The Last Flight of the Argus

by E. R. Torre

  A loud ring brought B’taav around. The elevator doors opened, revealing the 32nd floor hallway. B’taav again ran his hands through his wet hair once more and, with a heavy sigh, reached for the fusion gun in his holster.

  B’taav walked silently to the stairwell door. His movements were controlled and precise. He turned the doorknob and carefully opened the door, slid past it, and examined his surroundings.

  The stairwell was encased in concrete and smelled of mildew. The stairs were concretal metal and their lower base was corroded. B’taav peeked over the edge of the stairs and down. There was no one below. B’taav turned his attention to the stairs leading up. Again he saw no one.

  The Independent walked up the stairs, past three flights, before stopping in front of the door to the 35th floor hallway. The door was solid metal. There was no way B’taav could see what lay beyond without opening it.

  B’taav crouched down to his knees and, while keeping his gun steady in his right hand, gripped the doorknob with his left and turned. B’taav opened the door just a crack, enough to see the 35th floor hallway. Despite the gloomy illumination, he could see no one was there.

  B’taav opened the door fully and slid into the hallway. He pressed his body against the wall and gently closed the stairway door. He silently moved forward, until he stood before the door to apartment 3514.

  His apartment.

  With his free hand, B’taav’s reached into his pant pocket. He pulled out a slim metal keypad and inserted it into the slot over the door’s handle. The keypad mechanism issued a faint click and the green light over the handle came on.

  B’taav put the keypad away and pushed the door's handle down. The lock made another faint click. B’taav released the handle. His left hand came down and joined his right in grasping the fusion gun.

  B’taav’s left foot slid to the base of the door. He used it to push the door open and pressed his back against the wall, as if expecting something from within his room to burst out. When the door was fully open and nothing happened, B’taav exhaled. He leaned past the doorway and gazed into his room.

  In his apartment was darkness and formless shadows. B’taav returned to his previous position against the wall. He made a mental picture of what the room looked like when he left earlier in the day. He could account for most of the shadowy forms.

  Most, not all.

  A chair and table were moved slightly to the left. The chair that was by the window was turned over and lay near the door. A video entertainment unit was lying close beside it. Worse, B’taav detected a pungent smell: oil and sulfur.

  B’taav remained in place. After a few seconds, he heard a faint metallic click coming from within. The sound increased, as did the smells. B’taav lowered the gun and aimed it at the base of his apartment door. The clicking increased some more. Whatever was making the sound approached the open door.

  It stopped, turned, and moved away.

  B’taav kept his gun trained at the door’s base and entered the room. He looked to his left and spotted a body. Crouched on top of it were four metal spiders. They walked the length of the swollen corpse and, every few seconds, stung the dead man with a thin spike that protruded from their belly. The tension B’taav felt eased. Each of the spiders, the Independent knew, was harmless now. The venom in their bodies was spent.

  The spider that approached the door remained close to B’taav. The Independent put his fusion gun back into its holster and grabbed it.

  “Black Widow,” B’taav muttered. He searched the still moving beast’s body for any identification marks. He was not surprised to find there were none.

  These metallic devices were used for any number of tasks, some of them even legitimate. In B’taav’s field, Black Widows were primarily used for either industrial espionage or remote control murder. The would-be assassin leaves the activated device within his victim’s room. When the victim arrives, the spider senses their target's movement or body heat and attacks.

  The machines were very efficient, but like any mechanical device, this efficiency was tied in to the sophistication of their programming. If you weren’t careful, once activated your remote control assassin would not distinguish between victims and perpetrators.

  B’taav wondered if this was the case here.

  The Independent stared at the swollen features of the corpse. He didn’t recognize the man, although he was certain he was the one that brought the mechanical assassins to this room.

  The mechanical spider in B'taav's hands stopped moving and its body heated up. It wouldn’t be long before the spider melted into a puddle of unidentifiable metal.

  B’taav dropped the device on the ground and grabbed the plastic card hanging on the other side of the entry door. He then stepped out of the room, closed the door to his apartment, and placed the plastic card on the doorknob.

  The card read: “Do Not Disturb.”

  B’taav exited through the rear of the building and was careful not to be seen leaving. He walked three blocks to the north and two to the west in the pouring rain before hailing a cab.

  He asked the driver to take him to Mr. Goodwin’s residence on the outskirts of Ferro City. The driver grunted an acknowledgement and headed to the highway entrance. When they got there, they found a long line of cars and, in the far distance, a police barricade.

  “That’s quite a jam,” the Cabby said. He reached for the monitor on his dashboard and turned it to the traffic news network. “Let’s see what’s going on.”

  After a few minutes of commercials, an announcer appeared on the screen.

  “For those hoping to catch the North 631, we recommend seeking alternate routes. There has been an accident just outside exit 54.”

  The image on the monitor changed to flaming wreckage on the highway. B'taav recognized the charred vehicle as the one that brought him to his hotel.

  Goodwin's.

