by Jim Graham
The map may have covered 100 light years of space, but to Petroff it represented a screen behind which he could hold the conversation he dreaded having, just in case Abel, the Raider’s current Commander, pulled rank and cited anything relating to the safety of the ship.
‘That’s weird,’ Abel observed. ‘How can the signals be as clear as a bell inside the void, but virtual mush outside of it?’
Petroff appeared to ignore him. Instead, he stared directly at Williams.
‘Thomas, I think you know what I’m thinking. Given what we have seen and now know, I think the time’s right to discuss where we go from here.’
‘I agree sir. For the record, I’m not entirely comfortable with what we’ve found so far. There’s nothing we’ve learned about this craft, or whatever it is, to suggest it is of human origin.’
‘Not human? I’m not following you, sir,’ Abel said, cutting through their conversation. ‘What else could it be?’
Petroff turned from Williams and faced Abel square on.
‘Deputy Commander Williams is expressing a concern that the craft may not be of human origin, Abel, and I’m of the same opinion. It’s clear to me that it’s causing the void. Do you know of any human technology that can achieve that?’ he added, pointing at the command cabin screen through the transparent star map. ‘Even accidentally?’
‘No sir, I can’t, but until the SG’s finished his analysis, or we bring the craft on board, we can’t say for sure it isn’t an in-system ship of local design. The emissions could be causing the void, but not intentionally.’
Petroff sucked on that for as long as a second:
‘I’m inclined to agree, Abel,’ he replied, shifting his position, realising it could justify closer contact with the craft. He looked from Abel to Williams to gauge his reaction
Petroff saw Williams eyes dart nervously, uncertainly, between the two of them. He was probably working out how he could register his objection for the record. Fortunately, unlike the more experienced and confident Xin, Williams was new to his post and could still be railroaded. True enough, Williams was anxious about the whole venture.
‘I must counsel against this, sir. No good will come of it. We should report its location to the Outer Rim Force and let them deal with it according to protocol.’
Abel had other concerns:
‘But sir, if there are emissions, it means that at least some of the craft’s systems are still working. That means there could still be people on board—alive. We couldn’t possibly leave here without confirming there’s no one on board—it’s the least we should do.’
‘And how do you propose we prove that without first pulling it out of the void, Commander?’ Williams asked.
‘Well, there would be no other way. It’s not as though we can rely on the tug acting independently—not while it’s out of contact with us. And it’s impossible to programme it to respond to all the Rumsfeld Unknowns—it would take days just to anticipate them all. But we could send someone in the tug to react within guidelines.’
‘Again, I agree, Abel,’ Petroff said, nodding. ‘It’s a sensible option. In any case, Thomas, the ORF is a little busy right now. We’re “it”. As Abel says, we can’t just ftl the hell out of here without confirming the absence of human life. Right now, we can’t prove anything either way, and as I see it, a void is a void: it’s nonaggressive. It doesn’t appear to be intelligent. It isn’t going anywhere.’
‘Sir,’ Williams started, this time more officially, ‘it mightn’t be hostile, and we can’t confirm it’s alien, but if you are to continue, I want this ship in a state of instant readiness to jump—with or without its tug.’
Abel cut in quietly, still thinking, but out aloud:
‘Why use the tug? We may as well just fly in and scoop it up. The tug’s already proven we can come and go from the void unmolested and with all its systems intact.’
The three of them looked at each other. None could see a more obvious alternative to Abel’s suggestion, other than to jump away.
In Petroff’s view, he had two firm votes for stepping further out on a limb, and the other, Williams, who he would deal with later, was now only undecided—he was not refusing outright. Petroff resolved to hurry things along:
‘Splendid, gentlemen! Then we agree, and we have a plan. Abel, let’s get on with it: let’s pick up that craft and crack it open.’
27
The journey from the V3 to Go Down City would be a short but spectacular one, so Scat hurried through the shuttle’s cargo bay and into the launch room, grabbing a forward-facing launch seat close to the flight cabin.
Before him and filling the window to the port side of the flight cabin was a living and shining Trevon. To the starboard was the blackness of space. As they closed in on the planet, Trevon’s horizon flattened out until the brilliant white band of its terminator ran in a straight line from roof to floor. It then appeared to rotate and drop below them as the shuttle altered its approach and offered its heat shield to the thin upper atmosphere. A frenzy of heat and light wrapped itself around the shuttle, obliterating the view, leaving a visible disturbance in its wake.
Some 20 minutes later, the shuttle slowed sufficiently for the air to part before it, and Scat could then see the sky all around him. The blackness of space was gone, and the refraction in the atmosphere obscured the detail he had seen from space. The shuttle continued towards a morning sun that pushed a flood of light across the predominantly white and sometimes green Trevon surface, in places scarred and brown where mines dug deep into the crust. A band of clouds obscured the frozen continental seaboard, dissipating over a sea of gunmetal blue.
Scat’s spirits lifted. If he were lucky, the sky would be clear, the air crisp and bracing, smelling of decaying vegetation, snow, salt—all natural things.
