“So you know some of the jargon and business?”
“During summers and for a year after college I helped my mother manage an arboretum that orbited Mars. Hosted business conventions, upper scale weddings and funerals.”
“Isn’t your specialty numbers, personnel, information management?”
She shrugged.
“What about you?” I asked Guymin.
He said, “I was a fleet corpsman, before studying corporate law.”
My education compared to theirs? Pretty limited. That didn’t mean they were smarter than me. More knowledgeable in different areas. Different skill sets. They’d probably had Intel training, whatever that comprised. Probably study in relevant areas of corporate law, human and alien psychology and sociology, and advanced study in computer systems. I knew corporate law, where it related to my area of training, and I was competent with computer systems, especially for an R-Tech. They both knew who I was and what I was capable of, almost as much as me.
I’d have to get used to that.
A slight gravitational shift announced we’d reached our rendezvous point. As the Evanescent Thunder slowed, my com-set picked up Captain Hollaway’s transmission. “IFF authenticated, Nuclear Pitchfork VII. You are cleared to dock. Starboard hatch. Follow the lights.”
Two armed crewmen arrived, apparently to back us up, should something go awry.
I imagined the Evanescent Thunder’s guns targeting the disguised exploration shuttle. The Nuclear Pitchfork probably had at least a single beam pulse laser, and was returning the favor. But the civilian-grade weapon was designed to defend against missiles and slow-moving asteroid bodies no larger than an old-style bus. Even with a direct hit, the pulse laser would do little more than scratch the patrol gunboat’s armor plating.
“Acknowledged, Evanescent Thunder. Maneuvering to attach, starboard hatch.” The feminine voice carried a nasal tone.
A metallic thunk sounded against the gunboat’s hull, followed by several clanks. The computer console’s screen mounted next to the pressure door flashed green, indicating a successful docking maneuver. A synthetic voice announced, “Long range shuttle Nuclear Pitchfork VII has docked. Security codes match. Environmental scans identify zero threats. Voice command required to open this ship’s hatch.”
The shorter of the two armed crewmen responded. “Initiate sequence to open Docking Hatch Two.”
After three short warning beeps, the metal hatch shifted inward and then slid to the left. A second riveted door rose like a curtain, into a slot above.
A final set of warning beeps sounded before the crewman ordered, “Complete sequence to open Docking Hatch Two.”
A smaller, rectangular section, with obvious reinforcing metal bands, clicked and then opened inward on three hinges, like an old-style naval vessel door. Four-inch thick, layered armor plating was evident.
I hefted my duffle bag.
Guymin asked, “In a hurry?”
The Nuclear Pitchfork’s pilot stood in the doorway, hand resting on a holstered MP pistol. Her hair, the color of fall wheat mixed with strands of gray, was bound with a glowing neon-green band into a single ponytail hanging over her left ear. She was maybe an inch shorter than me, which was far below average for an I-Tech. The crow’s feet around her hazel eyes indicated the gray wasn’t cosmetic—unless the wrinkles were cosmetic, too. A fashion rarely seen, and usually indicated someone who was either uncaring of revealing their age, or someone interested in drawing attention to themselves. I was hoping our pilot was the former, rather than the latter. The glowing green band made me wonder.
The burly man behind her could moonlight as a bouncer. His dark skin complemented his orange coveralls, identifying him as the shuttle’s engineer. His thick eyebrows provided the only hair on his head—besides eyelashes. He held a medium duty laser carbine.
Were they expecting trouble?
The pilot pulled a rectangular, metallic object from her belt. Despite the deft movement, I spotted a small screen filled with icons before she presented the optical scanner mounted opposite it.
“You’re apparently eager to be first, Specialist.” I recognized the pilot’s nasal tone from the previous communication. After a shrug I stepped forward with my shouldered duffle bag and shotgun and turned my head, exposing my V-ID.
A quick scan and a nod. “Welcome aboard, Specialist Keesay.” She signaled me past. “Who’s next?”
