Alvin Baylor Lives!

by Maximilian Gray

  The ship spun lifelessly below, its nose aimed up at them. Bossman touched down at the bow. Beyond him the shaft was visible sporadically through the tears in the solar sail as it rotated.

  “Major damage here,” Bossman radioed.

  “Copy that,” said Tosh. “From up here it looks like the gravity-axle is missing.”

  “Torn the fuck off,” said Bossman.

  Tosh slowed twenty feet from the ship as Alvin continued to coast toward him.

  “Fire your jets and try to stop here next to me,” he said.

  Alvin turned on his thrusters and recalled the VR training. He stopped immediately.

  “Whoa, brakes are better than I thought,” he said.

  It had literally taken a thought, though the control effect didn’t feel like the body extension of a rock hopper tendril or the full immersion of VR. This was something else. He felt like a superman with feet in two different worlds.

  He fired the gas jets again and slowly drifted over to Tosh. As he moved up next to the man, he thought of stopping—and the thrusters on his arms adjusted direction and stopped him.

  I got this.

  “You’re pretty good with that thing. I expected you to hit the ship,” said Tosh with a laugh. “Let’s go.”

  They jetted over the bow and through the torn solar collector toward Bossman, who was crouched down at the midpoint. He was examining the missing gravity-axle. On the way they passed over curious scratchings on the hull.

  They stopped and affixed themselves to the surface with their mag-lock boots. Alvin took a clunky step. It felt pedestrian after flying.

  “This looks like a clean cut, and those markings look more like metal on metal than dents from rocks,” said Bossman. “Stay here, I’m going to the airlock.”

  Alvin considered the situation. If this wasn’t an accident, then what had happened? The hardware he was retrieving was certainly valuable to be bio-locked. Who would or could hijack a ship like this? Other than a couple of terrorism incidents in low Earth orbit, no one had ever forced their way onto a spaceship. Out here the criminals were white-collar robber barons, like Chan Xi-Michaels, not space pirates.

  “The airlock’s been blown. I can see clear through to the crew cabin. Going inside,” radioed Bossman.

  “No air, they’re dead for sure,” said Tosh.

  Alvin’s mind processed the possibilities. If the device hadn’t been taken, then it had either been hidden from the attackers or it had been left deliberately. If the famous scientist, Rinsler, was really involved, it could be something of unimaginable value.

  They’re waiting for me to unlock it.

  He looked at the rocks floating around him.

  Are they watching?

  He felt a chill run down his spine.

  “Shit,” said Alvin quietly to himself.

  “What’s that?” asked Tosh.

  “Nothing, just—what is this thing I’m picking up?”

  “You don’t know? I don’t know what it is. They told me test equipment.”

  “That’s what they told me. Experimental. Listen, though, what if they’re just waiting for me? You know, to unlock it?” asked Alvin.

  “Who?” asked Tosh.

  “Whoever did this.” He stared at Tosh’s coppery face guard. He couldn’t tell what the man was thinking.

  “Calm the fuck down,” said Bossman over the radio. “Ain’t nobody else here. It’s secured, move in.”

  He’d forgotten that the security man could hear him, too. “You scanned outside?” said Alvin.

  “What is this, amateur hour, muthafucka? Course I did.”

  Thank god.

  Tosh chuckled over the radio and they flew off toward the port-side airlock. They reached the back of the ship and clamped their boots down again.

  The damage was extensive. It looked like something had wedged its way into the doorframe. The interior cylinder jutted out from the ship at its top edge, and a rubber accordion-like inner layer stretched outward in a freeze frame of the moment of atmosphere expulsion. Alvin’s breath quickened.

  He followed Tosh down the hull of the ship toward the broken seal. The damage had created sharp edges around the top half of the airlock. Tosh positioned himself at the lower edge of the opening, where the damage was minimal. He bent down to grasp the rim, released his boots, and pulled himself inside with his hands.

