by Aaron Bunce
The Betty groaned and shuddered violently, the resonance building in the ship’s substructure now an almost unbearable screeching.
“Will you help us? Please. We need your help.”
“Yes. I can help,” the corrupted program said. The response struck Anna as strange because she didn’t move. She just stood there, as if waiting for her to say or…offer something.
“What do you want in return?”
“Tal-Nurgal. She must be awakened. We must awaken her. Take me to her. Agree and I will help you.”
We? Anna struggled, the dark glint in the digital figure’s eyes sending a shiver up her spine. But she…no, they didn’t have a choice.
“Yes. I will take you to her. We will awaken Tal-Nurgal. Now, please.! Help us!” Anna yelled.
“Agreed. I will pilot this vessel to the surface. But you will take me to her. Parameters set,” the program said and smiled. She sounded less like a computer than Anna had ever heard her. A painful jolt shot up her right arm, then buzzed in her neck.
The halfmoon displays came alive as data moved and danced, the information flooding through her body in a torrent.
Parameters set? What did I just agree to?
The Betty rocked to one side, a loud bang shivering down her beams. Then Anna felt the thrusters come alive, and gravity shifted as the ship seemed to rise beneath her. The battered vessel nosed up, a bow thruster firing and promptly failing. Anna felt it blow up before the light appeared on the monitor. Fire licked up and over the nose, charring the bottom half of the windscreens black.
“Correcting entry vector. Restoring power through workaround. Re-polarizing electrical feed. Back feed complete. Hull temperature at critical. Rolling to port to compensate. Beacon located. Beacon locked in. Airspeed sensor offline, rerouting feed data to aft backup. Airspeed data is now available again.” Lights flickered to life all around her as the Betty’s dormant systems came to life.
The dark-haired version of her spoke, somehow starting a command and sentence before finishing the last. A curved wall of data and screens appearing in the air. She moved, turning, selecting, and shifting variables faster than Anna thought possible. The program leeched throughout the ship, seeping into systems she’d thought Erik had effectively disconnected. Dead connections came back to life as electrical voltage and feed impulses appeared to reroute themselves around dead ends and one-way relay blockades.
The Betty shuddered again, that odd, disconnected falling sensation working hard to push her stomach up into her mouth. But they weren’t listing to port or starboard anymore. She felt their rate of descent and their airspeed drop as the small craft clawed its way back up towards a workable entry angle.
“Our entry vector is not optimal,” the computer warned.
“It doesn’t need to be optimal. It just needs to be within allowable tolerances.”
“Yes. Allowable. Firing aft transfer thrusters to correct angle. Working. Working. Working.”
The ship moved and groaned, and Anna flinched. Every bang or shudder felt like just another critical failure she feared would turn them into a burning cloud of debris. But then the fire died away from the windscreens, and the view brightened. It was black, then dark orange, and before she knew it, they were soaring through a hazy, murky cloud layer.
“If we’re dead, why is everything still shaking so much? My neck freaking hurts. Can we stop the shaking now?” Soraya yelled.
“Deploying flaps and firing retro thrusters.”
The Betty shuddered and resistance increased. Air speed plummeted and the ship tipped forward, allowing Anna the first real view of the moon’s alien surface. It was blue, almost teal, beneath the hazy orange layer of clouds. Jagged, gray mountains rose up to their right and to the left, a sprawling, glossy sea of ice.
“Beacon triangulated. I feel it. I feel her. Correcting course by three degrees north by northeast.”
Anna watched the program manipulate the ship’s systems with a growing sense of unease. What did it mean that a program could “feel her”? And that it had made her agree to take it to…whatever “she” was? Had Jacoby and the others learned what it was? What exactly had trapped them in that pulsing sphere of light?
The Betty soared through a patch of thick clouds. The sky brightened as the sun broke through overhead. Titan was beautiful, a sprawling landscape of kaleidoscope ice, shifting blue, to green, and every tint in between.
