by Alex Deva
Aram was completely fascinated by that. After a while, he thought he had grasped the piloting principle enough to foresee, in his head, what the next manoeuvre might be. He nearly forgot what they were doing there and where they were going, until the huge cylinder of the USS Kennedy suddenly appeared from topside.
The experienced pilot already had the transport ship in an attitude perpendicular to the cruiser's long axis, and they were slowly heading towards an obvious dent. Aram assumed that the ship itself had come out of that dent, and back into it it would go. And so it was -- very slowly, constantly braking their forward movement by nudging his model ship backwards, the pilot approached the cruiser's spine.
Then, he twisted his command model and the ship turned facing backwards. It would have to park like that, the Dacian realised, because the spine of the cruiser had to go inbetween their crescent's two points. Guided only by the numbers on the screens, he allowed their movement to continue, as they retook their place in the structure of the cylinder.
The docking was soft, quiet and anticlimactic. Aram could still feel movement, but he realised that, by now, they were moving together with the huge ship. The soldiers were talking, he saw; then, they lifted their seat restraints and stood up, with practiced care.
Two of them came to him and undid his seat straps, and he stood up carefully. There was no gravity, so he gently pushed himself towards the back of the ship and the airlock.
They opened both sides of the airlock into the pressurised spine of the great cruiser. Armed soldiers were already waiting. Mark came up next to him, his eyes quietly dancing every which way, constantly assessing, constantly measuring, as if he was looking for an opportunity.
They were both pushed into the corridor, and thus Aram stepped into the third spaceship of his life.
XXV.
They were separated as soon as they entered the cruiser. The soldiers guarding Mark went right, and Aram was taken left. He tried to look back, but it was difficult, as he had to float from wall strap to wall strap, two soldiers in front and two in the back. All four were armed and meant business, so Aram just went along, literally and figuratively.
He passed three doors -- they were all on his left, as the ship's spine was not median -- and was unceremoniously directed through the fourth. The two soldiers who formed the rear guard went inside with him into a compartment that lead into another compartment. It was a similar container to the transport ship, except it was structurally fixed into the cruiser and split into two halves.
There was nothing to sit on, but in almost zero gravity, Aram didn't need to. The room was empty except for the wall straps, which were identical to the ones that people used in the long corridor to move from place to place.
They weren't simple straps; they could be attached to one's suit by means of a strange mechanism that the Dacian had never seen before. Part of the strap was rough and made of what seemed like very many tiny hooks; when it touched parts of the space suit, the two sides clung to each other so tightly that they could only be separated by forceful peeling.
"Strap yourself and stay put," said one soldier.
"You want me to tie myself?" asked Aram.
The Americans looked at each other, smirking.
"It's for your own good, pal," said the other. "Unless you wanna pick your brains from the walls when the captain orders a high-g move."
"Ah," remarked Aram.
"Just brace yourself if the light turns red. The suit will help. They're just like the ones you Queens use, only better," said the man with a sarcastic grin.
They left moving tactically, guns out and covering each other even after Aram had strapped himself to the wall, leaving him to wonder what was next.
He didn't have to wait long. After about fifteen minutes, he heard the outer door open, then the inner door, and the soldiers reappeared. One of them peeked in, then entered, gun aimed. Another followed, taking a stance in the opposite corner, as far as possible from his mate.
Then, a third man entered. He was unarmed, and took off his helmet as soon as he entered. He wasn't yet old, had short hair, blue eyes, a thin moustache and a square jaw. He frowned slightly at Aram as he stopped in the middle of the room.
"You can take your helmet off, but keep the straps on," he said, casually.
Aram didn't move.
"I know you can speak English. Take it off, it's safe. Or I wouldn't have mine off. No high-g while I'm off the deck," he said again.
Aram still didn't move. The other rolled his eyes.
"Fine, keep it on. Suit's using ambient air as long as there's any, in case you're thinking about that."
Aram wasn't thinking about that. He simply didn't know how to undo his helmet catches, and he wasn't about to give that away.
"What's your name?"
"What's yours?"
"Steven Gaines, Commander, United States Air Force."
The Dacian pursed his lips, as if considering the information and pondering his own answer, for a second or two.
"Call me Aram," he said, as if allowing the other a great concession, but mainly because he had to say something.
Gaines raised his eyebrows.
"Not that I expected military courtesy from you Queens, but you do know you're allowed and expected to give me your full name, rank and serial number, right?"
Aram ignored him.
"What do you want and how's my friend?" he asked, instead.
The commander's face turned pink, but he answered calmly:
"I'll be asking the questions, mister Aram, if that's your real name. And what I want are answers to those questions, answers which I'm going to check against the ones your friend gave me."
He took a step closer to Aram, and the soldiers readjusted their aims.
"How many other crew members are on that abomination you call Doi?" he asked, curtly.
The Dacian said nothing, because he didn't want to.
"How did you come up with so much platinum?"
The Dacian still said nothing, because he had no idea what platinum was.