  “Early word is that the driver somehow lost control and, before the anti-crash software was activated, his vehicle crashed into the steelcrete barrier,” the announcer continued. “It is our understanding there were two passengers. Both were killed instantly. The highway will be closed until further notice.”

  “How about that?” the cabbie said. “I can get you where you want to go, but it’ll take a while.”

  “Never mind,” B’taav said. “Turn around. Take me to the star port.”

  The Merrick floated over Salvation and a large docking crew floated around her like bees swarming their hive. They serviced and inspected the ship. All at once, several of their heads turned.

  A weathered cargo ship approached and slowed. A radio signal, a request to dock, was sent from the cargo ship.

  The request was granted.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EPSILLON MILITARY COMPLEX - HOMEWORLD

  General Anton Jurgens was in a very bad mood.

  The angry little lines on his weathered face threatened to rip his skin into pieces. It was always like this at the end of the fiscal year. The business interests that owned the biggest share of the Epsillon Government and made up most of the Council were always looking at every single credit the military spent rather than focusing on the potential dangers the Empire might face in the future.

  General Jurgens worried the constant interest in the bottom line would come back to bite the councilmen in their collective asses. One day, perhaps. And then they would all come screaming to him to save them.

  Of course Jurgens would put up a fight for more funds, just like he did every year. He would argue that more money was needed –required– for any number of contingencies. He would plead his case until he was practically on his knees.

  To that, the council majority would inevitably scan their spreadsheets, give their calculators a good workout, and eventually say something to the effect that whenever future problems presented themselves, they would be resolved at that point. When they occurred. There was little use in spending money on things that “might” happen. Besides, at least on
e of the councilmen would inevitably add, the Phaecian Empire hasn’t tried anything in over two hundred years. Why would they do something now?

  Jurgens felt his blood pressure soar. As if the Phaecian Empire was the only threat.

  At least he had four of the Council member’s ears. They were far from a majority but enough to keep the military budget from shrinking. Then again, these particular councilmen were sympathetic to increasing military spending because the planets they represented provided the fleet with most of its weaponry and maintenance docks.

  Jurgens smirked. The Council members were a collection of liars and thieves, each and every one of them in this for their own profit.

  The elevator stopped on the fiftieth floor of the Complex. General Jurgens stepped out of the elevator and into the waiting area of his office. He found the regular group of advisers and military officials sitting in chairs waiting for him. They rose and saluted, each looking on in hopeful anticipation. Before they spoke even a single word, General Jurgens knew what they would ask: Was the budget a go? If not, can our department get its full funding? If not, can we at least get…

  General Jurgens stepped past the group without acknowledging their presence and entered his secretary’s office. As was his habit, his next stop was the coffee machine at the back of that room.

  “Tough meeting?” his secretary asked.

  “I have yet to be in one that wasn't.”

  The General reached for a cup and poured some coffee. He pointed to the outside waiting room. “If they had their way, they’d surgically attach themselves to my ass.”

  “And if you had your way?”

  “I could think of a few worse places.”

  The Secretary let out a gentle laugh and said, “I can’t promise you anything, but I just might be able to fit in a bathroom break at two, then six, then perhaps one more by midnight.”

  “That would be nice. So how would you like me to see them? In the order they arrived or alphabetically or...?”

  “I think you should see Corporal Ewing first.”

  Whatever levity General Jurgens displayed abruptly vanished.

  “Ewing is out there?” he said. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I thought you noticed him when you came in. I’ll escort him in right away.”

  Jurgens put the coffee down and entered his office. He was sitting behind his desk when Corporal Theodore Ewing was shown in. The Corporal was very young, almost too young to be one of the heads of Epsillon Intelligence. Yet his service to the Empire was exemplary and he had a reputation for being all business. When he came to see you, it was for a reason.

  Ewing gave General Jurgens a crisp salute. Jurgens motioned for the Intelligence Officer to sit down.

  “What have you got?” he asked.

  Ewing laid a small computer pad on Jurgens’ desk. Information flashed on the pad's screen.

  “We picked up someone making inquiries regarding flagged information.”

  Jurgens nodded. Any search for information on the government’s main database was routed through another search engine installed by the military many years before. Flagged material related to undesirables, state secrets, or anything that might fall into the purview of military command was brought to the attention of those higher up on the information food chain.

  “Go on,” Jurgens said.

  “This inquiry came from the Sandstorm, a salvage ship operating outside the Erebus system. She is, according to our most recent information, docked in space station Titus.”

  “What was the inquiry?”

  “The ship's pilot, a man named Kelly Lang, asked for information on a Class 4 Scientific Probe with the serial number 11345-23400.”

  “And?”

  “When the captain of the Sandstorm made that inquiry, it triggered a warning message on our system. The message reads: Code Omega-Omega 3321.”

  Jurgens’ face froze. He mumbled his thanks and motioned Ewing out of the room.

  “If you need anything else, please call me,” the Corporal said.

