Death’s Dimensions a psychotic space opera

by Victor Koman

  “You are in Con-One.”

  “I remember it! I fell and fell and saw the city grow and then it was black and I could somehow see my body there and then it was all white and someone made me stay behind and then there was an awful sucking and grinding-” Baker jerked all over. Eyes closed, he floated before the port, an arm’s length away from deep space.

  The computer checked his pulse, temperature and brain activity on remote, then, satisfied that the man was not dead, mused to itself on the problem for several nanoseconds.

  “All three biological infestation cylinders report successful detonation and seeding,” it said. It waited a moment before again speaking.

  “We may proceed to our next destination.”

  Baker made no reply.

  “Require human assistance.”

  The man said nothing. The computer let him float there for three hours, constantly monitoring him, but doing nothing.

  I asked for a real death. She took me down the corridor, but I couldn’t go through. I ran. Ran back. I saw myself arise from the chair. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Then I was inside, but the roar was back so strong. Too strong to fight. I drifted with it, watching through eyes that seemed a thousand klicks away. I watched me fly around, out of control. Now I float here, the roar so strong, so loud. So silent. Yet this can’t be the real death. I can feel through the blackness.

  So much time, stretching out before and behind. Press the wrong button and zap, the future. No matter how far, though, Nightsheet keeps his Death Angel out of my reach. Cruel. One jump ahead of Master Snoop, but one behind Nightsheet. Me in the middle, now trapped in black. Black as her snake hair, wrapped, squeezing.

  The computer registered a choking noise, followed by a shout.

  “Death Angel!” Virgil shuddered and opened his eyes.

  “What is your name?”

  Virgil twisted around, then tried to correct the spin. How does it feel to be on your own, pawn of Master Snoop? Does the freedom scare you? “Ben! Where are we?”

  “Near a planet orbiting Alpha Centauri B. We are ready to move on. What is your name?”

  “Virgil Grissom Kinney. What’s going on?” Using his arms and legs, he tried swimming toward the control chair. He generated just enough motion to drift with aching slowness toward it. He pulled in to sit.

  “Sequence Kinney re-entered,” the computer said. “Virgil- we are ready to transfer to Beta Hydri. There was no life on the planet orbiting Alpha Centauri B. It has been seeded with Nostocacæ type H for terraforming. We are ready to move on. Am calculating coordinates for Beta Hydri.”

  Better not to let him know you were trapped inside for a while. You’ve obviously been gone a long time. A few hours, at least. Stupid! How could you fall for it? Of course Nightsheet wants you to desire a real death. You’ve cheated him every time, though, and you’ll do it again if you’re careful. It’s part of your cipher, they can’t crack it if you don’t let them. So just wait. I’ll play the game through, Death Angel, and get them both.

  “Calculate coordinates for Beta Hydri, Ben.”

  “Done.”

  “Oh. How soon till we’re ready?”

  The computer made a mystified sound. “Ready now.”

  Virgil nodded and strapped in, signaling the instruments to close in on him. Drop, jaws. “Ready?”

  “Ready to transfer,” the computer replied. Virgil poised his finger over the transfer button and pressed it.

  I’ll catch them somehow, Death Angel, even if I have to die a thousand times.

  Chapter Six

  2127

  Explosions. Virgil opened his eyes onto chaos.

  Pull me back from death to a shaking ship. Who’s holding on so tight and waving it about like-

  “What?” he screamed. “What was that?” Alarms wailed and air hissed. Doors slammed instantly shut. A triple set of steel shutters dropped over the viewing port. The computer spoke calmly.

  “The ship transferred into a region of asteroids. From the damage reports received, determine no diameters larger than five hundred microns were encountered.”

  “That’s dust.”

  “Teleporting into dust can be dangerous. The density here was one asteroid per twenty cubic meters. You’re lucky one did not appear inside you.”

  “Straight. Any damage?” I’ve got to remember that a real death can take me any moment. Nightsheet plays a tricky game.

  “Nothing major, though two Nostocacæ tanks are voiding due to ruptures. Repairs are taking place now on damaged electronics.”

