The trailed leveled off into broad, sunlit uplands, from which Emerson could see a vast lake, shrouded by a morning fog that was rapidly retreating under the sun’s advance. Recovering his wind and enjoying gravity’s assistance yet again, he quickened his steps. He knew the trail’s end was near, and he wanted to finish strong.
Balanced on the edge of a runner’s high, he pushed on, postponing the onrush of unbidden thoughts and emotions. Forest trees yielded to scrub brush, then broken rock, and finally tall grass that swayed in the subtle breeze coming off the lake. The grass, so much like Entropia… Entropia… Ashley…
Suddenly he was there again, running down a dark corridor with teeth, talons, and tails writhing and rasping behind him. He ran harder, fighting for breath, gasping as his chest wrenched tighter and tighter with every step.
Holographic reality and post-traumatic stress blurred before his eyes. Emerson hit the stop button and staggered from the exercise pod in terror. He stripped the small optical projectors from his eyes, tripped, and would have fallen, had it not been for Correlli’s swift reflexes and sturdy arms.
“Lieutenant!” Emerson gasped. “But you were... I thought…”
It had only been 48 hours since the Triven attack on Entropia, and Correlli could still clearly see the swirling vortex of panic and stress in Emerson’s eyes.
“Yes,” the BLUE MONARCH cut him off. “I’ve been… asleep.” The big man yawned involuntarily.
“That’s not exactly how I would’ve put it.”
“How would you have described it then?” Correlli asked.
“More like a coma. At least that’s what the medical automates and the station doctors said.”
The BLUE MONARCH glanced at the readout in Emerson’s exercise pod. “That’s a very good time, Emerson. Have you always been a runner?” Correlli’s rich baritone sounded in Emerson’s ears and mind, pulling him firmly back to reality.
“Yes, I’ve run track since intermediate school.”
“Emerson,” Correlli put the word directly into the boy’s mind. “Did you see what happened when they took me to the infirmary? Don’t answer out loud,” he cautioned. “Just relax and think your response. If you can remember, I need to know exactly what they did to me after I collapsed.”
Emerson looked around the recreation deck, half expecting to see station security running towards them, weapons primed. He casually tossed his sweaty towel into the water reclamation unit, and tried to let his mind drift back to those first hectic moments when they had arrived at Tantalus Station. Correlli’s eyes fluttered slightly as if he were in REM sleep, but anyone watching them would have noticed only the briefest pause in their conversation.
At first, chaotic images flowed swiftly through Emerson’s mind like a stream swollen by heavy rain. Then time seemed to slow around him, sounds became distant, and his very movements reduced to half speed. He could have sworn he felt a slight pressure on his consciousness, like an index finger deftly searching an old-fashioned card file.
The hurried walk to the infirmary… Correlli staggering into a wall, collapsing along the way and carried by the guards… a medical exam by a human doctor with several automates… convulsions… blood splattered on the floor… Emerson seated on a med bed two, no, three spaces away… and his father, in a heated but hushed conversation with the Director of Security… a louder protest… gestures … pointing at…
Words echoed through his mind: “Don’t let them...”
A shadow seemed to recede from Emerson’s eyes and the recreation deck came into focus once more.
“Thank you, Emerson. It was very thoughtful of you to retrieve my ditty bag while I was asleep,” said Correlli in a voice loud enough for anyone, or any device, close enough to hear. Emerson blinked through his mental fog and struggled to catch up with the conversation. “I… uh… of course… you’re welcome… Lieutenant.”
Correlli pitched his voice very low and continued. “Emerson, you will not remember this conversation.” His lips barely moved. “I gave you a towel after your excellent run. Wake!”
Emerson startled into full consciousness and accepted the towel Correlli offered. He wiped his forehead yet again and looked up at the large man. “Thank you, sir, it turned out to be a good run after all. Much better than I expected, considering…” He trailed off.
