Flight of the Magnus

by L S Roebuck

  “A possibility yes, but why should we blindly follow commands from some mythical figure a light year away, when we could survive,” Romero replied, his voice trembling slightly. His eyes followed Ryder’s attractive form as she rounded the command center platform.

  “No, we must start the chasm here, now. There is no mistake. We threaten everything we have worked for now if we lose our resolve because we are worried for our own individual lives. It’s time to end Cortes, for the greater good.”

  “Forget it!” Romero said, finding a little courage in his ripped gut. Physically, he was nearly 20 centimeters taller than Ryder and though both were in top athletic shape, Romero had a wiry strength Ryder would never possess.

  “You can’t destroy Cortes without me. I’m the only one with the access codes. No one else can set the antimatter reactors to overload except me.”

  “You have a point, Falcon One,” Ryder addressed Romero by his code name as she turned her back to him and considered the armed troops. Why isn’t he here yet, she thought, as she continued to stall. “Let’s put it to a vote. All those in favor of stopping now, right at the finish line, signify by saying—”

  Ryder felt a metallic tube end pressed into her back. Probably a stun gun; but maybe even the more lethal weapons that used bullets for ammunition. She raised her arms slowly in the air and delicately turned around to face Romero.

  “We don’t vote,” Romero said. “This isn’t a democracy. I am in charge here, and I have half a mind to airlock you for treason.”

  A deep, accusing voice came from the door. “The only one committing treason here is you, Romero.” Finally, Ryder thought.

  The blood drained from Romero’s face. Igland the Hawk had come to the command center to do his job: assure that the will of the Chairman was followed without question or regard for any other concern. Igland didn’t appear armed, but Romero knew not to underestimate the old man. He approached Romero from across the room with haste and confidence.

  “I’m glad we are all going to die,” Igland said as he closed the distance between him and Romero. “I would hate for the Chairman to know about my failure in recommending such a limp man to lead us. Time for me to rectify my error.”

  “Igland! Stop this madness before it is too late. Captain Milo, order your men to shoot Igland, now! Shoot him.”

  Instead, the captain waved off his troops. “We choose to die like good soldiers. For Chasm! For Arara!” The troops cheered along with their commanding officer.

  Igland was nearly to a full sprint and would be on top of Romero in seconds. “Death comes for us all, Franco. Looks like it comes for you first.”

  Panicked, Romero aimed the gun away from Ryder and pointed it at the Hawk. The instant the weapon was not pointed at Ryder, the she-spy struck out and snatched it from Romero’s hand.

  Nearly as quickly, Igland had grabbed Romero’s now empty outstretched arm, and with an impressive display of strength, had flipped Falcon One over and pinned him leaning into the primary command control panel. Romero tried to use his free arm to give him some leverage, but Igland had rendered Romero immobile.

  “Let me go!” Romero whined. Many of the troops laughed, but the officers seemed nervous and unsure what to do.

  “I have a better idea, Franco,” Igland replied. “You shut down the coolant lines to the antimatter reactor. Put the code in now, and you can have an extra half hour to live. Otherwise, I’m going to break your neck now.”

  “No! I don’t want to die. I didn’t sign up for this,” shouted an officer named Apta. The tall woman with short brown hair was in charge of supply logistics for Chasm. “Don’t give them the code, Falcon One! Igland, let him go or I’ll shoot.”

  Apta had pulled a small holdout pistol from her pants pocket and pointed it at Igland. Several of the troops looked to Captain Milo, as if to ask if they should intervene.

  Before he could respond, a shot rang out, and Apta fell to the floor, bleeding out from the abdomen. Holding out the smoking gun that she had just swiped from Franco, Ryder looked pleased at her lethal handiwork.

  “You’re next if you don’t input the destruct code,” Ryder pointed the gun at Falcon One’s head. “Three — two — “

  “Okay, okay,” Franco said, desperately trying to figure a way out of his certain demise. His only chance now was to input the destruct codes, and then hopefully find a way to free himself from this Hawk, then to countermand his own order before the half hour or so it would take for the antimatter core to go critical. I just need to keep a cool head, Franco thought. I can figure this out.

