by R. T. Kaelin
The Captain and several passengers hurried to meet me, joyful smiles plastered on their faces.
“Someone drop this?” I asked, waving the teddy as I stepped out of the airlock and onto the deck.
I heard a gasp and saw a little girl running forward. “Teddy!”
“How’d you find it?” a teary-eyed woman asked, her eyes wide with amazement.
“It found me,” I said as I released the bear into its owner’s joyful arms. The Captain and the woman smiled back at me. “All in a day’s work,” I said with a shrug.
The Captain slapped me on the back as he laughed and led me through the parting crowd. And that's when all hell broke loose.
Klaxons blared as red lights flashed overhead. Passengers screamed. Crew members ran.
“What is it?” I asked the Captain, who was speaking into his shoulder comm with the bridge.
“Hull compromise. And it's failing.”
“What? It's a small hole!” I knew I should have been more thorough. It couldn't be the one I've seen.
“Not anymore,” the Captain said, leading me to a wall monitor where he punched up an image. The hole had indeed widened. The vacuum seals were failing.
“How far to the nearest repair depot?”
“Too far.”
“We'll have to plug it then.” I raced back to the Trini before he could answer, hopped into the cockpit and fired up the controls. Within minutes, I launched again and headed for the location of the hole in the liner's hull.
Operating the Trini's controls with one hand, I punched instructions into her computer with the other.
“Calculating,” the computer responded as it ran a formula on how to repair the breach.
The comm beeped. “The ship's computer gives us twenty minutes until it fails,” the Lady Luck’s Captain reported. “We're already evacuating the section and sealing it off.”
I nodded and mumbled an affirmation as my eyes went to the monitor. Trini's computer took forever in its calculations. “Come on. It's an emergency!”
“We are not equipped for starliner repair,” the female voice shot back. “A sizable carbonite fragment is necessary—”
I keyed the comm. “Captain, do you have any carbonite aboard?”
“Not enough.”
“I thought liners carried extra hull plates?”
“Not for any sizable repair.”
“It's a small hole,” I groaned then saw that the hole had expanded again. It was now the size of a human head, plenty large that if it wasn’t fixed, the ship would tear itself apart. I cursed to myself just as an idea popped to mind. “Calculate comparison: Trini hull curvature to Lady Luck hull curvature at breach.”
“Calculating,” replied the nav computer.
Finicky as she was, I at least felt grateful the computer wasn't a real woman who could argue with me about what I had in mind. Using tractor beams and my own hull might be enough to get the liner to the nearest depot, even if we had to travel at reduced speed.
“Aft section Thirty-Eight match.”
I chuckled to myself. “Duncan, you're a genius.” Then I opened the comm. “Captain, are you equipped with a counter tractor?”
The Captain sounded confused as expected. “Yes…why?”
“I'm going to place my hull over the breach and we'll use my tractor and your counter to secure us together.”
“We can't travel very fast like that.”
“So? You won’t die. .”
There was no response as I began maneuvering the Trini into position. The Aft Thirty-Eight section was just to the right of my engines. I throttled forward and spun my ship in an arc so that the Trini's front faced the rear of the Lady Luck. Then I slowed down and eased her into position, preparing to fire the tractor beam as I did.
I hit the comm. “Are you ready?”
“We have you in range,” the Captain answered.
“Prepare to lock on my mark.” Metal screeched as the hulls met and grated against one another. With my gaze fixed on my computer, I prepared to brake and fire the tractor beam. When the computer indicated Section Thirty-Eight was aligned with the breach, I hit the switch. “Now, Captain!”
The jolt almost threw me from my chair, but I held onto the arms and waited. With a loud pop, the two beams did their job and effectively joined the two ships like mismatched Siamese twins.
“Locked.” The computer and the Captain said together.
I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and mumbled. “Let's hope this works.” I keyed the comm: “How far to the nearest depot, Captain?”
“Traveling at reduced speed, a day and a half.”
“It'll have to do.”
