by Chris Turner
Yul gusted a satisfied breath. It had been a three-mile trudge through this treacherous terrain. Easy to get lost here without landmarks. Fortunately the lander came equipped with a built-in homing beacon. Yul had programmed it for all three of them, in the event they got lost or separated.
Hurd peered at the few bins of plants. His blue eyes narrowed in scepticism. “Mathias will want more samples than this.”
“We can’t risk being down here for too long,” Yul warned. “Albatross is crippled and I don’t like leaving her in the hands of Frue and Greer. Besides, Mathias was specific about the area. We got the plants he wanted—I think.”
Regers raised an angry hand. “If you’d listen to me, it’d be those two idiots, Frue and Greer, collecting odds and sods instead of us.”
Yul shook his head. “We argued enough about this, deciding who was going planetside. Let’s live with it.”
“Frue, the little baby, he whines like a—”
Yul cut Regers off. “If we need to, we’ll make a second trip down. For now, we’ve secured some plant life, so Mathias can’t squawk too loudly.” He pursed his lips, pondering Mathias’s cryptic words. There was much he wished he had asked the man earlier that he hadn’t. Like why come all the way out here for some plants? They could have brought scientists along to study the flora, eggheads more suited for collecting and codifying. He suspected Mathias had hired them more for their muscle than anything. Nevertheless...a nagging feeling tugged at Yul, one of those gut instincts that told him something was about to go strangely wrong.
The three slogged their way back to the lander. Hurd slipped twice, once almost into a fermenting, slimy pool, earning Regers’ laughter, but Yul only cursed out a warning. Regers was out of line. He was worried about any damage to the samples that had taken much effort to obtain. Stupid to come all this way and have nothing to show for it. Already Hurd’s ferns were drooping.
Wait, could they actually be moving? He shook his head, stared at them, then blinked. Only his imagination. Hurd’s jerky hops had the leaves quivering. Doubtless these plants experienced little to no change in their environment. Important that they survive until they get them back to Mathias’s cybernetics lab on Phallanor, the far side of Arcturus.
Regers remained smug over his initial discovery, strutting and hopping with his shorter stride. He removed himself from the task of carrying the bulky containers and clutched the sensor box in a loose grip. His eyes glazed as if he were stoned. The color in his face shone a waxy grey, beads of sweat dripping down his narrow cheeks. In sour silence, Yul and Hurd carried the samples, happy to be relieved of this chore as soon as possible. All over once they got back to the lander. He regretted that the electric cart that Mathias had supplied to transfer the samples was insufficiently designed to handle this soggy, rough terrain.
He paused and looked back. A new frown furrowed his brow. Strange that there wasn’t any larger animal presence here. The atmosphere was near poisonous, but the flora seemed rich enough. What lurked in the pools, he daren’t guess. One shimmered with a strange iridescence at his feet. He stooped to stir in the muck, using a twig from one of the sparse and stunted bushes.
The cloud-shimmering water showed a faint ripple on its oily surface, leaving Hurd blinking as he crouched to collect sediment and water samples. Bubbles came up slowly from below. The mud was soft and yielding. Hurd stoppered the glass containers and added it to his glass bin, staring with suspicion at another ripple.
At any rate, the ship’s computers could check for microbes in this soup or any form of microscopic life. In the lower gravity it was easier to bear such weights, though it was difficult to get used to the hopping gait necessary to keep balanced without falling flat on their faces. They adopted the proverbial ‘Moon Walk’. One energetic hop could send a person flying six feet in the air, as Regers had learned the hard way while trying to move too quickly, vaulting over a pool, nearly smashing his faceplate into a trunk of one of the cone-shaped trees.
Yul wished the numbskull had. It would have taken him out and one less shit for brains to worry about. This seemed a different Regers than the one he had met back at the space hub orbiting Phallanor.
As the grey octagonal form of the lander came in sight, Yul breathed a sigh. He’d been wondering if the beacon had gone awry. Hurd triggered the landing hatch and the grey ramp lowered like a drawbridge between two metallic legs. Yul gripped the 80kg sample bins and lifted them one by one with effortless ease to Hurd who’d scrambled up the ramp and was now dragging them into the holding bay. Yul shook off the heaviness in his prosthetic left arm.