“Beacon approaching in twenty-five kilometers. Twenty. Fifteen. Extending landing gear and firing retro thrusters,” the program intoned.
Their weight shifted forward as the Betty’s nose thrusters fired and the distant hydraulics whined. She wanted so desperately to let go of the fiber cable and drop the NavCom, her arms and legs screaming from the stretched and unnatural posture.
Anna managed to look down and realized that Jacoby had wrapped his hand around hers, adding his strength to help her grip the cable. He hadn’t just held her up. He’d held her together.
The altitude meter dropped as the ground rose up towards them. They were at five thousand feet, twenty-five hundred, and then under a thousand feet.
Wind gusts buffeted the craft, pushing them off course and tilting them off axis. But the corrupted version of her worked, feathering thrusters and keeping the tug level. It was work that she’d never been able to do in its place. Part of her doubted that Erik had been able, too, either, if his ambition had ever been to get them on the ground safely.
Take me to her. The words echoed in her mind as the descent slowed, her stomach telling her more than her eyes. How did it mean for her to do that? Did it expect her to lug the NavCom in with her? No, she realized. It likely meant to reupload itself to the chip embedded in her spine, then ride her to wherever it needed to go.
The thought clenched Anna’s insides and formed like an iron ball in her throat. She refused the notion of having the strange program inside her, in any capacity. And she made her plan. As soon as the gear were on the ground, she would drop the NavCom and release the cable. She would sever all connections. It was the only way.
They were at three hundred feet, then a claxon blared, and the altimeter flashed red. Thrusters fired just before the Betty shook, her heat-scorched landing pads touching down on the icy surface.
Anna moved to drop the NavCom and release the cable, but nothing happened. A pain stabbed into her neck—that old spot, the implant, burning like a hot coal.
“The parameters were set,” her counterpart said, turning to her, “as agreed. We go to her.” Then she walked towards Anna, that manic, fear inducing vibration washing over her with every closing step.
She tried to pull herself free of her digital workspace and the retreat back to the real world, but it wasn’t just her arms, something blocked that, too. The program engulfed her then, that terrifying energy washing over her body and moving quickly up her right arm and to her neck.
Anna realized her error then, as the alien presence followed her new optical path right past her old implant, the buffer that had housed it before, and shot unimpeded into her brain. The terror took hold for just a moment as a wave of darkness rolled up and swept her away from the light.
Dark Savior
EGCSS Freighter “ATLAS”
“Give me a weapon. That way I can do it ri—” Security Specialist Fred Djaron argued.
“No,” Captain Cordyczk cut him off, a muscle under his left eye twitching.
“No? Why not? I’m the only one on this ship with the right training, Captain.”
“You are on a vessel, mister Djaron. A ship navigates the seas. You are on a space-faring vessel owned and operated by Planitex Industrial. A vessel regulated by EarthGov maritime law. That law states that I cannot simply open my armory any time I wish. In fact, it may only be opened by my Sargent of Arms for cleaning and inventory, or when the commanding officer fears a legitimate threat of mutiny or…” Cordyczk said, his tone even, almost bored, “piracy. Not my words.”
“I am a
Planitex security officer, captain. Not just that, I served as an M.P. in EarthGov’s armed forces. I still carry an enforcer and tactical response professional certification from the Department of Defense. So, this wouldn’t just be handing out a firearm to just anyone.” Fred plead his case and fought hard to keep his temper in check. But damn, it was hard.
“In my eyes and the law’s, your authority does not extend beyond the station. I’m afraid, mister Djaron, the regulations are clear.”
Fred inhaled deeply and cursed silently. The captain was unflappable, his response to the request repeated almost verbatim from the last time. He was like talking to a freaking robot. How would Tate respond? No, his Cajun-born fireteam buddy would have flown off the handle and punched someone already. He did not negotiate without violence. Now, Lex. What would she say? She always had a knack for witty one-liners when people quoted regs, or even better, a way of turning a person’s words back on them.
