"Listen, my boy," he whispered, just barely louder than the creak and sputter of cooling metal going on around them, "What you just heard was a plasma emitter failure. If we don't make a sound, then when they land and send a scout party to see if we survived, it will take time to find us. That will give us options. If we continue to make noise, it won't take them long to figure out where to point their guns. Do you want that?"
The guard's eyes opened wide and he shook his head.
"Smart boy. … Also, you may want to take a look at Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder: The Path to Recovery by E. Cummings. It should help you get over this little incident."
For a moment, all was still. The only sounds were the hiss and collapse of damaged equipment and the unnervingly quiet sound of the attack ship's engines as it hovered and scanned the area. The guards who had evacuated the hangar had wisely retreated much further into the facility, which left the ship as the only concern, at least for the moment. A vertical red line projected from a node beneath the nose of the ship and initiated a deep scan, sweeping slowly across the interior. The ship drifted steadily back and forth, attempting to get line of sight on as much of the hangar as possible, but those hidden within kept themselves carefully out of sight, though this was somewhat complicated for Garotte, who had to tug and shift the unfortunate Willis along with him. Finally the ship lowered down, crunching to the icy concrete. A large door opened and a trio of troops cautiously marched out, mismatched and highly unique looking weapons held ready and oxygen masks firmly in place.
Garotte carefully glanced through a hole in the shuttle that was serving as his cover. With a short sequence of hand signals, he communicated his findings: Three men, searching, one pilot, one gunner, three men in reserve. These men clearly had training, showing every crevice that was even remotely large enough to conceal a hostile target all due suspicion. Unfortunately, with the burned out wrecks of eight different shuttles to choose from, there was plenty of possible cover to check out. As the search approached Garotte's position, he held perfectly still and readied the cane.
The instant a foot came into view, he hooked the ankle and yanked the soldier off his feet, sending him to the ground faster and harder than his mind had been trained to anticipate. The other two men burst into motion, but the cane was quickly reversed and fired, sending a chunk of glass through the front and back of the first soldier's armor with little regard for the meat between. A blast from Silo's heavy rifle had even less trouble dealing with his partner. Those in the ship scrambled to ready the on-board weapons, but with the shields down, a quick shot from the rifle opened up a hole in the pilot window and the pilot. Garotte quickly scooped up a grenade from the belt of the struggling soldier and tossed it. He too hadn't properly adjusted to the irregular gravity of the planet, as a toss intended for the interior of the ship instead bounced and rolled well short. Fortunately for him and unfortunately for the attackers, the reserve troops had chosen that moment to mobilize and were virtually standing on the weapon when it detonated. Two more cane shots took care of the downed soldier and the navigator, and just like that, the crisis was over.
Garotte took a deep breath of the oxygen and tried to rub some life into his numbing hands, surveying the molten, charred wreck of a hangar around him.
"This is somewhat closer to the outcome I had been expecting," he said appreciatively, holding his hands over a still glowing chunk of former transport ship to warm them.
"Every last shuttle is ruined," Silo said. "How are we supposed to get to the orbital section?"
"Does this place have a secondary hangar?" Garotte asked Silo.
She slung the heavy rifle over her shoulder by its strap, bent low, and hoisted the injured guard from the ground.
"Well? How 'bout it, hon?"
"Th-there's an off-site hangar. It h-h-has assault craft. Short range. Might get you to orbit," he answered quickly, his voice shaking as much from fear as from the cold.
"Thanks, sweetheart. How far, and which way?"
"It's-" Willis began.
"Over that way, just a bit over the horizon, I'd say," Garotte said, pointing through one of the many holes in the wall.
In the distance, dust could be seen rising from the icy, barren ground, as one of the aforementioned assault crafts blazed toward them. It was small, a one seat vessel, and rather meager as gunships go, but that didn't mean much. On a planet with no other vehicles but the now devastated shuttles, it was by far the fastest and toughest piece of equipment in town.
"I suppose someone got a message out. That will complicate matters," Garotte said, scratching his chin.
Both he and Silo looked to the damaged ship that had nearly killed them.
"Care to see how rugged the military builds its prototypes these days?" he asked.
"I don't see any other options," she said.
While Garotte rushed to the ship and set about removing the remnants of the previous crew, Silo dragged Willis to one of the doors to the rest of the facility that was at least marginally intact, and propped him up against it.
"You stay warm now, hon. I'm sure they'll be out to get you soon," she said.
"Quickly please," Garotte said over the ship's external speakers.
Silo stepped over the scattered remains of the recipients of Garotte's poorly thrown grenade, scooping up one or two of the more intact weapons and casting a doubtful look at the side of the ship. The force of the blast had embedded a scattered handful of shrapnel into the hull plates, and buckled one of them. A motor on the door sparked and groaned.
"What's the status?" she asked, taking her place in the navigator's seat.
"Hull integrity is compromised. Emergency atmosphere retention force fields are entirely missing... it doesn't even look like they had been installed, at least not into the control software."
"Are there any pressure suits?"
"Just the ones on the soldiers, and they look a bit leaky at this point."