Correlli clapped him on the left shoulder. “You keep it up, Emerson. Great job. I’ll see you in the mess hall shortly.” Correlli started to go, then caught himself. “Oh, and I’d like you to have this.” He handed Emerson a small, translucent data wafer no larger than his thumbnail.
“What is it?”
“Something I read when all hope seems lost.”
“Uh… okay.” Emerson awkwardly took the data wafer and sealed it into a slim pocket nestled in the seam of his running shirt. He left under Correlli’s watchful gaze and felt a subtle lifting of his spirits.
The poor kid has been through hell… still, he has a certain resilience, the BLUE MONARCH thought to himself.
Correlli pivoted on his right heel and was down the hall before the young man could turn to ask him any questions. Emerson continued walking back to his quarters, but he had a nagging feeling he was forgetting something. Oh well. He was sure it would come back to him, eventually.
Electronic eyes surveilled his every step, and automatic reports about locations and conversations filled the desk display of the well-manicured man in the meticulous gray uniform. He made a mental note to begin learning more about this Emerson Avery. Perhaps it was time to have an informal interview with the young man.
6
Tantalus Station was one in a constellation of several thousand remote mining concessions owned and operated by the Planetary Mining Combine. Its value to the corporation was in direct proportion to the tonnage of exotic minerals it was able to extract, process, and refine for profit. And like the giant oil platforms of ancient Earth, it could be dismantled and towed to a new location when nothing more could be wrung from whatever planetoid it orbited. A massive cable tethered the station to its prey, and upon this dark umbilicus ran “the elevator.” It was a Jacob’s Ladder dedicated to mammon: a perpetual circuit of gigantic containers full of personnel and supplies that descended to the surface, only to return laden with ore for processing in the ease of zero gravity.
What made planetoid PMCC1171701 especially profitable were the rich veins of thraceium running just below its thin outer crust. Able to conduct energy from subspace, thraceium was used extensively in the latticework matrices of every E-N-S drive system since Velocity opened humanity’s first hyperspace corridor. With only minimal effort by the PMC’s titanic mobile excavators, the exotic element was easily stripped away and sent back to Zero Point for its trip up the elevator. The mining fissures crisscrossing this particular planetoid made Earth’s Grand Canyon look like a slight depression in the ground.
None of this was lost on Armand DeSoto as he watched the endless parade of transport containers from his office near the pinnacle of Tantalus Station. Arms clasped behind his back, he observed silently, letting the wheels in his mind turn and carry information in much the same way. Several thoughts vied for supremacy, but one overrode them all: Why did these people have to show up now? It would complicate things—as if things were not complicated enough already. The flickering lights antagonized him further. It’s getting worse. They told me they could lock this down!
The Planetary Mining Combine had a lot invested here, and no one, from the Chairman down to the lowliest member of the board of directors, wanted any interference from the UNSA. One whiff of their discoveries and it would all be over. As certain as space was black, their mining concession here would be revoked, sanctions levied, and prison sentences handed out. The loss of revenue and prestige among the other great companies of the Consortium would be unfortunate, even catastrophic. Of course, DeSoto’s own career would be over, and he would never work again—a scapegoat sacrificed on the unforgiving altar of corporat
e profits.
The random appearance of UNSA military and scientific personnel was an inconvenience, possibly even a risk. But there was no point in panicking over suppositions and assumptions. Paranoia was not his style. He needed more information, so he simply needed to apply the skills for which he was so well known and very handsomely paid.
Turning from the observation port to his desk, DeSoto called up the primary station security feeds with a quick swipe of his hand. After their recent medical exams, it would not be difficult to find his “guests” among the dozens of images floating before him. First he gave his default channels a cursory glance: good, no further additions to the morgue or quarantine hold.
Three of the holographic images flashed red, so he plucked those out of thin air and put them to one side. On the planetoid below, Colonel Thorsten was still on ice in the trauma center and posed no immediate threat. Richard Avery was finishing up in the station mess hall, while Emerson was relaxing in the observation lounge, his nose in a company-issued (and company-monitored) datapad.
