Winter

by James Wittenbach

  The altimeter said they were at 18,000 meters. Far below, Cardinal’s landscape was like nothing in their home systems. Tall, thin, pointed mountains stuck up, randomly here and there, sometimes in rows.

  All over were huge boulders perched on spindly rock outcroppings, often at geometrically unlikely angles.

  Plus which, they were flying over it upside down and almost out of control, which lent a certain drama to the proceedings.

  “Aaaaarrrgh!” screamed Trajan.

  Velocity?

  Prudence told him her velocity was 11,000 meters per second.

  When it gets down to 3,000 mps, cut the grav engine and give me full thrusters.

  Prudence told him that was exactly what she would have recommended. She still doubted his piloting skills were up to the challenge, and offered to automate the procedure.

  Trajan wavered. Nay, he decided. Keep me in the loop. Take us down.

  The main drive cut out. The nose thrusters spat out a long spray of fiery light, pitching the ship down and cutting her velocity. The blade jets fired a few seconds later, balancing the ship out. Ahead of them was a huge valley, teardrop shaped, with steps running down the side. Basil had landed at the far end of it.

  3,000 mps Prudence whispered.

  “Thrusters,” Trajan said out loud. The main engine cut-out. The thrusters on Prudence’s nose and forward blade kicked to life again, pitching her up like a cobra about to strike. An instant later, the tail thrusters kicked up, and she rode them 3,000 meters into the sky before cutting out.

  Forward velocity was down to something less than the speed of sound (in a normal atmosphere, not the lethargic pace the thin gas sheath of Cardinal would have allowed). Trajan wrestled with the ship, guided it closer and closer to the ground.

  Proximity alert, Prudence announced.

  Trajan looked at the three-dimensional terrain readout. “Aw, phunk me,” he said involuntarily. The steps had looked so smooth and neat from altitude were irregular as hell. Hanging rocks and irregular walls zig-zagged madly in front of him. How could he navigate this shape through the geological obstacle course that lay in front of him.

  “I can’t do this,” Trajan said.

  “Max did it,” Alkema reminded him.

  If Trajan had not needed every ounce of control to wrestle with his ship, he would have slugged Alkema across the mouth. He had to save it for later. Still speeding, Prudence dropped to 2,000 meters of altitude. Trajan punched the jets.

  “Warning. Terrain.” Prudence spoke out loud and in his head. “Collision in four seconds.” Trajan had fired the starboard thrusters a second two long, and Prudence’s port blade was perilously close to the side of a canyon already. Another wall was jutting out. He tried to bring the ship up, and almost cleared the side. There was a loud bang, nothing more, like someone had taken an enormous hammer and slammed it into the ship. After that, there was only a shudder that ran along the ship’s port side. He heard Pieta ask what that was and Alkema telling her that he thought they had hit something Trajan could almost feel Prudence’s hurt. The airflow was all wrong, and there were parts she should have been able to feel, with her sensors, but she could not. But the real horror, the heat and hollow fear that was flooding his mind, was what Flight Captain Driver would think when he saw what was done to his ship.

  And there was little time to think even of that. Prudence was a hundred meters off the ground, and ahead of her lay a meditative rock garden on the scale of Brobdingnagian Zen Buddhists for a landing field. She was pulling hard to port, and still way too fast. The instruments showed Basil was on the ground, just a few kilometers back. Trajan reversed thrusters.

  Prudence dropped, her gear skimmed the dusty surface, kicking up a pink sand blizzard that whorled around her wings. She rose again, skipping across the surface, barely clearing a rock formation that looked like a pyramid dropped on a Stonehenge. She smacked into the sand again, skipped again, and smashed through a large sand dune. Her momentum, broken at last she skidded to a stop.

  In the command Deck, Trajan, Pieta, and Alkema remained in their seats, as if waiting for the ship to continue to its docking area. Alkema finally spoke. “Well done, Traj.”

  “Well done!” Trajan screamed at him. “I almost killed us.”

  “Za, but almost only counts in Quoits.” Alkema began disconnecting his restraints.

