■ ■ ■
At a full run, the jolt and echoing whang of metal on metal tilted the corridor sideways and Michel Thorne, attempting to catch himself on the padded wall, unsuccessfully, collided with his shoulder just short of the bulkhead door to the bridge. Amid the reverberating chatter of the Black Widow’s point defense guns, he maintained his footing, lurching toward the opening iris and dashed through, grabbing for the back of his command chair. “Report!” he barked, dropping into his seat.
“Debris field - a big one. Possibly multiple ships….”
“Why didn’t the probe pick this up, Tom?”
“The probe went dark seconds beyond the gate. Never had a chance to send us a feed. We thought it might have been a probe failure, but it probably struck something out here…” The First Mate anticipated the next question, “And we didn’t have time to get another one out…”
“Probably a good thing… Dammit,” growled Thorne, “I hate losing those things, they’re not cheap.” He glanced at the big screen to his left, looking for the cargo hauler which was normally cruising off their port side. “Where’s the Palladium?”
“She fell in astern - running behind us. Our gunners are attempting to clear a path.”
Thorne was busy paging through data screens looking for anything out of the ordinary, “We took a hit. Any damage?” he asked, without looking up.
“Probably our first dent…”
“I can live with dents, I’m more concerned with holes.” He glanced up, eyeing the mad swirl of drifting scrap that surrounded them, pushed away by the shields and point-defense guns. “Have the boys switch from kinetic to energy, I don’t want to run out of ammunition.”
“It’s not as effective for this type of thing,” Tom reminded him.
“Don’t care. We’re a long way from supplies and friendly support. We can’t afford to run out.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Noah, how big is this field?”
The EWO, Electronic Warfare Officer, a lanky Thorian with yellow skin, turned his head nearly one-hundred-eighty degrees without moving his body to address the Captain, “Scans place the epicenter approximately ten thousand miles from our present position. Since the center is moving at an undetermined speed and we are moving towards it, I cannot be more precise than that.”
Michel nodded his understanding, “Well, I don’t want to fly straight through this mess… at this speed it will take us forever. Noah, I want you to plot the drift of the epicenter. Then an opposite heading - I want out of this crapfest. Have the Palladium position herself in our shadow where we can afford her the best protection.”
“Sir,” began the Thorian, “since the debris sphere is growing and will continue to do so, it is safe to reason that once we are clear of the field, we will need to fly an exponentially larger arc to stay clear of its growing circumference and make our way around it. It is also safe to reason, the epicenter, which is also growing, will be relatively clear of debris long before we can run the circumference of the growing field. I propose staying our course. Sir.”
“Are you firm on your assertions, Noah?”
“I am.”
Thorne cocked his head, considering the logic for a moment, confident the Thorian was most assuredly right. “Alright, looks like we’ll stay the course then.”
Much of the scrap was unidentifiable bits and pieces, but occasionally something larger came along, something with substantial mass - like the first piece that hit them, and that required attention by the point defense gunners to deflect or whittle down. Michel Thorn had little doubt that the Black Widow had lost her brand-new look. He was relatively sure he would be able to present a positive spin on that for any prospective buyers.
The Comms Officer moved from sitting erect to hunched over, concentrating on the sounds coming from the headset that covered both his ears. He held the headset tight, raising his free hand for attention, “I’ve got a signal!” He went back to holding both hands over the headset to shut out the noise of the gunners. “Sounds like multiple sources… but it might just be reflections off all this garbage out here…” He sat up and slid the headset off, shaking his head, “Dammit, I lost it.”
“Direction?” inquired Thorne.
The Comms Officer shook his head, “Couldn’t tell - too much signal bounce out there. And it was so weak they all sounded the same.”
“See what you can do to locate the signal if it returns,” instructed Thorne.