Where is our Lieutenant Correlli, I wonder? DeSoto tapped his fingers on his desk as he scanned the remaining images, but the soldier was not to be found.
“Well, Lieutenant, are you a religious man?” DeSoto asked aloud. There was only one place on Tantalus Station where no electronic surveillance was allowed, and that was the all-faiths chapel. The union had wrested that little benefit from the PMC, backed firmly by UNSA’s policy of religious freedom within its borders. Barely an agnostic himself, DeSoto visited the chapel infrequently, but he often sent a nanodrone in his place—literally a fly on the wall. He found many of the utterances there... informative.
***
Anton Correlli was indeed a man of deep convictions and spiritual beliefs. But at the moment, in the white austerity of the all-faiths chapel, he was attempting a more secular petition. To the casual observer, Correlli was simply kneeling in prayer before the small, arched alcove at the head of the chapel. However, Armand DeSoto was not the casual observer. In fact, he was a rather astute student of human behavior, understanding from long experience that things were often not what they first appeared. What he saw in the nanodrone’s video feed confirmed his suspicions, and piqued his curiosity.
Correlli’s mouth moved, but the sound was so faint not even the nanodrone’s sensitive audio detectors could pick it up. No matter, DeSoto simply read his lips.
Father, I am in a dry and weary place where there is no water. My soul thirsts for thee and for thy salvation from the wicked…
Correlli seemed to pause, as if listening for a response to his supplications. In his right hand, he fingered a small piece of faded cloth.
Earnestly I desire to do thy will, and walk in the paths of righteousness.
Another pause.
Thank you that you always hear the prayers of those who seek you, who earnestly desire you, and give wisdom in the innermost places.
Give me patience, O Lord, to wait upon thy word.
Amen and amen.
Correlli finished praying and DeSoto shot out of his seat, heading to confront the big man before he left the chapel. The man’s size and strength did not concern him; he knew his own abilities and limitations. But if he had gotten a signal out, things could begin to spiral dangerously out of hand. He spoke quickly into his wristcom, “Control, I want a full signal spectrum analysis immediately. Confirm!”
A confirmation was rapidly returned with the answer DeSoto did not want to hear. He smashed his fist on his desk in frustration, then checked the charge in the small stunner he kept concealed within his uniform, ensuring it was set to MAXIMUM.
7
To: Spec Ops Cptn Larz Kristie / Tempest
From: Spec War Ops Comm
Stand by to receive new orders.
FALLEN ANGEL. FALLEN ANGEL. FALLEN ANGEL.
Situation fluid. Intel limited.
Jump coordinates to follow.
Regards. VAdm, C.J.Pres.
“The terrible ifs accumulate.”
Winston Churchill
The World Crisis, Vol. I, Chap. XI
8
It was midday, and Emerson Avery sat in the relative quiet of the station’s dimly lit observation deck. It was a transitory place for transitory people. Workers might pause briefly to watch the elevator, or simply stare into space, but no one ever lingered. The sparse furnishings contributed to the sense of impermanence. Beaten chairs and worn ottomans practically invited you to leave the space. Nothing to see here. Move along.
Yet here he sat like a permanent fixture, the most transitory person aboard. Emerson wanted to think about Ashley, but every time he did, his chest would tighten and he became short of breath. Despite the nurse’s assurances about his health, he also found his left hand now trembled slightly. He gripped the edge of his borrowed datapad more firmly and stared at it. A cheerful corporate puff piece droned on and on about the benefits of the PMC’s mining operations in this sector—helping to win the war, raising humanity’s standard of living, ensuring prosperity for all.
Where are you, Ashley?
He pulled out Correlli’s data wafer. For a brief instant he pondered looking at it, then tucked it back away into his shirt’s side seam pocket. He sighed heavily, and instead turned his attention to a challenge that would provide respite from his wandering thoughts: hacking into the station’s central data node. A place like this was sure to have some interesting files floating around. Sliding a different data wafer into the datapad’s receptor port, he bypassed its surface layer of flimsy corporate security and began a series of innocuous probes into the system’s root command structure.
