Space Chase (Star Watch Book 5)

by McGinnis,Mark Wayne

  “Yeah … sorry.”

  “Let me check something … hold on.”

  Ryan waited for the AI while watching the tanker’s icon move ever closer.

  “You may need to cross over to the dark side, buddy.”

  “What do you mean?” Ryan said.

  “First … I’m obligated to tell you that tampering with customer packages is not only a fireable offense … it’s totally illegal.”

  “Yeah … all drivers know that,” Ryan said.

  “Well … it just so happens three of the cartons up in the hold just may help you get out of this mess.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Cartons designation 71392, 71393, and 104339 each have a variety of things that may allow you to nearly double the propulsion output of this little craft.”

  “Double? How is that even possible?”

  “Do you really want me to go into the technical aspects or do you want to try to outrun that pursuing Paotow tanker?”

  “Right. Let’s open up those cartons.”

  “Fine … two of them, designations 71392 and 71393, are Consignment Freight inter-station transfers. Basically, parts transfers. You may not get into as much trouble for opening those two packages.”

  “And the other one?” Ryan asked.

  “Designation 104339 is a whole ’nother story. It’s insured for $5,000,000.”

  “Two-ton … I could go to jail for even looking at that package.”

  “Yeah … CF would pretty much throw away the key for that one.”

  “How important is it?”

  “If the contents of that carton are what I think they are … very important.”

  “But at the end of the day … what? … you’re pretty much just guessing?” Ryan asked.

  “My guesses are based on fairly stringent calculations … including both sending and receiving parties … previous shipments between the two parties, the carton weight and size, and something else.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The accompanying paperwork says what’s in the box.”

  Ryan rolled his eyes. “So what is it?”

  “Scientific experimental equipment … a Tominacco micro-reactor. Sent from a Star Watch ship’s Chief Engineer … the guy’s named is Bristol … sent by way of Liberty Station. It’s headed for—”

  Ryan cut the AI off, “It’s headed for the Alpha Centauri system. I remember logging that carton in.”

  “Correctamundo,” the AI replied. “So what do you want to do? Get trapped by the nutcase chasing you or spend a decade or two lounging within one of the three sector penitentiaries?”

  “Why don’t we start with CF cartons … see if those parts make a difference,” Ryan said.

  “Sorry, man … wouldn’t make enough of a difference. It’s all or nothing.”

  Ryan said, “How much time do we have?”

  “Calculating the current rates of speed and the inevitable intercept vectors … two hours and ten minutes.”

  “What are the odds he’s coming to do to me what he did to … you … to Two-ton?”

  “It’s a guess but I’d say eighty-three percent, that whoever that crazy fuck is … is coming to destroy this delivery van with you along with it.”

  “And you have no idea who it is?”

  “I’m working through a database … making calculations … assumptions. I may be able to narrow it down to a few individuals … in time.”

  Ryan suspected the AI already had those names. Had made those calculations in a fraction of a nano-second. Truth was, knowing who it was chasing him wouldn’t do him much good, anyway. Especially with his communications equipment on the fritz.

  * * *

  The cargo hold area of CF Delivery Van 412 was approximately fifteen feet long, ten feet wide and eight feet tall—with the hold somewhat wider toward the stern. Three rows of shelves lined the bulkhead and hundreds of cartons filled the space. The van had a full load. Delivery cartons were reusable and comprised of lightweight tensile strength materials. They came in a variety of sizes from a few inches square to the size of a standard dishwasher—and each CF carton was software coded into a locked state until delivered to the confirmed proper recipient.

  Ryan had three CF cartons sitting in the middle of the hold. “These are them,” Ryan said.

  “You still haven’t broken any Consignment Freight regulations or Department of Space Compliance felonies,” Two-ton said.

  “Wait … I can’t open these. Don’t have the unlock codes.”

  “Would I have suggested opening the cartons if I couldn’t unlock them for you?”