■ ■ ■
It was taking far too long to traverse the spreading debris field by Michel Thorne’s estimation. It was like driving through a snowstorm in near whiteout conditions… if the snowflakes were baseball size. With random refrigerator-sized flakes. Or automobile size flakes. But it did seem that the density was considerably less than it had been.
As before, the Comms Officer was concentrating on the static when the signal returned. “Got it back!”
“How’s the strength?”
“Much better… Hold on,” urged the Comm Officer, his fingers dancing across his controls, “running some subroutines that should weed out the reflections…”
“Think this could be a setup?” asked Tom in a low voice, leaning towards Thorne.
“It had crossed my mind. I know they’re busy, but tell the gunners to watch for legitimate targets.”
“Will do,” nodded the First Mate.
The Thorian craned his neck around, “Three distinct hulls about a hundred miles apart from one another, none intact.”
“Identification, Noah?”
“I’m working on it, but it’s going to be difficult…”
■ ■ ■
“Are there any evac pods out there?”
“I’m not seeing a single one, Skipper.”
“Three ships and not one escape pod? How is that possible?”
“Visual range, Skipper…”
“On screen,” motioned Michel. The red digital location markers produced three separate video insets of the ships hanging relatively motionless in space, blackened, shredded, dark ravaged hulks. “Jesus Christ,” whispered Michel reverently. “What the heck happened out here?”
“Looks like a war zone,” commented Tom from the First Mate’s seat.
“No debris left here,” observed Michel. “This must be the epicenter…”
The Thorian turned in his seat, “All three hulls are of a similar design…”
“What were they, Noah? Whose were they?”
“I’m afraid there’s no way of telling who they belonged to, there’s simply nothing identifiable. Their configurations are cargo haulers, but the computer cannot conform beyond about a fifty-percent certainty, they were a Wolff & Penndragon design.”
“What about the signal?”
“Dead now, we’re not picking anything up. It may have been an auto beacon - though I find it hard to believe it came from any one of these ships…” added the Thorian, indicating the screen. There’s no power in any of them. And looking at the wrecks,” he observed, “I’m not seeing any indication of escape pod launch…”
Michel Thorne rubbed his jawline in contemplation, “I’m thinking a convoy. They got jumped and the escort got popped and went nova. They were too close together and it took them all out.”
The Thorian cocked his head to one side. “Although we cannot know for sure, that is a very plausible scenario. It would sufficiently explain the debris field and the absence of a guide ship; something we would expect to see in hostile territory – as well as a failure to launch pods. It simply happened too quickly.”
“It doesn’t explain the signal, though. And that bothers me. Helm, keep us moving,” ordered Thorne. “In fact, let’s pick up the pace, I feel like...” his voice trailed off.
“Like what?” asked Tom.
“Just keep us moving,” he countered, his eyes narrowing, staring at the spread of stars. “Noah, any departure trails?”
“No sir. I’m afraid the event here has swept away any sign
s of any ship travel…”
“Terrific,” sighed Michel. “Best guess?”
“Guess?” replied the Thorian.
“Forget it,” waved Thorne.
“Shall we enter the hazard into the AllStar Charts?”
“No,” countered Thorne. “Mark our chart and log only - I don’t want to announce our presence in the system. We’ll wait until we’re several systems clear. And then anonymously if we can…”
“Sir! I have a signal again,” announced the Comms Officer. “It’s weak. Two degrees off the port bow. We appear to be closing on it.”
“I.D.?”
“No sir… it’s gibberish as far as I can tell. Unless it’s code…”
“Size?”
“Undetermined. Since it is not visible on scans, I would estimate it as very small.”
Thorne growled in mild exasperation. “Fine. Make the deviation - but we’re not stopping, the Palladium can scoop it on the fly - if it’s even something worthwhile.”
■ ■ ■
A video insert of the Palladium’s Captain winked onto the big screen. “We’re going to need to reduce speed to scoop this thing up, Mr. Thorne, or the cargo scoop is just going to destroy it when it hits.”