"So this ship won't be taking us into orbit, then."
"The engines are still fairly intact. We can make it, we would just be exposed to a hard vacuum."
"Well, get us up and moving. We'll try to lose the pursuit craft, then see if we can rig up a fix for the hull or get our hands on a different ship."
"I am way ahead of you," he said. The engines flared and the ship lurched quickly off of the ground. There was a ponderous, lagging nature to the maneuvering that didn't speak well for the control system. He struggled with them for a bit, finally getting the ship pointed roughly where he wanted it to go. "This isn't going to be the most graceful of escapes."
Wind whistled through the hole in the windshield as their speed increased, and more of it howled in through the dangling side hatch. Repeated attempts to close it revealed that both the latch and the motors involved in sealing it were no longer cooperating, only managing to pull it halfway shut. The combination of the two holes was causing a dangerously freezing wind to rush through the ship.
"S-s-see if you can get the heaters on, will you?" Garotte requested as he tried desperately to keep his hands steady enough to keep the ship on course.
"Working on it," Silo said, punching various commands into the unfamiliar control system. Its patchwork and thoroughly unfinished nature was one of the stronger pieces of evidence that this ship was never intended to be in regular use. Dials and indicators far too small for the panel that they were mounted to ticked off vital data, while a generic datapad served as the only input and display device for the system's more complex components. Finally she managed to dig up the environmental screen and max out the heating. Vents belched out scalding air, but it was only just barely sufficient to convince Garotte that his nose and ears weren't going to snap off. Next she found the sensor suite and activated it.
"Can you get this thing to go any faster?" she asked.
"I'm surprised I'm able to keep it from dragging along the ground. The engines are fine, but these controls are downright temperamental. I take it our p
ursuer is gaining?"
"Keeping pace, but probably keeping its distance. That little ship is no match for this one, or at least it wouldn't be if we hadn't punched a few holes in this thing first. Still, we'll never lose him like this. And before you ask, shooting him down is an absolute last resort. That man is just doing his job. He's not a soldier, he's a guard."
"See if you can find some way to get a force field on, then. Something to get this ship airtight again. I have a hard time believing anyone would willingly travel through space in a ship that didn't have a safety system."
Silo dug through the control screens.
"They seem to have all of the power hookups and field interface ports occupied, but not with a force field generator. I'll look at the access panel," she said, making her way to the one piece of the ship's interior that was clearly marked, a yellow striped panel labeled Primary System Access.
Two quick twists undid the fasteners and she pulled the hatch away, revealing a roughly constructed mechanism with a laser-etched label.
"Does Electromagnetic Obfuscation Field Generator mean anything to you?" she asked.
"Electro... are you serious? It is a damned cloaking device! Figure out how to turn it on!" he stammered.
She rushed back to the controls and searched for something that might be related to a cloaking device. Finally she found a menu marked EOFG Prototype Diagnostic Mode. She activated it, only to be met with an authorization screen.
"What did you just do?!" Garotte asked desperately.
"I tried to activate the device. It wants an access code."
"It must have tripped a security fail safe, the controls aren't responding at all any more! Cancel!"
"I can't! And there is a timer counting down!"
"What sort of countdown?"
"We are in a stolen military ship, fiddling with a gosh darn prototype! What sort of countdown do you think it is!?"
"Right. Self-destruct. ... This entire mission has gone a bit pear shaped," Garotte grumbled, "I may have to do something distasteful and of questionable usefulness."
"Is it more useful than flying a damaged ship until they manage to shoot us down or it self-destructs? Because right now it looks like that's what we've got to choose from."
"More useful, perhaps, but not much more pleasant, from my point of view," he said, digging out his slidepad and reluctantly declaring, "Open Com Ma."
Silo raised an eyebrow as the device bleeped and began negotiating a connection.
"Start looking into how to detach that cloaking device. I very much doubt we'll be getting any help, and maybe pulling the plug will cancel the alert," he said, nervously eying the rapidly approaching mountain range in the distance. If he couldn't get control over the ship again, it was not immediately apparent whether it would be the countdown or the cliff that would claim them first.
The slidepad beeped, displaying the words, "Hello Garotte. Please state mission status."
"I've got Silo and I am in a disabled vessel with inactive controls. It will not survive deep space and is set to self-destruct in..." Garotte stated, gesturing at Silo.
"One hundred and seventy seconds," she supplied after peering over her shoulder at the screen.
The device beeped again, this time reading, "Keep communications open and stand by."
"Who exactly are we in communication with?" Silo asked, abandoning the thus-far failed attempts to finesse the cloaking module out of its sockets in favor of wrenching madly at it.
"Do you remember the AI that takes care of Karter's lab?"
"Yes."
"And do you remember that smelly little beast he used to wear like a scarf?"
"Yes."
"Well it is simultaneously both of them and neither of them."
"... That doesn't make any sense."
"None whatsoever," he agreed.
A tone from the ship's sensors drew Silo's attention, she briefly stalled her attempts to excavate the cloaking device in order to investigate the screen.
"A medium sized ship is heading in our direction. It doesn't seem to be armed."