Although the Captain invited me several times, I stayed alone aboard the Trini for the voyage. Someone had to stay in case the tractors failed. Besides, I wasn't much for luxury ships. Too many people, too many possibilities for trouble. There was a reason I worked alone.
The journey felt like an eternity. I slept fitfully in the cockpit seat which hadn’t been designed for that, but I couldn’t risk leaving the controls. Besides, I had to monitor the seal regularly. To my relief, it held. The Lady Luck's hull showed no further deterioration, and, at noon on the second day, we reached a depot on Neptune's outer moon.
But she wouldn't fit.
The two ships tied together couldn’t get through the depot’s hangar opening, which was barely wide enough for the liner alone.
The Captain and I consulted with the maintenance chief. “If we separate, the hull could fail just from the pressure release,” he said.
“Can you repair her outside?” I asked.
The maintenance chief scowled through the monitor. “We don't have the equipment for zero grav repair. I can't risk my men like that.”
“Then we'll have to evacuate her.”
“We can't handle an influx of five thousand—”
“What do you suggest, Chief? We sit here and you watch us die?” The Captain snapped, exhaustion was wearing him down. But I couldn't fault him. The man we came to for solutions was just offering us more problems not answers. I was tempted to greet him with my blaster rather than a handshake.
“We just need a temporary seal. Five minutes to pull you in.” The Chief was clearly searching for better options.
My mind went to my zero grav suit. The curvature of the breast might just be a match.
I keyed the comm and hurried to the suit. “I have an idea.”
“What is it?” The Captain sounded like a man resigned to his death.
“Trust me. It’ll work. Get ready to fire your thrusters on my mark.”
I shut off the comm and finished putting on the suit then hurried to the airlock. Slamming my fist against the button to close the interior door, I punched in the code to start decompression and open the doors, then sealed my helmet as the warning lights and buzzer flared. My nose crinkled at the rancid assault. I'd sweated a lot as I escaped the tumbleweeds. Time to wash the suit.
When the exterior door opened, I fired my jets and hurried around to where the ships were locked in their gravitational embrace. Moving my head in next to the two ships, I keyed the comm. “Are you ready to release the beam, Captain?”
“I wish you'd tell me what you have in mind.”
“I'm going to use my suit to block the leak.”
He objected but I paid no attention, too focused on my task. Keying the comm, I took a deep breath and put my right hand on the jet controls. “Now, Captain!” I fired the jets as my left hand keyed the comm to the Trini. “Tractor beam off.”
“Tractor beam off,” the computer repeated.
A whoosh of air from the Lady Luck struck me as the ships separated, the Trini drifting away. I jetted into position in a matter of seconds, placing my suit's breast over the hole where the Trini had been. “Tractor me!”
My chest felt like was being crushed by a planet. I struggled just to breathe. “Adjust!” I finally croaked, unable to manage more than one word. In seconds
, the pressure eased a bit. “Go!”
The Lady Luck's engines hummed, passing a vibration through her hull to the suit. To call it uncomfortable would be an understatement, but I held my tongue, instead calling up the Trini on the comm.
“Autopilot.” “Autopilot on. Course?”
“Hold…position.”
“Holding, sir.”
In moments, it was all over. The Lady Luck settled into the hangar, the artificial gravity increasing as the tractor beam unlocked. I came loose and drifted to the hangar floor on my knees.
“You okay, Derring?” the Chief asked over the comm.
I barely managed a nod, too busy sucking in air. I'd done it. The Lady Luck was safe.
Soon we were toasting the victory in the liner’s ballroom. I’ll say one thing about the Lady Luck, her crew knew how to party. And the teddy bear child's mother? She sure knows how to kiss. All in a day's work.
*
Day of the Shadows
by Donald J. Bingle
Dian loved the sun, not so much for its heat, but for its light. Until he was six, he spent almost every day in brightness, the sun shining fiercely in a blue sky as he watched from his home high on the hill above Tjaringin, on the western coast of Java, as sailing ships and steam vessels ferried their heavy loads through the Sunda Strait. The small port shipped pepper and received cargoes of foreign luxury goods, mostly Dutch foodstuffs and Chinese cloth.