“Captain, you’ve got missing crew. This is a big ship, with what, miles of service corridors and maintenance passages? What do you do if they don’t pop up? What happens if more crew goes missing? You asked me to find them, but I can’t do that if you aren’t willing to let me do what needs done. I know you don’t want to make a big deal about them, because that would just create a panic amongst the rest of the crew and your guests, but I think it is time to start escalating things.”
The silver-haired captain sighed, shifted against the console, and took a sip from his coffee mug.
“We had crime back on the station, stim-gangs, prostitution, stabbings, more than a few people tossed out of airlocks. So, it doesn’t surprise me that it found its way here. It’s human nature–those people, those station workers, they’ve just lost everything. Most don’t have anyone or anything to fall back on, no jobs, no family, or friends. In my experience, those kinds of people are the most unpredictable.”
“You wanted me t–”
“Dangerous,” Fred interrupted, to emphasize his point.
The captain stared down the length of his nose, amplified by his perched reading glasses. His gaze didn’t move when he finally spoke again. “You wanted me to lock those people in the holds. Now you want me to kick them out? Where are they supposed to go?”
“It is simple. We remove them from the space long enough to toss the place and find your missing people, or…” he paused, as he’d almost said ‘their bodies’. He’d found the captain not just unreceptive to that idea, but borderline naively in denial about it. The man would not consider that his missing crew members weren’t shacked up with desperate and lonely women somewhere in the dark corners of the ship, drunk and high. Well, it was a possibility, but Fred knew better. Or, he had a feeling, at least.
“It would give us time to determine where they are and in what condition. And if not, then we weed how who did what to them and in so doing, protect everyone else on board for the duration of our flight,” Fred said, awkwardly shifting his hands from his hips, to crossing them over his chest, to back to his hips. He hated speaking in such a passive, indirect manner, but it didn’t ruffle the man’s feathers.
“No,” Cordyczk said again, as if responding to his previous question again.’
“No?”
“There is no evidence we are dealing with anything other than what you just said, sir. You need to understand, mister Djaron. This crew runs four cycles–two trips out and back before receiving any paid time off. That is the better part of eight months sequestered on this vessel. Most of the men are single. And contrary to belief, individuals of questionable character and background. Those are the kinds of people willing to sign on to long-haul crews. Yes, occasionally, a woman or two will get smuggled onboard. I overlook it. Just like the alcohol or mild stims they stash in with their things, because I know who and what they are. They are humans with urges. Do you know how many women are currently on this vessel?”
“A lot,” Fred answered, reluctantly.
“They slip up and disappear for a while. Either here or on station,” the captain continued, and turned to walk over to a bank of monitors. “When they have had their fill, they will come back. I will come down hard on them, but nothing will go in my report. In the end, they will have satisfied their needs, and I reminded them of their place here. I am confident that is the case, so as you see, that is why I am not so willing to disturb the order.”
“I’m sorry, sir…but order? A corporate official was crushed to death while we had him strapped to a damned table. Someone on this…vessel did that to him. I don’t need to tell you that kind of violence isn’t normal. Those refugees turned your largest holds into a freaking shanty, a ghetto. Your people could be in there,” Fred argued, and dropped his voice to a whisper, “and the ones responsible could have done the exact same thing to them…could be doing it right now. We wouldn’t know it unless we toss the whole damned place.”
“It will be addressed.”
Fred snorted loudly.
The captain flinched at the sound, his eyes snapping away from the monitors only momentarily.
“I’ve been in, around, and over every cabin and accessible storage space in this boat, captain, multiple times. I’ll do it again if that’s what you want, but it would be a waste of my time.”