Emerson slouched further in his gray lump of a chair, and settled in for a long wait. He fidgeted impatiently when suddenly the datapad vibrated in his hands. Sitting up with a start, he noticed the incoming message icon flashing. Before he could tap it, a system message popped up:
UNKNOWN USER LOGON
ACCEPT? [Y] [N]
The [Y] selected itself and the entire datapad went black except for the tiny holo-projector light and a small cursor in the upper left corner of the screen. Emerson looked around. Who could be sending me a message? No one even knows I’m here, unless they’ve already detected me somehow…
Text scrolled across the empty screen: Hello, Emerson.
Emerson typed back: Who is this?
A friend. Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to circumvent corporate security protocols? Don’t worry, it will be our little secret.
Emerson felt his face flush and started to type again, but was cut off by words rapidly scrolling across the datapad screen.
You don’t need to type. I can see and hear you through the datapad.
A surge of panic quickly rose inside him. “Who are you?” he said quietly. A worker in dirty gray coveralls gave him a sidelong glance but continued on his way without looking back. Emerson quickly moved to a chair in the darkest corner of the room and faced the twinkling eyes of deep space.
Like I said, a friend. I’m glad to see you are safe.
“Oh really? My friends don’t hide behind firewalls and anonymous messages. What do you know about my safety?” Emerson’s heart was beginning to pound in his chest.
I have my reasons for being discreet. Who do you think brought you to Tantalus Station?
“What do you mean? Our ship developed a coolant leak and that’s why we had to land here.”
Suddenly, massive decompression shields began dropping into place outside the observation deck windows. In only a few short seconds, the room was completely sealed off. The lights winked out and Emerson sat in almost complete darkness.
Manipulation of external systems is a trivial matter.
An involuntary shiver ran down Emerson’s back, tweaking a deeply embedded shard of glass the medical automate missed. His left hand began to
shake, even while holding fast to the datapad.
Now, listen to me very carefully. There is something down on the surface I want you to see in situ.
“Why?” asked Emerson hesitantly. “And why should I trust you?”
It is important. Trust will come… after time and experience.
Twin video feeds appeared on the datapad, casting an eerie glow over the walls of the darkened room. One feed was labeled MORGUE, the other QUARANTINE HOLD. Emerson watched as, in the first feed, personnel in biohazard gear made their way through several rows of prostrate figures. Some of these figures were on gurneys, others on the floor — all were clearly dead. The second feed showed more activity, and the miners Emerson saw here were still alive and also being monitored by personnel in biohazard gear.
“What is all this?” asked Emerson, rapidly feeling overwhelmed by the images confronting him.
A warning.
“A warning against what?”
The consequences of poor choices and hubris.
“I don’t understand. Does the Director know about this?”
He is the person most directly responsible for these images.
The implications behind the scrolling text chilled Emerson to the core, but it drove him to make a decision.
“Then I’ll talk to my father.”
Under no circumstances should you discuss this with your father — or anyone else. However, you may find it beneficial to enlist Lieutenant Correlli’s assistance to get down to the surface. He is a man of many talents.
“I have no idea how I’d persuade him. I’m not even convinced I should go.”
You must leave within the next 72 hours.
“But what if I —”
You will find a way, Emerson. This task is set before you and you alone. When the time is right, I will contact you again.
Outside, the decompression shields lifted swiftly away, and the lights flickered back on in the observation deck. Emerson quickly stood up, grabbed his carryall, and stuffed the datapad into it. He looked around furtively, then started back to his quarters. He needed to think about this more without the risk of being waylaid by anyone. It was one of the few times he actually wanted to ask his father a question, but that option was apparently closed to him.
Cerulean Rising - Part II: Evolutions Page 3