The Last Flight of the Argus

by E. R. Torre

  “One of our citizens is dead and we have an interest in finding the cause of this death. Funny how it seems not be a terribly big concern to those aboard this space station.”

  “I beg your pardon, Lieutenant, but it’s not like that at all. I’ll grant you, few knew the guy personally, but he was a scavenger.”

  “And?”

  “They tend to fly second and third class ships, the type that make it a habit of breaking down. Just last week we had three ships we were forced to tow back into Titus.”

  “I see. And exactly how many of these second and third class ships have exploded into tiny little pieces for no obvious reasons in the past five years?”

  Robinson considered the question, but before he could say anything Daniels provided an answer:

  “Not a single one. In fact, this is the first time in the last five decades that we've witnessed such an occurrence.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  “I assure you it is,” Daniels said. “Certainly there have been ship failures and accidental collisions. And there have been crew fatalities. But ships today, even those that are second or third class, have a wealth of safety features. They may suffer from breaches or system malfunctions or even fires. In worst case scenarios, they might even be crippled beyond any possibility of repair or break into several large pieces. But exploding?”

  “You said it's been five decades since something like that's happened. Did they ever find the cause of that explosion?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it?”

  “Sabotage.”

  Robinson let out a whistle.

  “Are you suggesting that's what happened to the Sandstorm?”

  “I’m here to collect evidence, Mr. Robinson, not make guesses.”

  “But that’s what your superiors think, right? That’s why you’re here.”

  Lieutenant Daniels did not reply. Robinson shook his head and smiled.

  “Come now, Lieutenant. I’m sure when the evidence is sorted, we’ll find the Sandstorm had some kind of accident.”

  “Then consider my presence a way to move quickly toward this solution,” Daniels replied.

  He continued walking toward the entrance of Cargo Bay 144.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Wanderer, a class C small cargo vessel, exited the Erebus Displacer and began its slow approach to the Titus space station. It requested clearance for docking and, when granted, pulled into berth number 23.

  Once locked in place, her lone occupant shut down all major systems and rose from the navigator’s chair. The pilot wore a full body space suit, something forced upon him when the heating system within his vessel malfunctioned. He walked to the storage deck but stopped before a series of cabinets. He opened one of them and pulled out a spent Accelerant cartridge.

  The man took a hard look at the cartridge and returned it to its place. In the dark shadows of the storage deck he removed his space suit and headed for the docking clamp.

  Lieutenant Daniels and Eddie Robinson entered Cargo Bay 144 through one of the side doors. The cargo bay was dark and very cool. Daniels could just make out the remains of the Sandstorm littered on the otherwise empty bay floor.

  “How about some lights?”

  “Lights,” Robinson yelled. The lights in the bay came on in full force. Revealed before them was a very long rectangular cargo storage room. Twisted metal and charred plastic lay on the ground and took up nearly one third of the area.

  “This is it?” Daniels inquired.

  “Yes sir. As I said before, it amounts to thirty or forty percent of the Sandstorm.”

  Daniels approached the ship's remains but made sure not to touch anything. The pieces of the doomed craft were arranged like a burned out jigsaw puzzle. Daniels made out the vessel’s general shape and could draw some obvious conclusions from the directions of the twists in her shattered metal frame.

  “The explosion likely came from the rear of the craft, perhaps from the decompression chamber,” Robinson said.

  “Agreed,” Daniels replied. “My understanding is the Sandstorm was a ‘64 Class E Habberlight.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Then her fuel cells were located just below the decompression chamber. If one of them was leaking, even the smallest spark might cause an explosion.”

  “So it could have been an accident after all?”

  Daniels pulled a small camera from his shirt pocket and took pictures and video images of the wreckage. He did so with great care and deliberation, making sure to get a complete record of all the material on the deck. After forty-five minutes he was done. He made a call to his ship and then faced Robinson.

  “My boys will be here in a few minutes,” Daniels said.

  Several hours later, Eddie Robinson entered the Jackal Bar.

  He wearily waved to his co-workers. A group of military officers, all members of the Wake’s crew, were enjoying a quiet break at the other side of the bar. Their table was filled with empty and half-empty bottles of beer, but their conversation was low and, unlike the scavengers, they kept entirely to themselves.

  Robinson approached the center of the bar and sat at a table. A female bartender made her way toward him, but he motioned her off. Dave Maddox noticed the elderly man’s actions and approached.

  “How are you doing?” Maddox asked. He handed Robinson a freshly poured glass of beer.

  “I'm exhausted,” Robinson said. “Busy today?”

  “You bet.”

  “Yeah? Does it have anything to do with our military guests?”

  “Oh, just about everything,” Robinson said and chuckled. “They’re looking into the destruction of the Sandstorm.”

  “They’re specialists?”

  “I suppose. They took over the operation.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. It’s out of my hands.”

  “What's the matter? They don’t trust you?”

  “I don’t think it’s as simple as that.”

  “No?”

