Stars Fell on Trieste

by M. Alan Marr

“You’re shitting me.”

  “I’m not,” Dev replies. “And right now, one of their Brigands is headed this way.”

  “What’s a Brigand?”

  “One of their attack ships.”

  “A ship full of snowmen is headed this way?”

  Dev watches the target suddenly change course. “Yeah. Hang on.” Dev makes an urgent turn and advances his throttles. The engines surge and leave a bright spectral trail behind. They both feel the acceleration.

  “How long before we reach them?”

  “Depends on how they’re navigating, but the closure rates can be surprisingly quick out here. Anywhere from a few hours to a couple of days.”

  “That’s a pretty wide range.”

  “The cosmos is a big place.”

  “What happens when we find them?”

  “We destroy them.”

  “What!”

  “We have to.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or they destroy us,” Dev says simply. “They’re not going to Earth for the scenery.”

  “Damn.”

  Dev muses, “Told you to go home.”

  “Wow.”

  “Still, I’m glad to have you out here.”

  “So, all this time, you knew how to fly.”

  “Well, yeah, these,” Dev says. “That contraption we took to the lake is a little beyond my abilities right now.”

  The detection grid signals an alert. Their target just disappeared.

  “What the hell?” Steve says with concern as the target they’ve been tracking vanishes.

  Dev makes some adjustments and changes the scale of the detection grid. The target, and the alert, reappears much closer downrange than it was just a few moments ago. The Yeti accelerated into a compression burst.

  “They just increased their speed . . . by a lot. Hang on.” Dev goes to full throttle and adjusts course to re-intercept the position of the new target.

  chapter 7

  STAR BRITANNIA

  ☆ ☆

  Chaz lands at London Heathrow a little after 9:30 in the morning, London time. He phones Dev, but the call goes directly to voicemail. That’s odd. He checks his watch; it’s late in Atlanta, but Dev usually stays up when Chaz is working. Even if Dev’s sleeping, he always picks up, and Chaz always calls now after he lands. The landline to the penthouse has no answer as well. Chaz tries Dev’s mobile number again. Voicemail. Something is starting to feel wrong. This is the first time Chaz has ever been unable to reach Dev. No text messages. No e-mails either. Chaz quickly types a text message, but when he presses send, undelivered appears on the screen. Yes, something is starting to feel very, very wrong.

  Chaz and his crew exit customs and head for the terminal doors to the waiting shuttle bus. But each step Chaz takes toward the door feels like a step farther away from whatever is going on. He slows and comes to a full stop. The flight attendants following didn’t expect Chaz to suddenly stop, and quickly dart around him. The captain catches the near collision and asks Chaz what’s wrong. Chaz tells him he’s going to waive his rest and deadhead home directly. He shakes his captain’s hand, and the crew departs without him. It is now Chaz’s intention to remain behind and to try to figure out what’s going on. That in mind, he looks around for a secluded spot. But this is London Heathrow; there are no secluded spots. Plus, the United Kingdom is one of the most heavily surveilled countries in the world. Chaz sees a sign for the men’s toilets and walks in and finds a vacant stall. He takes his crew bag inside the stall and even drops his pants and sits down. Chaz takes out his Ti-Phone again, but instead of playing a game, as he usually does on the commode, swipes left, activating the off-world Tertian apps to make contact with Dev. It takes some doing because Chaz hasn’t really used any of these advanced features and has never used the Tertian vocal-com system. Chaz keys the Dev icon and watches the screen graphics. A small dashed transmission line connects to the Tertian relay buoy in Earth orbit. The relay buoy icon begins pulsing outward. He puts the phone to his ear and listens. It sounds like it’s trying to connect, but he doesn’t know what the proper Tertian sound effects are in this case. Checking the screen again, he sees the pulsing buoy form into a solid transmission line streaming into space. Putting the phone back to his ear, he waits. Seconds turn into minutes. But then it finally connects. And when it does, what Chaz hears sends chills down his spine. He hears the sounds of warfare; guns blazing and engines surging.

  “I can’t talk right now!”

  “There he is! There he is!”

  There is the sound of a blast, and then the comm line is severed. Chaz looks at the screen. The tag reads SIGNAL LOSS. “What the—was that Steve’s voice?”