Gaines narrowed his eyes and spoke softly:
"Allow me to explain my position, mister Aram. I'm calling you 'mister', you see, because I don't really believe you're military. That ship must've been far too big a secret for your army idiots to handle. I'm betting you're CDP. A fucking spy, is what you are. I could legally jettison you and I'd probably get a medal for it."
The Dacian still said nothing, because he had no idea what the other was talking about.
"I could blow up your ship and get back to the mines," Gaines continued. "In fact, your ship will blow itself up if I don't tell it not to. And you damn well deserve it, for killing my ships and my people." He paused for effect.
"But then, again, I could choose not to."
He raised his chin and his tone a little.
"Let it never be said that an American officer is not showing due respect to his enemy," he said. "Even if you won't even extend me the courtesy of your full name and rank, which I can maybe understand, seeing as you're not military, I am willing to extend you the courtesy of letting you live until we tow you and your ship to United States Earth space...," and he made another pause, then continued: "...if you cooperate now and answer my questions."
"And let me tell you that it's in your best interest to do so," he added. "You're much better off talking to me than to the ONI. You don't wanna get messed up by those people. But I'm guessing you know all about the ONI already, don't you?"
He gave a quick, lopsided grin.
"It's a limited time offer," he said. "Just like that little toy we left in your airlock. I'm giving you a couple of minutes to consider, then I'll be back."
He turned to leave and took a step towards the door, then stopped and turned back.
"Oh, I almost forgot. Of course, I don't actually require you to tell me who you are. I already have a sample of your DNA. Soon as the query comes back from Washington, I'll know anyway."
Then h
e turned and left.
Lieutenant Jameson, the ship's tactical officer, was waiting on the corridor, hanging upside down relative to the cell's floor, and holding a tablet.
As Gaines appeared, he adjusted his position for better eye-to-eye contact with his superior. Navy protocols required all hands to wear helmets at all times, so that their suits could react to environment changes, but if the captain wasn't wearing his, it was a safe bet that no such order would be given, so nearby officers would only wear them when the skipper had his on. Kevin Jameson's helmet was floating to one side, secured to his suit with a strap.
"Anything?" the tactical officer asked.
Gaines made a face and shook his head.
"Even less than the other one. What's Karl doing?"
"The Monnet has cleared lunar space, sir. They're crawling back to Yǒngqì, with whatever Pinions they have left."
"Fuck 'em. They're half dead anyway. Tell me about the DNA samples. What've you got?"
"I have three very interesting answers from Washington, sir."
"Three? What?"
Jameson handed him the tablet, and kept talking.
"Impossible item one, the DNA sample from this guy here doesn't match anybody."
"That's not impossible. Our Eurasian databases are from before the war."
"Yes, sir. But he's not two years old."
"They're Eurasian databases, el-tee. You can't expect them to be that good. Especially if this guy's a spook."
"Other spooks were in it, sir."
"So, what are you telling me?"
The lieutenant shrugged.
"I'm not telling you anything, except that Washington came back with the first negative DNA check I've ever seen."
Gaines thought for a moment. It wasn't inconceivable that the Eurasians' DNA database wasn't comprehensive, but coupled with the whole situation, he was also tempted to lean towards foul play.
Jameson went on:
"Impossible item two, the DNA sample from the other guy matches two people."
The commander ignored the tablet and looked at him, surprised.
"So one guy doesn't exist, and the other has a perfect clone?"
"I don't think he has a clone, sir. Because, it gets worse." And Jameson pointed at the relevant section of the report on the tablet. Gaines read:
"Mark Greene and Mark Gardener? Same DNA, similar names, but different people?"
"Yeah, Greene and Gardener, very funny. Look at their dates of birth, sir."
Gaines looked, and cursed in confusion:
"Nineteen seventy-motherfucking-five?!"
"That guy, sir, is either deader than the Dead Sea, or there's been a mistake."
Gaines chewed on his moustache.
"Too many mistakes, too many coincidences. We've got two people in the weirdest spaceship anyone's ever seen; one of them's the ghost of two different people, and the other doesn't even exist?"
"Well, as you know, sir, DNA records aren't accurate for more than about two hundred years into the past. The early twenty-first century certainly didn't really have a database for the general population, either in the US or in Europe."
"So?"
"So, if we accept one result, it might explain the other."
"Go on."
"What I mean, sir, is that if we accept that the Gardener slash Greene guy was born over three hundred years ago, they could be contemporaries; then, accepting that this one guy isn't in the database works out, because, after all, most people weren't back then."
"And how come Greene, or Gardener or whoever the hell he is, is in there?"
Jameson grinned.
"Because he's military, sir. DNA registration was compulsory for soldiers, even then."
Gaines smiled and returned his attention to the electronic file, but his smile turned into a frown as he read out loud.
"Mark Gardener, OR-6 Sergeant, 22 Special Air Service Regiment, United Kingdom Special Forces, joined 1999, killed in action... in 2012."
"Yes sir. Read the note, sir."
