“It has been,” Alkema sighed. “At our current course and speed, we’ll make Winter orbit in less than two days, and I don’t want to go.”
“Can’t you tell the captain you need some respite,” Pieta asked. “On Bodicéa, no one was required to work when they needed respite.” She meant before the war, of course, when she had been a little girl. She had been barely pubescent when they had met, and had developed a little girl crush on him. Then, he and Pegasus had left the system, and returned (in a few months of his personal time) to find her a grown woman
“Commander Keeler is lost without me. Remember Independence, I barely saw you for a month.
Every day, I briefed him on customs, protocol, geography, history… I kept him awake during the receptions, I helped him keep the names of the planetary leaders straight.” He exhaled. “Every day I did that was another perfect day in the vivaria. I am not going to miss them this time.”
In the nearby Independence Vivarium (filled with plants and birds from the planet Independence), another group of people were playing an Independence game called Happy Fun Ball. David and the boys had tried it, but found it unnecessarily complicated.
Orbital Space
Within an hour after the conversation with Lord Tyronius ended, Prudence left Pegasus rear landing bay, flipped over and dove toward the ship far beneath, the one that had gotten to Winter first.
The design of the ship. The primary hull consisted of two cylinders 214 meters in length joined side-by-side. A clump of eight shorter, thicker cylinders clustered around the center. Where it caught the starlight, the ship gleamed like polished, unpainted metal. Otherwise, it looked like nothing but a great can in space.
Technician Pyramus Otto, a dark, pudgy Republicker with unmanageable hair going prematurely gray, processed a full-spectrum scan as Prudence flashed down the length of the other vessel. “The long cylindrical structures are an ion-based gravimetric propulsion system,” he told them.
“Gravity drive for long distances, ion propulsion for short range and maneuvering,” Redfire guessed.
“There’s also a tachyon communication antenna running the length of the engines,” Otto told them.
Redfire tapped at the central array. “Functional areas?”
“Several chambers inside. Oxygen nitrogen atmosphere.” Otto’s voice was cutting and nasal, grating to listen to. “Most of the cylinders store food, water, and fuel. There’s only a couple thousand meters of work space for the crew.”
Redfire did not like the sound of that. He couldn’t imagine crossing interstellar distances in such a cramped space. “Scan for hydrogen hexafluoride.”
Otto did as he was told. “Trace amounts.”
Aurelians breathed hydrogen hexafluoride in trace amounts.
“Life signs?”
“Nothing above the mono-cellular level.”
“Most people would have just said ‘negative.’“
Otto shrugged. “To each his own.“
“See if you can find an airlock.”
Otto squinted at him. “You mean… are we docking, sir?”
“Only if you can find me an airlock.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir. I mean, we have barely begun scanning this ship, and it could be dangerous.”
Redfire turned to Anaconda Taurus. “Do you detect any weapons, Marine?”
“Negative,” she answered him. Anaconda Taurus was a small, hard-bodied, honey-skinned beauty.
She and Redfire were veterans of several away missions, but, despite Jordan’s suspicions, the two of them had never been intimate.
Redfire turned to Jersey Partridge, the Medical Technician. “Do you detect any harmful pathogens?”
“I’ve detected a few free-ranging bacteria and some spores and molds, all of which appear to benign.” Partridge was wire-haired, thin, and easy to underestimate. His expression was usually stunned and vague, but he was a first rate medical technician. He had also accompanied Redfire on several away missions. The three, Redfire, Partridge, and Taurus, were practically a unit.
Redfire turned back to Otto, the inter-changeable – some would say expendable – mission technician.
“In answer to your question, za. We will dock, and I will see where that ship came from.” Prudence pulled up to an airlock and locked her ventral hatch onto it. In the skilled hands of Matthew Driver, the maneuver was so smooth, only the words, “docking engaged” and a graphic display told them the ship was in place.
Redfire was the first out of his landing couch. “Let’s go, crew of four!”
