"Okay, so we know where we have to go, and we know that there is a space station," Lex cataloged. "Where does that leave us, plan-wise?"
"We have not analyzed all pertinent data," Ma stated.
The video feed rewound. Frame by frame, the short sweep of video progressed again. The slidepad, at Ma's request, was a high quality one, which meant that the video feed was exceedingly sharp, even for the dim and swiftly moving image before them. With each frame, a digital overlay outlined and highlighted elements of the image, listing off specifications for the soldier's rifles and equipment, and finally freezing on the single frame in which the front view window was visible. A square was traced around a speck in the distance ahead of the ship. It enlarged, brightened, and sharpened into a slightly distorted but recognizable shape. A space station. Next to it, a sequence of space station designs began to flip by.
"The station is currently on the far side of the sun in reference to the planet. The VectorCorp sensors will not pick it up. Attempting to identify station type."
"They couldn't have built it there, or anywhere in the system, for that matter. VC would have noticed. Eliminate stations incapable of interstellar flight," Garotte advised.
"And these people probably couldn't swing having one built for them, and if they'd stolen one we would have heard about it, so limit your search to designs that are likely to have been decommissioned or left derelict," Silo added.
"Station type identified," Ma said, highlighting the remaining design, which was clearly a match.
"Way to go, Ma!" Lex congratulated.
"Bring up schematics, armaments, everything you can find," Garotte said.
The requested information was displayed. Garotte looked it over and clucked his tongue. "This isn't going to be one of our easier missions."
"If it was easy, someone else would be doing it," Silo said with a shrug.
"I could probably get there in about eight hours in the SOB," Lex said.
"Unfortunately, no amount of skill will get your ship past those defenses. We'll have to hit it with both ships together, so that pushes our time table to, what, fifty hours?"
"Approximately forty-two hours, eleven minutes, eighteen seconds, assuming optimal performance by the Declaration's engines," Ma corrected. "Assuming no Esche Alloy was available prior to this moment, there is a properly equipped fabrication lab on the space station, and the final stage in manufacturing of the CMEA begins immediately, the earliest the missiles can be deployed is forty-four hours, seven minutes, four seconds."
"That doesn't leave us much wiggle room," Silo remarked.
"That it does not. So," Garotte proclaimed, rubbing his hands together eagerly, "Let's finish up here, devise a plan, and get a move on. Civilization won't save itself.
Each member of the group stood and began to tie up their loose ends.
#
On a VectorCorp commuter ship skimming along in a carefully mapped stretch of space somewhere between Tessera and Golana, Michella and Jon were busily tying up their own loose ends. For Jon, it was the frayed ends of his sanity that needed to be tied up. Currently, this consisted of alternately attempting to sleep and attempting to convince himself that the VC security officer wasn’t eying him up suspiciously. For Michella, who had made a career of tying up loose ends, this meant doing the same thing she’d been doing on the surface; reviewing footage, making calls, and otherwise wringing every drop of newsworthy information out of her pool of resources. The only difference was that on the ship the connections were more distorted, the screens were smaller, and the seats were less comfortable. She and Jon were sitting on opposite sides of a small, collapsible table in a set of passenger train-style bench seats. Approximately double the permitted number of carry-on bags had been crammed into the remaining seat space at the insistence of Michella, so that her full journalistic arsenal would be available to her. Jon tapped his fingers nervously on the back of his neck as he stretched to maintain his vigil.
"I’m telling you, he’s looking at me funny," Jon whispered to Michella out of the side of his mouth so that he didn’t have to take his eyes off of the officer.
"He’s looking at you funny because you’ve been staring at him for the last fifteen minutes," she replied wearily, also without tearing her eyes away from its current target, the screen of a datapad. "Relax. We didn’t do anything, we’ve paid our fines. The authorities aren't after us. Things are fine."
"Oh yeah? Then why are we flying economy instead of first class?"
"Because the execs thought I needed to be reprimanded for making them pay those fines," Michella said. "I notice they didn’t mind the exclusive footage, though."
"... Okay, but what about the ter-" Jon began, cutting himself off when it struck him that using the 'T word' on a crowded flight was probably not a wise decision. "What about the Neo-Luddites? How do we know there isn't one of them aboard? Or chasing us?"
"They aren't."
"How do you know?"
She glanced at him, then handed the datapad over, several snippets of text highlighted. After taking a few more moments to convince himself that the security officer wasn’t going to leap over three rows of seats to slap cuffs on him, he was willing to pay attention to what his boss had handed him.
"What's this?"
"Breaking news. There was some sort of incident at a military storage depot a few hours ago," Michella explained.
"I’m getting really tired of incidents..."
"Just read it."
"No orbital footage. … Authorities responded following the incident. … Communication interruption. … I don’t get it. What is this supposed to mean to me?"
Michella sighed and leaned close, whispering in his ear. "Trev is involved. The others, too."
"How can you be sure?"
"I just know. Figuring out what Trev is up to is like figuring out where a shark is going to surface based on the ripples in the water. Basically if it involves someone doing something stupid in a space ship and not getting caught, the chances are pretty good it’s him."
