by Wen Spencer
So ends the search for Fenrir, Mikhail thought as he gazed down at the object of his mission. What should he do next? Attempt to go back to Plymouth Station and report his findings? Not that he had any firm conclusions on what he found: a mystery place, seemingly outside normal space, not a world but something else, something that didn't obey the same rules of physics. Was that information worth Turk's life? It didn't feel like it.
So far, though, he'd found no signs of the nefrim being in this place. The Fenrir's crew seemed focused on a life of fishing and surviving the weather, not fighting aliens. Nor was there any indication of powerful overlords bringing human ships to this place. The ships seemed randomly placed and the humans roamed freely. The unregistered Reds were most likely born to survivors of various ships.
Nor did it seem likely he could get back to Plymouth Station. Moldavsky continued to find spaceships wrecked into the ocean and a goodly number still had their warp drive intact. Statistically, it was impossible that not one ship managed to send something back to normal space—unless the laws of physics were different here. Then Eraphie Bailey's claim that a standard warp engine couldn't create a true warp field in this place seemed extremely reasonable.
Whoever had sent back Fenrir's engine had made modifications to it. Those changes obviously adapted the engine to the physics of this place. He'd gone over the scans of the modifications with Tseytlin, but his Chief Engineer couldn't even begin to guess what the odd equipment attached to the engine had done. Nor, without understanding the fundamental nature of this place, could Tseytlin start to make modifications of his own.
Their best hope for getting home was finding whoever made the changes to Fenrir's engine. Between the messages written out by the survivors, Eraphie's account of the implosion, and what they've found searching the island, Mikhail believed that a group of outsiders had done the work.
Fenrir's original engine crew was all dead and buried in a small cemetery that escaped destruction. While the Svoboba found evidence that the island kept up maintenance on the warp engine's power unit which they were using as their primary electrical source, there was no indication that they were working with the field generators. The island's inhabitants had been caught unaware, and afterwards been unsure what had happened. And Eraphie's story indicated that it wasn't unusual for ships from different ports to arrive and do business; substantiated by the fact that the survivors fled to various ports. Nor was there any sign of scientific research into establishing a modified warp field, or clues where the experimental equipment had been created.
Then there was the two humans killed by the Red. A fight had broken out just before the warp field was activated. Obviously, someone found out what was going on and tried to stop it.
All of which told Mikhail that someone had arrived with the parts already manufactured, installed them and activated the warp field without permission from the people of Fenrir. It didn't tell him, however, who. Nor did it tell him which side the mauled humans and the Red dead of vacuum had been on. Had the Red attacked the outsiders, or defended them from the men he killed?
And most importantly, it didn't tell him if any of the outsiders survived. Assuming that Eraphie Bailey wasn't lying through her teeth and she had nothing to do with modifying the engine, if the outsiders were still alive, they'd fled the island.
"Sir! We're getting company!" Moldavsky pulled Mikhail out of his contemplations. "There's a boat heading this way."
* * *
The sea vessel heading toward them was ugly and misshapen. Bits and pieces from spaceships had been cobbled together into what could be called a boat. The bulk of the hull was a large troop lander with a bow welded onto its blunt nose to cut through the waves.
What worried him most about the boat was what looked to be gun turrets. He highlighted sections of the boat. "Are those weapons?"
"They appear to be." Moldavsky ran them through pattern matching software. "Yes they are, sir. They're out of New Washington Spitfire fighters."
Humans then. Specifically most likely New Washington. Mikhail didn't like the idea of not knowing any more about them. Opening lines of communication, though, would require giving away information on themselves; something he'd avoided up to this point. Until they were sure that there were no unfriendlies of alien or human origin, he would like to keep it that way.
Mikhail glanced at the antenna array beside them. "This is operational, isn't it?"
"Yes. I think they left it as a navigational beacon. It's got a solar array powering it."
Like a lighthouse. Lights are on, but no one home—except a visitor from outside the world.
"See if you can tap the Fenrir's transponder and query that boat. It looks like a troop lander; it might still have its transponder working." Using the Fenrir's transponder would at least disguise who was at the island.
"Yes, sir." Moldavsky worked for a few minutes in silence before saying, "Captain, the ship is the Red Gold. It's off the Dakota."
The Dakota he knew; he'd hoped for placement on the ship when he graduated from the academy. Odd, that fate seemed determined to strand him in this place. Ironically, when the Dakota vanished shortly after his father bought him the Svoboda to command, he felt it was a validation that he was going the right direction with his life. He scanned the Dakota records, reacquainting himself with the ship. Like the Fenrir, it had been a massive ship with a crew of thousands of men, women, and Reds. Obviously, the United Colonies data on the spaceship had very little relevancy to the incoming boat.
"Ensign Moldavsky, keep an eye on the boat." Mikhail needed to talk to Eraphie, who might know current information on the Red Gold.
