He gave the Express a quick pre-flight walk-through and then headed up to the control deck. Strapping himself into the control seat, he reached out to the comm, set it for Departure Control, and then put his headset on. Immediately, he heard the usual chatter as other ships logged in with Departure Control in preparation to leave the shipping port.
While he listened to the chatter, he ran through a quick checklist, hoping for a break. Although he had the pre-flight checklist memorized, he didn’t trust his life to human fallibility, and faithfully ran down the list. He had lost friends and acquaintances to simple mistakes made by a hasty and incomplete pre-flight. One valve left open or one control knob set to the wrong setting could leave you stranded in deep space without the simple convenience of something like air or power. He was just finishing when he heard a pause in the chatter that allowed him to break in.
“Departure Control, this is the spacer Cahill Express requesting a departure slot.”
“Cahill Express, Departure Control,” came back the reply. “What vector please?”
“Two two seven zero point three,” Ian answered back after checking his navigational display. It was one of the normal departure lanes and would provide the best transition later for his next planned stop.
“Granted, Cahill Express,” departure answered. “You have a slot on two two seven zero point three in four minutes. On my mark. Three, two one. Mark.”
“Noted and locked,” Ian replied as he punched the timer button and set it for four minutes. A quick check of ship systems showed that all was ready for a smooth and quick departure. Now all he had to do was wait.
This is the hardest part of space flight, Ian thought. My ship can carry me millions, even billions of miles in four minutes, but nothing can ease the wait of my skids gathering dust on the ground.
His mind wandered back to other departures where he had fumed at the delay. Now he took it in stride as a part of life one couldn’t change. It was funny how that had become part of his personal philosophy. Some things you can change, some things you can’t, and may the Unseen One grant you the wisdom to know the difference.
The timer signaled the one minute mark. Ian flexed his fingers and reached his right hand forward for the throttle bar. His left hand rested gently on the axis ball while he waited for the seconds to count down. At ten seconds, he brought the power online and lifted the ship into a hover.
“Cahill Express, Departure Control,” the voice said in the headset at five seconds.
“Cahill Express.”
“You are clear for departure. Have a good flight.”
“Thank you, Departure,” Ian said. He advanced the throttle bar and rotated the axis ball for vertical lift-off. The blue and black Cahill Express rose, turned nose up, and accelerated up into the marked exit lane above the shipping port. Within seconds, it was breaching the atmosphere of the planet and entering the darkness of space.
∞∞∞
By human standards, the day had been a long one. Ert (as he named himself) heard one of his attendants say as much when they left for the evening. But for Ert it wasn’t a long day. The day was like most any other since awakening here among these bipedal creatures.
At the time it was a bit disconcerting for Ert to awaken in a now repaired component. A relic from an extinct species on an obscure planet, he’d been inoperative for a little over eighteen million galactic years. He’d adapted to his change in circumstance and eventually started communicating with these human creatures. He mastered their language and evaluated their technology.
Most often inferior to what he had known in the distant past with his builders, he found it fascinating none-the-less. Following different avenues of development, these bipedal creatures had actually surpassed the ancient Horicon in some areas.
The history of these humans also interested the ancient Horicon computer. Socially, they were completely unlike the Horicon he had known. To borrow a human phrase, Ert wanted to know ‘what made them tick.’
Using normal connections (and a few abnormal ones), Ert absorbed and correlated every bit of history he could find. To say that his habit of correcting discrepancies he found caused quite a bit of consternation would be a gross understatement. Nevertheless, to Ert it served no purpose to distort verifiable facts, even for social purposes.
After several uproars had developed when he pointed out these errors to the humans dealing with historical records, Ert discerned that it was often better to quietly correct the record and not tell anyone. This approach proved more effective in helping his new keepers since most often they accepted the correction at face value and moved on.
Missing the companionship of his Horicon creators, Ert struck up new friendships with the humans around him. As some of these friends moved on to new assignments, he found ways to follow them and stay in touch.
Intrigued by the way the humans faced their problems, Ert soon adapted some of their approaches to his own concerns, which led him to his current problem. All of his searching of the historical records of the humans failed to yield answers to several questions. He tried taking the odd approaches he picked up from the humans but all this did was amplify the gaps in the knowledge he sought.
He wanted to know what happened to the Horicon. One day he had been routinely performing his assigned duties running part of the infrastructure on his home planet, and the next he awakened over eighteen million years later in a transport crate on his journey to his eventual home on Mica with the humans. He had no idea of the eons of time that had passed or the events that led up to the apparent demise of the Horicon.
Nothing in all the vast records of the humans answered the question of eighteen thousand millennia of lost time. If he’d been a simple machine like the computers the humans built, this would not have bothered him in the least. Those poor collections of electronic components and circuit boards had no feelings. Ert, on the other hand, was completely different. He had as much, if not more, emotion than the humans around him.
However, it tore at his very being. Although happy with his newly-found human friends, he mourned the missing Horicon. An average machine by their standards, Ert had enjoyed the interaction with the Horicon for many centuries. Now they were gone, leaving only ruins and one very lonely computer.