The sun was hot year-round in Java, but Dian, like most of his countrymen, wore little to hold the heat against his body. More importantly, a soothing breeze from the ocean flowed up the hill at a cross-angle, cooling him and his family and carrying away the smoke and smells of the bustling town below. The breeze, he was sure, was all that made the temperature tolerable for the Dutch, who despite the tropical clime clung to the heavy breeches and ridiculous jackets of their native land.
Dian laughed at the clothing and strange customs of the Dutch and at the odd stories of Jesus the kindly old reverend pressed on local children, but thought the Dutch harmless—at least at first. But then his uncle Chahaya was killed. Dian did not know all the details; he was six and thus excluded from adult conversations. He heard only that a Dutch carriage had sideswiped the long, thin, planks workers used to load the heavy bales of pepper onto docked vessels. His father had returned to their home the night of the incident bloody and bruised. Uncle Chahaya did not return at all.
Dian’s father, who had never found anything about the Dutch to be amusing, blamed the colonialists for Chahaya’s death and his own misfortune. He became bitter and angry, shouting a lot, both at home and in the village at work, about how evil the Dutch taskmasters were. The Dutch did not take kindly to his rabble-rousing. Soon, he had no work and the Dutch authorities took him for questioning whenever something bad happened. He would be gone for days and come home bruised and beaten. And although Dian’s family’s house still stood in the sunshine at the top of the hill overlooking Tjaringin, Dian now began to notice there were shadows lurking at the edges of the light.
Then, one evening two days after his father had been taken by the authorities yet again, the light truly began to fail. As Dian watched the sun setting in an orange and mauve fire-burst behind distant Sumatra, with only the wisp of a purple cloud above the pointed island mountain to the north, he saw a shadow staggering up the pathway of the hill. The shadow blocked the light, blinding him as his eyes attempted to adjust. Dian screamed as a heavy, sticky weight fell on his feet, grabbing at his legs. His scream drew his mother, his big brother, Budi, and his little sister, Atin. As Dian’s eyes finally adjusted, he saw his mother and brother helping his bloody father into their small house. Atin stood to the side, crying in fear.
Three days later, Dian’s family left their home above Tjaringin forever, settling in a small village where his mother’s cousins lived more than six hours inland from the coast. Here there were no Dutchmen, foolish or evil, no ships, no shops, no heavy clothing or foreign goods, no stories of Jesus, no sparkling ocean vistas, no cooling breezes.
Here, everything was basic and Javan. The work was hard, the food simple, and the quarters crowded, dirty, and damp. And although Dian’s father still had to use a cane to walk, his physical injuries faded over time. The wounds to his spirit, however, festered. He grew even more sullen and irritable, angering quickly at the mention of anything foreign, especially anything to do with Tjaringin or the Dutch. Everyone in the village spoke only the local language and lived in the traditional ways. And as the days grew to months, Dian began to think nothing fun, interesting, or happy would ever happen again, that life would be long, boring, and miserable.
Then came the day of the shadows.
It began as any other, Dian waking in the stifling swelter of the hut, eating a handful of cooked rice, and heading into the trees surrounding the village to scour for firewood. As always, the jungle stank. Hot, moist air pressed in on him, heavy and thick; no breeze cooled him or carried away the foul odor of his sweat. Instead, his smell wafted only as far as his nose and eyes, assaulting his senses just like the thorns and prickles and insects assaulted bare arms and legs as he moved through the unruly, growing and rotting vegetation.
Decent firewood was hard to find in the jungle. Damp permeated any deadfall that lingered on the ground more than a few hours. Bright, gooey fungus grew on decaying logs within days. A wild profusion of branches, vines, and thickets made searching for fuel a difficult task. The beady eyes of jungle rats and the clinging webs of biting spiders made things even worse.
