It was unlikely that Rick would encounter anything and he’d be able to avoid it, anyway. With a fourteen-second warning of its approach, he could simply use his maneuvering thrusters. Still, he didn’t like the idea of a paint flake hunting for him at twenty thousand kilometers per hour.
It was a long time before he was able to discern the outline of the scout ship but, once he did, it rapidly began to grow in size. He’d learned from C’Al, as the Ufangians had called him, that the Long Range Group favored a modernized variant of the combat shuttles that the Canal had carried.
There were still twenty of the combat shuttles on the Canal but they’d been out of serviceable condition for over a century. All of the traded parts he’d received had been used to bring the main ship’s systems up to scratch. Fixing the shuttles had been a much longer-term plan. They served as quarters for small families of three children or less.
He couldn’t imagine them holding seven LRG crewmen for months at a time, though he supposed he’d experience it soon enough. He was close enough now to make out the runes on her bow. It was a Midgaard crew, or captain at least.
He was heading for a point twenty feet below the small ship and, when he began to wonder if he’d missed something in C’Al’s hurried briefing, the recovery net finally deployed.
At least thirty feet long and spreading out in a wide arc, the net was fired out from a modified escape chamber on the craft’s ventral surface. Rick tumbled into the silk web with a feeling of elation.
Sometimes, you only feel the fear after the danger is done. The Human mind has an incredible capacity for deferring fear in the right circumstances.
As directed, he ensured that his limbs were well tangled in the net; otherwise, he’d simply tumble out again. After his forward motion had begun to translate into a rotation around the origin of the web, it pulled him into the chamber and the hatch slid shut with a muffled clang.
He felt the plates of his suit flex as the small chamber pressurised and then the inner hatch slid open to reveal a face staring down at him, inspecting their catch.
Rick retracted his helmet, his ears slightly muffled from the sudden difference in pressures. He searched his protocol training for a brief moment before speaking. “Permission to come aboard?” he asked in Midgaard. He’d learned it, along with Dheema, from the pods on the Canal but he’d at least been able to practice it with the stranded Midgaard who lived on the lost ship.
His efforts were rewarded with a grin and an extended hand. “Permission granted,” the crewman said, helping Rick clamber out of the tight hole and into a cramped engineering space dominated by the drive plant. “Welcome aboard the Brisbane.”
Rick took a closer look at the crewman, wondering if he was joking. “Those runes outside say the Brisbane? Doesn’t sound very Midgaard…”
A laugh. “It’s not but most ships in the LRG are named for an Aussie town. It’s a tradition started by Gabs over a century ago – makes for a luckier ship.”
“Gabs?”
“Commander Gabiola. She pretty much created the LRG on her own initiative. She got captured about forty years ago.” He jerked his head to the right. “C’mon, let’s go check you in with the captain.”
The walk to the bridge was as short as one might expect. They opened the hatch from the fifteen-foot-long engineering compartment and passed through a small airlock to enter what appeared to be storage and crew quarters. A small electric brazier in the middle showed the accumulated carbon of an endless series of charred meats. Crew hammocks hung along the outer edges and a single suit-sanitizing station stood against the starboard side next to a shower unit.
The space smelled strongly of sweat, machinery, and charred meat. It was a lot homier than the Foxlight II.
Three crewmen, evidently off duty, watched him walk through the thirty-foot-long compartment. One of them stood over a refrigerated compartment, holding what appeared to be a small dead animal. Whatever it was, Rick was certain he’d eaten worse.
They passed a second airlock at the forward end of the compartment and entered the bridge, if it could be called that. At fifteen feet long, it had room for a pilot at the front and the captain/navigator and weapons officer behind. The arrival of the crewman with Rick had made the place positively crowded.
“Got room for another in first class, Captain?” the crewman asked with a grin.
She looked up from her chart screen. “Name?” she demanded simply.
“Rick Heywood, ma’am. Second Engineer of the Guadalcanal.”
A murmur of surprise filled the small space. She raised an eyebrow. “You’re an actual engineer? Combat ship or commercial?”
“Uhhh, well ma’am…”
“Just call me Freya. We’re not very formal in the LRG.”
“All right, Freya…” Rick was sure his face was turning red. He hadn’t really given much thought to her looks at first introduction but her face did have the austere grace common to her species.
And, story of his life, she was out of his league. He forced the growing cobwebs out of his mind and concentrated. “The Guadalcanal is a carrier. She was taken by mutiny a century and a half ago but the engineering division has held up the original standards, supplies permitting.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Which side of this mutiny were you on?”
Rick shrugged. “I wasn’t alive back then but my ancestor was against the mutiny; he came along because they forced him. Without the chief engineer, the ship wouldn’t have gone very far.”
She nodded. “He’ll be asked to give evidence, if this ever comes to an inquiry…”
“He died more than a century ago,” Rick advised her. “I should explain. We’re what you seem to call ‘originals’ – we haven’t had the vaccination.”
Silence filled the compartment. Rick looked around to see all four faces turned to him. “I’m nineteen years old,” He explained.