Michel Thorne eyed a screen on his console, a live video feed monitoring the Palladium’s cargo hold, the blue haze of the stasis field holding in the atmosphere above the open cargo scoop in the ship’s belly. “Do what you gotta’ do, Captain, we’ll match your speed. But soon as you have it secured, we’re out of here.”
“Understood, Mr. Thorne,” nodded the Captain. The video inset disappeared.
“The Palladium is dropping back, Skipper.”
“Match her speed, helm.” Thorne watched the Palladium’s cargo crew deploy a capture net behind the scoop, to prevent whatever was collected from damaging anything inside the ship. A data square in the corner of the video reported closing speed, distance to object and countdown timer in minutes and seconds. He glanced up at the big screen, “We still alone out here?”
“Aye sir.”
Michel shook his head, “I don’t know why, I just keep getting the feeling we’re not alone out here,” he said in a low tone. He had to force himself to look away from the big screen, overcoming the fear that he might miss something, turning back to the video of the Palladium’s cargo feed. Twenty-nine seconds left. In his mind he counted down with it. At the zero mark, a human-sized object banged off the ramp, cartwheeling through the blue stasis field in a blur, tangling itself in the cargo net. “What the hell?” he muttered. He pushed the monitor’s comm button, “Is that a human?”
■ ■ ■
“Thirty-two hours to the gate to Wolper, Skipper.”
Michel Thorne nodded his understanding before redirecting his attention back to the video comm on his right monitor. He leaned forward in his command chair, “Gone? What do you mean he’s gone? He’s dead? He died?”
Mutti stroked his beard, “No, Boss. Steele disappeared…”
Thorne’s brow knitted, “As in, disappear like a magician? Did you see him vanish?”
“I didn’t see him do anything, Boss. We were kinda busy down here. After the stand-down order, I had a moment to look up and he was gone.”
Thorne rubbed his face, “Oh for the love of…” He took a deep breath, “You’re certain he’s not down there somewhere, Mutti?”
“He’s not in engineering, Boss.”
Thorne ended the comm and groaned, resting his chin on his propped hand. “Tom, security teams out, let’s look for Mr. Steele. No rough stuff…”
“What’s going on Michel?”
“Mutti suspects Mr. Steele might be a Synth. And I have reason to believe his suspicion has merit…”
“Oh geez…”
Thorne tapped the MOBIUS on his wrist, “Don’t use the comm. Send out individual MOBI-Notes.
The First Mate began issuing orders via MOBI units, “ Y’know, I’ve never actually seen a Synthetic.”
“Me neither. And I’m hoping I’m wrong. Because this can go bad in a hundred ways…”
“Video feed coming in from the Palladium about the pickup,” the Comms Officer announced.
Thorne motioned halfheartedly; his mind almost too divided to care. “On screen.”
The video panned around the subject - a blackened and battered humanoid droid. “As you can see Mr. Thorne, he is missing one hand, the other arm below his elbow and his left leg below the knee. He’s been severely damaged…”
“He still has power, though?” asked Michel.
“Yes. Limited. He will need substantial repair in order to power up. I suspect only his automated systems are currently functioning; emergency beacon, memory system support…”
“Can we pull his memory or data” interrupted Thorne, “and just take a look at his history? I’m not really interested in restoring him to a functioning state. I just want to see what happened out here and see where he came from.”
“I can’t say for sure until I open him up and take a look at the condition of his components. My best guess is he was blown overboard…”
“Yeah, I get that,” interjected Michel, “I meant did he come from one of those ships we passed,” he thumbed over his shoulder, “or from one of the attackers.”
“I understand,” nodded the crewman. “I will have more information for you in a few hours.”
“Were you able to cancel his distress call? I don’t want anybody looking for him…”
“Yes, sir. Right now, we just have him hooked up to maintain his power level and monitor his systems.”
Thorne leaned back against his command chair, “Keep us up to date on your progress, please.”