  “Thank you,” Jurgens replied.

  When Ewing was gone Jurgens returned to his desk and read the information on the computer pad. He felt strong chills run down his back. The Omega-Omega codes hadn’t been used in a very, very long time. Certainly not since the Erebus war. Almost all references to them were deleted over the years. So why had the Sandstorm’s inquiry set off such a code?

  “Computer,” General Jurgens said, addressing the larger machine on his desk. “Open file code named Theta Omega 3321.”

  “Please enter security code.”

  Jurgens did so.

  For the next hour he read the information provided about the lost super juggernaut Argus. When he finished, he paged his secretary and told her to send all those kind, patient officers waiting to see him back to their respective offices. He would have no time for them today.

  General Jurgens then called up the four members of the Council who were sympathetic to the military. He told them they had to call an emergency session right away.

  He told them it involved the fate of the Epsillon Empire.

  CHAPTER NINE

  TITUS SPACE STATION, on the outer border of Erebus

  The Titus space station served the Empire well as a listening post and a center for transportation of cargo in the years leading up to the Erebus War. She was the only remaining structure on the Epsillon side to survive the explosion that decimated that system. At the height of her golden age and just before that tragedy, she housed over one million citizens.

  Today, after various upgrades, she was as large as a medium sized city. Yet in spite of her upgrades, she was a living anachronism. Shortly after the war, she was abandoned. Soon after that, and following years of negotiation with private interest groups, Titus was purchased by investors catering to historians, preservationists, and vacationers.

  When it was clear the Erebus system was stable, the area became a point of interest to hundreds of thousands of tourists curious to see where what should have been the greatest galactic war started and, very abruptly, ended. The luxury crafts that brought tourists into this area needed a place to dock and Titus was the only station around.

  Unknown to the tourists was the fact that deep within Titus operated a vast illegal salvage trade. Scavengers skirted the law and flew out into the remains of the system seeking any memorabilia that survived the war. They brought their finds to Titus to sell.

  Far away from the main docking section and occupying a place by the common quarters was the refurbished Jackal Bar. Over time, it became the watering hole for those scavengers. They met and tried sniffing out where the latest hot spots for prospecting lay. Because of the illegal nature of their activities, talk was usually hushed and information well-guarded. Despite this, rumors had a tendency to spread like butter on hot toast.

  When Kelly Lang walked into the bar, few paid attention to him. He was one of several dozen scavengers who filtered in and out of the place. He headed for his usual seat at the foot of the bar. It took great effort to contain a growing smile.

  “What do you want?” Dave Maddox, the Jackal Bar’s head bartender, asked. He was a short man in his late thirties that carried a slight build. His hair was jet black and his face a sturdy mask of neutrality.

  “The usual,” Lang replied.

  “You look kind of funny today,” Maddox said as he poured Lang a beer.

  “I’m fine,” Lang said, even as his voice told another story.

  If Maddox noticed, he didn’t say. He acted as if their conversation was about nothing more than the too-steady artificial weather within the station. Maddox pulled a tin plate from the Food Dispenser and laid it before Lang. Lang removed the lid and dug into the brown mush.

  “Steak and potatoes,” Maddox said. “Just like momma used to make.”

  “Provided your momma was a five hundred pound grease machine.”

  “Who says she wasn’t?”

  “Som
ething tells me you've had a good day.”

  “Maybe I did,” Lang replied cryptically.

  Maddox leaned in close to the scavenger and said: “I hear the Pritchett boys found some shielding in quadrant 5423. Might be from one of the destroyers.”

  “Good for them.”

  “They say it's in good shape. Hardly any dings or warps,” Maddox continued. He knew if he gave out information, even information that may not interest the person he was speaking with, it increased the odds of reciprocation.

  “I’m happy for them. Really I am,” Lang said. He drank some more beer, took another spoonful of the brown slop, and winced. “Momma should be shot.”

  “She’s seen better days.”

  “Haven’t we all.”

  Lang took a long look around the bar before his eyes returned to Maddox.

  “Tell the man in white I’ve got something he might find interesting,” Lang whispered. “I’ll give him a first look, but only if he’s willing to come to my ship in the next hour.”

  “Come on, Lang. You go to him. He doesn’t go to—”

  “This is gold, Maddox. One hundred percent. If he doesn’t come see me, I’m heading elsewhere.”

  Maddox laid down another cup of beer.

  “There isn’t a day that passes where someone tells me they’ve got the goods.”

  “I’m not bullshitting,” Lang retorted. “What I’ve got he’ll want. I guarantee it.”

  Maddox sighed. “You know he’s a busy man. If you want him to jump, you have to show him a reason to do so. You know he won't do it just for me.”

  “Yeah. I suppose so.”

  Lang reached into his shirt and pulled out a small photograph. He handed it to Maddox and said, “If this doesn’t convince him, nothing will.”

  The photograph displayed a side view of the probe Lang found on the outskirts of Erebus.