THE RESTLESS AMONG US - serialized

[Gerald Lively]

My Intentions:

This was written before 1996 during my first bout with Lymphoma.  I am posting it but for entertainment value, the same as you would read any other book.  At the outset, I have no idea what the limits are in the forum software.  This book is unpublished, so don't steal it.


  THE  RESTLESS  AMONG  US

A Science Fiction Novel
by
G. Lewis Lively




PROLOGUE



November 2061 – Seattle


                The microphone grid jumped beneath the savage pounding of the gavel. Thunderous crashes boomed across the gallery. For the briefest moment delegates turned to the source of the hammering, but the disorder recovered, and surprisingly, it gained new strength.
   She felt impatience. With one hand absently tossing the gavel, she waited and watched, and wondered how anything was ever accomplished in these general sessions. Tradition, it seemed, required each delegate to voice an independent opinion, which they did, at every opportunity, on every issue that came up. It was a sure recipe for chaos.
   “Some order, please!” Steel grey eyes wrinkled into resolve. “Quiet!” The disorder continued. “We must have order or no one can be heard!” Few heard her words; fewer still reacted to them.
   “Shut up!” she shouted bringing the gavel down with thunderous resolve. Quite suddenly and quite surprisingly the room began to quiet. “Order,” she growled, “we must have order.” A relative quiet began to take hold. “Now,” she said sliding into her high-backed chair pulling it tight up against the table, “this meeting will progress when everyone recognizes the need for order. Only one person at a time has the floor, understood?” No response from the gallery was heard. None was expected.
   Lost for the moment, she shuffled through the papers of her agenda.
   “I believe I had the floor when all this raucousness began.”
   With recognition of the utterance she knew immediately where the official business had been interrupted. “Yes,” she said to the standing Director, “please continue.”
   “Thank you.” He nodded respectfully and after a glance at his own notes turned back to address the Chair. “The interlude of disorder took much time, Madam Chair, perhaps a summarization of my report is in order.” He leaned toward her. “I know the delegates will appreciate the brevity.” He wore a knowing grin.
   A murmur arose from the gallery but a snap of the gavel brought silence. The Director was correct in his assessment, she decided. “Proceed as you determine best, Director Puslakov.”
   “Thank you.” He turned to the audience wearing his most pleasant expression. “The Pacific Rim Corporation, PacRim to most of you, submitted it’s mid-century demographics report several weeks ago and I believe most of you have that report. It documented, among other points of interest, a leveling off of population declines usually attributed to the Euro-African War. We know that many other factors are involved in the forty-five percent world population loss, factors that are beyond anyone’s immediate control. It is those, the non-war-related elements, and the lingering environmental problems, which PacRim offers assistance. Our major concern today is the instability caused by the mass migrations to the continental coasts. This is so serious that . . .”
   A disturbance roused the gallery. Eventually a man stood. “Madam Chair, may I please speak?”
   After an impatient sigh and an approving nod from Puslakov she addressed the standing delegate. “The Chair most reluctantly recognizes the delegate from Australia. Keep it brief, bub.” She gestured threateningly with the gavel.
   “Madam Chair, must we sit here and listen to all this rubbish about population and the Big War. God knows we are all living this stuff, how could we not know it?” With wide spread hands, he turned to the gallery imploring support, “Let us get on with the business at hand, how about it?” A few applauded.
   Puslakov spoke in a loud whisper away from the microphones, “Perhaps he is right, Madam Chair, they all have copies of the report.”
   A deep frown accompanied her hesitation but she placed the gavel on the table and leaned back with folded arms. “Continue, the show is yours.”
   “Citizens, I have reports which thoroughly document population movements and the continuing difficulties with the agricultural subsistence program. We have tried programs of various stripes, yet we are only able to document limited successes. Please read these reports, your suggestions are welcome. There are, however, actions which require your approval.”
   A voice from the gallery, “Which actions are those?”
   Puslakov eyed the Chair.
   She shrugged, “Better get on with it.”
   “As you all know, elements of the 2009 Treaty of Ontario have been kept from the general public due to fears that some might find their national interests ignored or that some could conclude that the general economic collapse of the past several decades was attributable to the world wide de-industrialization and that they should have been informed in advance, or that some other measures should have been taken.”
   “Madam Chair!” With an exaggerated swing of the arms, the Australian gained his feet. “If there are secret parts of the treaty, just who are we keeping this secret from? Every functioning government on this planet is a member of this noble organization and they're all here today. How would they not know something like this?"
   Puslakov spoke, “I am certain you have a point, sir, however, I wish to remind you that any release of secret treaty provisions up to this point in time has been unauthorized. Disclosure, of course, is the purpose of this action."       
   The Chair broke in, “Let us get on with this, puulease!”
   The Australian kept his feet. “Look, every country agreed to stop all mineral extraction unless they held a PacRim permit – no drilling for oil, no heavy industry, no raw material processing – none of that harmful to the environment stuff. We’re all relying on PacRim to find raw materials. You’re going to find some asteroid or other and process the stuff in one of those big fancy orbiting manufacturing stations you have up there.” He gave a detectable wink and grin. “Now we all followed PacRim orders to the hilt, didn’t we? We all have to live on this planet. Can’t mess in our own nest, right? Now why’re you all in a sweat?”
   Puslakov answered, “You are certainly correct, perhaps there has been an overabundance of caution by the PacRim Board. You should understand that a prohibition to certain industries has historically been a cause of war and we have all witnessed the folly of such engagements. We wish in no way to become the cause of some . . .”
   “Look here!” the Australian shouted, “we know ‘bout that stuff. Let’s get on with it, let’s have a bloody vote on whatever it is you want a bloody vote on.”
   Puslakov turned to the Chair, “There is a call for a vote.”
   “Are there any objections to the call for a vote?” She looked across the gallery without lifting her head. “Seeing none I shall call for the question. Director Puslakov, will you please read the question?”
“Yes Madam Chair, the question before us is to make public the provisions of the Treaty of Ontario originally dated 2009 and all subsequent amendments. This treaty enables the formation of the Pacific Rim Corporation and the Satellite Manufacturing Corporation which act in certain economic matters on behalf of member nations.”
   “The question is before us. A “yes” vote will approve the action. Vote!” After a pause, “Secretary, please report the vote.”
   “The action has passed unanimously.”
   “How anti-climatic,” she groused. “Let us move on to the next item of business.”
   “Madam Chair!”
   The voice came from her left. “The Chair recognizes Director Cummings. Is this business of yours on the agenda?”
   “It is the next item.”
   “Proceed.”
   “I wish to report the completion of construction of forty-seven orbit manufacturing stations. Reports have been distributed to all members.” He glanced at his notes. “This concludes the phase whereby raw materials from Earthside are processed on this planet. From this date forward the complex of orbiting stations should provide for the needs of the citizens of every nation by utilizing materials from outside Earth environs. At long last, our home, this planet, can begin to regenerate itself, to clean it’s atmosphere, it’s soil and improve the general quality of life . . .”
   “Director Cummings,” the Chair said, “enough with the speech.”
   “Certainly.” Cummings glanced down at his now useless notes. “Well,” he said, improvising, “today the Satellite Manufacturing Corporation has issued an additional fifty salvage licenses for the maintenance of clear orbits, free from navigational hazards and debris that might result from orbit industrial activity.”
   “Is there an action required?”
   “None, Madam Chair.”
   “Any questions?”
   A half dozen hands shot up.
   “The Chair recognizes the delegate from Japan.”
   “A simple question.” The delegate made a shallow bow from the waist. “Will forty-seven orbital manufacturing stations be sufficient?”
   It was apparent that the questioner had not read the issued report but Cummings prepared an answer, “These manufacturing stations in total can process raw materials in quantities equal to the maximum produced by all nations at the turn of the century. In addition, we have a large reserve capacity. I hope that answers your question.”
   Another delegate, “What about supply to these manufacturing stations?”
   “We have stockpiled materials sufficient to maintain full operation for several years, and we are fully involved in locating and establishing mining communities, outstations as we call them. I expect in the very near future that we will have the ability to produce a raw materials surplus.”
   “Where are these outstations? In the asteroids?”
   “In the asteroid belt, the Moon . . .”
   “Within the Solar System, beyond?”
   “Yes,” he paused, the answers were common knowledge, what was the delegate trying to get at? “Most are inside this Solar System, some are out there quite a distance. As most of you know, materials transport are handled by a fleet of robotic cargo carriers. We have personnel stationed at these mining stations and their facilities are capable of programming any of the cargo carrier navigational systems. It’s all very routine even if it is somewhat complex.”
   “How about maintenance of these carriers, and construction?”
   The Chair interjected, “You looking for a job?”
   “We are entitled to this information, are we not?”
   “You know this stuff, it’s no secret.”
   “I am only asking a question.”
   She shrugged, giving up.
   Cummings continued, “There is an operational maintenance station in orbit around the Moon, it supports a larger effort at the Moonbase complex. We have a continuing evaluation of our space craft designs. We are actually in the midst of evaluating a deep space cargo carrier prototype . . .”
   The Chair sat abruptly forward.
   “. . . as you know we’ve lost several carriers in the asteroid belt and others have returned with a variety of damage.”
   “Director Cummings, tell us about this prototype you mentioned.” She looked squarely at him; worse, she wore “that look”.
A flush flared across his face. “From the outside it looks like any other carrier. The differences are in the way it is built.” He gulped. She gave no hint as to the reason for her sudden scowling attention. “The hull utilizes a minimum of four inch alloy instead of the usual two inches and it has a double hull sandwiching a four foot layer of radiation absorbing silicon gel. The engines have additional shielding and many of the engine components are built heavier. We’ve given it a greater engine velocity capability . . .” His voice dwindled off to nothing, he sensed the Chair was about to say something.
               “Tell me,” she said in a very deliberate manner, “is the cost of this vessel greater than a standard carrier?”
               “Well, yes, about twice as much, almost.”
               “And you have Board authorization for this project, I presume.”
               “I did not realize that it was required.” Suddenly he wanted to be somewhere else; anywhere would be fine about now. “It’s only experimental, it isn’t ready for Board review.”
               “May I remind you, Mr. Cummings, that the goal set for SatMan was twenty thousand carriers and as I presently understand the situation up there, SatMan has only met a small percentage of that goal. Now you are telling me, if I understand you correctly, that there is an experimental carrier design which costs twice as much. By any logic,” she huffed, “this will slow progress towards that goal, will it not? And there is a world economy to consider, just a small item, Mr. Cummings, but perhaps it is important nonetheless.” She turned away. “Make sure this carrier prototype is the last one you build, Mr. Cummings.”
                “I don’t think you understand,” immediately he knew he’d made a mistake, a serious mistake, “we’re losing carrier’s at a rate . . .”
                “Mr. Cummings, as for your outstation explorations, “beyond” as you put it, bring a report to the next meeting, we may wish to discuss it.” And the gavel came down with crashing finality. The meeting was over.
                Everyone in attendance rose to their feet but no eyes met his. He was alone in the crush of directors and delegates, as alone as if he were the sole inhabitant of the planet. The need for a craft similar to the prototype, or even better, was not far off, of that he was convinced. He had reported the need to them, and this was the result. Why did they fail to understand? Puzzlement gripped him; this was a mystery he would spend hours and days trying to resolve but in his lifetime he would never gain that elusive understanding.           

[Gerald Lively]

                                                                           CHAPTER  ONE

April 2128
In the Earth Orbits aboard Orb-salvager Spacecraft #690.





    Chaos in green. Murph peered into the orb-salvager's radar scope with an uncomprehending stare. Alertness evaded him. It took several long minutes to shake the half-sleep from his eyes. Then, most carefully and with a conscious effort, he began to sort through the confusion of symbols, lines and numbered blips. Everything on the scope was familiar, no mysteries there, it was the same as yesterday and all of the yesterdays he could remember.  He sat upright from his slouch, blinked, and again vowed to concentrate. With a long look he studied the screen presentation, it seemed cluttered. He leaned in closer; tech-green bathed his face but the scope remained monotonously unchanged, nothing new or interesting was ever there.       
   “What do you see, huh?” Husky whispered words brushed by an ear. Michelle stood behind him, beaming.
   “Nothing out there,” he said, “nothing unexpected.”
   “Try a longer reach.”
   “Long range, huh?” He paused to think. “Can’t pick out debris on long-range.”
   By this time she was squeezing between the closely set cockpit acceleration chairs, a maneuver not easily done. She squirmed forward. At the same time she leaned over the console instrument panel with a steadying hand then deftly turned until positioned just right and flopped down into the deep set cushion. There was a pronounced fluttering whoosh of emptying air. And there was another squirm, a wiggle and ultimately a smiling declaration that the most comfortable position had once again been achieved.
   He smiled pleasantly at the ritual, pleased once again to have been witness to it, and wondered why she just didn't turn the chair on it's electrical pivot, as it was designed to do. But he said nothing.
   The long-range sweep changed the green display; the orderly row of manufacturing stations moved closer to center scope. Out on the periphery the distant cargo carrier parking orbit glowed in a semi-circular smudge. The orbits were quiet. There appeared to be no debris, no detectable traffic and there wasn’t even the occasional tug darting in and out between carriers; yet it was all very normal.
   A creaking tension barked from his acceleration chair as he leaned back from the instruments. “Nothing,” he gestured with a hand sweeping over the instrument array, “I’d bet there aren’t five operating stations right now.”
Michelle peered into her scope; the long line of manufacturing stations curved over the orbit horizon marking the path down-orbit.  The “Station 28” marker glared from the clutter; it was the nearest manufacturing platform and it was signaling its presence. “It’s above us,” she said, craning to look up through the overhead transparency.
   “Station 28,” Murph keyed the ID into the ops-computer, “ferro-alloy processing.” He gave a glance up at the five-mile long platform passing silently overhead; a scattering of dark grey panels marked the shuttle ports there, all closed, and a group of tethered transports hung motionless nearby. The station appeared uninhabited.
   “Bring us in closer,” Michelle said.
   “Closer? We can see everything from here.”
   Michelle frowned.
   Murph nudged the thrusters bringing the lumbering vessel into a higher orbit. A bristling array of long-whiskered stanchions marked the station's antenna field and they loomed uncomfortably close. Out on the ends of the stanchions, navigation lights blinked incessant warnings to stay away.
"Closer," Michelle insisted.
Murph pulled back on the thrusters, “We have orbit maintenance velocity, it’ll have to be good enough.”   
   Ever so slowly, the flashing navigation lights drifted towards them, coming closer until they seemed just overhead. But he could see now that the orb-salvager was going to miss the stanchions by more than he might have guessed.
   Carrier docks came into view. If there were any activity at all on the station, it would be there. Murph strained for a better view peering across the section of flat empty docks and closed airlocks. Nothing moved. Station 28 appeared deserted. “Looks like a shutdown,” he muttered.
   She was nodding, agreeing. “Like most of ‘em,” she said.
   A flicker of light caught the corner of his eye, something on the communications screen. “Incoming message,” he said.
   Michelle gazed at the blank screen. She started to say something just as green letters began to form. “How did you do that?” she said instead.
   “It’s probably Station 28 telling us we’re too close.”
   “No, no, how did you know there was incoming?”
   He grinned somewhat. Once, a few years back, he had noticed the flashing cursor on the communications screen and had actually tried to track down the source of what he then thought was a problem but the communications system never gave up it’s secret. He’d have told her but . . . well, he hadn’t, so the pre-message flash remained a mystery. A little mystery can keep things interesting.
   “FM – Satellite Manufacturing Hq – assistance request – any currently operational/operating orb-salvager.”
   I wonder what they want?” Michelle asked.
   “Better answer.”
   She pulled the keypad closer, “Salvager #690 presently operating in the vicinity of Station 28,” and sent the response with a dramatic poke of one finger.
   “Standby #690.”
   Murph raised an eyebrow. “No one else has responded?”
   “Just us.”
   The standby faded. A new message began. “SatMan assistance request – 0902Z 5Apr2128 – minimum equip requirements anticipated/dry ore recovery-archival record capacity-remote attitude control systems-damage assessment by probe // acknowledge.”
   “It’s a rookie,” Murph frowned as he said it.
   “How do you know that?”
   “Can’t you see, the rookie is trying to over-control the project. He’s worried something might go wrong and he’d get the blame. Besides, the message is keyed, that makes it the same as a contract. A regular would have talked with us." Murph frowned and looked away from her, then muttered, "The rookie has a big problem on his hands.”
   “You can tell?”
   “Some carrier is out of control. Probably scaring the hell out of people.”
   “Sounds risky.”
   Risk was a judgement call in the salvage business. Sometimes it was scary but not always, not to the professional eye. Experience counted in the orbits. “Find out where this project is,” and he immediately began to worry about what sort of risk there might actually be.
   “SatMan – provide location coordinates.”
   “#690 – subject vessel is a cargo carrier in the carrier parking orbit – vector Station #39.”
   Images flashed into his mind; he could almost see one of those gigantic cargo carriers rolling, tossing out ore in sizes large enough to knock out some unlucky orb-salvager. He squirmed at the thought.
   Michelle waited.
   They didn’t need this kind of work. They didn’t need the risk. Their license didn’t require acceptance of work with extraordinary risk; it was his judgement that counted. He could call in other salvagers and they could attack this thing with force – but that took time and SatMan would grumble about the cost. And there was always payback for refused work and that was always at the next license renewal hearing. “Are you serious about orbit salvage work or would you rather spend some time Earthside hard scrabbling at subsistence farming instead?” they would ask. There was no satisfying response for that one, he knew it and so did SatMan’s rookie.
   “Better go for it,” he said, grimacing.
   She tapped in the message, “SatMan Hq – acceptance conditional on the following/(1) SatMan will purchase all recovered cargo, (2) Salvager retains all standard salvage rights, (3) SatMan will replace all damaged or destroyed equipment used in the salvage operation. – Will proceed upon your authorization.”
   The first two provisions were fluff, a cushion for item three. SatMan was supposed to purchase all recovered cargo, it didn’t require an agreement for them to do so. With SatMan it never hurt to get it in writing. But item three prevented any latter day squabbles or re-interpretations. He was glad Michelle thought of it.
   “Authorization granted subject to conditions (1) through (3) and all provisions of salvager license #690. Proceed to target.”
   SatMan went for it without an argument. Michelle was pleased with herself. “What do ya think about this one?” She squirmed sideways turning in his direction.
   It was interesting to watch her. There simply wasn’t room enough to be twisting and turning in an acceleration chair, they were designed to closely fit a body that sat upright looking forward. Somehow, someway, with a bit of agility and magical maneuvering she’d get partially turned around and in the process made it look comfortable. Murph smiled at his own thoughts.
   He pushed at the forward thruster control. The orb-salvager’s engines hummed to life. Overhead, the stars once again became visible as Station 28 dropped behind and below.
   “We don’t need any salvaged materials and we can’t use any salvaged equipment. I wonder why we took this job?” he said, still bouncing between the ideas of what he wanted to do and what he had to do.
.   “SatMan’ll buy whatever cargo we pick up, it’s in the contract.”
   “Sure,” he groaned, “they’ll negotiate, consider and delay. You know how it works and we’ll end up with the stuff. And they’re not buying any equipment off that cargo carrier ‘cause there probably isn’t any.”
   She curled up both legs on the seat. “This is going to be a tough one? Dangerous?" She wrinkled up her nose, something she did when speculating about the unknown. 
   He shrugged, how could he know that? The carrier was still a ca-zillion miles off, besides he was still thinking on the problem of salvaged equipment. The project might be risky but every special project had an element of risk. The real problems began after it was all over; there was always something to dispose of and that was where SatMan had been turning its back on them. Every salvager had the same problem, salvaged equipment and materials were accumulating and the quantities were becoming absurd. SatMan wasn’t buying from anyone.
   “Things’ll loosen up.” As always she was optimistic. 
   “We have an ETA?”
   “Station 39 is just a few minutes away.”
   A brilliant moon slid above the horizon appearing surprisingly distant to him. He squinted at it. Moonbase was there somewhere. He searched the brilliance for some sign of it but the massive surface installation failed to reveal itself. Too distant, he knew that. Yet, when he saw the Moon, he always looked - his search for the man in the Moon.     
“Station 39,” Michelle pointed below.
    Blinking navigation lights atop the towering sections of superstructure seemed to reach up to them. His eyes followed a catwalk along a labyrinth course around tanks and beneath huge pipeways, out across empty space to frame extensions then around bulkheads and airlocks; closed and apparently inactive airlocks. And that was the bottom line, everything was closed up. No where was there a sign of life. Even the station’s huge discharge tube hanging out a mile from the platform was dark above a stone cold slagheap.
   “Better get moving," Michelle urged.
   “Right, let’s get on with it.”
   One by one the ops-computer examined indistinct and distant radar blips; checking attitude stability and analyzing any movement. Everything was being discounted.
   “Must be thousands of ‘em,” Michelle muttered, transfixed on the satellite data racing across the forward screen at a barely readable speed.
   “Coming to orbit maintenance velocity. We’ll sit here for a while and let the ops-computer catch up.” He glimpsed at the data display; there were more carriers in parking orbit than he would've guessed. “We in the right place?” he asked.
   “That’s the parking orbit up there, those are carriers and we’re inside the Station 39 vector.”
   Almost as she finished speaking the data cleared. A fuzzy pulsing oval shape remained on the screen.
   “I’ll bring up a graphic.” Murph struggled at the keypad trying to bring clarity to the egg-shaped fuzziness. The object stood tall at first then quickly flattened only to become tall once again. It pulsed once per second. “We’d better get in closer, we’re doing no good way out here.”
   Slowly and deliberately they closed the distance to the target. Gradually the graphic took on the characteristics of a carrier. “This has to be it,” he said.
   “Setting up comm-link with SatMan. Engaging archivals.” A glowing green cursor at mid-console certified the SatMan link-up. They would be seeing everything the orb-salvager’s equipment saw and there would be a record. “Operation commencing.”
   Murph turned to her, “See if you can get a link-up with the target.”
   At first hundreds of transponders responded to the general call for identification – and the ops-computer began to sort – eventually there was one. “A tumbler,” she said, “calls itself Automated Carrier 1138.”
“Seeking SatMan confirmation.”
   “SatMan confirmation per vessel #1138.”
   “That’s it,” she declared, pleased that they wouldn’t have to search further, “I’m getting link-up to the carrier’s star-nav system.”
   The screen graphic cleared to show a steady computer line-drawn carrier in profile. Reality was out in the parking orbit wildly tumbling end over end.
   “We have link-up.”
   “Got it on the first attempt?” Murph smiled in her direction.
   “All praise will be gratefully accepted.”
   “Let’s have some specs on the target.”
   “Specs coming up.” Data began scrolling up the forward screen in bright green letters.
“SUMMARY  SPECIFICATIONS
Automated Cargo Carrier – Hull #1138
Prototype Deep Space
Date of Manufacture – 2061
Dry Ore Container
Dry Gross Vessel Weight @ one gravity – 280,000 tons
Overall Length – 4,012 feet
Beam Overall – 2,806
Height at Container Unit Max. – 250 feet
Height at Drive Unit Max. – 600 feet
Length Container Unit – 3,000 feet
Double Hull Silicon Sandwiched Container Unit
Fuel Capacity – 2,000 standard hydrogen canisters
Fuel Inventory – 831 canisters.”