“Anything you say, leader of none,” said Marine Anaconda Taurus.
Redfire reached the ventral hatch first. They would have to drop in feet first.
“The internal chambers are pressurized. Heating is minimal. I am showing an internal temperature of only two degrees centigrade,” Otto reported, his tone hinting that these were all great reasons not to go inside.
“Jackets and gloves,” Redfire ordered.
“Should we where face-masks, too?” Otto persisted. “I’d feel a lot better if we wore face masks.”
“Suit yourself,” Redfire ordered. “I’m opening the hatch.”
The hatch cycled, then opened with a hiss. There was a sensation of suction as Prudence’s atmosphere rushed into the less-pressurized alien craft. In a matter of seconds they equalized.
“Negative gravity on the alien ship,” Otto reported.
“So, I noticed,” Redfire said as he drifted into the cylinder. The ship was in free-fall. Very cool, he thought. The inside of the vessel was dark. He turned his handlights on and strapped them to his wrists.
He had not been in a zero gravity environment since his Odyssey Project training. It came back to him readily enough. Push off against one wall, stop against another. Redfire drifted into the ship, followed by Taurus and Stanza. Partridge stayed on board to monitor their life signs.
Making handholds, they pulled themselves along the interior of the vessel. Lights glowed faintly, the equipment continued to cycle and maintain itself. There was no sign of the crew, or markings, at first, to betray its ownership.
“Pretty stripped down,” Taurus commented. “Like a mining pod.”
“Ever been in a mining pod,” Redfire asked.
“Neg, but I understand they are pretty austere.”
They drifted down a long, tubular, passageway with ribbed walls colored lavender-gray. When they reached the end, they confronted a circular hatchway, the connection between one cylinder and another.
“Oh, look at this,” Otto said. “A heavy sealed door. They probably have some incredibly complex alien locking mechanism. We should go back to Pegasus for back up.” Redfire barked an order. “Otto, as they say on Independence, seal your pastry orifice.” In the center of which was a circular panel. As they approached, the panel came to life. Tiny gold sigils danced across its silvery face. Redfire recognized them immediately. “Aurelian.”
“Aurelian!” Otto squeaked, gasped in the thin air. “Aurelians! I’m standing in an Aurelian ship!”
“Not any more,” said Redfire, raising his pulse weapon. “It’s ours now. Put a Lingotron on that screen right now.”
“Right, right,” Otto’s hands were shaking as he unfolded a Lingotron plane over the screen. Lingotron knew Aurelian, and the sigils morphed into the standard alphabet of Republic and Sapphire, in the common language.
This is Central Control.
You will submit to identity scan and provide access code prior to entry.
“How are we going to get in?” Otto asked. “Are they going to kill us? Vesta, I don’t want to die on an Aurelian ship.”
Redfire took out a heavily modified datapad, cables and datacubes were affixed to its face. “What is that?” Taurus asked.
“New gizmo from Technical Core,” Redfire answered. “Based on data we recovered from the Aurelian BrainCore, which they call ‘The Hanged Man.’ The device reads their language, finds their access cod
es and their identity records, and replaces them. We say the new code, and the door opens up like a Panrovian after two ales.”
Taurus punched his arm. “I’m a Panrovian.” Ignoring her, Redfire clipped the device to the oval panel.
It glowed brightly as it went to work.
Otto stammered, “Why haven’t I heard of this device? I’m in Technical Core.”
“The developer did it on his own. This is its first field test,” Redfire explained. “I think it’s finished.” The datapad displayed a message:
Enter New Access Code
Redfire sighed. “Eyes glow in darkness. Stroking brings a pleasant sound. Cats are magnificent.”
“Haiku?” Otto asked.
“Gesundheitv,” Redfire muttered. “The developer is fond of haiku, and quite egomaniacal.” Four blue bars of light appeared in the passageway, and quickly moved across them.
Identity Confirmed
“Well done, Commander,” said Taurus.
