Alexander understood. They couldn’t take a chance calling Lisa and Treya. Carefully Alexander floated over to the next access hatch, but before he could activate his “credit card” the green light came on and the door slid open. He zooted through, realizing Lisa must’ve guessed they’d need that door open. James followed. This space was much larger, but there was also less headroom because of the armor plating between the upper floor and the armory proper. This served a two-fold purpose. It protected the ship against weapons discharges and no one on the ship could cut their way through the armor to get at the blasters. Still, it made it really, really cramped, and Alexander felt a surge of panic spread across every nerve. He fought it down, forcing himself to continue in and zoot toward another air vent.
Though they seemingly had no purpose, Alexander knew the vents were essential for ensuring that there were no overpressures or under-pressures in the ship. Pressure differentials between spaces in the ship could be as devastating as blaster shots, therefore in non-combat situations when decks were not sealed for protection great care was taken that there was no more or no less air in one part of the ship than another. Alexander peered through the vent and saw no guards, only row upon row of blaster pistols and blaster rifles almost directly beneath the vent—they were in luck!
The Praetorian guards were in the outer chamber behind the armored blast doors, but Alexander was still careful not to make any more sound than necessary. Slowly, he removed the vent cover. Four clips held the cover in place. It was a matter of squeezing each clip until it released but Alexander could only use one hand; the other had to hold onto the vent so it wouldn’t fall to the floor. The blaster doors were thick, at least that’s what he remembered from his cursory tour of the armory but if the vent fell it would probably trigger and alarm—they didn’t need that. One-two-three-four, he undid the clips and lowered the cover; turning it so he could pull it through the hole. It was almost half a meter square, so it was very awkward and Alexander almost dropped it, but at the last second James grabbed an edge. They breathed a sigh of relief and together guided it through the hole. Alexander poked his head and both arms through, reaching for the blaster pistols and their power packs only a meter below, but he forgot that as soon as he entered the room gravity began to work on him again!
What started as a nice steady reach became a sudden fall, and again only James saved him from disaster. The cadet grabbed Alexander’s legs. Fortunately, James was able to splay his legs wide and wedge himself between conduits—his larger size didn’t mean anything in the zero-G space, but his long legs sure helped! Alexander almost gave out a yelp, but as he fell he saw the blast door to the armory was open. He was staring at the backs of the two Praetorians only five meters away! He gulped hard, though fortunately silently.
“How much longer do we have Stan?”
The other Praetorian laughed. “Another two hours!”
“That’s what I thought,” the first said. “Of all the useless posts we’ve drawn in the last ten years this is the most worthless! Can you imagine a bunch of cadets being a threat to the President?”
“Gimme a break!”
“Oh well, at least it’s easy,” the guy shook his head.
“Yeah, but what’s with this deployment anyway; the Academy, why the blazes are we here? The Martial Law situation isn’t that bad. It’s not like they were going to storm the White House or anything.”
“Unioneers Stan, unioneers,” the man said. “They’re crazy.” He lowered his voice and growled, “You know they were linked to the Commies—rumor has it they were in cahoots with the Gaiaists and even—”
“What,” Stan asked.
“They conspired with the Caliphates!”
“You’re not serious,” Stan said, shaking his head violently. “Shoot them all, that’s what I say—shoot them all!” He sounded quite sincere.
“There’s no wonder they’re not Citizens, but I hear this President has different ideas.”
“God help us,” Stan said, crossing himself.
The other Praetorian followed suit, and Alexander, who couldn’t help but agree, followed their example. Then he reached for a blaster with one hand and grabbed a pair of power packs with the other. He shook his foot, and James hauled him up.
“Got it,” Alexander mouthed silently. He holstered the blaster and put the power clips on his belt—every Service uniform, even those of cadets, was ready for space and, if necessary, combat. The design was proven through years of hard existence; Human Beings had walked the razor’s edge of extinction for almost three hundred years now.
James replaced the vent cover and they zooted out of the armory, closing the hatches behind them. There was no time for celebration. James led them quickly through the maze between decks to the airlock for the exterior maintenance hatch. They dropped another vent cover and Alexander slid down into the corridor outside the airlock. “I’ll stay here for when you get back Alexander. Do you have everything?”
“I’m all ready,” Alexander said, feeling better now that he was out in the open. He was less concerned with the impending spacewalk than with the thought of retracing his steps through the claustrophobic layer between floors. He spoke into his comlink, “O.k. Lisa open airlock door seven-Golf!”
“Cadet Wolfe is that you?” It was the unmistakable voice of Lt. Mortimer. “Cadet, this is a direct order you are to cease whatever,” Alexander cut his comlink. Without further delay, he keyed his datalink to the airlock door. He was on his own now, and there was no doubt that Lt. Mortimer would soon have security details pursuing him. He had no time to waste!
The airlock door schematic came up on his compad. He moved the “credit card” icon over the airlock. Looking up, he saw the green light go on and the hatch unlocked. Alexander opened it, stepped in and closed it behind him. He followed the same routine for the exterior hatch. A hiss announced the depressurization of the airlock. Alexander felt a thrill of fear—he’d forgotten to turn on his emergency pressurization field! He expected the surge of cold and the intense pain the accompanied the uncontrollable expansion of his skin and the boiling of his blood, but there was only a slight tingling on his skin and a faint waft of cool air.