  As Tosh floated across the threshold, Alvin thought he saw something move out in space. He looked out into the blackness and saw a star blink twice, then stop. He thought it odd, then realized his nerves were probably getting the better of him.

  When he looked back to his feet, the tether had drawn away from him into the ship.

  “Hold up,” he said.

  Tosh spun around and planted his feet on the interior wall. He walked sideways back along the tube and stuck his hand out.

  Alvin grasped it, released his mag-locks, and flipped head over heels into the ship in a somersault. He became disoriented, and upon thinking that his spin must be stopped, his hip thrusters pivoted back and forth to bring the motion to an end. He floated at ease in the middle of the airlock.

  “I like this suit,” he said.

  Tosh pushed off the wall over to him. He unclipped the tether from Alvin’s hip and said, “I don’t think you need this anymore. Just be careful using the thrusters inside.” Then he jetted through the tunnel and clamped his boots down in the next room.

  Alvin followed him into what looked like a storage area. He did not come down to the floor, but instead flew up high and surveyed. The ship was lifeless. Emergency lights outlined walkways and doorways; nothing stirred. He could see Bossman waiting deeper inside, just outside a doorway. The security man stood with a pulse rifle at the ready. Tosh walked over to him.

  Alvin peeped his Opti-Comp controls and started the device tracker Alteris had given him. A slow ping began.

  Time for a game of hot or cold.

  He floated around the rectangular storage dock. The read was negligible. He moved nearer to the doorway and the ping accelerated. Tosh and Bossman stepped inside and the emergency lights kicked on within the room.

  “Found the crew,” said Bossman.

  Alvin saw a pale hand pass by the doorframe. He gasped. He did not want to enter, but the ping grew faster.

  If there were someone to shoot, Bossman would have done it already.

  He floated down, moved on through, and was startled by the sight of a frozen man drifting toward him. Bossman stepped between them, but then kept walking and the corpse continued toward Alvin. It got within a few feet of him when he panicked.

  At his thought about getting away, his thrusters fired, sending him backward. He hit the wall hard and something gave behind him. Something crunchy. Whatever it was had dampened his impact.

  “What the heck, Baylor!” yelled Tosh.

  Bossman just chuckled.

  Alvin tried to spin himself around, but his arm was caught on something. He pulled it free and found it wrapped in long black hair. Clinging to the hair was a frozen human head. He instinctively snapped his arm away and the hair untangled. He watched the head float away and rebound off the cabin wall. Red particulate drifted after it.

  Nausea overtook him. He began panting and looked away. Then he saw the rest of the body—frozen hands and neck stump.

  Alvin breathed faster. He was sweating.

  “Don’t you fucking puke,” said Bossman.

  “Seriously man, don’t do it,” said Tosh.

  Alvin closed his eyes.

  It’s just like a VR game.

  He took long slow breaths.

  It’s only a game.

  He opened his eyes and became aware that there were more bodies floating in the cabin. He closed his eyes again and listened to the steady ping of the tracker. After a moment he looked around. The nausea was abating. He was in control again. He turned on his mag-locks and clamped to the floor.

  “You all right?” asked Tosh.

&
nbsp; “I’m okay. Just never seen a human popsicle.”

  “I understand,” said Tosh. “I remember my first time.”

  “Let’s move it. We have a schedule to keep,” said Bossman.

  “How’d they die?” asked Alvin.

  “They got their heads smacked in when the gravity went out,” said Bossman.

  “How can you be sure?” said Alvin.

  Bossman pointed up.

  Alvin looked at the ceiling. It was covered in red blotches. He could see where a man’s head had hit. Black hair and a cloth turban were affixed to the ceiling via frozen pieces of scalp. He exhaled heavily and went back to minding the tracker.

  The ping took him to the back of the room and into a small hallway. A few steps further and it sounded a solid tone. He was standing in front of the bathroom door.

  “I think it’s here,” he said.

  “Is it locked?” asked Tosh.

  Alvin looked at the melted doorframe. The deadbolt had been cut.

  Someone was here.