  Now horrified, Chaz thinks a moment. Why would Dev leave the planet without telling me? Then he realizes it. I was flying . . . he didn’t want me to be distracted at work. Chaz quickly switches back to iPhone-mode and presses a contact number on his favorites list. He doesn’t even wait for the person at the other end to finish their pleasant greeting. “I need a fast plane from Heathrow to Atlanta immediately.”

  Within two hours there is a Citation X powering up on the Heathrow corporate aviation ramp. The Citation X is literally the fastest corporate jet on Earth with an average cruise speed of Mach .96, or ninety-six percent the speed of sound. Small airplane, big, big engines.

  A car pulls up to the waiting jet. It is raining outside, and the copilot meets them with large umbrella in hand. Chaz had changed out of his uniform shirt while he was in the restroom stall at Heathrow, and wadded up his blazer and hat and stuffed them in his bag, so right now, he just looks like a harried business traveler late for a meeting.

  “Mr. Ronaldi? I’m your copilot—”

  Chaz, oblivious to the rain, hurries to the trunk and grabs his bags before the driver even lays a hand on them. He heads directly to the plane and heaves his bags into the cabin, then climbs aboard, being careful not to bang his head on the much lower doorway and ceiling of this smaller corporate jet. At six foot three, Chaz enters the cabin hunched over. He’s used to wide-body 767s, not normal corporate jets. “My God, I’m in a mailing tube.”

  The copilot comes aboard, closes the door, and stows his raincoat and umbrella. “Mr. Ronaldi? I’m your copilot—”

  “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but we need to be on our way to Atlanta.”

  The copilot sees he’s another irritable client. “Sir, we have a safety information card—”

  Chaz snaps the information card out of the wall pocket. “Emergency exit is the door I came in from and over-wing exits. I’m familiar with the oxygen system and flotation equipment, now please, get going.”

  “Right. At once, sir.”

  The copilot stows Chaz’s bag in the closet and climbs into the cockpit. He puts on his headset and looks at his captain.

  The captain keys the pilot-to-pilot intercom to speak discreetly. “How is he, then?”

  “Another American in too much a hurry to read the bloody card.”

  “Right, best have him on his way before he has us sacked.”

  Chaz’s quickly chartered flight takes off and is coast-out across the Atlantic. Climbing to altitude, the Citation X is faster than any passenger jet, except the Concorde, which is no longer in service. Chaz is very anxious and has no earthly idea what’s going on.

  ***

  Two hours later, Chaz realizes he never called crew scheduling to get released from duty. He is out of range for normal phones but not for a Ti-Phone. Without giving it a second thought, he dials scheduling.

  “This is FO Chaz Ronaldi, number 762314. I need to be released from my scheduled deadhead flight from London.”

  The copilot looks back and sees Chaz on his iPhone. “What the bleeding Christ?” he says to the captain. “That Yank is talking on his mobile.”

  “What’s that you say?”

  “He’s talking to someone on his mobile. Is he mad?”

  “That’s impossible. We’re over the bl
oody Atlantic,” the captain says. “Go see that he’s all right.”

  “Right.” The copilot leaves the cockpit and walks back to Chaz. “Beg pardon, sir.”

  “Hold on,” Chaz says into the phone, then lowers it from his ear. The copilot hears someone reply on the other end. “Yes?”

  “Sir—I’m rather surprised your mobile has a signal.”

  Chaz looks at his gold Ti-Phone. “Oh, it’s a new model.”

  “Yes . . . sir . . . may—”

  Chaz holds up his finger so the pilot waits for him to finish his call. “I’m back. So, my schedule is clear? Yes, great, thank you.” Chaz ends the call. “Sorry, what?”

  “May I bring you something, sir?”

  “Vodka on ice. Big.”

  The copilot opens a small bar cabinet and prepares Chaz his drink, as there is no flight attendant.

  “Thanks.”

  “You can, of course, help yourself, sir.” He points to the small bar compartment. “Just here.”

  “Thank you.” Chaz takes a breath. “Listen, I’m sorry for snapping at you. It’s been a very rough day.”

  “Quite right, sir,” the copilot says, appreciating the words. “Is there anything else you need?”

