Terror on the Trailblazer

by John Thornton

  Butterfield ignored Ken and Janae for a moment, and ordered, “Security automacube, leave the dead one, and proceed to take us to the shuttle. We need to get back to Ida. Use full lethal force on anyone—or anything—attacking us. Keep us safe. No more tant traps.”

  “Affirmative. Full sensory awareness in place. Lethal weapons armed and ready.”

  The security automacube did its tasks with efficiency, and soon the automacube was leading the three prisoners through the corridors, while Butterfield walked behind, she had holstered her energy weapon, knowing she could draw it out very quickly, but relying on the security automacube’s enhanced senses to alert her to any threat. They did not go to the hanger bay where Janae and Ken had been heading, but instead, took an elevator to a different level, and then marched to a small hanger bay labeled, “IP-377.”

  “Come now, my dear cutie,” Butterfield said to Ken, and stroked his cheek. “Your chariot awaits. I will take you safely back home where you belong. No more wandering about. Did you fly over here in one of those homemade ships again? Is that Dome 17 place of yours part of the Isle of Pines? Surprised they could built even that crude of a device. Oh, no bother, I will get to the bottom of who is putting you into those rickety and dangerous things. I am good with bottoms.” She then grasped Ken’s buttock and gave it a firm squeeze. “No more unapproved jaunts for my big man, now. Understand?”

  Ken responded, “We just want to be left alone.”

  “You will have quiet respite times, certainly, but only on my schedule.” With another squeeze of her hand, Butterfield released Ken’s butt cheek and walked toward the pressure door of the hanger bay. It smoothly opened, and the Class 1 shuttle was revealed. It was the only shuttle in the four-stall hanger, and was locked to the deck via docking clamps.

  “Load the prisoners into the seats, and be sure to separate them from each other,” Butterfield instructed the automacube. “Be tender with my big man here, but make sure they are all restrained properly.”

  As the tant, Janae, and Ken were led into the shuttle, Ken noted it had a black underbelly, wide wings which were set in a gentle wave to each side of its sleek fuselage, and stood on three-wheeled struts. Its top was light gray, and there were four oblong windows on each side, as well as the wrap-around front viewports. The side door was open, it had folded down which made it into a stairway. To Ken and Janae, it looked like an antique, but neither of them said anything, despite Janae’s raging anger, and Ken’s deep frustration.

  Speaking into her multiceiver, Butterfield said, “Diego? I am loading the shuttle now. Princeton, Irwin, and Birmingham are dead. Send detailed flight instruction to this shuttle now, and set up a safe passage back to Ida.”

  “Princeton is dead?” Diego’s voice rang out.

  “Just send the instruction, and I will explain when I get back.”

  “But you are not a pilot. I can remotely bring that shuttle back, no worries about that,” Diego replied, emotion heavy in his voice. “Princeton is dead?”

  “I have three prisoners. Have another security automacube ready when I arrive. One tant, and the two we wanted,” Butterfield stated.

  “Sending over the instructions now,” Diego replied.

  5

  Betrayal

  Ken sat with his hands bound around the post in front of him. He was belted into one of the ten seats inside the shuttle, but not next to Janae or the tant. They were each in a separate row. The cockpit had seats for the pilots, then a row of three, where he was seated, then behind him was another row of three seats, and Janae was restrained in the far seat in that row. Last of all, the tant was bound in the back row which had two more seats. There were aisles down both sides along the wall of the fuselage, and that was spacious enough for the automacube to roll down, as well as for a person to easily walk down either side. Despite his frustration, anger, and no small measure of fear, he was fascinated by the roomy feeling inside the shuttle. It was so different from the FTL scout.

  “Diego, I am ready to fly this back to Ida,” Butterfield related, as she pulled off her helmet, and pulled on some headphones with a microphone. That was connected to the cockpit by a cable, and Ken could only hear her side of the conversation. “Yes, of course, I can manage this.”

