by S. K. Vaughn
“Right,” he scoffed at them. “The bridge is yours. Best of luck.”
He looked at Stephen with contempt and walked out. Jack watched the door for several minutes.
“He’s not coming back,” Stephen said.
“Shut up,” Jack yelled.
“Calm down, Jack,” Zola said sternly. “This is the bridge.”
Jack nodded and went back to staring at the door. Zola shot Stephen the same look she’d given Jack, then walked to the eye.
“Power-flow schematic.”
The ship’s complicated network of power distribution appeared in the eye.
“I think comms are dark because of the intermittent power flow,” Zola began. “Ian thought it was the opposite, but that’s what I believe. There’s nothing worse for sophisticated systems like ours than interrupted power flow.”
“While maintaining a completely unprecedented cruise speed that most ‘engineers’ would have told you is impossible, even if they’d seen it,” Jack added, also with a touch of vindication in his voice. “You run anything in the red long enough and you can’t avoid exposing the weak links in the chain. But we’ve looked at every link.”
“Not propulsion,” Zola said. “The reactor is healthy. It’s generating obscene amounts of power.”
“Most of that power is going to propulsion,” Stephen said.
“The fat man at the front of the buffet line,” Jack said.
“Propulsion has the most working parts as well,” Zola continued. “The greatest number of chain links. And it’s delicate. All those lovely metal tiles. And all that electrical current, enough microwaves to boil the Atlantic Ocean, constant pressure, relentless heat.”
She pulled up a schematic of the propulsion system.
“The points where power flows into the cone are showing high levels of extremely low frequency radiation output. Abnormal amounts.”
“Maybe it’s an insulation problem,” Stephen said, “causing multiple shorts.”
“Possibly, but the lines have been addressed,” Jack said. “They’re functioning properly.”
“I’ll give you that,” Zola said. “But we don’t know how bombarding the microwave cavity with ELF rads would affect it. How could we? Nothing has ever been tested.”
“This is the test run,” Stephen said. “ELF rads don’t dissipate easily. They can build up, and at certain levels they can easily cause interference. I’ve dealt with this with my nanomachines, which I suspect are not all that different from your tiles.”
“If their interference disrupted power flow to the cavity,” Zola continued, “it would seek to acquire more power to maintain our ‘impossible’ velocity. Everything in the distribution hierarchy below propulsion then suffers—comms, artificial gravity . . .”
“The smaller people at the buffet don’t want to miss out on the prime rib,” Jack said. “So then you got a feeding frenzy.”
“One big short circuit,” Stephen said. “Is there a way to inspect the inside of the cone on EVA, check out the power inputs, find something not yet visible with normal diagnostics?”
They thought about it.
“Technically, yes,” Zola said. “But, like everything else, it’s never been done.”
“Well,” Jack said, “allow me to be the first.”
82
They powered down propulsion, and Jack went out on EVA to inspect the microwave cavity. He told Ian what he was doing and got no pushback. Ian also didn’t protest when he came back to the bridge and found Stephen unbound, watching the eye feed with Zola. He just stood back, observing with a sneer on the side of his face that worked.
After an hour, Jack hadn’t found any interference problems.
“It’s a dead end, Jack,” Ian said, tossing the sneer at Stephen. “We would have seen that on diagnostics. Come back in, please, and let’s put our heads back together.”
“Our diagnostic systems run on the same internal power as everything else,” Zola said. “Physical inspection is the only way to be sure.”
“Well, please do carry on, then,” Ian said, smiling.
“Whoa, you guys see this?” Jack shouted. He trained his helmet camera on a six-and-a-half-foot gash in the cavity tiles. There was a twisted piece of metal lodged in it.
“Missile shrapnel,” Stephen said, sneering right back at Ian. “Highly conductive. Definitely could draw current through it.”
“There’s our smoking gun,” Zola said. “Literally.”
She looked at Ian for validation. His sneer was gone.