   Michelle was the first to notice. “This is not your usual cargo carrier.”
   “It’s different? Different how?”  He tore his eyes from the graphic and focused on the specification chart. “It’s dry ore, just what we expected, it’s a bit larger but not by much, a few feet maybe . . .”
   “Double hull, see that?”
   He saw it. “Never heard of a deep space prototype.” He saw something else, “Silicon sandwiching, and the weight of the thing.”
   “I wonder how many of these there are?”
   “It says prototype. I suppose that means this is the only one.” Yet, the ops-computer graphic showed a standard cargo carrier; its appearance was the same as any other carrier. “It looks like they really built this one.”
   “But for what? Why?”
                “Let’s find out where it’s been. Try the last outstation.” This mystified, the carrier carried dry ore and seemed to perform the same job as any other carrier. It looked the same, burned the same fuel and probably called at the same outstations, yet it was different in ways where there should be no differences. Container units were supposed to be interchangeable but there was no other container unit like this one. Not that he knew of, anyway.
                “It’s been to Alpha Station in the Alpha Centauri System,” Michelle reported.
                “I didn’t know there was an active outstation that far out, I thought SatMan’s operations were all inside the Solar System.”
                Michelle frowned. “You knew SatMan sent people out there, it’s in the history file.”
               “Yeah, I knew that,” he said frowning.
               “It took them something like fifteen years to get there. They were supposed to set up a mining operation there.”
               “Right, but I never heard if they got a shipment back from there.”
               “Well, it was a thirty year turn around for cargo, more or less. It likely wasn’t worth all the effort but it’s there.” She gave him a look, “ I think you heard another salvager rumor and took it for fact.”
               Murph grimaced. “I know a rumor when I hear one.”
               She began, “It was controversial, those engineers were supposed to survive on their own and they knew they’d never come back, and there was no real communication with them except by returning carrier. Nobody really knows how they’re doing.” She frowned at the idea of it. “There is most likely a new generation born there or even some born on the outward bound trip." She gave him a look, "But you knew all that.”
               “I thought it was all shut down. SatMan is getting everything they need right here inside the Solar System. It takes too long to get there and back.” He tried to dilute her historical recollections.
              “That’s the point, it’s too far away, how could anyone just decide to shut down a place like that?”
              “Well,” he shrugged, “that’s what I heard.”
              “Another rumor from a salvager’s meeting.”
              Murph busied himself at the console, there was no time for talking.
              But the thought lingered with Michelle, “I can’t imagine anyone going there. Their children must be covered in those contract too, should they ever get back here.” She turned to Murph, “I wonder how they pay those people. It couldn’t be money, where would they spend it?”
              Murph listened, and began to think about it. What was it like to live on an outstation like Alpha Station? Would there be trees and oceans? There’d be no SatMan to hound you at every move; of that much he was certain. There'd be no regs, no rules except those you set for yourself, no cares and worries about economic downturns and licensing hearings, or spilled cargo or idle manufacturing stations. There’d be you, the universe and an occasional cargo carrier to load, mostly there would be freedom.
              “Beep!” The ops-computer demanded attention, six miles to target, it said. If he squinted and looked dead ahead he could just make out a speck of changing color in the blackness. Radar showed no spilled cargo, a good omen.
              “Five miles and closing,” Michelle called out. “Slowing velocity.” The reverse thrusters barked intermittent flashes – and the target speck quickly grew into a mass of churning metal.
              “Distance check.”
              “Settling in at one half mile.”
To the naked eye the rolling carrier was immense, threatening, and worse - their every sense told them it was much too close.
              “Stabilize relative position,” Murph said.
              “We have stabilized position.” She glanced over to Murph. He was staring out at the wildly churning cargo carrier. For just one moment she had the impulse to shake him out of his mesmerized state. Instead, she moved to the comm-link controls. By voice communication she said, “SatMan are you receiving?”
               “Standby,” appeared on screen, then it slowly faded as a voice sounded over the cockpit speakers, “690 we have you on all systems.”
               “690 standing by for authorization to proceed.” Protocol required SatMan approvals as the project unfolded. Not all salvagers honored the procedure; just those that wished to avoid controversy. They would wait, she decided, until SatMan had a chance to digest the scene in front of them.
Her acceleration chair creaked when she slid forward. She looked past the data on the forward screen to the tumbling spacecraft. Flashes of stark grey, bright in the glow from the Moon, flew past rising and reaching out towards them until a sudden thin black shadow line marking the perimeter of the container unit, raced upward followed by the dark grey of the shadowy underside. Then the carrier was splashed with moonglow. Suddenly the cockpit of the orb-salvager filled with bright-reflected light – and the cycle repeated.
           “Those holes,” Murph muttered, “those holes, see ‘em?” He waggled a finger at the carrier, “See ‘em, see ‘em?”
           “Maybe,” Michelle said squinting at the images.
           “There, and there!”
           “Dark spots maybe, those are holes?”
He knew there were holes in the hull that’s why SatMan needed a salvager – cargo gone plus a loss of control adds up to major damage. There might be a lot of hull penetrations. He’d even heard of huge rips in container units where half the unit was missing, although he’d never actually seen one. It was always a wonder how these carriers managed to get home to an Earth parking orbit. Some of the guidance system was on the container unit itself and with all that damage you might think nothing would work. Yet, here was this carrier spinning and out of control. It reached the parking orbit somehow, and that meant . . . well, what did it mean?
            He sighted the dark spots, “There, you see ‘em?”
            She concentrated, narrowing both eyes, “It’s moving so fast, I can’t quite see . . .”
            SatMan’s voice communication sounded, “690, prepare for instruction.”
            “Standing by.”
            “690, prepare probe for external sweep, standard survey mode,” the voice stoically instructed.
            “Has to be a rookie,” Murph judged.
            Michelle shrugged.
           “First of all he sounds like one, second he should know we can’t survey a spinning carrier, we’ve got to stabilize it first.”
           “You gonna tell him?”
           He hesitated. SatMan didn’t like to be challenged with questions. It was an affront to status and authority. But there was a salvager’s integrity to consider, “Get ‘em on speakers.”
           She flicked a single switch.
           “Look,” Murph began, “this isn’t just a rolling carrier, this thing has a nasty twist to it. No way are we gonna program a probe to follow that. The ops-computer isn’t going to keep up with that kind of roll either. What we’ve gotta do is control the rotation first, then have at the survey!”
Michelle winced as the comm-link fell silent for long seconds.
            After a time, “690, begin operations with a probe survey as requested.”
            That was as far as he would be able to push, he judged. But this wasn’t right. He reluctantly made himself ready the probe. “Probe number one is in the tube.” An instrument light flashed green. “We’re gonna lose this one, I just know it.” He poked at the launch button.
            Michelle looked up at the sound of the launch, a pronounced thump, but there was nothing to see. The instrument panel flickered at her. “Visual up and running, guidance operational.”
            Transmitted images from the probe flooded across the data screen. At first there was black then intermittent flashes of grey and brilliant white; but the images told them nothing. Console instruments told only the story of the struggle to match the carrier’s spin, of a failure, of re-analysis and reprogram, and of failure once again. The cycle repeated. Eventually the visual gained a moment of clarity: a huge black hull penetration moved up screen and steadied, then the black wound slid to one side only to disappear quite abruptly. And the screen returned to black and white flashes.
             “It’s the twist,” Murph grumbled, “it’s beating us.” They tried again and the results were similar.
              Frustrated, Murph flopped back in the acceleration chair and glared at the meaningless visual. “Better get SatMan back on the horn,” he said. Finally, when they were connected, Murph began a long detailed explanation. He was going to educate the rookie. When he summed it all up, he said, “It’s just moving too fast for a meaningful survey, we’ve got to slow that spin before another attempt,” and he rolled his eyes before falling back into the cushions.
                But SatMan refused to change tactics.
               “Then there is nothing we can do.” He made it sound final. But it wasn’t final; there’d be no refusal of work and certainly not when they were under contract.
                SatMan responded, “The objective is to obtain an internal survey. Find the hull penetration and advance through it to the interior. Once inside, the rotation should be of little consequence. From that information we should be in a position to determine the nature of the damage and the type of salvage, if any.”
               “Amateurs,” Murph groaned.
               “At least they didn’t dump on you,” Michelle said, grateful that the rookie had ended the discussion without conflict. “Let’s get on with this.”
“Even if we get inside that carrier, we’ll never get back out.”
               She looked stern, “We made a contract, we have to try.”
“They’re trying to run a salvage operation from some comfortable office chair and they don’t know what they’re doing. This is our business, this is what we do!”
              “It doesn’t matter, they’ll replace any lost equipment, it’s in the contract.”
Murph made a groaning sound. “I hate losing good equipment no matter whose it is.” He risked a look in her direction, “I’m gonna fly this one in manually.”
               “Okay, get with it.”
               Murph reset the ops-computer, placed the execute command on standby and peered up at the visual. It was the same black, white and grey flashes. With a hand hovering above the console, poised to move in an instant, he concentrated. It was a question of timing. In a flash he punched the execute command and watched for some slowing of the screen images. A hull penetration raced past and seemed to slow as it sped out of view. Murph boosted probe acceleration, faster, until the screen images slowed. Quickly, details on the hull surface became clear. A large hole raced across the screen and seemed to stop momentarily before angling off and out of sight. But he was determined - he guessed that a large hull penetration meant that there was a second hole, an exit hole. He held the probe’s position; a second hole did appear. The image steadied. The probe hovered above the blackness of the hull wound. Murph maneuvered to aim the probe. This was another timing move. His hand twitched almost causing a premature launch. “Patience,” he muttered, angling the nose of the probe. At the right moment he jammed hard – max acceleration – and the probe bolted toward the leading edge of the gash. Black filled half the screen.
               Michelle uttered a tiny groan.
               Images blurred and everything became hull grey. They had aimed too far forward, he guessed, but even as that thought materialized, a black edge charge up the screen filling the entire visual.
               They were going to make it, that’s what it meant. He grinned.
               A sharply defined trailing edge knifed into view advancing to mid-screen. Then, with startling suddenness all screen images went blank.
Michelle gasped.
               Twisted pieces of metal debris pelted the orb-salvager sending clanking collision noises ringing through the hull. Murph flopped back in his chair. It was his best effort; no one could have done any better. He pushed against the cushion of the acceleration chair trying to bury himself in the padding and grumbled something unintelligible.
               Michelle was on the comm-link, “We are unable to probe the uncontrolled cargo carrier 1138 without first undertaking a vessel stabilization operation.” She snarled at the comm-link. “Forward your authorization for the stabilization operation immediately.” She sat back and waited.
SatMan came back, “You have authorization to stabilize.”
              She chuckled.
              Murph could only shake his head.
              This was standard stuff: there were eight points to consider in stabilizing a cargo carrier; two phases using magnetic attitude jets, one phase for spin, one phase for roll. Four blinking lights signaled readiness.
              “Standby for launch.”
              “Tubes two through five opened and ready.”
              “Launch.”
              There was a pause for most of a minute as the ops-computer maneuvered the magnetic jets; then, “We have attachment.” Michelle reported.
              “Looks like we might finish this one,” Murph said.
              An uneven firing pattern developed as the spin became a drift. Four more jets were launched and attachment came routinely, the spin had almost completely stopped before the roll motion was controlled, the menace of the parking orbit slowed to a creeping turn, then to a motionless starboard tilt. The monster carrier reflected brilliant nightside moonlight from the cargo unit topside, flooding the orb-salvager’s cockpit with illumination.
              “Probe in number one tube, ready for launch.”
              A thump marked the launch.
              “Bringing up visual.” Murph locked his gaze on the screen and half-turned to Michelle, “We have this for SatMan’s record?”
              “Everything is on the record.”
              “Good.” It was always nice to be right when dealing with SatMan, a record of it was even better.
              The probe scooted over the container unit topside, stopping just forward of dead center. The on-board visual showed dramatic abrasion scars radiating out in a bursting pattern for hundreds of feet across the hull, beginning at the hull penetration which itself was marked by thousands of knife-edged metal shards torn inward in a strikingly uniform pattern. This, clearly, was the entry hole.
              The probe dropped through the gaping hole stopping at hull elevation to swing in a full circle. “No indication of high heat, no discoloration of metal.”
              He dropped the probe a few feet; the sandwiched gelatinous mass between the hulls appeared cleanly cut. “Silicon layer is intact. Some warping on the outer hull.” The probe moved toward the edge, “The warping extends about fifty feet, not much more than that.”
              “Doesn’t seem like much,” Michelle offered.
               “Nope. With a penetration that size you’d think half the cargo unit would have caved in.”
               “What did this?” she asked.
               Murph cocked his head to oneside, “Don’t really know, yet.” He paused thoughtfully, “Don’t think it was a meteorite, there isn’t any visible debris in the silicon layer.” He pointed to the sandwiched layer, “just about any collision with a solid object would leave some behind.”
               “Something hit it?”
               “It got hit alright, see that edge there,” he moved a cursor across the screen to the torn outer hull, “whatever it was, it was moving fast – faster than most meteorites. Look where the outer hull cuts into the silicon, that’s four inches of alloy steel. Something punched through that hull like it wasn’t even there. There isn’t a lot of warping, the gel didn’t melt; if it's the same stuff they use on manufacturing platform bulkheads, it can handle 1900 degrees before melting."
                “Faster than a meteorite?”
                “It was moving fast, maybe light-speed.” How else could he explain it? A light speed something fit the circumstances as he saw it, but what moved at light-speed? Light, that was about it. All his ed-programs said nothing went faster than that, yet he’d been hearing about new theories lately – folds in the universe, wormholes, stuff like that. But this was a hole through steel alloy, not some worm tunnel across a galaxy.
                The probe moved to the inner hull where the sharply torn metal pointed inward into the black emptiness. “Light-speed,” she muttered. “Nothin’ ‘cept light moves at light speed.”
                He glanced at her before turning back to the console. “Probing for cargo.” He aimed the camera nose down. Light beamed into the darkness only to fade in the clouds of white dust. The probe maneuvered, searching beneath a dust covered inner hull ceiling until a huge cargo baffle blocked forward progress. Everything, including the baffle, was coated with the white powder. A scanning sweep located drifts of floating white material near the gigantic baffles. Once there he brought the probe within reaching distance of a dozen small clumps. “Cargo analysis.”
                   “Working.”
                  “Processed titanium.” Michelle reported. The probe ejected the sample sending it spewing into the cavernous blackness. Then, in slow meticulous sweeps the probe mapped the empty interior. At the exit hole it paused.
                  “Fifteen point three tons of cargo, not much. I suppose," she said, "most of the cargo is spread around the universe between here and the Alpha Centauri System. 
                  For just an instant his eyes went up to the overhead transparency in search of the Alpha Centauri Star. It wasn’t there. His attention returned to the task at hand. “Exit hole is 248 feet across.”
                 “Almost fifty feet larger than the entry hole,” she said.
                  What were the implications of that? Murph pressed his lips tightly together and wrinkled up his eyes, straining to think. He dropped the probe further down. There was more hull warp and tearing, some heat discoloration and a substantial quantity of rocky debris jammed into the silicon layer. In fact, he could barely see that it was the silicon layer. Whatever came though the container unit punched it’s way through two layers of four inch alloy, shoved a huge quantity of ore ahead of it and still managed to punch through two more layers of hull. It boggled the mind. What could do that? Again he looked up to the heavens, this time with some concern. What was out there?
               The probe lazily drifted outside into clear orbit space. “Setting standard exterior sweep.” In wide swaths the probe began at the bow, circled the container in a spiraling flight until it reached the stern then moved up and over the drive unit. Then it repeated the survey on the underside.
At survey completion Murph sighed with fatigue. “We have a damage report?”
                “Coming on screen.”
                The screen cleared to show a representative carrier profile; a long slim container unit jutted out far forward of the high reaching engine cowlings to offer a slim sleek appearance. The image rolled. A long list of survey data appeared across the topside. The entry hole was neatly diagramed halfway between the container’s bow and stern on the centerline. Whatever hit it did so with precise mathematical accuracy.
                 Fascinating, he thought. Was it coincidence?
                 Abrasions etched a bursting pattern from the entry hole outward in every direction. Further back the abrasions turned into penetrations. The ops-computer counted 715 penetrations on the four primary engines and another 322 on the main engine cowling. All were smaller than a finger, most were half that size.
                 Michelle leaned over the console and pressed a half dozen buttons. “The data is off to SatMan.” The data screen became a swirl of green before clearing, followed by a standby signal.
                “You know,” Murph said, “that is some heavy damage.”
                “I wonder what did that?”
                Murph stared, half closing his eyes. It was a surprisingly trim vessel for something so large. He tilted his head one way, then another, then gave a cautious glance at Michelle. She lay back resting with eyes closed. Restlessness stirred in him. Fantastical thoughts rampaged about the cause of the carrier’s trouble. But it was the low aspect profile that held his gaze; he could repair that carrier, even the hull warp was no particular problem. Hole repairs were relatively easy, nothing to it. He studied it, wondering what SatMan might do with it. Tow it over to the Moonbase satellite most likely; fix it there and send it out again. Maybe they’d want to salvage the ship to him. He quickly dismissed that idea; once in a great while a salvager managed to acquire a container unit for dismantling but drive units were always towed off to Moonbase. Moonbase could fix the holes in the container unit themselves, that made the most sense. Besides, a transfer for salvage meant a transfer of title, which is why a salvager never acquired a drive unit. Too much valuable stuff in those drive units, he guessed. SatMan wants to keep all that valuable equipment. Still, if he had title, he could patch it up and . . .
            “What are you doing?”
            She surprised him. Oh,” he said trying to appear indifferent, “just looking at the carrier out there.”
            She squinted just as he had, and tilted her head the same way. Whatever he saw wasn’t apparent to her. She eyed him suspiciously.
           “They’re taking their time on this one.” Murph commented.
           “Uh huh,” she agreed. “Lot’s of data to consider.”
            Murph looked out at the carrier.
           “What are you thinking?” she asked. “I can hear the wheels in that brain of yours grinding away.”
            Mercifully the standby message blinked off followed by a beep then a message. SatMan was back to print communication.
            “Salvager #690 – request you accept vessel #1138 as salvaged equipment. Acknowledge.”
            “They cannot do this to us,” Michelle spouted. “What would we do with that thing?”
            “Lots of material in that space craft,” he mumbled.
             She twisted in her chair to look directly at him, “Muurph!” she whined.
             “Let’s see,” he said, “if we fix it up it’ll cost us the price of the materials we put into it. Of course, if we use salvaged materials that came from SatMan in the first place, it won’t cost anything except time and energy. SatMan wouldn’t try to get rid of it if the thing was repairable, you know that. Dismantling isn't a good idea because we know SatMan hasn’t been buying salvaged goods lately so why go through the effort?” He gave a small shrug. “We could just let it sit and do nothing.”
              “Murph, they’re dumping the thing on us.” Tiny tears of frustration formed in her eyes. “Let’s tell SatMan no deal, let’s turn ‘em down this time.”
             “You know that won’t work. SatMan holds all the cards, we just about have to do what they want.”
             There was a silence in the orb-salvager cockpit broken only by the creaking of her acceleration chair.
             She suddenly turned in a huff to the communications console, “SatMan Hq – Would SatMan consider retaining subject vessel to make necessary repairs at the Moonbase facility?” 
             Murph winced.
             The wait wasn’t long. “#690, SatMan will require your acceptance of title to vessel #1138 per section 27(b) your contract and license – acknowledge.”
              “27(b)?” He had never heard of such a thing. And he thought he knew his own license.
A muttering Michelle quickly called up their license. She groaned when 27(b) made an appearance. “Section 27 . . . (b), Under such circumstances as determined by the Satellite Manufacturing Corporation or it’s Parent Corporation, Pacific Rim Corporation, contractor may be required to accept items of salvage. Such items shall be from orbit or free space and said requirement shall be in the interests of maintaining clear navigational routes free from obstructions and hazards. Contractor shall have unencumbered ownership and control over all equipment and materials acquired under this section and may dispose of such as the licensee sees fit.”
           “What are we gonna do?” Michelle squeaked.
            Murph’s grin broadened. “I really don’t know,” he said.   
   
   

[Gerald Lively]

CHAPTER  TWO


April 2128 – SatMan HQ Platform – Earth Orbits.




   The cafeteria was empty of people. This was good and this was why he chose this time.
   Metal tables lined up in rows; each with four chairs, each with four spice dispensers at mid-table, and all colored a pale green. It was the sameness of everything that struck him. And it wasn’t the first time.  He sighed.
   Gene eyed the cafeteria line. A robotic food dispenser waited patiently for someone to step within sensor range. Further down the spotless stainless steel line, beyond the food dispenser and a mountainous stack of trays, brilliant light flooded through an archway leading back into the kitchen. Voices from the kitchen were chattering and laughing, and he growled at it, then decided it was just noise. The words spoken there were indiscernible yet it meant people were nearby. He just didn’t want that right now.
   Gene set a tray on the conveyor and followed it. It abruptly stopped beneath an arching metal arm graced with a series of blinking buttons, each demanding to be pushed. Serving size. He poked at the middle one and the tray moved under the next arm. Without looking he pushed the middle button again. The tray clattered down the line stopping at the far end. He gazed down at it. There was something on the tray that was mushy and dark green with bits of sprinkled yellow and white, a patty of soy meal and a mysterious brown soup.
   “Yuk,” he declared taking the tray in both hands and making for the nearest table.
   Just as he turned to sit a sudden crash of falling trays jarred him. His anger was instant. With clinched teeth he turned to look for the culprit, but he was alone. It was the kitchen; someone in there kicked over a tray stack, someone he could not see.
   Gene turned to his food; it just lay there. Tiny swirls of steam gently rose up from it. Now he questioned why he even had food on the tray; he wasn’t hungry, the food was not appetizing, why? He stood, knocking a chair with the back of his knees, sending it clattering up against an adjacent table. Solitude, he wanted solitude, but where?
   The answer still had not presented itself when he exited the cafeteria and found himself in a broad corridor. With both hands in his pocket looking down at the floor, and sometimes looking up at the continuous stretch of ceiling lights behind endless opaque lenses, he strolled. It was possible he might spend the entire lunch period wandering aimlessly. Maybe that suited him. Maybe not.
   After bumping into walls grew tiresome and turning down nameless corridors became uninteresting; a large sign in yellow letters appeared with an arrow aimed to the right. “Observation Room” it said.
   He turned to follow its direction.
   It led to another sign and another arrow, which he also followed.
   It was his mood, he reckoned, an all-consuming black mood; the kind that puts everything and everyone in opposition. Nothing satisfied. And he snapped at any attempt at communication from others. And why not? Some deserved an occasional snap, like Ed, his partner.
   The very thought of Ed brought an audible growl to his throat.
   Hard work had brought him this far in his career, that and a clear sense of objective aimed at a permanent position in SatMan’s Operations Center. Why Operations? Everything that happened, happened there. It was the nerve center of any meaningful event of the day. History was made there. Well, he had finally made it but everything had slowed to a standstill. An economic downturn, the people around here liked to say. And it put him in the Orbit Salvage and Clearance Division. He was regulating garbage men. His luck was bad luck. This wasn’t Traffic Control or Administration, or Outstation Logistics, or even Moonbase Maintenance; this was the cleanup division where employees were sent to be forgotten. It was Purgatory and he was there with Ed.
   Another yellow lettered sign announced that he had arrived at the Observation Room. Beyond the doorless opening lay darkness. Gene took two steps inside and immediately felt the hush of quieted acoustics. He stood, blind except for the blue and white globe shining through the transparency on the opposite wall. Patiently he waited. Little by little the room began to reveal itself. The Observation Room was an amphitheater of heavily carpeted steps leading down to the transparent wall and was completely devoid of furnishings.
   Gene sat down on the top step. His vision adjusted - and he counted them. Three couples in widely separated locations all in embrace and apparently oblivious to anyone else, groped, pinched and tweaked one another, and for a time he watched. Nooners. He wondered why they were called Nooners. Where'd that come from? It was just a lot of foolishness, he had to leave.
   Once in the hallway, he tried to trace the root cause of his black mood and began to struggle with his own subjectivities. He tried to rationalize, but finally he told himself that there was no point in trying to sell himself some fictitious cause, he knew what this was all about; things were piling up on him because of Ed and his “no risk” work ethic. There was the economic slowdown, of course, and the idleness it brought but that just made things more difficult. Then there was that errant carrier contract; that made him shake his head. Well, that case needed a decision and he made one. Decisions, it seemed, weren’t in Ed’s work ethic. Nobody knew the salvage regulations better than he did, least of all Ed. That contract was by the book.
   So why did he feel this way? Why did Ed moan and groan disapprovingly after all the decisions had been made? Somehow he felt set up.
   Another sign loomed over a set of double doors, “Operations – Salvage Division”. Somehow he had wandered all the way back. Gene pushed through the doors and immediately saw someone sitting at his workstation working his terminal. Anger welled up.
   “Anything interesting?” he snapped.
   Startled, the technician turned. It was Ed. Without speaking a word, Ed reached for the keypad and erased the work on the screen. With an indifferent glance in Gene’s direction, he calmly moved back to his own workstation.
   Gene took several threatening steps. “Everything in order?” His face reddened with anger.
   Ed only glanced over his shoulder.
   “Well, was everything done according to the book?” Gene wasn’t letting go, not just yet. “There isn’t anything in the reg’s prohibiting a drive unit salvage contract!”
   Ed turned but remained silent, letting the statement dangle. Both paused in locked stare.
   But Gene looked away first. His anger rose still further as the realization swept over him that Ed had managed to get under his skin, once again, this time without uttering a single word. “What else could be done?” The words choked in Gene's throat.
   Ed smugly turned his back.
   “Why is it everytime something has to be decided around here, you disappear? Is that how you avoid mistakes, by never doing anything?”
   Ed ignored him.
   Gene seethed. Concentration was going to be impossible. He was still angry when he brought up his last working file. It required a simple single entry and he’d be finished with it. And he hoped to never see it again.   
   “Drive unit #1138 w/container unit, as is, to: Salvager lic#690, Murph Santorini, Michelle Santorini, a married couple. See file ref – 152712///Direct to Ops Hq Monthly Transport Disposition Rpt.”
   The SatMan central computer internalized the report, integrated it into other data systems then made it a part of the Monthly Transport Disposition report for May 2128 and declared the report complete an instant before sending it to all concerned agencies.
   “To:                                              All Concerned Agencies/Divisions
     From:                                         SatMan Ops
     Date:                                           May 2128
     Subject:                                      Monthly Transport Disposition Report

     Pacific Rim/Satellite Manufacturing – Materials Development:

     Drive Units Operational                                                        21,297
                         .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .
     Earth Orbit w/cargo                                                                 4,209
     Moon Orbit w/cargo                                                                3,811
     Processing at SatMan Station(s)                                                 47
     Enroute in Solar System                                                       13,215
     Enroute outside Solar System                                                    15
    
     Inventory reductions since Jan 2128:
                 Presumed lost to/fm Alpha Centauri               13
                 Presumed lost in Solar System                      6
                 Surplused for salvage – meteorite damage      1
    End - - -.”       
    
   

[Gerald Lively]

                                                                         CHAPTER  THREE


July 2128 – Earth Orbits.




           
Murph glanced to his left through the transport canopy;  he could see the large rambling habitat and the glare of innumerable lights radiating from it. It was Pete Mason's place; big, bold, and overdone. And he could see that the early arriving transports had already occupied the most favored slots, the ones next to the airlocks.
    He brought the transport around for the second time, by now the search for a parking arrangement had become a slow plodding hunt. 
Michelle shifted restlessly. “Find a mooring.” She aimed an impatient finger away from the habitat.
Murph frowned. A mooring meant donning a pressure suit and making the jump to the habitat with an orb-pack propulsion unit and he’d wanted to avoid all that. “The next time we do this . . .”
“Shoosh!” She quieted his vow. “Looks like everyone is here.”  She made a point to gaze out over the jumble of transports near the habitat and away from his gaze.
“It always looks like that.” He could easily forget these quarterly salvager socials but Michelle invariably insisted on attending. It had always been his thought that they were a waste of time. Salvagers, it seemed to him, had an innate inclination to turn the banter of light discussion into tense argument. It was usually on some matter they couldn’t control even if they thought something should be done. Nothing was ever settled, yet, Michelle said socializing was important. So here they were. 
He backed the transport, the recently discovered mooring resisted stoutly. “Cutting engines.” He sighed.
“Come on,” she said unfolding a pressure suit and handing it to him, “you’ll have a good time.”
   “You always say that and I never have a good time.” He put in a leg and struggled until his foot popped into the boot. “I hate these things.”
   “You are getting slow at this,” she declared. She sealed the fastener running up the length of her torso then peeked at him. There was mischievousness in her eye. “Must be getting old.”
   Murph ignored the comment and yanked the suit up to cover his shoulders, then with some help, sealed the front and set the headgear in place. With a swatting motion he groped for an elusive set of orb-pack hand controls. Michelle grabbed both and pulled them out in front for him.
   “Set?” she asked.
   “Set!”
   “Beginning decompression.” She started the atmosphere recovery pump. Minutes passed. Then, abruptly, the canopy lifted. Michelle leaped up to float free of the transport.
   Murph gripped her trailing tether and together they propelled to the rambling habitat.
Once on the dock the airlock sensed their presence and an outer hatch popped open. They maneuvered inside and waited until an obnoxiously brilliant red light turned green and the inside hatch opened. They moved inside.
   The habitat was huge. And it was filled with people who seemed to be wandering aimlessly. Murph sighed deeply before locating a guest locker, then began tugging at a stubborn helmet fastener under his chin. He glanced in Michelle's direction; she was already pushing her suit down over her hips. And he puzzled at that. Sometime, he reminded himself, he would ask her how she got in and out of a suit so quickly.
   He shed the orb-pack, tucked it inside the locker, gave the fastener another yank and it loosened with unaccountable ease. As he lifted the helmet, crowd noise assaulted his ears. A group walked by and a vague uneasiness swept over him. People, lots of them, and they were close – he tried dismissing the thought. 
   A hand gripped his shoulder. He turned to identify the hand’s owner, and it turned out to be old Pete Mason, the self-declared salvager patriarch. Murph looked past him, Michelle had already made her way across the room and was drinking something at the bar. He felt a sudden thirst.
   “I hear you have a complete cargo carrier all to yourself.”
   Murph looked into the old salvager’s wrinkled eyes, “How do you know that?”
   That brought a sly sort of smile and more wrinkles. “I listen to things," Pete said cryptically.
   “Listen to what?”
   “To the SatMan comm-link frequencies. It’s a way of staying informed.” Pete sipped at a drink and Murph glanced thirstily in Michelle’s direction. He failed to see her this time.
   “I’d bet every salvager interested in work knew about that carrier of yours at the same time you did.” Pete raised his glass in a toasting gesture. “By the way, you did a fine job out there. I liked the way you handled SatMan.”
   “You eavesdrop ‘cause you wanna know what everybody else is doing. Someone might get one up on you.” Murph slammed the locker door a bit harder than he meant too.
   “Everyone listens in sometimes.” Pete half smiled.
          “Not everybody.” Murph edged toward the refreshments.
   Pete stepped in front of him blocking the way. “Look Santorini, do you realize that nobody has ever held title to a drive unit until you latched onto that carrier the other day?” His expression grew serious. “Nobody, that is, except SatMan.”
   True enough. But that was common knowledge and he hadn’t spent much time thinking about it. “Why do you think that is?” he countered.
   Pete took a long deep breath as if to muster up great patience. “Control is the reason, Santorini, control. If that unit were operational SatMan wouldn’t have allowed the salvage contract. A privately held deep-space craft represents competition and SatMan doesn’t want that and neither does PacRim.” He eyed Murph, “But you know all that, don’t you?”
   He’d heard it all before. It was one of those topics that were regularly thrashed about at quarterly meetings. But Pete had a deeper concern and it was bothering him, Murph could tell that much from the extraordinary attention he was getting. In time he’d say whatever it was, Murph was sure of that too. “What do you mean by “operational”?”
   “Santorini, you are the dumbest cluck I’ve ever met.”
   Murph merely shrugged.
   “Operational means flying the damn thing; is that carrier capable of space flight?”
   “I haven’t flown it anywhere,” Murph said.
   
   A chuckle extended through a small group that had gathered around them. Pete
squelched the snickering with a stern look in their direction.
“Look Pete, my diagnostics show no interior engine damage. At first we thought
those cowling penetrations might have led to some damage inside but it didn’t happen. Those
engines were stoutly built. Never saw anything like ‘em before. The star-nav is intact and
there’s plenty of fuel. If that’s what you mean by operational, then it’s operational. You gotta
remember, Pete, this is a cargo carrier. There isn’t anyplace for you to sit.”
A nervous titter rippled through the group. This time Pete ignored it.
“The ship’s systems are okay, you say?”
“Lotsa holes but nothing I can’t fix. Everything seems to work.” Something was going on he didn’t understand. He could see that much just by looking at them all. Pete was lost in deep thought and the little group seemed pleased at what they heard. “Look Pete, I don’t think you understand about that carrier, that ship was built different all the way from the container unit to the engines. That is a strong spacecraft. What it isn’t is a normal everyday cargo carrier.”
“But it’s okay, you say?”
“Sure. It was holed and it still made it back. That ought to tell you something.”
Pete took on a thoughtful look, “The engines work, that’s how it got back. It was probably spinning from the minute it got hit. No attitude controls. . .” His voice dwindled, then he asked, “What are you gonna do with that thing, Santorini?”
“You mean the carrier?”
Pete struggled to contain himself; he didn’t always understand why others couldn’t follow his train of thought.
Besides, Murph delighted in his ability to nudge Pete to the edge of anger. “Maybe I’ll fix it up as a habitat and move on board.” That should have wrankled Pete because the old salvager prided himself for having the largest habitat in the orbits and he often paraded that fact in front of other salvagers. That's why the quarterly salvager meetings were here. But this time Pete didn't react.
“What are you up to, Santorini?”
“Don’t know,” Murph answered. This was all very mysterious, something he hadn't fathomed was going on here. “I have enough salvaged material to patch that carrier up and outfit the interior. There’s room enough for a small city inside. Who knows what it’ll end up being?” That was about as far as he had thought out the disposition of the carrier.
“You don’t know, huh.” Pete gazed thoughtfully down at the floor. “Maybe you’re gonna dismantle that thing, huh?” He was almost muttering, now.
“Like I said, I don’t know what I’ll do with it.” Why all the interest in his newly acquired carrier? Granted, it had never happened before, a salvager getting title to a cargo carrier, but they wanted to know something else; what his plans were for it. What was missing here was a lot of congratulations for putting one over on SatMan. “Can’t repair it and peddle it back to SatMan, or dismantle it for salvage resale, SatMan isn’t buying, ya know.” He shrugged. “I really don’t have a good idea on it.” He needed a drink. Murph sidestepped the old salvager but Pete turned to walk with him, and the small group dwindled as they approached the bar.
“Listen Murph,” Pete said, “salvagers around here have been sitting on their hands for ‘bout six years, more or less.”
“Most have.”
“This economic depression thing isn’t getting better, it’s getting worse and I don’t see it improving for a very long time. It just doesn’t seem like anybody wants to do something about it.”
Murph clutched a drink of something clear and bubbly, and downed it. He reached for more.
“Sure we can eat, we already grow our own food. We can sleep comfortably in our habitats but there isn’t any challenge in this sort of life. Besides, I’m tired of someone else controlling everything I do.”
“Get to the point, Pete.” Murph considered a third glass.
“You know, if SatMan started unloading all those cargo carriers, all those parked out in the Moon orbits and around Earth, it would take them three years at full manufacturing capacity to process all that raw material.” Pause. “There are still thousands of carriers in transit out in the solar system and they only add to this problem.”
“I guess so.”
“They’re not moving materials because the Earthside markets don’t need any more. The people down there have learned to do without, and they like it that way. SatMan is way overbuilt.”
“You sound like an education video,” Murph said.
“Murph, you’re a lot smarter than you let on. You like playing dumb.”
“Okay, so what’s the point of all this?”
“SatMan is never gonna want materials from us, they can’t use all the raw materials they already have.”
“And?”
“What are a bunch of salvagers at the end of the economic feeding trough gonna do? Are we gonna wait for SatMan to tell us what the next step will be?”
“I don’t know.” Murph tried to look concerned.
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t know. Look Pete, if you’re tired of all this salvager work why not retire to Earthside?”
Pete was disgusted. “Murph,” he mustered up a great patience, “if one lives in an Earthside city and doesn’t work for PacRim or SatMan or a related industry, they force you out into the bush. You’re supposed to scratch at the soil and become a subsistence farmer. That’s public policy down there. Nope,” he said, “Earthside is out of the question.”
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about, Pete, you’ve got everything you need right here and nobody is chasing you away. You’re set for life.”
“Murph, suppose you wanted to do something else, you know, something besides salvage work, what would you do about it?”
He had never considered anything else. His salvage license had been in the family since the first licenses were issued in 2060 right after the Euro-African war and the environmental cataclysm that happened about that time. He recalled his own father telling stories of whole populations dying off because of drought, poisoned air and water, and how food became scarce and he remembered how thankful he was to live in the orbits. He had never set foot on Earth or any planet. Not even Moonbase. What’s more, he had no desire too. He liked it right where he was. “Pete, you make it sound as if you were in jail.”
“Murph, we can fly around these orbits but we can’t really go anywhere; SatMan won’t let you on a manufacturing station platform unless you have a work contract, the SatMan HQ platform is out of the question for any salvager unless you’re summoned for a license hearing, and haven’t you noticed that they talk to you on comm-link instead of coming out to see you? And then they talk down to you. None of us has a craft that can get down to the surface or is capable of deep space travel. We’re stuck right here, this is a jail.”
“Okay you have a point.” Murph pushed the empty glass across the counter. “Just what does this have to do with my carrier?” Murph folded his arms across his chest.
“I’m trying to tell you there is no future in the orbit salvage business. There is more to life than these orbits, there has to be. We need opportunity, a chance at something else – we need rescuing, Murph, and you are the man that can rescue us all.” Pete was smiling like Murph had never seen him smile before.
But Murph could only wonder at the meaning of it.
“All of us here tonight,” Pete said, “will pool our surpluses and convert that carrier to a passenger carrying space craft. We know there are problems to be solved but we think we can do it.”
Murph dropped his arms, he was astonished.
“We have calculated an eco-system, the living areas, a flight bridge, the entire thing. We think it’s well thought out. We will commit all of our combined resources and fix that carrier so you,” he aimed a finger squarely at him, “can take us away from this place.”
Murph sputtered, “Do you . . . do you realize how large that container unit is inside, how much atmosphere and . . . everything . . . that will be required?”
A calm confidence came over Pete. “Yes I do,” he said, “we are prepared to dismantle our own habitats if necessary and we have several different conversion plans to choose from, that is, of course, if you’re interested.”
 Pete was different somehow, different than he'd ever been. Maybe he was seeing him for the first time, maybe he never really understood the old fellow. “You are actually making plans to leave the orbits?”
“Absolutely, and that goes for most of those here tonight.”
“And you’re asking me to cough up my license for this – this wild-eyed scheme?”
“Come on, what does that license get you? Freedom to cruise the orbits, pick up civilization’s garbage; do you meet people, go anywhere, see the sights, do what you want to do on your own schedule? You can do that and more, if you choose. All we have to do is convert that carrier.”
To say the least, this was unexpected. How had he gotten into this no-win situation? If he refused them, these salvagers would never work with him again, and if he bought off on this idea of theirs there was no telling what an angry SatMan would do. If he sold the carrier to them, or even gave it away, they’d leave and SatMan would still be on his case. “How many salvagers want to do this?” he asked.
“Out of a hundred license holders we have ninety-eight. One has an age problem, you are the other one.”
“That’s all of them, amazing.” Heavy pounding thundered under his breastbone. “What’s SatMan going to think about this salvager’s revolt?”
“I guarantee they won’t like it. They don’t like anything different or anything that smacks of initiative.” Pete tugged at his sleeve, “This is our only chance, Murph, they made a mistake when they transferred title to you. We must take advantage of this.”
“I have title to it, there isn’t any hurry to do anything now, there isn’t anything they can do.” Even as he said it he wasn’t so sure.
 “As soon as they find out what they’ve done, they’ll dispute the contract and get you before the Arbitration Board and take that contract away from you. You gotta remember whose Arbitration Board it is, they put it together and they control it. Don’t fool yourself, Murph.”
Pete was right about SatMan, they’d try to take the carrier back, if it suited them, and that raised the hair on the back of his neck. “So we convert this carrier, then what?”
Pete took one deep breath. “We’ll search for a suitable planet and set up a colony. You let us off with our equipment and that’s when your obligation to us ends. You’d be free to go wherever you wish.” Pete tried a grin, he couldn’t tell how this was being received, after all, it was the wildest portion of the plan and the least certain.
“Suppose you never find this planet?” A distinct possibility. No one really knew if there was an Earth-like planet or moon within reach of Earth.
“Then we’d live on that ship. The carrier will have more living space than we’ll ever find anywhere except on a planet – and that’s enough room for me. Imagine, Murph, these designs of ours have more than ten million square feet inside. It boggles the mind. Who knows, it might be so comfortable we may never want to get off.” Pete had revealed a new side of himself; clearly he had been thinking on this for a long time. He must have been waiting for an opportunity like this.
For Murph there were other considerations and they started with Michelle. Just as he turned to search the crowd for her, she appeared in front of him. There was a sparkle in her eyes.
“Murph,” she said, “I’ve just heard the most exciting idea.”





