No response. He fidgeted with the controls and found the button to transmit.
‘Yes. There’s two of us,’ he answered again.
‘Stand by,’ the voice replied.
He cut the pod’s thrusters and breathed a heavy sigh of relief that turned into a yawn.
‘That was a sexy voice,’ said Tazman.
They felt a sudden pull and the display confirmed the force of a gravity well. Milton stood and wiped the foggy hatch window. The ship’s underside came into view, its surface had a reflective silver coating and it had the features of a manoeuvrable fighter, but was much larger.
As they were watching, a circular door twisted open, unleashing a flood of light that washed into the pod’s interior, revealing a column of dust particles floating in the stale air. The pod rose into an airlock shaft. The ship’s outer door closed and pressurisation vents hissed. A cargo elevator folded out from the wall beneath, and drew the pod onto it with magnetism as the gravity well subsided. The platform ascended through the shaft and into the emerging opening above.
Once the elevator stopped, Milton opened the hatch and lifted through. He slid down the side of the pod and surveyed the area. They were in a cargo hold, significantly darker than the shaft. Light beamed from the crack between the elevator and the airlock rim. Red crates with white stripes were stacked in scattered piles. The cool air smelled of matraelium fuel.
Tazman climbed out raggedly behind him. A high-pitched electrical charging noise emitted from a corner. Milton turned to find the wrong end of a pulse pistol pointing at him. A lady stepped out from the shadows. ‘Greetings,’ she said cheerfully. She stepped up to the platform, holding her gun at waist level. Her left arm was an artificial robotic appendage.
‘Nice piece,’ remarked Tazman.
With her metal hand, she unclipped a device from her belt and thrust it forward. A horizontal sheet of green light burst from its tip, scanning Milton from head to boot. Her robotic arm moved with the faint sounds of tiny hydraulics and machine parts. Its covering was silver with black grips on the hand and fingertips.
She looked at them curiously. Her brilliant green eyes were distinctive, even in the darkened space. Her face was framed with high cheekbones and her dark shoulder-length hair was tied back. Another gun was firmly secured to the dual holster she was wearing. Her figure-hugging attire consisted of plated metal on her chest, arms and legs, leaving spaces at the elbows and knees for mobility. She was dressed for combat.
‘Are you a Human … like me?’ Milton asked.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, glancing at the scan readout, destroying his hopes with her offhand response.
She moved the beam to Tazman who, with a half-smile, stepped forward enthusiastically. He turned and winked at Milton before addressing her. ‘We need a ride to Oris —’
She cut him off by levelling the gun with his head. Twitching her weapon to the side, she pointed it at a pile of crates. The hitchhikers got the idea; they backed up and sat down. A yellow lamp activated somewhere above. She stepped forward, not taking her eyes off them.
‘The Orisurrection space colony,’ Tazman finished.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘Well, my name’s Tazman and this is my obviously Human sidekick, Milton,’ he replied.
‘Where did you come from? Escape pods do not escape from nothing.’
‘Nova Corp, Madam,’ he answered with a smile. He lifted his hand and gave a mock salute.
‘The Reconotyre?’ she asked, glancing back at the beat-up pod.
‘Exactly,’ chimed the simian.
Milton recognised the Nova Corp distribution codes on the surrounding cargo crates. She was trying to make a delivery.
‘What are two Nova Corp personnel doing floating in the middle of nowhere? Where is your ship?’
‘Well,’ explained Milton. ‘It was atta—’
Tazman cut in, ‘On route to Orisurrection. You see we’re in the middle of detailing the escape pods, right? And so there’s a malfunction and we get shot into oblivion. True story. So happy you found us.’
She didn’t look convinced. Her fingers tightened on the pistol grip.
‘Easy there, lady,’ Tazman held up his open palms, attempting to change the subject. ‘Is there anyone else we can talk to? Someone more important like say … the captain — is he around?’
Her cheekbones crawled back under her skin and she narrowed her icy gaze.