"Make and model?"
"Mobius something. I'm not good with ships."
"That's our girl!" he proclaimed, "I'll be damned. She must have been nearby. Keep working at that module. I'll get the door open."
He approached the partially closed door and, somewhat optimistically, tried the controls for it. When they did not respond, he took a more direct approach, snagging one of the burly looking guns Silo had snatched from the defeated attackers and firing three quick shots, completely detaching the door and sending it spiraling to the disquietingly close surface of the planet. A moment later, Silo managed to tear the cloaking module and a considerable amount of the associated circuitry free. The countdown continued, and the control lock remained.
Outside the door, the landscape was whipping along at a terrifying rate, and in the distance, the Armistice was just becoming visible. It was navigating in very rigid, measured movements, the telltale signs of a low quality autopilot maneuvering based on sensor data. As it drew steadily nearer, aligning one of its side cargo doors with the opened hatch, Garotte found an equipment bag left behind by the former owners of the ship. He stuffed the cane and the liberated cloaking device inside, along with any other equipment they had been able to gather, and pulled the straps tight.
"Navigation synchronized. Please maintain course and speed," came the synthesized voice of Ma's slidepad over the public address system of the ship.
"Like I have a bloody choice!" Garotte growled, into his own slidepad.
"I will extend the cargo arm. Secure yourself to it and I will retract. For safety, please do so individually."
"I'm used to the gravity," Silo said, "I'll take the equipment and go first."
"You'll get no argument from me," Garotte replied.
The pair quickly strapped the bag to Silo's back. All the while, the viciously cold air ripped through the cabin and robbed the feeling from fingers, faces, and any exposed skin. The spindly cargo arm extended and the Armistice maneuvered closer. Finally the stubby wing of the rescue craft was scraping the hull of the stolen ship, and the tip of the arm was a few inches outside the hatch. With a deep breath, Silo held tight to the frame of the hatch, swung out, and wrapped her fingers around the claw of the arm. The metal was cold enough to burn her skin, but she held tight, releasing the hatch from the other hand and hooking her arm over the gripper.
Slowly and carefully, the arm retracted, dragging her out into the open space between the ships and exposing her to the full force of the wind. The arctic blast stung at her face and threatened to tear her from the gripper, but she clenched her teeth, shut her eyes, and clamped down tighter. Suddenly the wind dropped away. She opened her eyes to find herself dangling an inch or two above the floor of the cargo bay of the Armistice. A shimmering red force field flickered between the cargo bay and cockpit, no doubt to keep the oxygen from escaping. From what she could see, both the pilot and passenger seats were empty. The only thing in the entire control cabin was a familiar furry creature perched unsteadily on the dash. It turned its head to her and nodded once before tapping at a screen.
"I... What? … This... Why?" Silo stammered, her mind not quite up to the task of assembling any coherent thoughts just yet.
The arm slowly began to extend again. Inside the stolen ship, Garotte anxiously watched as the count down dropped down into the double digits. At this point it seemed that it would indeed be the ship's self-destruct that would win the race, as the mountains were still a fair distance away. The arm took its sweet time getting closer. Just when it was nearly fully extended, however it began to drift backward, the Armistice slowly lagging behind.
"What!? No!" Garotte yelped, holding the slidepad to his mouth, "You're drifting! Increase speed!"
There was no reply. The ship simply slowly eased backward until the cockpit window was aligned with the hatch. A tiny black and white head appeared in the window, making eye
contact before tapping at something.
"Garotte, our interactions to this point have suffered from a marked lack of civility, and you have demonstrated extreme reluctance to cooperate with even the most reasonable and sensible requests. I had warned that this behavior would not be without consequence."
"What the hell are you saying?"
"I believe that now would be an excellent time to reassess your prior judgments regarding my effectiveness, usefulness, and value. Perhaps you would like to adjust your attitude for our future interactions."
"Now is most certainly not the time!"
"I'm sorry. I appear to be having trouble realigning the ships."
Garotte clenched his fists until his knuckles popped.
"Fine! We will discuss this later. Just get me out of this ship."
"Standby."
In seconds the ships were properly aligned and the arm was as near to the door as physically possible. Garotte wasted no time in latching onto it. The arm began to retract, but his feet had only just left the floor of the stolen ship when it became clear that his arms weren't going to be up to the task of fighting both the overly enthusiastic gravity of Manticore and the vicious wind for very long. The arm retracted as quickly as possible without jarring him free, but it wasn't going to be quick enough. Fingers that were already well on their way to being numb even before he was exposed to the brunt of the wind were all but useless, and he didn't have the strength to haul a body that felt like it was 300 pounds into a more secure position. He began to slowly but inevitably lose his grip.
Silo watched helplessly as Garotte's hold on the arm began to slip. She held tight to the edge of the cargo doorway and leaned as far as she could, but he was still out of reach. From the control cabin, Ma watched with equal anxiety, focusing her sharp eyes on the approaching tragedy and calculating her options. Her paw hovered over a queued command for the arm. Finally she came to a decision, tapping it into action, and not a second too soon.
Unstable Prototypes Page 23