His emergency pressurization kicked in automatically—thank God!
Alexander took a deep breath. The air provided was cold and slightly thin; it wasn’t—he searched mentally for the word—satisfying. That was to be expected. Professor Cantor told them, “Your emergency sustaining fields will last up to twelve hours—up to twelve hours mind you! They are emergency fields designed to sustain you at minimal life support levels in space. They are not designed so that you can seek help; they are designed to keep you alive until help finds you!” With that in mind, Alexander knew he had significantly less than twelve hours. Nevertheless, he stepped out of the airlock and found himself in space.
Surprisingly, Alexander was so intent on his mission that he forgot to be scared. Here he was zooting as fast as he could outside the safety of the Academy through the vacuum of space! The metal horizon of the station rolled beneath him and the stars were everywhere above him. Somehow, he wasn’t scared—he was thrilled. This was amazing! This was fun! He actually had to force himself to concentrate on the moving map display on his compad guiding him to the nearest exhaust port associated with the energy stream from the Methuselan Circuit. He saw the huge antennae ring looming before him, its blue beam fanning out over a helpless blue and white planet—Terra. Anger surged through every fiber of Alexander’s body and he hit his zoots even harder.
The exhaust port was dead ahead, and so intent was Alexander, so focused, that even as he hit his brakes, he punched in the schematic for the port and sent the signal to open it with his “credit card.” He stopped exactly over the circular port. Without waiting, he drew his blaster and fired.
Nothing.
A surge of panic swept through Alexander’s chest, but then he remembered the power clips! Tearing a clip from his belt, Alexander slapped it
into the base of the blaster, took aim and fired. Whoomph! The resonance of the blaster shock wave hit the air within his emergency field, causing a low but audible rush of sound. The blaster flowered, spitting a small globule of energy into the exhaust port. The force pushed him away from the port. Alexander had to zoot back into position. This time he held on to the petal-like exhaust port door.
He pulled the trigger again. Whoomph! Whoomph! Again and again he fired, and eventually he glanced over his shoulder at the antennae. The blue beam still enveloped the planet. Time after time Alexander fired, until he had to change clips, and then he continued to fire. Whoomph! Whoomph! Whoomph! Still the blue beam fanned out over Terra. With increasing desperation Alexander fired. He pulled the trigger even as the blaster discharge faded, growing weaker and weaker, until he was pulling the trigger to no effect.
Defeat settled in his heart like a chain dragging him into the depths, sickening and fatal. Alexander threw the blaster into the exhaust port in fury and disgust. It bounced silently off the walls and then floated back out, clattering soundlessly along the hull of the ship until it spun slowly off into space. Alexander watched it, wondering whether he should float off with it. Instinctively he raised his eyes to God, but all he saw through the golden haze of his emergency sustaining field was the Terminal Ring and the gleaming bulk of the Iowa docked directly overhead.
An idea struck him. What if the shielding around the exhaust duct absorbed most of the energy; what if he needed a more powerful blaster? Alexander thought no more; he hit his zoots and made a bee-line for the Iowa.
CHAPTER 26: The Ghost Still Packs a Punch
The silver-white bulk of the Iowa drew closer and closer but it seemed to Alexander that he crawled toward the Terran battleship. Was he running out of energy in his zoots? He checked his readings and they were normal, it was simply that he was almost a half kilometer from the battleship and he was zooting through open space. There was nothing close by to reference his speed; nothing, that is, until he got close to the huge ship. Alexander realized too late how close he was and tried to stop.
He failed, bouncing painfully off the hull a meter from the gaping hole in the bridge. He rebounded back into space, but his desperation was such that Alexander forgot the pain in his shoulder and zooted right back to the hole. To his surprise he bounced off an energy screen. He floated outside, confused, until he realized the screen was there not only to keep the atmosphere in but to keep micro-meteoroids and space debris out. He could see all of the bridge. It was no different from the times he stood watch there, except that now he looked from the outside in and everything was slightly fuzzy. No cadets stood watch, they were all restricted to quarters, but the bridge wasn’t empty—two Praetorians stood there with blaster rifles. They were looking directly at him.
Alexander had no choice. He brought up the schematic on his compad and unlocked the energy screen. The Praetorians didn’t expect this, so when the air whooshed out of the bridge they were swept out of the ship with it. Their emergency sustaining fields protected them, but they were too slow to prevent being swept overboard while Alexander zooted by them. As soon as he was in, Alexander re-engaged the energy screen. Gravity kicked in, and Alexander stumbled to a landing. Air rushed into the bridge again. As Alexander steadied himself, breathing in fresh air now instead of the stale air of his suit, he looked to the breach in the bridge. The Praetorians were now the ones on the outside looking in!
