by Jay Falconer
“Damn it. Another lock,” he muttered, flipping through the mass of keys on the key ring. He tried a few of them, but they were all too big for the lock’s keyhole. None of them looked small enough to fit.
He straightened his back and bent his knees before picking up the toolbox. When he jerked the box off the floor, he heard something pop, sending a twinge of pain through his lower back. He tried to slide the toolbox back onto the bottom shelf, but his aim was off by at least an inch. The front edge rammed into the cabinet’s lower edge, making a noticeable dent in its metal frame. “I can fix that,” he said just in case anyone was monitoring his activity. He checked the front edge of the toolbox, but it wasn’t dented; at least not where it had hit the shelf. But it did give him an idea.
He picked up the toolbox with both hands and waddled down the hallway with the box hanging between his legs. His knees and thighs occasionally banged into its metal sides, making him wish his annoying lab neighbor Griffith was on hand to help with his dolly.
When he arrived at the next lab to search, he turned its door handle—it was locked—just as he expected. He turned sideways and swung the toolbox back as far as he could, then brought it forward, slamming it into the door. A vibrating pain shot through his hands and up his arms, making him drop the toolbox, which scraped several layers of paint off the doorframe on its way to the floor.
His choice to use the toolbox as a battering ram wasn’t an elegant solution, but he accomplished his goal—the door was open. He checked the condition of the toolbox, including its welds. Everything appeared to be intact, meaning he should be able to use it several more times or until his hands or back gave out. He slid the box to one side and walked inside.
The lab was at least triple the size of the previous room, with a few dozen empty cages stacked up three-high down the center. He could smell the distinct odor of musty fur, making him believe he was in an animal training center, which seemed odd given he was twenty floors down in a secure bunker. He assumed NASA must have been training monkeys for their upcoming space mission to Mars. Fresh bananas were lying in two of the cages. “Hmmm. Must have been evacuated along with everyone else when Mary’s pager went off,” he mumbled.
* * *
He returned to the doorway, picked up the toolbox, and lugged it down the hallway to the next lab door. Again, he forced open the door with a single, powerful swing. This time, he didn’t lose his grip on the handle.
“Yahtzee!” he said after getting a glimpse of the lab’s contents. He almost threw the box down before going inside.
The immense room was a high-tech laboratory with four active banks of equipment to his left, and an enormous test chamber straight in front of him. The chamber stretched all the way up to the room’s ceiling, which had to be at least sixty feet high. He ran to its viewing window and looked inside.
“That’s got to be it,” he said, seeing a three-story, silver-colored reactor with four high-voltage Tesla transformer coils surrounding it. The swirling electrical coils were taller than the reactor and shaped like giant mushroom stools. To his right was the missing grease board from the QED lab, with half-erased equations written in red and blue marker ink.
He sprinted out of the lab and ran full steam back to the QED Lab. “Guys, I found it,” he said, nearly stumbling through the doorway when the toe of his sneaker caught the corner of the doorjamb. Obviously, his body was still recovering from the hundred-meter dash, not to mention the round of toolbox hockey.
“Great timing,” Kleezebee said. “We just finished the equations.”
“How many labs did you have to check?” Drew asked.
“I found it on the third try. Good thing, too; each door seemed to hurt more than the last one.” Lucas swayed his hips to flex the small of his back.
“What does the generator look like?” Kleezebee asked.
“The sucker’s huge. It has to be at least ten times the size of our E-121 reactor, and it’s surrounded by giant resonator coils. You should see the damn thing.”
“Let’s go check it out,” Drew said with excitement.
Minutes later, the three of them were just outside the generator’s test chamber, looking through the viewing window.
“That thing’s enormous,” Drew said.
“I told you,” Lucas replied.
“What do you think it cost to build?”
“A lot more than the grant money they gave us, that’s for sure.”
“I’ll bet it can crank out a few terajoules,” Drew said, smiling. “Do you think it’ll work, Professor?”