The crew depressurized. The three stowed their gear in the side hatches and removed their helmets. Yul moved aft to start up the engines. The Vegas-U6 rumbled to life: a trim craft, cramped and cozy but it did the job.
Regers lingered behind to pop some capsules in his mouth. Maybe the man was in pain and need medication? Certainly wasn’t winning any friends. He adjusted his wine-coloured cloak and gave it a twirl. “We’re coming up, Frue,” he spoke into the com link with authority. “Got us some real feisty ones here. Plants and a tiger moth. Get the Albatross ready.” He croaked out a laugh.
The engines roared. They took their seats for the short journey to the fast running Alpha-explorer that was Albatross circling out in low orbit.
Yul did not laugh. An unpleasant feeling still spidered up his spine. He often did not have such feelings. Old doubts returned to plague him. How had Mathias phrased it? A unique task. You came up on our list ...a most suitable applicant. He recalled the phrase distinctly as he guided the U6 skyward.
What list? Yul had no answer. He tried to keep as low a profile as possible. Eccentric billionaires could afford to have their secrets. Mathias was no exception.
The dim rainbow hues of the Skull Nebula sprawled distant light years away. The sleek mother ship Albatross came into view, a long, silver-grey Alpha retrofit of an earlier model with twin thrusters and cargo bays at stern and flared rear lander pads at midship. Frue, the pilot guided them in.
Greer, the ship’s engineer, greeted the three at the hatch with an affable grin. He was a short, sallow-faced man, with salt-and-pepper hair, expert with ship’s functions. “Any luck?”
“We secured water and soil samples and some plants,” said Yul. “We didn’t hang back too long though. Oxygen levels were getting low. For whatever reasons, not sure. Maybe Regers’s been sucking on the tubes again. Night was coming on, and the barren planet didn’t look that promising. I could skip the sightseeing.”
“As long as we got the merchandise,” acknowledged Greer. “Now we just have to get the Albatross fixed up.”
“Any luck with our technical problem?”
“None.”
Yul loosed a heavy breath. He shook his head with annoyance. “What good is gathering all these samples, if we can’t get Albatross out of here? The hyperthrust is not optional.”
Greer chewed on his lip.
No sooner had they dragged the bins down the ramp to the main level than the safety lights blinked green and they were hauling the samples to the midship’s bay adjoining the bridge. Yul’s back muscles rippled as he manhandled the heavy weight of the primary bin on his left shoulder, partially reconstructed after the surgery. Loose-limbed and square-jawed, he ran his keen eyes over the specimens. Regers, as usual, made no effort to assist. Hurd, the tallest of the three, took the lighter bin while Greer trailed behind with the key equipment: cutting tools, drills, monitoring devices and sterilized tubes. They decided, after a brief conference, to move the samples to the bridge to watch over them, considering they were their bread and butter. Greer and Yul busied themselves setting up the rectangular tanks at a place off to the side. Mathias had thoughtfully supplied air-tight glass containers for the samples, with three inch tempered glass to withstand any contagion or assaults from within. Greer, anticipating the arrival of samples, had already readied the compressor to pump the planet’s air from the sample cani
sters into the display cases. An upturned water bottle on the upper glass panel was rigged with nozzle and gauge to drip-irrigate the soil.
Yul tested the drip to ensure it was working. He set down his drill and donned protective gloves and mask to transplant the ferns. Hurd took the remaining water to the ship’s lab for analysis.
The animal container remained empty.
Yul and Greer dumped the extra soil into the plant receptacle. Then each dug out some holes in the soil to admit the roots. Yul lowered the plants in and tamped the earth around the stems with his gloves. Pouring some of the water sample overtop for good measure, he gave a grunt of satisfaction. The moth he put in last, watching it flutter about the drooping plants with an effort of will, only to fall crawling on the soil and settle on a broad, splayed leaf of a pod. The insect did not seem happy. Yul sealed the circular opening at the top while Greer pumped in the rest of the oxygen.
Yul took off his mask and his eyes teared up as if a batch of raw onions had just been cut. He caught a whiff of an exotic odour hovering in the air with a blend of burning peat and wet dog. All that from the brief moments the plants were in contact with the cabin air?