“You’ll never hear me say this again,” he said, “but I was wrong. Good work.”
“I’m going to pull this thorn out of our paw,” Jack said.
“How the hell are we going to fix that?” Zola asked Ian, reeling him in a bit more. “It’s not like we brought a bunch of spare tiles along with us.”
“No need,” Ian said. “We can isolate and deactivate those panels. We’ll still have plenty of thrust. Not as much, but it’s probably best that we choose a more reasonable cruise velocity anyway.”
“Amen to that,” Jack said. “Here goes.”
They all watched the eye as he pulled on the piece of shrapnel, wriggling it out like a loose tooth. “I’ve never touched a real missile before,” he said.
“We can bring that back as a souvenir for Robert Warren,” Stephen said.
“Damn thing’s in there pretty good.”
“Want me to come out and assist?” Ian said.
“No, I think I got her,” Jack said, sinking deeper into his drawl. “Like pulling up an old fence post. Just got to work it back and forth.”
“I think you’re enjoying this a bit too much,” Zola laughed.
“Getting looser,” he yelled in response. “Almost there . . .”
Stephen moved closer to the image in the eye. The missile fragment had to be at least six feet long. It was an odd shape, with a smooth, rounded outer edge. The largest end of it had been sticking out of the tiles, while the rest of it was long and thin, like a massive needle.
“I wonder how heavy this thing would be in gravity,” Jack said.
“God only knows,” Ian said.
“The larger end is the tip of something,” Stephen said.
“Yeah, that part seems denser,” Jack said. “And here’s the rest.”
They watched and clapped as Jack freed the pointed end of it.
“Who’s the man?” he yelled.
A minuscule blue arc of current flashed from the tiles.
“Definitely conductive,” Zola said, nodding to Stephen.
“Jack, keep pulling that free, please,” Ian said. “The tiles are—”
There was a brilliant flash of light in the eye, and everyone froze for a half-second. Then came the sound and concussion of a massive explosion. Everyone was thrown violently about the bridge. Fire alarms sounded. Stephen pulled himself up and looked at the eye. Nothing.
“I need a visual on the cone,” Ian screamed. “Anything.”
“Affirmative,” the AI said, its voice glitching.
An image of the cone popped into the eye. Jack was gone, replaced by smoke and debris. The bridge filled with smoke.
“Jack,” Zola yelled, crawling up off the floor, her head bleeding.
“Helmets,” Ian shouted.
He and Zola got their helmets on and helped Stephen do the same.
“All hands, fire crew.”
“Reactor chamber,” Zola yelled out.
Another explosion. They all went flying, tumbling through darkness. Emergency lighting activated. Ian and Zola grabbed Stephen and used their suit thrusters to fly them down the smoky corridor past the engine room.
The reactor chamber was full of thick black smoke. It was small and cramped, with very little headroom. Ian and Zola tore the fire extinguishers from the locker and blasted the flames with thick white retardant the consistency of melted marshmallows. Latefa and Martin flew in. Martin joined Ian and Zola, while Latefa gave an extin
guisher to Stephen. Everyone was firing the extinguishers at the flames. Stephen was tumbling all over the place, trying to hang on to something to counteract the thrust of the foam from the nozzle. Ian shouted orders. The smoke was almost impenetrable.
“Extinguishers aren’t cutting it!” Zola screamed.
“Seal and bleed,” Ian yelled. “Everybody out.”
Zola, Latefa, and Martin flew back to the engine room door. Stephen couldn’t see them anymore. He couldn’t see Ian. Then Ian broke through the smoke. His EVA suit was on fire, and he was screaming for help. The smoke covered him again. Stephen went after him. He could hear Zola yelling, waiting to close the airlock.
Stephen caught sight of Ian again, struggling, burning. Stephen unloaded his fire extinguisher on him, engulfing him with the white retardant. The fire on his suit was out, but Ian was unconscious. Stephen grabbed him and tethered Ian’s suit to his. He used his thrusters to try to get to the airlock, but slammed into unseen walls and equipment.