“Aye, sir.” The video square winked out.
Michel Thorne leaned his head back against his headrest, “Jesus, this has turned into a weird trip…”
■ ■ ■
Within fifteen-minutes, Michel’s MOBIUS chirped, “Skipper, Security Team Two reporting in…” came a transmitted whisper.
“Go ahead, Team Two. Why are you whispering?”
“We’ve located Mr. Steele, he’s in his quarters. His door is open and he appears to be studying something on the computer We are positioned in the corridor at opposite ends.”
A pang of deep angst hit Michel in the gut like a punch, his palms instantly sweaty. “Stand by, I’m on my way.” He pointed at his First Mate as he rose from his command chair, “Tom, have Mutti meet me…”
“You got it.”
“I am not looking forward to this…” muttered the Belgian.
■ ■ ■
“Knock, knock,” announced Michel, stepping over the knee-knocker into Jack’s quarters. “Got a minute?”
Engrossed in what he was doing, his fingers pipping on the glass keyboard, Steele didn’t look up from the computer screen, “Sure, Mikey, just gimme a second here…”
“I’m afraid it can’t wait, Jack.”
Steele glanced to the doorway on his left, mid keystroke and he momentarily froze, Michel standing inside the room, the burly German, Mutti, straddling the knee-knocker halfway through the door, two more figures in the corridor behind him. He rolled his chair back a few inches allowing himself to rotate in their direction. He casually crossed his legs at the knee, his hands resting in his lap. “OK, Mike…” He eyed the German and leaned slightly to get a better look at the figures in the corridor. “What’s going on, Brother?” he asked cautiously, straightening back up. “And what’s with the entourage?” he nodded towards the doorway.
To Michel, his friend looked relaxed but apprehensive - his mind was running almost unchecked. Was he too calm? His response seemed controlled, measured… did that seem normal? “How’re you doing, Jack?”
Steele raised an eyebrow, “Fine… why?”
“What…” Michel indicated the computer screen that he couldn’t see from his angle, “what’re you working on?”
“Homework,” sassed Jack, unmoved. His eyes na
rrowed, “You want to tell me what’s really going on here, Michel?”
Michel’s expression looked pained as he searched for the right words, “There have been some… behavioral issues…”
“With who?”
“With you,” replied Michel.
“What the hell are you talking about?” frowned Steele, adjusting his posture in his chair. The German stepped over the knee-knocker into the room, the figures in the corridor closing in on the doorway. Steele’s eyes tracked them all, all the little movements, suddenly registering changes in heartbeat, breathing and stress levels. Jack nodded toward Mutti, “You might want to tell the Berlin Wall back there, that’s a bad idea…”
“What is?”
“What he’s thinking of doing,” replied Jack. “It won’t go the way he thinks it will.”
“What’s going on with you, Jack?” asked Michel. “Something’s changed.”
“It sure has. But then again, I’m not the one who brought a small platoon into my quarters…”
“You’re a Synth,” blurted Mutti, tired of waiting.
Steele looked confused. “A what?”
Michel waved off Mutti’s attempt at responding. “Mutti suspects you are a Synth, Jack.”
“Yeah, I heard the word, I’m not deaf. I don’t know the meaning.”
“A Synth is a Synthetic human.”
“So, I’m a robot?”
“No, a Synth is far more complex, far more refined, created to replace a human with an artificial. Usually for some kind of espionage or subterfuge. They’re exceptionally detailed with the thoughts, memories and mannerisms of the human they’ve been designed to replace. But they’re rarely perfect…”
Oh, so I’m a refined but still imperfect, robot. Gee, that makes me feel sooo much better,” interrupted Jack, his tone caustic. “You’ve got to be kidding me with all this, right?” He waved at the German and security team, “No of course not, otherwise you wouldn’t have brought Larry, Moe and Curley, with you.” He folded his arms across his chest. “So now what?”
Resurrection Page 3