  “I guess not,” Ryan said. “Um … I’m having second thoughts about this, Two-ton. The whole felony aspect. I like my freedom.”

  “That is understandable, Ryan. Perhaps I should tell you a little about the individual pursuing you … pursuing us.”

  “So you do know.”

  Two-ton was silent.

  “Well, tell me!”

  “The owner of the refurbished Paotow Tanker is Orloff Picket.”

  “Okay … is that supposed to mean something to me?” Ryan asked.

  “I guess not. Orloff Picket is one of four sons of one Abigale Picket … most commonly known as Mamma Picket. She is the family matriarch and general manager of Picket Mining. Once one of North America’s oldest and largest coal mining outfits from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries … Picket mining is now a substantial mining organization of a variety of rare elements mined within the Kuiper Belt.”

  “So that’s a good thing … right? This Orloff … he’s some kind of businessman.”

  “No, Ryan. He is not.”

  Ryan waited for more. “Well … go on.”

  “Although Orloff Picket has indeed worked within the family mining business from time to time, he has been relegated to living in space for very specific reasons.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “He is bat-shit crazy. Once referred to as a sociopath … now the politically correct reference to that is anti-social personality disorder. Orloff, institutionalized on three separate occasions on Earth, has very violent tendencies. And since he does not exhibit any sense of guilt or remorse … it is my opinion … he has been misdiagnosed. It is far more likely he is a raging psychopath … a vicious nut-ball.”

  “What’s he done? Like … why was he institutionalized?”

  “Two of those were juvenile instances. But I peeked into his locked case file. Apparently, Young Orloff liked playing with animals. Animals of all sizes and species. His particular interest lies in the taxidermy side of things.”

  “Like the mounting of dead animals? The kind of thing hunters do?”

  “Yes. Although Orloff’s particular interest lies with the capturing of living creatures. He displays them … while still alive … that is after he’s done … working with them.”

  Ryan made a face. “That’s who’s coming after me? Someone who does that to … animals?”

  “He progressed past animals in his early twenties.”

  “How old is he now?”

  “Orloff Picket is forty-three years old. His formal education level is the third-grade. He is six foot five and three hundred and three pounds. He is missing two fingers—both pinkies—believed to be the results of self-induced anatomical experiments.”

  “I need to get these cartons open … fast.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Once provided the codes to unlock them, Ryan quickly opened and unpacked the three cartons; their contents now lay on the hold’s deck. According to the Two-ton AI, what they first needed to do was convert the onboard ion drive to a fusion drive—basically, making Mickey Mouse into Mighty Mouse. What they were attempting wasn’t that much of a stretch. Consignment Freight already provided a similar fusion-drive vehicle. Among the contents strewn about on the deck was an Aldo-Pack, designed by Dr. Aldo Wreck, of MIT fame, five years earlier. An Aldo-Pack was a self-contained two-foot by three-foot by four-foot polished metall
ic power plant module—basically a small nuclear reactor—that was presently totally inert and not dangerous in the least.

  Ryan lifted the highly reflective module off the deck. “It’s surprisingly light … for the size of the thing. What’s it do?”

  “Basically, fusion reaction occurs when energy is released by a couple of light atomic nuclei being fused together to form another, much heavier, atom. The same energy that powers a star … the sun. This is where hydrogen nuclei are combined to form helium,” the Two-ton AI answered.

  “This thing does all that?”

  “And more. But there is a problem.”

  Ryan looked up, unsure where to put his attention since the AI was viewing him via a multitude of integrated cameras located throughout the ship—specifically the hold area. “What problem?”

  “The ion drive module is roughly the same size as that thing you’re holding. Both are controlled by the same systems controller located within the cockpit systems rack. And I can provide any missing code.”

  Ryan, tired, was on the verge of stifling a yawn. If it weren’t for the simple fact that the Paotow Tanker was barreling down on them, he’d be climbing into his bunk for a few hours’ nap. “So what’s the problem?”