“I can’t see. I have Ian. Help!”
The heat was bearing down on his suit. It was so hot that his air was suffocating him. He was starting to black out when Zola grabbed hold of him and pulled them both through the airlock door. She closed and sealed it behind them.
“Sealing deck,” she yelled. “Bleeding atmosphere.”
“Don’t freeze it,” Ian called out weakly, coming to.
“Copy.”
Zola bled the atmosphere, and they all watched the internal video feeds from inside the engine room. The bright orange light from the flames immediately vanished, followed by the smoke as it was sucked out into space. Just as ice crystals began to form on the camera lenses, Zola quickly restored the atmosphere in the room.
“Atmosphere restored. Opening airlock.”
They floated back into the reactor chamber. Mounds of semifrozen flame retardant covered everything like arctic ice flows. Zola checked the reactor panel.
“What’s it look like?” Stephen asked.
“Reactor is operational,” Zola said, breaking down. “But it looks like we’ve lost 25 to 40 percent of power.”
83
Houston, Texas
August 27, 2066
“I’ll never make it,” May screamed.
She was running around Stephen’s house in a panic, hastily throwing clothes and toiletries into a duffel bag with her cell phone mashed between her ear and shoulder.
“You’ve got to be kidding. Houston is a massive hub. Surely there’s another nonstop to London that isn’t leaving in two fucking hours,” she said through tears.
She heard Stephen’s car outside and tore open the curtains. He sprinted up the walk and into the house.
“May?”
“I’m here,” she yelled, coming around the corner.
“What the hell is going on? Your voice mail cut off.”
“It’s Mom. She’s in the hospital. The goddamn home nurse took her sweet time calling. Here, take this. It’s the airline. I have to pack.”
“How bad is it?”
“Bad,” she yelled as she continued stuffing things into the bag. “Worse than bad. They said it could be a matter of hours. Something about a stroke or a bleed or something. I need a flight. I need to go now.”
“Okay,” Stephen said, putting the phone to his ear.
While he spoke to the airline rep, May gave up on packing her bag and tore her clothes off. She’d been in training all morning and couldn’t bear the thought of her mother seeing her in sweat-soaked activewear. She’s stable but critical, they’d said. Her vital signs are dropping. When May asked them straight-up if she was dying, their answer had been point-blank, a shot through her heart: prognosis terminal. It’s only a matter of hours. She has a very clear Do Not Resuscitate contract. No acts of heroism. May had pleaded with them to break the rules a little, to buy her some time. She’d been talking to a brick wall—the apathetic singsong voice of the elder caregiver, with a subtle harmonic of relief.
After pounding online and calling every airline, she knew the bottom line was grim. The last direct flight to London was leaving in roughly two hours. All other flights included long layovers, ten to twelve hours of flight time versus a snappy five for the direct route. Five hours wasn’t all that snappy, though, especially when one added the two prior and however long it would take to get to Mom’s hospital. Only one seat was left as well. A solo voyage to hell.
“Okay, yes. We’re on our way.”
Stephen gave her back her phone and snatched up her bag. May was just finishing getting dressed and stepping into her shoes. Stephen’s anxious face held all the answers to her questions.
“I’ll never make it.”
“You will. I booked you a ticket in first class with expedited, private screening. As long as you’re there thirty minutes in advance, you’re on the flight. My car’s outside.”
“We’ll take mine.”
They strapped into May’s sports car, and she punched it. They drove at top speed to the airport, tires squealing around corners, narrowly missing collisions.
“The airline is going to have a rep meet you at the curb. She’ll escort you the whole way. Medical emergency status. School bus!” he yelled.
May torched another corner to avoid the bus and plowed ahead, fighting back tears.
“Thank you, Stephen.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I wish you could come with me.”
“I’m going to see what flights are available at the airport and get on one right behind you. I’ll get there eventually. Sounds like you need to be there now.”