Kleezebee nodded slowly. “With the new equations, we just might be able to stabilize the reactor long enough to generate the power stream we need. But we’ll need to make sure your E-121 experiment is calibrated properly.”
“Uh, that’s going to be a little difficult since the science lab’s been turned into Swiss cheese, Professor,” Lucas said. “And we certainly don’t have another eighteen months to build a new reactor.”
“You won’t need to.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve been working on something that’s not all that different from your E-121 reactor. We should be able to use it to run your experiment.”
“Not all that different?” Lucas asked, wondering why Kleezebee chose those specific words.
“Actually, it’s a near duplicate,” Kleezebee said. “You know the old saying . . . Why have the government pay for one, when you can have them foot the bill for two, at twice the price?”
Lucas understood the rationale behind overstating project costs to obtain excess grant money, but he was concerned why Kleezebee thought it necessary to have a duplicate reactor built. Was there something wrong with its design? Maybe Kleezebee thought they needed a backup, just in case the first reactor crashed. It certainly wasn’t needed for Kleezebee’s BioTex, nor was it needed to power their ultra-cool communicator watches.
Perhaps the duplicate reactor existed solely for profit. It wasn’t a total stretch to think Kleezebee’s men could have been sponging off Lucas and Drew’s hard work, pilfering their revolutionary ideas to line the professor’s pockets. He didn’t want to believe it, but it was possible. “Where is this near duplicate?”
“On the seventh floor of the silo,” Kleezebee replied without a hint of guilt.
“What about Trevor’s control system?” Drew asked Lucas.
“Shouldn’t be an issue,” Lucas answered. “I have his source code backed up to my cloud storage space. All we need is a cluster of Linux servers and we should be able to recompile and run it.”
“But aren’t this room and the silo too far apart for the arc to take place?” Drew asked.
“Actually, we’re close enough if you consider the vastness of space,” Kleezebee said. “Relative to the size of the universe, they’re virtually right on top of each other.”
“That’s true. I never thought of that,” Drew replied. “What do you think, Lucas?”
Lucas heard his brother say something, but he really wasn’t listening. His mind was still churning over the reason why Kleezebee needed a second reactor. Not knowing was eating away at his gut like a swarm of maggots devouring a corpse. “Sorry, but I have to ask, Professor. Why did you need to build a copy of our reactor?”
Kleezebee hesitated for a moment before answering, “We’re using it to power a trans-galactic communication system.”
“A what?” Lucas said, scrunching his face until it hurt. The professor must be putting him on.
“It’s the power source for our subspace transmitter.”
Lucas held out his hands, shaking his head slowly. “And you’re going to communicate with . . .?”
“Our people—to tell them where we are. We’re ready to go home.”
Chapter 24
April 25, 2411
Kleezebee turned off the digi-pad containing the final draft of his 1200-page historical manuscript entitled “Pathological Absurdity. A Historical Profile of Twentieth Cent
ury Politics.” He had just put the finishing touches on the yearlong project, and was ready to transmit it through subspace to his copyeditor, Dorrie, back home on Earth. It would be his second published novel in as many years. He hoped his new exposition would be better received by the critics.
He leaned back in his easy chair, rubbed his eyes, and then stretched out his arms until he heard the bones in his elbows pop. It was almost time for his duty shift on the bridge, which began in less than an hour. He needed to get into the sonic shower, but decided to remain in his chair a few more minutes to enjoy the spectacular view of the galaxy streaming by his quarters at faster-than-light speed. He had earned the extra break; it had been a grueling six months in deep space.
He propped his feet up on the leather ottoman with his hands behind his head, then called out to the computer, “Stella? Music, please.”
“Specify source and volume,” the computer responded.
“Why break with tradition? Let’s go with Paradise Theatre, track three. Volume ten, as usual.”
“One moment, Captain.”
