by Rod Little
“Yeah, well, we're okay for now.”
Margaret pulled her husband aside.
“If centipedes hatch from all those pupae, it could be taxing on our food supply. They could damage the trees and plants.”
“I know,” said Walter. “Bem and others already mentioned that.”
He caught Shane as the young man strode by on his way to one of his thousand duties, and asked for a minute of his time. “Margaret and I are concerned,” he said. “We don't think it's as sanguine an event as you project.”
“Sanguine? Speak English, Walter. And it's just a bunch of bugs,” Shane said. “Should we really be that worried? Don't start a panic on my station. Please.”
“Three and four-foot centipedes are not simply bugs,” Margaret reminded him. “Even very small centipedes are dangerous. These are … not small.”
“So, we'll stock up on Raid,” Shane joked.
Walter and his wife did not laugh.
Shane tried again: “Look guys, what else can we do? We have them sealed inside the two gardens. There's plenty of food in the other garden domes, and so far the one centipede I have seen hasn't made any angry faces at us. At least not at me. What else can we do, but wait it out and see what happens?”
“I'm not saying you're doing anything wrong,” Margaret said unequivocally. She wanted to make it clear she wasn't admonishing their new leader. “I simply wonder if there isn't more we can do to prepare for any … unusual outcomes.”
Shane slapped Walter on the shoulder. “Well, that's what you scientists are for. Work on it, and let me know if you come up with any ideas. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a few more fires to put out.”
He jogged and caught up with Stu and Camila, eager to go over the security reports.
“He's right,” said Walter. “Not much else we can do for now. He was joking about the Raid, but do we actually have any insect repellent?”
“I can make some,” Margaret suggested. “Should I?”
“Yes. Fill a few large canisters and add a spray system. It sounds alarmist, but I'd like to be prepared, just in case. Of course, we've no proof that our version of insecticide will have any effect on these beings.”
She gave him a peck on the cheek. “You always liked being prepared. I'll be in my lab if you need me. Any chance I can examine one of the pupae?”
“Better not risk angering the horde, dear. They might take umbrage to our absconding one their own for dissection.”
“Again you make the best points.” She squeezed his arm, and padded back to her lab.
Later that day, Shane was called into the communications room by Bem. Both Kelvin and Walter were already there. The puzzled expressions on their faces told him that news wasn't good.
“What's up?”
“The Praihawk has entered the Nebula,” Bem announced. “They have breached the cloud.”
“Well, that's not bad news. Right? It's good.”
“Their data stream is starting to become unreliable. It cuts off intermittently,” Bem said.
“Is that going to be a problem?”
“Possibly, at least on our end. Even though they can still complete their mission if communications fail, we will not be able to track them or comprehend their progress. Furthermore, we will not get the data from their exploration unless they make it back alive with the data cards. Their status will be unknown, if and when they start their return.”
“Yes, I thought that was the plan all along,” Shane said, “for them to come back alive. Bring their data cards, rescued people, whatever they find. Stories to tell, and a happy ending.”
“It was always the plan,” Bem stated in monotone. “But it would be helpful to receive their data as soon as possible. They are exploring an extraordinary area of space, one that has rarely been seen by human eyes. There is no documented proof of anyone coming back from the Nebula alive.”
“What! No one? You didn't think to mention that before they left on this goose hunt?”
“There are some reports of survivors returning,” Kelvin chimed in quickly to refute his robot friend, and then his voice fell. “But they are not substantiated reports. There is no real proof those men were ever actually inside the Nebula. A thread of rumors and such. From decades, even centuries ago. It's all very mysterious.”
“Magnificent,” Shane said sarcastically. “Look, I've got enough problems here on the station. Walter, you and this tin man are in charge of getting my brother and our team back safely. And I don't want any excuses. Get it done.”
“It is a job I take to heart,” Walter said. “We'll do our best to stay in contact with the ship for as long as possible.”
“I know, Walter.” Shane sighed. “It's no one's fault. Just do your best, and keep me posted. I have to go check on a fight between two of our Ohio-ans and an Englishman over … spilled milk, for all I know!”
Kelvin and Walter looked at each other, as the young man left the room.
“Spilled milk?” Kelvin asked. “We have no milk on this station.”
“Earth expression,” Walter explained.
“The stress is not good for him,” Kelvin said. “I wish he would drink some of my Pelem tea. He seems to avoid it as if it were toxic. I don't think the coffee he drinks is calming his nerves.”
“He'll be fine,” Walter said. “We've been through worse, trust me.”
“I understand. All of you have. Though, it seems the worst is behind us all.”
Let's hope that's true, Walter prayed. I'm sure it is.
But as if to prove him wrong, the communication stream failed at that very moment.
Chapter 12
Inside the Boneyards, they found the ship that had issued the original distress call. It now hung in front of them with engines dead and only a few lights blinking on its side. Larger than the Praihawk, and less sleek, it looked like an ugly light bulb. Only one cannon was fitted on its top; it was poorly defended. An unattractive eyesore, it may have had a specific purpose, but combat and aesthetics were not among them.