  It suddenly dawns on Chaz that Dev would have needed Steve to fly the floatplane to the lake. “Oh my God, of course.”

  “Sir?”

  Chaz half laughs at his epiphany, then turns to the copilot. “I’m going to need a helicopter in Atlanta. Call ahead and have them there when we land.”

  The copilot is surprised. “Helicopter . . . Very good, sir.”

  “And make sure customs is there. I don’t want to be kept waiting. Tell them I have Global Entry.”

  “Right, sir.”

  The copilot returns to the cockpit and buckles his seat belt, then puts on his headset.

  “Well, then?” the captain says discreetly over the intercom.

  The astonished copilot responds quietly, “He was talking on his mobile. I heard someone on the other end. Said it was a new model.”

  “Eh, these well-to-dos can have anything, then, can’t they?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “What else?”

  “He wants a helicopter in Atlanta.”

  “Radio dispatch on the HF and order the man his helicopter.”

  “Right, sir.” The copilot dials a frequency on the high-frequency radio and makes the call.

  Chaz goes back to studying the Tertian graphics on his Ti-Phone. His experience with Crown technology has, so far, been limited to the systems of the Recon ship. He’s now regretting not taking any time to learn how his Ti-Phone works.

  The Dev tag appears in red hash mark and, as before, reads SIGNAL LOSS. Chaz taps the hash mark and a set of numbers appears, several separated by periods. They look somewhat familiar, but why? Looking at them, Chaz realizes this numerical set is the same format as those written on a placard below a chunk of shot-down Brigand he saw in Dev’s study on Trieste. Coordinates, he realizes. These must be Dev’s last known coordinates! But now what? Chaz deselects the coordinates and shakes his head. Slowly, he rotates the phone into landscape-mode and sees that the graphics change Chaz’s current position, shown as a target over the ocean. That’s informative. He does a quick two-finger pinch on the screen and then watches as the screen begins to zoom out. Chaz watches as the image goes from a target over the ocean, to the entire ocean, to the Northern Hemisphere, to a planet-wide orbital shot, to the entire solar system and all the orbital paths of its planets.

  Using some logic, Chaz rights the phone, and the graphics switch back to the previous communication trajectory. This time, he selects Dev’s position and then rotates the phone into landscape mode again, showing Dev’s last known position in space. But where the hell is this? The screen doesn’t show any nearby planets or stars. Nothing but space. Chaz stares at the Ti-Phone for a few moments until a terrible thought occurs to him. Chaz puts his index finger on the right edge of the screen and slowly slides the image farther to the left. Then, it comes plainly into view: Constellation Triangulum.

  Those three stars cause a chill to run down Chaz’s spine, and a fearful look washes over his face. Short of breath now, Chaz utters a squeaky, “Shit—”

  Chaz sits compulsively tapping his foot. He nervously drains his glass, then gets up and pours another stiff drink. Sitting back down, he stares at the ceiling, agonizing over what, if anything, he can do. What if Dev needs help? The Crown is twenty-three parsecs away . . . that’s fifty-six light years . . . Who knows where their closest warship is right now? He looks at the Ti-Phone again. No other targets appear on the screen. He doesn’t even know if warships would appear on the screen. He remembers Dev had to program an additional sequence to make the warship Adonis appear on the detection grid, but has no idea how he did it. Chaz’s brain is just about in a state of panic. He takes a swig of his drink and forces himself to calm down, compartmentalize his emotions, and try to organize his thoughts.

  Dev flew away in his fighter . . . that means there’s an imminent threat to Earth . . . One fighter against who knows how many Brigands . . . Signal loss—could just be a problem with his comm system . . . what if it isn’t? . . . Communications—I can send a message to the Crown and call for help. How do I do that? . . . Relay buoy in orbit—no, too slow, that would take days to reach them . . . Two facts suddenly ring out loudly in his head: one, he is a duly commissioned Officer of the Crown now; and two, there’s a CDF-R35 Reconnaissance ship sitting at the bottom of a lake in Alabama.