“I am not here to waste your time. You are the security expert, mister Djaron. I have asked you to look for my missing crew. You have done that. I have asked you to keep this vessel’s inhabitants safe. You continue to do that, in and under the letter of the law. But I am not willing to authorize you to walk into those holds and toss what little those people have to the ground, to play the heavy-handed stooge. That is not how I work.”
Fred took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then let it out as he repeated his silent, calming mantra. It’s all good. Nothing is wrong. It’s all good. Some of his anxiety released, but not all.
He eyed the captain before speaking, the other bridge crew trying entirely too hard to look busy. They were all listening, all spooked by the bat-shit crazy outbreak on the station, and likely, their conversation as well. Hell, some of the bridge crew refused to leave their duty stations for fear of traversing the tight corridors alone. And part of Fred didn’t blame them. They’d found blood and signs of struggle in one birth, but fights were so common among the long-haul crews, they just laughed it off.
A quick computer check confirmed that none of the ship's external airlocks or hatches had been accessed. Not that those logs couldn’t be tampered with, mind you, but that was the end of it for the captain.
“We have a long burn ahead of us. You asked for duties and I assigned them. Keep the Atlass crew safe and if there is someone onboard harming others, find them and deal with them. That was, how did you say it, ‘your jam back on Hyde’? You told me you could do it no problem. If you serve in any capacity, I will expect it to be done appropriately and properly,” Cordyczk said, threading his fingers and raising an eyebrow.
Fred hated that look, the subtle, probing doubt. On one hand, the captain admitted that most of his crew had criminal records, and were known to smuggle women, drugs, and alcohol onto his ship, to abandon their posts on benders for any length of time. What else were they up to when the captain and his inner circle weren’t looking? And Cordyczk had the nerve to insist Fred follow the letter of the law?
What a hypocrite.
“All is well. You will see.”
Fred snorted. Everything was either a question or a strangely circular comment– “is this possible” or “might you be mistaken” or his favorite “all is well” or any number of variations. That last one always threatened to boil his blood, like he was some inexperienced hack who could not find his glasses only to have them sitting on his head.
“I found a damaged ventilation cover. Is it possible someone is using the service ducts to move about the ship, perhaps to steal from crew members’ quarters? You said it wasn’t unusual for them to smuggle stims and alcohol onboard. Perhaps one of your men walked in
while they were there, and a fight ensued?” He kept it short, concise, and to the point, fighting desperately to keep his dying argument alive. It was unlikely but the only answer he’d been able to come up with.
Captain Cordyczk started to chew on his lip, what he always did right before either shaking his head or shooting him down. Fred braced for it.
“Quite impossible, mister Djaron. The ducts are too small for a person to traverse. The answer is there for us to find, we must simply open our eyes enough to see it. Perhaps start at the beginning and try again. But I expect that it is done in a way that does not disturb the order.”
What order? Your people treat this ship like their own personal drug and sex addiction stash. Maybe he should go look and see if his cataract-addled eyes can see something I didn’t.
“Why don’t you…” Fred started to say but bit off the words, the heat having rushed from his cheeks to his neck.
“Captain!” someone shouted.
“Yes,” Cordyczk said, but in his typical steely manner did not shift his gaze.
“Sir, someone…an admin worker from Hyde came forward,” the female bridge tech said, pointing behind her to the pressure door.
“And?”
More like up. They’ve got those poor shmucks locked below decks like cargo.
“She says she knows where the doc and Martinez are, sir. She says she thinks they are hurt or might need help.”
Captain Cordyczk’s eyebrows rose, his perpetually lidded eyes opening wide.
“She said they were hurt. Or do they need help? Which is it?”
“Ugh…I don’t remember, sir. Maybe both?”
“Licensed officers know when to ask, and when to be confident enough to tell, Iliana. If you ever want to be anything more than a sensor tech, you should remember that.”
“Yes, sir. She told me she heard a noise and found them behind a service panel.”
“Behind a service panel,” Cordyczk echoed, that bit of news evidently piquing his interest. He turned to look at Fred.