He closed his eyes and sang along to the lyrics when the cabin’s audio system kicked in at full volume. The classic rock ballad dwarfed the hum of the ship’s Quantum Pulse Drive engines, and the deck plating pulsated beneath his fleet-issued boots. Too Much Time on My Hands was his all-time favorite Styx song, something that he played right before every duty shift to energize his soul. His fingers tapped along to the thunderous beat as his mind slipped away to bask in the mood-altering rhythm. Just a few more minutes, he thought—he didn’t want to leave his sanctuary. His historical writing and his music were his escapes.
Kleezebee’s handpicked science crew had just finished an intensive study of a stellar nursery near the fleet’s two outposts in the Neethian System. They were a shade over two hundred light years from home on his newly christened starship, the USS Trinity. The ship was performing admirably, despite a few glitches with its revolutionary Quantum Pulse Drive engines, and the occasional problem with the gravity plating on the lower three decks.
Despite the minor setbacks, it had been a fruitful mission thus far, highlighted by the discovery of a scarlet-colored substance germinating in one of the nebula’s molecular clouds. His team of astrobiologists was still analyzing the gelatinous material, but its bio-mimetic properties were promising. He intended to send a full report to Fleet Operations once they had completed the analysis.
“Stella, music off,” he shouted to his empty cabin. “What’s the exact time?”
“Seven oh seven a.m.,” the synthesized female voice reported. “Captain, I just received an encrypted communiqué from Admiral Jenkins with Fleet Ops. Would like me to play it?”
“Yes, pipe it through,” Kleezebee said, moving to his work desk. He sat down and moved a digital picture frame out of the way. He kissed his index finger, then touched it to his wife’s lips, which activated the living 3D holo-cell he had recorded a year earlier. Caroline and their five-year-old son, Brett, were standing in front of the souvenir lodge atop the north rim of Grand Canyon. They were smiling and waving on a glorious, sunny day in Arizona. He had not seen them since he took command of the Trinity six months earlier.
He had met Caroline while waiting outside the chancellor's office during his final year at the New York Science Academy. A whirlwind romance soon ensued, culminating in their marriage a month after he earned advanced degrees in both physics and engineering. That same summer, he was successfully recruited by Fleet Operations, rising to the rank of captain in only six years.
He waved his hand over a rectangular niche in the center of his desk, activating three twelve-inch cylinders that rose up out of the recess in a triangular formation. Once fully extended, the multi-spectral emitters powered on, displaying a full-color, 3D representation of an elderly man’s head and shoulders, wearing a red fleet uniform with five silver stars on the collar.
Admiral Jenkins reminded him of his olive-skinned father; short in stature, plump, and neatly groomed, with a bulging nose that was too large for his face. Jenkins always spoke in a deliberate manner, enunciating every word completely, just as his late father had.
“Hello, DL, I hope this message finds you well. I’m pleased to see by your last mission report that you and your new crew are meshing well. I look forward to reading your final analysis of the Hawthorne Nebula, which I expect will be riveting. Also, congratulations on receiving Fleet approval to build the first rift-slipping prototype. It’s truly exciting technology, which has everyone here in Fleet Operations acting like school kids before summer break. Keep us apprised as you run the first beta test.
“I would rather not have to disrupt your study of the cosmos, but we have a situation brewing. Long-range telemetry from the colony on the Neethian-3 has detected sudden activity along the Krellian border, indicating they may be massing for an invasion. Trinity is the closest ship to that sector, so we’ll need you to change course to investigate.
“Your orders are not to engage the Krellian Empire unless given no other choice. It’s been twenty-nine years since our last encounter with them, so we have to assume they’ve beefed up their capabilities since then. Your ship’s limited armaments would be no match, which is why we’re sending the battle cruiser Challenger to assist . . . but she won’t be there for three days. So keep a safe distance until she arrives. Good luck and God speed. Jenkins out.”
Kleezebee deactivated the vid-screen, then sat back in his chair to contemplate his next move.