‘You’re talking to her,’ she snapped. ‘And if you don’t watch it, you can float off. I could quick-release your arses and that scrap heap right back the way you came.’
‘Quick-release,’ Milton thought. He had heard the term before. You could open both doors of an airlock for a few spuckons and release anything close to the opening — for emergencies only. He could imagine a big button nearby, made for that very purpose, probably red with a plastic guard. This lady might be reckless enough. Milton spoke up before Tazman could say any more.
‘Look, I’m sorry. Ignore him. He’s an idiot,’ he said. ‘But he doesn’t mean any harm. We’ve been out for a long time and we would really appreciate a ride to the Orisurrection space colony. If you won’t help, you might as well shoot us. Because there’s no way we’re getting back in that escape pod.’
‘Do you have anything in the way of payment?’
‘There is a Nova Corp outpost at the colony,’ Milton said. ‘I’m sure they’ll compensate you.’ A moment of silence passed.
‘You boys are fortunate. It’s my next stop.’ She holstered her weapon. ‘Greetings and welcome to the Inhibitan. As you are now staying, I request that you not touch anything. If you act remotely suspicious, the penalty is death. Do you understand?’ She finished with a smile that failed to compromise the seriousness in her eyes.
The two engineers exchanged a glance and babbled agreement in unison.
Four
Milton sat in the Inhibitan’s co-pilot seat and stared into the hyperspace tube, mesmerised. The bright purple tunnel went on to infinity. Thick energy bolts of white and yellow streaked through its wall. He had heard about it but had never seen it from a cockpit. Someone had told him hyperspace — an alternate plane of existence — was the fastest form of space travel.
The Inhibitan’s forward pane doubled as the screen for the onboard computer. Status and mode displays overlaid the view of the tube. Milton didn’t know exactly what the symbols meant but he could gather the gist. The photon reactor numbers showed its temperature as well as the status of the annihilations made from the antimatter supply. The scanning data was blank because, due to the mysterious shifting nature of hyperspace, accurate data and measurements could not be gathered, which was why all the navigational information had to be calibrated beforehand. The tube’s glow faintly lit the cockpit’s dark interior. The silent flashes of energy brightened the small space at various angles and intensities and cast different sets of shadows each time.
Status screens and mounted control panels dotted the surrounding walls. A few panels had been removed, exposing disconnected wiring with several shut-down switches. The outer casings were stacked on a nearby shelf next to an open box of tools.
Black padding lined Milton’s seat. Its bounciness, along with the untouched leather covering, indicated it was new. But the deduction somewhat altered when Milton ran his hand over the adjustable armrests, uncovering a thin layer of dust. Both his and the pilot’s seats were positioned in rectangular gaps in the front flight console, and separated by a short block of additional switches and buttons.
The captain relaxed in the well-chiselled grooves of her pilot’s chair. She had set it back on its rails, allowing herself room to cross her legs over the console to the right of the flight controls. She stared ahead with one of her guns crossed over her chest, the barrel pointed in Milton’s general direction.
Tazman sat in the reserve pilot seat to the captain’s side of the cockpit entrance, with his head snuggl
ed against the wall and his opposite leg draped over the armrest. The muffled hum of the ship’s engine dominated the conversation. Tazman, eager to make noise, began to whistle. His tune ranged from slow and sombre to bright and spritely, at which point he projected his whistle to the back of the captain’s seat. He was a good whistler and Milton found the tune entertaining at times. The captain half rolled her eyes at the noise and sighed, subtly tensing as the volume increased.
For the whopping finale, Tazman sat up and puffed out his chest. He spread his arms and drew out the note with his usual gusto. When he finished, he twirled his arms and began tapping the armrests. The captain kept a steady gaze. A few quanuts later, the noise ended and Tazman tried his luck with engaging her in friendly conversation.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ he began.
‘You won’t know me long enough to need it,’ she replied.
Milton broke into a restrained smile at the awkward silence. Tazman shot him a look that said, ‘Well okay, how about this,’ and tried again.
‘What happened to your arm?’ he asked.
‘None of your business,’ she said.