“There are two things I can’t stand,” Redfire explained, “being locked out of places, and being locked into places. Either way, it’s good to know how to open doors.”
The hatch irised open, showing a large central chamber. Redfire and Taurus pushed in, guns first.
Lights came on as they passed into the central cylinder. It began to rotate, slowly, providing a little bit of pseudo-gravity. They were able to walk on the rounded deck, although the spinning was a little disorienting at first.
“Nobody here,” Taurus reported. “Nobody alive… or dead and interesting.”
“This must be the control nexus,” Redfire said. The space was round, with long structural supports wrapped around the walls, ceilings, and floors. Blue and red light glowed from underneath the supports.
In the center, four pedestals rose, facing off.
“I don’t think much controlling goes on here,” said Taurus. She directed her lamp in toward a large, upright sarcophagus at the edge of the bridge. Redfire gingerly approached it, making some effort to stay upright in the microgravity.
Partridge broke in from Prudence. “Commander, I am detecting cryonic compounds and Brownian suspension radiation inside the chamber. I’m almost positive that those are stasis chambers… the kind you’d use for long spaceflight over interstellar distances. Aurelians did not have the ability to navigate in hyperspace. They were limited to light-speed travel, and would have to hibernate in a ship as small as this.
Technician Otto counted off the chambers. “1… 2 … 3… 4.”
“Four Aurelians.” Redfire frowned. How much trouble could four Aurelians cause against a crew of nearly seven thousand and a planet of who knows? “If they’re not here, they must be on the surface.” C h a p t e r T h r e e
Lieutenant David Alkema’s Quarters, Deck 34
“Lt. Alkema, please report to Assembly for Mission Briefing.”
David Alkema lay in bed, took a deep breath, and tried to relax, as he waited for Specialist American’s voice to repeat on his commlink.
“Lt. Alkema, please report to Assembly for Mission Briefing.”
To make it look right, he would have to wait for one more repetition. He took another deep breath and slowly emptied his lungs until he almost choked.
“Lt. Alkema, please report to Assembly for Mission Briefing.”
He lifted a shot-glass to his mouth and forced himself to swallow a rough slimy gob of organic matter that climbed down his throat like a fat, ill-tempered grub with muddy little feet.
“Lt. Alkema, please report to Assembly for Mission Briefing.”
Now, he hit the response buttom, “Lt. Alkema, here.”
American looked appropriately shocked. “Lieutenant, you look like…”
“Like what?” Unprocessed effluent he hoped she would say, but American was a Republicker and would not say unprocessed effluent if she has a mouth full of it, at least not while on duty.
“You look unwell, Lieutenant,” she finished.
“Thank you, and I feel just …” The gob kicked in with full force. His stomach tried to climb out his gullet and his bowels felt ready to ooze out in the other direction. He trembled, and his head became fevered. He suddenly came over all flushed. “Just tell the Prime Commander…” A hacking cough kicked in right on cue. “Tell the Prime Commander I will be late for the Mission Briefing.”
“Lieutenant, I don’t think you should be going on any mission.”
“Do you think so?” He focused hard. Think of the virus. Think of the virus, trying to put the thought into her mind.
“You might have picked up that Independence retro-virus. The one that was going around Presidio Capitat when you were there.”
“Do you really think so?” Remember, I put in a lot of overtime on Independence.
“You worked yourself to the bone on Independence. You opened yourself up to Vesta-knows-what.
You shouldn’t take any chances.”
A lot of other people in the crew got sick.
“That virus has already laid down sixteen people in Geological Survey,” she continued.
Alkema answered with a prolonged fit of coughing and retching. When he looked up, his face was ashen, and his eyes were rimmed in red. Damb, this gob really works.
“You better see Doctor Reagan,” American told him.
“Okay, if you insist … “ Cough. Hack. “Maybe, you’re right. I hate to miss a mission and let the captain down.”