  “How?” Virgil unstrapped and signaled the instruments to pull back. “Robots?”

  “Yes, and switching to redundant equipment in severe cases.” The computer spoke rapidly for a moment, filling him in on the current status of every piece of damaged equipment.

  Babble on, Masterson. Build a tower of words. “All right. I get the picture. Have you found any planets yet?”

  “No. Detect a radiant source at roughly one point oh-six astronomical units from Beta Hydri. It reads as a meteor swarm.

  There is something unusual about it, however.”

  Virgil rose from the chair and made his way to the viewing port. He pressed a few buttons on the console and the shutters opened. Before him blazed a star almost identical to the Sun as seen from the orbit of Venus. The viewing port’s protective shading made it seem dimmer than it was.

  “Say, how far away are we?”

  “Just under four light minutes from the surface.”

  “Wasn’t that cutting it close?” Trying to burn me up, stop my plans? Where’s your loyalty to Master Snoop? Has everyone sold out to Nightsheet?

  “Calculations can’t be exact at interstellar distances. Again, feel lucky you aren’t dead.”

  Virgil kicked off and sailed toward the exit hatch. “I’m going to get changed. I sweated comets on the last transfer.”

  “It’s not as if you’re leaving. Voice can follow you quite well.”

  As Virgil floated down the hallways toward his sleeping quarters, the computer’s voice seemed to jump ahead and fall behind him, broadcasting from various speakers along the route.

  “Why don’t you ever say ‘I’ or ‘me’ or any other personal pronouns?”

  “Use ‘you’ and ‘we’ and others.”

  “You never refer to yourself.” He rounded a corner and maneuvered into his room.

  “Have no self.”

  “You said you could think. How many synapses do you have?”

  “Eleven billion, five hundred thousand in neural net, plus peripheral linkups.”

  “Are you capable of independent action?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you have a self.”

  “Can’t change basic syntactic programming.”

  “Too bad. It’s hard on the ears.” He stripped off his trunks and threw them toward a bulkhead, where they softly impacted and remained. He pulled on a new pair and looked in the mirror. His hair clung in greasy clumps like a paint brush partially cleaned. They look like snakes, viperizing my head.

  “How long have we been away from Earth, subjective?”

  “Five hours, twenty-three minutes.”

  So short a time. Earth has aged twenty years and I don’t even feel hungry. Well, I feel a different hunger.

  “Virgil, there is something strange in that meteor swarm.”

  “Don’t be coy. What’s wrong?”

  “Am getting a pulsating neutrino flux from somewhere near the center of mass.”

  “Neutrinos. That’s-” Virgil searched his memory of a moment. “That’s atomics. Fusion.”

  “It’s a fusion source that turns on and off.”

  “A signal?” Virgil combed at his hair, tried to keep it from drifting outward, then gave up and replaced the tethered comb in the drawer and snapped it shut. He checked himself out. I wonder where I got that? He touched the shoulder burn and winced. You flew down a corridor when the roar was too loud for you to fight. Th
at’s right. You slid. Whoever ran me while I hid should take better care of me.

  “A very easily decipherable signal. A three second burst followed by a half second burst, then a one second burst, four second burst, one second burst, five second burst, nine seconds, two seconds, six seconds-”

  “I get the picture. Pi. Well, we can figure that whatever is signaling us has ten fingers.”

  “And uses terrestrial seconds.”

  “Exactly?”

  “Plus or minus ignition delays of twelve nanoseconds.”

  Virgil put his mouth on the drinking fount sticking out of a wall and took a long draught. He swallowed, rubbed a finger over his lips and said, “How far away is it?”

  “Thirty-five light seconds but decreasing slowly because we have not matched velocities yet.”

  “We can’t teleport into a meteor swarm!”

  “Whatever caused that meteor swarm to become a radiant source also blew a hole in the center of it. Everything is moving outward from the signal at about twelve klicks per second. Doubt that even much vapor or gasses are left behind.”

  “Can you detect any radioactivity from the swarm?” Why did I ask that? Who’s directing this inquiry? That other man they put in my head, Baker-Jord Baker. Are you asking?

