Jump Gate Omega

by Tom Shepherd

  Rosalie blinked. “Where you’re a secret cat lover?”

  “Right, right.”

  “It’s amazing. I’m starting to believe wishes come true.” She stroked the cat’s ear. “She’s probably famished. I’ll feed her.”

  “First, scan Miss Kitty with the bio-filter,” Tyler said. “See if she can digest foods from Earth.”

  “Not Miss Kitty.” Rosalie picked up the cat, who went limp and dangled over her arm. “You named the snake Lulu. I’m calling her Lucy.”

  “Be sure to check Lucy for pathogens. My new planet hates me.”

  Tyler busied himself with in-flight tasks in preparation for landfall on Sedalia-3. In a few minutes J.B. joined him to run the pre-landing check list. While they worked, Tyler noticed Lulu snoozing on the deck next to a communications module. He suspected the crafty serpent hid from Lucy, who probably out-ranked her on the food chain on their homeworld.

  They finished the checklist, and Rosalie returned. She was visibly disturbed. “Tyler, I can’t find Lucy. Did she come back to the flight deck?”

  Tyler checked visually, but found only Lulu, who had reclaimed her seat behind the piloting modules.

  “Sorry,” Tyler said. “Don’t worry. It’s not like your new friend can jump overboard.”

  J.B. asked about Lucy, and Rosalie quickly described the missing cat. He cocked his head and seemed to go off somewhere. Finally, J.B. said, “Did you say the cat was blue and green, like Lulu?”

  She nodded. “Maybe all animal life on Tyler’s world is the same color.”

  “No way,” Tyler said. “The crabs and flying buzz-bombs are two different shades of ugly. What did the bio-scan say about Lucy?”

  “No pathogens,” Rosalie said. “But when I continued scanning, the diagnostic analyzer went offline. I couldn’t lock onto her biology.”

  “Probably residual damage from the battering the ship took by the Rek Kett,” Tyler said. “Long story. Dad’s teckkies did a shit job fixing this boat.”

  “We’ll get Suzie’s systems checked at the Sedalia shipyard,” J.B. said. “Especially the food dispensers.”

  With a soft meow, Lucy hopped from the deck into Rosalie’s arms. “Hi, baby. Where did you go?” The cat snuggled against Rosalie’s bosom.

  “You’ve been adopted,” Tyler said. He looked for Lulu, but she had fled to safety when the cat reappeared. Smart snake.

  “These animals belong in their native habitat,” J.B. said. “We’ll surrender the snake and cat to the company Exobiology Division at Sedalia.”

  Tyler and Rosalie vociferously disagreed with their elder brother, but the debate ended without resolution when Suzie’s FLT alarm notified them of an imminent drop to black space. Esteban joined them in the flight compartment for crew safety. He and Rosalie took jump seats behind the navigation console.

  Tyler manually guided the Sioux City to the orbital re-entry point before releasing the helm to Suzie’s much quicker reflexes during the fiery descent through the Sedalian atmosphere. Twenty minutes later, they cruised through wispy clouds along the seaward approach to Matthews Corporation’s Safe Harbor Starport.

  “Hey, Bear, you mind switching with Rosalie?” Tyler said.

  J.B. quickly traded co-pilot’s chair for a jump seat. Tyler tapped a set of squares to transfer control of the ship to his sister. “Okay, kiddo. Land my space buggy.”

  She took a breath. “I can do this.”

  “Suzie, go to standby mode,” Tyler said.

  “Rosalie luv, I’ll be here if you need me. You have the helm.”

  She waved a hand. “Thank you, Suzie.”

  Rosalie guided the scout ship over lightly choppy seas toward Arrival Zone 16, not far from their assigned place among the rows of revetments and parked ships at Safe Harbor Starport. Tyler kept Suzie’s autopilot passively engaged in case the new pilot committed a dangerous flight error, but Rosalie brought the Sioux City flawlessly over the flight path and set up a perfect approach.

  “Do you want to do the touchdown?” Rosalie asked her brother.

  “Hell, no. I’m on break. Unless you need—”

  “Can do!” She laughed and took the Sioux City into a shallow descent along the zero-nine-zero-approach vector until crossing the boundary fence at SHS. A moment later, they hovered over a touchdown pad with pulsing blue lights at the corners to designate a small spacecraft arrival point.