 

[Gerald Lively]

CHAPTER  FOUR


August 2128 – Santorini Orb-Salvager – Earth Orbit.




   “The eco-system covers half the main level.” Pete pressed a finger against the table screen at a spot in the middle of the main deck schematic. “The soil plot is eighty-five acres all by itself.” For a moment he rested his chin in one hand, he was tired. “When the ops-computer set out this design she really did something. Have you seen how much pipe has to go beneath the main deck? There’s some huge stuff there.” 
It wasn’t just an ops-computer that worked out the design, it was every salvager’s ops-computer all linked together plus a lot of individual salvager effort that went into this “built to last forever” design - including a piece of software an unnamed salvager acquired at the Moonbase maintenance facility. This particular acquisition was considered priceless among those in the know.
“What’s the start date on the main level?” Pete asked.
   Michelle mulled over the data on her terminal. “Today,” she said. “Start bringing in the materials, begin construction as quickly as you are able.”
   “We’re moving awfully fast,” Murph said scratching his head.
“We’re barely staying on schedule,” Michelle said. She checked her terminal, “It says today.”
“Are we ready?” Murph asked.
Michelle scrolled to another log; “Prep says all the main deck plating should be inside. A team of robo-fabricators should be working on it right now.” She glanced at them both. “We’ve gotta get this done. When the main level decking is in, we can hold a level of atmospheric pressure up top and leave the shuttle bay hatch open below, then you can bring in all this piping and materials for down below.”
“That plating is inside, right?” Pete looked in Murph’s direction. He was supposed to know.
“It’s inside and mostly installed. I’ve got every robo-welder and half the fabricators on it.” Pete took a deep breath.
“Then someone better get moving on that pipe assembly.” Michelle said.
“What happens,” Pete stood, “when we’ve got to bring in materials for the upper ten decks? This’ll all be airtight and the main deck will have the big access holes closed off.”
“We pump out the air, cut through the hull where the bridge will be and bring in everything you need. Should we forget something after the bridge and cockpit are in, it’ll have to come in through the shuttle bay and elevator access,” Michelle looked up at him. Pete seemed satisfied. “Time to get moving,” she said.
“That’s a lot of welding,” Pete said quietly, thinking more than speaking. “Okay,” he took a step back, “do it once and do it forever. A once in a lifetime adventure, gotta get to work,” and he bounded through the hatch. It didn't matter how tired he felt, there was a schedule to meet.
She gazed at the area where Pete had expressed a concern, the eco-system fields, and absently traced a finger over the design lines. “Is this going to produce enough food?”
Murph looked up from his own work, “Don’t forget the hydroponics.” Salvagers were experts in eco-system food production because they have always had to provide for themselves.   
 “Mmm,” she grunted holding down the page index. The screen rapidly changed from one page to the next. She stopped at the tenth level and began to slowly trace a finger over the forward areas. “This is the Captain’s quarters,” she glimpsed at Murph to see if he was paying any attention to her, “and the Captain’s mate lives there too.”
He feigned surprise. “Way up on the tenth level?”
“Uh huh.” She circled an area starboard of the bridge, “Right there.”
“It’ll be a long time before we get that built,” Murph said.
“And this way,” her finger traced a line through a doorway and down a short corridor, “it’s only ten steps to the aft-bridge.”
He was interested now and leaned in closer. “You’ve finished the bridge layout?”
She grinned. “The general layout is in. I’ve got the ops-computer working on the instrumentation.”
“What’s this?” He pointed to a large console that ran around the entire perimeter of the room. Another more circular console filled the middle of the room.
“That is upper aft-bridge. A lot of instrumentation goes in there. During non-critical flight the bridge crew spends most of their time on the aft-bridge. All the monitoring systems are there, you could even operate the flight controls from there if you had too.”
“What’s in that perimeter console?”
“Sensor displays, computer stations, repeater screens, communications, visual monitors, graphics, all the science equipment – and there’s more on the lower aft-bridge.”
“Where did we get all this equipment?”
“Orb-salvagers, old ones – some old satellites that Pete had, the stuff was all brought in by salvagers.
“Amazing!” He remembered now, Pete pushed for a contract on old satellite clearance some time back, a non-routine project that nobody thought would produce any salvage. It must have yielded some of these instruments.
“We have more CRT and LCD monitors than you can count. You should see how much stuff there is. Pete’s got a gadget that actually measures atmosphere from a distance. It picks up things like water vapor, dust, carbon dioxide . . .”
“Spectrometer,” Murph said.
“How’d you know that?”
He shrugged in a non-committal way.
She eyed him and decided he was teasing. "This is going to be fun, isn't it?"
He nodded, he thought so too.                                                     

[Gerald Lively]

                                                                            CHAPTER  FIVE

One Year Later
16 September 2129 – Satellite Manufacturing Headquarters – Earth Orbit.






There was an uncertain feeling about the day ahead; his body was still protesting the morning and that meant it was a day to go slow. His motto for this sort of day; do not make big decisions, wait for a day when you jump out of bed and bounce into the office. The blahhs, he had them. He pushed the office door open and sighed.
He ritualistically circled the desk before easing down into the deeply cushioned chair, placing both feet up on the desk. With considerable effort he reached for the comm-link control. It was much too far away. He glared at the panel, tried once again, straining this time, but found it was not within his present reach. Reluctantly he lowered his feet, reached for the panel and pushed the correct button. Then, huffing with effort, he regained his feet-up position.
The message screen came to life.
The overnight news summary came first. A rare hurricane was dumping heavy amounts of rain over the Carolina coast. Some of the ancient weather patterns were beginning to reestablish themselves. A positive sign. But he doubted the people down there saw it that way. He had a sympathetic image of people scrambling in the heavy winds trying to capture whatever rainfall they could. Water as fresh as rainfall was prized down there. The wind was not. Depressing.
He skipped to the next item.
The United States federal government announced that Los Angeles proper has been declared a national monument. A not unexpected money saving move. A big earthquake finished off the last desalination plant at Pacific Palisades three years ago and PacRim turned down their request for a new plant. And that was the last major domestic water supply. The PacRim Board of Directors cited a public policy about citizens becoming self-sufficient in the countryside. Depressing for sure.
A PacRim news release. He read it. Another economic revitalization plan; this time it was designed to stimulate consumer demand for industrial products. “Self-sufficiency is no longer enough,” a Board spokesman said, “there is a deep need to support our fellow industrial workers in the orbits through the purchase of manufactured goods. Remember, you can shape their future and in doing so, shape the future of us all.”
“Dreamers,” he muttered.
He squirmed recrossing his ankles. Finally, tired of the news he called for his message list. This was not a morning to be wading through a series of depressing news items, he told himself, and watched as the message list raced up the screen. He scanned the list then spotted it; the trap, the sort of thing that ruins the day, a communication from the PacRim Executive Director. He should have known better; on days when he had the green crumbies PacRim always came up with a problem. No doubt it was some ill conceived piece of bent logic passed out from the Board of Directors based on a highly selective set of statistics designed to reach a wrong conclusion in the first place. His pessimistic inventiveness brought a smirk to his lips.
Once, he recalled, someone pleaded a highly moralistic case before the PacRim Board; the human race’s most highly educated and trained people are posted on the outstations, so the argument went, and they work under no supervision whatsoever. No telling what those people may be doing. Then the Board, in a moment of self-righteousness, authorized a patrol. Fine, until someone pointed out that it would take a lifetime for a single patrol to make one call at each station. The proposal went out for study and was quietly dropped. And the people assigned to the outstations were once again free to pursue their immoralities. The thought of it was still good for a chuckle.
It was the last time that the PacRim Board tried to interfere in SatMan business with out first checking.
For a moment he considered ignoring the communication. What he did do was call up a summary of the most recent communications from SatMan to the Board. He was going to educate himself on current issues before any return call. The list was made up of manufacturing station production reports, carrier disposition reports, carrier maintenance records, special reports on missing transports and carriers, personnel staffing patterns, all routine.
Production was down but that was due to a decreasing demand for manufactured goods - not his problem. Perhaps the Board had become concerned about those missing transports and carriers between here, Ganymede and the Titan outstation - somehow he didn’t think so.
He leaned on his elbows. The cursor next to the PacRim message blinked incessantly as he raised a hand and held it above the call button. There he hesitated. The cursor continued to blink. In a moment of reckless abandonment – he pressed the button.
“Pacific Rim Corporation, Executive Director’s Office,” the pleasant voice announced.
“This is Sam Yamato, Executive Director, Satellite Manufacturing returning Jim Brooks’ overnight call.”
There was a click followed by a beep, then “Sam, good to hear from you so soon,” the deep male voice said.
Sam rolled his eyes. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, the Board met yesterday, I suppose you’ve heard.”
There was only the economic revitalization plan in the news, that was all he’d heard. “We don’t get the news like you do down there. What’s up?”
“It was the usual meeting with a squabble here and there, you know the kind of stuff that goes on.”
He knew.
“One of the Directors started flipping through the various reports we make available to them and a question arose about one of yours. It’s probably a numbers thing, someone plugging for a figure I’d bet. We’d like to get it straightened out though.”
Sam fumbled with his reader file trying to bring up the most recent reports to PacRim, again.
Brooks continued, “If you recall your May 2128 Transport Disposition Report I think I can point out the difficulty.”
It wasn’t on his list; the report was more than a year old. Sam dumped the reader list and called for the specific report. “That report is ancient,” he grumbled.
“Doesn’t matter,” Brooks replied.
He found it. A rapid scan failed to reveal anything out of the ordinary.
“Sam, we need a better idea of what happened to the carrier taken out of service under the caption, “Surplused for salvage – meteorite damage.””
He hadn’t seen that. “We had a number of carriers inadvertently pass through the asteroid belt, we think. Most were lost, thirteen out of fourteen if I recall correctly. This carrier was damaged beyond economical repair, I believe.”
“Even so, the entry seems to suggest title was transferred to a salvager.” Brooks’ voice had gained a grim quality.
Sam looked again; the report could be interpreted in a number of different ways. “It doesn’t exactly say that.” He studied it. “I’ll run this one down for you.”
“You might as well know, Sam, Director Maderos saw that and hit the ceiling. Right away she reasoned that a carrier capable of flying all the way from some outstation to the parking orbit, a space capable craft, was sold to a salvager. And you know how the Board feels about that. They want answers, Sam.”
He agreed to look into it and signed off.
And he knew where to begin. Every salvaged equipment item required a backup report. In seconds the file retrieval finished its swirl around the screen and settled into steady text.
Sam hated surprises and on the very first try he found one, a big one. The file opened with a title transfer contract to a salvager, and it included the container unit, the drive unit and all incidental cargo.
 He groaned out loud.
 There was reference to a visual record, which he called up. The action was dramatic, a wildly out of control carrier spinning at close range and the damage was obvious; there were at least two gigantic holes through the container unit. There was an attempt to survey the container, a lost probe, stabilization of the spinning craft, a second probe and a successful survey, a damage report and a contract. Incredibly, the salvager didn’t want the carrier; it was SatMan’s own aggressive technician who forced the contract on the salvager. Maybe that was a good sign. The carrier was probably parked alongside some habitat while the salvager tried to figure out what to do with it. Mentally Sam crossed his fingers.
                                                     *    *    *
 The Next Day – 17 Sept 2129 – Satellite Manufacturing Headquarters.
A prune faced secretary gestured officiously at the two technicians. “In here,” she said, pointing to the inner office, registering disapproval as they passed by and closing the door behind them with a pronounced ‘thunk’.
Sam took a quick assessment; one was short, ramrod stiff and very aware of his situation – the other looked to be the veteran of the team and wore stylish clothes that fit twenty pounds ago.
“Sit!”
The technicians slid into the only chairs available to them.
The big one spoke, “I think Gene,” he tipped his head toward the shorter one, “can answer all your questions.”
Gene stiffened.
“Both of you are here in regards to a title transfer contract covering a cargo carrier vessel. This transaction took place over a year ago. Either of you recall this incident?”
Ed nodded to Gene.
“Please enlighten me,” Sam said.
Gene responded, “Carrier 1138 was one of a fleet of fourteen returning from Alpha Station in the Alpha Centauri System. The subject cargo was processed dry titanium. We have estimated that the fleet traversed an active section of the asteroid belt and all of the fleet was lost except vessel 1138 which was heavily damaged. There is a visual record of the carrier’s condition.”
Sam nodded.
“Briefly, the ship’s damages were a loss of attitude control which was the probable cause of the carrier’s orbit irregularities and cargo loss. There was major damage to the container unit, two holes; the first was two hundred feet across, the other two hundred fifty feet across plus an estimated one thousand holes through the engine cowlings and the engines themselves. We believe these will result in engine failure within a very short operating period. The cargo carrier was deemed of no value to the Satellite Manufacturing Corporation in as much as all units of the vessel are believed to have sustained critical damage.” He snapped rigid with eyes forward.
Sam exhausted a breath. “Well, just what do you expect this salvager to do with this craft?”
“The salvager is expected to dismantle the craft. However, in the unlikely event repairs are made SatMan should repurchase the carrier. I do not believe a repair will be made, not with the limited resources and skills available to the salvager.”
Sam studied the technician; the tech sat stiff, stoic, and looking straight ahead. “Isn’t this an extraordinary method of discarding a critically damaged carrier?”
“Sir, a glut of carrier’s exist now. Over twenty thousand of them are loaded and in the orbits now. Moonbase maintenance is overloaded. I reasoned that Moonbase did not have room for a carrier in this condition. It was less expensive to discard the carrier in this manner than to cause it to be towed the entire distance to Moonbase only to be discarded there.”
Good logic, good business sense, but a rookie; evidently he didn’t know anything about unwritten policy. “Was there any question in your mind about the propriety of transferring this drive unit’s title?”
“No sir, a drive unit is classified as equipment and equipment is handled under regulation . . .”
Sam rocked back and patiently listened to the technician quote regulations. Technically he was correct, drive units were classified as items of equipment but he should have known that no other drive unit had ever been handled this way. It should have occurred to him to find out why.
“How long have you been in Operations?”
“Three years.”
“And you?” he asked Ed.
“Fifteen years.”
Sam nodded at that. “Next time this happens, and I hope it never does, you are responsible for imparting all unwritten policy information to Gene, here. Understood?”
A pallor swept over Ed’s face. “Yes sir,” he said weakly.
“I need further action on this. Take a trip out to see this salvager, this Murph Santorini, find out what his plans are for this carrier, what the status of the carrier is, and if you get the chance, make a deal to buy back the drive unit. If it’s dismantled, try and purchase the navigation components and the engines.”
Ed seemed puzzled. “You want us to go out there in the orbits and talk with a salvager?”
“Sure, why not?”
Ed squirmed. “Wouldn’t a comm-link contact do just as well?”
“No,” Sam responded, “I want you to meet with this salvager in case you need to get a sense of things. This may require finesse on your part. You can finesse someone, can’t you?”
“Yessir!” Gene bellowed.
Ed reluctantly agreed.
“Then go to it!”
And they left.
Immediately Sam started to pace. What else could he do, where could he look that he hadn’t already looked? He had covered all the bases; it was just unfortunate that this had to happen. No explanation was going to make PacRim happy, not as long as a salvager retained possession of a cargo carrier.
He was wasting time; he put in the call to PacRim. Jim Brooks took the briefing quietly, even during the visuals he had no comment or questions. “Sam,” he finally said, “this may be a difficult one but the Board doesn’t think SatMan has the authority to transfer a drive unit.”
Sam bristled, “That’s lame. We both know that cannot be correct and I’d bet the Board knows it too. The reg’s themselves make no distinction between a drive unit and any other piece of equipment. What you’re talking about is some unwritten policy, and it’s unwritten because the Board has always been afraid to openly adopt it. Member nations would fight it and they’d win. We salvage equipment up here everyday; it’s fundamental to our operation. If there is any question about our authority to transfer equipment then you are challenging the entire salvager system.”
“Sam, Sam,” Brooks was using his most soothing voice, “why not have some of your people go out there and retrieve that drive unit? If you can do that everybody will be happy. After that’s done, clean up your records on this, we can’t have some wild-eyed salvager using this as a precedent, can we?”
Sam was out of patience, “You need to understand something, that carrier belongs to a salvager, not SatMan. If he wants to sell it, fine, but he has a legal right to turn us down. As for my records, I’ll take care of them the way I see fit. By the way, what do you people use for ethics down there?”
Brooks backed down. “Alright Sam, you hang on to your system but remember, these Board members are afraid right now and that can bring out some strange actions from them.”
“Afraid of what?” Sam snapped.
“Some of the member nations are making noises about pulling out of the treaty. The thinking around here is if just one or two drop out the rest of them will follow. Now think about this, if some opportunistic salvager sells a cargo carrier in operational condition to a member nation, then the other nations will want one. Then they’ll want surface-to-orbit craft then PacRim is out of business. It’s just a house of cards, Sam.”
He hadn’t thought about it until now but PacRim was incredibly vulnerable. No more PacRim, was that a bad thing? “Sounds to me like some enterprising fellow with a good idea will come along some day and knock your house down.” He was serious.
                                                 
                                                     *    *    *

18 September 2129 – Main Level – Cargo Carrier Under Construction.

Murph rubbed hard at the fatigue in his eyes. It did no good. He blinked but the need for sleep seemed overwhelming and a series of deep breaths hadn’t helped either. A yawn temporarily interrupted his survey of the eco-system field. Two hundred yards from where he stood a squad of ag-robots swirled patterns between a half dozen mounds of old habitat soil, mixing in ever widening circles.
Behind them the starboard grove bristled with seedling trees. Someday it would grow into a thickly forested grove. How long would that take, he wondered?
A pair of ag-robots rolling along the soil plot boundary on the farside caught his eye. They seemed to march on and on. He stared. Then both halted as they came to the border of the portside grove. One of them sighted with a laser beam, turned at a right angle and proceeded to cut a shallow furrow running very nearly directly at him. The other followed close behind, dropping seeds into the furrow and covering them with a small amount of the new soil leaving a very shallow trench. Closer they came, closer until they turned in front of him and proceeded into another row.
He turned now, to the portside grove. There among the scraggly seedling conifers and low lying brush, and high above the rivulet etched soil, Michelle’s special project stood with its three steps leading up to the basic structure, a round shingle-roofed gazebo protected by a waist-high railing encircling a chain suspended bench at mid-floor. Murph pondered it’s yet to be revealed purpose. It might offer protection during a scheduled rainfall – but knowing that, why would anyone be out there? He continued to wonder at it.
Movement to the left turned his head. Pete and Michelle, both, were running towards him. Pete tried to say something but he was completely out of breath. Desperate wheezing was all he could manage. But Michelle blurted out the message, “SatMan is sending out a team of techs tomorrow at 1500.”
Suddenly his fatigue weighed more heavily. “SatMan, huh.” For one peaceful year they had not called to solicit work or bother any of them. In a normal year he would expect endless salvager complaints but not this year. It seemed their luck had run out. “I guess that’s it.”
Michelle scowled. “What do you mean?”
“When SatMan sees all this they’ll know exactly what we’ve been up to for all these months.”
She aimed an angry finger at him. “We are not waiting around for those jerks, it’s time to launch this ship. It is time to get outta here.”
“We barely have the walls and floors in.” He gestured up at the ten unfinished cantilevered decks high above them. “We can’t launch, the artificial gravity system is untested under acceleration, equipment down in the shuttle bay is scattered all over the place, we’ve never fired the engines, we don’t know if they’ll come on line or explode, and the bridge systems – the instrumentation is . . .”
Michelle interrupted, “So what!”
Murph’s resolve weakened. “The artificial gravity, we don’t know if it’ll work.”
“We have to fire those engines to make it work and once we’ve done that SatMan will know what’s going on.”
“The art-grav’ll work,” Pete said. It was an untested system, something they’d pieced together. Nobody could come up with a big art-grav device so they put together a series of small devices and crossed their collective fingers. It was one of those gambles they had to take.
“We’re barely in here,” Murph pleaded, “we still have material outside, and we need more habitat atmosphere. Air pressure in here is still low.”
Michelle placed both hands firmly on her hips which told him he was being ridiculous.
“Well,” he said, “we do have a day left to get what we can inside,” he glimpsed at her scowl. “I suppose this is as good a time as any to run some tests, if it doesn’t kill us all in the process.” He sighed at his fatigue. “Tell everyone they have until 1400 tomorrow to be on-board with whatever they’ll be taking. At 1401 we close the hatches and fire this thing up.”
                                                   
                                                     *    *    *
                             19 September 2129 – Earth Orbits.

Intermittent bursts flamed from the needle-nosed transport’s single engine. It quickly pushed higher and the SatMan Headquarters platform fell far behind and below. Inside the cockpit, both technicians sat in silence.
Ed stared at the star patterns off to starboard; he was already trying to pass the time.
Gene gave a sideways glance at his preoccupied partner. He felt playful. He jammed the engine thrust control far forward for several seconds pressing them both back into their seats.
Ed demonstrated no detectable reaction. Gene pushed the velocity higher; still there was no notice of his erratic piloting. He wondered what it took.
But Ed only stared out through the canopy.
Gene blindly groped for a control as he focused on his partner. He gripped something and shoved. With unexpected violence, erupting braking thrusters tossed them hard up against their restraining belts. 
Ed jerked around. “What the hell are you doing? Don’t you know how to operate this thing?” he bellowed.
Gene controlled the ship. “Listen Porky, if you wanted to pilot you should have said something back on the dock.”
Ed gave him a momentary glare before returning to his woolgathering.
Habitat transponders began clicking identifications on a digital display. Gene watched it for a time but they still had a long way to travel. Again he turned to Ed. “Well big guy, you wanna fly this thing or not?” He pretended to make room behind the Pilot’s console and patted the space next to himself.
Ed was weary of the banter. “No! I do not have any desire to pilot.” He quickly sought the solitude of the stars.
Gene shrugged. He glanced down at the darkened planet below then back to his own console. Radar showed thousands of indistinguishable blips; they were in the parking orbits. But he could see no other craft through the canopy. Another check of the radar, all the parking was just below. Devilishly, he dipped the nose of the transport and punched the thrusters. Their velocity jumped alarmingly. Stationary carriers began to appear, growing rapidly into huge threatening steel obstacles.
Startled, Ed blurted, “What do you think you are doing?!” He desperately gripped the console with both hands.
“Can’t handle it, huh?” Gene chuckled but he quickly found that their dive required his constant vigilance. A prickly sweat broke over his forehead, and he narrowly missed a pair of closely set carriers.
Ed squeezed his knuckles white as a carrier sped past in a blur. “Be careful, be careful.”
“Wanna drive?” Gene pulled the transport out of the dive.
“You little jerk face, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”
Gene chuckled. “Whatdya say we get on with this mission, huh big guy?” He had finally gotten to Ed, just this once. He felt good about it.
“Geez, you are weird.” Ed declared before returning to his stars.
                                                     
                                                   *    *    *
                 19 September 2129 – Aboard the Converted Carrier.

Pete squinted at the monitor. He was witnessing a mounting chaos in the shuttle bay. The influx of materials and equipment had overwhelmed the pressure-suited crew to the extent that the unsorted cargo was being thrown into huge mounds. Order, he guessed, would have to come later.
“Shuttle bay status?” Murph called out the next checklist item.
Pete grimaced. “Cargo is still incoming, bay hatch remains open. And that’s an understatement.”
“We’ll come back to that one. Atmospherics?”
Pete manipulated a dial. “Pressure, point nine five sea level, carbon dioxide is point oh five, a little high, probably from the new soil. It’s the decay factor, it’ll settle down in a week or so.”
“Water?”
“Everything was tested as it came aboard. Quality was good, but mixed. Give the eco-system one cycle and we’ll be in great shape. Quantity is at design levels.”
Murph peeked up at him, “Artificial gravity?”
Pete pointed to a monitor that displayed something similar to a net thrown over a field of poles. “Point eight and holding.”
Murph saw nothing there that inspired confidence. “I hope we don’t end up a smudge on some back wall,” he muttered.
“We won’t,” Pete said.
Murph eyed the monitor again, the grid seemed solid enough, and still . . . he went to the next item, “Fuel?”
“Inventory is at 1,812 canisters plus four loaded and locked in at primary engines stations.”
“We are at launch sequence, better get that shuttle bay closed up,” Murph instructed.
Pete reached for the close alarm. “Closure in ten minutes.”
“Destination selection is next,” Michelle said. She tapped in the instruction to connect the star-nav to the ops-computer, the destination menu scrolled up a forward screen.
“PRE-PLOTTED DESTINATIONS
SATELLITE MANUFACTURING CORPORATION
STAR NAVIGATION SYSTEM

Asteroid Stations         Outstation/et al
                        ------------------------------------------------------------------------------                   
                                        M111                          Moonbase Parking
                                        M137                          Mars Station
                                                      M486                          Earth Parking
                                                      M501                          Titan Station
                                                      M519                          Ganymede Station
                                                      M520                          Proxima Station
                                                      M907                         Alpha Centauri Station”
   Michelle entered ‘Earth Parking’ as their starting position then turned to the others. “What shall it be, gentlemen?”
Murph checked the list. “Is that all there is?”
“That’s all there is on this list,” she responded.
Pete studied the menu closely. Clearly he was disappointed. “Looks like they selected these for their mining value and not their habitability, should have thought of that.”
“Your choice,” Murph said to Pete who was frowning, “what’ll it be?”
“The asteroids are out,” Michelle observed, “can’t very well set up a colony there. For that matter why go anywhere inside the solar system? SatMan’ll show up about as quickly as it takes to get there.”
“Could be nowhere on this menu is a good idea,” Murph said, “these are all SatMan installations.”             
“Someone should make a decision here,” Michelle urged.
“Maybe,” Pete shifted nervously, “maybe we need just a short venture out, a sort of shakedown cruise.”
Murph sat forward. Pete shrank back into his acceleration chair. This did not make sense. All of this was Pete’s idea, he had wanted it badly, and badly enough to talk the entire contingent of licensed salvagers out of any future in the orbits – and now this.
Pete’s gaze darted from Murph to Michelle and back. “We should go somewhere but just far enough so we could get back if something went wrong. Gotta test the ship,” he said.
“Pete, that just doesn’t make sense. We’re in this come the Garden of Eden or crash.” Murph had to lean into Pete’s line of vision.
Pete cowered. “I just wanna shakedown.”
“A shakedown, for what?” Murph threw both hands in the air.
“Let’s have a look at the destination menu again,” Michelle suggested. “Let’s start with just the solar system destinations.”
“The asteroids are out,” Murph grumbled.
“That leaves Ganymede, Titan, Moonbase, and Mars.” Michelle glanced at Pete.
“Ganymede is a frozen moon,” Pete said.
“We don’t want to hang around where SatMan will find us so that eliminates Moonbase and Mars Station. Mars has the penal colony, maybe we’ll end up there anyway.” Murph glared at Pete.
“Then we have Titan Station, what do we know about that?” Michelle asked.
Silence.
She moved the cursor next to Titan Station and paused.
“Titan Station it is,” declared Murph.
                                                     
                                                     *    *    *
                      Aboard the Satellite Manufacturing Transport.

Ed focused on the habitat transponder identification monitor. Numbers clicked off one after another until ‘690’ locked in. “Yes,” he declared, “there it is.”
Gene set the guidance system to 'active' then gave Ed a cheery thumbs up.
The transport made a gradual deceleration nudging down into a new orbit as it followed an invisible course line through the darkness. Both tech’s sensed the nearness of the habitat and edged forward in their seats. But there wasn’t anything to see.
“This isn’t the way I remember salvager habitats,” Gene commented. He checked the short-range radar, it showed a habitat dead ahead. But the view through the canopy revealed nothing. “I recall bright lights and a lot of activity.”
Ed shaded his eyes from the cockpit lights. “I don’t see any storage yard either.”
Gene dimmed the cockpit lights; his eyes went to a very faint horizon glow that he traced off to port – until something blocked it. “What’s that out there?”
Ed couldn’t see anything.
Gene pointed. “It’s off to the side, not on radar. Get ‘em on comm-link,” he directed, “have ‘em raise some outside lights.”
Ed fumbled with the comm-link. “This is SatMan transport to 690.”
No response.
The ‘docking imminent’ alert sign flashed on. Gene was forced to concentrate on what was straight ahead, and he saw the jaw-like docking mechanism yawning through the darkness.
“690, are you in communication?”
Gene looked again at the object to port. “That’s no storage yard out there,” he said, “it has no nav-lights.”
“690, this is SatMan transport.”
“That has to be a carrier over there,” Gene said still staring into the darkness.
“If that’s the carrier,” Ed asked, “then where is the storage yard?” Together they searched for the miles long netting of materials that every salvager tethered from their habitats. But Gene’s eyes went to port again.
As he turned a burst of light flashed and he immediately recognized what was happening. “It’s the carrier, they’re turning it.” A thruster flashed again.
“You’re crazy,” Ed snarled, “they couldn’t . . .”
“Aborting docking sequence,” Gene shouted and he shoved the flight bar far forward. The transport dipped beneath the habitat platform.
“Gene, you are nuts, we’re supposed to go to that habitat.”
More lights flashed.
“Did you see that?”
Dumfounded, Ed’s mouth hung open.
“It’s adjusting attitude,” Gene barked. In his minds eye he knew exactly what the carrier was doing, the bow was pointed up away from the planet below and it was in a rolling turn as it adjusted to aim up orbit towards the increasing glow on the horizon. “Turn on the nose camera,” Gene shouted, “nobody is going to believe this.”
“How do you do that?”
Gene groaned. He reached far to his right for a small array of buttons. When he was sitting again, a dull blue glow was emerging from the underside of the carrier. With increasing speed the carrier rolled and the dull blue light turned into four separate round exhaust lights.
“Thrusting to max,” Gene barked, “we’re gonna catch ‘em and board her.” He concentrated on the carrier and it did seem, for a time, that they were closing the distance. But all four exhausts turned to a white-hot brilliance and the distance between them quickly lengthened.
The carrier glided effortlessly up and away, and the transport was alone in the nightside orbits.
Four brilliant lights rose into the sunrise, glittering, until they became a single white morning star. As the sun peeked over the horizon the white star became indistinguishable from the hope of the new day.
                                                     
                                                     *    *    *

20 September 2129 – Satellite Manufacturing Headquarters – Earth Orbits.
   
Sam Yamato covered his face with both hands and closed his eyes tightly while he tried to visualize the story the technicians were telling. He ventured a peek through parted fingers. “Go ahead, I’m listening.” He breathed deeply then dropped both hands.
   “We were there at the appointed time,” Gene said.
   “You announced your arrival over the comm-link?”
“Yessir.”
“Tell me what happened after that.”
“The habitat failed to respond,” Gene explained. “As it turned out there wasn’t anyone there. All the habitat lights were off, only the docking computer was working.”
“Then what?”
“Just as we were hitting the dock we saw something moving so we aborted and went to investigate.”
“What was it?”
“The carrier.”
“Then what?”
Ed squirmed.
“We chased it,” Gene said quietly.
Sam tried to suppress a smile. “You chased it?”
“Yessir. It took off just as we tried to get near it for boarding.”
“You were going to board the carrier?” Sam was having a hard time maintaining any sort of seriousness.
“Yessir. “
“Then what?”
“We went back to the habitat. It was cleaned out. It’s nothing but a shell. The eco-system was gone, there was no atmosphere or any equipment except for some solars, batteries and the docking computer.”
“Conclusions?”
“We conducted a quick survey of some other salvagers by comm-link and most appear to have gone.”
This was getting serious. Was it possible all the salvagers had gotten together on this carrier conversion enterprise – and actually cooperated and left the orbits together? What about a salvager labor force for the orbits? For a moment he was unable to imagine the impact. He asked, “How many did you check?”
“Twenty-two and none respond. I think, sir, they have all gone.” Gene showed concern.
So they did get together. Yes, he thought, together they might have enough equipment to do the job. Every salvager had welders and fabricators and computer equipment to make the job proceed; yet a spacecraft required a certain amount of sophistication in technical equipment. But the spacecraft itself was basically there in the form of a carrier, all that was necessary was the interior. Still he had doubts, “They get off without any visible problems?”
“Smooth as glass, sir.”
Sam shook his head at this unbelievable and sudden turn of events. He would never have guessed this could happen. “What about a destination? Any ideas?”
Gene handed him a sheet of paper. “That is the destination menu from the 1138’s star-nav system. As you can see, it is rather limited.”
Sam hesitated, “You think they managed to tap into the star-nav system?”
Gene said, “Sir, the take off was as smooth as if it were under computer control. Salvagers do program central control computer systems to organize salvage work and to program robotics. They use computers for life support systems too. They should have no trouble with something as straightforward as a star-nav system.”
Ed sneered at that. “It takes intelligence and training to program computers. I don’t think a bunch of salvagers could have done that.”
“The evidence is all over the place,” Sam said, “the ship did take off and it sounds to me like they’re still alive. The carrier was probably airtight, the engines fired, it was flight capable, isn’t that enough sophistication for you?”
Ed shrugged.
Sam studied him. Maybe they were all guilty of ignoring the salvagers – their needs and their capabilities. That they got together at all and actually accomplished something may be the most surprising part of this, and it could be the proof that salvagers were underestimated and misunderstood. He turned to Gene, “What destination do you think they took?”
“Everyone thinks they went outside the solar system. We’re guessing they’ll try Proxima or Alpha Station in the Alpha Centauri System. If they’re in a mind set to escape they wouldn’t try anything close by.”
Ed said, “They know there would be license trouble if they tried to come back or if we caught them. They went as far as they could from here.”
“Maybe,” Sam said, “they know how we think. More than we know about them.” He rocked back. “Has either of you made an estimate of materials they had available and what it took to convert that carrier?”
Ed made a screen ready, “SatMan hasn’t made a significant purchase of salvage materials in six or seven years so we’ve estimated all the materials surplused in that time. The largest project during that time frame was the clearance of a small manufacturing platform to make room for this headquarters platform. That alone would give them all the heavy materials they would need. They also had four surplused container units that could give them alloy.”
“Alright.” Sam ran fingers through his hair. “What about things like airlocks, atmosphere, instrumentation, eco-systems?”
“Maybe you recall an old satellite clearance program . . .”
He did remember. Traffic Control had been complaining about hazards to navigation, 322 satellites, a space station or two in the mix and all the goodies that went with them.
“. . . superior sensor array, long-range communications, an absolutely state-of-the-art photo-imaging optical system,” Ed glanced up, “I still don’t think they can put all this together.”
“Maybe so,” Sam said. “Anyone put together a hypothetical interior design?”
Gene was set up. The large office screen came to life. “We’ve settled on this design. It’s based on the concept that salvagers are used to managing a soil-based eco-system and could supplement this with a hydroponic food supply. And the design needs to remain simple and therefore as trouble-free as possible.” The perspective design shown merely divided the interior in half using the aft section for an extensive eco-system and the forward half in a series of decks rising up to a bridge on the uppermost level. “This design could not have been completed within the time the salvagers had available.”
Sam was surprised to hear this conclusion.
Gene said, “We think we caught them in mid-construction.”
“But the carrier took off okay.”
“The time lines just do not work out,” Gene confirmed.
Sam cocked his head at the technician. “They had plenty of robotics and they work around the clock. No rest for machines.”
Gene responded, “They needed a clean design before they could start, that takes time. And they wouldn’t have set out to design this carrier’s interior before they knew they had a carrier. We made an allowance for that. Then the robotics could take over.”
“We’ve underestimated them up until now. Let us not underestimate them again.” Sam drummed his fingers. “We know they took off, they were inside so they must have been breathing. Salvagers have been in the orbits for generations, they can be clever.” He turned to the screen. “You said you shot a video?”
The wall screen turned black and for a time he did not realize the video was running. There were short snaps of light and finally a glow that rolled up the screen and became four glows. Then they all turned white. The camera bounced around, recovering just in time to see the lights disappearing into a sunrise.
Sam closed his eyes. Then he excused his technicians. They left and he paced.
His mind ran on as he rewound the video and watched once more. So it has come to this, he mused, a little initiative and PacRim’s worst fears are realized. A bunch of salvagers were about to shake the very foundation of a despotic oligarchy that controlled the world’s economy; an economy so weak that the simple act of a carrier conversion could bring it down. Well, no need worrying about it, whatever was going to happen was about to happen. Possibly these salvagers would never be heard from again, then all would remain as it is.
But he sensed something else, change was coming, and change brings it’s own rewards and punishments.     