Chapter Two
From: deagle>gss.rodartc.ro
To: hasselfarm>gss.bv.er
Dear Mom and Dad,
Well, here I am on board my own ship hurtling through space. Not really. Actually, we’re in a trainer parked in orbit around another dull and boring planetoid. All of my classmates are also in trainers scattered around the solar system. They really believe in personalized training at the Rodar Training Center. My instructor (ok he has a name!), Trooper-First Ace Vmac insists that we practice another mapping and charting routine. I know it’s important and all that, but I want to get out there and do something! All this analysis of rocks in space is driving me crazy. And now he wants me to do another bio-scan of the surface. That makes three times this week for this one rock alone! What does he think is down there, an unknown life form Galactic Axia science has never heard of? Maybe he’s looking for a date with some exotic alien girl!
I heard from Stan Shane a few days ago. He’s up to his elbows in some sort of hush-hush project on a closed planet somewhere. I have no idea what he’s doing, and even if he told me, I probably wouldn’t understand it anyway. He did say that Ert is helping him, so I know either it’s something very dangerous or very complicated. Whatever it is, he sure is happy. At least he gets to do something important. Me? I’m stuck here analyzing rocks and microbes.
I know—gripe, gripe, gripe. Mine is not to reason why, mine is but to do or die, or sob and sigh, or wipe my eye, or something along those lines. But it’s every trooper’s right to complain. This just isn’t quite what I’d envisioned when they outlined my “training” missions. The whole galaxy is waiting out there and I want to go see it! Even I know a stupid computer could do a better job of this t
han I can!
And that brings up another question—have you heard from Ert? Oh! I hope he doesn’t pick up on that ‘stupid computer’ remark. You know how touchy he is. For a while there, he’d log on and be all chatty, but lately he’s disappeared. Stan didn’t mention anything about him, so I don’t know if it’s just me or what. Last time I spoke to Ert, he mentioned that he’d gotten under the skin of a few people at the Science Institute. His help can be burdensome at times. And I can’t imagine any way that they could keep him from communicating if he wanted to.
So anyway, that’s it from your lonely son. Tomorrow it looks like we might actually go somewhere if Ace gives me the go-ahead. I’ll try to keep you posted if anything, and I mean ANYTHING actually happens.
Love, your son, Delmar
“That sure was informative,” Robert Hassel said with a grin to his wife of many years, Agnes, as he put down the printed letter. They were talking about their son, Delmar Eagleman whom they had adopted after his abusive guardian brother, Dorn, had been killed while a fugitive from the law. Delmar had joined the Galactic Axia Troopers and was now away at Flight Training and Survey School on Rodar, one of primary planets of the Axia. “Our boy is going space-happy.”
“Don’t be so hard on him, Robert,” Agnes scolded. “Don’t you remember how eager we were at that age?”
“Of course I can’t,” Robert quipped. “Short term memory loss.”
“Delmar did have a point about that computer, Ert,” Agnes went on, ignoring her husband’s stab at a joke. “Ert used to drop us a line as well but it’s sure been quiet from that direction.”
“He probably got in trouble again with Professor Angle,” Robert said. “Delmar might have a point.”
“From what I know of Ert from our correspondence, that is very likely, but not with the professor,” Agnes said. “It seemed to me that Professor Angle actually encouraged Ert to go out and explore.”
“Yes, but he has a strange way of exploring,” Robert quipped. “Not to mention how he leaves things afterwards.”
Agnes could only agree with Robert’s assessment. Boys and computers, she thought. Can’t live with ‘em and ya can’t live without ‘em.
∞∞∞
Ian Cahill reached up to his nav board and punched in the coordinates for the next leg of his rounds. He glanced at the readout on the screen and decided to tweak it a bit. No need to take unnecessary chances, he thought as he vectored his route closer to secure planets. Hopping directly from one planet to another was one thing. Cutting directly through known hazard zones was another.
That was becoming more and more of a problem lately out here away from the normal shipping lanes. It seemed that the Red-tails had stumbled onto areas still frequented by humans but less patrolled by the Axia. That made for better pickings for the raiders and higher risks of being eaten for the humans. Ian Cahill did not like the equation. Sure, he had used fear to whittle a trade or two, but right now he was thinking of his own skin. An extra half day was worth the peace of mind it would bring.
Finally satisfied with his plot, Ian punched the engage button and the Cahill Express vectored automatically to the new course. After watching the indicators, Ian sighed happily to himself and got up out of his control chair. He liked having an automated ship. It allowed him the freedom to be alone and prepare for the next customer or trader.
Going back to what served as a galley on the ship, Ian opened a drawer and pulled out a tea bag.
Some things just can’t be duplicated or synthesized, he thought. Tea, and for those who liked it, coffee, were among these. And from a few female friends, he heard that hot chocolate was another, although he didn’t notice any difference himself.
Dropping the tea bag into a cup, he turned on the heat beneath the zero gravity teapot he had rigged up. Even if by some rare occurrence the Express lost all power and gravity, the little pot wouldn’t let any water escape into the cabin. It took some tricky engineering but Ian was proud of his accomplishment. Maybe someday, when he had time, he would market the device.