The Nuclear Pitchfork was about the length and width of an old-style mobile home, boxy in shape, but it had two levels. Most of the bottom front housed the cascading atomic engine needed to condense space and the rear held the engine area, consisting of fuel tanks for the two standard thrust engines, and their accompanying controls. A small room housing environmental controls and the backup systems took up space nearly equal to our storage area. A tiny closet of a room with four sleeping shelves and associated medical support caught my attention during the brief tour. Otherwise there was a small recreational area above the engineering and fabrication room, near the kitchen. Other than several private quarters and the pilot and copilot’s seats, there were ventral and dorsal turret mountings, each housing a single-beam pulse laser.
I didn’t catch all said during the engineer’s hasty tour, but I did note the disguised shuttle’s cascading atomic engine’s condensation factor. If she had high quality standard thrust shuttle engines, and the 525k to one condensation engines, she’d travel equivalent to almost 110 times the speed of light. By my basic calculations, with the Evanescent Thunder’s superior thrust engines but inferior condensation of space factor, she might be barely over 100 times the speed of light. Unless the Evanescent Thunder also had upgraded thrust engines.
Guymin probably knew.
In any case, I figured we’d arrive at the 70 Virginis System in about 28 weeks, with the trailing patrol gunboat arriving about two weeks later.
“Still has that new shuttle smell,” I mentioned to Vingee as I unpacked my duffle bag.
She was busy doing the same. “Technically, it’s a refurbished smell. But yeah.”
“Maybe Pilot Dvoracek keeps some of it in a spray bottle.”
“Spray bottle?” Vingee shook her head. “Thanks for giving me the top bunk.”
Our room, or compartment, was cramped and she’d have to hunch over to sit in her bed. “Easier for you to climb,” I said. “And less likely you’d bump your head sitting up.” When she didn’t say anything while hanging her two suits adorned with Mayfair insignias in her locker, I added, “Plus, I consider dangling feet as desirable decorative accoutrements.”
“Careful, Keesay. Your use of big words like that, especially when my ‘decorative accoutrements are dangling,’ might cause my leg to twitch, earning you a fat lip.”
Our shared quarters sported light gray walls with metallic trim, and less than fifty square feet. Good thing the beds folded up into the wall.
“Right,” I said. “Better than hot bunking.”
After securing my shotgun on a wall mount next to my bed, I asked, “Can this shuttle’s environmental system and stores support five for thirty weeks?” It was a little more than I calculated to reach 70 Virginis.
“Why?” asked Vingee.
“I didn’t see any cold sleep facilities. No chemicals, setups, and tubes. Just that shelved closet with medical support devices.” I unbuckled my belt so I could remove my bayonet and its scabbard. No need for it aboard a shuttle. I’d keep my revolver. I felt somewhat naked without it. “Not that I’m complaining. Waking up from cold sleep never gets fun.”
I’d been through it several times.
“Vingee turned and smirked. “Those are supplemental beds, should there be additional crew. We’re scheduled for hybersleep.” She pointed to herself and then to me.
“Hybersleep?”
I knew a little about hybersleep. It placed a person in a state similar to hibernation. It slowed down the body’s metabolism to almost 1/70th its normal rate. But the latest research
I’d come across said it altered brain chemistry, causing severe depression for weeks after awakening. Thirty-nine percent of the test subjects attempted suicide. Even while under observation, several succeeded. There were other problems, but messing with brain chemistry and function? Not something I cared to be a part of.
“I’ve read about it. Some serious drawbacks.”
Vingee glanced at me with a raised eyebrow. “Official information on hybersleep. What’s released remains rather limited and obscure.”
“I read a lot of obscure journals and reports, or at least I did when on warehouse duty.” I was pretty sure she was also thinking advanced technology related sources, and that I was only R-Tech. I buried that thought, and hopefully any hint that I’d had it.
“What do you know about it?” she asked, and I relayed what I knew.