"And you think that's enough to keep them from going after us?"
"Once Trevor gets his heels dug in, there is no man alive more distracting and persistent than he is. If they are stupid enough to take their eyes off of him long enough to look in our direction, he'll fly a ship right up their backside. And if those others are half as dangerous as they seem to be, that's all it will take to bring the whole organization down."
"That's all well and good, but we don't even know if this is related to the Neo-Luddites."
"The official story is pretty spotty, but from what my eyes and ears in the area have been able to turn up, there was a lot of property damage, the contents of a locker are missing, and there was one fatality. The one person who died was an injured veteran who had requested reassignment to the depot just a few days prior. It is the Neo-Luddites, Jon, and this is as good as handled."
"You sure have a lot of confidence in that man of yours."
"That's why he's my man."
Jon stared at her for a moment or two, then opened his mouth to talk. Before any words could come out, he shook his head and turned away. Then he turned back, raised a finger, and turned away again. Three or four more similar fidgets came and went before Michella narrowed her eyes at him.
"Just say it before the ship medic thinks you're having a seizure."
"No, no. It isn't any of my business. I shouldn't say anything..." he decided.
Michella glared at him for a few moments longer. The instant she turned away, he turned to her and blurted. "I just think you might be taking him for granted a bit."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Look, we talked for a bit down in the bar area the other day. He feels like he's dangling off of the end of this relationship, and I don't think he's wrong."
"Jon, honestly," she said wearily as she put a hand to her face. "I don't need to hear this from you right now. I've got a million things I need to be th
inking about."
"I know, I know," he said, backing off. "All I'm saying is that maybe it should be a million and one." He slid out from behind the table and into the aisle between the seats, standing stiffly. "I'm going to get something to drink. Anything for you?"
"Tea. Thanks," she said before turning her eyes back to her datapad.
She swept her eyes across the various images and transcripts that flowed continuously across her screen. And dutifully ignored the creeping sensation in the back of her mind. After a minute or two, she realized that her mind hadn't managed to process a single syllable of the information. When rubbing her eyes and kneading the back of her neck failed to restore her focus, she decided it was time to set her mind to a different problem. Thumbing aside the primary source data, she pulled up the network traffic reports her bosses were always so interested in. After a few moments, a thought came to mind. She sighed and pulled out her slidepad.
"Call Lou," she stated. A few seconds of waiting earned her a connection.
"Lou," came a gruff smoker's voice. The video feed showed part of a rolled up sleeve, with a hairy arm protruding from it. Lou was one of those people who left his slidepad in a cradle, and hadn't seemed to have noticed that video call etiquette generally calls for at least pointing the camera in your general direction.
"Yeah, Lou. Michella again. Listen, have you been looking at these numbers?"
"The year-to-date record setting traffic you've been sending our way? I've been kept informed," he said flatly.
"Well, Trevor is tracking very favorably. I know that PR is always after you to get me more involved in human interest. I think there might be some value in doing some deeper coverage on him. On the two of us. Something to tie him to our brand."
"What did you have in mind?"
"Maybe you can send us on a press tour once the main coverage is wrapped up. The two of us together..."
Chapter 28
Many believe that they have felt tension, but if you've never been among soldiers readying for a battle, you don't know the meaning of the word. It is as though the air itself is stretched tight as a guitar string, humming with energy. Every sense is on fire; eyes sharp, ears trained, skin tingling. Words, if spoken at all, are short and to the point. There is an unmistakable sense of preoccupation. The coming battle is fought a thousand times a second, each mind simulating every possible beginning and formulating every possible defense. They say that pressure makes diamonds, and it is true... if you are talking about geology. Psychology, on the other hand, has established that pressure mostly just makes neuroses.
In Purcell's space station, the atmosphere was thick with pure, weapons-grade, military anticipation. There was silence aside from the click and rattle of tightening straps and fittings, the squeak of boots... and the piercing, off-key whistle of Karter as he tinkered merrily in the fab lab. In contrast to the agonizing sense of foreboding weighing down on everyone else, Karter was happy as an elf in Santa's workshop. Laid out before him, taking up nearly all of the available space in the lab, were the unfinished CME Activator cores. They were long, thin devices, about as thick as a man's leg and maybe three meters long. Tucked in a corner of the fab lab was a long, low furnace, creaking and pinging as it slowly cooled. Purcell was pacing outside the door of the lab, her second in command shadowing her.
"How much longer, Dee?" she demanded.
"They need to drop another seven tenths of a degree kelvin and they'll be ready to come out. Sixty seconds, give or take," he answered.
"Only point seven degrees? Surely they can be removed now."
"Sure they can, if you want them to have micro-fractures that will cause them to fail while they're passing through the chromosphere. Don't you have something better to do than pace around waiting for the cookies to finish?"
"My men are prepared. They are armed with your equipment and briefed in its usage. All that remains is to see to it that you fulfill your obligation without further treachery."
"I'll have you know," he said, tightening a bolt and holstering the tool, "I am officially done with my obligations. Once those things come out of the oven, they click into these reaction chambers, and then these whole assemblies slip into the superstructures down in the weapons bay. Even your idiots could do that."