* * *
He used the bug they put in Eraphie's reader to locate her. She was in one of the top level rooms. She'd answered his knock with "door's open." Mikhail tentatively opened the door, feeling like he was invading her private space. It was a small storage room lit by a skylight. Judging by the bedding and collection of foodstuff, she was living there.
Eraphie was curled on a nest of the blankets he'd given her. Reading. She'd shed off her defensive fur. At ease like this, she looked young and vulnerable. Perhaps even too young to realize how sexy she looked, lounging in the makeshift bed.
"This Mark Twain," Eraphie said without looking up. "He doesn't seem to know how to spell and he uses lots of words I'd never heard of but he's fun to read. I like his hero, Huck Finn."
Mikhail leaned against the doorframe since there were no chairs, and joining her on the blankets seemed too forward. "Mark Twain wrote in a time before humans ever left Earth. It was a long time ago. Words have changed."
"People haven't. Before they had Reds, they had these—" She paused to check the word. "Niggers."
"Unfortunately, yes." Mikhail decided that it was most likely that the dead Red in Fenrir's engine had been attacking not defending the people modifying the engine. He was tempted to show her a picture of the male Red, but until he knew where she stood, he wasn't sure if he should tell her anything about their mission.
Until then, there was the incoming boat.
"I need your help as native guide," he told her.
"Okay." She turned off her reader and rolled onto her back, putting the reader on her stomach. "What do you need to know?"
"Anything you can tell me about a boat called the Red Gold."
"The Red Gold? It's coming here?" Eraphie sat up, no longer at ease.
"Yes."
Eraphie bit her lip.
"What do you know about it?" Mikhail asked.
"It's a salvage ship."
"Your cousin's?"
Eraphie shook her head. "No, no, the Red Gold aren't Georgies. They're what's left of the Dakota."
He nodded. He knew that. Then stopped himself and actually analyzed what she said. "All that is left?"
"Pretty much. They landed in the open. Water isn't like air. It gets . . .heavier the deeper you get. You understand?"
Mikhail nodded. It actually was exactly
like air, but he didn't see the point of detouring the conversation.
"When a spaceship lands in open water, it's too heavy to float. As it submerges, it's slowly crushed, and air seals start to rupture. Most ships don't realize their danger. Air is replaced with water, and the ship gets heavier, and it sinks deeper. Eventually all the compartments are breeched. Only some of the Dakota's crew managed to get off. Then they were adrift for a long time."
Total crew of Dakota numbered over eight thousand. He doubted if the Red Gold had a crew of more than a few hundred. It was a staggering loss of life. At least the commander didn't have the guilt of purposely bringing his crew to this place. The Dakota had been under heavy fire when it warped.
Thoughts were playing across Eraphie's face. Something about the Red Gold's arrival had her upset.
"What's wrong?" Mikhail asked.
"Well, I knew salvage ships were going to show up sooner or later. I was hoping someone from Georgetown would arrive. I'm not sure if I trust Hardin."
"Who?"
"John Hardin. He's the Captain of the Red Gold." When Mikhail frowned at the only vaguely familiar name, trying to place the man among the Dakota's command, Eraphie added. "He was the highest officer left alive, but I think he was only a lieutenant."
Mikhail nodded to keep her talking. He'd check the records later. "Why don't you trust him?"
She gave him a dark look. "No reason."
"I need to know if I can trust this man. He's a U.C. officer."
"He was." Eraphie stressed the past tense. "There's no such thing as the United Colonies here. Things have happened to him, horrible things. Don't think of him as the same man."
"Okay." He said and then cautiously pressed for an answer to his original question. "What did he do that makes you not trust him?"
She considered him for a minute with her dark eyes. "I don't like repeating things I don't know for sure are true. There are rumors. I don't know if I believe any of them, but they make me . . .cautious."
"What kind of rumors?"
She was silent for another minute before sighing. "He doesn't have any Reds. The Dakota was an assault ship. It had a pride of nearly three thousand. There are all sorts of stories about how he . . .lost . . .them."
Yes, it would make sense that she wouldn't trust a man who failed to protect his Reds. Who might have considered the Reds as acceptable losses, or even worthless to save.
"But like I said. I don't have any way of knowing which stories are true, so I'd rather not say."
Mikhail nodded. "Anything else I should know?"
"He won't risk coming into the harbor," Eraphie said. "That's too risky. He'll come around and tie-up to the salvage docks and come in on a launch."
* * *
Mikhail returned back to the observation deck to do a search on John Hardin. As Eraphie said, John Hardin had only been a Lieutenant on the Dakota. Mikhail frowned at the photo attached to Hardin's service file. The name and the face seemed familiar. Mikhail scanned Hadin's history; there were only a few places where he would cross paths with an officer from New Washington. Hardin spent a childhood in Capital slums. Worlds apart, and by more than just spatial distance. They had crossed paths, however, when Mikhail was eighteen and forced to attend the United Colonies military academy. Hardin been one of the ambitious, overachieving upperclassmen that the instructors wanted Mikhail to emulate.