“Norns!” The weapons officer finally broke the silence. “He’s even younger than you are, Freya! If you fancy a younger man, you’d better hurry – before he keels over of old age!”
Everyone but Rick broke out laughing. He waited patiently for the hilarity to ebb. They slowly settled, casting him condescending glances as the poor Human who can’t take a good ribbing. He grinned.
Ivar and his small community of stranded Midgaard on the Canal were among the few who treated him well and he’d spent as much time with them as he could. Their directness and friendly insults served as a pressure release, in most cases, and he could easily fall into their banter.
Rick leaned in closer to the captain. “If I’m not to your taste, I’d think twice,” he whispered loud enough for all to hear, “before choosing a man who advises haste.” He angled his head toward the weapons officer.
“Har!” The man leaned over to give Rick a light punch on the hip. “He’ll do,” he declared simply, turning back to his terminal.
“I reckon he will,” Freya said mildly. She nodded at the man who’d brought Rick aboard. “You’ll share the engine watch with Thorstein, here. He’ll show you where to stow your gear and hang a hammock.”
With that, she turned back to her charts.
Rick was glad she wouldn’t see the redness returning to his face.
One Day
Chaco Benthic
Cal drifted back out of the side alley and glanced around. The best spots, the ones far from the noise and moisture of the central atrium, were all taken and the NRW’s who slept there were even protective of their neighbors’ places.
Cal had decided not to go back to his small apartment. Patrol activity in his neighborhood had increased and he had a feeling the administration wanted a stronger presence in the event he showed up there. He figured there was a twenty-percent chance they’d identified him and he hadn’t survived this long by running risks.
There would be no reporting to work tomorrow, or ever again. He hadn’t planned for things to move along this quickly but the success of his ‘hope’
offensive had surprised him. The arrival of the young Human from 3428 had also pushed the tempo in ways they hadn’t anticipated.
The three Stoners, ironically, were becoming figureheads for the resistance. Their presence at several incidents, whether involved or not, had inextricably linked them to the desperate plague of hope infecting the city’s underclass.
“You’re him, aren’t you?”
Cal turned at the sound of the voice to find a small girl looking up at him. “I’m who, little one?”
“You’re the Tauhentan,” she asserted firmly.
“I’m a Tauhentan,” he replied with a smile.
Tiny curls tumbled as she shook her head. “You came to help us.”
“Min!” A loud voice, tinged with relief, caught her attention. “Gods, you had us worried!”
A slender young man with pale skin, probably a Krorian, hurried over, relief evident in his features. He eyed Cal. “Thanks, friend,” he said with a tired smile. “She knows not to wander off but you know what kids are like.”
“No problem,” Cal assured him. “You’re a lucky man.” He smiled down at Min.
“You’re not dressed like the average NRW,” the father commented. “I noticed you walking past earlier…”
“I got out-bid,” Cal replied simply. It was a common enough reason for a registered worker to lose his home. The company leased out huge blocks of apartments to brokers who then leased smaller blocks to sub-brokers. Those brokers were allowed to evict a tenant at any time and often did when a higher bid came along for a home unit.
It was a system that drove housing prices to the edge of affordability. Only the wealthiest could afford full-sized home spaces and they set the prices through their own bids. The effect trickled down to the smallest, one-room homes, where bidding was fiercest.
The difference between sleeping behind a locked door and sleeping on the street represented the biggest jump in status. Many small families had bankrupted their accounts to secure a room they’d only lose a week later.
“My sympathies,” he said gently. “It’s not so bad down here. Folks look out for each other. If we had a bigger say in how things are run, perhaps some of the space folk sleep in could be turned into rooms.” He let a hand rest on Min’s head. “Maybe… one day…”
Cal was beginning to wonder if he’d lost his touch. That young man from 3428 had seen straight through his cover identity and now this young girl and her father seemed to know who he was.
Still, he was dressed in a manner that contrasted with his surroundings and it was known that the one behind the unrest was a Tauhentan, at least among the members of the movement.
This man seemed to be a member. One day might be a relatively common phrase but the tone used by the Krorian indicated more than the simple words.
Now came the tough decision. Should he give the counter-sign? Cal was looking at a long, uncomfortable night but he still had credit; he wouldn’t starve. It involved a risk as well – confirming his identity, even to a follower.
This man obviously knew the sign and counter-sign but there was the chance he might be a mole. Despite the discomfort ahead, it wasn’t worth running the risk. He looked down at the little girl’s face.
He realized it wasn’t the risk to himself he was concerned about.
Over the last few decades, he’d noticed the growing change. His first assignment had been a steep learning curve but he’d at least been able to distance himself from his recruits.
As the years wore on, one planet blurring into another, he’d found it increasingly difficult to plan the inciting incident that would plunge those worlds into chaos. The recruits became people.
It was a lot harder to watch people risk their lives. They had friends, families…
Children.
Every time he started a revolution, he quietly slipped away, moving on to the next world. Every time he felt like a traitor to those who’d helped make it happen.