“While you were recovering from the Cranaltar,” she said, “Agent Guymin pointed me to a report that hybersleep travel had been approved for those serving in Intelligence. A diluted dose that slows the metabolism slightly less, and keeping someone under for fewer than thirty-four days reduced incidents of the potential adverse effects by over ninety-nine, closing in on one hundred percent, making it safer than conventional cold sleep.”
“Oh,” I said, shrugging. “I’ll need to get back into the habit of reading again.”
“You wouldn’t have found the information in question, Keesay.”
I smiled. “Maybe not. Or maybe I’d have pieced it together by combining information from several sources.” I was stretching it, as anything Intel wanted to keep quiet, they generally did. But it was my firm belief that widespread reading of disparate sources including news outlets, journals, even governmental and corporate releases offered the best chance of getting a complete picture. Still, pieces of the jigsaw puzzle might be missing, even critical ones, leaving me unable to fill in the gaps.
After a few breaths where I didn’t say anything else, Vingee rolled her eyes and then checked the digital chronometer mounted above the door. “Come on, Keesay, or we’ll be late for the pilot’s meeting.”
Pilot Dvoracek’s hazel eyes remained intense as she continued listing her expectations while we sat around the common area’s small conference table. What stood out to me was how infrequently her eyes blinked as she spoke. Looking up from her computer clip, after tapping once to check another item off her list, she said, “In the unlikely case it comes to combat, Guymin, your primary station will be the dorsal turret. Keesay, you’ll take the ventral turret. Vingee, you’ll assist Axin.”
Engineer Axin glanced up from his computer clip resting on the table. The central piece of furniture reminded me of a Formica table my grandmother had in her kitchen. He offered Vingee a wink of confidence.
Pilot Dvoracek continued, saying, “Secondary stations, Guymin, engineering with Axin, Vingee, copilot, Keesay…” She paused and glanced down at her clip. “Dorsal turret. My understanding is that’s what you’re most qualified for with respect to my shuttle.”
Pilots were always possessive of their shuttles.
I nodded once. She must’ve learned of my training and turret gunnery aboard the Bloodhound 3. Aboard the exploration shuttle I’d had moderate success in fending off traitorous Capital Galactic fighters and attack shuttles supported by Crax fighters. Before it was damaged and eventually destroyed on the surface of a quarantined planet.
“However,” she continued, “for the majority of the interstellar flight to 70 Virginis, the three of you will travel while in a state of hybersleep.”
She relaxed her arms before leaning on the table. “If you’re unfamiliar with hybersleep,” she said, mainly focusing on me, “it is a less invasive and lower risk method of inducing sleep during long flights as compared to cold sleep. Until recently the adverse effects have outweighed the benefits of its use.”
She checked her computer clip, thought a moment and then continued, again focusing on me. “A countering medication administered before thirty-seven days is recommended.” Her eyes then tracked along her clip, indicating she was reading. “A minimum of thirty-six hours, twenty-five of which the individual must be awake and active, both mentally and physically, before an additional maximum span of thirty-seven days of induced hybersleep is deemed safe.”
Her reading the guidelines didn’t instill confidence. I thought Vingee had mentioned thirty-four days. Vingee was extremely accurate with numbers. New guidelines, I decided, as Vingee didn’t dispute the number of days. That hinted at how new the drug was. Still being field tested?
Pilot Dvoracek made eye contact with her engineer.
Axin cleared his throat before saying, “Both Pilot Dvoracek and I are trained and qualified in administering the hybersleep inducing and hybersleep recovery drugs.” His deep, confident voice held a hint of boredom as he spoke. “Once we initiate condensed space travel, it will take one-hundred two days plus several hours to reach our destination. As such, each of you three will spend three periods spanning thirty-one days in induced hybersleep. This will minimize use of supplies as we do not know when the opportunity to replenish any of our used stores will present itself.”
Agent Guymin interrupted. “Do you believe resupply at our destination will be unavailable?”
Pilot Dvoracek spoke up. “Our destination, having declared independence, is now somewhat isolated from regular traffic. Critical supplies, although likely available, the cost is expected to be at a premium.”
“A responsible company wouldn’t want to spend in such a manner,” Guymin said, his voice showing agreement.