It took less than half a minute and the water was ready, the indicator light on the teapot flashing with seeming eagerness. Ian set his cup under the spout and turned the little tap on the pot. Steaming hot water at just the temperature he liked poured into the cup. As it hit the tea bag, he began to smell the precious tea start to brew. He was definitely looking forward to this cup.
Taking the steaming cup, Ian absent-mindedly swirled the tea bag as he carried it with him to his worktable. He set the cup on a warmer pad (which also secured it against zero gravity—another of Ian’s ideas) and turned on the light, sitting down in his chair.
This was the real nerve center of the Cahill Express. This was where the decisions that affected his future were made. Ian was in his element here.
Using a keyboard, Ian punched up the ship’s manifest on a monitor screen set above it. He keyed in the code for the acquisition list so he could review and research his latest trades and purchases. Although a short list compared to inventory aboard, the acquisition list held a promise that made him smile. The last few stops had been good ones except for that one character on Cyan that had refused to honor his agreement at the last minute. But other than that, Ian was generally pleased.
Ian checked the list, and using the automatic conveyor system brought the first item out for inspection. A small locker door opened beside the table and he reached in and brought the item out. In this case, it was a set of early Galactic Axia history manuscripts—a popular item to a certain class of egghead scholarly collectors, so they stayed relatively stable in value.
It was a good trade. What Ian hoped to do was peddle them to someone willing to pay more for minor, and to the casual observer, insignificant differences. A slightly different script here, an unusual illustration there, could make this set worth many more credits. His research prior to trading had paid off. The set was rare enough to be marketable to a higher class of clientele. Maybe some egghead on Mica or one of the other educational planets, he thought.
Turning to his keyboard again, Ian input the specific details on the set of books into the file. He paused and considered how to phrase the information to tickle the fancy of some wealthy collector. Historians would be interested too, but they tended to pay less than private collectors.
Typing again, Ian used his considerable marketing experience to pitch his product. When he was finished, he hit the save button which would place it in the file for later transmission. As soon as that file was fleshed out to Ian’s satisfaction, he would transmit it to the trading hub computer net for circulation among the outer planets.
Someone somewhere would be interested. Ian was sure of it. But what he really hoped for was more than one buyer. Then he could start a bidding war between them and the price would climb dramatically.
Ian always kept this in mind when trading or purchasing. If an item were too rare, though the value may be very high, the bidders would be very few. As a result, it tended to depress the price potential. A slightly more common item was worth more if traded correctly than the most expensive artifact available wrongly traded.
Finishing up with the books, Ian returned them to the conveyor system so they could be returned to safe storage. While the system secured them, he glanced up at the control remote readout board above his work area. The telltales showed the ship on course and at the speed he had programmed earlier. He looked at the remote detector screen readout and felt a chill run up his spine. There was the beginning of a red trace on the far edge of the screen.
Ian hit the auto lock-down switch and all his of automated systems started securing themselves while he ran for the control chair. In a fluid motion, he leapt into it and secured this safety harness. Looking at the main detector screen, he brought up the Express’s weapons system while he plotted the location of the Red-tail ship.
Taking the Cahill Express off automatic, Ian changed vectors away from a field of space debris to see if the Red-tail w
as alone. The red trace on the screen grew stronger as the Red-tail ship changed its course, but no second, or even worse, no third trace appeared. He breathed a sigh of relief. He had tangled with Red-tails a few times before. The Express was a freighter, not a combat cruiser. He could handle one ship. Two was trouble. More than that and you had better be on good speaking terms with the Unseen One.
Ian shoved the throttle bar and the Cahill Express lived up to its name. It took a few seconds for the Red-tail to accelerate to match his speed but it gave Ian just that many more seconds to play with.
“Now I’ve got you,” Ian said aloud, watching the detector screen. Swinging his ship around a stray bit of rubble, he abruptly stopped and reversed course, which caught the Red-tail off guard as the Express zoomed past him in the opposite direction. Now the Red-tail was in his sights.
“Let’s make this interesting, shall we?”
He aimed the main ray of his ship and depressed the firing stud. A bolt of energy leaped out and neatly sliced into the drive section of the Red-tail ship. Its ability to maneuver destroyed, it could only continue on its original vector via momentum. Since Ian had fired from behind, the Red-tail’s weapons were useless. Ian knew they were fixed facing forward. For some reason, the Red-tails did not mount rear-firing weapons on their scout ships.
Ian approached the disabled enemy ship, careful to keep its blasted drive section between him and its weapons.
“Now comes the tricky part,” Ian said as he aimed his smaller rays at particular points on the Red-tail ship. Weeks learning all he could about Red-tail ships at an Axia seminar was time well spent. What he had in his sights was one of their typical one-man patrollers, unrefined for decades. What the Red-tails lacked in sophistication they made up for in mass. This lack of innovation gave the Axia and humanity a much-needed edge.
The Cahill Express crept closer as Ian made sure of where he was targeting. Finally, he pinpointed the power hub of the ship and fired his small ray. Its beam lashed out and neatly fried the distribution hub for the enemy’s weapons and communications systems. In one hit, he had turned an enemy space raider into so much inert metal.
Space Trader (Galactic Axia Adventure) Page 2