  Chaz turns his thoughts to the Recon ship. I can send a high energy message from the Recon ship if I’m far enough away from Earth . . . past Saturn at least. If I can get the engines started, I know I can get the thing airborne . . . fuck, how do I find Saturn—wait, I have Dev’s last known position right here . . . fly to Dev’s coordinates and call for help along the way . . . At this point, Chaz sighs and speaks out loud, his voice cracking, “This just sucks.”

  The captain leaves the cockpit this time. “Mr. Ronaldi, sir, Captain Gordon Fawkner.”

  Great, more interruptions. “Chaz Ronaldi.”

  “Sir, we’ve radioed our dispatch regarding your request for a helicopter in Atlanta. I regret to report that they are having some difficulty finding one at this hour.”

  The captain’s slow and proper British elocution annoys Chaz to no end right now. “What’s our ETA?”

  “We shall arrive in Atlanta in approximately four and one half hours now, sir.”

  Chaz puts on a stern face. “Then you have four and a half hours to find me one. I need that helicopter.”

  “Yes, sir. I will pass along your concerns.”

  “Good.”

  The captain motions aft. “Pardon me, sir. I just need to visit the loo.”

  Chaz is really not in the mood. “I needed to know that?”

  “My apologies, sir.” The captain squeezes past Chaz and goes aft.

  Chaz nervously downs his second drink and decides he better not have any more. In fact, he realizes now he shouldn’t have had any at all. Nothing he can do about it now. The pilot will be back shortly, and Chaz really doesn’t want to engage in any more conversation, so he reclines his seat and closes his eyes. At least if he appears asleep the interruptions will stop. Eyes closed, Chaz continues to work the problem. Flying’s the easy part . . . but what if there’s a failure? I don’t know any of their emergency procedures . . . Guidebook—there’s a systems guidebook on the ship . . . What if I run into a Yeti? . . . I don’t know how to operate the weapons . . . If everything goes to shit, I can try to ram them. I’d be dead, but hopefully take the Yeti with me . . .

  Whether it’s the vodka soothing his nerves, or that he has something of a plan in place, Chaz relaxes somewhat. I watched Dev power up the engines in the Recon ship. I flew a TransAtmospheric flight trainer and Dev’s fighter . . . I can do this . . . Probably should try to rest now, while I can. No way. Chaz is convinced he’ll ne
ver be able to sleep, but his jet lag catches up with him and he nods off. He doesn’t even notice the pilot returning from the lavatory.

  ***

  Chaz has a nightmare of sorts, seeing all kinds of overlapping space trajectories, constellations appearing as their ancient parchment layouts, dropped calls, a damaged Crown fighter, and a Recon ship gone haywire at his own hands. Chaz wakes up with a start when the face of a Yeti suddenly flashes before him with a bang. In reality, he woke to the jolt of some turbulence. The bang he heard in his dream was the seat belt sign going on. Chaz blinks a few times to clear his head. The flight monitor screen shows they are only a half hour from landing and well into their descent. Chaz’s neck is sore, and his mouth and tongue are bone-dry after sleeping for four solid hours. He desperately needs water.

  Despite the choppy descent, Chaz gets up and uses the lavatory, having to make it a sit-down maneuver since he is so tall. He then crouches up to the small bar and pulls two plastic bottles of water out. He chugs the first one then crushes down the empty bottle and throws it in the trash. The pilots hear the scrunching sound and turn around. The copilot takes his headset off to speak to him.

  “Mr. Ronaldi, we found your helicopter, sir.”

  “Thank—”he clears his throat—“Thank you.”

  “Landing in twenty-five minutes, sir. Mind the turbulence, please.”

  The Citation X lands and parks on the Jet Support ramp, not far from the Oasis 767. Chaz looks over and sees Dev’s Range Rover parked next to the conspicuously empty floatplane parking spot. Customs arrives shortly thereafter. The customs agent looks at Chaz’s Global Entry card and passport, and clears him without further ado. Chaz grabs his bags then hurries over to the Range Rover and stashes them in the back. Unencumbered now, he runs toward the waiting Jet Ranger helicopter. He gives the pilot a large overhead wind-it-up motion by twirling his hand.

  “Mr. Ronaldi?”

  “Yes, yes, let’s go. I’ll have the coordinates in a sec. Head west toward the Alabama boarder.”

  “Hang on, where are we going?”