by Jake Elwood
Harlequin would recover—until the aliens returned. She explored the thought as she walked. The Navy had driven them back, but she sensed the Hive would return in force.
They'd win, too. Spacecom's agenda included the destruction of the aliens and the protection of Earth. The defence of Naxos wouldn't be a priority, not when the civilian population could simply be evacuated. If most of them refused evacuation, well, that wasn't Spacecom's fault, now was it?
We've got a big fleet protecting us right now, but they won't stay. There are other colonies, after all. And the alien home world, wherever that is. Most of these ships will leave.
And then the aliens will return, and then what?
She thought of the project she'd been working on before and after the invasion. Maybe—just maybe—I can do something about it.
Harlequin didn't have much of an industrial district. Still, she was relieved when she came to several long stone buildings and found them intact. Rebuilding would be hard enough even with fabricators. Without them? She didn't want to think about it.
The big doors to the main factory building stood open. That was the only name it had. It was the factory. The Naxos economy wasn't built on competing industries. As she approached the open doors Christine heard voices inside, men and women engaged in a good-natured argument. She recognized several voices, people she hadn't seen or heard from since before the invasion, and her heart lightened. George Thompson is still alive. And Katrina. And is that Luce?
She stepped through the doorway and felt dust tickle her nose. The place hadn't been swept in weeks, after all. Sunlight shone through a series of skylights in the ceiling, making glowing bars in the dusty air. It illuminated bins of raw material, stacks of manufactured components, and a long row of fabricators of various sizes. It also illuminated a dozen or so people clustered in front of the biggest machine.
"We need excavating machinery. We'll build tunnels all over the crater, and we can hide in them when the aliens return." The speaker was a round-faced man who waved his arms excitedly for emphasis. He looked familiar, but Christine couldn't place his name. He was clearly a fool, so she didn't try very hard.
"In most places we've got less than a meter of topsoil sitting on top of solid rock. We won't be building any tunnels." That was George Thompson, a man in his seventies who'd been a community leader for as long as Christine could remember. "Is there anything else we need, anything for immediate short-term survival, before we look at making weapons?"
"We shouldn't be fighting them," said a woman's strident voice. "It just provokes them. It gets people killed."
"Be that as it may," said George, "people are fighting. They won't stop just because we tell them they're foolish. We can't make them quit. But we can arm them."
Christine joined the fringe of the group. Luce Webster gave her a quick hug, and Jory Vaughn reached over to squeeze her arm.
George said, "I take it, then, that we're agreed." The round-faced man opened his mouth, and George silenced him with a stern look. "Weapons. We'll start with hand weapons, and when those are distributed we'll look at whether we can make something bigger."
That set off a storm of discussion, nearly everyone speaking at once. George wisely stepped aside, edging around the group until he reached Christine. He hugged her, then held her at arm's length and said, "Thank God you're safe."
"You too, George."
He led her away from the arguing crowd. "They'll work out the details among themselves. Leadership will just get in the way."
"Can we even make weapons?" she said. "Aren't templates like that controlled?"
"Well, we can't make lasers." He spread his hands. "They're too complex, and anything portable will have a restricted template, yes." He grinned at her, and for a moment she saw the eyes of a mischievous schoolboy peeking out from his weathered face. "Rail guns, now. Those are dead simple. You can find bootleg templates all over the network. Pistols, rifles, we'll have our pick of designs. The ammunition's easy, too. It's just little steel balls."
"I guess that's good," she said dubiously.
His grin faded. "We can't rely on the Navy to defend us. Sure, they're here right now. Tomorrow, though?" He spread his hands in an I-don't-know gesture.
"I wish I could say I disagreed."
"Well, the ball is rolling now. We'll be armed to the teeth by this time tomorrow."
"What's the water situation?"
He sighed. "It's not ideal, but it's manageable. At the moment you have to walk to the nearest water substation and fill a bucket. We can't really work on fixing it until more people trickle back into town. Everyone who knows how to run the system is out there somewhere." He waved an arm to indicate the entire crater.