  Pieta patted his shoulder. “And like Momma Jordan used to say, any landing you can walk away from is a good landing… and if you can use the ship again, then that’s a great landing.” Alkema checked the instruments. “We’re only 2,000 meters from where Basil set down. Let’s get outside and find Max.”

  Oh yeah, Trajan thought. I’m sure Max made a flawless landing.

  As if reading his thoughts, Alkema patted his shoulder. “Let’s get into space gear. I’m sure the damage isn’t nearly as bad as it looks from in here.”

  Winter – Shipwreck Bay

  Peckwad glided across the water, across the choppy afternoon surf, to the giant looming pod. Keeler, standing on the top deck in the teeth of a bracing wind, could scarcely keep still, could barely contain himself over the thought that he would soon be holding in his hands all the lost and forbidden knowledge of the Commonwealth. His conversations with Ziang may have diminished it as the paragon of virtuous civilization, but it still had thousands of years of history, multiplied across thousands of worlds. He quivered like a boy, metaphorically about to slip his hand under the silk blouse of history and cop a feel.

  In fact, his intentions were to metaphorically go all the way with Commonwealth History and, if necessary, make it breakfast in the morning.

  “The data, inside the library, is it sorted in any way?” Keeler asked.

  “We have developed an indexing system, what are you interested in, particularly?” Keeler had to think for just a second. “Star charts. If we knew the location of Earth, of the Inner Colonies, we could chart a direct course. We could get there in years, instead of centuries. I might live long enough to set my feet on Earth itself. Historical information about the Commonwealth, what colonies were weak, what colonies were strong. Which colony served the best Fanny Bangers in the known universe? What are the precise locations of all the EdenWorlds, so we can Nemesis all of them before they get out. Where were the great centers of learning and intellect… Avalon colony, for example, and Brainworld Prime?”

  Ziang grunted. “I think you will find enough to satisfy yourself.”

  “Interesting choice of words, considering the metaphor I was contemplating a second ago.”

  “Excited, then, yes?”

  “I feel like …”

  “A child in a chocolate shop.”

  “I was thinking more of a fetishist in a shoe store, but that will do.” He cast loving eyes toward the great metal hulk that loomed over him. I’m going to metaphorically run my tongue over the strapless pumps of war and conquest and lick clean the stiletto heels of human progress. He shook his head before it came up with any other ridiculous allegories. He went to the prow of the ship and stood in the pointy bit. He opened his arms wide toward the colony pod. “I’m the potentate of the globe!!” he called out.

  “Iceberg!” Gilligan called out from the forecastle.

  It was a small one, relatively speaking, a hunk of ice big enough to fill Avenger Stadium in New Cleveland that had broken off from a much larger iceberg, what the scientists called a “growler.” It was almost completely submerged in the choppy surf, which was part of the reason Gilligan didn’t see it, the other part being he had picked an inopportune moment to bend over and tie his shoelaces.

  Peckwad shuddered, and there was horrid scraping noise underneath. Keeler grabbed the rail to keep from toppling into the sea.

  “Are we all right,” Ziang asked Gilligan.

  “Of course, we are. This ship is unsinkable.” Gilligan stomped the deck for emphasis and was answered with a sudden fountain of water shooting up from its underdecks where his foot had impacted.r />
  The vessel lurched hard and began to list. Ziang climbed onto the forecastle and took the wheel.

  They were close enough to the colony pod by now, and Ziang had only to guide the ship across the last few meters of waters and bump it hard into one of the leg supports. They found a ladder jutting from one of the legs, leading a climb upward to a small aperture at the side of the structure. The rocking of the boat would make getting on difficult.

  “Before we disembark,” Ziang began, and turned to Gilligan, “Do you have any weapons on-board.

  Perhaps, your harpoon gun?”

  “Harpoon gun? What is it?” Keeler asked.

  “A harpoon gun is a weapon that fires an explosive tipped harpoon,” Ziang explained. “Many sea captains keep them for self-defense, but that’s not important right now.”

  “I meant, why do we need one.”

  “Because sometimes creatures infest the structure.”