   

[Gerald Lively]

CHAPTER  SIX


                                        December 2129 – Titan.





“Lower away!” Chief Engineer John Roberts cast a wary eye up to the cylinder dangling precariously at the end of the long corroded chain. It lurched, then dropped a few feet jerking erratically. “Get that damn thing down before someone gets killed!”
The cylinder dangled there but he tore his eyes from it and focused on the crane operator who, by now, was in a desperate struggle for control. There was no point in barking at the man, he knew what he was doing and he knew the risks.
“Get back, everybody get back!”
Most were already back a safe distance, everyone knew the chain was suspect. But the crane operator persevered and the long core sample began a steady controlled drop to the crater floor.
“Got it,” he heard the operator say as the core cylinder touched down and tipped towards Roberts and the flatbed trailer.
Two engineers grappled with the cylinder, attached a pair of clamping vise-grips and slid the cylinder cover free of the unbroken single piece core sample. Roberts bent to examine the rock.
“Chief!” An urgent voice sounded through the comm-link inside the pressure suit helmet. Roberts glanced up, a pressure suited figure pointed up to the crater rim. “We’re getting a red tide again,” the man said.
A roiling red fog was topping the crest and cascading down the crater wall. They had mere minutes before the damnable mist engulfed the entire drill site. He kicked at the core sample. An engineer standing near the far end of it stood wordless and waiting. Roberts gave another glance up at the fog before bending to the task of moving the core sample up on the long trailer. They lifted and shoved. It slid most of the way on. A full third of it dangled off the end of the trailer. Both pushed but nothing moved.
“Grab it with those clampers,” Roberts said. He stood panting, exhausted from the effort. The engineer started for the clampers lying on the ground. He reached for it, touched it with a gloved hand and the tool disintegrated into a powdery dust.
“The fog got to it,” the engineer said. Fatigue was plainly in his voice.
“The fog’s got to everything,” Roberts grumbled, “the derrick, the crane, all the chains.” He threw his hands up in disgust.
“Can’t do much without equipment, boss.”
“Yer right.” If this wasn’t the end of the drilling it was close to it. Roberts checked the fog’s progress; with customary quickness it was moving across the drill site. In minutes visibility would be down to a few feet. In a few hours it would be difficult to see a hand a few inches in front of a faceplate.
“Let’s try it again,” Roberts said. The fog was on the ground beneath the trailer and rising.
“Ready when you are,” the engineer answered.
“Okay, one more time.” They shoved but it failed to budge. Both let go and stood back, the loose end vibrated dangerously.
The engineer walked over to him. “Whatsa matter, don’t have what it takes anymore?” and gave him a slap on the arm.
“Not much left in this tired old body.” Roberts watched as the fog engulfed the trailer and the core sample in a swirl of red. The stuff was up to their hips.  “This isn’t what I signed on for, guess I’ve not toughened up like the rest of you.”
“So you’re one of those button-pushing chemical miners.”
Roberts gave him a look, “So were you ‘til you came here.”
“Not anymore, Chief, I’m a hard working hardrock drillin’ outstation mining engineer. By the way, how do you get out of this chicken outfit?”
“We can start by loadin’ up and getting outta this crater. No more work until the fog lifts.” And that might be days or even weeks.
He moved around the low-bed trailer trailing a gloved hand over the surface. “Okay, everybody load up.” An oily smudge of a trail marked where his gloved touched. It reminded him of dirty diesel fuel. “Let’s get going,” he grumbled into the comm-link.
The driver climbed up the tractor and almost disappeared in the fog. Roberts checked back down the line. He couldn’t see anyone but he was certain the crew had already climbed on the trailer. He waited for the vibrations of the tractor but he felt nothing.
Finally an exhausted voice declared, “It won’t start.”
He climbed up the side of the tractor to see the driver struggling with the controls. “Try it again.”
The driver tried. “Nothing, it ain’t workin’,” he complained.
Roberts reached in and flipped the battery monitor on. It registered dead. But he knew the battery was good, he checked it himself only yesterday. He decided it was the gauge and gave it a sharp rap. Still it registered nothing. “Let’s have a look behind this panel.” He lifted two holding clamps and grabbed the handholds giving them a tug. The panel came free but nothing connected it from behind. Reaching behind it he ran a hand over what should have been a bristling collection of wires. There was only a handful of dust. He gazed disbelieving at the powder. Realization swept over him then anger took hold. “This damn fog has ate everything, so why not the tractor?” With a great effort he tossed the panel into the red oblivion.
“We’re gonna walk outta here,” he snarled and jumped down. Already he dreaded the long walk ahead. It would be hours before they reached the summit. Again he cursed the red fog.
“Come on,” he urged, “let’s get moving.” If they sat around long they’d get stiff and nobody would want to move. He had to get them going without delay.
“Don’t worry about the equipment, we’re not likely to be coming back here anytime soon.”
Someone gave a cheer.
“No tractor, no work,” another said, “we’re gonna walk outta here.” It was repeated and became a chant of sorts but it faded after a few minutes.
Roberts counted them as they filed past the dead tractor. When the last one shuffled into the mist he fell in behind, he would be the last to climb out of the crater.
Fatigue; it was in the labored breathing on the comm-link and he’d seen it on their faces, now he felt it in his bones. He glanced back, a shroud of red covered everything, nothing was plainly visible. Up ahead the column had moved out of his vision. He made an effort to hurry but only managed a shuffle that turned into a series of hops. It was as fast as he could go. Soon the faint line of ghostly figures emerged.
Flat ground gave way to a sharply tilting grade and boulders jutting up on either side of the trail appeared as sentinels posted to monitor their retreat. The crater watched. They slogged on, each struggling with the steepness. The roadway turned sharply left, then back again. Deep ruts that he didn't remember developed. 
Roberts stepped to one side of the rut and his thoughts drifted. He plodded one foot after another up the road. His head drooped to look down at his feet, and at the rock-strewn trail and the rut worn through the surface. He wondered if rain or some sort of moisture made the rut, or if they make the rut with their travels up and down the trail.
After a time he looked back up. He was falling behind again. The last figure in the column up ahead was only a shadowy hue in the red atmosphere. He hurried, pushing into exhaustion, stumbling and regaining his balance, and gasping for breath – and finally rejoining his troop.
Heavy breathing fogged the faceplate. The suit ventilator adjusted, clearing it. The trail switched back again, he was losing track of the troop again – and the road seemed longer than it should.
The column moved to the left of a rut just as Roberts looked up at them, and it was just then that he took an unusual step to avoid the rut. But his foot encountered a basketball-sized rock and he stumbled. Recollections of steep cliffs down the side of the trail were now vividly etched in his mind. He collected himself promising to proceed more carefully and was certain the pain in his thigh from the stumble would remind him.
The hours passed. His thoughts floated between wanderings and struggles to concentrate. Ahead, the shadowy line of the troop marched relentlessly forward. He looked straight up, he could see the bare outline of a round orangish globe; Saturn was in full rise.
Another switchback. Ruts in the road seemed deeper. Strange, ruts were such a factor now and he didn’t really remember them. The road was always a bit rough but ruts . . .
The grade had become noticeably flatter and he recognized this section of road, they were near the summit. And he recalled a severe drop-off to the left. On a good day it afforded a view of the entire crater but it was disaster for anyone who made a misstep near the edge. 
A voice called out over the comm-link, “I’m in the clear!” Then there was another and then others.
The slope slackened until they were within steps of the crater rim – and quite suddenly his own facemask broke into the clear. He stopped abruptly. Tiny red ripples lapped against his chest, splashing as if they were water. Ahead, almost a tenth of a mile across an unbroken sea of red waves, the summit building complex waited - half submerged. So close, yet so far away.
Overhead, Saturn filled a reddish yellow sky with it’s globe and surprisingly visible razor sharp rings sloping upward to the right. Off in the distance, on the horizon, orange clouds were gathering. Soon the planetary vista would be completely obscured.
Between the horizon and the large planet, a sharp pinpoint of white light glistened. It was the sun and for a long time he stared. It served to remind him of Earthside wonders so long in his memory; the blues and whites, and the greens of things alive.
The team huddled close and someone asked, “How do we get to the building complex?”
“Just walk over there,” he answered.
“The cliff is there, can’t do that.”
“Come on,” someone said, “you know where the cliff is, why don’t you walk over there and show us the way.” There was a snicker among them.
Someone asked, “Any ideas?”
“Just walk carefully.”
“It’s going to take more’n being careful.”
“We shoulda put up posts along the road.”
“Too late for that.”
“How ‘bout it Chief, what are we gonna do?”
They stood huddled together waist deep in the fog. Nothing below the belt line was visible from above. With one foot extended out, Roberts felt for the road, and advanced. He studied the buildings off in the distance and groaned. This was going to take time. The tractor made everything simple, it merely followed a guidance wire buried in the road. But they didn’t have the tractor. “We know it’s a ten foot wide roadbed and the cliff is on the left. There’s a branching road down to the equipment pad out there somewhere on the right. There’s a slight dog-leg bending to the right before we reach the complex.”
“You first, Chief.”
Roberts slid one adventurous foot forward then brought the trailing foot next to it. He repeated the maneuver –again and again. It was going to work. It was slow but his feet never left the roadbed, and it was progress. Soon a technique developed, and the team, in a shuffling cadence, fell in behind.
His lead foot touched a rock and he froze. A rock could be in the road – he looked around for a clue, there was nothing but the fog – or he could be next to the cliff. Ahead there were the buildings, behind was the troop in single file following his lead. They seemed to be going in a straight line but there was no real point of reference, nothing to navigate by. And there was the dogleg in the road.
He stepped right, then another and another. They were clear of the rock. Up ahead the buildings seemed invitingly close, just a few hundred feet away. It was a temptation to bolt and run – but that was foolishness. He put the thought out of his mind. After more shuffling someone asked to stop. As he turned, Roberts saw one of the engineers drop to his knees and disappear below the red waves.
“Can you see anything?”
A faceplate popped up above the surface. “Nothing, I’ve never seen it so thick.”
The troop resumed a shuffling advance and the distance grew closer, and they maneuvered around rocks that no one remembered being there and over ruts that begged to be followed down to the equipment pad. At fifty feet from the nearest airlock he broke into a walk and suddenly the ordeal was over. Five of them crammed into the only airlock. In the last group Roberts squeezed inside. A red light blazed steadily as they waited for the green all clear. Finally green and the inner-hatch burst opened spilling them into a lobby. Headgear came off to reveal weary grins of relief but few words were exchanged.
Roberts strode to his office. Soon his Assistant and the Station Science Officer stood at his door. “Johansen here has figured out this tide thing.” Rusty smiled expectantly.
Roberts wearily looked up at the pair. “How’d you get out of that pressure suit so fast?” he asked, kicking at a stubborn left boot.
“It’s the alignment of the moons,” Johansen said. He paused nervously waiting for some recognition from Roberts.
“The moons help you get out of that suit?” He put a toe behind the heel of the stubborn boot and shoved. It loosened.
“No, no,” he said, “the tides are caused by the alignment of the moons.”
“The moons are all over the place,” Roberts said, “seventeen of ‘em, I think. So why do these tides just now reach up to us at this altitude?”
“Well,” the Science Officer started, “Titan is the third outer most moon.”
“I know that.” Roberts tossed the pressure suit against a wall where it crumpled down in a heap.
“We get tides here anyway just from the mass of Saturn but those aren’t enough to bring the tides up over the rim. The additional mass required isn’t really very much when you consider the big picture.”
Roberts eyed him carefully, sometimes it took a while to get the Science Officer to the point of things. He wondered if he had the patience for this.
“In fact, the required mass is just about equal to seventy percent of the total mass of all the interior moons.”
“Great,” Roberts remarked, “now I can write that down as another one of those useful facts that I want to remember.”
Johansen wrung his hands. “When the moon alignment has most of those fourteen moons is between us and Saturn we’re in for some tidal action.”
“What happens when the two outer moons line up? Do they compensate?”
“It’s part of the equation.”
            “So, a collection of these little moons comes around every once in a while and they get together. If there’s enough of them, we get tides, if there isn’t, the red stuff stays away from the crater.”
Johansen grimaced at the summarization. “Basically,” he confirmed.
“Then why is there no record of the tides going over the summit before we came down here?”
Johansen backed up to the wall. “Because such an alignment is reasonably rare. I’m afraid it comes in bunches.”
“And it requires the crater side to face Saturn.”
“Correct, that is correct.” It pleased him that the Chief Engineer grasped these facts so quickly.
Roberts groaned and cleared a spot in the middle of the desk and leaned on his elbows there. “Doesn’t matter what causes the tides now, we’re out of business down here. The equipment is shot, we can’t even haul out a core sample which is why we’re here.” He broke into a grin of resignation. “We can all use the rest anyway.”
Rusty moved closer. “Then the bad news is going to be easier to take, I think.”
Roberts glowered at him, he didn’t need anymore bad news. “Now what?”
“All the buildings except this one, have lost airtight integrity, and this one won’t last. I’ve notified everyone living back there. They’ll be hanging around here until you decide what to do about all this.”
“No more patches?”
Johansen indicated a negative.
“How long do we have?”
A toothy grin covered Rusty’s face, “Long enough for the transport to get down here and take us up to the support station.”
                                                       *    *    *
“Tide is coming in again.” Rusty stood straddling the roof’s ridge looking towards the rocky crater rim. “Those rocks over there are beginning to disappear.”
Roberts didn’t need the rocks to tell him anything, he was at the first step of the ladder and the tide was up to his waist.
Rusty leaned to gaze down where Roberts stood. “Better get a move on and get up here while you can.”
Roberts took one cautious slippery step at a time.
Rusty started to shout, “There she is!” He waved at the distant transport as if he could be seen by it. 
Roberts gave a quick glance up at the sky, the transport was circling at forty degrees, and then he eyed the eavesless roofline and reached up to test the traction there. It seemed slick.
Rusty was waving vigorously at the transport with both arms; traction seemed to be no problem for him.
Roberts crept up until he was on the sloping roof.
“He isn’t coming down.” Rusty sounded genuinely worried even though the flight pattern was the same as it had been all day.
“He’s just being cautious. That transport is metal you know.”
Rusty rose up on his toes flailing with both arms.
“Watch your step,” Roberts cautioned as he straightened to a shaky standing position with one foot on either side of the roof’s crest, “slip once and we’ll never find you.”
The transport turned towards them. Rusty cheered.
Robert’s feet began to slip apart. He fought to keep them together with little jumping moves. It was a losing battle.
Red ripples splashed above the roofline.
Adventurously, Roberts glanced up to the transport, its canopy was up and it hovered just a few hundred yards away.
“Come on, come on,” Rusty shouted.
“The tide is coming up,” Roberts muttered, “it’s almost to our feet.”
“Come on, we’re the last ones, come on,” Rusty chanted.
With agonizing slowness the transport crept closer until it was directly overhead. A flexible ladder came tumbling out, spilling down just out of reach.
“Wait for it to get closer,” Roberts urged.
The transport dropped inches at a time. The red tide was up to their feet, Rusty was hopping with his arms extended up towards the ladder. Suddenly he made one big leap and grabbed the bottom wrung with one massive hand.
Roberts gulped.
Rusty dangled as the transport fought for altitude. A gloved hand reached out from the cockpit and tugged at the ladder, and quickly Rusty’s kicking legs disappeared inside the transport.
Roberts was alone on the surface of Titan.
The ladder came out once more and Roberts found himself yelling, “Closer.” But it didn’t come closer. He chanced a look at the tide; it was up to mid-chest. Soon he wouldn’t be able to see anything and they wouldn’t find him until the tide retreated.
A foot gave way, he was going to fall. Try to jump, he told himself. Make yourself leap, but all he could see was red fog. In one desperate attempt he reached – and incredibly his fingers wrapped around something – and it pulled hard, it was pulling him up.
Then he was above the fog, in the clear, hanging one handed from a very long rope.
“Both hands now,” he heard Rusty say, “both hands.”
He gripped with both hands.
Rusty’s beaming face peeked over the edge of the cockpit just before a mighty tug
yanked him upward. Suddenly he was inside, head down against the floorplates with both feet flailing above the seats. There he rested for a time. Rusty grinned at him and he felt good.
                                                      *    *    *
A meter jumped, hung there for a time, then dropped back down to the left side of the dial. The Communications Officer sat up apparently satisfied with the results. He turned to Roberts, “Message sent.”
“The signal got out, no question?”
“Yup. The monitoring satellite picked it up at 200,000 watts, strong enough to burn the headsets off a SatMan operator Earthside.”
For a long message it went very fast. Roberts had never gotten used to microburst communications, it didn’t seem like anything happened when you used it. Some little instrument bounced somewhere and the console hummed for a second or two, and it was all over. Just like that.
“It’ll be repeated every hour on the hour. Saturn is behind us, no chance SatMan isn’t getting this stuff.”
“Tell me what SatMan said the last time they responded to anything.”
The Communications Officer sat silhouetted before the massive equipment panel of bouncing gauges and squiggling blue coded spectrum lines. He leaned on one arm of the track-mounted chair. “Well, all along we’ve been telling them we needed a chem-pak pick-up. They kept saying they’d sent a carrier. I kept telling them it never got here. I don’t know if they believed me or not. Well, when the ground facilities shut down we notified SatMan right away, regs and all.”
“Uh huh.”
“SatMan said they’d send a transport this time, they said we were going home. The next thing we hear from them is the transport isn’t going to get here, it’s lost somewhere.”
“When did they say that?”
“Two nights ago. That’s the last we’ve heard from ‘em.”
Roberts pushed a strand of hair from his face. “What do you make of it?”
Except for the sounds from the console of equipment, the room became still. Finally the Communications Officer shrugged, he didn’t have an answer.
Rusty spoke up. “It’s the same old stuff; they say they send ‘em out, then they say the ship is lost, they send ‘em and lose ‘em. Why don’t we all recognize what’s happening, we’re stranded here. SatMan either can’t or won’t help us.”
“Which is it?” Roberts asked.
“They won’t help us.”
The signs seemed to suggest Rusty’s view of things and he might agree with him up to that point. What was really needed was more and better information. Despite SatMan’s stated intentions, neither carrier nor transport had reached Titan and communications with SatMan had dropped off from a dozen times daily to three or four times per week, and now, nothing for two days. Two days wasn’t much but SatMan seemed to be losing interest in them.
“What do you hear from Ganymede?”
“Nothing for a week.” The Communications Officer shifted in the chair. “They’re in the same boat we are.”
Rusty said, “The fact is, we used to hear from Ganymede everyday, now nothing for a week and a transport was supposed to be there about then.”
 Roberts looked up at the big man, “Yeah, what does that mean?”
“After that ship was supposed to be there, Ganymede goes silent. Anyone could figure that, they were rescued and we were not.”
That argument had circulated rather easily, he’d heard it himself. But it just didn’t have that certain ring of truth. “Why would SatMan leave us here and rescue Ganymede?”
“Because they had some emergency or something, how the hell do I know?”
Roberts looked over to the Communications Officer, “Heard anything like a distress call out of Ganymede?”
“Everything was routine with them until they went dead.”
Roberts returned his attention to Rusty, “Ganymede has the same type support station we have plus a fair sized ground unit. That equipment of theirs is first class and they don’t have this corrosion problem. I can’t imagine an equipment failure they couldn’t handle and I have trouble with the notion SatMan just showed up one day and pulled everyone off Ganymede then ignored us. There has to be another explanation.”
“Nothing else fits the facts,” Rusty said.
“Well,” Roberts smiled a little, “I can think of something that fits the facts, something is out there destroying SatMan spacecraft.”
“Ha!” Rusty wasn’t that sure if Roberts was pulling his chain or if he was serious. “There isn’t anything out there with weaponry. Who would make a weapon big enough to do what you say? No Earth nation has made anything like that in a hundred years.”
“How about lasers and the rail gun we have?”
“Those are for protection from orbit debris, you know that.” His voice dwindled with the realization of his erroneous argument.
“Same thing as armament.”
“Okay,” Rusty said, giving up, “forget the guns, only SatMan has spacecraft.”
“So you say SatMan wouldn’t go around shooting at their own ships? That what you mean?”
Rusty grinned at him.
“Must be aliens, then.” 
“You had me going for a while,” Rusty said, grinning hopefully.   
Johansen stepped inside the communications room. “Need to see you,” he said to Roberts. “Right away.”
This was not Johansen’s way, he usually made an appointment or had someone introduce him. Johansen must think it was important. “What’s going on?” Roberts asked.   
“We have a developing problem.”
“What is it this time?” He groaned.
“The station’s eco-system is showing signs of stress.”
“Aren’t we all,” Roberts joked.
Everyone laughed but the Science Officer. “We have a progressive leaf failure. Deterioration begins with some speckling, it spreads until the leaf turns brown and drops off. The stuff eventually kills the entire plant and we’re already losing some.”
Nobody laughed.
“Is the condition worsening?”
Johansen nodded. “In someways it acts like a salt but it’s really a heavy hydrocarbon with some heavy metals mixed in. There is no doubt it’ll accumulate in the eco-system and kill it.”
“Why the eco-system?”
“We process everything through there; atmosphere, water, waste, it’s just a matter of time before the contaminant accumulates in sufficient strength.”
Roberts covered his eyes; just what he needed, another crisis. “What’s the remedy?”
“We must get the contaminant out of the station.”
At times Johansen was the master of the obvious. “How?" Roberts asked.
“The entire station has to undergo a scrubdown and that means everything.” Johansen was determined. “This material is in the air, the water supply and it’s in the eco-system soil. We’ll remove and leech out the soil but that means taking down the eco-system entirely. We’ll put mechanical scrubbers on the air supply and water, and we’ll be living out of food reserves. I’d advise a rationing program.”
“What is this stuff? Where did it come from?”
“All we know for certain is this stuff will corrode anything metal and . . .”
Rusty said, “It’s that red crap of an atmosphere.”
“I think so,” Johansen replied. He hated giving guesses but these were engineers not scientists and at times guesses worked for them. “It’s true that some of our samples, not all, match up with residue taken from pressure suits in the ready room. The material may be organic.”
“This stuff could be the red fog and that stuff eats metal, and this station is metal,” Roberts gulped, “come on Johansen, what’s the bottom line?”
 Johansen shifted around for a few seconds and took a deep breath, “Well, every surface inside this station has to be scrubbed down using a solvent we’ve prepared in the lab.”
The Communications Officer sat upright and waved somewhat wildly at his floor to ceiling console, “That means behind there? How the hell are we gonna do that?”
“Your problem,” Roberts had turned grim and was not to be trifled with. “What else?”
“With the eco-system down it’ll be a year before we’re back on line with it. Our mechanical life support will have to last until then. The problem there is that the mechanical scrubber will be asked to take out a material that will corrode it’s own metal parts and I can’t guarantee the mechanical systems for an entire year.” Johansen looked around the communications room at the several startled faces. “And there is the station itself, it might give us two years before a breach of airtight integrity.”
“Is this solvent of yours going to work?” Roberts wanted to know.
“We hope so.”
“That’s it, we hope so?”
There was a stunned quiet before Johansen spoke again, “Bring the solvent back to the lab when you’re finished and we’ll dispose of it.”
“One year, huh, one crappy year and that’s it!” Roberts groaned.
“One year perhaps,” Johansen said.
“Okay,” Roberts said, “get a message out to SatMan explaining what’s going on. Make it a distress call. Then get a bulletin out to all personnel on the station about the cleanup program. Rusty, work up some sort of food rationing program, you’re in charge of that. We have a goddam year, maybe.”
“One more thing,” Johansen said.
“Geez, what now?”
“Every pressure suit used down on the surface must be discarded. We have found them impossible to clean and they are a major contaminating factor.”
“Come on, Johansen, we’ve got to get outside for maintenance, how’re we gonna do that without suits?”
“That will leave twenty suits, you’ll have to make it work.”
Rusty asked, “Suppose a rescue ship arrives, how do we get a hundred people on that ship with only twenty suits?”
“We’ve considered that problem,” Johansen explained, “we’ll have to devise a decontamination airlock that connects to the rescue vessel. All departing personnel will be required to strip down upon entering this airlock and will remain inside for one full day. Any equipment brought along will require specialized cleaning although I would recommend we not bring anything with us.”
“You mean,” Rusty grimaced, “we’re to sit naked in this airlock thing for an entire day and just wait?”
“I can think of no other system for doing this. It takes twenty-four hours for your system to clear, and we don’t want to take any clothes or equipment with us. We must minimize the chance of bringing this contaminant with us.”
“But . . .” Rusty wanted to protest.
“No buts about it,” Johansen said, “maybe only twenty percent of this contaminant is visible as a residue, the rest is gaseous and maybe the mechanical scrubbers will pick it up. And maybe not. As for ourselves, we either stay here and die or take measures to separate ourselves from this material.”
“Well, I’m not taking my clothes off to sit naked all day . . .”
Roberts spoke, “If you want to be rescued you’ll do this.”
“But naked?”
“Whatsa matter,” Roberts asked, “is this going to destroy a myth you’ve spread among the females on the station?”
                                                                    *    *    *
“No sign of a support station, just a lot of orbit debris.” Michelle turned to check any sort of reaction from them.
Murph was preoccupied with the smooth orange moon below. Darkness seemed to prevail at the poles turning to a pale orange around the equator, and that was all. There were no other features; no mountains, rocks, or oceans. Titan did not inspire. His gaze went to a radar scope where a flurry of rocky debris appeared to be on a collision course. “Let’s get below this stuff,” he said, “we’ll hang around for a few days. If we don’t spot something by then we’ll just have to go somewhere else.”
Irregular retrofire thumped and they moved down to a quieter orbit.
“One hundred twenty thousand miles,” Michelle called out.
“Hold this for a while,” Murph said. He turned to Pete, “What’s it like down there?”
“The orange stuff is just a cloud on this side of the moon. It’s a mixture of junk; a lot of methane, ethane and nitrogen. It’s cold down there too, minus 290 degrees.”
“What’s the surface like?”
“Craters, rocks, all hard surfaces.”
“No place for a colony, right?”
“Nope.” Pete buried himself in the instruments.
Murph studied him pouring over the instrument panel, then he leaned over to Michelle. “No colony here,” he said in a louder than necessary voice, “maybe we’d better start thinking about another destination.”
She glimpsed first at Pete who seemed to ignore them, then to Murph. “If this shakedown cruise is over then maybe we can start thinking about those Alpha Centauri places.”
Murph saw the flicker on the comm-screen. It was the same sort of thing his old orb-salvager used to do before an incoming message appeared. He was trying to recall if it was his old comm-software in this system when a stream of random numbers burst across the screen. It was a literal flood and it was obliterating all of the flight data.
“What is that?!” Michelle loudly questioned.
Murph tried a diagnostic program. “It’s incoming, I don’t know what it means but it’s incoming.” They were helpless for the moment and they could only stare at the numbers. It seemed to go on for an inordinate period of time.
Pete became frightened. He gained his feet, standing in a half crouch. “What’s happening?” His voice quavered.
“I don’t know,” Michelle said. She had not taken her eyes from the mesmerizing display.
“It’s incoming, that’s all the diagnostics say.” Murph stared ahead.
“From the station?” Michelle turned, asking.
Murph had to think about that. “A station doesn’t show up on any detection system.”
“They’re using relay satellites,” she guessed.
He shrugged, “Could be, we wouldn’t necessarily see one in all this debris.”
“But we can’t understand a thing,” Pete scowled. “They wouldn’t send us some message like that.”
The numbers settled into four even but speeding rows. They paused and the ship’s thrusters started a thumping cadence.
“We’re moving to a lower orbit,” Michelle said, her eyes a bit wider.
“Maybe we should do something,” Pete said.
“What?” Murph responded. “Just what is there to do? I’d override this if I thought I knew how.” He found himself growing angry.
“It’s the station and they’re moving us, it has to be.” Michelle sounded a bit frightened, now.
“I hope they know what they’re doing.” Murph checked his radar, there still was nothing like a station platform on the scope.
Michelle said, “We have ignition on all primary engines.”
“Holy cow!” Murph cried out.
“We are at hot neutral,” she said. Four indicators lighted the forward screen.
Pete grumbled, “Shoulda made some adjustments to the star-nav system.”
“I promise,” Murph vowed, “we will do it later.”
Then with unexpected suddenness, everything stopped; the engines shut down, the numbers up on the screen vanished, and the thrusters became instantly silent.
And Murph reported, “We have a radar contact. Setting up graphics now!”
The graphic lines formed quickly into a familiar form. He was looking at a needle-nosed craft with short stubby wings; it was a SatMan transport.
“We are being scanned,” Michelle said.
“The station’s around here somewhere,” Pete said.
“Attempting communication,” Michelle said.
They waited. The transport maintained a constant distance but kept up a radar scan.
Michelle finally said, “We have them, it’s their suit comm-link I think.”
“Put ‘em on speakers,” Murph said.
“Identify yourselves,” the voice demanded.
“They aren’t sure about us,” Murph muttered.
“Identify yourselves,” the voice repeated.
Murph answered, “We are a private vessel from Earth.”
They listened intently, background voices could be heard. “They talking with one another?” Murph wondered.
“That’s a carrier, nobody is supposed to be on it.”
“But they are. Ask them who they are?”
“Carrier,” the voice sounded closer, “your transponder identifies you as a robotic carrier, vessel 1138. Please identify yourselves.”
“We’ve gotta get rid of that transponder,” Murph grumbled and made a mental note to add this to a growing list of corrections. He addressed the transport, “This is a private vessel from Earth.”
“What is the name of your vessel?”
“The name?” Murph looked at the others, “We have a name?”
Michelle didn’t know.
The voices faded into the background again. “I don’t think it's SatMan,” one of them said.
“Who then?”
“How the hell would I know? Maybe it’s got something to do with those disappearing carriers and transports.”
“And Ganymede.”
“ . . . talk to the Chief.”
And it became quiet.
“They want a name,” Murph said, “I guess it’s important to them.”
“A name,” Pete repeated, “we’re a conglomeration of things, this ship has a piece of us all in her. Can’t call a spacecraft Conglomeration.”
“We’re refugees from Earth,” Michelle offered, “we’re looking to colonize somewhere.” The suggestion failed to inspire a name.
“Spacecraft used to be named after places,” Murph said.
“Ahh, Salvager, Freedom Flight, the Refugee, the Colonial . . .”
“Conglomeration, eh.” Murph tried, it didn’t work.
Michelle said, “Conglom, Conglo . . .”
“What’s the transport doing?” Murph asked.
“They’re in contact with the support station, I think,” Michelle answered.
“I’ll just have to tell them we have no name,” Murph said, “what does a name mean anyway. We’ve come this far without one, haven’t we?”
She looked dryly at him. “Gotta have a name.”
“A place,” Pete was still trying, “Titan, Orbit, Earth Orbits . . .”
“Conglomeration, that’s what all this is,” Michelle said. “That word sticks in my brain.”
“Terrible name,” Murph observed.
She ignored him. “Conglo, a shorthand for conglomeration.”
“Congo,” Murph said.
“Sure!” Pete spoke it clearly, “Congo. It’s a big river in Africa Earthside. I’ve read a lot about it. I always wanted to go there someday. In ancient times,” he said, “it had vegetation so thick a person couldn’t walk through it. They called it a jungle back then.”
Murph was puzzled.
“It was in a video, a history one, I think.”
“I like it, Congo,” Michelle said, “it has a certain feeling about it.”
Murph raised an eyebrow. “Name a cargo carrier built in space - converted into a people carrying vessel operated by people who have never been on Earth - after an Earthside river?”
“I think it fits,” Michelle observed.
He didn’t get it.
Pete was grinning. “The river Congo was a principle trade route used for the colonization of a continent. That river, it was how they got from one place to another. Just like this ship.”
The bridge speaker crackled to life. “This is Chief Engineer John Roberts of Titan Station. Our equipment tells us you are vessel 1138, a cargo carrier. Can you explain how it is you are aboard this carrier?”
“This is a private vessel,” Murph glanced at the others, “we are the Congo and you will have accept what I’ve just told you because it is a very long story.”
                                                      *    *    *
Roberts straightened his notepad, aligning it exactly square with the edge of the table. Then with equal precision placed his pen parallel to it. Only then did he fold his arms and sit back to watch the commotion around him.
Rusty was engaged in a highly animated discussion with the Communications Officer, Johansen nodded regularly at someone who seemed to be doing all the talking, and people streamed into the nearly jammed-packed conference room.
Then it was time.
He picked up the pen and began tapping it loudly on the table – the conversation quickly dropped off. Most carefully he replaced the pen and opened the notepad to the first page. “I suppose the scuttlebutt has preceded me on the general announcement – which is – we have a manned space craft parked ten miles down orbit from us.”
A small applause.
“We tried to bring the carrier into parking, as we usually do but this time the craft responded erratically. Rusty went out to check into it and that’s when we made our first contact with them. I might add that radar picked up a raised bridge on the bow end of what should have been the old container unit so we knew this wasn’t going to be the usual. Shortly there after contact was made. Let me tell you now, that spacecraft out there is not from SatMan.”
An approving applause.
“Until now, all of us have believed that only SatMan possessed a spacecraft capable of getting here, well, things have changed during our stay around Titan. Rusty and I have been aboard that ship for the past week, as most of you know, and we have talked extensively with these people. We are gathered here to deliver the correct story so the scuttlebutt can be set aside and to extract certain decisions from you.”
A questioning murmur arose and that meant Rusty hadn’t leaked any information – for a change.
“All the people on that ship out there, the Congo they call it, are, or were, Earthside salvagers. One of them acquired this carrier through a possible misstep by SatMan and one result of that - they are here. SatMan was having a change of heart about the ownership of the carrier, they think, so these salvagers, nearly all of the salvagers there were around Earth, left the orbits before the construction inside was finished.”
A hand went up. “Can it handle everybody on this station?”
“Easily. In fact that ship could handle another three thousand or more.”
“Will there be a quarantine before boarding?”
Rusty blushed.
“Of course.”
“Are these people legit, Chief?”
“We believe they are. They were able to show us a legal document giving them title to this carrier and it’s clear they did the conversion work, which is a work in progress, I should add. I didn’t see any weapons or anything that would suggest they were aggressive. Yes, I think they’re on the level.”
“How is it they could get here and SatMan couldn’t?”
“I can only guess. These salvagers took a long circling route set out by their star-nav program, beyond that we found nothing that might help us respond to that concern. Now, about the rescue, you need to understand that these salvagers have no intention of returning to Earthside. They are firmly committed to an outward bound journey with no particular destination in mind at this time.” Pause. “Some of them plan to leave the Congo when and if they find a planet suitable for colonization.”
“Will they rescue us from here?”
“No question, they will. But if you do accept their rescue you must go with them to wherever.”
“How many are there?”
“There are two hundred and fifty people on board. All salvagers and their families.”
“There must have been a revolution back there.”
“It was an economic slowdown, they called it. A real depression. These salvagers have been sitting around doing nothing for five or six years. I think they got bored. In any case they saw this carrier as a great opportunity and they took advantage of it.”
“Look Chief, what’s the deal with this rescue?”
“They will take us off Titan if we wish. If you opt to go with them you have to reach an understanding with them and it goes like this; they are not going back to Earth, not in the foreseeable future, anyway, so you’ll have to weigh the value of rescue against the possibility of never returning to Earth. A second part of this is that the carrier out there is only half finished. It will house everyone here, that isn’t a problem. If they are going to rescue, house and feed you, they want something in return; they want you to help finish this conversion project. They want that ship to be as first class as it is possible to make it.”
 Pause, quiet, he could see that most of them were mulling over the proposal.
“What they need,” Roberts said, “is the technical expertise we have right here among us. It’s the same work we all used to do back on Moonbase working over those cargo carriers.”
Someone said, “That doesn’t sound too bad.”
A drill supervisor said, “Let me see if I have this straight, we can be rescued but we have to work on their ship, and they’ll take us someplace we don’t know about yet and we may never get back to Earthside.”
“In a nutshell, that’s it. Of course you can stay here and wait for SatMan to send their rescue and hope the station doesn’t fall apart around you before SatMan arrives.”
“Then we would become members of their crew, right?”
Roberts paused, he had to think about that one. “Yes,” he finally answered, “I think you would have too. No ship wants two authorities on board.”
“What about our contracts with SatMan, our careers?”
“That will have to be a personal decision. I, for one, decided my employment contract was breached when we were told to start drilling in that crater. Most of us are chemical engineers, you know, not mining engineers. And consider SatMan’s degree of diligence in sending out a rescue vessel or supply ship.”
“Then you are going with those salvagers, eh Chief?”
“I’ve decided to do that, yes.”
“What kind of work do they need over there?”
Roberts flipped a page in the notepad, “They need equipment maintenance, materials management, ventilation design, surface finish work, and they have a hell of a static electricity problem. They need some systems integration between the drive unit and the bridge although what they have is good, I think we can do better. They have a huge inventory of sensor equipment they have not installed yet, and they need a shielding system, rail guns, lasers, you get the idea.”
 The answer seemed to satisfy.
“Now the Captain said anyone can get off anytime the ship stops someplace, and that could be Earth someday, even though they have no plans to return there. It could happen.”
Chatter broke out. Roberts relaxed to observe the various discussions.
 Rusty moved next to him.
Roberts asked him, “What kind of shape is the station in?” It was more a rhetorical question than anything, he already knew the answer.
“We had to put on a half dozen patches this morning,” Rusty said. “The mechanical scrubbers overloaded yesterday and we discovered a hell of a lot of damage when we tore the system down to clean it. It’s limping along right now. Johansen wants another scrub down, says the first one wasn’t good enough. That’s about it?”
“Tell Johansen I want a certification of what equipment is clean enough to take with us and what has to stay behind.”
“What about the people who wanna stay here? What’ll they use for equipment?”
“Nobody is gonna stay behind after you tell everyone what sort of shape the station is in.”