  “Great job.” Tyler took the controls and taxied to their assigned revetment slot, a delicate maneuver among hundreds of closely packed starcraft. He eased past a pair of Parvian battlecruisers and a Meklavite destroyer, turned down a row of smaller ships, slipped into their assigned space, and shut down Suzie’s engines.

  Tyler heaved a sigh of relief. Sedalia-3 at last. They had reached the ship transfer point on schedule. But the clock was ticking toward the incoming shot from Jump Gate Omega. Two weeks from today.

  If they lose the battle in Suryadivan courts and no Alpha Gate receives the signal, the loss of investment capital in new fleets of trading and exploratory starships—without hope of recompense—will likely crash the economies of alien star nations and human mega-corporations.

  Like the cultural and economic turmoil following the collapse of the Pax Romana on Earth, the shattered galactic civilizations will likely fight for dominance in a new Dark Ages.

  God alone knew how it might end.

  Seven

  The Pirate King activated the viewscreen. His face soured when the Developer appeared in holographic imagery, transmitting from the bridge of a starship. Behind the Developer, officers shuffled among blinking stations and bobbed in and out of the holo-picture. Their movement warped the pattern, but the connection held. The Pirate King had boarded and seized enough vessels to know the command center of a brand new warship, even from mere slices of crew action and glittering instruments visible behind the command chair.

  “I am gathering vessels to assist your plan,” the Pirate King said. “So far, I have Dengathi, Mindorian, Segerian, and others from the Free Enterprise League. Many humanoid species. Probably a thousand ships.”

  “Not enough. We need at least twice that number. The Matthews Corporation has a mighty fleet. If they show up in force, we require overwhelming numerical superiority.”

  “Excuse me, little Chefe. You promised to provide the extra ships.”

  The Developer remained stiff as a post. “I have contacts among the Rek Kett. I will speak with them at Suryadivan Prime.”

  “If you fail, my lads will not fight alone.”

  “You will get your ships.” The Developer fed instructions into a console, which the Pirate King could not read, even in holographic mode. “I want the Matthews Beta Site destroyed immediately.”

  “Why?”

  “To control of the only Gate to Andromeda. How many times must I explain our goals?”

  “Your goals.” The Pirate King sneered. “Do you have the location for this mysterious Beta site?”

  “Regrettably, not yet,” the Developer said.

  “I thought your agent at Deiro Yord had acquired that information.”

  “Lucky Star is working on the coordinates, but nothing yet.”

  “So, you want an attack fleet, but you have no target.”

  “Noah Matthews has sent his offspring to the Rim.” The Developer’s fingers drifted across his control console and three, half-sized holographic figures floated above his work station. “Two males and a female. Recognize them?”

  A similar projection appeared on the Pirate King’s starship. “Do not insult my intelligence.”

  “Find them. They will know where the second Gate is located. After I have destroyed the Beta Site, you may kill them.”

  “Now you tell me this?” The Pirate King checked his readouts. Nothing helpful. “Your timing is abysmal, little Chefe.”

  The Developer leaned back and smiled faintly. “Do what I say. Soon you will be wealthy beyond your fantasies.”

  The Pirate Kin
g caught a scent of poison in the ripe fruit dangling before him. “My people came to the stars as a Terran colony. The great corporations exploited us, then abandoned us. Now, I take what I want. You promise me an opportunity to be rich, like you. I promise death if you betray me.”

  The Developer smiled thinly. “That would not be profitable.”

  “No, it would not.”

  “Waste no time. The Matthews expedition has reached Sedaila-3.

  The Pirate King shook his fur-cloaked shoulders. “Hot, dry world. Bad place to die.”

  * * * *

  Tyler had done his homework on their first port of call. Sixty-one years ago, Matthews Interstellar Industries built Safe Harbor Starport along the southernmost tip of an eighty-kilometer-wide peninsula jutting from the semi-arid south coast of the planet’s lone landmass. Surrounded by a globe-spanning, shallow, high saline ocean, the hot, flat island continent quickly won the Terran nickname New Australia.