‘Oh come on, it’s probably a real exciting story. I’d like to hear what happened to the other guy,’ he said.
Milton turned and eyed the simian, urging him to stop lest he hit sensitive territory. Tazman simply smiled back, probably at the realisation he was bothering two people for the price of one.
A beeping sounded throughout the ship, joined by a flashing rectangular red light on the middle of the main console that lit up the entire cockpit.
‘Approaching Orisurrection space colony finally,’ muttered the captain. She folded her legs away and adjusted her chair, sliding closer. Sitting straight-backed, she put her pistol down and flicked switches to unlock the flight wheel, gripping it in her respective gloved and metal hands. Milton watched her movements with curiosity. She glanced at him before self-consciously turning to the front, obviously not used to company.
The smooth glide of hyperspace travel shifted into the rugged uneasiness of the known realm. The Inhibitan vibrated and thrusters fired to ease the slowdown. The photon reactor numbers dropped and the visual levels shrank from the screen. The hyperspace tube with its streaking energies blasted forward in a blurry mess and dissipated completely. The horrifying scene of their intended destination lay before them.
Orisurrection’s disc-shaped hull was ripped wide open. A fragmented expanse of twisted metal littered the surrounding space. Shattered remains of docking hangars and machinery floated to the side. Chunks of living quarters were smeared across the area. Milton felt sick.
Tazman’s hands crept over the shoulders of both seats. He leaned in, wide-eyed, his pupils dilating. ‘We were here only two shifts ago,’ he said.
The captain steadily eased the controls left, avoiding a drifting antenna — a repair vehicle was still clamped to its dish. The tracked wheels were barely attached. A gaping circular burn had taken a bite from the engine. Through the hole of its cracked visors, Milton could make out an unmoving suited body inside.
The hull rattled as metallic particles patted the Inhibitan’s skin. The captain slowed to avoid a flat piece of drifting shell on the right. The metal rotated into the light, revealing reflective strips of paint, symbols that spelt the first half of the word Orisurrection.
The Inhibitan glided towards the looming wreckage. The captain turned into the hull. Her hands delicately applied pressure to the controls. The turning thrusters fired in small hisses, keeping the ship pointed at the opening on the other side. Darkness crawled over the pane and across the faces of the Inhibitan’s passengers. Milton looked up and saw the main corridor, a place he had walked not long ago. The shadows of shrivelled bodies floated like ghosts. Their hands, clawed and bony, clutched one another in desperation. The glow of the thrusters swept over their faces, revealing snap-frozen expressions of terror.
The captain rotated the ship ninety degrees and sailed through the exit slit. The console chirped and the autoscan results displayed on the windshield. No life was detected.
‘There were kids here,’ said Milton.
The captain swallowed through a clenched jaw. ‘We’re leaving,’ she said. She accessed the navi system and punched in fresh co-ordinates. ‘I can take you boys to Lubric. Anywhere else would be too far from my path. This will cost extra.’
The hitchhikers exchanged a wordless glance as the Inhibitan cleared the space junk. Once the patting of loose metal on the outer shell died down, the captain pushed a lever on the console, kicking her ship into a quantum jump and summoning the hyperspace tube once again.
Fleet Commander Viceon Raegar cracked his four sets of knuckles and laid his hands on the specially designed armrests. Apart from the occasional eye movement, he sat motionless, staring into the purple hyperspace tube before him.
His crew was in his peripherals. Each member sat at monitoring stations in slightly sunken sections of the floor. Rookies. He didn’t mind them. Young blood was good for the company.
An outer-rim space colony had failed to make a periodical transmission. His mission was simple: fly to Orisurrection, investigate the loss of contact and re-establish communications. The situation wasn’t uncommon; transmissions often got lost in the outer rim — sucked into black holes or absorbed by stars — the extended distance caused difficulties. Apparently, thanks to the Weinians, the old methods were about to change. Raegar couldn’t help but sense that, little by little, with every advancement, he was on his way to redundancy.