Ignoring their angry curses, Alexander ran to the weapons board. He knew this display, every cadet did. This was where Alexander Galaxus single-handedly fought the Golkos from the bridge of the Iowa, annihilating the last of the invading fleet—not giving in until Terra was safe. Now Alexander sought to save Terra again from the same control board. He reached it and touched the combat display. It worked as well as it had one hundred and fifty years earlier, only this time Alexander didn’t target Golkos ships. He selected the left gun in the number one turret, the only gun of the nine still outlined in green—meaning it was operational. As soon as he selected it, the Iowa’s blaster capacitor began to charge. Alexander could hear it, a growling coming from the ship’s hull, slowly the image of the gun began to solidify to a vibrant green.
As the gun charged Alexander took the targeting joystick and slewed it from space to the Methuselan ship. He searched for the exhaust port visually but it was almost impossible to find the half-meter hole in the mottled metal hull. He gave up, and linked his compad with the antiquated weapons display on the Iowa. It took a moment for the two systems to synch up, but when they did the guns targeting computer obediently slewed to the exhaust port. The gun aimed, Alexander turned his attention to the firing button. It would illuminate when the gun was charged to ten percent—or so he thought he remembered—regardless, he was going to fire as soon as he could. If he waited until the gun was fully charged the level forty-eight blaster projector in the sixteen inch gun barrel would tear the Methuselan ship in half. Besides, under the minimal power of the Iowa’s station keeping generators it might take hours for the blaster capacitor to charge. Even now, it was slowly climbing through five percent. He waited, sweat beading on his forehead. The readings changed to six percent.
Whoomph! He started, did the gun fire? No, it was climbing through six-point-three percent. Whoomph! Whoomph! Alexander looked behind him. The Praetorians had figured out what he was doing and they were firing their blaster rifles at the energy screen. It was no use. They couldn’t get through it. The zooted away and Alexander could only guess they were heading for the nearest airlock and calling for help on the way.
He was running out of time. The charge climbed through seven. After what seemed like an hour it hit eight. Alexander’s hand quivered over the firing button. Sweat dropped on the board beneath him. His breath became ragged, and he pounded the Plasteel board with his free hand, shouting, “Come on, come on!”
“Cadet Wolfe, what in the blazes are you doing?” Alexander looked over his shoulder to see Centurion Fjallheim running at him. “What are you trying to do; are you mad?” He rushed Alexander and grabbed him, dragging him away from the weapons board.
Alexander hit the firing button before the centurion could drag him off, but the button was dark. The charge read nine-point-six percent. “No!” but he hadn’t the strength to resist Fjallheim, who dragged him across the bridge.
“Cadet what’s gotten into you; you don’t realize what you could have done!”
Alexander’s head spun, but Fjallheim’s words hit a nerve. He remembered the centurion warning him before he stood watch, “Don’t call the dead to battle; you won’t realize what you have done!” Alexander hit his comlink to emergency broadcast.
“All hands on the Iowa to the bridge, all hands to Alexander, all hands to the bridge!” Alexander used the same immortal words used by his namesake in the last desperate hours of the Battle for Terra. Fjallheim’s grip became tighter, but it was not through anger.
“My God Alexander look out!”
There was fear in Fjallheim’s voice, and Alexander soon found out why. If his previous experience on the bridge of the Iowa was unnerving this was terrifying. Ghosts flooded the bridge but this time they were mad with bloodlust. They attacked Centurion Fjallheim and they attacked Alexander, they were mad, howling with unearthly cries. With the last shred of their tortured souls they sought to defend their ship, their planet and their civilization.
Fjallheim released Alexander as a horde of ghosts tackled him. Alexander was hardly able to maintain his sight through the flashing, translucent ghosts, but then he saw something turn red. He fought through the phantoms, pummeled by sudden winds and torn by swirling tempests, deafened by hideous shrieks. He struck the red light with the palm of his hand. CAAA-WHOOMPH! The ship shuddered and a blinding orange-yellow light flashed through the gaping hole in the bridge. The blow staggered Alexander, but when the concussion faded he didn’t feel the winds anymore. The screeching stopped. He looked up and there was no one on the br
idge of the Iowa except Centurion Fjallheim.
#
As Alexander sped to the Iowa, the President of Pan America stepped to the podium. Behind him were the flags of Pan America, Pan Atlantis and Pan Pacifica. All of that was visible in the Holo-V in Kilo flight, but going through the minds of Lisa and Treya was Alexander’s plight. Lt. Mortimer stood behind them, watching the unexpected Holo-V. She was none too happy. How she happened upon their scheme was unknown, but she’d appeared shortly after 0300, when Khandar’s flight attempted a mid night raid.
“Don’t think this is going to get you girls off the hook,” she whispered harshly when the Holo-V came on and announced the Presidential address. “I know you’re in on this!”
The girls said nothing, but listened as the President began, “My fellow Terrans. We face unprecedented times, times which we have not seen since we fought three World Wars, times which we cannot have imagined.”
He continued, but Treya, who was not used to the way Terran politicians spoke, whispered, “Why does he start and stop like that? His voice sounds like a waterfall, loud-soft-loud-soft. Is he doing that on purpose?”
The Methuselan Circuit Page 26