[Gerald Lively]

                                                                      CHAPTER  SEVEN

                                                   
                                                            February 2131 – Titan Orbit.




“We really should go over this one more time. I just want to make sure you have it.” Roberts knew that practice wasn’t the most fun thing they could do but running drills meant working out problems before they became critical. Test and practice, it was the best way to go. “One more time just to touch on the major points,” he urged.
Murph controlled the sigh he felt coming. “What do you say we just take off now? Everyone is on board and we’ve been through all this, and you’ll be right here if something comes up.” He looked to Michelle for support. She wore a non-committal smile.
Roberts folded his arms.
Murph looked at Michelle again. She had adopted a blank expression, one he couldn’t interpret. He decided to be stubborn. “Alright,” he said, “departure is in ten minutes. We can practice until then.”
Roberts was genuinely puzzled. “Ten minutes? What does that mean? You can’t practice for ten minutes . . .”
“That means in ten minutes we all take a chair on the bridge and we go somewhere.”
Michelle stirred in her chair but appeared to be only casually interested.
Pete was grinning and turned to whisper something to another crewmember.
“Well,” Roberts said, giving up, “perhaps you’re right. Let’s go through the take off nice and slow, maybe it’s the experience you need.” He looked uncomfortable.
Murph sauntered off the aft-bridge to the forward bridge and his old acceleration chair. They all took their places.
“Sound launch alert,” Murph said.
Pete reached to the top of his panel and shoved a large knob. “Launch alert active.”
“Check orbit attitude.”
“Checking . . . adjusting now.”
Thrusters bumped in familiar cadence.
“Shields up.”
“Shields up.”
“Operations systems check.”
“Checking,” Pete began a heavy manipulation of his console keypad.
Murph leaned over to Roberts. “Tell me about those shields.” This was a subject they’d barely touched upon and by now, he hoped, practice had been forgotten. Keeping Roberts’ mind occupied was what he wanted to do.
“Sure, we developed it ourselves, right here on Titan.” Clearly, he was proud of the accomplishment. “We had to keep orbit debris from destroying the support station; Saturn’s gravitational field draws in a lot of stuff. At first we built a system just big enough to protect the solars but the station kept getting pelted, so we built a system large enough to cover everything.”
“I know about all that, how does it work?”
“It’s an electro-magnetic repulsion system not unlike magnetic repulsion when you put a magnet together the wrong way. This system here on the Congo is shaped to set off the hull some four feet and extends outward at the hydrogen collectors, so it serves two purposes.”
“Extends out how far?”
“Once we’re clear of these moons and planets it might go out a couple hundred miles; it’s really difficult to tell how far they extend but they’ll come in tight if we near an object larger than a person. We don’t want a meteorite collected and pulled into the drive unit. But these collectors should be big enough to fuel the ship without having to go to canister fuel, except at startup. We’re guessing at that, of course.”
“And you invented this?”
“Engineers on the station did it. We just adapted it to the Congo so it could help your regular hydrogen collectors. Those old collectors really didn’t do much.”
“And SatMan doesn’t have these?” Murph thought he could detect a smirk on the Chief Engineer’s face.
“Naw. We offered it to them once and they sounded politely interested but they never asked for the system specs. We figured on giving it to them when we shipped back to Earthside.”
Murph had a half smile of his own. “That means we have the only operating shield system anywhere?”
“Right, unless someone invented their own.”
Pete called out, “Life support systems optimal, fuel cells in place, sensors on and active, all hatches secure, art-grav nominal, computer linkage up and running.”
“We have orbit attitude for launch.”
“. . . ignition and hot neutral.”
“Okay,” Murph cocked an eye towards Michelle, “take us to orbit exit.”
A barely discernable deep-bass droning came from deep inside the Congo; winding up slowly and sounding like a million-ton flywheel.
Murph barely noticed. “Those collectors way out there, a real advantage, huh?”
“More fuel, more velocity, it’s as simple as that,” Roberts said. “You’ve got some big engines back there, not the usual, I can tell you that. Those governors we found, we took ‘em off so our velocity may be limited only by the amount of fuel we can push through there. If we have enough fuel, all five engines will come on line at once. We made that change.”
    “How fast . . .”
“Don’t know. Never saw engines like those, definitely not the usual cargo carrier movers,” Roberts said.
Murph knew almost nothing about the engines. No salvager had ever had a crack at an engine on a cargo carrier, SatMan saw to that. He’d heard rumors, especially about the fifth engine, the big main engine that was supposed to come on after the carrier was up to a particular velocity, whatever that was; that’s when the four primary engines were supposed to shutdown. But the big engine hadn’t come on during the flight from the Earthside orbits; at least they hadn't determined that it did. The exhaust flame, he’d heard, was a hundred miles long. How could anyone know that? . . . all five engines at once, wow. What was it, six hundred feet across the main engine exhaust . . . it was a deep space prototype, a one of a kind . . . they were in for something different?
“Orbit exit imminent.”
“We have orbit exit.”
“We are on our way,” Roberts beamed.
The Congo dipped to port. Murph gazed out through the transparent ceilings and walls of the bridge, above the consoles and panels and past the projected flight data that made the transparencies information screens; Titan was slowly passing aft. Nowhere did he see evidence that man had labored there. None of the buildings and none of the equipment left behind were visible, not even through a telescopic search could any of it be sighted. For him, Titan had begun as an uninviting orange moon. Then it grew into something he would always think of in negative terms; it’s corrosive atmosphere and it’s prohibitively cold environment. For all of man’s effort there, no legacy remained.
“All primaries nominal and accelerating at one ‘G’.”
Murph checked the art-grav monitor, as was his habit now, it was performing flawlessly. “Let’s boost acceleration, we have to clear Saturn,” he said.
“Three ‘G’s and moving up. Recalculating trajectory.”
“The engines can take it,” Roberts was heard to say.
“Five ‘G’s and recalculating trajectory.”
The deep drone faded into white background noise.
“Debris ahead.”
Murph saw the cloud of rocky chunks on a scope, “Shields?” Any one of the meteorite-sized rocks could cause big damage.
 “No problem,” Roberts called out just as a slight buffeting was felt.
 The debris cloud faded into a distant blur behind them. “It worked,” Murph said, “it worked. How about that?”
“Clear course to exit.”
“One minute to breakaway . . . thirty seconds . . .we have breakaway.”
Suddenly all of the launch data cleared from the screens. Only the hydrogen counter, the engine status board and the star-nav destination flag remained. The hydrogen count was rising, all four primary engines were under propulsion and they were bound for Ganymede.
                                                     *    *    *
Michelle paced in the dark. It had been a sleepless night for her. From time to time she had peered across the darkened room where Murph breathed in a regular light snore. He was resting and she was not. She needed rest and he didn’t. At least not as much she did.
On tiptoes she moved quietly to a chair where she located her jumpsuit. It was in a heap. She picked it up and began to sort out the arms and legs. They were unaccountably tangled in a terrible wad. She shook at it but the tangle stubbornly remained. She found the opening at the top, put a foot into it and pushed. It jammed. Her foot would not go through.
With both hands, she held the garment out in front of her. It was not easy to see in the dark but it seemed that both legs were tied in knots.
Without warning a voice boomed through the dark, “Knots giving you trouble?”
Michelle jumped, startled. “Murph, you scared the hell out of me!”
The light came up. Murph sat up on one elbow, laughing.
She threw the jumpsuit down and jumped on him but his laughter was infectious, and even as she tried to fight him the corners of her mouth began to turn up. “Damn Murph,” she tossed the knotted jumpsuit at him.
He ogled at her nakedness. “Hey baby,” he said wiggling both eyebrows suggestively, “whatcha doing?”
“Gimme that suit!”
“You just threw it at me. Why should I give it back, you’ll just throw it again.” He climbed out from beneath the covers, placed both feet on the carpeted floor and started a slow creeping shuffle in her direction.
“Just gimme that jumpsuit. None of this fooling around.” She started to retreat.
“Come here,” he said devilishly.
“No way,” she giggled. “Now toss that suit over here and quit fooling around.”
“Ya ha ha!” Murph wriggled his fingers.
Michelle backed up to a wall.
Murph attacked with a lashing tongue to the neck and wriggling fingers to the ribs. Michelle collapsed in fitful laughter.
“Mummmmph,” Murph growled into her neck. He looked up. “How’s the pilot of the Congo this morning?”
“Tired,” she said wiping her neck with the one loose arm Murph had permitted. “Couldn’t sleep, you snored all night.” She whacked him on one arm.
He let her go then helped her up. “Main engine gonna fire today?”
“The hydrogen count is up,” she answered.
Murph stepped back and ogled. “Not bad, not bad at all.”
“Not now,” she said, “I’ve got things on my mind.” She covered her breasts and attempted to straighten her jumpsuit.
“Ohhh.” He frowned, still admiring what he saw.
With a feigned aloofness she untied the knots and slipped the rumpled jumpsuit up over her hips, then over her shoulders, leaving for Murph only the memory of unencumbered breasts.
“I’ll go with you,” he said bounding out of the bed.
Together they walked out into the main living area and stopped before the repeater screen to study the information there. The Congo was still under primary engine power, the hydrogen count was climbing and detection sensors showed a clear course. She shut the screen down.
Breakfast was quiet. Later they moved out on the tenth level mezzanine and to the railing overlooking the eco-system field far below. It was night for most of the ship. The fields were covered in darkness except for the several streams of lights radiating from the hydroponics section casting elongated patterns across the expanse. He could see little ag-robots far below moving about and casting shadows of their own as they worked. He leaned a little further out peering ten stories down to the main level trying to see . . .
“Let’s go to the bridge,” she said. “There is work to do.”
“Sure.” As he stepped away from the rail he could detect a brightening of the dome lights. Morning was arriving. And he felt hungry all over again.
On the aft-bridge a pair of science team members sat sleepily before the center console. Murph circled the instrumented console absorbing information, stopping once to study a screen, then decided to sit. A small screen flashed, “Captain to the forward bridge.” At first he didn’t make sense of it, he was on the bridge, albeit the aft-bridge. He stood staring at the little screen and it’s little yellow-green letters. “I guess they want me up front.”
“Who wants you up front?’ Michelle asked.
Murph didn’t know. He stepped around the console onto the flightbridge, found his acceleration chair and sat, putting pressure on the cushion, and his status board came to life – and it instructed him to monitor the forward flight screen. He looked up to see the words, “Main engine ignition – 5 min 22 secs”.
He called to Michelle.
“Is that correct?” she questioned. “It’s too soon.”
“All I know is what you see.” He could only stare at it. The ship was doing what it was suppose to do. He felt a tingle of excitement. Maybe it was true, what he had heard, that nobody had ever been aboard a vessel when one of these main engines fired. Maybe it would destroy their makeshift art-grav system and them with it. The little tingle he felt was growing. “Check with the science team,” he advised. It was all he could think of.
“Shall I notify anyone?” Michelle sounded concerned too, and that didn’t help.
 Murph leaned back. “Get a record of this, no need to wake anyone up. If they sleep through this, we’ll have something for them to watch.” And if a disaster were about to happen it wouldn’t matter if they were asleep or anywhere else.
The countdown clicked to 2 min 30 secs.
Michelle tried to relax but she couldn’t stop her fidgeting fingers.
1 min 40 secs.
Michelle looked out through dark tired eyes. “What happens when the main engine fires?” she asked quietly.
“Don’t know.” He looked to her. “I’ve heard stories . . .”
“No salvager stories, please.”
“Flame is supposed to stream out for hundreds of miles.”
“Muurph!”
“It’s a big engine, you know, it’s at least six hundred feet across . . .”
“Murph, be quiet.”
The minute counter disappeared leaving only seconds . . . three, two, one, then nothing. All of the engines went off line.
“We’re coasting,” Murph said in a very low voice, “we’re moving on inertia.”
The engine status board suddenly flashed brilliant light in all five engine positions. An audible bump was heard but nothing else. All five engine indicators showed green and the thrust indicators rapidly rose past the six ‘G’ mark.
Roberts burst onto the bridge. “What happened?”
Murph turned around. “The main engine came on line.” He shrugged.
“It did? What did it do?”
“I don’t know,” Murph shrugged,  “it just came on. Was it supposed to do something?”
                                                    *    *    *
                                       In Orbit over Ganymede
Michelle carefully studied the optical image. “Target dead ahead.”
Their first revolution around the icy moon had only told them that something was down there on the surface. They knew it was large and they knew they had almost missed it.
“Course ahead is clear, no sign of the support station.” Roberts could only shake his head, the signs were bad and the feeling he had was dreadfully ominous. The support station should have been there and they saw what looked very much like debris on the icy white surface.
“Any communications, anything there?” Murph asked. He glanced back at a pair of very busy crewmen working the big center console.
“Nothing,” came the answer.
Michelle leaned on the eyepiece shield sighting down and slightly ahead. Images from the optical blazed a white blur on an overhead screen. The entire moon seemed to be an icy plain broken by the occasional scar of expansion and contraction. “Here it comes,” she said carefully.
Every eye went to the overhead screen. At first it was the same white ice speeding beneath them, blurring the details. But something dark sped past, then bits and pieces of dark material spread out in an ever widening pattern stretching for miles. Then it was white all over again.
She looked up. “I got it this time.” She focused on the overhead. “The pictures’ll be up in a second.”
The view was a composite pieced together to make one large picture of the area of interest. It appeared to portray an impact zone followed by a spray of rubble fanning out before fading to nothing more than white ice.
“What is it?”
Roberts sighed heavily. “It has to be the support station. Something brought it down. Those stations just don’t fall out of orbit.”
“Any sign of life?” Murph asked.
Michelle focused the image in a close-up. There was only rubble, nothing larger than a foot across.
“There wouldn’t be any.” Roberts choked down a desire to scream out. “It came down from high orbit, you know.”
“Another target coming up,” a crewman reported.
Michelle vanished the still image replacing it with a live shot. There was a long rectangular patch scarring the ice. The focus moved closer down to the leading edge of the patch where small dots in surprisingly even rows seemed to punch holes through the ice. Further in, the pattern widened to nearly a mile. There the spots turned black with radiating black streaks – and the pattern marched on and on, ending abruptly in the distance.
“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Pete said. He moved from his position on a periphery console to get closer to the overhead screen.
”Something burnt holes in the ice.” Michelle frowned. None of this made sense to her.
Murph could only shake his head. “Burnt holes, huh. It isn’t a natural thing, the holes are too orderly.” He turned to Roberts. “Man made? Drill holes?”
“I don’t think it was a drilling operation,” Roberts said, “those dark streaks there, those are blast marks. Each hole was a separate explosion. I don’t know of any outstation operational technique that does anything even close to that.”
Murph said, “If I dropped a sack of flour from deck ten, it would make a mark like that.”
“Wouldn’t make a hole. That’s what you have down there, a whole bunch of holes.” Roberts answered.
“Bomb craters,” Pete muttered.
They looked at him. His gaze was fixed on the screen above him.
“Somebody dropped bombs,” he said. “Do people do that to one another?”
Roberts said, “No bombs have been manufactured in more than a century. SatMan doesn’t . . .” His voice trailed off.
Pete stared upward.
Roberts looked around him, “They have lasers, we made a rail gun back on Titan but that was old technology. A particle beam, really. But I don’t think . . .” 
The particle beam interested Murph. “Ever fire one down to a surface, like from orbit?”
Roberts shook his head, he hadn’t. “I’ve actually never seen another rail gun. I’m sure SatMan isn’t making them.”
“Bomb craters,” Pete repeated.
Roberts turned to a crewman. “You find those coordinates for the ground station?”
“Got ‘em.” The crewman’s face held a real grimness. “It appears the ground station is in the middle of that pattern down there.”
Roberts was thunderstruck.
“Someone is going around and bombing things on the surface.” Pete’s eyes seemed to pop out of his face and beads of perspiration broke out across his forehead.
Roberts barely heard Pete. “The support station was downed too.” He spoke so softly he might have been talking to himself.
Murph reacted to Pete’s statement, “Come on Pete, we don’t know much about this, yet.”
“What makes those holes?” Pete questioned.
“Good thought,” Murph said. He looked over to Roberts, “Think we could arrange a test firing of a rail gun?”
Roberts thought for a moment, “Why not? Won’t hurt anything.” Then he found the crewman he wanted and issued extensive instructions.
“Another target approaching.” They all turned at the words.
“Get a picture,” Murph said.
It was a crashed object and there was no doubt. It appeared to have tumbled upon impact leaving huge gouges in the ice, then bounced along rolling and digging into the ice until what was left rested in a broken heap.
“It’s the bomber,” Pete said.
“How do you know that?” Murph asked.
“I just know,” Pete answered.
The visual close up revealed several very large engine exhausts jutting upward like dank burnt out caldrons. The craft itself was barely recognizable yet it appeared to be a multi-decked vessel built without a hull atop a gigantic rectangular platform. It was definitely not a SatMan spacecraft.
Roberts’ voice nearly vanished. “It’s larger than a support station,” he managed to say. “Never saw anything like it.”
A crewman announced, “We are ready with the particle beam.”
Roberts took a deep breath. Events were moving fast and he had the distinct feeling he wasn’t keeping up. Too long sitting around in the Titan Station, he told himself. “Okay, find a clear spot in the ice and fire five bursts making a row. Got it?”
The crewman did get it. He became very busy at a console.
Murph rubbed at his chin.
Michelle was intent on a piece of analysis appearing on her screen. Without lifting her eyes from it, she said, “This bomb run, or whatever it was, went right over the ground facility. There isn’t much of it left. There definitely isn’t anything alive down there. It was hit hard. It’s barely recognizable.”
Murph watched the commotion absently. He was really not observing; his own thoughts were churning on a real mystery. Something had actually tried to destroy the surface station. And the support station was splattered across the surface – then the crashed ship, a vessel nobody recognized. Aggressive weaponry - the very idea of it was as foreign to all of them as it had been for generations of the Earth bound, yet, here was evidence of it. Did that mean these were not caused by Earthside people? Aliens? Could it be? The support station was brought down – the surface station was destroyed – by the crashed spacecraft? What - who - brought that ship down?
The rail gun test left five neat holes stitched in the ice. None showed the characteristic bursting burns of the bomb run. But Murph saw something else. He nudged Michelle. “See those? They look familiar?”
She knew what he meant but she wanted to be careful, even skeptical in the analysis, but she drew a similar conclusion, “They look like the holes in the Congo when it was a carrier.”
                                                        *    *    *
 At times it was all they talked about. Perhaps the concept of war-like behavior was so unfamiliar they couldn’t imagine such an event. Or it might have been their inability to comprehend when they came face to face with evidence of an alien race; more than that, an alien race with a huge spacecraft and a penchant for destruction. Then there was the mystery of what had brought down the alien spacecraft. Pete insisted that the crashed vessel was the bomber and eventually they all came to think that too. It was like an old-time salvager get-together; lots of talk and no conclusions.
They all could agree on one thing, something very strange had happened on Ganymede.
The on-screen-engine-firing pattern continued to show five engines up and running on free hydrogen. The destination flag now read, “Alpha Proxima Station” and they had been thrusting at an unprecedented fifteen ‘G’s.
“Good morning,” Murph chirped. He stood at the rear of the aft-bridge and cheerfully surveyed the scene. “Where is the velocity this morning, are we breaking any records?”
Roberts gestured at the flight screen. Murph took a peek and whistled.
“The engines are relaxed, no real stresses back there,” Roberts said.
“Cruising speed, huh?”
Murph’s good feelings were not common among the crew.
Michelle came up behind him. “What’s going on?” she asked.
Murph’s humor was not going to be denied. “Light speed,” he said, “someday we’re going to push right through light speed. Then we’re all going to vaporize into wide spread molecules and become what is known as, a conscious entity. We will no longer exist, as we know it today, we will become ghosts. We’ll rub elbows with the stars, we’ll marvel at the wonders of the universe and we will puzzle over the futility of the human angst as we haunt them.” He eyed Michelle, “Ghosts do that, you know.”
She elbowed him hard. “Are we really approaching light speed?”
“It looks like it,” Roberts said quietly. He disliked predictions but they had decided to leave the engines running on free-hydrogen for as long as they could - then coast on inertia - but they just kept going faster - and the faster they went the more hydrogen they collected, and the faster they went, and the more hydrogen they collected . . . “We may get close.”
Murph gawked. “I thought light speed was unsurpassable. I suppose we are going to find out.”
“Well,” Roberts uttered, “there are theories.”
“What are those?” Michelle wanted to know.
“Oh, I don’t really know much about them,” Roberts wished he had shied away from the discussion, “I’ve heard about folds in the universe, wormholes, inter-dimensional travel. I don’t pretend to know much about . . .”
“I’ve read about those,” Murph said, “they claim you really can’t exceed light speed but the universe can accommodate high velocity by “folding”. You travel faster than light-speed when measured by factors of time of departure compared to time of arrival but you aren’t really traveling that fast. And aging at different speeds than someone on a planet? Apparently this “fold” theory takes that out of the equation.”
“I don’t know,” Michelle said, that sort of talk sounded crazy, “we’ll find out what we find out.”
Roberts gestured at the ceiling transparencies. The stars seemed out of focus.
Murph rubbed at both eyes and looked again.
“What is going on?” Michelle asked.
“Things are really happening.” Murph sounded excited. Then he chanced a look at the forward screens on the flight-bridge; the stars had turned to a crisp brilliant colorless white. He left the others and walked into the forward-bridge – and was greeted by a computer message on his status board, “Attention Captain”, it read.
As he sat down the message changed. “Current velocity is 97 percent of light speed and increasing. All external sensors will cease functioning in fifteen minutes.”
Murph looked back, Roberts was there. “You getting all this?” Murph asked.
He was.
Detection equipment swirled in crazy patterns. Murph tried the longer range; it was more of the same.
Roberts ventured a guess, “The signal is traveling at about the same speed as the ship. I’d bet it’s bending back and we’re picking it up in free space.”
Murph flopped back and surveyed the panel in front of him, nothing was going to work. He glanced upward, the stars didn’t look like stars anymore. Each speck of light had lengthened as if they were stretching backward. Up ahead the stars were brilliant but otherwise the unchanged.
“Light speed in five minutes.”
Above, the stars grew longer, brightest at their forwardmost, blurred and turning grey to the rear – then the grey began mixing together forming a kind of grey striated overcast.  Quickly, the mottled grey extended forward creating a ‘tunnel’ effect, open at the most forward end, but the tunnel was closing.
“Murph.” It was a plea more than a call.
“Yes,” he responded.
“Are we there?”
“At light-speed? I think so.” The tunnel ahead had closed, all of the sensors were dead. “Kind of neat, huh?”
“Oh, Murph.”
“The very first to go the speed of light,” he said. “So much for theories.”
“Are we dead?”
He reached over and gave her a pinch. She was alive, all right.
                                                      *    *    *
“Captain to the bridge!”
Murph jerked awake. The speaker blurted out the message again. He reached a toggle and flipped it up. “What is it?”
“Captain,” the unfamiliar voice said, “the ops-computer says we’ll be in retro-fire in less than five minutes.”
“What is it?” Michelle was awake.
“We’re going to retro-fire.”
“Why?"
“I don’t know, I’m just the Captain of this ship. How would I know?” He fumbled with his jumpsuit. “Gotta go,” he said.
She turned and placed both feet on the floor. “I’ll go too. Probably just a nav-fix.”
He zipped the suit up, looked in the mirror and ran both hands through his hair. “I’m off,” and he charged out of the room.
As he stepped on the bridge he heard, “All engines at hot neutral.” The Congo was turning. The tattered trailing end of the streaked grey tunnel moved into easy view framing a large circle of starless dead space.
“Retro-fire in five seconds.”
Then he could hear the low drone of the primary engines.
“We have retro-fire.”
The tunnel retreated into nothingness and the stars came out. And the Congo turned again, to a forward position.
A pair of brilliant stars, one much brighter than the other, shown dead ahead.
“Where are we?” Murph asked.
 The ops-computer worked furiously, sensors bounced as if they were unfamiliar with their tasks and overhead the stars shown brightly again. Somehow it was all very comforting.
“We are in the Alpha Centauri Star system,” someone said.
“I thought this was a three star system.”
“It is, the star map says the brightest one is Alpha Centauri itself, the other one is Beta and Proxima you can’t see just yet.”
Murph squinted at them. “Where is Proxima from here?”
“On the far side of the system from here.”
He turned, Roberts was behind him, “We overshot it.”
“Couldn’t see,” he said, “all the sensors were out. We used dead reckoning to get this far. Not bad I’d say.”
“Let’s get going,” Murph said.
                                                         *    *    *
Proxima Station – 240 days from Titan Station.
“Shields up.”
“Shields are up.”
“Thrusters phasing, we are active.”
The thrusters thumped comfortably and the crew on the aft-bridge concentrated on the instrument array. Up forward it was the moon out through the port screens that captured everyone's attention. But they saw only barren rocky terrain; no where was there a visible sign of life.
“Pete, what do you get for an atmosphere down there?”
“Nothing, it’s a vacuum.”
Roberts asked, “Any sign of a support station? A transponder signal, communications, a visual, anything?”
It was a useless question, Roberts would have known about any communication the instant any of them knew.
“It’s quiet so far,” Michelle said. Her visual displayed a slowly passing terrain replete with worn out craters, sharply crested mountains colored in sandy grey, and an occasional dark patch of rock strewn open plain. If it looked like anything familiar it might have been Earth’s own moon.
“We have a stable orbit,” came the word.
Murph twisted in his seat towards Roberts, “Do we have coordinates for the ground station?”
“It’s a mine, it may be difficult to find. Locating the support station is our best bet.” Roberts kept his eye on the blue spectrum line running across the top of his own console. It functioned much like a scanner over a broad range of electro-magnetic frequencies. If the spectrum line were to detect something, it would jump and mark the frequency. But there was hardly a wiggle. And support stations operated on dozens, possibly hundreds of frequencies.
Ninety minutes later the surface installation was located. “It’s coming up now,” Michelle said.
Murph couldn’t identify anything that looked man-made. There was just a lot of nothing.
“I’ll bring it in a bit,” she said. There was something, a curious set of ripples extended out from the side of a mountain.
“Those are the mining complex buildings,” Roberts said. The picture moved to a large open flat area. “Their antenna field, it’s right there.”
“I don’t see a thing,” Murph squinted at the image. "It must be covered by some sort of camouflage," he guessed. “Shouldn’t there be equipment, transports and loading equipment – everything can’t be inside a building?”
Roberts concentrated intently on the visual. “Those buildings, they’ve colored them the same as the sand. The antenna field is really hard to see." He made an adjustment to the focus on his visual. "Maybe it is some sort of camouflage.”
Murph felt vindicated. His eyesight wasn’t failing after all. “Any communications?”
“Nothing so far.”
“And no support station?”
“We should have seen it by now.”
Roberts came up behind Murph. “We have to go down and have a look.”
“Why?” The idea of going down to the surface was . . . repulsive.
“The complex is intact. It seems so from here, anyway, there might be people stranded down there,” Roberts explained.
Murph was suddenly conscious of every breath he took. “How do you get down there?”
“There isn’t any atmosphere to contend with, so that isn’t a problem. This is a moon and gravity is low – I think a transport or a tug with skids can do the job,” Roberts said.
Panic thoughts raced through his mind. Desperately he sought some reasonable excuse to reject the trip down to the surface. But there was nothing. The surface appeared to be stable, a tug’s engine was certainly large enough, the only problem was that he wanted to stay right where he here. Others could make the journey down to the mining complex. That was it, others could make the trip to the surface. “Who’s going on this expedition?” Murph asked.
Roberts looked around the bridge, “Pete, you, me,” he said.
A crazy queasiness gripped his stomach. “Me, down there?”
“Sure, we’ll drop down there and go through the buildings and maybe the mine. We’ll try to find out where everybody went and what happened to the support station.”
“Why me? Why not some young crewman or . . . “
“You’re the Captain and you head up this team.” That was his explanation, that was his reason. It was straightforward and it made sense.
But Murph did not want to appear afraid, it wasn’t manly and besides, his behavior had to be consistent with that of a Captain. He glanced at Michelle. She eyed him with a single raised eyebrow. He could see that there was no way out, he had to go.
Back in the Captain’s quarters, Michelle sorted out a pressure suit for him. “You’ve been in a pressure suit before.”
“I’ve never been outside.”
“Sure you have, I’ve seen you do it dozens of times.”
“Not the same thing.” He shook his head in short little twitches that made his jowls shake. “We’re going down there.” He pointed downward. “Never been down there.”
“Come on, get into this,” she said, ignoring his complaint. She zipped, snapped and fastened then handed him the helmet unit. Finally she shoved him to the door. It was a short silent trip down to the shuttle bay.
Pete was already inside the tug. Roberts was standing beside it, waiting.
“How did you get those skids rigged so fast?” Murph nervously asked. He wondered for a moment if the others could detect the shakiness in his voice.
“We did it way back when were at Titan,” Roberts said matter-of-factly.
“On Titan, huh, heat shield and all.” Murph was buying time.
“Let’s get inside.” Roberts nudged him gently.
Murph looked around the shuttle bay searching for something that required his attention and would require that he stay behind. Most of the cubicles were filled with secured equipment, properly stored. Gangs of large pipe high above ran off to the darker parts of the shuttle bay, he saw no leaks. He could hear the giant air handlers, perhaps they needed testing . . .
“Better get on board, “ someone urged.
Murph placed a hand on the short ladder up to the open cockpit then took one slow step after another. And he was inside. The canopy closed, the landing platform lights went to red as the decompression cycle had begun, and everyone on the platform left for the main level. The shuttle platform lights phased to green and suddenly the shuttle bay hatch was open.
 Murph felt a prickly sensation when the tug lifted from the landing platform. There it hovered, turning slowly, aiming out into open space. Then the tug bolted out through the hatch. It was much too sudden for any sort of reaction, he had just enough time to look up to see the Congo shrinking in the distance.
On the surface it was loose sand, smooth and undisturbed except for two sets of footprints leading up a hill and the skid marks of the tug. Low hills rose up on all sides limiting the horizon to a couple hundred feet. Murph’s gaze followed the footprints up the hill to the crest. There the team waited.
Above, no matter how hard he looked, the Congo was nowhere to be seen. There was only space, cold empty black space with nothing between him and infinity, absolutely nothing.
“Let’s get moving!” He heard the call to him. Roberts was standing on the hill waving both arms. Murph rose up in the open cockpit gripping the threshold with both hands. He gave a glance skyward. A panic struck and his knees started to give way. He closed both eyes and crouched hoping to fight it off. Finally he stood again. This time he measured the distance down to the sandy surface by peeking over the edge. There was dizziness in his head. He squeezed both eyes shut but just then his footing gave way and his chest came crashing down against the edge of the cockpit. The impact came against his chest pack, he bounced while desperately gripping the cockpit threshold. The momentum of the movement was causing him to roll outside the cockpit and both feet were flying. Quite suddenly he slammed back first against the tug’s fuselage. He had performed a complete headfirst flip and ended standing on his feet. Small billowing clouds of dust rose up around his feet. He waited assessing any possible injury but felt nothing of that nature. It took several seconds for him to realize what had happened and the shock of the tumble still rang in his ears when he realized nobody had witnessed his magnificent exit from the tug and his very first step on a moon or planet.
“This way!” the voice over the comm-link said.
With one adventurous kick of the foot, he raised a dust cloud. Then he took a cautious step, and another. The canopy on the tug closed, sensing that no one was there. Panic struck but he fought it off. He took another step and vowed never to set foot on another moon or planet again.
At the knoll’s summit he could see the mining complex; six rows of one-story airtight metal buildings waiting silently across an open expanse. They appeared to extend out from beneath an overhang in the mountain. Gingerly he marched in the direction of the buildings. Then he saw an airlock and his pace quickened dramatically.
Roberts was the first to reach the airlock. There was some chatter about an antenna field up on a hill. Murph had only seen a few poles with wires and some dish antennae. Roberts said it looked like the dish antennae were aimed at a particular spot in the sky and theorized that the support station should have been there. But the Congo said it wasn’t. When the interior airlock hatch opened the discussion ended.
Once inside, Murph felt an inexplicable relief.
The space inside was starkly furnished with only a couple of chairs, a desk pulled out in front of a long hallway to make it some sort of reception station and that was all. Standard, Roberts said. The room they were in was as broad as the building itself. The hallway apparently ran the length of the building with rooms off to either side, also standard. Eventually they stopped at a room labeled, “Personnel”. Roberts went inside and rummaged through the files. He came back waving a memory disk. “We have the entire roster of personnel here,” and sealed it in an inside pocket.
They moved to the next building through a connecting corridor. It turned out to be one large room filled with laboratory equipment. “They run product samples through here,” Roberts explained, “Sometimes these places mine for a particular mineral, sometimes they take whatever they get.”
The next building held more lab equipment and the same in the building after that. Further on they found a barracks. Inside, individual spaces were partitioned off to give each person some degree of privacy. They carefully searched. Everywhere it looked as if people had left in a hurry; pens lay across hand written pages, beds were unmade while others were neatly put together, books lay open on tables and laundry was scattered as if someone had just changed clothes. But they found no people.
The next building held numerous rows of empty racks and metal shelves. There was no inventory.
“What is this?” Pete asked.
Roberts rattled a row of empty racks. “It was their armory.”
Murph pushed at a stack of empty boxes.
Roberts went on to explain, “It was all hand held stuff, probably weapons they developed themselves." He glanced cryptically in Murph's direction. "Weapons were not the usual in an outstation, something was going on here. They thought they had to protect themselves.” He gestured upward. “Maybe the support station was lost so they got ready for something.”
Murph looked up. “Another support station gone.”
“I’m sure it was there. Support stations are standard with SatMan, a ‘base of operations’ sort of thing. The antenna field is aimed at where it should be. They handle traffic, you know, like cargo carriers and loading operations.”
Pete had developed a grim expression evident even through his faceplate. “Three stops so far and two of the support stations that are supposed to be there are gone. And the people are gone too.”
“I wonder if SatMan knows what is going on.” Murph was shaking his head.
“Or even cares,” Roberts added. He fiddled with a meter measuring the air. “A little stale,” he declared.
Murph looked around. "Power is out, no lights.”
Roberts lifted his faceplate and breathed in. He gestured that it was okay and the others followed suit.
“Weapons are gone, no transports, the hydroponics were dried up back there,” Murph said, “guess we ought to go back now.”
“There's a lot more to see,” Roberts said.
“The bomber was here,” Pete muttered.
“What?” Murph turned to him.
“Something scared them, I can feel it, something up in the orbits. That’s why they covered the buildings with sand.”
Roberts looked seriously at Pete, “How do you make the connection between Ganymede and here? I don’t see any craters or evidence of a bomber.”
“The people are gone.”
Roberts sighed, he was growing weary of Pete’s single-minded bomber theory. “We’d better get moving,” he said and headed for a door that led into the mountain.
The tunnel had been fashioned from hard rock and was very dark. At their feet, cable bunches ran back into the gloom, there was little else to see. Pete cast a handheld light beam into the blackness.
“We going in there?” Murph questioned.
“We'll follow those,” Roberts pointed at a cable bunch running up against one wall and started walking. Pete was close behind. Murph paused, then belatedly went after them.
Pete’s light darted around the cave until they came to the first intersection. “Which way?” Pete asked.
“The cables divide,” Roberts spelled out his dilemma quite simply, “they go down every one of these tunnels.”   
“The large ones go over there.” Pete’s light went to the tunnel on their left. Without a word they chose that direction.
They came to a large opening on the side of the tunnel that reached to the height of the tunnel itself, almost thirty feet and was at least fifty feet wide. Right away Roberts spied rows of tables with the scattered parts of dismantled equipment. Pete was following the large cable that had turned into the room running along one wall to the back. There he discovered an idle hydrogen-fueled generator serviced by a long large rack half-filled with canisters waiting to roll in place.
Pete inspected the machine end of the service rack. “It’s jammed.” He set about kicking the guilty canister. It freed and rolled into place, and the entire rack rumbled down one position. "Ain't gravity wonderful?" Pete chirped.
Murph puzzled, “It didn’t start.”
Pete explained, “It’s the weight of the canisters; when one of ‘em gets used up a mechanism kicks it out and they all roll down and it starts.”
“But it didn’t,” Murph said.
Pete looked at him with an expression that seemed to say, any dummy ought to know what’s wrong with this generator. But what he said was, “The battery’s dead.”
Pete found a service plate and began deciphering the operating instructions. “This thing has an air compression emergency starter.” He groped beneath the generator and located a folded pedal then struggled to pull it out to full length. “If we pump this up with enough air pressure and release this little valve,” he tapped a finger on a tiny thumbscrew fixture, “it’s supposed to turn over and start.” Pete cocked up one leg and began pumping up and down. The two of them just watched.
Roberts asked, “How much of this does it take?”
Pete stopped. He was breathing hard as he tapped a gauge with one finger, “When it reaches the ten mark.” It was only at number two.
Roberts took his place. The gauge moved quickly up to three but stubbornly held to that position. By the time Roberts exhausted himself it started to move again. Then Murph took a turn. He placed one foot on the pedal and shoved. The pedal failed to move. He pushed hard, this was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated. Roberts made it look easy, even Pete had no trouble with it. But he struggled and pushed, and pedaled, until Pete declared, “Good enough.” Murph stepped off and bent over in breathlessness.
With a twist of the hand and a hiss of escaping air, the generator turned over, coughed, then ran smoothly. And lights came on.
Pete beamed. Murph was still gasping for air. Roberts was back among the tables picking at parts he found. “This is a maintenance shop,” he said. “All this stuff is electrical equipment.” He tossed something back on the table, “Let’s move on down the tunnel.”
They turned left in the tunnel and quickly came upon another room. A repair shop for small vehicles; tunnel crawlers, forklifts and ore carriers. They did not linger. At the next intersection Pete stopped and said, “The cable divides about the same either way.” 
“Which way?” Murph asked.
“Back there,” Roberts said pointing further into the mountain.
“What could we possibly find back there? The people aren’t here, there’s only tunnels back that way,” Murph said.
“The crew spent most of their time back here in the mountain.” He looked up at the tunnel walls as if they offered some sort of revelation. “We’ll keep looking until we find something that tells the story here.” And they began walking back into the mountain.
Roberts stopped to conduct occasional atmosphere checks and they passed more rooms; most of them filled with equipment of one type or another, some for the purpose of maintenance, some for storage. And it became apparent that the tunnel complex was larger than a foot exploration and a few hours could cover.
Another intersection. Roberts decided that the lighting and footing was better in one direction so they took the path of least resistance. More rooms: one was filled with rows of lockers, some locked, others empty; another had an incredibly smooth floor polished for the purpose of athletics or recreation. Still further, they found another barracks.
And a row of parked vehicles.
“Transportation,” Murph sighed.
“If any of them will start.” Roberts approached the first one, a kind of big-wheeled two-seated tractor. He climbed up and tried the ignition. Nothing.
Pete was atop the next one and it was dead too.
Roberts was on a third vehicle. The starter motor ground slowly but caught on. “Get on,” he said excitedly. He pressed the accelerator and crashed into the vehicle ahead, jarring them.
Murph called out, “Where did you learn how to drive?” It earned a chuckle.
“Get out in the middle,” Pete said. "It's safer."
“Hey,” Roberts said, “I’m driving, you guys are riding, remember that.”
The vehicle jumped onto a steel treadway in the middle of the tunnel and the ride smoothed out. Room after room revealed more mining equipment and laboratories. One unit housed a large processing plant for the conversion of rock material down to its base elements. It was their source of hydrogen and oxygen, and ultimately water.
And they encountered a different sound. It wasn’t an equipment noise of the sort that they expected in the tunnels, it was ‘music’. But it was faint.
Roberts followed it in starts and stops – eventually the sound grew louder. It was music, they decided, a strange music. Finally, they came upon four empty vehicles parked haphazardly near an entrance to another room.
Roberts stopped and they all jumped off. “People might be in there,” Roberts whispered.
“It’s coming from inside, alright,” Pete observed.
They approached the entrance. It was another large room, perhaps two hundred feet long and seventy or eighty feet deep. Tables and chairs were scattered everywhere. A bar ran the length of the room before a back wall cover with a seamless mirror, transparent shelving and hundreds of assorted glassware. A large mosaic mirrored ball spun slowly round and round casting a moving assortment of colored light. The effect of it on the bar mirror and glassware was dazzling.
Small performance platform stages stood empty at either end of the room, each with copious red and blue hanging curtains.
Murph could easily view the stage area nearest him; there was nothing but tables and chairs there. He decided to go in the other direction, he started down among the tables to the far end of the room, searching as he went. Twanging music assaulted his ears, “Cigareeets and whiskey and wild, wild women, they’ll drive you crazy, they’ll drive you insane, . . .”
He stopped abruptly twenty feet from a table covered with thirty or forty empty liquor bottles. Some nearby tables were strewn with broken glass both from bottles and drinking glasses. For a time he just stood and looked over the destruction, wondering.
“. . . wild, wild women . . .”
Colored specks of light sparkled among the glass casting a diffused light across the mostly darkened stage and the draping curtains. He moved closer.
The music stopped, then started again with the same song.
Murph was mesmerized by the changing colors on the glass. He moved up next to the table.
“. . . they drive you crazy, they drive you insane . . .”
It was there that he saw them stretched out on the low stage next to the table. He counted six human skeletons.
 
