His mind drifted and he didn’t strain to remember anything. He thought of the girl, Jaylen. How he missed her. How she felt in his arms. He wished he could go to sleep and dream of her just once more but his time was over. So he remembered her. Dream memories, but they were his. The first time they met he’d been so nervous he couldn’t think of what to say.
She’d rambled on about jump time calculations and dampeners warming up. Fed frigates with escape pods launching. The ramblings of an engineer. His beautiful engineer. And then an image popped into his mind. It was a memory from before. Not the ship memories with Jaylen, but something else. The picture in his mind was a merchant ship, cut in half by an ion cannon from a BG Destroyer, tiny escape pods spilling out of the broken ship. Where was he then? Who was he then? He didn’t know. Tiny pods making a bee-line for a Fed space station, trying to evade the smaller fixed cannons from the shiny black Destroyer.
Jaylen’s voice again: “…rudimentary flight controls.”
Computer, does the Mark 7 have flight controls?
Guidance controls are available to assist in final approach to coupler module.
Will the controls work for atmospheric flight?
No data.
A little wave of hope came over him but he fought it. There was no way to land the thing. But then another Jaylen memory came. It was late and she had crawled up into a vent shaft to replace logic chips on the lower deck breathers. She looked down at him and smiled.
“Come on up,” she said. “Come on. Are you afraid? Don’t fail me now, Captain. I need you.”
Could he flatten out the pod’s trajectory? Maybe crash land the thing? Not into a city, or a forest. But at least there was a chance. That was it. Try to make a turn before hitting the floor. Flatten it out and slide to a stop.
Computer, what is New Racellian for “access flight controls”?
“Jibun nabi Kudan.”
The man issued the order and nothing happened. Meanwhile the pod was as hot as ever and the shaking even worse. He figured impact was imminent and started to kick the padding again. Then he looked up into the cone and there it was: a single stick flight controller. He unstrapped himself and suddenly was tossed from side to side. Slowly he made his way up and could just see out the porthole. His heart leapt and his desire to live was suddenly stronger than ever because he could see the most beautiful thing he’d seen in a long time: blue sky.
He reached for the stick and pulled back and suddenly his body was pressed to one side, his face flat against the porthole. The G-forces of the turn nearly blacked him out but he held on to the stick, fighting to level out the pod. He stayed pinned to the side, his whole body pressed into the padding. He felt the ship flatten out so he eased back on the stick and the G-forces gluing him to the pads lessened so that he could move his body, turn his head. He could see orange earth below him. The tiny ship was in a slow spin.
He saw blue sky again, then orange earth, then blue sky. With each turn the tiny details of earth grew more defined, suddenly he could make out rivers: organic lines reaching out, curving gracefully then fading. Off to his right, high, ragged hills leading into a chain of mountains.
The ground beneath the ship was flat, but the sink rate was going to kill him. The ship was dropping too fast, even though it was level.
Computer, how can I engage the inertial dampeners on the Mark 7 without a coupler?
There are no overrides in the Mark 7 to engage the inertial dampeners.
The captain used the stick to stop the spin and position the porthole down so he could take a guess at altitude loss.
How can I engage the forward thrusters?
Manual control of forward thrusters on the Mark 7 in port nav screen, bottom right.
He touched the bottom right of the screen, the rivers now wide and blue, the small hills now large, jagged mountains. The thruster array popped up on screen and he aimed the forward jets down at a 45 degree angle and tapped the the red button that he guessed meant engage.
A split second passed as he stared down to the earth below him, not orange anymore, but brown sand racing past. One large mountain moved slowly out of view, while the ground rushed up to break his little ship into a million tiny pieces.
He heard the forward thrusters, mounted on gimbles, realigning. He braced for impact, thought he saw some kind of large animal slowly making its way across the sand. He closed his eyes and prepared for the worst.
His head slammed into the padding and he thought it was over but it was just the engines firing. He was pressed into the ship’s inner padding again, wondering if he was going to be crushed by the force. All he could see was earth racing past, but the thrusters had done their job and the little ship had leveled out and was moving roughly parallel ten meters from the surface.
For a moment he saw nothing but darkness underneath him as the ship crossed over a ravine, but then orange again. The nose of the pod touched the earth and he heard nothing but a horrible grinding noise. The stabilizers sheared off with an earsplitting BANG, BANG that reverberated through the ship. The little tube skidded across the ground at high speed and with it a burning metal smell. Was the fuel cell going to heat up and blow?
The ship finally began to slow. But then the tube started rolling, which was worse than any amount of bumping he’d endured. He was too close to die. And then he blacked out.
Duval
The planet Duval, eastern edge of the Soldown Flats.
The captain crawled out of the open hatch and fell onto the hot sand. He landed on his shoulder and cried out in pain, his body battered and sore. Was anything broken? He felt his arms and legs and decided he was okay. He tried to spit the gritty sand out of his mouth but he had no saliva. He wanted water. His eyes were closed tight but the blinding orange light still found its way in and cranked up his throbbing headache.