“You sure this heap wasn't just thrown away?” George asked.
Bohai tried to make contact with the ship. He sent out signals on every channel, both verbal and coded, but no reply came back.
“Whoever they are,” Bohai said, “they're not talking. For someone who sent a call for help, they're not being very friendly.”
“Maybe they can't answer. Comms down,” Sam suggested. “Equipment failure.”
“It's a science ship,” Dexter murmured to himself. “And it's Sayan.”
“It's what?” George asked, suddenly standing stiffer and paying close attention. If this was an enemy ship, this whole mission had suddenly and woefully changed.
“It's a Sayan science vessel from my home world.”
“That's not good.”
“Actually, the scientific community on Neptune is quite enlightened. They would certainly pose no military threat. These vessels are not well-armed, nor are the crew members.”
“Which probably explains why they need help,” Sam said. “Maybe someone attacked them.”
“Unlikely,” Dexter said. “They most likely came close to the Nebula to explore an anomaly, then got caught in its magnetic pull. Once inside, if their engines failed, there would be no way to get back out. This will probably end up as nothing more than a simple rescue mission for us.” He frowned. “What I don't understand is why they were ever near the Nebula at all. It is strictly forbidden by every planet and every government. Especially forbidden by Neptune.”
“Forbidden by every planet? I thought there were only two.” Sam asked, “Earth and Neptune. Right?”
Dexter did not reply.
“Well, forbidden or not, they did go in,” Bohai said. “Because someone is in there calling for help.” He looked up from the console and at each of his crew. “And we're going to meet them in about ten minutes. Shall we suit up?”
George released the special hazmat-style space suits from the secur
e closets, and they each started pulling them on and sealing themselves inside. Sam couldn't figure out how to get his chest piece sealed, until Bohai helped him. The outfits felt cumbersome and uncomfortable. Sam didn't like the texture of the material, and he hated the awkward bulkiness.
As they suited up, Dexter gave them an update on what to expect.
“I see multiple heat signatures on board. You may encounter as many as ten or twenty men or women. It's hard to be sure, as the Nebula is throwing interference at the sensors. If two or three people are standing near each other, it may read as a single person. So, you may see more people than the sensors indicate.”
“Tell me this, Poin-Dexter: how are we gonna get on board?” George asked. “They won't answer our hail. So how do we get their docking bay doors to open?”
Dexter squinted at the screen and zoomed in on the image, then pointed to a section of the ship. “I don't think that will be a problem.”
One set of docking bay doors had been left wide open. It was the ancillary bay, indicating that someone may have escaped and left the doors ajar. They were gaping like the jaws of a shark that never seem to close, and the bay inside was pitch black. No lights had been left on, no welcome mat left for them... but they had a way in.
“That doesn't look too inviting,” Sam whispered. He peered at the screen, until Bohai tugged on his sleeve. It was time to get going.
Sam donned his helmet, sealed it up, and practiced moving around. All movement felt clumsy. He attached a pistol and a knife to his belt, and worked his fingers through the gloves, then practiced drawing the gun.
“This isn't so easy,” he complained. “I'm not even sure I can shoot this. The gloves are thick.”
“Just collect Dexter's samples and keep your eyes open,” George instructed with his own brand of confidence. “I've got all the firepower we need.” He held a blaster rifle in both hands, and had an array of other weapons strapped to his back and belt.
Dexter tuned the ship's communications channel to the signal of their helmets. He would be able to talk to them directly as they explored the new ship.
“If we lose contact, tap this button here.” He pointed to a small light on the side of their helmets. “It lets me know you're okay, even if we lose communications. Tap it twice if you're not okay.”
“Got it,” George said through his helmet. His voice came across the ship's dashboard.
“Wish us luck,” Sam said, and turned toward the back of the ship. It wasn't easy walking in the suit; his legs moved as if through foam or deep water.
In the back room, they closed and sealed the off the bay from the rest of the ship. Then they held onto the railing and opened the doors to the vacuum of space. Both ships were touching, bay to bay.
Directly ahead lay the opened compartment leading into the science ship. Its dark recess did not look enticing; no telling what lay inside. There were no heat signatures, so they could speculate it was empty of people or creatures. They hoped, anyway.
George stepped onto the new ship's loading bay and disappeared into its darkness. Sam and Bohai followed. No one confronted them.
George reached the door to the second ship, and opened its hatch. The first room was a decontamination chamber. The three men entered it, and the door behind them snapped shut. A ceiling device scanned them, then the door to the ship itself whooshed aside.
A maze of dimly-lit corridors stretched out, empty. They cautiously stepped forward and began to walk down the halls. Blue and white lights sparked off and on, scattered every few yards. It was barely enough light for them to see where they were going.
They explored the first room on the right: no one was inside. It contained six bunk beds and a table. A tablet lay on the floor, broken. Bohai tried to start it, but its cracked screen would not ignite.
Sam opened a small vial, removed a swabbing device and rubbed it on the table surface, collecting a sample of microbes. He sealed it back inside the vial.
“You know what you're doing there, Junior Scientist?” George asked.