He smiled sadly at the father. “One can hope.”
The man moved off with his daughter and Cal watched them go.
Despite his misgivings, he was still considering options. The tempo was increasing on its own right now but it could easily melt away. Without any input from Cal or the movement, the unrest might cease and the young Krorian might be able to raise his daughter in peace.
But it would be a hopeless peace.
Cal shook his head. He was in danger of becoming a true believer – never a good thing for an operator. He needed to concentrate on the task. Push this world past the point of no return and then get out before they shut down the elevator.
He had caches of explosives stored in lockers all over the city. His systematic weakening of the sensor network outside the city meant the company had no way of tracking how much explosives he’d been using as a prospector/surveyor.
He’d been taking small amounts of Composition-15 home every shift and he’d managed to build up a large stockpile or, rather, dozens of medium-sized stockpiles. Anyone in his senior cadre could quickly access the lockers, which also held a variety of deadly tools. Items such as the plasma bows used by maintenance workers to quickly open steel conduits could be deadly in the wrong hands.
He lied down against the grimy glass panels that kept children from scampering under the atrium railings. His bag made an uncomfortable pillow with the detonators poking him in the side of the face.
He could see a family bedding down for the night at the outer end of the alley. A tattered blanket, no doubt a prized family possession, was brought out by the father as the mother lied down, her back to the wall. Their son lied down in front of her, snuggling back into her for warmth, while the father threw the blanket over them, sliding under the edge himself with practiced ease.
Alien planet or not, this was what Cal hated most about unrestricted capitalism. He wasn’t fool enough to think humanoids could make a system like communism work – it was just as open to corruption, plus it tended to reward apathy – but he strongly believed in limits for corporate power, preferably in the hands of the workers themselves.
The two parents trying to sleep under their prized blanket were almost certainly hard workers. Both probably spent sixty percent of their lives at work and yet they had nothing to show for it.
There were company officials who lived in obscene opulence. They had antique writing utensils whose cost could house this small family for a year. Officials who attended a few meetings, toured the facilities and otherwise stayed out of the way of the flow of goods.
At least half of them could disappear overnight and production would continue uninterrupted. It might even improve as managers and supervisors were freed from the inevitable cascade of meetings that always followed any of their meaningless decisions.
How did someone as useless as that deserve so much when these two desperate parents could barely feed their child?
There were several restaurants up topside where a single meal cost a year’s wages for a laborer. Patrons dined in lavish surroundings, served by Dactari waiters. Their plates were whisked away by Dactari bus staff and they could, for an hour or so, pretend they were in the high district of Xo’Khov, the Dactari capital.
Such places were popular refuges for the useless. Places where they could display their wealth. Callum grinned as his eyes finally began to close.
He could take that away from them.
He started awake, shaken out of a dream where he was back in Calgary being kicked by two military policemen after he’d been caught. The pain in his ribs was too real to be a dream and he realized a magister was standing over him. He rolled to a seated position, clutching his bag protectively, as any NRW would.
“I said show me your hand,” the magister growled.
“Alright, alright,” Cal slurred, coughing loudly. He moaned and suddenly lurched forward to one side of the magister, his left hand clutching the magister’s black-clad leg. His face was inches from the ground. “Oh Gods! I’m going to be sick!”
/> “Get off me, you scum,” the magister exclaimed with disgust. He aimed a kick at Cal’s head.
Cal went sprawling, senses reeling from the impact. He had to get up before the company lawman could scan him. He had to run…
“Hey, where’d that motherless clone get to?” An angry voice carried out from around a bend in the alley.
Both Cal and the magister turned to look. Two more magisters had been rousting the young Krorian family and they were looking around the bend as well. The young father caught Cal’s eye and gave him a slight shake of the head.
“I loaned him my second blanket,” the voice continued, “and he’s run off with it!”
If that didn’t seem like a likely suspect, then nothing did. Cal’s magister raced for the alley entrance, rounding the corner just behind the two who’d been roughing up the Krorians.
Perfect timing. Cal hadn’t liked his chances – half asleep, sore ribs, a fresh kick to the head – he wouldn’t have made it very far, even with some helpful surprises along the way. He looked over at the small family.
The father was looking back at him. The Krorian mouthed the words one day. He gave a barely perceptible nod as the shouting magisters raced across the pedway bridge above them.
Even though he hadn’t been certain, the young man had taken a risk to protect Cal, organising a wild goose chase for the magisters.
One day soon, Cal mouthed back. He leaned over and picked up his bag, pulling out his work tablet. A few quick taps and he had the right menu. He shifted his gaze to the young man. Very soon, he mouthed with a grin. He looked up to where his favorite magister was standing in the middle of the bridge, waving one of his fellows up the north-side pedway.
Without taking his eyes off the black-clad man, he stabbed a finger down and the small initiator charge on the back of the magister’s leg detonated. The force was sufficient to take his right leg off from the knee down as well as shatter his left knee. The glass panel between him and Cal was suddenly splattered with blood and the unfortunate Dactari fell like a screaming sack of rocks.
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