  “Cortes command, prepare to received override. Delta-Two-Charlie-Five-Tango-Tango,” Franco spoke audio commands to the central computer’s Virtual Intelligence, or VI.

  The computer spoke back. “Please present exposed skin for DNA verification.” Igland forced Falcon One’s bare hand onto the DNA scanner, which began to illuminate the subdued man’s digits. “Verification accepted, Commander Romero.”

  Ryder pressed the gun forcefully into Franco’s head. “Give the command.”

  “Cortes Command, override the safeties on the antimatter coolant system and shut it down.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” the computer said in a pleasant voice.

  Franco paused, and considered the gun jammed into his forehead. If he didn’t say yes, he knew he would be dead within seconds. Ryder wouldn’t bluff on this, Franco reasoned.

  “Yes. I’m sure,” Franco said.

  “Commencing shut down. Warning: If the coolant flow is not restored, catastrophic reactor overload could damage this waypoint,” the VI warned.

  “Excellent,” commented Igland.

  “I’ve done what you wanted,” Franco said, dejected. He knew his time to countermand the lethal order was short. “Now let me go, so I can die in peace.”

  “Die you shall,” Ryder said as she emptied a few rounds into Franco. As the ex-commander of Cortes chasm expired, the last words he heard was the sultry spy whisper, “Your reign on Cortes was already too long.”

  Arvin pushed a large freight cart piled with rations and other supplies, as much as could be carried. The cart levitated above the textured steel corridor floor by using the reverse of the artificial gravity technology on Cortes. Squatting on top of the cart with her sniper rifle at the ready was his sister Olana. She clutched with one arm the newly orphaned Nora. Nora pulled forcefully at Olana’s ponytail, and the woman winced slightly.

  They were close to the docks now. Olana had hoped her boyfriend Tomas was able to procure the last functioning Valkyrie on Cortes, the C.S.S. Ironman. The Ironman was military grade, equipped with explosive torpedoes and large vacuum-capable chain guns. The main hanger and most of the ships in it had been decimated in the skirmishes when the Chasm counter-insurgency began.

  The cart rounded the corner, 100 meters from the primary entrance to the dock. Two Chasm troops were sitting at a checkpoint, charged with securing the critical facility, but instead playing a game of chance to pass the time.

  Olana pulled her trigger of her silenced sniper rifle once, and one of the guards slumped over in his chair, his head splashing into a pile of credit chips and playing cards.

  “Hey!” the other guard said. “What’s the big idea?”

  Then she saw the blood leaking from a hole in his head. “Holy sh--”

  Her profanity was interrupted by a second shot from Olana, and the second guard fell backward over her chair.

  Arvin never could get over his sister’s bloodlust when it came to dispatching Chasm operatives. They did try to specifically ruin her life when she was trying to expose the undercover operation in her former life as a journalist. Still, Olana wasn’t normally a vengeful person. Now Chasm was trying to ruin everyone’s life, thought Arvin. What if she is wrong about them trying to destroy the waypoint?

  As if on cue, the station wide automated alert system came on. The VI that made the ship’s announcements spoke with programmed urgency. �
��Alert! Attention Cortes residents. I have detected a critical heat buildup in the antimatter reactor. Estimated 15 minutes until catastrophic failure of all reactor safety systems.”

  Olana hopped off the cart and looked to Arvin, worried. She took Nora into her arms and slid one of the dead guards off of the control desk so she could access the controls that would allow them into the hanger. “I didn’t think we’d have this little time.”

  The cool blue metallic doors that connected the hanger to the rest of the station slid open with a slight grind, and Arvin immediately pushed the supply laden cart in as soon as there was enough clearance. “Come on, Olana!”

  Olana looked back down the corridor they just traveled and muttered to herself. “Where is he? Come on, Tomas.”

  Olana’s personal communicator, sewn into her glossy black sleeve, crackled to life.

  “Olana!” a deep voice rolled from communicator.

  “Tomas,” Olana said, as she entered the hanger, and surveyed the several hundred yards of twisted steel, burn out corvettes and other miscellaneous waypoint rubble. Her eyes fell on the Ironman, a red Valkyrie-class runabout, and she knew that was their only chance of survival, however slim. She spoke into her sleeve. “Did you make it to hangar control? Can you get the space doors open?”