  M-double-I operated SHS as a combination free-trade district, parking lot, and hangar complex for visiting spacecraft. Because Sedalia offered the only repair facility within four thousand light years, Safe Harbor enjoyed open-port status. It was de facto neutral ground. Despite armed vessels from predatory nations and pirate syndicates prowling the neighborhood, no one had ever attacked the port city or fired a shot at an adversary inside the Sedalian system. Spacefaring civilizations needed its services, so they observed the neutrality of New Australia, which made Safe Harbor worthy of its name.

  Naturally, the off-base environs grew into a rough-and-tumble frontier settlement of about twenty thousand humans and aliens. Bayside bazars offered everything from locally grown foodstuffs to starship spare parts and exotic wares for personal recreation. Patrons chose among multi-species whorehouses, gambling dens, and watering holes, all surrounded by low-cost housing. Rumors had it a few slave traders and dealers in high-tech contraband satisfied shoppers with unsavory needs. Although the complex was officially called Safe Harbor, wise travelers never ventured into “the Village” unarmed. The town was only lightly policed by Matthews Interstellar Shore Patrols.

  Esteban insisted on questioning the local police about Julieta’s recent visit to Sedalia, so Rosalie offered to tag along for cultural support. At first, Tyler objected to his little sister wandering the Village, but J.B. and Esteban argued that dangers from prowling hooligans would be minimal in broad daylight. Besides, Esteban needed her. Tyler reluctantly agreed.

  Rosalie, A.K.A the Red Fox, spoke a bushel of human languages, so many Tyler wondered if she had sucked up all the linguistic skills in the gene pool. Beyond years of study and natural ability, Dad supplemented her gifts with bio-cognitive implants to access thousands of alien tongues.

  J.B. issued Rosalie and Cousin Esteban pocket-sized blast pistols from Suzie’s meager arms locker, and the two departed for Police Headquarters at the downtown wharf.

  Before disembarking, Tyler finally found Lulu snoozing on her jump seat. He started to check for Lucy prowling nearby, then remembered Rosalie had locked the cat in her quarters.

  “Behave yourself. Avoid Lucy. In fact, avoid all cats, rampaging bulls, and snake-eating dinosaurs. Lay low and live.”

  The snake woke up, opened an eye, and flashed the equivalent of a two-fang grin. Tyler briefly wondered if this pea-brained reptile knew what smiling meant to a human. He decided it was another bizarre coincidence, this one rather pleasant, in a week of oddities and mishaps.

  When he encountered his brother on Suzie’s exit ramp, Tyler noticed J.B. had brought his carrot-colored computer tote.

  “You know, cloning an orangutan is a felony on this planet.”

  J.B. frowned. “It’s a synthetic sack.”

  “It’s an orange monkey with a side pocket.”

  “Let it go, Ty.”

  Located at the place where desert met the sea, Safe Harbor had a climate like Phoenix, Arizona, but it smelled like fish stewing in a rusty pot. Finger-sized lizards scooted off the pavement as the Matthews brothers ambled past open hangars where the guts of junked spacecraft spilled across repair shop floors. One big shelter—a ribbed frame of red steel girders, shielded from the pounding sun and blowing sea winds by stretched reflective fabric—housed at least five small craft, disassembled for salvage.

  The Sioux City badly needed restoration, and Tyler appreciated any parts the work crews salvaged from disemboweled ships to restore Suzie’s battered systems. Even so, Tyler dreaded turning her over to the ghouls of SHS. He had acquired his little scout ship just before she suffered the same fate, but reluctantly signed the work order and headed off with J.B. to survey the ships available for their ride to the Rim.

  Whatever transport they acquired had to be fast enough to make the Rim in record time, with an internal boat dock large enough to house the Sioux City, which further limited their choices. Passing a queue of one-ship revetments where other small craft awaited their fate, Tyler felt a little better when he noticed a six-pack of Shore Patrol cutters lined up for routine maintenance. At least law and order had reached the frontier world. By the look of their silhouettes, the cutters packed good weaponry and probably had limited FTL capability.

  The yellow sun broiled the treeless, hardtop complex so mercilessly that J.B. and Tyler adjusted their clothing a few degrees cooler. Here and there, thickly armored little rodents scuttled from hole to hole as the Matthews brothers navigated the complex of shops and bays toward the spaceport manager’s place of business. The Shipyard Master’s lair was a two-level, half-moon building in a complex of structures along the border of salvage yard and active spaceport. Both floors received light through old-fashioned wood-frame windows, but Tyler noticed sophisticated energy collectors along the ribbed roof. Considering the blazing Sedalian sun and S-3’s perpetually cloudless sky, he doubted Safe Harbor faced many power shortages.