  Ken glanced at Janae who was looking at him. Her light features were livid with rage, and she was tugging at the restraints which bound her to the seat in front of her. The other prisoner, the tant, sat seemingly emotionless, and not moving.

  “Well, yes, I will use my countermand to cycle the hanger here. Do you want me to give you a detailed observation of what I see, too?” Butterfield sneered. “You just worry about putting me on an authorized and safe space way, and I will worry about this craft,” Butterfield let out a breath, which was clearly a threatening sound. “Diego, if you tell me I am not a pilot one more time, just once more, I will bring your attitude directly to the Benefactor. You know he wants me and these prisoners back as soon as possible… Finally, now do your job while you still have one to do.”

  The lights in the shuttle shifted from a normal level of luminescence to a dull green glow which mostly came from the instruments and gauges in the cockpit. The light in the hanger bay itself had changed as well and was a yellow glow that floated in through the windows and the wrap-around viewport at the nose of the shuttle.

  “I will fly this for you, Butterfield. If you want me to,” Janae called up with a smirk in her voice. “Being from that backward and unsophisticated Dome 17 place has easily equipped me to pilot any of your antiques.”

  “Oh, Janae, dear, your bravado in the face of adversity is rather endearing, in a pathetic sort of way,” Butterfield replied. “Those puppet-masters who deceived you certainly did a good job of it. But you will soon be free of these delusions, and honestly, do not fret. I will get my big man here back home, and you as well. The tant will be taken into custody when we arrive. Afterward, you both will have my full and complete attention.” Butterfield never took her eyes away from the controls, and they could hear a bit of hesitation in her words, which was not typical for anything Butterfield said.

  There were a series of clanks, clunks, and a thud from beneath the shuttle as the docking clamp was released. Then gravity manipulation was altered and the occupants of the shuttle felt weightless.

  “Urrggh!” the tant groaned out, gurgling, and sputtering. “I am sick!” the tant began to vomit. Chunks of emesis flew through the air, hovering and floating around in roughly shaped globes. They splattered a bit on the ceiling and the seats around, but did not strike into the other passengers.

  Butterfield, who did not care much for flying herself, but would never admit that to anyone, had to swallow hard and take deep breaths to keep control over her own flipflopping stomach. Determined, she did not let her nausea show, and commented, “Stupid tant. Hold it in, you beast. You are no better than a dog who gorges itself on a rabbit.”

  Suction devices in the ceilings, seats, and floor activated, and the mess was soon eliminated, and even the smell lingered only a bit longer. The shuttle rose from the deck and pivoted about. Ken and Janae could see out the viewport, past where Butterfield sat, and saw the huge doors of the hanger bay spreading open, exposing the blackness of space. Only a twinkling of stars—sprinkled across that obsidian canvas—showed any break in the emptiness.

  “Diego? I am leaving the hanger bay. Confirm the authorization codes for the space way,” Butterfield commanded. She set her multiceiver into a slot where it locked into place on the cockpit dashboard. “Transmissions received and plotted.”

  The inertia suppression system on the shuttle prevented some of the sensations of movement—but not all—and the tant became sick again. The thrusters on the shuttle fired, and the craft moved out of the hanger bay. The exterior doors of the bay began to close immediately after the shuttle cleared the threshold. Banking and altering course, the shuttle accelerated and swung in an arc which allowed Ken and Janae to see out the side windows. Some
other parts of the Colony Ship Trailblazer became visible, and were a mottled collection of blues, and grays, with light sources in a myriad of places. Janae spotted the needle ship stretching off in the distance, and thought of the tant, and how that was where they lived. She looked from the tant to Butterfield, and could not tell who was the worse barbarian. She almost longed for the animal brutality of the deadly bruins from the Isle of Pines, almost. But then she lumped all three groups together. Members of those groups was willing to kill for whatever reason made sense to them. The bruin beasts from some kind of animal viciousness, and the tants might have some radiation-related aberration, but Butterfield looked like a normal human. Norms, were what the tants called non-mutated humans, and Janae just could not, from the outside, see a reason for the evil done by the norms. Then she remembered Jubal, Larson, and Riley from Dome 17, and quit trying to comprehend the origin of evil behaviors. The human heart was too tough to understand, and she had seen its wickedly evil deeds too often.