  “The output thrust coming from an ion drive is miniscule compared to that of an Aldo-Pack self-contained drive module. This freight van does not have the most robust main rear thruster, or numerous directional thruster nozzles situated along the outer hull.”

  “What … they’ll burn up?”

  “Bingo.”

  “So why then are we doing this? Why waste our time?”

  “Because I think there’s a MacGyver.”

  Ryan had seen every episode of the mid-1980s TV show. The action hero could create amazing things from duct tape, a pencil, a ball of string, and a can of Coke. “I’m almost afraid to ask … what is it I have to do?”

  “There are three environ suits on this craft, correct? One you discarded into the recycle bin.”

  Ryan’s mind flashed to the copious amounts of blood present on his suit when he returned from Two-ton’s mangled freight van.

  “You want to use that one?”

  “It’s never a good idea to get rid of your backup suits. We’ll have to use that suit, as its material is practically impervious to heat.”

  “Even to heat equivalent to that of the sun?”

  “Almost. It will serve our purpose,” the AI said.

  “So … how do I …”

  The Two-ton AI said, “I believe there are scissors on board.”

  * * *

  Ryan discovered there were twelve cone-shaped conoid thruster nozzles situated around the vessel. Most opened into a three-inch-diameter orifice. The larger main rear thruster, spherically-shaped, was approximately thirteen inches wide by eight inches tall. Cutting out linings for the three-inch cone thrusters simply meant he needed to cut out three-and-a-half-inch diameter circles then add another radius cut to the center of the circle. According to the AI, they didn’t need to fit perfectly.

  The largest cutout on the environ suit would come from the back of the suit. Two-ton’s voice guided Ryan on how to make the cutout for that oddly shaped thruster.

  “Um … don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer here, but you do know these little cutouts won’t stay put. They’ll pop out as soon as I engage the drive … if not before.”

  “Oh ye of little faith, I have taken that into account. You’ll need to use an adhesive, one that can withstand a radical amount of heat.”

  Ryan, sitting on the deck with his legs crossed Indian-style and scissors in hand, looked up again.

  The AI said, “One of the few things still left within your spare parts bin is a container of Starlite.”

  Ryan, and anyone from Earth traversing the cosmos, was familiar with that miracle secret sauce. Painting it on the torn areas of an environ suit it became almost as good as new again. Actually developed by an English inventor—back in the 1980s—a former hairdresser named Maurice Ward. A guy with no real scientific education or training, he put the various ingredients together at his kitchen table using a food processor. The sticky, viscous liquid could be painted on virtually any kind of surface.

  “Why don’t we just use the Starlite to coat the thrusters?” Ryan asked, flicking a dried flake of blood from the current circular cut out he was currently working on.

  “As fantastic as that stuff is, it wouldn’t last. Would be too thin a coating. But used as an adhesive with the cutouts you’ve made, I think we have a winner. We have one hour to attach the cutouts … and install the module.”

  “We stop and the tanker will overtake us,” Ryan said, coming to the same conclusion.

  “You’ll need to spacewalk this task for us to maintain our current speed and velocity.”

  “Of course, I do. But … if I get separated from the ship …” Ryan let his words trail off.

  “You’ll be tens thousands of miles away in the blink of an eye. So don’t do that.”

  * * *

  By the time Ryan got suited up, equipped with a makeshift carryall container strapped across his abdomen, he’d burned another fifteen minutes. It took another few to make the progression through the airlock to reach the outside of the ship. The ion drive was off and the temperature, at −454 Fahrenheit, cooled the individual thruster nozzles down in no time. The AI had told him to start first with the largest and most difficult rear thruster.

  There was no sensation of speed, although the freight van was traveling at thousands of miles per second. The rear thruster was positioned directly below the rear hatchway—along the bottom hull at the stern of the vessel. Weightlessly, Ryan moved forward—hand over hand—clipping his lifelines onto the various metal eyelets positioned at key hull locations. Never did a moment pass when at least one of his two lifelines wasn’t attached to something. With only the slightest push off, he dropped down to the underside of the ship and found the vessel’s primary thruster.