"Get engineering down here," Purcell ordered. Her lackey quickly began quietly speaking orders into his communicator.
"There, see? I haven't done anything treacherous since I sabotaged the power grid."
"... When did you do that?" Purcell growled.
"Wouldn't you like to know," Karter taunted. He looked over the dial of the furnace. "Just about... little bit more... There. All done. Hey, out of curiosity, what's with the red hair? I don't know if you were hoping it was intimidating or not, but basically you just look like a clown that was too lazy to put on the makeup."
"Damn it, Karter, tell me what you did!"
"Oh, come on. The fun part is figuring it out. That's what makes this little game we've got going so exciting. Sometimes you catch me, sometimes you don't."
"I don't have time for this. Motivate him," she ordered.
Her second in command pulled out his slidepad and began to tap at the screen.
"I wouldn't do that if I were-" Karter quickly warned.
Before he could finish the sentence, the lights in the station suddenly dimmed and then shut off. The halls filled with the muffled commotion of soldiers going through the well-practiced power failure procedures and learning that it is considerably more difficult when your anxiety level has already been ratcheted up to epic proportions.
"Now that's your fault," Karter said, crossing his arms. "You installed a stun device in my arm. That gave me access to a high-voltage device with a remote trigger. What did you think I was going to do with it? And then I clearly goaded you into zapping me. Come on. You're supposed to be better than this!"
"This isn't a game, Karter!" she growled, drawing her blaster.
Karter didn't even have the decency to flinch. "You're just saying that because you're losing."
The lights flickered back on.
"There, see? It was just a power surge that tripped some safeties. It isn't as though I set up a feedback loop that would blow the reactor in eight minutes."
Purcell's glare managed to become even more threatening than the weapon she was holding.
"I really didn't," Karter said simply. "That would kill me, and where's the fun in that?"
"You have not fulfilled your obligation. I require the full design."
"Pff. Technicalities," Karter said.
He drifted over to the fabrication computer, tapped a few buttons, and removed a memory chip from it. With a flick, he sent it darting in Purcell's direction. When it reached the artificial gravity of the hallway, it dropped to the ground. The commander didn't take her eyes off of Karter. A few tense moments past before the representative from Engineering showed up. He didn't even open his mouth before Purcell began to issue orders, still without taking her eyes off of the inventor.
"At my feet you will find a memory chip containing the completed design for the CMEA. Validate it. Now," she commanded steadily.
The engineer collected the chip and inserted it into the bottom edge of his datapad. Schematics and instructions filled the screen of the device.
"The schematics for the known portion of the device seem to match what we've been able to determine. The schematics for the previously unknown portions pass function verification analysis and appear to complement the existing portion. I would say that this is legitimate," remarked the engineer.
"Excellent. Transfer the design into the main computer, then get together a team to complete the assembly of the devices," Purcell ordered. "And as for you, Dee..."
"Yeah, yeah, empty threat time, I know the drill," he said, turning away.
She pulled the trigger. A bolt of energy hissed through the air and struck Karter in the small of his back, filling the room with the stench of singed flesh. T
he injured inventor screamed and clutched at the injury. His face, rather than the usual expression of annoyed disinterest or mischievous glee, was twisted in pain and surprise.
"That was this weapon's lowest setting. It isn't supposed to be fatal, but then, this is a prototype, and this design was abandoned for being overpowered, so I wouldn't be very confident in your chances without treatment," she advised.
"What are you doing!?" he growled through the pain, "You need me!"
"No, Karter. You are useful. You are even irreplaceable, but now that you have given me the CMEA design, you are not necessary. You would be an asset to our cause if you were cooperative, but your current behavior makes you a much greater liability. From this moment forward you live or die depending on how well you can prove your usefulness and loyalty. Do you understand?"
"What I understand," he coughed, "Is that you might have just cost me my one natural kidney. That was my favorite kidney!"
The color was draining from his face, but his expression had already slipped back to one of its defaults, anger.
"I want him taken to his cell. Take away his arm and stabilize him, but no painkillers. He needs to understand consequences," she dictated to her second in command. "I want there to be no-"
"Commander," said her assistant urgently, "We've got a sensor alert. There's a weak signature approaching!"
"I want one medic and one guard on Dee, and keep the engineers working on the CMEAs. Everyone else, battle stations! You're with me," Purcell demanded. She began marching down the tight hallway as her assistant scurried behind her and various soldiers scrambled to get back to their posts after the short blackout. "How many ships have we got?"
"Two gunships, two troop carriers, both in Docking Bay A. There are also four single man short range fighters on patrol."
"Where are the rest?"
"The other gunship was destroyed by Alexander. We left a troop carrier on the surface of Big Sigma. Of the four remaining, three were sent on surveillance missions, one was sent to retrieve the alloy. The Manticore surveillance ship was destroyed, and another has been recalled but has not yet arrived. That leaves us with the ship that just returned with the alloy, and the ship that just returned from Proxy-12. We've also got our support ship and a wing of fighters patrolling Big Sigma."
Unstable Prototypes Page 42