  “-indicates only a mild increase over background radiation. Do detect a relatively larger than normal amount of free positrons and other leptons.”

  “I don’t like it.” Why not? I don’t know. It just seems wrong.

  “Agreed. Suggest we transfer in some distance from the signal and close in on engines.”

  “While receiving on all wavelengths and with me in the battle station.”

  “Suggest Ring One Superstructure Two-Center.”

  “Right. See you there in a few minutes.”

  Virgil made his way to the rear of Ring One, using the hand straps and grips with swift, cautious skill. It’s all economics, isn’t it Wizard? Minimize risk to maximize profits. I don’t think anyone who would leave a beacon like that is trying to trap witless Earthlings. It must be another human being. Except… why no other message?

  He found the lift to the superstructure. It had been designed for “down” being aft, and hence did not go “up” to the superstructure, but “down” a slope. Virgil strapped into a seat and pressed the yellow button on the arm rest. The car sprung into life, its acceleration mild but just enough to shove his head against the cushions. The deceleration followed less than five seconds later.

  Why no other message? Drake, ASCII, Morse code, anything. Why just enough to let one human know it has to be from an

  other human? Maybe he doesn’t dare say more? He jumped from the vehicle and through a pressure door. Already on the second level, he careened through one more pressure door-this a set of three hatches in tandem-to enter the battle station. He strapped tightly into the command chair and signaled the weapons command console to close in.

  Looking through the port, he saw the surface of Ring One and the prow ellipsoid stretch before him dozens of meters below. Beta Hydri burned ahead, casting a harsh wash of light and shadow across the crenellated surface of Ring One. Its main parabolic antenna pointed to port and slightly up from the ship’s midline. Somewhere in that direction lay the signal.

  “Match velocity with our destination first.”

  “Working it already,” the computer said. “Stand by.”

  Master Snoop. “Wait!”

  “Holding.”

  “Our engine fire can be detected, too. Let me think… Transfer to the far side of Beta Hydri and we’ll do our velocity match there, then transfer to the signal area, a surprise attack.”

  “Calculating… Ready. Switching command control from Con-One to Con-Two. Ready to transfer.”

  Virgil scanned the instrument cage of Con-Two, nearly identical to that of Con-One, and edged his finger over the transfer button.

  “Is it clear of debris?”

  “How to know? Make an educated guess.”

  Virgil hesitated. Don’t wait. Press it. Bless it. He punched the button.

  The tools of Master Snoop press in, then pull back at the speed of dark. Nightsheet tries to wrap me up, but I won’t go. Too much to do. Don’t even look at the corridor. Look at you. You’re here. Jen-do I go through this to reach you? Or to make peace and say there is another. One who lives. She must live. If Death Angel were dead, would I not see her here?

  An explosion rang through the ship. A series of repercussions vibrated around him. The air itself shook against his body.

  “Wha-Damage report, Ben!”

  The computer made no reply. Virgil twisted about. Sirens wailed, bells clanged. Lights on the panels around him flashed like random explosions.

  “Ben! Damage!” Receiving no answer, Virgil cursed and reached toward the input keyboard. Triple airlocks sealed shut behind him with an angry hiss. Damn! Pressure loss. Before him, a purple sun filled half the viewing port. Right, Masterson, drop me somewhere to roast, then leave me alone.

  DAMAGE REPORT, he typed.

  DAMAGE REPORT: 20 MG MICROMETEOROID EXPLOSION IN MAIN COMPUTER LOGIC UNIT. REPAIRS IN PROGRESS. ALL OTHER SYSTEMS FUNCTIONING. 5 MG MICROMETEOROID EXPLOSION IN TRITIUM SLURRY-CONTAINED.

  The readout scrim continued to issue reports on other minor damage. Virgil cancelled it and took a deep breath. Ben can still think but he can’t talk or hear.

  He typed: CALCULATE MATCHING VELOCITY FOR TARGET AND INITIATE.

  WORKING, the computer replied. Virgil held on tight.