He reached for the pod to steady himself, tried to stand, and a sharp pain jolted his penis. He yelled again. The catheter. He pulled the tube out from the machine end, fell down and put his head in a sliver of shade where the tiny ship rested on the sand. It hurt to move so he lay still.
He tried to stand again when the sun was lower in the sky. How much time had passed? He opened his eyes just a crack: orange sand and big blue sky. The pod was long, white, and torn in two: the tail end rested on the crest of a dune almost out of sight. The cone end, his end, had wires and conduit and some kind of fluid spilling out like a fish cut in half. The outside was dented and pock marked. Amazing so fragile a thing carried him so far and yet he still was breathing. Standing.
He scanned the area. Sand and more sand. One of the pod’s tail fins was sticking up from the ground some ways off.
His mouth was dry and his tongue was like a piece of old leather. He stared into what remained of his tiny ship, torn squares of padding and sharp metal edges, sand blowing in and pooling on the bottom. Maybe there was a small water tank that he couldn’t have seen before. But there was nothing except wires and padding and some blue fluid that he put to his lips even though he knew better.
……
The Federation recon ship Valhalla II was recently assigned to the outer rim areas to monitor pirate activity. Captain Barthelme, who’d opposed unification, and lost, ended up out in the deep edge of space, far enough away so that he couldn’t do any damage in the core worlds, and close enough to the outer edge that any unfortunate pirate encounters would be considered acceptable loss by the new powers.
“Captain Barthelme, we’ve got a bogey heading straight for Duval. They don’t respond to my hail.”
“What is it?”
“Well, sir, that’s the thing. There were no matches.”
“Tie in the old databases, pre-BG war.”
“Sir, the new database goes back 100 years.”
Barthelme just stared at the fresh-faced boy named Cooper. They’ve sent me to the edge with a band of morons, he thought.
“I’ll have to run down to the archive and fish it out.”
The captain nodded okay. Meanwhile the tiny dot on screen hadn’t made a course correction and hadn’t slowed. It was going atmo any second.
Soon Cooper returned and loaded the old data. “Captain, you’re not gonna believe this. It’s a New Racellian Mark 7 escape pod. That’s an old pod. Shouldn’t there be a larger vessel nearby this thing launched from?”
“Not necessarily. The Racellian pods could go long range. They were made long ago for frigates hauling gold and titanium in deep space, before alacyte was discovered.”
“Sir, are we gonna take it out?” They watched as the little ship went atmo. “Sir, Federation guidelines state that any unauthorized entry into Fed space shall be eradicated.”
“Take your Fed rulebook and stick it where the sun don’t shine, Cooper. Hold course and keep your mouth shut or I’ll have you down in level four scraping space dust off the manifold injectors.”
The ensign shrunk down and started fiddling with his display.
“Any life forms on the scan?” said the captain.
“One human, sir.”
“Weapons?”
“Not that I can see sir. The pod has lost life support and the fuel cell is about dead.”
“Hmmm… she’s come a long way.” The captain rubbed his chin with his good hand, the other, a mechanical alacyte tri-grip, held the arm rest of the captain’s chair.
“Computer, at present course, where will the Mark 7 touchdown.”
“The Mark 7 is headed straight for the Soldown Flats, sir.”
“Powell,” he said to his pilot, “take us down to the Flats. If this little bird appears hostile we’ll take her there.”
“Aye, sir.”
……
The captain stood on the solid earth, swaying like a drunk. It was all he could do to stand. Three marines came in a rush, a blur of blue metal and big black energy rifles. Safeties off. He took a few deep breaths, closed his eyes and tried not to fall. The heat rose up from the ground, beads of sweat running down his legs.
“Why didn’t you respond to our hail?” said the first marine. His voice amplified by a full face-shield helmet.
The captain said no communications but instead of words, a dry, hoarse moan came out. He took a shaky, baby-step forward and the marines raised their weapons.
“What is your name?”
That was a stumper. The captain looked up into the blinding light, the blue sky, and the recon boat hovering over them thirty meters or so back. The ship had a rounded snout and short wings on either side. It was a long range patrol boat designed mainly for reconnaissance missions, but he could see the lines of the cowling that hid the rail guns. He knew they could open in a second and wreak havoc.
“What is your name?”
The captain started to wobble again. Darkness closed in on the edges of his vision and he willed himself to stay upright.
“On your knees!” said the first marine.
He lost balance, fell forward with his hands out for support. There was a flash of blue and suddenly his vision went white and his head began to throb with sharp waves of pain. Blood dripped down into his eyes, into the hot sand. He lay there still and quiet. The darkness took him.
More voices. One angry. “…ours you idiot! Stand down!” He opened his eyes and there was the man in his dream, the one with the mech arm.
Water.
He choked and coughed and felt like he was drowning. He recovered and took a smaller sip. He felt warm padded hands, the hum of a med bot. A prick on his arm and things got hazy.
He heard a name over and over. “Captain Vargas… Jolo Vargas! He’s alive.”
He was alive. His name was Jolo Vargas.
……
The captain sat up in bed and stared at himself in the reflection of a big glass divider: dark hair, blue eyes, and a big plastiskin patch on his forehead. He rubbed his chin, the beard gone, his hair short. He said his name aloud, hoping for some bit of recognition, but nothing came.