He operated faithfully under the banner of the Tranquillian Composite, a fusion of worlds dedicated to preserve co-habitation. Although relatively small in terms of military might, the cooperation of all participating worlds made the Composite a dominant force. The headquarters was located on Cenyulone, a small planet close to the galaxy’s centre.
Commander Raegar was a Kharla, a creature with high muscle mass. His skull protruded forward in the middle of his face, stopping short of his black nose, and back in the upper rear of his head. His rubbery antennae followed the curve. He had round, nocturnal, mammal eyes, which he kept half-open most of the time. His monochrome skin sagged with age; black as space on his back, and fading to white on his muscular midsection. Stemming from his thin middle, his legs had bulging thighs, backward jointing knees and feet with two toes each. Kharla were naturals in speed and melee combat. The commander wore a tailor-made Composite uniform and displayed his war medals proudly on the dark blue jacket.
His name, Raegar, had become a synonym for accomplisment. Forty zircles ago, he played a crucial role in the civil war. With dwindling numbers and limited supplies, he single-handedly orchestrated the unplanned battle that turned the tide of the war. To the rookies, he was an indestructible legend. It was said that without him the Tranquillian Composite wouldn’t still exist.
Among his rank, however, the story was entirely different. No one much respected his judgement anymore. He sensed their politeness but not their respect. Procedures were different now and apparently command had no room for veterans. He would be the first to admit his reflexes had slowed over the years. He was scoring below average on tests and age made him an apparent liability. Now he was assigned primarily to reconnaissance missions and training new recruits.
New officers felt at ease with Raegar’s relaxed demeanour, which was why his ship had the most number-one preferences among new candidates. The low-risk missions and the opportunity to serve under a legend made ideal learning conditions. Although, after a term aboard the Inquisitor, most candidates, thinking they had learned everything they needed to know, would request a transfer to a more eventful post — usually to one of the younger captains — ones that shared their passion for glory and recognition.
Although Raegar was qualified to lead a fleet, the Inquisitor was the sole vessel at his disposal. She was a sizeable patrol ship with dark grey plating and a decent array of firepower. The bridge was housed in a sect
ion that looked like a spearhead that sat on a ‘neck’ connected to a large wingless body that ended with colossal circular thrusters.
The bridge lights beamed to life and the Inquisitor slowed. Raegar’s eyelids peeled back. The shattered debris of the Orisurrection colony spread across his view.
Gasps and whispers piped among the rookies. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three of them lean back in their seats to see the disaster for themselves.
‘Scan for life,’ the commander ordered in his low gravelly voice. He stood up and slowly stepped forward as if in a trance. He walked up the polished path, to the Inquisitor’s front pane, not taking his eyes from Orisurrection’s hull.
‘Zero life readings sir,’ a nervous voice spoke.
Raegar raised a four-fingered hand to the shield for balance, looking closely at the wreck. He examined the shape of the hull and the direction in which its surface was torn. With narrowed and alert eyes, he searched for telltale signs of weapon residue, observed the arrangement of the pieces and tried to determine how long ago the event took place and the direction of attack. His hands clenched. Swollen veins of anger grew down each of his arms. From his nostrils came a loud, aggressive snort that fogged the shield.
He marched back to his chair, pondering possible suspects. Initially, the Tyde came to mind. Motivated by greed, they would be more than capable of merciless slaughter.
‘Deploy investigation and salvage teams,’ Raegar snapped.
He sat back in his chair and unlocked the controls on his armrests. A keypad for each flipped out and slid to within reach of his fingers. Four holographic screens appeared in the air before him. Each displayed different readings while the scanners continued their search cycles. He studied them carefully.
His thoughts, hopes and fears instantly disappeared; his mind was clear for the task ahead. He felt a cunning he thought had left him with his youth. He missed the thrill of battle, the great satisfaction in overseeing the lockdown of pirate ships.
His crew chattered around him. Higher ranking officers gave orders to the rookies, a usual occurrence when Raegar was taken into his own little world. When this happened, and it often did, his first mate had the task of keeping everyone on track.
Rift Breaker Page 3