 


   

[Gerald Lively]

                                                                        CHAPTER  EIGHT


                  January 2132 – Alpha Station – Alpha Centauri System.
 
 
Michelle steadied the image on the overhead screen. Once satisfied she leaned over the eyepiece to search down into the burning brilliance of the moon’s dayside.
Roberts peered into another of the upper screens and what he saw was reassuring, even though it was only vaguely familiar. He turned to Michelle. “Have you found the ground station?”
She answered tersely. “I just started looking, be patient.”
He stood before his screen. It showed a SatMan orbiting support station, or something that was once a standard issue support station. The orbiting object had a number of odd arrangements: there were transport docks built from obvious scrap materials; station expansions jutted out in seemingly random directions; mysterious wires had been strung haphazardly between steel struts that themselves appeared to have no particular structural purpose; dish antennae had been mounted in every available nook, and any SatMan official who saw this would have been thunderstruck. But they were a long way from any SatMan inspection.  Instruments clicked all around him, gauges jiggled from time to time and meters glowed, and it all mattered little – events were not moving rapidly enough for him. He wanted answers. He was impatient and he paced. Eventually he stopped behind an engineer at a comm-console. “Anything yet?” he asked.
“There’s plenty.” He gestured to the spectrum scanner and a group of bouncing lines stretching over twenty megacycles of old SatMan frequencies.
“Pick some of those out for us.”
The engineer turned the tuner-fence down below the active frequencies and set it as close as he could then began the transmission cataloging procedure; it would take ten or fifteen minutes to sort out the two to three hundred transmissions.
Murph came out from the flight bridge and the upper screen immediately caught his eye. “What is that?”
“It started out life as a support station,” Roberts said. Looking at it made him wince.
Murph tilted his head to one side, there seemed to be no up or down to the structure. “What’s the situation? Had any contact?”
“We’ve located the support station. We’re searching for the ground facilities now. Skip is working over the communications and there is a lot of it. None of it has been aimed at us. But for the past thirty minutes we’ve been scanned by their radar.”
“Well, they know we’re here, let ‘em figure it out,” Murph said. “I imagine they’ve seen the bridge and that changes everything for them.”
Roberts shrugged. “They should have sent out a transport by now.”
“A transport?”
“It’s standard SatMan procedure to send a transport to an incoming carrier that fails to respond to parking instructions. They tried parking us several times already.”
“They’re being careful.” Murph scratched his chin.
 “I have a sighting,” said Michelle. “It’s the surface complex.” The screen showed a confusion of ore tractors, mounds of materials, parked transports and a large number of randomly set buildings. There was none of the orderliness of Proxima Station and there was no attempt to disguise anything. “What do you make of that?” she asked.
Murph, still scratching his chin, said, “I take it back, they are not being careful.”
“I have something.” Skip leaned back from the comm-console. “They’re not too sure about us. Someone ordered everything down to the surface. I believe they are trying to clear the orbits.”
“They’re afraid of something." Murph was mumbling to himself. "Every action is a reaction to something.” 
“What?” Michelle questioned.
Murph looked surprised at her. “Every action is a result of experience, a reaction.”
“So?”
“So, I was trying to think what it was they were reacting too.”
“The bomber,” Pete said.
“No evidence of that,” Roberts said. “They would have hidden all that equipment and possibly tried to cover those buildings. There are no craters or holes . . .”
“They’re trying to park us again,” Skip said. He checked several of his instruments. “I think they’re trying to bypass the nav-system and fire the primaries from the micro-units in the drive unit.”
“Can they do that?” Murph asked. Much of the Congo was still a mystery to him.
 Roberts shook his head. “It’s clever. I think we’d better do something before they find someway to do real damage.”
Murph agreed. “Yeah, do something.” He looked at the comm-officer, “Contact that support station on a regular SatMan frequency and instruct them to send out the Chief Engineer. Get him over here right away.” Pause. “Tell them we’re tired of waiting.”
                                                     *    *    *
“Decompression in the shuttle bay is complete and the hatch is opening.” Pete watched the monitor. He saw the gleaming transport hesitate just outside the open hatch, hover there for several long minutes, then with a certain decisiveness, move inside and settle on the lighted landing platform. “Transport is inside and the shuttle bay hatch is closing.”
“Maintain contact with the shuttle,” Roberts instructed the Communications Officer.
“Maintaining contact. But he isn’t talking.”
“What’s he doing?” Murph gawked over Pete’s shoulder.
“Nothing so far.”
The transport sat unmoving in the middle of the huge burnished steel landing platform. The landing lights ringing the platform had long ago turned green announcing recompression. But the transport waited with its canopy closed.
Murph asked, “What’s he waiting for?”
Roberts sighed, “He’s just being cautious.”
The canopy lifted. A stout pressure-suited figure, sans helmet, climbed down to the platform where he turned slowly to study his surroundings. Eventually, he strode to the platform’s edge, paused, then onto the waiting elevator.
“Okay,” Roberts said with great relief, “bring him up.”
The man stood feet apart in the middle of the elevator platform as it began to rise. It was only minutes before he arrived at the aft-bridge doorway. There he studied each of them, one after another, focusing, assessing, then moving to view the instruments and consoles, and the various active screens. But his eyes stopped at Murph. “You the Captain of the vessel?” he asked.
Murph took a step forward and extended a hand. “Yes, I am the Captain of the Congo, and you?”
He ignored the question with a question of his own, “Been to Proxima?”  He tilted a craggy face in anticipation of a response.
Here was a man, Murph surmised, that was used to dominating every situation. He nodded that they had.
“How long ago?”
“A few weeks back.”
He arched two grey eyebrows. “Can’t get here that fast.”
Murph grinned somewhat, “We did.”
The man was clearly suspicious of them. “Whatdya see there?”
Murph grew cautious, perhaps because this man was cautious with them. “Let’s get this off on the right footing,” Murph said, “what do people call you?”
Annoyance registered on the man’s face. “Chief,” he said.
Murph extended his hand again, “My name is Murph Santorini and this is the bridge crew of the Congo.”
Chief did not take Murph’s hand. “You’re a salvager, right?”
Murph was taken aback. “How’d you know . . .”
“Shuttle bay is full of salvager junk. What are you doing here? Yer supposed to be sucking up garbage in some orbit or other.”
Murph was bewildered. He tried to regroup. “We’re here to see if we can be of any assistance. If not we’ll leave you to your business and be on our way.”
Chief’s eyes were penetrating. The man was intense. “Tell me about Proxima why don’t ya?”
Roberts stepped closer to the pair.
Chief turned, “You don’t look like a salvager, what are you?”
Roberts spoke quietly, “Chief Engineer Titan Station until SatMan abandoned us and these good people rescued us.” Pause. “Now, we’ve been to Proxima a few weeks back, just like we said, and we’ve been to Ganymede Station too. It’s the same everywhere we go, except here. I believe you are a lucky man. You’re lucky to be here at all. And you’re lucky we’re here.”
“Whatdya see there?”
“Ganymede was totally destroyed. Proxima was abandoned except for six dead that we found. They were probably a crew left behind to keep things running until the rest of them came back, but nobody ever came back.” Roberts’ voice quavered a bit. He paused and gathered some strength. “Now, we had some strange idea about checking this place to see if anyone needed help. I guess you don’t. Like the Captain said, we’ll leave you to your own devices.” Roberts turned his back to Chief. “Make sure the Chief Engineer here, is safely escorted back to his transport.”
“Wait a minute,” Chief said pushing back the security officer with a hand, “I still have questions.”
Roberts responded, “I am not as sure as you that we’re here to answer your questions.”
“Alright, awright,” Chief eyed an empty chair, “let’s talk.” He spun the chair around and seated himself. “Tell me, who are you people?”
Roberts explained the events at Titan Station and Ganymede and how they had made the super light-speed jump to Proxima and of their guesses about what happened there. “Basically the surface complex was intact, the equipment inside needed batteries and we left the generator running. There weren’t any transports.”
Chief hung his head. “I knew it was something like that. I sure did.” He took several deep breaths. “We’d get a contingent of folks a couple times a year. We’ve got a bunch of enterprising women down there, if ya know what I mean.” He glanced in Michelle’s direction. “That Proxima bunch would rotate out here and work for us until the next big transport came by, ‘bout once every six months or so. A bunch of hard working engineers, those ones.” He brushed back several strands of unruly hair. “Years ago, I don’t recall how many right now, we had a bunch of carriers come in. A good-sized group of ‘em, fourteen I think it was. We just finished loadin’ ‘em when these little black ships with long skinny tails came in and blew ‘em to smithereens. Don’t know where they came from and I ain’t seen ‘em since.” He glanced around the bridge; everyone was intent on what he was saying. “Well, that Proxima bunch had just left a couple days before on that thing they called a transport. We tried to call ‘em and give them a warning but they never answered. That was about a third of the crew over there at Proxima. They were gone, just like that. Gone.” He gazed down to the floor. “Nobody from Proxima ever came back. We figured they got it bad. Wish there was something we could have done to help.”
Pete asked, “These were little black ships, not big ones with a lot of decks and some big engines in the back, bigger’n this ship?”
“Nope, these were small – transport size – and quick too. And vicious.”
“Tell us about this attack you witnessed,” Murph said.
“We just finished loading this fleet and about half of ‘em were just breaking out of orbit - it was quite a sight, fourteen carriers, I remembered that because we didn’t usually get that many at once – well, this fleet cleaned us out of titanium. I was up at the support station when these things were suddenly there. Little black ships, they were, they came out of nowhere. They started right for us and we thought we were goners but they went right over us and chased those carriers, and brother, did they hammer ‘em. Made mincemeat of ‘em. After that they took off and we never saw them or anyone else again, no carriers or anything, that is until you arrived. You’re the first.”
Michelle asked, “Titanium?”
“Yeah, we do titanium here, Proxima does iron ore. Nice combination, don’t you think?”
“What have you been doing all this time?” Roberts asked.
“For a while we mined. There was always the thought of another carrier and we wanted to be ready when they showed up. Well, you can bring only so much ore up and process it before you have to stop. So we stopped. It’s been a big party ever since.”
Roberts did not smile. Here was another example of SatMan’s failure to take care of their own. There were problems for sure but this was beginning to look like a complete abandonment of the outstation system. “How many do you have down there?” he asked.
“Around five hundred of my own, ‘bout two hundred of Proxima’s crew.” Nobody reacted to the number as Chief thought they might, six or seven hundred people was a lot, he thought. Especially when it came to feeding time. He kept talking. “Say, we thought this was a carrier, this Congo of yours. We even got a transponder ID out of her. Then it didn’t respond to traffic’s attempt to park her. Then my guy on traffic told me something, he said this transponder was 1138, that right?”
“Got to get rid of the transponder,” Murph grumbled.
“Yes,” Michelle answered, “this is 1138.”
“Well,” Chief said, “1138 was one of those carriers I was telling you about, one of those that got shot up.”
The aft-bridge became very still.
“Now, I saw those black ship-things blast that carrier fleet and I had a damn good idea about Proxima and those poor slobs over there. Then this carrier shows up made into a great big something. Well, you might say I’m a little bit curious about it.”
Michelle had a wry little smile. “So it wasn’t a meteorite after all.”
“We are not alone in the universe,” Murph said.
 Chief asked, “Can someone explain this?”
“Sure,” Murph said. And he told the story of how 1138 became the Congo. “. . . and we have been out searching for a suitable planet ever since. It’s just that we keep running into these mining station disasters.”
“Some of the guys from Proxima told me,” Chief said, “’bout some little planet in this system, the seventh one out I think. They claimed it was Earth-like with trees and oceans, the whole thing. I’ve never seen it, myself.”
Pete came closer; he had a few questions to ask.
But Murph looked directly at Chief. "As soon as we get your people loaded up here, we'll go have a look at this planet."
By now Pete was grinning broadly.
"You're gonna take us outta here?" Chief wanted to know.
"Just say the word," Murph replied.
                                                     *    *    *
Many of those waiting in the long line passed the time with endless talk to anyone who would listen and sometimes to those who weren’t listening. It was the entertainment of the impatient. And it was the same all the way to the end. And the line extended from the medical offices down the corridor to the first intersection where it turned and extended into the labyrinth of corridors.
“Is all this necessary?” Chief’s question was more protest than question, and more for the benefit of those eavesdropping from the waiting line than for Roberts.
But Roberts stopped in his tracks. Chief knew the reason for this, there could be no doubt. “Not only will those going aboard the Congo submit to a medical screening but they’ll go through a quarantine. This is tedious and time consuming and I am sure everyone has a complaint but the Congo will not be contaminated by some . . .”
Chief put an arm across Roberts’ shoulder and steered him away from the line. “Isn’t there a quicker way?” Some of those in line could still hear them.
“No!”
A woman in a tattered jumpsuit with a knitted shawl around her shoulders reached out and tugged at Roberts’ arm. “What are they gonna do to me in there?” she asked.
He gazed into her pleading eyes. “They just want to look you over, ma’am.”
The woman next to her asked,” What did he say, Bertha?”
“He said, they’re gonna run the diagnostic ‘A’ program and set you up in quarantine for a while.”
“Quarantine with who? Some good lookin’ stud, huh?”
“No, Bertha, no such luck.”
“Who’s doing the examine, Doc Mathers? Pelvic I hope. I like the way he wiggles that probe of his . . .” They huddled, giggling.
And it drew a chuckle from Chief.
Roberts walked off with a shrug. Chief was close behind with another question, “My guys tell me you’re making them dismantle and scrub down equipment, sometimes more than once. What’s that all about?”
This was a discussion they’d had before. “Listen,” Roberts stopped and turned, “it’s the rules. Take it or leave it, these rules are not negotiable.”
“Come on, salvagers are running that ship and with them everything is negotiable.”
“You’re laboring under a severe misconception, salvager do not mess with a closed environment eco-system.”
“Oh,” Chief grunted. He glanced back down the corridor to see if anyone had overheard the admonishment. None had. It was time to stop asking questions.
Roberts’ comm-link sounded a gentle buzz. “Roberts here.” He listened, then finally said, “Got it.” He turned to Chief, “The Congo picked something up. It’s still out there a ways, six thousand miles or so but they’ve suspended transport activity. Which way to your comm-center?”
“It’s this way.” Chief took off in a fast trot.
Outstretched arms and begging questions asking for “just a moment of your time” nagged at their progress. But they quickly arrived at the comm-center. There, a very large monitor displayed a crystal clear picture of the Congo illuminated by intense daylight before a dead black background.
Chief asked him, “What next?” There was real excitement in his voice.
Roberts concentrated on the monitor, “Shuttle bay is closed and the shields are probably up, I don’t think there’s much to worry about.”
“Shields?”
“Shields, yes.” He glimpsed at Chief and realized the old Chief Engineer didn’t know about shielding systems. “It’s an electronic envelope around the ship, it’s there to repel threats.”
That wasn’t enough for Chief. He wanted to know more.
                                                       *    *    *
“Get me a graphic on that incoming blip.”
The image was slow in developing. Lines swirled, sometimes it starting to take on the look of a spacecraft then it came apart and swirled some more. Something was interfering with the graphic system.
“We have a transponder signal.” Skip turned completely around, “It’s a SatMan carrier.” He seemed relieved at the news.
The graphic finally confirmed.
And Murph relaxed. “Contact the support station. See if they are able to park this cargo carrier.” A glimpse at the radar told him this was a solo vessel. A lone carrier was not the usual but it wasn’t a rarity either. At least it wasn’t alien.
“We are being scanned,” Michelle called out. “And it is coming from the incoming carrier.” Her gaze stayed with him. There was concern in her eyes.
Skip confirmed and Murph began to mutter about cargo carriers and their orbit behavior. Robot cargo carriers have very small radar systems, he knew that about them. “How far out are they?”
“Five thousand clicks and closing.”
Too far out for a robot carrier to be scanning anything. “How is traffic control doing?”
“No luck,” Skip answered. “The carrier is using a standard approach but it’s manned, it has to be.”
“They have a radar sweep of once per second. I think they’ve focused on us,” Michelle said. There was a rising pitch to her voice, she was worried.
“Shields up!” That was enough for him, everyone on the bridge figured it was manned, Murph was going to act. “Shuttle bay status?”
“Shuttle bay is secure.”
“Ground station?”
“They have been notified and all traffic has been suspended.”
“Incoming carrier is in retro-fire.”
“The incoming carrier is signaling us.”
Murph hesitated before answering, maybe this wasn’t a threat, maybe Chief had him spooked at every little unexpected thing. “Alright, put ‘em on.”
The bridge speakers erupted with sound, “This is the Pacific Rim spacecraft Intrepid. Identify yourselves,” the harsh voice demanded.
“We are the starship Congo. What may we do for you?”
“One thousand miles and closing.”
“We are here on the business of the Pacific Rim Corporation. We are here to protect our mining interests. We demand to know what business you have at this mining station?”
Murph swallowed hard. They were in the middle of stripping out all of the useful equipment and loading everyone on board. They were closing down Alpha Station. “We are assisting an apparently stranded and defenseless community of humans.”
“Assisting in what way?”
“This station has been under attack from vessels unknown and SatMan has not contacted these people for years. We have offered these souls safe sanctuary.” Murph could feel it; there was no way he could win this debate.
There was a very long pause.
“They have settled into a following orbit at fifty miles.”
The quiet ensued. Then abruptly, the Intrepid’s voice demanded attention, “You are informed that you have unauthorized possession of a ship owned by the Pacific Rim Corporation and you are commanded to return control of the subject vessel at once or face immediate destruction.”
They wanted the Congo not the mining station. “Can we discuss this?” Murph asked.
“I am instructed to destroy your vessel and all aboard if necessary.”
Murph drummed his fingers. Sit still or act, that was the decision he had to make.
“Ranging all weapon systems on the target,” Michelle reported.
“Intrepid,” Murph said, “are you really prepared to destroy this vessel and all aboard . . . because you were instructed to do it?”
A long silence.
Michelle spoke with a somewhat shaky voice, “Must be a conference over there.”
“Congo,” the Intrepid wanted to know, “how many do you have on board?”
“Five hundred right now, give or take a few.” It was a guess, it could be many more. He looked around at the others, five hundred sounded good.
“They’ve closed to fifteen miles. Visual is coming up on screen.” There was some button pushing before the upper screen blazed with a real-time picture of the Intrepid. Tiny thruster flashes told them that the Intrepid was adjusting attitude and creeping closer.
Murph watched intently, he was experiencing a slow realization - the Intrepid had been aligning itself for an attack. An instant later a blinding flash spread over the forward screen followed by a crashing explosion. The flash had barely dissipated when another blast turned the screens into a blaze of yellow flame.
Murph rubbed at the ringing in his ears. “Damage report,” he called out.
“All operations normal. No hull damage reported.”
Michelle reported, “All sensors functioning at normal levels.”
“Communications nominal.”
Murph flashed a smile; the shields had done their job. He looked to Skip, “Get the Intrepid, we need to talk.” When Skip flashed the thumbs up, Murph said, “Intrepid, your aggression was unwarranted. We need to engage in a dialogue rather than a shooting war.”
There was laughter on the speakers. “Congo, or whatever your name is, surrender your ship or suffer total destruction.”
“We will return fire if we must,” Murph said.
More laughter, “With what, if you had any weapons at all, you would have fired them by now.” Laughing. “A ship full of salvagers, not exactly a loss to humanity.” The communication ended with a sharp click, then silence.
Murph did not move. Anger welled up in him. He struggled to think clearly; the next move, he calculated, was his. A return of fire would prove they had the weapons necessary to force the Intrepid to backoff. They could destroy the Intrepid. It wasn’t likely they had a system of shields for protection – but if they did . . . it would become a stalemate . . . and the rescue operations would be halted and the Intrepid would have accomplished at least a portion of their mission. Did the Intrepid have shields?
A burst of flame jarred him. For an instant he anticipated the sound of explosion but it never came. Out through the forward screen the Intrepid was reeling from the impact of a blast to her underside. “Where did that come from?”
Michelle was on her feet. “It came from below. I had my eyes right on the Intrepid when it happened.”
“What’s down there?” Murph half stood to look down. There was nothing to see.
“Nothing is down there!”
He joined Michelle at the short-range radar scope. Nothing.
“I saw it all the way,” she explained, “I know where it came from but there is nothing there.”
The mortally wounded Intrepid fell away in a slow roll – and there was a dark gaping wound where the bridge should have been. Deja vu rampaged across the bridge of the Congo.
                                                          *    *    *
Chief was shouting. “Holy crap, did you see that?”
That was the problem, he hadn’t seen it. Roberts rubbed his eyes. He figured he had blinked at just the wrong time. The incoming carrier was just sitting there, then it exploded. He wasn’t looking directly at it; his eyes were on the Congo waiting for the expected answering fire. But the Congo didn’t fire. The Congo didn’t do anything.
“Chief, do you record these visuals?”
“You betcha.” Chief waved at one of his staff who hustled over to a tall row of equipment. “Boy oh boy, that Congo has some weapons and shielding system.” He was handed a disk. “Hell, I was looking right at it and I didn’t even see that ship of yours fire. Wow! I never saw anything like it.”
“We didn’t fire.”
Chief’s expression fell. “Sure it did, we both saw that Intrepid or whatever, they took it right in the . . .”
“The Congo did not fire, it came from somewhere else.”
Chief slipped in the disk. The rerun was not illuminating. They ran it again and again. “Can you slow the speed?” Roberts asked.
Chief slowed the speed. The flash materialized out of a point well below both ships, then it streaked upward hitting the Intrepid mid-ship. And it was over. A bolt of lightning came out of nothing then it was over. No matter how many times they ran it, that was all they could see.
“Hell of a weapon you’ve got up there. You’ll have to show me how you got that bolt of energy to hit ‘em at an angle. I just can’t get over it; that was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen.”
Roberts scowled at the comment. “Run it again,” he demanded.
They watched the spectacle several more times, each time a tiny bit slower. Finally Chief thought he saw something – a tiny twinkle at the blast’s point of origin. Again they ran the visual. Both leaned over the table with their faces only inches from the screen.
Then Roberts stood back and took a longer look at the images. The Congo was above and turned away from the support station where the opticals were located; the Intrepid was down range facing them. With the unbroken black background to contrast the sun-lighted spacecraft, they had a clear unobstructed view of the event.
Chief ran the sequence. Both ships hovered – neither moved. Then slowly the blast began to materialize – growing at first into a yellow ball – then bolting straight for the Intrepid. The Intrepid seemed to jump from the impact before it settled into a roll.
“You see that twinkle?” Chief stabbed a finger at the spot.
Roberts gazed at the still image of the two ships, “Yeah, I saw it, run that thing again.”
Again they nosed up to the screen.
“Watch now,” Chief instructed.
The slowed sequence started, ran, and he did see the twinkle. It was slight but it was there. “It means something was there.” Roberts thought for a moment. “Can you isolate that twinkle?”
He did, by running the vid up to the point of the blast, then back a tick. “It looks like a reflection,” Chief said.
“It’s almost white but not quite. Sand colored.” Roberts looked at the old Chief Engineer, “What do you think?”
Chief worked the keypad, stopping several times to study the images. Finally he proclaimed, “I’ve got it!”
They were both on the table again.
The twinkle hung suspended in the blackness, enlarged and slightly out of focus. “It has a definite line across it,” Roberts said, his eye only an inch from the screen. “The top of it is a different color.”
“Ya know,” Chief said, “if we could turn around and look the other way, this moon we’re on might look like that twinkle when we’re at sunrise.”
Roberts had to agree; Chief was on to something. “If that twinkle was a highly reflective surface and it jumped up into horizon light, it might look like that.”
“And only the support station would see it. Couldn’t see that reflection from either of those ships,” Chief said.
“Angles,” Roberts mumbled. “It’s round like a ball.” He wondered at the idea even as he spoke it. “Is that possible?”
Chief was studying the vid again. “You may have something there, that line across it is kind of bent, like a ball.” He turned. “That things reflects light and fires huge bolts of lightning. On days like this I’d believe anything.” He climbed off the table and found a place to sit. “Tell me how this shielding system of yours works.”
Roberts issued a big sigh, “It’s an electro-magnetic depolarization repulsion system. It senses the polarization of an approaching object, adjusts and repels matter of any size large enough to do damage. Lasers, radar and such pass right through. It’s a good system.”
“A good mirror,” Chief said, “will repel most electro-magnetic energy in the visible range, including lasers. That is the opposite of what you have on that Congo-ship.”
Roberts paused, there was something out there and it had a different sort of shield to hide behind. “It’s a shield, huh?”
“Nothing more mysterious than that. Something had to shoot that bolt of energy or particle beam or whatever it was. Those things just don’t materialize out of nothing. You said the Congo didn’t do it. Maybe the shooter dropped the shield to get that shot off and the twinkle effect came from the shield going back on again.”
 “Right,” Roberts said, “a good reflective shield in space would be difficult to see.”
“Radar might pick it up but the return would look like an anomaly.” Chief frowned, “You don’t suppose those stinger-tailed black ships were behind those shields. They could come right up next to you and you wouldn’t even see ‘em. That is a scary thought.”
But Roberts waggled a finger at him. “Lasers could find ‘em. Flood a sector with laser fire and when they start bouncing off something, you’ve found one of ‘em.”
Chief was grinning again.
                                                       *    *    *
Murph had been trying to understand what Roberts was saying over the comm-link. It was about an invisible shield and something was hiding behind it and he said they could find it with lasers. He sounded excited. “We can’t risk a trip up there,” Roberts told him,  “not until you clear out the orbits. Our idea is develop a system of grids in the space around the Congo. Have the ops-computer do the work. Then flood each sector in the grid with lasers. If you get no reflection, you can assume that sector is clear. If the lasers bounce off in another direction, hit the object with the rail gun. That should do it.”
“Why didn’t this invisible shooter take a pop at us or the support station?”
“I can’t even guess,” Roberts said.
By now Murph was willing to try almost anything. “Sure, we’ll set this thing up.”
Roberts could almost see Murph shrugging his shoulders. At this point it didn’t matter if Murph understood anything, Roberts decided, it was the action that counted. And he knew Murph would try.
             “What did they want?” Michelle scrunched up her nose.
Murph tried to explain.
She paused to think, “I wonder if there are aliens in those ships . . . and if there are, where they come from. Maybe,” she turned to him, “they might consider this an act of aggression.”
Murph closed his eyes.
A half-hour later the ops-computer was saturating the universe with blue streaks of laser fire. Murph had only to sit and watch the display. “D27 clear,” he heard.
More of the silent bursts ranged out into the darkness. He watched for a time and it grew boring. And he felt a drowsiness, and . . .
“I think we have one.” Someone nudged his shoulder.
“Whaat?”
“Murph, they found something.” It was Michelle. Her smiling face was telling him to get up and look at something. “Look out there. R15,” she said, “lasers are bouncing all over the place.”
Another burst and blue lasers bounced crazily in a hundred directions.
“Roberts said to fire the rail gun into that sector.”
“Sure,” Murph groaned, “rail gun.”
Michelle was excited bouncing from one bridge station to another. “Ready one rail gun,” she shouted, “set shields to drop in five seconds,” and she counted down.
“Shields down!”
“Fire, fire,” she commanded. Two yellow fireballs formed then seemed to jump out, forming a huge streak of lightning. “Shields up!”
Tumbling in a slowly decaying orbit just above the nose of the Congo a half-mile out, was a black stinger-tailed alien craft with a large bulbous fuselage half blown away. It was just as Chief described; black, metal and alien.
Murph’s still drowsy mind raced. Aliens! It right there in front of the Congo. It could have fired on them just as it had the Intrepid. Aggression without provocation.  What sort of mind would do that? And what was this Intrepid vessel doing here? Apparently they were going to kill everyone, and PacRim sent them. What was happening? Those aliens; where did they come from?                                                     



 
   


 

 

             

[Gerald Lively]

                                                                        CHAPTER  NINE



                    March 2133 – Alpha Centauri System – Planet Eden.


 Murph drummed his fingers. He glanced across the center console of the aft-bridge where the Science Officer hunched over a console in conference with several of his team. Murph’s impatience grew. He cleared his throat.
There was no reaction.
People were waiting. Confirmation was needed. The two ideas seemed at odds with one another; yet, people were waiting in the shuttle bay with every expectation that the colony-planet had been found. Pete, along with John Roberts and the colonists were anxious to get moving. They were packed, fueled and ready. But nothing moved until Science Officer Johansen confirmed the science team’s findings.
Prudent, but exasperating.
“Look,” Murph finally broke into the silence, “this thing is taking far too long. I’ve got a couple of tugs loaded and ready for departure down in the shuttle bay. How long are you gonna hold ‘em?”
Johansen raised up from the group. “Conditions are E type. Spectrographic has the atmospherics within acceptable range, vegetation is dense down there but variable depending on latitude. That’s expected, of course. Cloud cover is about fifty-four percent; weather is generally Earth-like but milder. The mountains aren’t as tall, the rivers seem smaller. Sixty-six percent of the surface is ocean, we think it’s salt water but we really cannot confirm. We see no signs of surface instability; no earthquakes or volcanoes. There is a molten core to the planet. The mountains, they look worn, like craters. This bothers me.”
Murph gained his feet. “Okay, this all means conditions are fine for a nice tranquil colony and it confirms last week’s findings. Right?”
 Johansen blinked. “Yes,” he said cautiously,  “it does confirm last week’s analysis.” But it wasn’t perfect. A nagging unknown haunted him. “You know what bothers me?”
“What?”
“There are some strange aspects to this planet. We don’t see volcanoes or tectonic plate activity.”
Murph frowned. “Temperatures are fine down there.”
“The planet has two suns, of course it’s temperate.”
“Then who needs earthquakes and hot lava?”
“The planet does. Surface instability creates mountains and new lands, and consequently the weather systems. But I don’t see new mountains. When those mountains wear down the weather will change. And there is only vegetation down there; no animals or insects, nothing is alive except the trees and plants.”
“Perfect for a colony,” Murph said. He felt he’d won the debate, a triumph.
“It’s as if this planet wasn’t meant to be this way.”
“But it’s okay for the colony?”
“Seems like it.” Johansen’s appetite for discussion faded. He stole a glimpse up at the big aft-bridge transparencies where the blue and white globe glistened invitingly with its dayside oceans spreading in blue beneath the white swirls of the planetary weather systems. It was perfect for a colony, too perfect. Wistfully he said, “Looks almost like Earth.” He meant it.
Murph spoke at the comm-link, “Johansen says it’s a go.” A figure garbed in a pressure suit looked up in the direction of the shuttle bay camera and gestured with an approving thumbs up. Already Pete’s colonial contingent was climbing into the enclosed barges.
Landing platform lights flashed to red, decompression had begun. Murph called out best wishes and good luck over the comm-link, he was going to miss his fellow salvagers. He recalled Pete calling the surprising planet, Eden. “It was Earth before people,” an unusually buoyant Pete described, “a true Eden. It has all of the advantages of Earth and none of the disadvantages. Someone has directed us to heaven.” So Pete and Roberts, and Pete’s colonists had loaded up the barges, both of them, and moved the tugs into place to wait for the final verdict from the Science Team.
Murph doubted that Pete would have called the operation off even if Johansen’s final analysis was negative, and Pete wasn’t being careless - just a bit anxious. No planet was perfect, he would have said. What Pete did say was, “What luck, this was almost the first planet we looked at.” Murph had to agree, what luck indeed.
So now, at the very instant the Science Team uttered approval, Pete was on his way.
One tug lined up behind a loaded barge and gently nudged it to the edge of the landing platform, then pushed it through the open shuttle bay hatch. The barge swung through the opening, turning slightly with off-center inertia. The tug pilot corrected – and they were outside. The second tug repeated the operation.
“How many in the final count?” Michelle’s voice sounded quiet from behind.
Murph glimpsed back at her. “Umm, seventy-two.” He returned to the monitor looking wistfully at the hatch as it set to enclose the empty shuttle bay.
Outside each tug maneuvered deftly to the front of the barges, slowing them for the descent.
At the top of the atmosphere, flame spewed from the blunt heat shields enveloping them in a blaze that trailed far behind. In time, each tug slowed and spread short stubby wings to stabilize their rock-like drop, turning the descent into a powered glide down to the designated landing zone.
Touchdown raised huge dust clouds hundreds of feet into the air. The first barge, with the tug safely behind it, skidded several miles before coming to a final rest. Already the second unit had touched down leaving it’s own trail of dust.
Pete loosened his restraining belts and reached into a thigh pocket producing an instrument he held in front of his faceplate. He studied it for a moment and declared, “The compartment is pressurized with the planet’s atmosphere and it checks.” He loosened his helmet and opened the compartment door, and gazed out across the nearby lake.
Billowing dust caught by the wind was moving across the water. He watched and listened. A breeze rustled through tall dry grass, leaves rattled on the trees. High above the dual suns moved in tandem causing indistinct afternoon shadows. This was a good place, he judged.