  “Okay … here I go,” Ryan said. He listened for Two-ton’s voice but the AI was being uncharacteristically quiet.

  Finding the jar of Starlite right where he’d put it in his strapped-on carryall, Ryan opened it and watched the lid immediately flip free of his fingers and drift away into the blackness of space. “Oops … shit.”

  He used his gloved index finger to scoop out an ample portion of the thick liquid, liberally coating the inside of the thruster. That done, he snatched up the largest cut up piece of environ suit and positioned it into the spherically shaped cone. Giving it a tug, it still held firm. “Two-ton, you know it’s not a great fit.”

  “I can see that via your helmet-cam. It’s fine … move on to the next one.”

  Ryan did as told and, one by one, repeated the same process with the next ten smaller thruster nozzles. Now at the bow of the freight van on the port side, he said, “Kinda running low on Starlite.”

  “Do you have enough for the last nozzle?” the AI asked.

  “Yeah … I think so.” He gave the inserted cut out a little tug, and, like all the others, it too held firm. “I’m moving on to the last one.” Ryan unclipped one line from the closest eyelet and transferred its clip to the one four feet to his left. Reaching back to unclip the second lifeline he heard Two-ton’s voice. And something in it not normally present—Could it be fear?

  “Leave it … get back inside.”

  “I’m almost done. One more—”

  “No. Now!”

  At that same moment Ryan saw a glint of light reflecting off a metallic surface. A ship was approaching. Seriously? It was Orloff’s tanker, of course.

  CHAPTER 11

  West Virginia folk music filled the space—the rhythmic strumming of an old banjo echoed down from somewhere overhead. The cavernous, dimly lit, central cabin—with its wide-plank paneling and hardwood decking—looked more like a 100-year-old timber-built home than a space-faring vessel. The Paotow Tanker Retrofit had been accomplished with a meticulous
eye for detail.

  Orloff Picket’s schooling may have ended with the third grade, but he wasn’t stupid. Not by a long shot. In fact, in his own peculiar way, he exhibited borderline genius characteristics. Unfortunately, as with many geniuses, those traits become actualized in certain individuals, Orloff included, as OCD—Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. So in addition to being a raging sociopath, he was also a stickler for the arrangement of objects and the order in which things were to be accomplished.

  Orloff was relentlessly hard on himself, like the current project he’d immersed himself into. He readjusted the spring-arm table lamp to better illuminate the area of the wood-topped workbench and what lay upon it. Orloff grimaced. The work was not up to his typical impeccable standards. This was nothing more than a hack job. Literally.

  As a boy, Orloff spent countless hours with his father and three brothers traversing the hilly terrain of the Southern Appalachian Mountains. In the beginning hunting was far more than a recreational weekend pastime; it was a necessity. First to provide food stocks for the days and weeks ahead—wild boar, elk and whitetail deer, black bear—but later, as the infestation of molt weevils, and their later emanation, peovils, spread throughout the territory like a raging torrent—hunting became more about survival than sustenance.

  Orloff, a long, curved sewing needle sticky with viscous blood poised between thumb and index finger, stopped and looked up at the bulkhead across from him. He let his mind wander back to those earlier days when his father would awaken him at three in the morning and together they’d get the equipment and vehicles ready for the morning’s excursion into the wild. That was their special time: father and son. Only then, with the prep work completed, would his father awaken his three older brothers. The hunts could last for days. The five of them, the men of the family, dressed in camo and carrying high-powered rifles, were highly competent bringing down a six-point bull at two, even three hundred yards. Toward the end his father, when black lung disease took a firm hold of him—no longer capable of field dressing the kills—supervised. The four brothers were highly adept in the preparation of wild game—it all started with a knife. The knife needed to be incredibly sharp or you could mangle the job.