At 20,000m, the shuttle extended its wings and slowed from Mach four to a more sedately, subsonic 450 kilometres per hour, its flight properties changing from a ballistic missile to that of an air-rider. As it descended through 5000 metres it buffeted slightly, dipped, straightened, yawed and banked as it lined up on the Go Down City spaceport, only just visible in the haze some 10 kilometres away. Then a member of the crew closed the flight cabin door in preparation for landing, stealing the scene away. In no time at all, it was hitting the runway, wheels screeching, cabin rumbling, loose bin lids rattling.
The three shuttles pulled off the runway towards a row of buildings set back from the main terminal. Once they had powered down, everyone, including the flight crew, disembarked along a closed and windowless gantry into a small customs hall reserved for Lynthax personnel. Teams of environmental specialists pushed past them in the opposite direction to sterilize the shuttle’s interior.
In the background, and spread out around the hall, were several groups of Lynthax Security, each trooper armed with a stun gun and, this time, a lethal small arm.
Off to Scat’s right he could see the supervisors, who, like him, had been led on board the V3 in plasticuffs, being rearrested. At the head of his own queue, he saw two troopers waiting, looking at him.
It would be his turned next.
28
They rode to Go Down City in silence, his minders disinterested in their surroundings and less interested in him. They were unlikely to lose him while they travelled across such a bleak and barren landscape but would pay closer attention once they reached the Loop. Scat was no longer plasticuffed so he was free to fidget and stretch, pushing down on his seat to gauge his new 9/10th ESG weight.
He could scarcely tackle a kitten right now, let alone sprint across rough ground, so he settled for looking at the snowdrifts through the window, wondering when he would take his first steps outside and suck in the chill air. The light wind pushed thin and powdery mists of snow across the road. A feeling of nostalgia washed over him. It was like driving across the open plains of the US Midwest in winter.
Then they were at the Loop, descending into Go Down City. The gu
ards began paying attention to their surroundings.
The city founders had built Go Down City along the floor of a 120 kilometres long, one kilometre wide and 450 metres-deep rift that scarred the Trevon landscape running south to north across the Gap Plain. The city now extended along a 10 kilometre stretch of the rift starting from the southern end of its floor. Its buildings were only as high as the rift’s lip, their rooftops used to support the transparent, but never quite clear, environmental shield that lay flat across the immense gash in the ground. On a bright and cloudless day, it was visible from space.
At the north end of the city, where the Loop descended into the rift, the environmental shield fell vertically to the floor down the ends of the buildings creating a wind dam wall.
Inside this protective shield lived the 2.5 million permanent resident Trevons, other world representatives, traders, and Earth corporate employees that made up just fewer than half of Trevon’s total population.
Go Down City was Trevon’s administrative centre and its largest urban environment. It was through Go Down City that everyone came and went to the other worlds, all its imports were processed, and all its exports shipped. The city was Trevon’s first significant settlement, and so it had become its cultural and political centre. It was still the site of the Trevon House of Representatives, the courts, and corporate head offices.
He could not see from one end of the city to the other as the rift snaked left and right, and rose and fell slightly, but he knew the layout was similar all the way to the south until it reached the southern rift slope upon which stood the less substantial, early settlement structures.
This was the area first settled by immigrants from Earth in 2150; 50 years after the Lynthax Corporation had augmented its barren landscape with ice resistant ferns and other more complex vegetation.
The planet that humans had taken for themselves was an almost perfect replica of Earth in terms of mass and its position in the habitable zone around Grecos, but its average global climate was akin to Antarctica before the Great Warming – and just as volatile. It just needed a push in the right direction to make it warmer and more hospitable.
In the meantime, Go Down relied on geothermal steam for its warmth. It rose from everywhere. From the grills in the roads and vents atop the tropical atriums to flues in the sides of buildings, hot, moist air condensed in the colder air outside, creating wispy, momentary ribbons of chaos. Here one second; gone the next.
‘We’re here. Shake a leg!’ ordered one of the guards as he opened the vehicle’s side door for him.
The suddenness of the instruction pulled Scat from the bustling canyon like avenues and back into a world of aggravation and uncertainty.
‘Come on. Get your arse out here and let’s go inside. It’s cold.’
‘I’m not being slung in jail?’
‘No. We bailed you at the spaceport.’
Scat was going to ask the obvious question but the guard cut him short.
‘We handle the pre-prosecution processes for minor violent crime,’ he explained, then noticed Scat’s surprise. ‘It’s just another one of our government contracts. It keeps the government lean and cheap. You’ll get used to it.’
‘And a lawyer?’
‘You’ll meet him here. But a Mr Bridges wants to meet with you, first.’
‘Who’s Bridges?’
‘No idea.’
Scat looked around him, sucked in the city’s air, and smelled hot dogs, air-conditioning exhaust and dampness. He looked up at the environmental screen above them and saw that the light making its way into the city was weak, hardly casting any shadow. Still, he was glad to be outside without the aid of a pressure suit, CO2 scrubbers and O2 canisters, even if he did weigh so much more than he had when he carried them on Prebos.
He followed his escort up the steps to the foyer and then into the elevator. It was a brutally fast ride.