"Or dead."
"Or dead," he agreed.
"I'm going to the spaceport," she said. "I want to see what's left."
"I'm pretty sure it got hit. I don't know how bad, though."
"I'll go check it out." She leaned past him to look at the crowd around the fabricator. The argument was dying down, and a few people were looking their way. "I'll let you get back to your cat herding."
He gave her a wry grin. "Thanks so much."
The spaceport wasn't far from the factory, which was a relief, because her knees were beginning to ache. Something at or near the spaceport was contributing to the smudge of smoke above Harlequin, and she felt a rising dread in the pit of her stomach as she walked. When she finally rounded a corner and got her first view of the spaceport, though, she smiled in relief.
The terminal was a mess, the roof torn and blackened. She didn't know what could still be burning after all this time, but smoke trickled through the remains of the roof and rose into the sky. That was okay. She didn't care a fig for the terminal. The colony could get by without customs offices and luggage storage.
She could see one ship, the passenger ferry Altea, designed to run fifty or so people at a time back and forth through the Gate to Earth. The Altea had been destroyed from above. It was a heap of scrap metal now, sitting in the middle of a blackened crater in the tarmac. Only the ends of the wings were intact, lying just outside the circle of devastation.
Beyond the Altea the hangar still seemed to be intact. It was hundreds of meters long and quite high, a much bigger target than the terminal, but the Hive had somehow overlooked it. Was the ship still inside, or had someone used it to flee?
There was only one way to find out.
She started toward the hangar, and a couple of men came around the corner of the building toward her. They wore uniforms, not the dark blue that Lieutenant Nicholson and his people wore, but black uniforms with a similar cut. They had body armor, heavier than she'd seen before, and carried bulky rifles. They moved to intercept her, and she slowed as she approached them.
"Do you have business here, Ma'am?" The man on the left had an offworld accent, a distinct drawl like a Texan in a cowboy movie, and Christine felt herself bristle.
"I live here. What's your business here?"
He blinked, clearly taken aback. The tiniest twitch came from his companion's face, like a hint of a grin quickly suppressed. "We're with the Achilles, Ma'am." He jerked his head to indicate something behind him. "We can't allow you around the ship."
She looked past him. There was indeed something large just on the other side of the hangar. A bit of hull showed above the roof. "Are you using the hangar?"
"No, Ma'am."
"Well, see that you don't. My ship's inside, and it's off-limits to …" She looked him up and down. "Goons with guns."
The second man's lips twitched again. Christine circled around both of them and stomped off toward the hangar, almost hoping they would try to stop her. Tell me where I can and can't go on my own damned planet? What a nerve!
No one interfered with her, and she soon reached a small door set in the hangar wall. No lights showed on the palm scanner, and she pressed her hand to it without much hope. The scanner was dead, all right. Sighing, she pressed a s
houlder against the door. To her surprise, it swung inward.
Magnetic locks. They don't work when the power's out. She started to lift a hand to wave the lights to life, then stopped herself with a wry chuckle. The power's out, dummy. The bulk of a large spaceship all but filled the hangar, an enormous shape sensed more than seen in the limited light from the doorway. She stood for a moment thinking, then followed the wall, heading for the north end of the building.
By the time she reached the north wall she could see almost nothing. She took cautious steps, wary of obstacles in the dark, until her outstretched fingers touched metal. She followed the wall until she felt the shape of the big hangar doors. Eventually she reached the seam where the two sliding doors met.
She was feeling around for something to grab when she found a couple of handles, one on each door. She hadn't ever noticed them before. After all, who would try to open such an enormous door by hand? She wrapped both hands around one handle, braced her feet, and heaved.
The engineering of the door was truly impressive. Despite its enormous size it moved almost a centimeter, squealing and groaning and letting in a brilliant stripe of sunlight. She let go of the handle and leaned against the door, panting. Her plan was working better than she'd expected. Instead of impossible, the task was merely brutally difficult.