“Yes,” she said, choking back emotion. “I can’t believe this might be it.”
“Don’t lose hope. Eve is tough as nails. She might still have a fighting chance.”
When they arrived at the airport, May’s flight was scheduled to leave in forty minutes. She kissed Stephen and ran to the curb, where the airline rep was waiting. They got into a cart and drove into the terminal with the emergency light flashing. May just made the flight. When she finally collapsed into her seat, she was bathed in sweat, and her face was streaked with tears and wet makeup blotches.
After takeoff, she cleaned up and let the pilots know who she was. They were more than happy to call ahead to the hospital for her. When they did, the hospital said her mom had been moved to intensive care but was still stable. May sat in her seat, watching the stars above, praying she would make it in time. During that excruciating five hours, she crucified herself for having put her career ahead of her relationship with Eve. The years of missed holidays, birthdays, and canceled visits felt like open wounds hemorrhaging lost time. At least she had been there for the wedding.
She arrived in London, completely strung out, at the peak of morning commuter traffic. The ride to the hospital just south of London took two hours. She called the nurses’ station, but a new crew had just arrived for the shift change and said they would call her back with a status update. Stuck in a parking lot of traffic less than thirty minutes from the hospital, she could no longer tolerate sitting in the car, inching along at a snail’s pace. She threw money at the driver and got out. Weaving angrily through several lanes of traffic, May was determined to walk the rest of the way to the hospital. Then she got the call. Eve had passed. They were so very sorry. May hung up and screamed at the top of her lungs, then broke down sobbing on the sidewalk.
When she finally made it to the hospital, she was pouring sweat, and her eyes looked as though they’d been nearly beaten shut. The place was horrible—gray concrete and dirty amber lighting. The staff shuffled past in their stained polyester uniforms, pushing gurneys with people who looked as if they were on their last legs. The nurse’s station had sent Eve to a geriatric ward, a slow death factory that smelled of urine and misery.
A tall, impossibly thin man with a bouncing Adam’s apple and greasy strands of hair combed over his bald head allowed May to view Eve’s body for a very brief five minutes before taking her
to the morgue. May tried to protest, but there were regulations to follow and he was more than happy to call security if she persisted. No sympathy. Just a stone wall of bureaucracy and five minutes with her dead mother.
May stood over Eve’s body, emptied of emotion, and stared in disbelief. Her mother was gone, and she would never see her again. All of what Eve had been was reduced to what lay on the table, an unrecognizable shell of a great woman. The skin on her face was drawn tightly around the bones, paper thin with scabbed-over sores on her forehead. Her dry, crooked lips had shrunk to the point that they didn’t cover the yellowing teeth behind them, and her mouth was frozen in a sharp grimace.
Eve was a twice-decorated combat pilot, a great soldier and mentor to May and countless other pilots through the decades, but she had died in a place unfit for the worst of the enemies she’d faced. And her only daughter had not been there with her in the end. Her only daughter had not been able to hold her hand and comfort her through the fear and confusion of her final moments. She had died alone, with no dignity, among ghouls impatiently waiting for her bed.
When Stephen finally made it to London, he found May in a hotel room, very drunk, sitting among the last of her mother’s possessions. With tears in his eyes, he tried to hold her, but she pushed him away.
“I’ve spoken to the home nurse and the hospital,” he said. “The asshole at the hospital should have let you stay longer. She’s at the funeral home now. I found an excellent one, and they’re very nice. We can go over anytime we want, and they’ll stay open as late—”
“I don’t give a shit anymore.”
“May, why don’t you shower and get cleaned up? We can get some food—”
“Did you hear what I said? I don’t give a shit. She’s dead. Spending another hour looking at her hideous corpse won’t change that. Be a good boy and get me another drink. That’s how you can help me.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Then get the hell out,” she yelled.
“I know this is hard,” he started.
“Do you?”
“Yes, I do. I lost a mother too.”
“You don’t understand a fucking thing,” she said, ignoring him.