  “Yes, love,” Thomas replied. “Listen carefully. I am going to force the space doors open, but I have to do it from here. As soon as I do, the safety protocols will seal off the rest of hangar and the atmosphere will vent, so I won’t open the doors until you are on the ship.”

  “Wait! How will you —”

  “Don’t worry, I know you can’t pilot the thing, so I have a vac suit I’ll put on and walk out to you. Just be sure to let me into the airlock when I knock. The vac suit here doesn’t have a helmet radio.”

  “Okay, Arvin is loading the supplies now, and I’m getting on board,” Olana said as she sprinted as fast as should could toward the Ironman carrying Nora with one arm. Nora didn’t like the sudden motion and responded with a sharp wail.

  “What’s that?” Thomas asked.

  “We’ve had a baby, obviously,” Olana smiled in the face of impending destruction.

  Three minutes later, Olana was on the bridge of the Ironman. Arvin was talking to his infopad, reading instructions of pre-flight preparation on a Valkyrie class ship.

  “Are you sure you have to bring up main engine power before life support?” Arvin said, frustration in his voice.

  His infopad VI, Max, spoke back in equally frustrated tones, “Of course I’m sure, Master Arvin. I have access to the primary user database—”

  “Alright, Max, alright,” Arvin said, then turned to his sister. “Where’s Tomas?”

  “He has to open the space doors from the control tower,” she replied.

  “How is he going to get here once the doors are open, and we are floating in a vacuum?”

  “Vac suit.”

  “Oh...” Arvin said. “I think we’re ready to go. We’re out of time. Let me take her to the back and see if I can find a place to secure her.” Arvin took the baby girl from her sister and exited off the bridge down the main corridor toward the crew quarters in the back of the small ship.

  Suddenly, a loud whoosh sound reverberated throughout the Ironman, and then eerie silence. Olana looked out the portal and saw the atmosphere sucked into space, along with a lot of metallic flotsam and jetsam.

  The waypoint AI came on over the Ironman shipwide comm, issuing another warning. “Alert. Five minutes until reactor meltdown.”

  “Come on Tomas,” Olana muttered as she dropped through the main hatch into the lower deck, where Arvin had loaded the supplies and where she could open the airlock for her boyfriend.

  She had waited just a minute at the airlock controls when she heard a pounding on the exterior hull. “Tomas!” Olana punched open the airlock’s exterior door, and peered through the interior door’s small viewport to see a bulky suit walk in. Just in the nick of time, Olana thought.

  Another minute later, the airlock had pressurized, and Olana opened the interior door.

  The vac suit walked forward. “Let me help get you out. You have to fly us out of here,” Olana said as she furiously worked to take Thomas out of the airtight suit. She pulled off the arms and gasped. These were not the strong arms of her beloved, they were delicate female arms.

  “Come on, help me out!” a woman’s voice came from the suit. “We’re running out of time.”

  Olana, somewhat shocked, complied. “Where’s Tomas?” she said as she freed the woman completely from the suit. The woman had dark hair, dark eyes and blood red lip stick.

  “Where’s Thomas? He has to pilot this ship!?” Olana was frantic.

  “No worries, I am a pilot,” Ryder said as she strode toward the hatch to the main deck.

  Olana was dumbfounded. She looked to the airlock, and back to Ryder. “Where’s Tomas!?” she yelled.

  “Tell me, do you believe in God?” Ryder said as she gracefully climbed the ladder up. She stopped halfway and considered Olana, who appeared to be following her up.

  “Yes. Now tell me, where’s Tomas!”

  Ryder pulled up her tight dress slightly, revealing a holstered weapon. She drew the small pistol, and pointed it at Olana.

  “Arvin! Help!” Olana shouted.

  “Ask God where Tomas is. Heaven? Hell? How would I know?” Ryder shot Olana several times in the legs, and the journalist-turned-freedom fighter fell on the floor, crying out in pain.