Engineer Axin cleared his throat. “The inducements will be staggered to balance utilization of the shuttle’s life and environmental support systems.” He smiled at me and winked at Vingee, before pointing with a flick of his wrist at Guymin. “That schedule will also maximize the time the pilot and I will have an individual besides us awake and in the mix during what we hope is a quiet journey.”
“The Evanescent Thunder has already departed,” the pilot said, deactivating her computer clip’s screen. “Even so, they will arrive roughly a week after we do.”
She stood. “Guymin, Vingee, Keesay, make yourselves at home. Discuss among yourselves the hybersleep rotation preference and inform my engineer.”
Guymin nodded in response.
“Departure from Ceres in three hours. Condensed space travel to commence in nine.”
With that said, the pilot scooped up her clip and departed the common room.
I sat in the common room with Engineer Lamar Axin as he called up an old-style flat-screen program. He said it was a short-lived old school science fiction series I’d couldn’t help but love, once I’d seen it.
“Do you think Pilot Dvoracek will ever play another game of euchre?” I asked. We’d had to play it three-handed since both Vingee and Guymin were in hybersleep. Dvoracek played well. It wasn’t her competence or strategy. She’d just had rotten luck, rotten hands, and couldn’t win.
He shrugged. “I haven’t known her long,” Axin said. “First time I’ve flown with her.”
“What’d you do before?”
“A stint in the Colonial Marines. Made it to first lieutenant, repair company for a squadron of ground assault shuttles. Was making it a career until Intel came recruiting.”
I shuffled the deck of cards Guymin had given me, along with all of my other gear, including my specialized protective cup with a spring loaded syringe. He’d obviously learned about it, if not seen it used in the Documentary. I wasn’t wearing it now, but would have to thank him when we were awake simultaneously.
“My goal was to get recruited by the Relic Army Ground Assault Support Force. Tried to get security postings that would gain me experience and get me noticed.” I dropped the deck on the table. “See where that got me?”
“Recruited by Intel, same as me.” Axin laughed as the wall-mounted screen began to display the old television program. First thing I noted was that it wasn’t a black-and-white show.
I liked the ballad at the beginning. It spoke toward life as I saw it. The old program didn’t quite get space travel right, but the varied socioeconomic levels based on who had technology and who didn’t wasn’t far off from how things turned out. If they’d have paired their government with all-encompassing corporate entities, the creators of the show would’ve been even closer. There weren’t any aliens. Lucky them. No Crax.
After watching two episodes of Firefly, Axin went to make his rounds and check on things. I’d already clocked over six hours in the ventral turret, running simulations. Instead of more turret time, I looked up an old American western, Big Jake, to watch. My father had enjoyed those old shows with John Wayne and Clint Eastwood.
Pilot Dvoracek joined me and Axin watching the John Wayne western. We ate vitamin and protein fortified pudding—Axin had chocolate, I had vanilla, and Dvoracek, strawberry.
After the western was over, I told Axin I thought that the writers of Firefly had just moved the western genre to space. Dvoracek, who’d watched the entire space western series with her engineer agreed with me.
“Once owned a shotgun like Jacob McCandles had,” I said.
“What happened to it?” Axin asked.
“Lost it aboard the Kalavar when the Crax boarded.”
“I know another show where a fella has a double-barrel shotgun,” Axin said with a grin.
Pilot Dvoracek groaned. “Not that one.”
Axin frowned.
“You call it up, I’m leaving.” The pilot’s threat carried some mirth, but her eyes said she was serious.
I reached for the deck of cards. “Have you ever played Hearts?”
When the pilot scowled, I said, “It’s totally different from Euchre. Heck, you can even attempt what’s called ‘shoot the moon.’”
“Anything’s better than Army of Darkness,” she said, intrigued, and held out her hand for the deck. Beginning to shuffle, she said, “How do we play?”
An hour of grogginess was better than hours feeling like you’re suffering from a triple case of the Nelgaranian flu.
Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2) Page 12