"OFFICIAL-SENSITIVE UK/US EYES ONLY UNTIL 3/3/2112. What?"
"I've looked it up. It means it was classified as a government secret, until March 2112. That's for a hundred years after he supposedly bought it."
The captain raised his eyebrows.
"One hundred years in the freezer? Who is this guy? What's a three-hundred-year-old special forces soldier doing on that spaceship?"
"Look at the photo, sir."
Gaines scrolled down and found Mark's photo, front and side, in military attire.
"Now look at the photo in the other file."
The same Mark, looking only a little older, was smiling from the other photo in civilian clothes.
"Cover story," said Gaines.
"Exactly, sir. They faked his death and gave him a new identity, with a slightly changed name. They made up a similar name so it was easier to remember. We'd never have found out, if it wasn't that the secret automatically expired two hundred years ago."
"Question is, how did he end up here and now?"
"Yes, sir. That is the question, and that brings me to item three."
"Which is?"
"Which is Washington, sir. Apparently our DNA results raised all sorts of red flags. They asked for a full report and they want the ship and those guys on a plate, soon as. In no uncertain terms, sir."
Gaines scratched his moustache. "Well. We'd better get ourselves some answers then, Kevin. Anything new from the ship?"
"Nothing, sir. Our men can't even figure out how to get back past the airlock."
"Anything on the laser mike?"
"Complete silence, sir."
"What about that Italian woman that Hendricks heard?"
"If she was there, I guess she's still in there, but she's silent as a mouse."
"Any other leads?"
"None yet, sir."
They pushed themselves along the corridor, towards the end with the cell that housed the cruiser's command module. Gaines was lost in thought for a few seconds, then suddenly said:
"I wanna go there."
"Sir?"
"I'm gonna get in a crate and go to the ship. I need to see it with my own eyes, and maybe I can get that Italian to speak to us."
Jameson didn't know what to say, so he simply asked:
"But why?"
"Because you were right, Kevin. That ship is worth a lot more alive than dead. And if I'm gonna be the one to deliver it to the ONI, I think they might appreciate some answers to go with it. Don't want to look bad to the Office of Naval Intelligence, do we?"
"Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. But we're soldiers, sir. Do you really think we can do a better job than the Office of Naval Intelligence?"
"We're soldiers, yes. But we're not idiots, Jameson. And we're here, now. And we've just lost ships and people to these time-frozen Queen soldiers or whatever the fuck they are. I can't just show up with my thumb up my ass and say it was all a mysterious accident. I'm gonna take them home alright, but I'm gonna deliver them nicely wrapped in shiny, beautiful intel."
The tactical officer understood the tactic, because he was a tactical officer.
"Of course. Yes, sir," he said.
"But first," said Gaines, "I'm gonna pay another visit to our mystery time-traveller."
"Command, this is the brig."
"Yes, Travis?" answered Hendricks.
"Sir, one of the guys had this in his pocket."
The comms officer looked down at the screen in front of him, where Thomas Travis brought an object in front of his ship-link camera. It was flat, shiny and reflective on one side, metallic on the other.
Hendricks' heart skipped a beat, and it was all he could do to keep a poker face.
"Erm, yeah, what is it?" he asked innocently.
"We don't know, sir. We think maybe it's the remote control for the ship's airlock or grav system, but we've never actually seen them use it, and we don't wanna even try to turn it on."
"Which of the guys
had it?"
"The short one, sir."
It fits, thought Hendricks.
"I don't know what to write in the report about it, and I thought maybe you could help me, sir."
"Ah, yeah, no problem. Send it over through the mag and I'll have a look. In fact, I'll show it to the commander, maybe he'll know what it is."
"Thanks, sir. So you'll look after it, then?"
"Yeah, sure. Just mag it over, will you, Travis."
"Right away, sir."
Hendricks undid his straps and floated towards the module entrance. Next to the door, in white over red letters, a small sign read "MAG TUN". Underneath, a small screen said: "BUSY". He waited for a few seconds for the mini-shuttle to travel the length of the ship, levitating in its computer controlled magnetic field. It arrived, braked automatically, and the screen changed into "READY". He opened the access drawer, made sure nobody was seeing him, and retrieved the object inside.
He returned to his station, carefully palming it against his space suit. Only after he retook his seat and strapped in, did he dare risk a glance at it.
In the middle of the metallic side, in a three-hundred-year-old alphabet, were inscribed three lowercase letters: htc.
Gaines pushed himself to the middle of the room, where he grabbed a ceiling strap; then, gently pulled by what little lunar gravity was manifest, he waited until he was standing on the floor of the cell. The two soldiers behind him were aiming at the prisoner from clear angles, helmets on, ready to pull the triggers at the smallest indication of a problem.
Mark watched them calmly. He was strapped to the wall, but he could move his hands, so he felt for the helmet catches and undid them, then took the thing off.
"My people gave you their name and rank," said Gaines suddenly. "I'm asking for the same from you."
"My name is Mark Greene, of no rank. Is my friend alright?"