“No idea,” Sam said honestly. “I'm just getting the man his samples.”
Back in the hallway, George let Bohai take the lead, with Sam in the middle and the military man behind, “at their six” as he would say. He still believed any attack would come from behind. This whole scenario felt ripe for an ambush.
Dexter's voice crackled in their helmets, “What do you see?”
“Nothing yet,” George whispered. “Hang tight.”
“Heat signatures ahead,” Dexter warned. “Behind the next door. You'll have company soon.”
They waited at the portal, George readied his weapon, and Bohai activated the door. It slid aside to reveal another dim hallway, but there was no one inside. They continued forward. The ship groaned.
“What was that?” Sam asked.
They paused and the sound waned. Ahead, an electrical box was open; it crackled and sparked.
“Looks like a blaster was fired,” George said. “Someone was fighting in here.”
“Who do you see?” Dexter asked, impatient.
“No one yet. Relax.”
“What do you mean, no one? There are heat signatures right in front of you.”
“Nope,” George replied. “This hall stretches all the way to the bridge. No one but us three in here.”
“Four, five, at least,” Dexter said. “Now six individuals right in front of you. They are moving straight toward you.”
“Anyone here?” Sam asked. “We're here to rescue you. Can you hear us?”
A scraping sound. It was hard to tell where it originated. The ship creaked again, and the lights continued to flicker. The sound of bird wings flapping in the walls and ceiling. A flock trying to get out. No, not wings. It was a fast string of clicks. Something was clicking.
“This is not good,” Sam whispered, closely examining the walls and ceiling. He went to press his ear against the wall, but his helmet smacked hard against the metal. He cursed and put a glove against the bulkhead. It vibrated. As far as he could tell, the scraping and clicking sounds were coming from inside the walls – or maybe from the deck above them. It was hard to be certain; the sounds moved fast.
“The dots are three feet in front of you,” Dexter said. “Moving toward you. Two feet...”
“I don't see anyone,” Sam said.
“One foot... and now right on top of you. Can't you see anyone... anything? They're moving rapidly; the heat signatures just passed you.”
George looked up. “I think they're in the ceiling, guys. I could hear something. But now I can't.”
The clicks faded.
“They're at the back of the ship now,” Dexter reported. “Keep moving forward. Get to the bridge. More heat signatures are ahead.”
“People in the ceiling ducts?” Sam asked. “That's not too creepy!”
“Not people,” Bohai said.
“Then what?”
“I don't know yet.” He didn't say more.
The three men walked toward the bridge. On the floor ahead a boot lay on its side. Bohai crouched down and lifted it with two gloved fingers. The soles were bloody.
“Not a good sign, guys.”
He turned the boot upside down, and blood dripped onto the floor from inside it. He grimaced, dropped the boot and stood up again.
They advanced together in a straight line toward the bridge; its closed door calling to them with a flashing LED light on its side panel. It was the gate to what lay at the heart of this mess. The hallway stretched forever to get there. It felt stifling – a silent enclosure of secrets. Perhaps no one was left to tell what happened here, except for the strangers scratching through the ceiling.
People in the walls.
Sam sensed he was suffocating. Panic set in.
At the door to the bridge, George nudged the other two out of the way and stood primed with his blaster rifle in hand. He triggered the door open and shoved his rifle forward. Nothing shot back at them, but a
loose wire sparked and startled him. He swung toward it, but caught himself before firing.
No people. The bridge looked empty. Another lonely riddle with few clues.
Tentatively George placed his boot inside and checked the perimeter. He brought the rest of his body in, and no alarms triggered. No traps. Sam and Bohai followed him into the room. Once inside, the door snapped shut. On the small bridge, the lights flickered in the same rhythm as in the hallways, and an electrical circuit again sputtered and splashed a tiny fountain of sparks. Other than the electrical sounds, the ship was silent. It did not hum; the engines were off.
“Nobody here,” Sam said. “So who sent the distress call?”
“I hate to say it,” George said. “But I think whatever used to be in that bloody boot back there.”
“We're too late then.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
They poked around the bridge and tried each of the controls. Nothing responded. One monitor came on, but its image was fuzzy and distorted.
More puzzles without pieces.
But Sam got his panic under control. He breathed heavily, which could be heard over his microphone.
“Easy,” Bohai said. “You sound like a dark lord in a movie. You don't need to 'suppress the rebellion' today, dude. Relax a little bit.”
Sam nodded. He tried not to breathe so loud. His fists and shoulders loosened, but he still hated the cloudy view through his visor. Baby steps.
Bohai grabbed a long tubular metal pipe and rolled it in his hands. It had fallen from a ceiling mechanism, most likely during a struggle between two people. Who fought here? He wondered, and twirled it around like a Bō stick.
“Careful with that,” George chided. “If you hit me in the head, we're gonna have more than words to exchange.”
“I know what I'm doing.”
“What's happening?” Dexter's voice asked via the helmets. The transmission crackled more than before.
“No one is on the bridge,” Sam said.
“I think there is someone,” Dexter reported. “Look down by your feet on the left wall. That heat shape looks the size of a man.