  Keeler looked at the weapon. It looked massive and dangerous enough, but against the creature they had encountered before, it would have been like fighting off a Borealan land-beast with a shoehorn.

  Ziang sensed his feelings. “Not all sea monsters are as massive as the one we encountered. Besides, some creatures of the sea are harvestable.”

  “…and not only that, tasty,” Gilligan added.

  “But there are ones that can infest … ships and structures of the sea, and they do not respond well to human presence,” Ziang told him.

  “We call them ‘head biters’,” Gilligan explained, furiously bailing.

  “What do they do?” Keeler asked.

  “They bite off your head,” Ziang answered.

  “Oh, dear,” Keeler handed the gun to Ziang. “This is all the weaponry I have ever needed,” he said, brandishing the walking staff.

  “Of course,” said Ziang, slinging the gun over his shoulder. He turned to Gilligan. “I imagine this is where we part company?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m afraid I have to go.” Gilligan answered. He began untying the lifeboat as the water on deck rose to his ankles. “I am going to the village. Pepper and Marjoram promised to make me a sandwich, and I’m not even hungry.”

  “Give my regards to the Spice Sisters,” Ziang said, tapping his head by way of salute. He checked both the harpoon gun and his sword. Assured that both were secure, he turned toward the ladder.

  Keeler also, looked doubtfully up the ladder. “Well, shall we dance?” Without waiting for an answer, he mounted the first rung, a task made difficult by the rocking of Gilligan’s tiny ship.

  The ladder was a tough climb, it was none-too-securely anchored. Every step up resulted in a shudder and shake. When Ziang added his weight, the metal groaned noticeable, and Keeler could feel it stretching and straining underneath him. The wind was no help. It was biting cold, sharp as a blade, stinging as needles.

  He nearly fell at the top. There was an overhang. He didn’t see how he was going to manage making over it without a long cold plunge into the depths of the sea, when suddenly a hand reach out, a woman’s hand, with finely manicured nails. It grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up and over the ledge. He lay on the cold metal and turned toward his savior.

  “Welcome aboard, sir,” said Lt. Gotobed. “Did you have a nice trip?”

  Pegasus – Fast Eddie’s Interstellar Slam-n-Jam Eddie did not need to ask Eliza “How did he take it?” because the look she wore as she entered the bar told him everything he needed to know. Nevertheless, it was good form. “How did he take it?” he asked when she came in to take the Hyperspace cocktail he had prepared in advance for her.

  She sucked in a long breath. “Like we thought. He’s wrecked… but I think …” She shook her head and took up the big glass of red liquid, clouded with black. She took a long enough drink to lay the typical dock-worker flat on the deck.

  “Krishna,” Eddie said. “Go easy on that, its two parts brandywine to four parts rocket fuel.” She put it down. “Eddie, what does a man do after a woman …”

  “Rips out his heart, throws it onto the deck, and stomps on it?” Eddie finished. She nodded, and took another long drink. “What? They don’t have nasty break-ups in the Guild?”

  “Guilders don’t fall madly in love,” she told him. “They just fall madly into bed. Tell me what you would do, if you were Matthew.”

  “I’d drink a lot.” He paused and watched her down the glass. Apparently, she had the part covered for both of them. “And, then I rebound with somebody completely the opposite of the woman who spaced me.”

  She stared at him.

  “That’s if I were Captain Sky Pilot, what he’ll actually do is…” Eddie realized he could not imagine what matthew would do.

  “More…” she said, handing him the glass. She cast her gaze around the bar as he refilled it. There were any number of men there who were completely unsuitable. “What I wanted to make Matthew understand is that I shouldn’t be with anyone.” She looked around. “Business has picked up. Did you get Puck fixed?”

  He shook his head as he passed her a more dilute version of her previous beverage. “Neg, Beauty… I just found a way to make his condition work to my advantage.” He gave her a two-fingers-over-the-head

  ‘c’mere’ gesture and led her and her drink to the rear of the pub.

  A crowd was gathered there, men and women mostly from the technical core. Clanks and roars were coming from the other side of the crowd. Eddie and Eliza pressed their way to the front, and reached it just as a roar went up from the crowd.