The ambition clearly continued onboard the Dakota. In the year between his graduation and the Dakota being lost, Hardin became highly decorated. But the man had a temper, and with every honor, there was a black mark. Despite the pressures of war to fill command positions, Hardin was still only a lieutenant.
"Sir," Moldavsky said. "The Red Gold has launched a small boat."
Mikhail looked up. As Eraphie predicted, the Red Gold had tied-up to the floating salvage docks tethered over the wreck of the Fenrir. The boat looked like a water bug skating above the great sunken spaceship. A launch had left the Red Gold and was heading to the island.
"We're getting company!" Mikhail broadcast via his com. "Station rules apply—no shooting unless shot at. No inciting a fight, or I will punish the person that starts the fight. Secure the ship. Assume we've got thieves coming. Keep me posted on our guests."
There was an airlock door set into the top of the stairs with a high lintel to keep out torrential rain. Beyond it was a ladder down into a well lit by a skylight. The metal was hot as he slid down to the landing below.
. . .and dropped down into a memory.
. . .they were still covered with blood. Mikhail had blood on his shirt and holding fast to his anger, because if he lost it, fear would crowd in. Eight-year old Turk was furred over, wide-eyed with fear, with blood on his mouth. They were both scared for the same reason: Reds that attacked humans were put down . . .
Mikhail struggled to push the memory aside. He didn't have time for this. But it was like being trapped in a nightmare, the recall drowning him with details: the coppery smell of blood mixing with scent of leather and smoke of his father's personal study, the distant roar of the visiting dignitaries enjoying full rein of the palace, the monitor scrolling updates on the crisis he created—no—not him or Turk—but everyone else . . .
"If security had been doing its job right, this would have never happened," Mikhail clung to the hope he could shift the blame off of Turk. "He belongs to me! No one has any right to do anything to Turk without asking me first. Security should have stopped the Ambassador."
"Security had their hands full." His father ground out his cigar. "And there are more polite ways of denying someone their perversions than bashing their brains in with a hockey stick. But you know that."
Yes he did, but Turk had already bitten the Ambassador. If Mikhail hadn't attacked the diplomat and done serious damage—harm that couldn't be ignored—then Turk alone would have been blamed. The problem of being clones of the same man, he and his father thought too much alike. His father clearly saw through Mikhail's attempts to divert attention to himself. It was the same cycle of each knowing how the other thought which boiled all Mikhail's childhood down to a battle of wills. This time, though, Turk's life hung in the balance.
"I will not allow Turk to be punished. If he's harmed in any way, I'll refuse to cooperate with your succession plans." The danger of playing that card was his father could simply make another clone. Ivan was young and had time enough to raise another replacement. One that would probably be more stable.
"Yes, I know." Ivan acknowledged the truth of what Mikhail said and, perhaps, what wasn't said. "The question is how to salvage what you've left us with.
This was the start of my military career, Mikhail realized. He tended to think of his reluctant first days at the academy as the start, but that bloody night had been the true start. But why dwell on it now?
"Mikhail?" Eraphie said close at hand, and finally the memory faded, leaving him free to see the inner harbor. Sunlight streamed down from the skylights overhead. Steam lifted where the hot sun hit the cold water, wafting into the sunlight to turn it into shafts of misty gold. Something moved through the light and darkness, catching his eye. Was it a bio weapon like the one that attacked him earlier?
As he stared, he made out a sinuous form gliding toward him. Less than a shadow, it was merely a suggestion of a body, a distortion of light. As Mikhail watched, the creature slid closer, blurring the stones under it.
Close up, it was harder to see. Some trick of his brain eliminated the distortion when it filled his visual field. And 'big' was one of the few definite things he could tell about the creature. He took a couple steps back, trying to bring it back into focus.
It took five steps so that he could once again see the outline of the distortion and get some sense of the creature's presence. He got the impression of a snake rearing up, its massive wedge-shaped head looking down at him.
"Do you see . . ." He started to ask Eraphie if she could see the creature too.
But the creature su
ddenly moved, flowing over him, through him . . .
. . .Mikhail could hear Nanny Ingrid's soft breathing from her bed as he crept to his old crib. Since his baby brother arrived the week before, Nanny Ingrid had been napping in the afternoon. She would be asleep for a long, long time. Now was his chance to play with is new brother . . .
"No! Not that!" Mikhail flailed out blindly. His vision snapped clear as his hand passed through the creature and hit the stone. He welcomed the pain. He wouldn't be pressed and drowned in that memory.
"It's not me!" He said out loud to fill the vacuum in his mind left by the implosion of the recall. "It's making me remember."