  “No,” he said and opened the door.

  More black hair sprouted from another human popsicle.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  It’s him. It’s Mohammed Rinsler.

  The most famous scientist of the twenty-second century was dead, again.

  His frozen torso was folded over grasping a black ball.

  “Can you give me a hand? I think he’s holding it,” he said.

  Bossman walked over and put one hand on the corpse’s leg and the other on the chest and pushed. The man cracked in two and the ball came away, floating. A ripple of rainbow colors like an oil slick washed quickly over the surface of the sphere. Then it turned so black it appeared two-dimensional like a fist-sized hole in space.

  “Let’s go,” said Bossman.

  “They didn’t tell me how to unlock it,” said Alvin.

  “Figure it out on the ship,” said Bossman as he grabbed at the device in midair. The sphere pulsed red as soon he touched it.

  “Wait!” yelled Alvin.

  He knocked Bossman’s thick arm away and the pulsing stopped. Bossman stepped back, his silence acknowledging the need for care. Alvin examined the ball closely and noticed a thin cable, the thickness of fishing line, hanging from its rear. It ran back to the corpse’s head.

  “Looks like a synaptic interface,” said Alvin.

  He tugged at the cable and the man’s head pulled toward him. It was connected to a skullcap. His hair was intertwined with it. Alvin disconnected the line from the mesh cap and some strands of hair pulled free, sending bits of frozen scalp about. He grimaced and momentarily felt a pang of nausea again.

  He plugged the cable into his suit, creating a connection, and his visor turned off. Everything beyond his nose was black. His heartbeat jumped. Before he had time to panic, the view came back.

  Thank god.

  The sphere was still floating in midair, unchanged. He had no idea what to do.

  He knew how to control a rock hopper tendril, a gaming avatar, and now a thruster suit. They were all as easy as a thought; perhaps the device worked the same way.

  Unlock, please.

  A green pulse rippled through the sphere and it went black again.

  “I think you did it,” said Tosh.

  Alvin touched the ball with his finger and it remained black as pitch. He felt a buzzing sensation in his head.

  How in the hell?

  He carefully placed his gloved palm on the floating orb and waited. In his ears, he heard what sounded like the ocean, as if he were listening into a seashell, then came something like voices whispering. The synaptic implants in his temples got hot and he felt the buzzing increase.

  My head. This thing hurts.

  “Okay, let’s go,” said Bossman.

  “Hey, you guys hear that?” asked Alvin.

  “Hear what?” asked Tosh.

  “Sounds like an echo or something, like someone’s comm channel is stuck open.”

  “No, probably just solar interference,” said Tosh.

  Alvin felt a tingling in his palm. Somehow an energy passed through his glove.

  “Enough, let’s get off this tomb,” said Bossman.

  Alvin disconnected the synaptic cable and his visor shot to black again for a quick flash. The noise was gone. He felt the headache subside and his synaptic implants cooled. He’d never felt them get so warm.

  He grasped the device carefully, pulling it from the air, and felt his fingers pass through the sphere’s sides. He thought he might have damaged it, but when he examined it, everything looked normal. The odd feeling persisted as they trekked back to the airlock with Bossman at point. The more Alvin worried about his grip on the black ball, the deeper his fingers seemed to penetrate.

  As they climbed out of the airlock, he paused on the hull for Tosh to hook the tether to him. He stared out at the sea of stars and tucked the device in a pouch on his belt. They leaped off into the black ocean for the swim back. Alvin felt like “it” in a deadly game of tag.

  Twenty-Six

  Barton Aimes sat at his desk in his freshly pressed suit and watched as a security drone relayed footage of Alvin Baylor. The man held Rinsler’s Alkahest in his hands while crouched on the hull of the wrecked sail-ship Zzyzx. He stared straight at the drone’s camera, his copper face shield revealing nothing of his intentions.

  Aimes was a half-hour ahead in the knowledge that his subordinate had successfully acquired the device. The computer systems at the Alteris office had no access to the faster-than-light communication network that Washington utilized. Aimes’s home office made a superior and safer command center for his true work.

