tapped an indicator on his console and spoke into the air. "Comms are active again, technician?"
"Locals, yes." Something crackled over the connection. "But I'm looking right at where GravComm used to be and there's a hole big enough to put the lieutenant inside."
Jamet growled, refusing to rise to the bait. Siers side-eyed her. "What do we have available? And a bit more professionalism this time, Emilia."
"Sorry I'm not sorry, captain. We have radio across the spectrum, some LasComm and high-frequency also. Sensor suite is half gone; we have the basic radar and spectrum stuff but none of the exotic detection gear."
&nb
sp; "Can we replace or repair it?"
"Ask Janson that one, sir."
He cut a glance at the bearded engineer. Janson shrugged. "Lot o' holes in stores, captain. Sensors down, can't tell what's still there. I can suite up an' have a look, but ah got a lot goin' on."
All eyes slowly traveled to Jamet. "Oh nooo."
Emilia's cackle came through, crystal clear. "Looks like you have a new job, Princess. But maybe hold off a bit, there's a weird thing going on with the mining rig ahead of us."
Siers frowned, pulling up a new callout onto the forward display. It showed the massive ring-shaped facility, a metal torus twenty-six miles in diameter backlit by the glowing orange gas giant behind it. At full operation it probably contained nearly three million workers but at the moment it looked dead. An inert black ring missing the processing facility that should have been in the center. "What about it?"
"I'm picking up radio chatter. And not just the automated orbital warnings, either." Everyone glanced at each other, trading surprised and apprehensive looks.
"Someone's still talking over there."
Chapter 11
Stationary Nomads
Mark stuffed another frozen, vacuum-desiccated body through a hole in the station wall and came to a sad conclusion: He was going to have to kill Rachel Targer.
This was not a hasty decision, nor was it a made in the heat of a moment. He had a policy about things like that. Any decision with consequences that couldn't be reversed required deep thought. A meeting of minds. Discussion. It was a policy that kept him out of trouble, steered his way to Independent Worker status and gave him autonomy in life. A sound way of living, he thought. Proved by decades of growth. And honestly wasn't steady growth the ultimate mark of correct decisions? It was a self-identifying course. Easy to see in hindsight.
He pushed lightly off the wall and floated to the next corpse.
With practiced speed he frisked the body, looking for power cells or tools. This one had a skinsuit halfway removed, filthy shirt and mottled upper chest on full display. Paradoxical de-suiting, Mark decided. When life support systems ran out of power, the cold set in and CO2 levels started climbing he found there were really only two types of people. The first worked with the group until they slowly succumbed, breathing deeper and harder as lungs desperately tried to pull an element no longer present. They passed quietly. Usually unconscious. But they held hope right to the end that something would change, save them. Or at least save their people.
Mark respected that. He was a big believer in hope.
The other kind, the ones that were trouble, fought hysterically. When the shoddy, cut-rate suits started malfunctioning they would attack others for their still-working units. Even if it killed them. Or someone else. Better them than me was the creed as they struck first blows in a room already exposed to hard vacuum. It was barbarism and peak individualism, the self over the group. Which really was a losing strategy: Mark noted from a young age that more got done when people worked as a unit. He'd long ago made a major decision (after much thought, of course) to always remain on the side of the largest number of people. It had been a tough call. At times one he regretted. Especially during moments when personal advancement would have come swiftly if he'd only been willing to shove everyone else down.
But that was the Corporate Way. He didn't believe in it.
In their last moments of life the second kind of person refused to believe their actions were wrong. With CO2 poisoning setting in they were desperate to do something, anything, and occasionally they would convinced themselves to fight their circumstances more... directly. They'd pop seals, rip off as much skinsuit as they could. All to get away from the environment that was killing them. But then vacuum hit, depressurization snatched gas from weakened lungs and spit boiled right out of their screaming mouths. Dying in vacuum wasn't instant, but they fought in agony until the end. Paradoxical de-suiting.
He could almost respect that. If only they hadn't taken the decision away from others along the way.
Mark took another few minutes coasting slowly around the room and checking. It was important to do, even in one as small as this. Those first few weeks scrambling to survive showed the benefit of being thorough in poking unusual spots and enclosed spaces. He learned quickly that sealing an area went bad more often than not when it turned out there was a body in a locker, hot surfaces were left on or (worst of all) any sort of pressurized container was left out. That last ended very badly-- something about going to vacuum and then restoring atmosphere did something to the cheap Corporate-supplied containers. They often turned into bombs.
Methodical patience paid off when he found another suited figure jammed behind a console, halfway under a frozen processing machine. Mark dragged it out, careful not to look into the faceplate. He didn't like to see them at their worst. It was better to let that last indignity pass. Respect was important.
Speaking of which, it was almost time. Which he hated. It involved other people, and talking, and interacting. Which was always something that was best avoided. He coughed a few times, briefly fogging the faceplate, then practiced the words quietly to himself in the safety of his suit. Then practiced them again with contingencies because sometimes conversations took abrupt turns. Being prepared helped.
He tapped the cracked wrist control, activating shortrange radio. "Ms. Targer, the room is clear." Short, to the point. Best that way.
Her response was immediate and scathing. "That must have been a huge room, Mister Thompson. A veritable stadium, in fact, I've done nothing but sit here and watch the time pass as you proceeded to work at a snail's pace that would be insulting to anyone-"
Mark tuned this out. He didn't used to do that. Not because it was rude or he was upset, although that was part of it. But tuning out and retreating into his own thoughts meant he could miss a social cue. Then he would come back from thinking and realize everyone was staring. Waiting for a response. Then he had to ask what was going on and if someone even bothered to repeat they'd all be so annoyed at him for not keeping up. Which added yet another layer to the conversation: Now he had to participate and please everyone at the same time. It was exhausting.
But after six months of handling Upper Executive Targer he'd decided that maybe (and only in this one case) he could reliably ignore the conversation. Just from time to time. Which was fine, really, because the Executive could handle both sides of the talking at once without him. That was alright.
He waited for her to wind down to silence, then put his next rehearsed line over the radio. "I will patch the holes in this section, now." Short. Covered the details. Perfect.
She threw him for a loop. "How long will it takes this time?"
This was off-script, but thankfully there was a concrete answer available. He knew the job, saw the problems, could estimate how long it would take. Mark pushed off the floor and slowly rotated in place, using touches on nearby surfaces to direction motion. He counted holes as he went, comparing sizes. "Over an hour, ma'am. Less than three."
"Make it thirty minutes, Independent, and I might be persuaded to open the hatch for you again. It is unbelievable how much I put up with! I swear if there were any other option after all this time I wouldn't hesitate to take it. You should be thanking me every day for authorizing hatches and access for you every single time you go out-"
He tuned out again. These were old threats and unlikely to happen. In the beginning, when the extraction facility smashed apart and threw shrapnel like blazing stars through every part of the Station, Executive Targer was a lot nicer. There were more people around back then. More eyes, more judgment (or possibly future testimony). Back then she spent Executive promises like candy, handing them out to get people motivated and working. It got the first few rooms patched and pressurized, even a small scavenging team going. It was entirely to save herself and her family but at least other people benefited as well.
But when the first month passed and no rescue came it got bad. That was whe
n the promises became threats. Ms. Targer was the only Executive still alive, the only one authorized to unseal emergency bulkheads and override locked out systems. She used that fact ruthlessly, gathering supporters and excluding anyone who wouldn't help her family survive.