  The main floor delivered a shocking blast of cold air, yet the work space cubicles were empty and sparsely appointed, almost low-tech. Climbing a flight of open stairs, Tyler and J.B. located Harbor Master Zhao Ming’s lair on the second level. Up here, the chilly air became much warmer. Zhao worked at dark wood desk, slap-wheeling through holographic images projected by a thin desktop computer.

  Zhao was ethnic Chinese, graying and broad-shouldered, and when he stood, the Harbor Master towered over both Matthews brothers. In the corner behind his desk an artist’s easel displayed a half-completed watercolor, a river flowing past craggy, green cliffs. A memory of home in progress?

  After perfunctory introductions and identification checks, J.B. asked Zhao if he had received orders from Matthews Corporate HQ about their needs. The Yard Boss offered them a chair and buzzed his assistant to bring tea.

  “I have nothing,” Zhao said.

  “No orders from Terra?” J.B. said.

  “No starships to meet your requirements.”

  “Maybe not in the chop shops,” Tyler said. “What about your maintenance hangars on the flight line?”

  “Sorry, nothing.”

  J.B. leaned forward. “Master Zhao, you have been directed to supply a fast ship capable of long-range FTL for vital company business.”

  “Mr. Matthews, with greatest respect for your father, I cannot give you what I do not have, even if the orders come from HQ.” Zhao buzzed for tea again.

  “That’s not good enough,” Tyler said.

  “Young man, I am a Yard Boss, not a magician.”

  “You’re about to be an unemployed Yard Boss—”

  “Uh, Tyler, cool down,” J.B. said. “It’s too hot.”

  Tyler sat back. “Your witness.”

  J.B. tried again with Zhao. “Surely there is something, sir. This is a big spaceport.”

  “I am afraid not. There are a few alien cruisers parked in maintenance bays near the departure pads, but I have no intention of seizing starships owned by Parvians or Meklavites, unless you want to start a war to get fast transport to the Rim.”

  J.B. cocked his he
ad. “What do you want, Master Zhao?”

  “What do I want?” Zhao repeated thoughtfully. He gazed out the transparent wall at the cubicle warren below, then swung around to gesture at his easel in the corner. “I want to paint.”

  J.B. leaned forward. “Tell me more, sir.”

  “Look at my domain, Mr. Matthews. I am the seventy-four-year-old manager of a broken-down spaceport at the end of Gated space. My idea of a good weekend is when none of my employees die in the Village before the first shift reports on Monday. For ten years, I have tried to persuade your father to relieve my exile. So, please, fire me. Let me go home to China and create mediocre watercolors until I die.”

  “Help us get a ship, and we’ll sign your retirement papers,” J.B. said. “You can paint masterpieces with a hefty pension stuffed in your pocket.”

  Zhao touched his intercom. “Mrs. León, the tea!”

  He started to get up when his assistant rounded a corner from the landing with a tray of sweet biscuits and tea. Mrs. León was plump but not obese, a sun-browned woman in her early 40s. She sported a peaked, feathered cap like Robin Hood and a sleeveless lavender T-shirt, which showcased her thick upper arms. Centered on her heavy bosom, the Matthews Interstellar insignia rode on stretched fabric like an amateur surfer clinging for life on the rolling swells. Yet her dark eyes radiated kindness, a monumental achievement amid this junkyard of lifeless hulks and semi-lawless colonists.

  She placed the tray on Zhao’s empty desk and poured steaming, green tea into delicately painted ceramic cups. Asian style is so smart, Tyler thought. No handle. Tea drinkers can’t hold a scalding cup with bare hands, so it never burns the mouth.

  “May I leave now, Mr. Zhao?” Mrs. León poured the boss his midday tea.

  “Yes, of course. Kindly give Paco my regards. Tell him I hope things go well.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Zhao.” She turned to go, then stopped. “Forgive me for eavesdropping, but I heard you say these men needed a serviceable ship with long-range FTL. What about the smuggler?”