The elevator doors opened out onto a large half-circle concourse lined with a curving reception desk, perhaps 40 metres long. It looked like an upmarket hotel lobby, but Scat knew this to be Lynthax’s Trevon head office, and that behind the walls, either side of reception, the company made and executed its regional policy.
They walked him up to reception where a young girl greeted them. Her smile was wide and enthusiastic. Her name tag said she was Milley. Scat could not avoid smiling back.
Milley looked at the troopers, then at Scat. If she noticed the blood on his coveralls, or the gauze covering his nose, it did not show; her smile did not flicker. She gave him a packet and then a strap to fix around his wrist.
‘Please don't take it off, and hand it back when you leave. Please take a seat.’
Scat sat down on a sofa in the middle of the concourse. Almost immediately, Milley's PC pinged, telling her the strap had registered his pulse. Scat’s escort took that as their cue to leave. As he waited for Bridges, he drifted into a light doze.
‘Good morning, Scatkiewicz.’
Scat snapped to, and looked up to see a large man, perhaps 1.9 metres tall and weighing in at around 120 kilograms, though mostly around his middle. ‘I’m Bridges, Director of Projects,’ the man said. ‘Let’s go to our meeting room.’
Bridges was no athlete, but he would be a hard man to put on the ground and his demeanour suggested he knew it. He turned on his heels and led the way a little too quickly for Scat’s liking: if Bridges knew that he had just debussed from six weeks in space he was not letting on. Fortunately, the room was only a short way down the first corridor.
‘Take a seat Scat. I’ve been reading Petroff’s report on the Prebos situation and his discussions with you. Excellent. Good choice.’
‘Thank you, sir. Not sure how excellent it is, but Mr Petroff said it would come up in discussions at this end.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What’s its worth, Mr Bridges, sir? My value to you. I made it quite clear I’d work with you but that I’d also take any benefits that came with the job, so to speak.’
‘You haven’t read what’s in the packet, have you? Perhaps you’d better do that before we continue.’
Scat drew it out of his coveralls pocket, tore at it then slipped a five-page document out onto the table.
He speed-read it, skipping the whys, wherefores, and contract clauses, paying more attention to the schedule on the back page, reviewing the guarantees of current pay, potential bonus, and method of payment and so on. HR had covered it all.
Well, it was all there; they had not stiffed him: his income was secure, and security of income was everything to a man who had nothing more than the clothes he wore.
It listed Bridges as project sponsor and a Philippe Maurice as his project manager. Other than that, it was a standard company employment contract. He could leave the thing in a MacOlivierBell fast food joint, and no one would be any the wiser that Lynthax had recruited him as a spy.
Bridges waffled on as Scat completed his reading and then concluded with a statement:
‘I had better warn you that I kill projects early. I don’t let them drag on unproductively. Bear that in mind, Scat. Petroff is aware. He’ll be demanding results. So, you had better get some, sharpest!’
‘Understood, sir. Anything else?’
Bridges looked over folded hands, and raised an eyebrow. He was obviously expecting a barrage of questions.
‘No, Scat. Just don’t miss any reports. Maurice’s details are in the contract. Good day to you. Go meet your lawyer.’
Scat left the brief meeting and this time Milley walked him across to a less well-furnished room on the other side of the concourse where she introduced him to Mr Samuel DeWitt, his court-appointed and dandruff-plagued lawyer.
He told Scat just how serious his offence was, and then explained that the witness statements had yet to arrive from Prebos. Until then, a court date could not yet be set.
None of this was a surprise. He had assaulted the first guard only 40 minutes or so before
the V3 lifted off, so no one had gotten around to taking statements. However, the court had registered his arrest and granted bail pending formal charging.
By the sounds of things, it could take up to six months to file a formal charge, were they to file one. Then Scat realised he could still be charged if he came up short for Petroff.
Feigning his thanks, they exchanged their Trevon publicmail account details—Scat had found his in the new contract—and promised to stay in touch.
As he passed reception, he waved at Milley and stood waiting for an elevator. She cancelled his visiting authority and motioned to him to drop the security strap into the receptacle by the elevator door. He obliged, and then took the next car to the ground floor.
At last he was on his own, and, to the world outside of Lynthax, he was alone, unemployed and homeless.
And if he could help it, he was neither rebel nor spy.
29
The recovery had gone well. The craft was on the rear flight deck, safely secured. The Venture Raider had jumped to coordinates some light years away on the other side of the void, away from Prebos. It then sat in complete silence for 30 minutes as the SG operator awaited the return of a surveillance buoy they had left behind at the recovery location. He was now the bearer of some surprising news: the void was gone. Space had returned to normal.
Petroff was severely disappointed: although his companynet search did not provide him with a man-made likeness, the craft fell a long way short of being a sensational discovery.
All he now had was a craft, if that was what it was, measuring 30 metres in length and five metres in diameter. It was a smooth, cylindrical object, with rounded front and rear ends. Evenly spaced around its middle were three brackets. Of propulsion systems, it appeared to have none. There was no exhaust, no entry or escape hatches, and no windows. It was mostly hollow with a cube-shaped area within it through which no scan could pass, and its shell was made of composite materials, none of which was suited to the rigours of air riding, let alone re-entry.