As Dian trudged back to the communal fire in the village with his morning’s meager gatherings, Budi called out to him.
“No more chores today, Dian! The dalang has arrived. Today is the day of wayang purwa.”
Dian did not smile. Instead, he scowled and kept on moving toward the woodpile with his offering of dry wood.
“Hah,” said Budi with a smile, “you don’t remember. You were little when we last saw him. The dalang, he brings puppets made of flat leather representing all the gods and heroes and villains and tricksters of the wayang. After dark, a big sheet of cloth is put up, with a fire behind it, and the shadows of the puppets are cast upon the sheet. The dalang tells wonderful stories and epics. The musicians he brings play the gamelan. Then we eat! It is great fun.”
Dian sighed. “I remember a little. It was dark and I was sleepy and the stories were long and confusing.”
Budi scoffed. “The stories are about the tasks and adventures of the gods.” His eyes brightened. “There are ogres and battles and animal spirits and … even sex.”
Dian blushed, but his brother continued. “My favorite villain is Kalagumarang. He is a wild pig that attacks the crops the Goddess Sri is teaching the peasants to grow.”
Dian laughed. “Yes, you would like the wild pig.” Then his smile faded. “But the wayang purwa won’t start until dark. We have many chores to do before then.”
“Not so, little one. Today is the tale of Purwakala.”
“So?”
“So, this lakon is always told in the morning, because in the dark even the shadows of the gods in it are so powerful they can escape and rampage through the village, snatching up small children and devouring them. At least, so it is told. I think the story is told in the morning so little ones like you aren’t still too afraid come nightfall you can’t go to sleep.” Budi motioned over his shoulder. “See, they are setting up where the morning sun will be behind the sheet and the shadows can still be seen during daylight. If we hurry, we can find a place to sit where we can see and still be near the musicians.”
Dian dropped off his wood and followed his brother to where the dalang and the gamelan players were preparing for their performance. Mother made him take Atin to sit with them, but Atin was well-behaved, so he didn’t mind.
Dian was amazed at the intricacy of the various puppets. The dried goat leather was cut into full body silhouettes of the different characters in profile. A sturdy stick let
the dalang hold the puppet and spin it to show it facing either direction. Shoulder and elbow joints on the puppet’s long arms and legs allowed the dalang to use thinner sticks to create gestures and movement. Exaggerated facial features, as well as elaborate headdresses and ear ornaments, helped identify characters. The leather was pierced and colored in elaborate fashion, as was a huge, leaf-shaped representation of the Mountain of Life.
Maybe this would be interesting after all.
Finally, all was set and the dalang began the lakon. The music was dramatic and the dalang’s skill with the puppets—conveying movement and gestures, even expressions—was excellent, but what little Dian could follow of the story was much more frightening than any of the stories the old reverend told of Jesus. The lakon started out with a large, four-armed, deformed puppet with long, scary fangs. The hideous creature limped and lurched as it moved from one side of the sheet to the other. One of its four arms wielded a wickedly long trident.
“That’s Bathara Guru, the Lord of the Heavens,” whispered Budi to Dian. “He was cursed with ugliness because of his pride.”
Bathara Guru leapt high and a round seed seemed to drop from him. The shadow of the seed grew into a large ball which brightened as it grew. Suddenly, there was a crescendo of gamelan music and the glowing ball was replaced with the shadow of a huge, ugly giant. Budi laughed and pointed. “That is Bathara Kala, seed of Bathara Guru. He is the God of Evil, Disorder, and Despair, born as a ball of fire, but transformed into a raging giant. Bathara Kala is permitted by the gods to gorge himself on human flesh. Watch, here come some poor victims now.”
Budi made exaggerated biting faces as the evil giant munched on person after person, but Dian didn’t find the lakon funny at all. From what he could tell, Bathara Kala especially sought those villagers in the tale who worked long hours or had some family misfortune (like Dian’s family). It was vicious and unsettling.