  Ryder turned and proceeded up the hatch. When she emerged from the top, she found who she assumed was Arvin.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am your only hope of survival, unless you know how to pilot this ship,” Ryder said as she moved to pilot’s seat on the minimalist-designed bridge.

  She pointed her gun at Arvin and indicated the navigator’s chair. “Sit down, it’s going to be bumpy.” Arvin complied.

  “Where’s Olana?”

  “The woman? I put a few holes in her.” Ryder had activated the Ironman’s thrusters and began to pilot the ship toward the open space doors.

  “You shot my sister? Is she dead!?!”

  “Was that your sister?” Ryder said, matter-of-factly, glancing in the direction of the hatch. “My apologies.” Ryder was careful to dodge the debris that had been sucked out of the Cortes hangar when the space doors opened. “If she dies, we will live at least 30 percent longer than if she lives and eats her share of rations.”

  Ryder looked at Arvin as her fingers instinctively danced over the Ironman’s controls. He wasn’t much to look at, she mused as she accelerated the ship to put distance between the Ironman and Cortes.

  A bright flash attracted Arvin’s eyes to the starboard viewport.

  A shockwave rippled through Waypoint Cortes, buckling the five-kilometer long saucer until its bulkheads could no longer take the strain. Arvin saw the station rip into several dozen jagged pieces, spewing atmospheric gasses, boxes, furniture, equipment, aluminum wall fragments and people into the cold silence of space.

  Flashes of fires, quickly consumed by vacuums could be seen twinkling though out the floating fragments. Then suddenly, the new field of space junk that was once a proud waypoint was dark, save for a few emergency lights blinking.

  Tears poured out of Arvin’s eyes. He looked at Ryder in rage and stood up to strike her.

  “Go ahead, kill me, Arvin,” Ryder said. “Yes, I know who you are. I am — I was, rather, the Chasm spymaster. But I figure we have a five percent chance of meeting someone heading this way from Magellan … if you have someone who knows how to pilot this ship.”

  Arvin eyed Ryder’s pistol. The woman’s hand absentminded twitched near the trigger. “I need to go help my sister.”

  “My dear,” Ryder looked on the boy with sincere compassion. “Let her die. With three, the supplies would go too quickly.”

  “There is a baby in the back, orphaned by Chasm,” Arvin sai
d with spite, backing toward the hatch. “Do you want her gone too?”

  “Babies don’t eat that much,” Ryder said. “Lucky kid. Everyone else is dead.”

  “So, I eat. A lot,” Arvin said, defiantly, almost over the hatch now. “Why don’t you kill me, too?”

  “If you were dead, it would increase my chance of intercepting a rescue ship a few percentage points,” Ryder said, pondering. “I can’t go back to Arara. Wouldn’t make it anyway. Even if we did, Chasm would kill me for my cowardice. So, Magellan it is. And it’s a half light year to Magellan. Too far before I’d run out of supplies. I can’t kill you. Not worth it.”

  “I don’t understand. Why not?”

  “I don’t want to die alone. Now go help your sister.”

  Arvin did.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Waypoint Magellan, November 11, 2603, Earth date, 13 months after the Battle of Magellan.

  Waypoint Magellan was broken and desperate. Though victorious, Magellan proved the axiom that nobody wins a war.

  Scars remained. The topside gardens, once a glorious, open breadbasket of fresh vegetation, was now withered, fragmented with debris. The lush orchards and tall green fields were no longer viable. Sealed cracks in the stellar dome daily reminded the farmers when the Chasm enemy rammed a spacecraft into the plexiglass exterior. Cubic meters of precious atmosphere and one of the most valuable and rare substances – soil – were sucked into the great void before the hemorrhaging could be stopped. Now, the people of Magellan could count on only a fraction of the food once grown here.

  Fortunately, Magellan was designed to synthesize most of the food needed from raw elements. But this required enormous amounts of power, and Magellan’s antimatter reactors, also victims of a kamikaze attack, were operating at a third of their former capacity. Like food, power was rationed, as Magellan’s engineers did not have the parts to fix the destroyed cells, nor the materials from which to manufacture the parts.

  Water purification, air scrubbers, climate control all required more energy than could now be produced, and to many the interstellar paradise that was Magellan had turned into a living hell.