  “They’re looking into something else,” Robinson said. His voice lowered until it was a soft whisper. “They think the ship was sabotaged.”

  “Really?”

  “Would I lie about something like that?”

  “No. I don’t suppose you would.”

  “Anyway, the guy in charge is a Lieutenant, a Lester Daniels.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s young and seems smart enough.”

  “Why would the Epsillon military care about the destruction of a scavenger vessel way the hell out here?”

  “You got me. Maybe his orders came from higher up.”

  “Industry?”

  “Could be.”

  “What’s he done so far?”

  “Had me take him to the Sandstorm’s wreckage. He took a shit load of pictures and then had his forensic teams go over the wreckage piece by piece. I was ordered to take a few of his people to my office, so they could go over my computer files.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re piecing together the Sandstorm’s final journey. But they’re also looking into everything Kelly Lang did since he first arrived at Titus.”

  “Why would anyone care? And what about the Displacer? There’s no telling what damage it might have sustained in the explosion. Isn’t he interested in that?”

  “I offered to take him or his boys in for a closer examination of the hits she took, but he didn’t care.”

  “That’s really strange. Even if Lang was the victim of sabotage, why would the Epsillon military or industry care?”

  Robinson shrugged. He took another sip of beer.

  “You got me. But I’ll tell you something even stranger than all that.”

  “Go on.”

  “Think about how quickly they got here. It takes a while to put together a crew and equipment to investigate something like what happened to the Sandstorm, even on the best of days. Yet here they are.”

  “Someone l
it a fire under their asses.”

  “A thermonuclear fire,” Robinson said.

  They continued their conversation, oblivious to the tall, platinum-haired man that stepped into the bar.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EPSILLON MILITARY COMPLEX, HOMEWORLD

  General Jurgens retreated into his office and turned his communicator on. After his security software verified the line was secure, he pressed one final button. Lieutenant Lester Daniels’ face appeared on the monitor. His message was four hours old.

  “General Jurgens, I’ve completed my preliminary investigation into the Sandstorm. Through examination of the ship’s remains, I’ve determined that the explosion originated in the cargo hold, near the fuel cell storage. I’ve ordered the wreckage crated and sent to the Analysis Division on Homeworld. It should be there by the time you receive this message.”

  “There was no evidence of a Class 3 type probe aboard the Sandstorm at the time of the explosion. I would caution, however, that only a little over 30 percent of the wreckage was recovered. It is possible I won’t be able to find the remains of the probe at all, even if it was originally there. Regardless, our focus is now on the last days of Kelly Lang. I will send another transmission before the end of the day.”

  DINAMIX WAREHOUSE, Titus space station

  As usual, Ned Frasier was dressed in an elegant white suit. As he walked past the torn remains of assorted ships and ship parts that filled the Dinamix warehouse, he wondered why. He carefully avoided every protruding piece of scrap metal and dodged every bulky engine part. He didn’t so much walk as limbo through the warehouse.

  At the rear of the structure, he slinked past what looked like the remains of a greasy Turbo-jet and was pleased to see he made it unscathed to the door at the end of the junkyard. He pulled out a handkerchief and put it over the doorknob and turned it.

  He spotted Janet Donaldson at the back of the room. She stood a little over five feet three inches and had a delightfully plump figure. Her nose was flat and her hair was too short and her manners weren’t ladylike at all. Her clothes were covered with grease stains and rust and the Gods alone knew what else. The parts of her face that weren’t covered in sweat had a thick layer of grit. Over her eyes was a pair of thick black glasses. Every few seconds the lenses would glow an eerie green, indicating the sensors embedded within were recording the insides of the Probe that lay before her and in the center of the room.

  Ned Frasier allowed himself a full minute to take her in before letting out a sigh. She was the love of his life, and he wanted to do nothing more than reach out and hug her, here and now. But this wasn’t the time and there was too much work to do. He cautiously approached her side.

  Ned Frasier forced his eyes from his lover and onto the probe she was examining. The craft’s central panel was open and lay on the floor. The wires within were exposed and lifeless.

  “Anything?” Frasier said.

  Donaldson pulled her sensor glasses off and gave Frasier a loving wink before shaking her head.

  “These things were built to live a relatively short life,” she said. “They’re active up to ten years. I heard one of them managed to survive and transmit messages five years beyond that, but that was the exception rather than the rule.”

  “She survived until now.”

  “Yeah, but some one hundred and ninety or so years have passed since she lost power and began bouncing around the asteroids. It’s a miracle she's whole, but to expect complete data is asking a bit much.”

  “Her computer files were corrupted?”

  “To some degree. The internal computer is shot. I removed the memory chips and tried to activate them with conventional equipment. All I got was garbage. I’m guessing the probe passed through some heavy magnetic and radioactive fields.”

  “Can you reconstruct the data?”

  “Give me time,” she said. She gave Frasier a seductive smile. “Have I ever let you down before?”

  Frasier folded his hands across his chest and suppressed a smile of his own.