Pete jumped to the ground. At first his eyes wandered over the blue ripples on the lake, then at the rocky crest behind it. But he had duties. And daylight would not last forever.
Pete turned to the barge; the heat shield still glowed a dull red. Others were disembarking. One salvager stood knee deep in the lake holding a testing beaker of water high up to the sky. Noisily he rendered his assessment of it then drank deeply. “Fresh water,” he shouted and reached for more, drank from it and tossed much of the remainder up on the dry beach. For all of their lives, Pete reflected, salvagers had never drank fresh water. These people were raised on recycled water and recycled air, and recycled most other things. Things were going to be different.
Across the landscape a ragged tree line staggered along the upper beach marking the edge of the intermittent forest beyond. He ambled closer to the trees, then stopped to listen. The air was warm and still now; the forest returned no sounds. Beyond the forest his gaze fixed on the ridge summit, then he estimated the distance back to his position. They needed a hard sloping surface running several miles. A ramp. Roberts would build it; that was the sort of thing he was good at, building things. He bent to pick up a stone. Pulverize this, he mused, make a cement and adapt some ag-robots to lay out a launch ramp up to the ridge. Launching tugs would be difficult without it. But first, he reminded himself, the Congo needs to know they made it, then they needed shelter for the night and . . .
                                                         *    *    *
Three Weeks Later . . .
It was the whiff of a breeze that woke him. It rattled the nearly dry leaves on the trees in the otherwise still morning air. Roberts sat up. A weak column of smoke rose up from a smoldering campfire and he idly wondered if it had burned all night without someone tossing on another armload of wood. A sunrise was about to burst over the eastern ridge. Within minutes, he calculated, hot sunlight would stream down on them. He searched for his boots, pulled them on and struggled to his feet. Then most carefully, he rolled the sleeping bag as tight as possible. He was ready.
A glance around the camp revealed that he was the first to rise. The slumbering bundles would soon awaken with the sun and they would be up looking for him, he need not wake them himself.
In a chest pocket he located a folded cloth photomap and carefully spread it out over a large rock. The route they would take had been marked with a dark line and it was really quite simple. The river was the signpost for them. They only had to keep it in sight and follow it down to the valley.
Roberts was careful, he traced the line down through the colonial settlement to lakes-end, then along the river and around several hills to the big plateau near the bottom, then down along the river to the big valley itself. It was impossible to get lost. He glanced at the still slumbering troop beneath the trees; maybe they could become lost.
He would impress them with the idea of keeping the river in view at all times. But they were all ex-salvagers, an independent lot. Most of them had never walked a distance longer than a mile - orbit dwellers and isometric exercises on compact little machines. Did they really use those machines? He knew of a salvager weight lifter who used the art-grav adjusted to varying gravity strengths instead of weights . . . Well, it didn’t matter, he’d give them an opportunity to experience a real planet with real gravity. He wouldn’t abuse them but he might ignore them. All he had to do was walk out front and if they were truly interested in being the first to claim property, they would follow.
These were a driven people, he knew that much about them. He had watched as they ran and jumped around the settlement trying to condition themselves for this journey. Each of them had a dream and it all had to do with a plot of land, privacy and the freedom that privacy brought. For most, the idea of people so close they could be seen by looking out a window was an affront to their sense of freedom. Yet, they were clannish.
Strange, he concluded, as an engineer he’d done a lot of things and been to many places, and he even understood what these salvagers said they wanted but he never understood this uncommon influence that the concept of privacy had over them. Privacy was fleeting. More people, less privacy – it was simple. Live on a support station in the orbits – no privacy, live on a planet where the population will grow – temporary privacy. At least this bunch was doing something, he told himself, they wanted to get down to the valley and get established; the others tended to lock themselves inside their miserable dwellings coming out only to tend the garden or fetch water. Maybe in time . . .   
He began a slow walk in the direction of the collection of hovels the colonists were calling town, then issued a sharp whistle. Suddenly people were scrambling to get up and organize their possessions and tie them into packs. Some were already running to catch up.
The town was still with morning calm. Squat pre-fabbed hovels lined the dusty street. Narrow footpaths worn into the dry grass wound their way back into the woods to gardens and outhouses. Nowhere were there people.
“John!” One of the pursuing colonists called to him. He glanced back. A cloud of dust rose up behind the exploration party as they hustled to catch up. All faces were with smiles.
Soon they were past the town and the sounds of the waterfall at lakesend filled the morning. “Here we are,” he indicated a spot on the map, “we’ll start here at the waterfall and follow the river down to the valley.” He pointed out into the morning haze and the valley below. “That is where we are going.”
“We’ll find a large plateau down there and that will become the town site. Everything else out there is subject to claim. Remember and give this some thought; you have one cost-free claim. Anything after that you will have to pay the colonial government or the neighbor you bought it from. All of these parcels are the same size, one thousand acres. All have access to surface water.”
“This map is the official record.” He held it up for all to see. “If I mark it here, then it is yours. No other record means anything.” Roberts scanned the listening group. “You are limited to these parcels along either side of the river. There are ten times more parcels than families so the selection is wide open. Understood?”
No one raised a question, he didn’t expect any, this was all review. The troop had actually set the rules for themselves in a series of town meetings. But making sure saved argument. 
He carefully folded the map and stuffed it in his shirt. Colonists milled restlessly beneath a large tree. He started down the slope and the colonists followed.
Their first day was spent climbing over and around gigantic round boulders. At midday the troop rested beside huge mounds of vines where they massaged developing blisters and stiffening muscles. As the day grew older the boulders would become smaller and the rigors would lessen. At days end the colonists settled on a grassy knoll.
In four days they reached the table mountain townsite – where they stood taking in the valley panorama that swept around three sides of their plateau. One of them asked, “Isn’t this a bit large for a town?”
“Someday it will be too small for the town’s needs. Of that I am certain.”
Early the next day Roberts began the task of setting out boundary markers for the townsite. The first was a large “1” carved into a tree trunk that stood where the river came down from the hills to flow over the plateau. Any traveler coming down from the original settlement would see it, he reasoned. When he finished carving, he carefully marked the map.
“What are you doing?”
Roberts turned to the questioner. It was a skinny teenaged son of a colonist. “I’m staking out the townsite.”
“You marking off the whole mountain for that?”
He took a measure of the boy and decided it wasn’t a challenge but only curiosity. “Yes, it could be a large town someday.”
“There’s only seventy-two people on this planet. We have this whole giant world. How much town will they need?”
“There will be children eventually, and maybe more families someday. Why squeeze the town into a small space? Why not have a big town?”
The youth was puzzled. “If everyone has a farm to live on, why is there a town? The orbits didn’t have a town?”
Roberts started walking to the next survey point and the boy followed. “No matter how you do it, a community cannot stand on its own. I’m sure every family will rely on their farm to supply food and they will all have a house to live in because we will provide one. But what happens when an ag-robot breaks and you can’t run the farm without it? Where do you go to fix it?”
“I don’t know?”
“Well, each farm should produce a surplus of food and that’ll be sold to someone for an agreed upon exchange, money. That money will be spent to fix the ag-robot and that will be in town.”
“Is someone in town going to make ag-robots?”
“I hope so.” A good question. It won’t be long before the colonists needed something that wasn’t on Eden. What then? Things would start getting tougher unless they developed some industries. Roberts looked down at the boy and wondered how he would be getting along in five or ten years.
The teenager followed him all day watching and asking questions. Yet, nothing was more bothersome to him than the issue of commerce. He wrote the question on the map, “What plans for commerce?” Someone would know the answer, he told himself and refolded the map.
The next day was to be their first in the valley. That morning he followed the usual ritual; he woke, packed and strolled out of camp, and called out, “Let’s get moving.”  They had become quite adept at breaking camp. Within minutes the troop had lined up and were following close behind.
The caravan moved along the tree line next to a swiftly moving river on the northern edge of the plateau for most of an hour until the river branched with a minor flow continuing westward. Roberts knew that it disappeared over the edge of the plateau in a misty waterfall several miles away. It was in the photos taken on the Congo. But most of the river swung abruptly north. According to the map it continued for more than a mile before dropping down into a broad alluvial and disappearing beneath a misty cloud, then emerging in a small lake drained by another river.
In water up to their waists, they crossed the smaller flow and turned north. Once on the far bank the large river was clearly visible. Roberts approached the rapidly moving flow. It appeared to be approximately four feet deep. But the river’s edge was squarely cut down to the river bottom which, itself, appeared to be quite smooth and more than a hundred feet wide. Had he not known that the planet was uninhabited, this could have been a constructed spillway. Was it a natural formation of rock? He supposed that anything was possible, but in this case it wasn’t likely. That meant someone built this. Who?
The caravan trudged along the near bank until it gradually dropped in elevation.
Roberts couldn’t take his eyes from the spillway, it was unnatural and out of place.
The slope increased until it seemed they might not be able to negotiate the steep grade. To the surprise of almost no one, a smooth treaded walkway developed. He tried it, testing the traction and found it exactly suitable for the situation; they would be able to walk down to the alluvial where the mist obscured the path below and hopefully, from there they might proceed down to the valley floor.
 “Well,” he said, “let us not waste a good opportunity,” and he started down.
At the head of the alluvial the walkway vanished beneath a jumble of rock. Crashing water thundered in their ears and a thick mist rose up creating an impenetrable gloom. Roberts shaded his eyes searching into the mist but the visibility inside the cloud was down to a very few feet. The rocky debris was uniformly spread around the slope and one way seemed no better than another. Hundreds of white foaming streamlets dodged down among the rocks but Roberts headed straight down.
Rocks became boulders and all of it appeared recently broken with sharply drawn edges. There was none of the weathering of the rounded boulders near the settlement lake waterfall. Carefully they felt their way through the dank slipperiness; crossing countless knee-deep streams and scooting around house sized boulders. Eventually the mist began to thin. And a small lake shown through the fog. They had reached the valley floor where they found rest.
On the following day the troop followed the river out to mid-valley where it joined with a larger river flowing southward. There they paused.
Roberts produced the map once more. “It is at this place where the surveyed parcels begin.” He turned to show the map. They were at the northwestern corner of the map. “This is the corner of the first parcel which runs back to the table mountain along the river we just followed. From here it runs south along this other river right up to the next parcel. This parcel is available to anyone who claims it. Any takers?”
One person reached for a handful of soil and let it filter through his fingers. No one made a claim.
One of them asked, “The way we just came down, I believe that map of yours has it marked off. What does that mean?”
“It’ll be a community road. This is the way you’ll travel to get from one farm to another, and to town.”
“So it isn’t part of that farm?”
“No, it belongs to all of you.”
“How about those parcels on the far side of the river, do they have roads on them?”
“Not so far.”
“I’d rather have a farm without a road across it.”
“This road doesn’t run across it, just along side of it.”
The man remained stubbornly silent.
“Any takers?” Roberts asked. None offered a claim.
Later they began the trek south, going through the ritual of stopping and discussing the features of each parcel, pointing out the boundaries and landmarks, and the call for bids. While the colonists listened intently they only sampled the soil and kept their plans to themselves. For five days the process continued. He marked the boundaries, they tested the soil and they moved on.
            Eventually the main river became wide. Islands began to appear. At first they were small amounting to no more than debris collecting around clumps of trees and some grass growing from them in places. Then the islands grew larger. Finally the river divided and it was becoming apparent that they were approaching a delta. At this point the map ran out.
They set up camp on a small peninsula of ground, and no sooner than he found a comfortable spot, the debate started.
“I think we should build a raft. It’ll be easier than walking.”
“What are you gonna build this raft with? I don’t see any trees.”
“Let’s find out what’s over there, we can keep walking.”
“This is all marsh around here, you can’t farm that. I don’t even know what we’re doing here. I think we ought to get back on the map and start claiming property. We’ve seen everything there is to offer.”
“We might get lost out here.”
“There is more on the far side of the river, we haven’t seen those.”
“Is it going to really make a difference if we go over there and walk all the way back?”
“We can’t walk forever.”
Roberts moved away from the discussion. He felt fatigue and being within shouting distance of a salvager debate was not restful. Maybe it was fatigue out of frustration; he thought all of the parcels would be claimed by now.
He picked a spot and spread out a sleeping bag then gazed out beyond the camp. Quiet delta water surrounded them on three sides. A small grove of willows was gracefully perched over the water at land’s end; beyond there was the open bay and the breezes that riffled the waters there. Closer, belt high grass covered the peninsula and camp area. 
Roberts lay back and the tall grass reached above him on every side; he had become invisible to the colonists and sheltered from their tussles.
Roberts opened his eyes. The sky above was morning blue. He sat erect. It was only minutes ago, it seemed, that he had lain down. But this was morning. A glorious morning.
A fog bank obscured the western horizon out across the bay. He listened for the arguing salvagers but all was quiet. A gust of air developed, faded and died. He listened to the morning; there was the distant chirping of birds and it reminded him of a time back on Earth when the meadow larks sounded their loudest in the morning.
Roberts’ eyes opened startlingly wide; there were no birds on Eden.
He checked the colonists; they were asleep in blanketed mounds spread out over the tiny peninsula. All of them appeared to be asleep. They weren’t playing games with him, he decided, like making bird noises. Barely breathing, he listened. Nothing. It was his imagination. Even the heavy breathing of the slumbering salvagers could be heard, but no bird sounds were anywhere. Just as he started to breathe a bit easier he heard them again, three sharp chirps.
His head jerked around. It was a long way off, out in the marshes somewhere, but he had plainly heard it. All of his briefings with the Science Team together with his total experience on Eden told him that there wasn’t an animal, bird, fish or insect anywhere on the planet. It was the colonists and the vegetation and that was all.
The warm morning light already had the fog in retreat leaving only the suggestion of a haze in its place. Most carefully he studied the far horizon, then the marsh on the opposite shore. Nothing flew, nothing broke the water’s surface, and everything had become quiet. Yet, he felt a deep sense of foreboding. Something . . .
Quickly he counted the colonists; one, two, three . . . eleven, twelve. They were all here.
A twitter, a warble, they were coming from different directions. Still, he could not see a bird. Something in the distance flew across the bay; it was not a bird. He rubbed his eyes. Whatever it was, it had dropped a fading cloud that trailed behind it. Two more of them; one above and behind, and both spewing a cloud of something.
Bird sounds were everywhere now but they no longer held an interest for him. It was the dark objects flying across the sky that had captured his concentration. He glanced to the north. One of them was dropping down and flying nearly straight at them and trailing a dark cloud like the others. It came closer and he recognized it as one of the black alien ships with a round front section and a long stinger tail. Suddenly the black ship ended its cargo drop, broke off level flight and turned westward where it disappeared into the distant fog bank.
Another one, this time close enough to actually see the cargo hatch open and thousands of objects pour from it. Water splashed as the cargo trail reached the surface. More of them came exhausting their cargoes and all of them uniformly turned to the west and disappeared.
By now some of the colonists had wakened. One of them asked, “Aren’t those like that alien spacecraft we shot down?”
“Looks like it,” Roberts said. He had seen what one of those aliens could do in the orbits but it was nothing like what they were doing now.
“Doesn’t matter,” one salvager said, “those things don’t attack the surface, just things up in the orbits. That’s what I heard.”
“They’re getting closer,” Roberts muttered.
Each pass did bring them closer. Again and again the silent craft flew in and dropped their cargo and each time he could see the spacecraft a bit better. Sometimes the cargo splashed in the water, sometimes it was just a mist that seemed to evaporate. Instinctively he moved closer to his pack. He felt a strong sense of dread but the troop was enthralled with the spectacle. Amazing to him, the group walked to the shoreline for a closer look. They felt no threat from the aliens, yet he couldn’t shake his own feelings.
Then the flights halted.
Still, he felt uneasy. Roberts fumbled with the pack’s buckle. His hands shook and he struggled, but it opened. Quickly, he inventoried the contents: spare clothes, small tools, seeds, food packets, extra tarp – everything was there. He gazed at the sky; the alien craft were gone. The troop was standing near the water talking and pointing. Everything was peaceful. But he clung to the pack. His foreboding sense of disaster was gaining control and he desperately wanted to cower behind the tall grasses. Or, better yet, run.
Then from the north he saw them coming. It was a very large grouping this time and they were heading straight for them. Still higher, lines of the black ships were about to pass over them, they were already dumping cargo.
Roberts reached for his tarp gripping it with white-knuckle strength. The others gawked up at the formations. “Get back,” he shouted. Two of the troop turned and looked in his direction but nobody made a move.
Something struck his tarp with a thud. Roberts shook the tarp. Something hit him on the head. It felt like a rock. He brushed at the throbbing spot; something large was on him. With a panicky swipe he knocked it off – a very large beetle fell at his feet – he stomped on it. By then the tarp was being peppered with thudding sounds, he raised it high over his head and the noise struck with the frequency of a hailstorm. With one horrifying glance he could see what was happening; it was raining insects.
As rapidly as he could, Roberts wrapped himself with the tarp. The thumping cadence grew stronger. By now he could hear horrifying shouts turning into screams of panic. He ventured one peek from beneath the flap; some of the troop had jumped into the water to escape the onslaught but most were still on the shore. They jumped, slapped and tore at the creatures; their screams were turning into deep gut-wrenching coughing. Two of them had fallen to the ground where they thrashed and pulled at things that, by now, nearly covered their bodies. 
Roberts squeezed his eyes closed and dropped the flap. Something crawled up a pant leg. He jumped to dislodge the creature; he shook the canvas and the maneuver helped even as his feet made constant crunching noises.
Again he looked out. The coughing was mostly gone replaced by choking spasms. One of them was in the water splashing wildly but the water itself was covered with swimming things. A woman started to run shrieking wildly and tearing at her clothing. Before she disappeared into the tall grass behind the knoll he could see dozens of black things on her bare skin.
He let the flap drop.
Eventually the screaming and coughing subsided, and the pelting rain of insects dwindled. But he wasn’t going to look, not for a long time.
                                                    *    *    *
The ferns growing within his vision reached higher than the gazebo floor. Murph leaned far out over the rail to measure the plant’s height. Six feet, he estimated. He ran a hand over the rail testing the texture. It felt exactly like wood. “What is this made of?”
“Carbon fiber. It was something you had in storage.” Michelle gently swung the suspended bench, watching him as he examined the gazebo. For numerous reasons, all forgotten, he had never been here until now. It was busy this, and busy that, never making time. Now that he was here, perhaps he would experience the magic of the place. She was hopeful.
He turned to her. “You did good.” He continued to stroke the rail.
“It’s supposed to last forever. It will not rot in the soil, water doesn’t have any effect and it won’t stain.” The swing was moving in small arcs.
“It’s pleasant here,” he said.
She patted the bench beside her. He saw the invitation but hesitated because he knew she was up to something. Eventually he took a place beside her. But once there, he pushed with both legs, swinging higher.
“Can’t you sit and be romantic?”
“Isn’t this romantic?” Murph lifted both legs permitting the swing to move on momentum.
She frowned. “You know what I mean.” She folded both legs under her body. “We’re here alone.”
“On this ship you are never alone.”
She slapped his arm. “Come on Murph.”
He pushed with his feet and the swing gained height – and his communicator buzzed. “Captain to the bridge,” it said.
“So, you are saved once again,” she complained.
Another buzz. “Pilot to the bridge!”
Murph stepped down the gazebo steps to the irregular stone path. “It is nice here,” he said trying to smooth over a disappointment she must be feeling.
Michelle ducked beneath a fern branch, one that Murph had just let go. “Come back anytime, sir.”
Once on the bridge Murph asked the first person he saw, “What’s up?”
The crewman at the communications console merely pointed at the radar scope and detection panels where a huge wave of blips had formed a semi-circular line across the scope.                     
           “Geez, what is that?”
“We have a computer count, so far there are at least ten thousand of ‘em. More are on their way.”
“Ten thousand of what?”
“It’s those small alien ships, the black ones with the tail.”
Murph eyed the graphic of the bulbous stinger-tailed alien. He knew right away that there was nothing they could do but watch from behind their shields while the legions of tiny spacecraft swept across their screens and the planet.
“Any other ship types in that formation?” Murph asked.
The answer came back, “They’re all the same.”
“Everyone of them the same,” Murph muttered, “what would ten thousand aliens be doing down there?” He started to pace never taking his eyes from the radarscope. “Let the settlement know what’s going on. And get Johansen.”
Michelle leaned closer, studied the scope than glanced up and out through the transparencies. Only the scope told the tale of the alien formation, nothing was visible to the naked eye from the bridge of the Congo. She turned to Murph, “I think they are ignoring us.”
“They must know we’re here,” he said. She was right, of course; the alien spacecraft were focused on the planet, not them. The formation had headed straight for the planet until they reached the upper atmosphere where they orbited and slowly dropped down . . . to what?
Chief peered over their shoulder at the scope. “Sure is a bunch of ‘em.” He watched for a time. “Could be you stirred ‘em up when you shot that one to pieces.” Everyone looked at him. “Like a hive, a bunch of wasps.”
“They have something else on their mind,” Murph said.
“I wouldn’t want to be down there in the settlement,” Chief groaned.
Scanner blips began jumping on the settlement frequencies. “It’s them,” a crewman announced.
The speakers came on, “ . . . just flying over when things started to rain down on us. They were bugs, big crawling things. They are everywhere. Gawd, get us out of here. . . There’s more of ‘em down by the lake, they’re dropping things into the water. I can hear ‘em dropping on the roof . . .”
Chief straightened, “Bugs?”
Murph cringed at the idea of it.
“. . . there are more of them. Things are crawling around everywhere. You gotta get us outta here.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Murph said. “We can’t send down an unprotected transport as long as those aliens are there.”
Skip reported, “One of ‘em said they were dropping fish into the lake and there were animals of some kind out in the woods.”
“Animals and fish . . .” Chief was scratching his head.
After a time the alien formation girdled the planet. Each craft had made a single sortie to the surface, discharged a cargo and returned to the swarming formation. No alien vessel showed an interest in the Congo. Intermittent communications from the settlement told alternating stories of calm and panic; at times the reports claimed the overflights were gone, then there would be wild screaming stories of invasive insects and large thuds against roofs and walls.
It wasn’t until a full day had passed that the Science Team was prepared to report.
Johansen shuffled notes while Murph twiddled thumbs nervously. Johansen finally appeared ready. “Okay?” he asked.
“I’m ready,” Murph answered.
Johansen clicked on one monitor and manipulated a file retrieval system. “We have some interesting reports from the settlement, but to start with, we have to report six dead from insects. Evidently they were caught outside during the most intense drops and the insects simply overwhelmed them.”
“You call that interesting?” Murph looked glumly at the Science Officer.
“Well,” he stuttered, “there were some injuries too. Another thirteen are missing,” he glanced up at Murph, “including John Roberts.”
“Missing? Dead or just unaccounted for, which is it?”
“Pete sent him out with this survey party down into the valley a few weeks ago and they haven’t returned. They’re not overdue for a while but Pete is worried. This has to do with a photomap survey we did for them. Roberts and the colonists were out to claim plots of land for farming.”
“Radio contact?”
“Surprisingly not. They didn’t see the need and it was extra equipment to carry. They passed it up.”
“He ain’t dead yet,” Chief grumbled.
Johansen continued, “It appears the alien drops were near water in almost all cases. Twelve thousand alien ships, more or less, dropping insects on an entire world really wouldn’t make a significant immediate impact overall. If you happened to be within a drop zone, however, you might be in peril. We see this alien exercise as “seeding” the planet.”
“Roberts survey group, where were they?” Murph asked.
“They were moving south next to the big river there.” Johansen looked at the others, “That’s what Pete told us.”
“Okay, okay,” Murph took a deep breath, “what were all these aliens doing dropping bugs and animals on a perfectly fine planet?”
“The consensus is, these aliens were engaged in the latter stages of a process known as terra-forming. If this theory is correct, they have been working on this planet for thousands of years.”
“Terra-forming?”
“It’s a theoretical process for converting a barren planet into a livable environment. It’s done in stages. We may have just witnessed a stage of that process.”
“Any other theories?”
Johansen frowned. “This could be a kind of warfare. Maybe we think of war in the usual terms of destruction with bombs and weapons but what could be more effective than to place predators among a struggling population?”
                                                       *    *    *
Roberts peeked cautiously from beneath the canvas tarp. There was only the grass to see. He had fallen; he was on the ground. Strange, he didn’t remember falling. Quickly he was on his feet. In the sky above, he saw none of the black alien ships. So, with care, he began to unwrap himself from the tarp.
A breeze fluttered at the flap. Roberts jumped but nothing was there, at least anything that was alive. Black squashed things had spotted the tarp next to his chest. With the speed of a panic, he stripped off the canvas and it was then he saw something long and black attached to the back of his hand. A desperate shaking failed to dislodge the creature. He brushed at it, still it hung on. With the other hand he pulled at it and the thing broke in half resulting in a gush of blood. Eventually, after much rubbing against his pant leg and smears of his own blood on much of his clothes, the thing came off.
Roberts had a terrible thought; if one was on his hand, others might be inside his clothes. He tore at his jumpsuit until he stood naked in the waist deep grass, then he frantically searched his body, stopped and thought better of it, then began a methodical inspection – and he did find things affixed to his skin. With trembling hands he pulled at them, and pulled until there was nothing left but the drips of blood from tiny punctures.
A dragonfly flitted in front of his face. He flinched and the dragonfly sped off toward the marshes. Calm, he told himself, had to be the rule of the day. But the jitters had him. He inspected his clothes, shook it then turned it inside out. Once more he shook it. Soon he was confident that it was clean of insects, then he put the jumpsuit on.
The waters of the delta were calm. It was just as he remembered it before the squadrons of ships flew overhead. Next to the shore, the willows had been stripped of leaves. Only the bare stark branches remained. The grass stood as it had, rustling in the occasional gust, and in there somewhere he had a pack. He searched. And found it.
The flap on the pack was still loose. He lifted it and shook the contents out on the ground. Live things crawled from the pile. A shake of his spare clothing assured him they were creature free. And the equipment was in order. It was his food pack they were devouring. Inside the plastic bag a mass of moving wormlike things had completely devoured his store of edibles and seeds. Disappointment welled up, then revulsion, then nausea.
None of the others were in his immediate view. There were the sounds of wind and grass but not much else. He walked to the finger of land at the tip of the peninsula and saw one of them. He was floating half out the water. Large things crawled in and out of a gaping mouth.
Hours passed before he found them all.
                                                     *    *    *
“It’s only a theory,” Johansen tried to explain. “We have to deal with this in Earth terms.”
“Well, explain a little of this to me,” Murph insisted.
Johansen wedged a knee under a console then cradled his notepad there. “There is some guess in this. After all, we’ve never terra-formed a planet so it’s safe to assume we don’t entirely know what happened on Eden.” He paused to wonder just how detailed the discussion ought to be. “Think of it as re-establishing an eco-system.”
Murph frowned, Johansen’s idea made no sense to him.
“First you find a situation that meets your requirements,” Johansen said, “in this case it’s an Earth sized planet with the right sun and it’s the right distance from this sun – you’ll need the correct amount of sun exposure, you see. The rotation is about twenty-four hours and the planet is stable enough. Hopefully there are some of the basic elements present such as an atmosphere with nitrogen. Of course, if oxygen was present there would be life present.”
Murph sighed, “Come on, let’s get on with this.” Just how this related to a salvager eco-system, or even the larger one on the Congo, he could not guess.
“The first step is to induce an atmosphere. We suspect a process involving the simultaneous introduction of basic life forms, limited amounts of certain gases and some sort of process to decompose rock. If it’s done in a certain way, it’ll produce oxygen, nitrogen and hydrogen. We know about that process, of course, we use it in almost every outstation.” He paused. “I wonder how they did it?” He gave the idea a shake of the head. “After a few thousand years, depending on the efficiency of the system, an atmosphere will develop and some of these life forms will have spread around. There might be weather by then and if there is they most likely introduced certain bacteria for the development of soils. Not long after that they’d start with simple vegetation, grass, algae, mosses, vines, that sort of thing. Pretty soon they bring in more complex vegetation. After a thousand years, maybe two or three, they try some basic animal types, and insects, and finally they move in themselves.”
“You mean,” Murph questioned, “ someone is setting this up for themselves?” The eco-system analogy was long forgotten by now.
“Certainly, why would anyone go through this process and not want to do something with it? I believe someone was on the verge of setting up their own colony.” Johansen was very matter of fact about it. He actually did not understand why everyone else didn’t see all of this right off at the start.
And Murph was struck by the idea. “I hadn’t considered that until now.”
“This, of course, is the predator stage, that is what we’re calling it.” Johansen said.
“Predators, there are no predators in an eco-system.”
“Oh yes there are.” Johansen was emphatic. “But predators aren’t necessarily bad, they bring a balance to life.”
Murph was about to argue that point when Skip called loudly, “Captain!” he said, “the settlement says their food supply is gone, lost to the insects. They want to come back aboard.”
                                                    *    *    *
Roberts took a circuitous route around the sloughs and marshes. When he reached the river and could actually see the far bank, he felt a comfort in knowing that the way home was straight north to the tributary river, then east. The danger of becoming lost was gone.
For four days and night he skirted the trees and marched through fields of dry brown grass. But always, he could tell where the river was. He made good progress despite the hunger and lack of sleep.
But there was another motivation to stay on the move and while it was a vague and barely discernable notion, it had its own kind of intensity. It was basic. It was something fundamental. He was being watched and he could feel it.
Open fields covered in grass and dotted with low spreading trees extended eastward to the sloping hills. Shimmering waves of midday heat rose up to distort the scene. Roberts breathed hard dry breaths and he thirsted to run to the river and gulp from its waters. But the problem was time. The settlement had to learn of the alien ships and what they did, and he had to get away from here; danger lurked in every shadow, behind every bush and it would become dark soon. He must hurry.
A path of bent grass crossed in front of him. He stopped. There weren’t any people here. He inspected the path more closely, it was much too small for a person. It had to be something else. Smaller than a person but large enough to bend the tall grasses and make a path; he shuddered. The path went towards the river into the brush and trees.
Noises. He jerked his head around. The wind stirred in the trees. He listened closer. Buzzing and chirps. They were everywhere. But it did not matter, there was no time to stop, he had to get moving.
Both suns had left the sky an hour ago and the woods were growing dark. He didn’t like the night as he used to like it. He began to trot. Keep moving, run, run.
Eyes followed and easily matched his increase in pace. It carefully took measure of the two-legged thing. Whatever it was, it moved slowly and was neither clever nor evasive. It stayed in the open where it could easily be seen. Foolish. Perhaps it was sick or hurt. It did not matter.
The two-legged thing made noises and looked around but it did not see. It ran but its pace was slowing. It was large but it was defenseless.
It was almost time; almost time to eat.