Soon the man with the mech arm came.
“Do you know who you are?”
He only had a name. A label. “Sure. Jolo Vargas.”
“Yes, that’s right!” The big man smiled. “You are, were, uh, captain of the gunboat Jessica. You know me. I’m Barthelme.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He was faking it. “You were on the Jessica. With Jaylen.”
“Who?” The big man’s smile faded just a touch. He got closer. He smelled like breath mints and the bean paste they’d been serving for lunch. “Jolo, it’s me, Barth.” The man put his mech hand on the bed rail and Jolo couldn’t help but stare. “You were there when I got this.”
He held up the metal arm, extended his tri-grip fingers so Jolo could get a good look. “We been through some tough spots together.”
Jolo liked Barth, but didn’t know why. He didn’t remember anything except the dream. Was it a dream?
Jolo squeezed the man’s good hand. “It’ll come back to me.”
Barthelme turned to go.
“Barthelme?” said Jolo. “Where am I?”
The smile on Barth’s face started to slip away and then he recovered and patted Jolo on the shoulder. “Federation Military Hospital on Sol.” The words came out small and quiet. Barth headed for the door, then stopped. “You’ll come back to me. I know it.”
Jolo smiled until Barth turned his back to go. Then he just stared across the room into the mirrored walls. It was like staring at a picture of a stranger. He raised his arm and the strange man did the same.
Late that night, Jolo couldn’t sleep.
Computer, who is Captain Jolo Vargas of the Federation?
Captain Jolo Francis Vargas, Federation Star Captain, last assigned to the Federation Gunboat Jessica. Deceased.
It was a strange thing to read about his own death. But here he was.
And then he had a realization: the pod, and the computer within, were three levels down in a storage bay in about a hundred little pieces.
Computer, how can you answer me if I’m not in proximity to the escape pod?
Invalid query.
The President
Federation Home Word: Sol.
Office of the President.
“Please tell me he's a synth,” said the president, staring down from his suite high atop the Federation’s core legislative building.
“Negative, sir. The scan says human.”
“That's not what we need, Johnson.”
“What do you mean, sir? I thought that was good news.”
“Look down. What do you see?”
Johnson stared down into the mass of lights and people moving about in the city below. “Uh, people.”
“Yes, it's beautiful isn't it. People moving around. People doing things. Commerce. People not afraid to be on the street anymore.” The president stared down into his glass of synth-whiskey. “That's a hard fought peace. That's what you're looking at. Peace. Jolo Vargas will destroy that peace. He'll stir up the military. Get them thinking they can fight again. And then we’ll lose all of this,“ he said, motioning with his hand toward the people below, ice tinkling against the whiskey glass.
Both men stared down into the bright lights. There were vendors selling roasted meats, mothers pushing strollers, couples walking together.
“I can't risk this,” the president said.
“There are some who complain about prices,” said Johnson. “About pirates on the edge of Federation space, about the draconian commerce regulations set by the Bakanhe Grana.”
“Yes, but that is a small price to pay for this peace that we have now. I'll take slightly higher prices over those shiny black bastards and their warships any day.”
“So, Mr. President, what's to be done with Jolo Vargas?”
“Maybe he's a synth after all. And then those BG monsters can take care of him.”
“But Mr. President, Vargas is a war hero. The people rally around him. They remember his heroics. They remember what he did on Titus especially.�
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“Titus. He was a fool on Titus. He lost people on Titus! But that is a moot point because Jolo Vargas died on Montag. Another war casualty. There will be an inquisition and I believe the BG emperor himself will attend. The merchants will side with the BG. And so will we. It's all we can do.”
“And what about the military?”
“They'll fall in line like they always do.”
Hospital
Federation Home Word: Sol.
Federation Military Hospital, secure wing, level C.
After being in an escape pod for more than a month, having attractive young nurses bringing food was a wonderful thing.
"This fried, uh, fried meat is fantastic," said Jolo.
"You don't even know what that is,” said Barthelme. “As a matter of fact, you never liked that highly processed, protein-based, meat substitute crap before.”
“It's just so salty and warm.”
Jolo chewed with his eyes closed. This was the best food he’d ever eaten. Suddenly he stopped, his mouth still full. Had he actually eaten before?
He opened his eyes and Barthelme was staring down at him, arms crossed, shaking his head slowly back and forth.
Jolo couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve seen that look of disapproval before.”
Barth grinned, and this time it was real. Jolo felt a wave of warmth and happiness.
“So what brings you back here, Barth? I thought the powers that be had you out protecting the Federation from the pirate scourge on the edge of space.”
The former chief eyed his boots for a moment then rubbed his chin with his good hand. The mood changed. Something was wrong.
"Listen, I have been having a blast here for the last week eating this,” Jolo said, poking his fork into a greenish square on his tray. He held it up and and watched it wiggle, then shoved it into his mouth and chewed. "So don't come and give me bad news.”
The Jolo Vargas Space Opera Series Box Set Page 4