  “Not that I remember. Then again, it has been a while—”

  Unable to resist her any longer, Frasier uncrossed his hands and placed them on Janet’s broad shoulders. He pulled her near him and gave her a gentle kiss.

  “You’ll get dirty.”

  Frasier ignored her comment and kissed her again. All the while, he made a great effort to not soil his clothing.

  “How did a grease monkey like me get involved with a cleanliness freak like you?” Janet said between kisses.

  “Great luck.”

  Frasier released Janet and examined his suit. The front right side was badly stained.

  “Looks like I’ll have to change,” Frasier groaned. “Again.”

  Janet laughed. She returned to the probe while Frasier used a handkerchief to wipe away what he could of that stain.

  “When they sent it out, they must have anticipated the possibility –the probability– the batteries and hard drive could burn out before being found,” Frasier said as he put the handkerchief away. “Might the crew have left behind marks on the probe itself? Either outside or in?”

  “Now that you mention it,” Donaldson said. She pulled the probe’s outer plate from the ground and removed a greasy rag from her back pocket. She rubbed the rag across the plate and showed the results to Frasier.

  “I found this. Someone scrapped it on the panel with a knife or a screwdriver.”

  Frasier leaned down. When he read the words scrawled across the plate, his face turned pale.

  “Are you ok?” Janet Donaldson asked.

  Frasier shook his head.

  “No. Not at all. You should have told me about this before.”

  “I’m sorry,” Donaldson said. “Is this important?”

  “Very.”

  Without saying anything else, Frasier ran to the door leading out of the warehouse. He was in such a rush that he ignored the dirt around him and bumped into several pieces before exiting.

  Janet Donaldson shrugged. It wasn’t unusual for her lover to show such impulsiveness. He delivered merchandise, sometimes illicit merchandise, from sellers to buyers and she knew he had his secrets. There were times he went silent and disappeared for hours, even days, only to return abruptly, his passion for her intact. At first she demanded an accounting of his missing time, but eventually she realized there was little point in questioning his every move. He always returned to her, and that was the most, the only, important thing.

  Still, there was a noticeable tension these last few days, and this coincided with the arrival of the Argus probe. Janet looked down at the scrawl and, without meaning to, felt a shiver run down her back.

  The scrawl read: 133 of 400.

  She wondered why Frasier was so scared about the possibility there were another three hundred and ninety nine probes from the Argus floating out there, in the remains of what was once the Erebus solar system.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE JACKAL BAR – Titus space station

  Lieutenant Lester Daniels and a group of five subordinates entered the Jackal Bar just after happy hour. To a man, the group had an intense look, as if any little thing might set them off. Their presence in the bar and at this time maximized awareness of them among the regulars. The place was filled to near capacity. That number would swell as the hours passed.

  To Lieutenant Daniels, this visit was part of re-tracing Kelly Lang’s final hours before his ship erupted. The Lieutenant and his group stepped up to the bar’s counter. They forcibly made space for themselves between several scruffy pilots. Daniels motioned to the bartender. The man promptly approached Daniels’ side.

  “Beer,” Daniels said.

  The bartender shrugged and got to work. For the moment, Daniels ignored him and surveyed the area. The Jackal Bar was small, smaller than just about every bar he was familiar with on Homeworld. Its décor bordered on bland. You'd have to look long and hard to find even a hint of luxury.

&n
bsp; “Here you are,” the bartender said.

  Daniels noted the single glass and gave the bartender a cold stare.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Maddox.”

  “Mr. Maddox, would you be so kind as to serve my men as well?”

  “I'm sorry,” Maddox said. “When I was in the service, officers tended to drink alone.”

  Lieutenant Daniels offered the bartender a weary smile.

  “Only when they want to get drunk.”

  Maddox nodded. He served Daniels' men.

  “That’ll be five credits each. Forty credits total.”

  Daniels laid an amber colored fifty-credit piece on the counter and realized there was at least one luxury item in this place: the price of liquor.

  “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks,” Maddox said. He grabbed the chip and slipped it into the cash register.

  “Do you know who I am?” Daniels asked.

  The bartender shook his head.

  He knows, Daniels thought. But he’ll be damned if he admits to anything.

  “I’m here at the request of the Epsillon Government.”

  “They wanted you in this bar?”

  “Your attempts at humor border on the insulting, Mr. Maddox.”

  “My apologies,” Maddox said, his voice roaring with a mighty indifference. “We're honored to have you. Around these parts we see new faces just about every day, but rarely do we ever receive such distinguished guests.”

  Daniels let out a laugh.

  “I’m...sorry. I didn't mean to be funny.”

  “I’ve never heard anyone say the word ‘distinguished’ in quite that way. If I didn’t know better, it almost sounded like you were swearing.”

  “Heavens no.”

  “Skip it. I’m looking into the death of a prospector.”

  “Prospector?”

  “Why condemn the recently deceased with the label of scavenger, when we both know such activity is strictly prohibited.”