  Ken, likewise, was pondering his plight. He felt like he had just been healed, and then thrown into another crisis and tragedy. Glancing at Janae, he wished he could conceive of some way to rescue her, yet he knew, he was in as much distress and danger as she was. He also considered the wounded tant and what Butterfield had said would become of it. He shuddered as he recalled seeing that bull animal destroy the tant in the ring. He wanted to rescue the tant as well, and yet with his hands restrained, and being tied to a chair, he felt helpless. He then tried to speak to Butterfield, “Hello, Butterfield? The circulation in my hands is poor, and I am hurting. Can you help me? I know it is a lot to ask, after you have rescued me and all, but my fingers are getting numb.”

  “Ken, my big man, your fingers are not the appendage I am most concerned about on you. However, if the medical people in Ida have to regenerate hands for you, I will make sure they are a lovely set,” Butterfield replied, and looked over her shoulder in a quick glance. “You will be needing hands for what I have in mind. They just might have to be a new set. Do not fret, my man, I will nurse you back from any procedure you need to be restored to full function.”

  The term “full function” reminded Ken of the words from Doctor Ule about his no longer being sterile. “Did Butterfield do that to me?” He gasped as the implication of that grew in his awareness, and shook his head from side to side while looking at the floor. “Did you do something to me?”

  Butterfield misunderstood what she heard, “I had you restrained, yes. Pain is but for a moment, Ken, darling. I will be there for a lifetime.”

  The shuttle rolled as it continued onward. Now, the Trailblazer took up most of what could be seen from the viewport. They flew onward for a while.

  A deep rumble shook the shuttle, and strained metals let out some screeches.

  “Diego, I am getting some odd reading here,” Butterfield stated, with a touch of concern. “I am right in the middle of the trajectory you plotted for me.”

  Hard jolts shoved at the shuttle from various vectors, and the inertia suppression systems fought to keep the passengers from feeling too much of that, but they felt the rough lurches.

  “Whoa! I have alarms showing I am in an automated debris sensor’s range! What have you done!” Butterfield snapped out with fury. “Bloody idiot! The microparticle turrets are locking onto my shuttle!”

  The shuttle rolled again, more vigorously.

  “Shut down the repulsors, you idiot! I am in an authorized space way!” Butterfield yelled out her command. Whatever Diego said made her much more angry, and her voice dropped to a frightful calm and low tone. “Diego, you cannot safely betray me. No. No, you cannot. Switching to manual controls.” Her hands flew across the controls, levers, and she tapped several places on the displays in the cockpit. “You faked a space way!” Then as she was pulling on the controls, she said sternly, “Come on machine, obey me.”

  A high-pitched whine arose from the stern of the shuttle, and ripples gyrated through the craft. The view from windows showed they were whirling about in a mad, uneven, barely-controlled summersault. The Trailblazer showed in the window, then the deep blackness of space, then the needle ship, and then back to another view of the Trailblazer—a different section of a different cylinder. That repeated over and over rapidly. The tumble was wild, and without the extreme efforts of the inertia suppression systems, and the restraints holding the people in the shuttle’s seats, they would have been killed by the pressures, and centrifugal forces. Even with the inertia suppression at maximum, it was a harrowing and jarring ride, yet none of them screamed out, or lost consciousness.