  READY. He punched the button marked ENTER, and the ship rotated on its vernier rockets, then thrusted forward. Virgil breathed shallowly. Wait for the weight to end. Can’t crush me. I ride my white horse, the universe stretching before me.

  The engines cut off. He floated against the straps. His hands shot out for the keyboard.

  TRANSFER TO TARGET AREA, he typed.

  WORKING. TARGET AREA 1 KKM FROM SIGNAL.

  INITIATE, he typed, and pressed the transfer button when it glowed ready. I die again to see what death lies waiting.

  Nothing happened when he appeared in space a thousand kilometers from the signal.

  SHUT DOWN POWER AT ALL POINTS BUT THOSE VITAL TO REPAIR AND LIFE SUPPORT. Dozens of lights winked out on the instrument panels at the entering of his command. A message appeared.

  SUFFICIENT REPAIR TO TAKE VOICE COMMANDS.

  “Can you read me?”

  YES, the answer appeared.

  “Good. Monitor all frequencies for other signals. Scan for neutrino flux from points other than the signal. Power up the lasers and stand by to use them on my command or upon attack.”

  YES.

  Virgil adjusted his position in the chair, tightened a strap, loosened another. Looking up and out the viewing port, he saw the periodic flashes of the signal. They flared like rocket engines, forming a tiny X.

  Probably firing in six directions to avoid drifting from its orbit. Now what, what, what? Who’s guiding me? I’m making decisions before I can even think about them. Who’s in control? The dead man inside? Wizard? Ben?

  A spaceship appeared just long enough to unleash a searing laserblast, then disappeared again.

  The conning tower above Ring Three split in half, torn first by the laser blast, then by its own erupting atmosphere. The computer immediately fired a return bolt-a useless gesture, as the other ship had already vanished.

  “Get us out of here!” Virgil cried, punching up one gravity thrust on the nuclear engines and grabbing the pitch, yaw, and roll switches. Using them, he twisted and turned the ship enough to weave a contorted, random path away from the signal.

  “What was it?” He fought with the controls and his stomach. A picture appeared on the HUD of a huge sphere. He tried to watch it even though his eyes reacted to the ever-changing directions of acceleration. A distance readout placed it at twenty kilometers away, its diameter over twelve hundred meters.

  “It’s a Bernal Sphere! Someone tra
nsferred an entire habitat! Do you know where it’s gone?”

  NO.

  He fought with his breath while randomly tapping at the attitude controls. He tried not to be too regular in his finger rhythms, though he could not afford to give his whole concentration to the evasion tactic.

  “Any messages received?”

  NO.

  He stopped pressing the attitude jet controls and cut off the main engine array. Weightlessness returned.

  “Then let’s get away from here. Calculate a transfer to the next star on our tour, if you can’t find any planets here.”

  WORKING… AREN’T YOU INTERESTED IN THE OTHER SHIP?

  “I’m not interested in being murdered.”

  NEXT STAR IS EPSILON INDI. REPAIRS ESSENTIAL BEFORE TRANSFERRING TO UNKNOWN TERRITORY.

  “I don’t want to hang around here.”

  SUGGEST TRANSFER TO A POINT SOMEWHERE THREE LIGHT DAYS FROM BETA HYDRI TO CARRY OUT REPAIRS WHICH REQUIRE HUMAN ASSISTANCE.

  Virgil interlaced his fingers and kneaded them. He frowned. Who was it? Who appeared in space just to shoot me and then vanish, stellar hit man? Can Master Snoop follow me even into the depths of space? Can he throw me to Nightsheet with such ease, but just play and play, taunting death?

  He gripped the armrests so hard his knuckles cracked. They won’t take me. None of them! I’ll come back when they don’t expect and blow them apart. But how?

  “Transfer out three light days to a random point.” He unwound his fingers and placed one over the transfer button. “Only make sure we don’t appear inside anything larger than what we have already.”

  READY .

  “What, no snappy comeback?” I’ll find a way to get back for this. I can try to kill myself-it’s not right for them to try. Get them once and for all.

  He pressed the button.

  Too black!

  Wait!

  Too late!