The nose of a battered freighter gleamed above her in the narrow bar of light. She spent a moment trying to persuade herself that it was light enough to work. It wasn't, and she turned around, grabbed the handle, and gave it another heave.
When the gap between the doors was as wide as the palm of her hand, and she was starting to think the effort might cripple her, a shadow appeared on the floor by her feet. She looked through the gap and found the same armored man she'd spoken to earlier gazing solemnly back at her.
"Begging your pardon, Ma'am. I realize I'm not welcome in your hangar, but in the interests of being neighborly I could help you with the door."
She peered at him suspiciously. For all his polite words he looked a bit smug, and she wanted to tell them to go march off a cliff. But he had to be twice her mass, and her screaming muscles told her not to be foolish. "That would be wonderful. I just need a gap of a couple meters or so."
He turned away, and she heard a faint rattle as he laid his rifle on the tarmac. A moment later there was a man on each door, grunting with effort as they heaved the doors open. She noted with satisfaction that, even for such big men, it was not an easy task. She grabbed the handle on the inside, started to help, and felt her muscles protest. "Oh, to hell with it." She stepped back and let the men do the work.
When each door had moved about a meter, both men stepped back, panting. More men moved in to take their place, these ones in blue Navy uniforms. A man and woman came into the hangar, grabbed the handles, and helped.
When the gap was four or five meters, Christine called, "That's enough. That's really all I need." Everyone kept heaving, drowning out her voice in the squeal of protesting metal. She had to shout before everyone froze, staring at her.
"That's wide enough," she said. "I don't need the doors open all the way." They straightened up, brushing dust from their uniforms. "Thank you," said Christine. "I really appreciate it." After a moment she added, "Some of you risked your lives coming here." Idiot. They flew into a system occupied by the Hive. "All of you risked your lives coming here. And you helped us liberate the planet. Thank you for that, too." She stopped, feeling foolish.
"We're all in this together," said a man with a rank stripe across his chest. "You colonists fought like heroes."
His voice was familiar, and she moved sideways to get a better look at him. Without sunlight behind him she could see his face. He was about thirty, with sandy hair and the dark blotch of an old bruise marring his cheek. "Nicholson, isn't it?" She thought for a moment. "Captain?"
Someone behind him chuckled, and he grinned. "Lieutenant, actually. Are you Ms. Goldfarb?" They'd met during a planning session before the raid on the alien tower in Garibaldi Plaza. "I should have the marines sweep the building."
It could use a good sweeping. It's filthy in here. "Do you really imagine some Hive troops locked themselves inside?"
"Well, no." He shrugged. "We should be thorough, though. They're going through the entire city."
"I'll holler if any aliens come scuttling out of the shadows," she promised.
"Good enough." His head tilted back as he looked up at the freighter. "I didn't know there was a ship in here."
A voice inside her head told her to be cautious. She didn't want the Navy confiscating the bloody thing, or some such foolishness. But it was a bit late to pretend there was no ship, so she gave in to her natural enthusiasm. "It's the Theseus," she said. "We called it that because it keeps visiting Ariadne and then suddenly leaving." By the blank look on his face he didn't know his Greek mythology, so she rolled her eyes and continued. "She's a surplus freighter, purchased by the colony eight years ago. It's the only ship in the system that's all ours."
The old freighter must have looked pretty humble to a Navy man, but it didn't show in his face. He gazed up at the Theseus, smiling, and said, "Nice. It's a Heron-class, right?"
She nodded, surprised by how pleased she was that he recognized it. "One of the last ones ever made."
He gave an approving nod. "They don't make 'em this solid anymore. Which is dumb, considering how the cost of fuel has come down." He took off his cap and raked fingers through his hair, wincing a bit as his arm rose above his shoulder. "This thing will outlast ships ten years newer. Twenty, maybe."
"I know!" She couldn't help warming to one of her favorite subjects. "The frame is solid titanium, and it's thick. Thicker than most steel frames these days. You could drop this baby from fifty meters up and not do a lick of damage."