“With all due respect, lieutenant, in your current state, you would be a liability on this mission.” Alkema sighed, mournfully, with a hint of a cough at the end. “All right. Why don’t you call Specialist Gotobed to cover for me?”
“You just promise me you’re going to get yourself well, and see Dr. Reagan.” Alkema sighed heavily. “If I must. Alkema out.”
He deactivated the commlink and lay back in bed.
Maybe he had not had to swallow the whole gelatinous gob. He didn’t even know what it was made of. Eddie Roebuck had told him it was an old New Halifax hangover remedy. It purged the body of toxins and rehydrated the blood and tissues. It made you feel like a living hell for half an hour, then you were supposed to feel all right again.
Unless, of course, you took it without having gotten drunk the night before, in which case, you just felt like a living hell for half an hour. What happened next was open to speculation, as only a fool would swallow it without being hung-over, or someone who had damb well earned some downtime.
His throat was raw, he was fevered, and his bladder ready to explode. Every muscle in his body ached as water was force-feed into them. This was the price, he thought, the Karmic pain he would have to endure in exchange for a few days of freedom away from this mission.
As David Alkema crawled toward the euphemism in his hygiene pod, he hoped the universe appreciated his efforts to keep it in balance.
Winter
The Aves Zilla descended into the heavy cloud bank above 14001 Horologium III, “Winter.” Prime Commander Keeler sat across from Specialist Christina Gotobed, their landing couches facing each other across a low padded table. Several recent orbital surveillance images were projected above it.
Gotobed explained. “So far, Geological Survey has identified 14,000 inhabitation compounds similar to the one where will be touching down, in addition to several small settlements of less than a thousand inhabitants each, but no large cities.”
Keeler nodded, and gestured with the glass of port he held in one hand. “As I understand planetology, that’s a common pattern for arctic climates.”
“But only because on most worlds with an arctic zone, there is an alternative temperate zone where most of the population lives. This planet has no temperate region. It’s entirely arctic or sub-arctic. It would make more sense for people to live in cities and combine resources, especially heating fuel.” Keeler squinted at her. “What planet are you from?” He expected her to say Republic, despite her lack of accent. Republic had always defended its dense, collectivist c
ulture on the basis of environmental necessity, Republic being a marginally inhabitable planet at best. They likewise dismissed the freedom and individualism at the heart of Sapphirean culture, claiming it resulted solely from the salutary climate. Keeler thought it was a load of beast excrement.
She surprised him. “Sapphire, I grew up in Corvallis.”
Keeler feigned lack of surprise. Quietly, in a mostly non-sexual way, he was appraising her. She was an attractive woman, with long, nut-brown hair gathered into an efficient woven braid in back. Her eyes were large and blue, fiercely intelligent between magnificently arched eyebrows. She had a strong, almost martial bearing, and was all the more attractive for it.
“Any idea what we can expect down there?” he asked.
“Cultural Survey has nothing to go on besides the transmission from Lord Tyronius.”
“Care to hazard a guess.”
She looked at him starkly. “I guess it will be cold, sir.”
Keeler leaned back in his seat and, with a wave of his walking stick, chased the surveillance images away. “All right then. How long until we land?”
“Forty minutes.”
“Time enough for a quick game of some kind. What do you say to a quick round of Bongo.” She bristled. “Commander, let’s stay focused on the mission.”
“… or maybe I spy… za, that would be a larf. I spy, with my little eye, something that begins with …
‘s.’”
“A specialist with no time for idiot games,” she responded, with all seriousness. “Sir.” Keeler frowned. “You’re not very good at this game.”
“Neg, I’m not, but I am damb good Mission Specialist, and that’s what you should focus on.”
“Games are a great way of learning how someone else’s mind operates, how they strategize, how they act. But you apparently prefer a more pedestrian approach. So, why don’t you tell me about yourself?” Her shoulders stiffened. “I’m trained in diplomacy, security, and intelligence analysis. I was on the secondary mission to Independence and was stand-by diplomatic attaché to Bodicéa.”
Winter Page 4