  Butterfield spoke slowly and methodically, “Diego. No one betrays me without incurring a huge debt. I always collect the debts owed me. I will get you for this. Never sleep again, Diego. I am coming for you.” All the while she was adjusting the controls, and the thrusters were firing madly, seeking to control the shuttle. She tapped the multiceiver, “Record message for the Benefactor. Highest-priority.” A light then flashed on the multiceiver. She went on, in almost her normal voice, “My benevolent Benefactor. I am so very sorry to inform you that Diego has been found guilty of consorting with your enemies and others who are seeking your downfall. He is jealous of your surpassing greatness. I fear there is a conspiracy brewing around Diego. He has threated you, and I will stand against him.” When the light went out, she commanded, “Upon cession of my life functions, you will send that immediately to the Benefactor’s private connection.”

  “Affirmative,” a very mechanical voice replied.

  Butterfield never quit wrestling with the controls, even leaning far into the other pilot’s dashboard and activating some of the instruments there as well. Her arms and hands were a blur of motion. The whining roar of the thrusters surpassed everything else in the cabin of the shuttle.

  Ken peered out the nearby window and noted that Butterfield’s efforts were showing some success. The craft was stabilizing, no longer crazily tumbling, but it as it leveled off, the trajectory it was taking was still ominous and deadly. It was flying toward a different section of the hull. Lights were flashing on the hull, and spotlights shone down on sections which were illuminated in red strobes.

  A very mechanical recorded message blasted through every speaker in the shuttle, even louder than the whining thrusters, “ALTER COURSE. IMPACT WARNING. ALTER COURSE. IMPACT WARNING. ALTER…”

  A strange, new human voice interrupted from the cockpit, “Remote control applied to your vessel. Emergency landing procedures are in place for you. Grace be to all aboard.”

  Out the front viewport, the doors of some other hanger bay were opening. The yawning brightness of that hanger bay was being revealed, but the movement of the doors was slow compared to the speed of the shuttle.

  “Reprisal will be mine, Diego. Reprisal will be mine! I will stand over you on your day of reckoning.”

  The shuttle’s wave-shaped right wing struck the edge of the hanger bay’s exterior doors, and the lights in the shuttle blinked off, as the wing ripped apart. Fluids gushed from torn equipment lines in the exposed sections of the wing, and several thrusters ceased firing. The shuttle’s systems shifted energy to those mechanisms which were still functioning, inertia suppression being one of the most protected systems. Default emergency procedures activated. Butterfield still retained some measures of control. She deployed a standard crash landing sequence from her pilot control dash. Along with tertiary backup programs which kicked on and which were programmed into the shuttle’s systems, the crippled shuttle toppled down onto the deck, only two of its landing struts had deployed and extended properly. Both of those snapped off, as the belly of the craft smacked into the deck of the hanger bay. Fortunately, gravity manipulation had not yet been restarted, and the impact was not as horrendous as it might have been. The shuttle bounced upward, and then a number of dampening fields ensconced it, and brought its momentum down.

  “Remain in your vehicle until emergency crews remove you,” the new vo
ice stated.

  With popping and ripping sounds, the energy system on the shuttle failed completely. Inertial forced hit the passengers, and pilot, as did the newly reactivated gravity fields. The shuttle slid along the hanger bay, and was caught by emergency permalloy nets, preventing it from slamming into the thruster fuel tanks which lined the wall. Part of the shuttle’s fuselage caved in, a window cracked, and there was a sickening whoosh of air as it escaped through the broken hull of the shuttle.

  Someone screamed, but no one knew who it was. It might have been all of them, or it might have been the tortured metal of the shuttle’s frame, or something else entirely.

  Everything went black, and Ken felt his neck whip forward, then to the side, and finally he blacked out.

  Ken’s next conscious moment was when Janae was standing over him. “Ken! Wake up, now!” She slapped his face.

  “Huh?”

  Sparks were flying from sections of the wrecked shuttle’s machinery overhead and to the side of Ken. The air was filled with acrid smoke, and yellow lights were flashing. He was upside down, or nearly so, still restrained to his seat.