Stepping back to examine his handiwork, Yul witnessed a depressing scene. The leaves had wilted. They lay supine on the yellowish soil, as if dead.
“Doesn’t look too good, does it flowerboy?” Regers said with a chuckle.
Yul pursed his lip and had to agree. Even after they had taken pains to transplant them, they looked unlikely to maintain their upright posture. The artificial ship’s gravity was likely the cause. Too high. The moth seemed unaffected.
“Well, live or die, I christen you Kektus—and Greywing.”
The moth, almost in answer, stuck in proboscis and sucked instinctively on one of the yellow pods.
The others flashed Yul blank stares.
“Kektus... cactus? You know, Greywing, as in butterfly,” explained Yul.
Regers shook his head and turned away.
“Want me to lower the artificial grav index for the plants?” Frue asked, coddling a grin. “Stinks to high heaven in here. Might help the plants out. They’re looking pretty sad. They’re our main cash cows.”
Yul inclined his head. “Look.”
The leaves had started to perk up. Small, buttress-like legs had formed at the base of every stalk to tilt the plants up to a 30 degree angle.
“Well, what do you know,” Frue gasped, scratching at his carroty-red hair. He pointed in boyish surprise.
Yul’s brows rose. “They’re adjusting to the higher gravity, Frue. Even the moth’s wings seem stronger. Look at it hovering over that leaf.”
Regers ripped open one of the sustenance packs at the service counter and smoothed back his ugly mullet. He punched some buttons on a microwave to the side to heat it, only idly paying attention to the samples. Yul took a tentative pack of his own. He grimaced at the sawdust taste of carbonated mash all too familiar after this two-week-long journey. Mathias, for all his millions, had certainly cheaped out on food.
Hurd returned while Greer was cutting some of the plexiglas to make extra holders to house the pods. Entranced with the sight of the alien life, he accidentally cut his finger and emitted a loud groan.
Regers sucked on his thumb to mimic Greer’s pain.
Greer loosed a curse. “Why don’t you take off your ridiculous cape, Regers, and do some work around here? Or are you going to mock everybody? Who do you think you are, Captain Wunderbar?”
“Watch your mouth, Greer. Or you might find you’re wearing it next to your ass.”
Yul ignored the banter. Five men cooped up in a rabbit hutch too long was a recipe for disaster. Men of dubious compatibility and capabilities. Mercenaries who had been rounded up by Mathias at the last minute. Cabin fever, a spaceman’s worst enemy, could be their demise... and yet it had set in early. Yul didn’t know much about these men’s backgrounds, but he divined by certain hints that at least Regers and Hurd were ex-cons.
“One of us has to go out there and fix that rear ion-gun projection stabilizer,” he remarked. “The diagnostics’ function is blown out, likely when we had that incident with the Mentera.”
“Thanks to Frue here,” grumbled Regers.
“What the hell were the locust-aliens doing out here anyway? Sure,” Frue said, “our hyperdrive’s screwed now. Worse yet, if we fix it, it could flake out on us in the middle of a jump to light speed.”
“I’m not going out there,” Hurd warned. “I did enough on Xeses, that freak planet. Get Greer or Frue to do some dirty work. Not so hard to sit in a pilot’s chair, watching pretty pictures flash up on the screen.”
“And who’s been flying Albatross all this time?” snapped Frue. “Who’s been evading marauders?”
“We’re beyond the pale. It’s to be expected,” said Yul.
“All’s I know,” Regers said, “we’ve been up here for three days. On half impulse power. It’ll take us two hundred years to make it back to the nearest hub at Fevenar with the weak impulse drive and I don’t plan on playing circlejerk with you yobos.”
“As I said, get Greer to do it,” grunted Hurd. “He just stayed back and twiddled his thumbs watching the lander take off.”
“Screw you, Hurd!” cried Greer. “Don’t think for a second—”
“Do it.” Yul waved his cutting tool at Greer. “Either you or Hurd. We need Frue to watch the ship, and Regers’s obviously too much of a princess to do anything.”
“I don’t see you volunteering,” said Greer, baring a set of yellow-stained teeth.