  He grimaced as Baylor dove from the hull and glided off with two other men. The mercenary, John Padre, was nowhere to be seen. Aimes directed the drone to perform a radio sweep of the area. It picked up an Alteris shuttle, but no sign of any other ships. He pounded the top of his desk, and the video display that floated above its surface shimmied from the impact.

  Where is that fucking man?

  Baylor was on his way to Ida to complete the job he had been assigned. If he were to reach his destination, matters would complicate.

  Aimes could not take the Alkahest after Baylor reached the mining colony without an open attack on Alteris. That would risk tipping his hand to his employer and engendering all-out rebellion from the Corporate Territories. It would cost the American government its Continental Defense Taxes and that could finally kill them off, leaving North America to Corporate rule. The world would not survive if left to the vagaries of consumer trends. So said the machine. Rinsler’s machine. The machine that had cost them the union.

  Fucking Rinsler.

  The scientist had abandoned Earth for reasons not fully understood. Aimes did not like mystery. He felt himself to be the commander of secrets. Yet he searched for the scientist’s latest invention all because the QI told them to do so. The damn machine that knew everything but never gave a straight answer.

  He disconnected from the drone feed and searched for the mercenary’s ID via the FTL relay network. It would show his last location. Padre had used it to make private calls to someone aboard The Hope.

  Is he working with Baylor?

  Within moments the merc was located somewhere in the vicinity of Armstrong Station. A precise location would require a new ping. Aimes called him through an encrypted chat app and silently cursed his reliance on another one of Rinsler’s inventions.

  “You motherfucker!” Padre screamed.

  Aimes stared at Padre’s raging face on the screen in front of him.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “What kind of spook bullshit are you pulling?” said Padre.

  “Why aren’t you at the site, Mr. Padre?” asked Aimes. “I told you to wait there. I need the package. Your job is not finished.”

  “Is that where you planned to kill me?”

  No. I would have done it closer to home.

  “Kill you?
The package is getting away. I have no religion as to who reclaims it. Is it going to be you or not, Mr. Padre?” said Aimes.

  “You killed two of my men at Armstrong. You’re a sonofabitch,” said Padre.

  Well . . . the latter is true.

  “I killed no one, Mr. Padre. We sent a man via The Hope to unlock the device. A patsy. You were instructed to remain at the crash site and await further instructions. Instead, you used our relay to communicate with someone aboard The Hope.”

  “I know all about your boy, Alvin Baylor,” said Padre. “And your second man, Chico Perez. You ain’t double-crossing me, you government trash.”

  So that’s what happened to Mr. Perez.

  “Our agent was only there to protect Baylor during transit. You were to be the recipient of the bounty,” said Aimes.

  “He’s a fucking liar,” said a female voice on Padre’s end.

  “Who is that?” asked Aimes.

  “It doesn’t matter who I am. You’re Alvin’s supervisor and your name is Barton Aimes,” said the woman.

  How the fuck . . .

  Aimes’s head began to spin.

  “I am going to murder you,” said Padre.

  “Mr. Padre, I have dealt with quite a few disgruntled and misinformed contractors in my day. Threatening me is not going to get you anywhere.”

  “You’re a dead man,” said Padre.

  Aimes hung up the call. He had a solid trace.

  He switched the FTL relay back to drone control and fed it Padre’s transmitter ID with an order to kill. It might take a few days, but drones would find Padre’s ship and get the job done with no questions asked.

  Who have you told about me?

  Aimes ran through the FTL logs. All of Padre’s messages had gone to The Hope.

  Presumably all to this woman. The whore seen in Baylor’s Opti-Comp streams?

  Nothing else showed up.

  I still have time.

  The job was now disaster control. Aimes had kept his cover at Alteris for seven years. It had to end sooner or later. It was time to inform Mother.

  First I lose Rinsler and now the Alkahest. She may kill me herself.