* * *
“Here’s this week’s duty roster, Commander Benner,” a striking female bridge officer said, handing Bruno a six-inch Digi-stick, which resembled a 20th century glow stick, only black, with a pull-tab on the side.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Nellis,” Bruno said, sitting back in the captain’s chair on Deck 1. He used the pull-tab to slide out a wafer-thin screen, activating the transparent display containing the digital roster; everything was in order.
“Excellent work, as usual, Lieutenant. Log this into the ship’s computer. Make sure all department heads are notified,” he said, closing the Digi-stick and giving it back to her.
She nodded and walked back to her duty station to his right, then she straightened. “Captain on the bridge,” she announced to the bridge crew.
Kleezebee stepped off the jump pad, next to the science officer’s duty station, wearing his red and white captain’s uniform with four brass pips on the collar.
Bruno and the rest of the bridge officers snapped to attention, waiting for Kleezebee to assume command.
“At ease, everyone,” Kleezebee said.
Bruno stepped aside, allowing Kleezebee to sit in the captain’s chair.
“Set course to one-eleven mark three, maximum speed,” Kleezebee said.
“Sir, that will take us directly into Krellian space, across the DMZ,” Bruno replied.
“You have your orders, Commander.”
Bruno turned to the helmsman. “Mr. Heller, come about, set course to one-eleven mark three, best speed.”
The helmsman ran his hands over the navigation console like a concert pianist playing a Bach concerto. “Course laid in, sir.”
“Time to the border, Mr. Heller?”
“Eleven minutes, sir.”
“Shields up. Charge all weapons.”
Two minutes later, the communications officer said, “Captain, I’m picking up a long-range distress call on one of the lower EM bands.”
“Source, Mr. Blake?”
“It’s coming from Colony Three-Five-Nine on Neethian-3, half a light year away.”
“Alter course, maintain speed,” Kleezebee said.
Just then, something rocked the ship, sending everyone lunging to the port side. Two of the bridge officers and their chairs fell to the floor, while sparks flew from one of the unmanned duty stations behind the captain’s chair. The tactical alert siren sounded.
“Captain, we were just hit by the leading edge of an intense gra
vimetric shockwave,” Nellis reported.
“Ship status?” Kleezebee asked, helping Bruno off the floor.
“Minor hull breach on decks eleven and twelve—contained—shields holding,” Nellis replied. “We also lost gravity plating in Cargo Bay Four.”
“Dispatch repair crews,” Kleezebee said.
“Minor injuries on Deck Twelve, but engineering reports all systems operational,” Nellis said, before she entered additional commands into her console. “Shields at ninety-two percent.”
“Entering Neethian System, Captain,” Heller reported.
“Slow to sub-light.”
“The origin of the shockwave is Neethian-6, an L-class planet. We’re in visual range,” Nellis said.
“On screen and magnify.”
The bridge’s twenty-foot viewscreen showed floating hunks of rock and rubble loosely assembled in a spherical shape. Other than a few dozen pinpoints of starlight scattered across the background, nothing else was in view.
“It appears the debris cloud is all that’s left of the planet. Sensors are picking up substantial amounts of charged ididium-236 radiation, suggesting a massive detonation,” Nellis reported.
“Didn’t we just fire-up a refinery on Neethian-6?” Bruno asked.
“Yes, two months ago. The engineers finally solved how to safely extract the volatile ididium deposits,” Nellis replied.
“Someone must have lit a match,” Heller said from the helm.
“This is going to severely cripple our E-121 production,” Benner said.
“Captain, I’m detecting a series of subspace distortions in and around the debris field. They appear to be localized fractures in space-time and they’re drifting in space like icebergs.”
“Sir, if one of them comes in contact with the engine core, it will cause a breach in containment,” Bruno said.
“Plot a course around them, Mr. Heller,” Kleezebee said.
“Acknowledged. Adjusting course to compensate.”
“Sir, should I launch a micro-probe into one of the fractures to investigate?” Nellis asked.