“No, I’m not. Nor were you volunteering to go down to Xeses.”
Greer grumbled but made no efforts to squabble further. Perhaps he realized that to take on Yul was not in his best interests.
“We’re getting no read from the diagnostic,” Greer muttered. “I’m assuming the sensor is blown, as you said. I’ve rigged up something makeshift in the meantime.”
“Good,” said Yul. “A step forward at least, Greer.”
“Yes, goody for you,” jeered Regers. “Do something useful for a change.”
“How ’bout instead of whining like a silly bitch, you get out here and help?” Greer snatched up a length of air hose. “Rather than criticizing everyone who doesn’t live up to your exalted—”
Regers leaped over and gave Greer a vicious shove that sent his head smacking into the glass housing the plants. Yul cursed and moved in like a viper to hold the seething Regers back from pounding fists into Greer. “Easy, Regers! Don’t be an ass.”
“Shut the fuck up. Get your mitts off me, Yul, or I’ll rip them off. Wasn’t Greer who got his hands dirty down there.”
Regers’ vulture-like face, greasy hair with receding hairline, and thick-soled black boots were a sorry sight. Even then he only stood nose to nose with Yul, who was at best 5’10”. Regers’ wine-coloured cloak flared as Yul wrapped it around his neck and pulled. Regers rasped out monosyllables. He thrashed as he struggled in Yul’s mechanized grip, wincing as the iron fingers dug deeper into his arms and caused him to flinch. Regers struggled harder but Yul only held him tight. Faces inches apart, it was at that moment that Yul figured out what was the matter with Regers. Those pills. The chalky grey face, shaky hands, the sweat pouring down his brow and neck. He was jacked up on something. Addicted to some drug.
Greer picked himself up, wiped his bleeding scalp and growled threats. He looked ready to brain Regers with the end of a pipe wrench, but contained his fury. He took up his repair kit and the makeshift diagnostic sensor and mumbling curses, marched down the companionway.
Yul loosed his grip on Regers and shoved him out of the way. “Stay back and don’t do anything stupid.” Damn Mathias for not naming a leader amongst them. He had just pooled them all together like yard dogs and told them to work together and get the job done. A mistake. He caught up to Greer and helped him suit up in the midship’s utility hatch. “Forget Regers, he’s high.”
�
�No kidding. I doubt my going out there’ll help,” Greer said, holding up the replacement part, “but I’m game and I’m beyond solutions at this point.”
“Attaboy, Greer!” Regers sneered from down the hall. He smacked his lips after chewing the last of his synthetic, microwaved mutton.
Greer ignored the remark. He checked his magnetic boots, adjusted a few gauges on his suit. He stepped into the pressure hatch then Yul closed the gate, watching him through the glass. The outer hatch opened and Greer was exposed to space.
Taking decisive steps, Greer unravelled the umbilical cord from the command post at the hatch and plugged it into the life support system at his side. The cord, shielded with hypertensile alloys, served as an auxiliary air feed and fluid feed, a backup should his own systems fail.
Yul watched him through the port, as Greer’s magnetic heels clanked on the hull’s smooth surface and allowed him to walk safely. It gave Yul chills to watch Greer space-walking despite the safety mechanisms in place. A number of things could go wrong. Happened all the time when technicians went to repair malfunctioning systems outside the safety of the hull.
It seemed Greer was making some progress. He could hear the dull clunk on the ship’s outer shell. Greer squatted down to unscrew the housing and began removing the palm-sized sensor from the projection gun jutting out from near the rear fin.
“Plate is ripped clean off,” Greer reported. “Mentera fire, I’m assuming. The light-drive sensor is shredded. Small wonder. The projection cap looks clean. We could be lucky.”
“Let’s hope so,” muttered Yul.
He watched as Greer unscrewed the capsule. From what he understood, the projection was a robust piece of hardware and could handle a lot of shock, but any skew to its central core could incapacitate the light drive. The projection beam scanned the physical makeup of the ship and created a physical ‘disruptor’ that moved the ship’s metallic mass to the frequency domain, then propelled it through the light highways. Even that layman’s language did nothing to capture the atomic physics powering the light drive.