  In the middle of a small, semi-circular pit, Puck was raising his metallic arms in triumph over the wreckage of a toolbot, sparking and cracking on the arena floor. Eddie shouted above the cheers.

  “Mechanoid wrestling. Saved my bar. Puck wasn’t the only malfunctioning mechanoid on this ship. This way, he gets to take out his aggressions in a way that is both entertaining and profitable. You know what they say. Life hands you groundnuts, then make by-cracky bars.”

  C h a p t e r T w e n t y - T w o

  Pegasus – Missile Hatcheries

  A painful crawl through a tight maintenance shaft brought Hunter, Constantine, and Ghost to one of the Ship’s magazines, directly below the missile hatcheries where the Nemesis missiles were kept. The ceiling was low and the deck was lined with military apparatuses made of thick, heavy metal reinforced against blast and shock. The walls and floor were striped yellow and black. One wall, sections of the ceiling, and most of the machinery were colored white and optic orange; a color scheme that meant, “Stay the Hell Out of here.”

  “The intruder came through here,” Constantine announced.

  “Za, the defenses are disabled, figured that out on my own,” Hunter told them. He reached a gracious hand toward Ghost. “This way, my lady.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” she bowed graciously, exiting the shaft.

  “Comm Links also disabled,” Constantine reported. Constantine grunted and activated a munitions lift. It was designed to carry different payloads from the Magazines to the hatcheries, for loading into a Hammerhead Missile or (full proper name) Nemesis Multi-Payload Weapon of Mass Destruction Delivery System. Sapphireans called them “Big Damage,” or more often, “Big Dam” Missiles. A full-yield Nemesis warhead, and Pegasus had 131 left on board, could destroy a planet.

  “Get on!” Constantine ordered. With the three on board, the lift quickly took them up to the hatcheries.

  The hatcheries themselves were not painted, but bare metallioid composite trimmed in red and black stripes. It was not that no one was allowed there, more that no one was expected to survive on this deck long enough for unauthorized entry to be an issue. Twenty meters above was an array of hatches, each of which opened directly into space. The temperature inside was kept at the minimum necessary for instruments to function and the air was preciously thin. This was intended to minimize the missile’s transition to space environment. The fact that no trespasser without survival gear could long sur
vive in the environment was a helpful side effect.

  This hatchery contained four Big Dam missiles, two locked down in tight docks, two at the ready, near the launch gun. They looked slightly like chunky, miniature, wingless Aves. Inside, however, were warheads, each a bullet-shaped projectile about twice the size of a big and tall human. These each contained a heart of antimatter. A full yield would pulverize a world.

  Constantine stepped off, and had no sooner touched a toe to the deck, when a hologram appeared.

  “You have accessed a restricted area of the ship,” said the hologram, using a feminine voice with a clipped Republicker Accent. Then its head spun around, to reveal an angrier, scarier face as the holo grew beefier and more threatening, growing weapons from its arms and shoulders. Its next voice was both mechanical and masculine. “Get the Hell Out of Here! You have twenty seconds to comply.”

  “Good,” said Constantine. “Internal security knows the defensive areas are breached.”

  “No time, Connie,” Hunter called out, from behind his life mask.

  “Fifteen seconds,” the hologram updated. Then, it vanished.

  “Don’t move,” said a voice that could have come from anywhere. “From where I’m standing, I can kill any of you where you stand.”

  The Intruder.

  “He’s lying,” Constantine whispered. “If he had the drop on us, he would have taken us out by now.”

  “Maybe his weapon doesn’t have a kill setting,” Hunter whispered back.

  The intruder answered. “One shot from the lance hurts. Two kills. I didn’t have time, before, but now…”

  A spear of blue light flashed out of no where, striking Ghost. She fell to the ground. Hunter, out of reflex as much as anything, ran to her.

  She was gone. Her body was lifeless. Without so much as a poignant parting words, “at least I died a free woman in the Upper Decks,” or some such, she was gone, life stolen away.

  “She’s dead,” Hunter said, flatly.