Nicholson walked forward, still gazing up at the ship, then paused and looked at Christine. "Er, do you mind if I take a look at her?"
Well, that's more courtesy than his marines showed. She smiled. "Go ahead."
The crowd in the doorway dispersed as the two of them walked together, circling the ship, talking the entire time. "I wasn't on the Alexander," Nicholson said, "but I watched through a window on the Achilles while she took apart the Hive fleet during the battle for Earth. Gave me a whole new respect for older ship designs, let me tell you." He nodded in the direction of the corvette. "Don't get me wrong, the Achilles is a beautiful ship. But if I had to fly through a Hive swarm, I'd want to be in something from this era." He pointed up at the Theseus.
"Especially if I can shield it," she said, and he looked at her sharply. "I have some ideas," she said, uncomfortable under his sudden scrutiny. "Is it true the aliens mostly use heat weapons?"
He nodded. "I haven't been in a space battle yet, but I've seen all the reports." He thought for a moment. "Actually, there's one exception. Two exceptions. Their EMP weapon, whatever it is. It seems to be more effective than any EMP strike we've ever developed. I mean, we have EMP shielding. We've had it for decades. But this weapon of theirs, whatever it is, goes right through everything."
The implications fascinated her, but she tried to look solemn instead of smiling in delight. "What's the other exception?"
"That tower. The gun they built in Garibaldi Plaza." He glanced at her. "Actually, I wanted to ask you if you would talk to the science team. They're tinkering with the weapon, and they're just about having kittens. Before this, all they've had to work with is shot-up scraps of ships from space battles. Rumor has it you're a brilliant scientist. I thought you might be able to offer some insight."
The compliment pleased her more than she would have expected, and she felt her cheeks grow warm. "It's not really my area of expertise …"
"We've been studying Hive technology for less than two months," he said. "It isn't anyone's area of expertise. Anyway, if you decide you're interested, you'll find them at Garibaldi Plaza. They know you by reputation already. They've heard about your work with heat shieldin
g."
Learning that strangers were talking about her was unsettling. Well, if my idea works out, plenty of people will be talking about me. I better get used to it. "I might do that," she said.
Nicholson lifted a finger to his ear. "Whoops. Duty calls. It was nice meeting you, Ms. Goldfarb." He hurried away.
Christine finished circling the ship, relieved to see that everything seemed intact. She looked up at the freighter's ugly, blocky lines, not really seeing it. Instead she saw possibility. The Theseus had a lot of hull space, a lot of area where heat could dissipate. Her half-hearted attempts to adapt her heat-shielding technology to make personal armor had failed completely.
A spaceship, though …
The refrigerator in the corner of the hangar had long since stopped working, but the canned drinks inside were perfectly drinkable, if warm. She sat on a workbench sipping fruit juice and staring at the ship, thinking about heat and refrigeration and the stresses that acted on a spacecraft. She rested until weariness gave way to restlessness, and then she hopped down from the bench, tossed the can in the raw materials bin, and headed for the exit.
Her legs were stiff from sitting, but she knew the stiffness wouldn't last. She'd be sore tomorrow, but tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about that. She'd be done walking soon. Done for the day, most likely. The odds of her reaching her apartment today seemed small. She'd spend the night in her workshop, as she had so many times before.
The door to her workshop stood open. She frowned, then noticed the track the door had left in the dust inside. It had been opened recently, then. Probably by Nicholson's marines, checking for stray Hive troops. Unless an alien had opened the door, darting inside to evade the same marines.
Snorting at her own paranoia, she went into the workshop. The lights surprised her by coming on. They wouldn't last. Her batteries had to be almost dead.
It was a large workshop, maybe a third the size of the hangar. She had five fabricators, smaller and much more sophisticated than the industrial units at the factory. She wouldn't be able to run any of the machines until someone restored power. She would have to pester George Thompson and get him to make this district a priority.