 
 
         





 


                                                           
                           

[Gerald Lively]

                                                                 CHAPTER  TEN


                                           June 2133 – Planet Eden.

   
“Alright.” Murph wanted to be precise. In his minds eye he divided up the quadrant then set as even a firing pattern in the target section as his instruments permitted. “Fire!” The screen produced a blur of numbers, and blue lasers blazed into the upper right corner of the sector – where they encountered an invisible something and bounced off in hundreds of directions. “Did we get it?”
The concept was simple; if they could locate a shielded alien spacecraft with lasers, and they knew they could do that much, then, with a sufficient concentration of laser fire the actual shape of the craft might show itself. Knowing that, it might be possible to fire a disabling blow with a rail gun and not destroy the alien craft completely.
“You get so you can really see those things,” Chief said, squinting out through the cockpit transparency. 
Before anyone could mouth a response, a yellow ball formed around the alien craft just before it lashed out in a crashing blast against the Congo’s shields.
Murph winced. He shouldn't have been surprised at the alien fire but it startled him. He took a deep breath and gathered himself. “Let’s narrow the contact point, we have to find the nose of this thing.” He set up another laser barrage and fired. “Let’s hope it doesn’t move. Ready the rail guns.”
“Target looks good,” Chief reported.
“Rail guns powering up,” Michelle said, “we have the range.”
Murph took one hopeful deep breath. “Fire when ready.”
“Beginning firing sequence,” Michelle said, “shields down.” At this moment they were vulnerable to the alien. “Fire!” Two blasts rocketed into the darkness, converging in a single silent explosion. “Shields up!”
The alien shield evaporated revealing a tumbling black spacecraft with a heavily damaged bow.
“Track it!” barked Murph. He clinched a fist at the wounded ship. 
Chief reported, “The alien's orbit looks good for a couple of days, it’s a goner after that.”
So far, so good, thought Murph. “Okay, wake up that exploration party, get ‘em moving.”
The search for any lingering alien spacecraft had begun the moment the big fleet lined up and departed. Meanwhile, the settlement’s pleas for a return to the Congo were growing desperate but no one aboard the Congo was certain that the orbits in their vicinity were safe enough to venture down to the settlement in an unprotected craft.   
The colony had to wait.
Six alien craft had been found. Three were destroyed, counting the one in front of the Congo now; the others uncovered and were tracked leaving the orbits, presumably not to return. That had been worrisome. The raging question on the bridge was; would they return with the big fleet gunning for them? There was an attempt to develop a destination plot based on their departure course, but a big wide universe had to be considered and every destination plot ended with speculation. They gave up on it.
So, the exploration of an alien spacecraft became the priority. Disable, explore and learn what you can.
The tug circled several times before making an attempt to stabilize the alien's tumble. But it was quickly done. Now it was only a matter of docking.
“We have their visual,” Skip said, “coming on screen, now.”
The early images we not clear. They saw a boot, a section of floor, then the entire picture jostled violently.
Chief grinned a bit. “Helmet camera.” That was all he said.
There was the back of the seat, the back of a crewman’s helmet, then the floor again.
“He’s looking around, the helmet’s in his hand,” someone said.
“Patching in the audio,” Skip called.
The first words said were, “Damn it, I can’t get this thing on.”
“Hold still.” A figure in the front seat reached back and everything wiggled.
“There.”
“Let’s get moving.”
The canopy lifted and the picture steadied on the damaged vessel. Torn ragged edges marked the damaged areas, there was blackness inside. The open wound stood ten feet tall and about twice as wide.
“Just nicked the nose of the thing.”
A caption flashed across the top of the screen, “Optical survey – length 210 feet.”
The explorer looked down between the two vessels, a gap of several feet was there and the planet below shown through. Another crewman jumped to the alien craft and turned back to offer encouragement. Then, the camera-laden crewman leapt across the chasm. “Whew, that was a long jump.”
“An unmanned spacecraft,” one of them said.
The camera moved in close to the jagged metal. A hand reached up and pulled at it, the piece was solidly affixed.
“What is this stuff?”
“It handles heat pretty well. Good heat shield material.”
A hand produced a small laser-cutting tool. After considerable work a small triangular piece came off.
Caption: “Optical survey – damaged section – height 21.3 feet – width 32.8 feet.”
“There is something sticky here.” The visual went to the floor, a flat deck covered the entire circular interior and the team was trying to walk across it.
“There is something below these floor panels.” One of them bent down to wedge a tool in a crevice.
The camera explored the room; metal ribs formed an arching dome but no equipment was evident, it was just an open room with a flat floor.
A hand reached out touching a wall to test the sticky substance there. “Gawd, this stuff is everywhere.”
Caption: “Optical survey – interior 96.2 feet diameter – floor to ceiling – 42.1 feet.”
“I think we’ve found something.”
The camera turned with dizzying speed. One of them had managed to lift a floor panel and shortly the camera was peering inside; there were steps leading down into a room below.
“What is it?”
“A way down, dummy.” A chuckle.
Murph spoke, “Looks like these aliens are about the same size we are and they have two legs. See that head clearance?”
The team made their way down.
“None of that sticky substance down here.”
There were fifteen steps. Conduit and pipe ran along either side of the stairwell. At the bottom, the camera turned to look beneath the stairs and found a closed hatch. “A man sized door.”
A crewman leaned over a large rectangular box in the center of the basement room. A jumble of conduits ran from the box into a sidewall; some of it ran back up to the stair walls.
Michelle asked, “What is it?”
Chief answered, “Looks like a coffin to me.” He shook his head, it was curious indeed.
Someone bent over the box and strained to lift the lid.
“There’s a latch.”
They fumbled with it, then gave it a huge effort. Two of them finally lifted it, but smoke began to pour out almost totally obscuring the visual. A hand could be seen waving to disperse the smoke but more billowed up in roiling clouds around the search team.
Chief observed, “Has to be oxygen in there, nothing could burn like that without air.”
More hands tried to wave away the smoke. The cameraman moved in closer to peer down inside the box; an unrecognizable light glowed red through the haze.
“It’s a counting mechanism in there. It has regular numbers on it.”
“Damn, I can’t see a thing.”
“Don’t stick your head in there.”
“What are the numbers saying?”
“I’ll get closer. . . it’s counting; twelve, eleven, ten.”
“Once per second?”
“Right.”
A sudden flash turned the screen white.
“What the hell was that?” The image returned. Two of the crewmen were standing next to the box; another was bent over it.
“Everything inside melted.” He stood. “Not much we can do now.”
Eventually the team explored the entire ship. The closed hatch beneath the stairs had led forward but nothing was found since the nose of the craft was blown away. A hydrogen-powered engine was located, there was a cargo hatch on the underside of the long fuselage tail, but little else was found.
In response to the question of assessment, Chief rendered his opinion, “It’s a multi-purpose vessel. It isn’t meant to carry people. The thing is entirely robotic.”
“Well,” Johansen said, “this alien spacecraft confirms our hypothesis that they were built to transport cargo. We think it’s primarily a terra-forming tool. They’re robot directed and they obviously have a weapons system. They use a hydrogen powered engine and they have a detection system.”
“So why were these half-dozen ships left behind?” Murph asked.
“There may be more than six of them. As to duties, we believe these are the rear guards, so to speak. The main fleet performed a function, these guys were left here to protect that work.”
“Robot Guardians,” Chief mumbled.
Murph looked at him. “That’s right, Robot Guardians.” He liked the label. “That just about covers it.”  He turned back to Johansen, “What was in the box?”
“That was the prize, I think. It had to be the ship’s computer, communication, control, detection . . . too bad we didn’t get to it in time, it might have told us something about who built it and where they came from.” That, of course, was the idea behind disabling and exploring the spacecraft. Johansen seemed genuinely sad about it.
Murph wanted to know about the smoke and the flash that had blinded them for a time.
Johansen shrugged, he was guessing now, “Equipment failure, self-destruct mechanism, we don’t know.”
Chief said, “Those Robot Guardian things took out that fleet over Alpha Station some years back. There wasn’t any terra-forming going on, that doesn’t sound like guard duty to me.”
Everyone looked to Johansen. He was on the spot. “The answer I can offer you is I don’t know why they were over Alpha Station. Could have been a lot of reasons.”
“Could be they were the ones at Proxima,” Murph suggested.
They paused at that. It was Murph who spoke up first, “Can’t go around blaming everything on these Robot Guardians. We're beginning to sound like Pete; the bomber did it, the bomber did it.”
“Yeah,” Michelle said, “Ganymede is a long way from here.” Her voice trailed off, she wasn't quite so sure. “There is a lot going on, this might be a part of it.”
“Okay,” Murph said, “what do we have?” The discussion was in danger of becoming a confusing mishmash of ideas and he wanted to bring some focus to it. “We know these small black spacecraft are alien and robotic. Chief saw them over Alpha Station, we’ve seen them here over Eden. That leaves Proxima and Ganymede. At Ganymede we saw another spacecraft and it wasn’t anything like these Robot Guardians, but it had been downed by something. At least we think it was downed and not some accident. The damage those Robot Guardians can do looks a whole lot like the holes we made in the ice with our own rail guns at Ganymede and just about the same as the damage done to the SatMan carrier Intrepid. But our rail gun shots didn't look anything like that field of bombardment on Ganymede. So what have we got?”
Johansen felt their stares. And he would have preferred some time before being required to render an opinion, but they were all looking at him. “Start with the terra-forming concept; I can envision a very sophisticated program of activity for twelve thousand or more of these Robot Guardians. For instance; the rear guard idea, why not an advance guard?”
“Sophisticated?” Chief puzzled at that. "Seems like those Robot Guardians are bent on destruction to me. That isn't sophistication."
Johansen said, “Remarkably sophisticated. The alien spacecraft are the picture of simplicity yet they’re effective in everything they attempt. Terra-forming, if that’s what’s going on here, took thousands and thousands of years. You can’t avoid the fact that this effort would require considerable planning. These are robot controlled ships, so someone had to build a computer and program it – that requires a full knowledge of each and every step in the terra-forming process plus all of the destination information and all of the local conditions. I would think they would want to protect this kind of investment of time, resources and energy. So a rear guard makes sense, so does an advance scouting team to look over the vicinity to see what was out there and clear the way for the big fleet if they had too.” 
 Michelle asked, “How do you program Robot Guardians to search the vicinity of Eden and select targets to destroy. For that matter why take a shot at the Intrepid and ignore the Congo? And why shoot up a fleet of carriers while ignoring a support station which was in the middle of the shooting at the time?”
“Selective targeting,” Chief whispered.
“Sensors,” Johansen responded. “They could have no other way of performing the tasks you describe.”
Michelle frowned. So simple an answer did not explain it for her. “Sensors. What do they sense?”
Johansen squirmed. This was an area he was uncomfortable with, speculation. Yes, he and the Science Team had wrestled with these concepts but the proof just wasn’t there. “If the Congo were to park and orbit for a number of weeks, it would be somewhat difficult for a sensor to determine if the Congo were merely an orbiting satellite or an active spacecraft. If the Congo started an engine or fired a rail gun then there would be any number of things that would be sensor activating. So a support station emits very little by itself but a transport docking at a support station has an engine, so it attracts attention.”
“Engines burn clean,” Michelle argued, “what’s to track?”
“Heat, ions, movement – all trackable. Movement and heat are local; they can be used to pin a target down to an exact location. An ion trail left by an engine will last for a relatively long time. Eventually it breaks down and disburses by gravity or some other disturbance.”
“Even a hydrogen engine?” Murph asked, already grasping the vast implications of the theory.
“Yes,” Johansen answered, “and it is probable that an ion trail has the signature of a particular engine.”
All eyes were on him, and behind each set of eyes was a churning mind.
“You know,” Michelle said, “an advance patrol of these Robot Guardians could have picked up a transport trail to and from Proxima and followed it to Alpha Station and to Proxima and done all that damage.”
“What’s to keep them from tracking a carrier all the way back to Earth?” Murph asked, posing the big question.
Michelle turned to him. Surprise gripped shook her thoughts. “Maybe they already have.”
It was coming together for them – Ganymede, and all those missing transports and carriers bound for Titan. Could be SatMan and PacRim hadn't abandoned them, it might have been the Robot Guardians that prevented any carriers and transports from arriving.
Murph turned to Chief, “Better get a transport down to the settlement and get those people back here.”
“What about those Robot Guardians?”
“We’ve searched. We’ve done the best we could, we have to take our chances.” Murph said. “We have to get back to Earthside.”
Michelle asked. “We can't go back, they don’t want us, they sent out a ship to kill us.”
“Look,” Murph tried to explain, “we don’t know the first thing about setting up a colony. The only place I can think of to get the help we need is Earthside. And I don’t think anyone Earthside would know how to handle a bunch of Robot Guardians. We’ll help them if they help us.”

 

   


 

 

   

 
       


             

[Gerald Lively]

                                                                       CHAPTER  ELEVEN


                                                        December 2133 – Earth Solar System.


         The big starship had shut down its huge five-engine array. A dozen thrusters flashed an instant of brilliance into the blackness and the Congo began to turn. More bursts, and it was nearly in the desired bow-forward position. A few more of the delicate bursts set the starship on an easy glide through the darkness at the edge of the solar system.
“We are moving at sub-light speed on inertia. All engines at hot-neutral.” Michelle made a quick scan of the flight data. “All flight systems normal.”
Chief reported, “All operational systems functioning within normal ranges. The sensor array is up and running.”
“Alright,” Murph said, “stay sharp, we do not want any surprises. If SatMan picks us up, I want to know as soon as it happens.” He glimpsed at the long blue spectrum scanner-line; except for a few nervous jumps from solar static the line was still. “On those detection systems, keep a look out, we don’t want anything sneaking up on us. Could be Robot Guardians out there, could be SatMan. In case anyone needs reminding both of them have taken shots at us.”
Michelle’s eyes moved from screen to screen.
Chief was relaxed, as he always was. If the situation were anything else he might be dozing in short catnaps. He was in his vigilant mode at the moment.
Everyone knew the mission; the pep talk Murph gave was for Murph. Except for a few engineers from the Titan Station crew who hoped Earthside conditions would permit their return; this mission was routine and they looked forward to returning to Planet Eden. After a few things were sorted out, of course.
“All detection systems clear,” Michelle said.
“Set in a course for Earth orbits,” Murph said.
“371 by 102.”
Murph ratcheted his acceleration chair back and stretched his legs, all the while fidgeting with his status board control. Radar swept the empty space around them – he watched a nervous watch and drummed his fingers.
“Relax,” Michelle advised, “this is familiar territory.”
Murph smiled self-consciously. “We said we were never coming back and here we are.” He tilted his head in resignation. “Now we’re about to park ourselves right on SatMan’s front porch.”
“We are not the same people who left the Earth orbits a few years ago,” she said.
Murph said, “You have to remember that we are the unwanted children returning home – and we don’t have an invitation.”
                                                       *    *    *
Sam Yamato clicked on the message board, then yawned a big body-shivering yawn. He scrolled past the news summary stopping at ‘message one’ then sat back as far as the chair would permit and placed his stocking feet up on the desk. The computer was walking through the message summary. He read:
“Message One – FM: Moonbase Maintenance. The superintendent reports a shortfall in battlecruiser production. He cites a shortage of robotic fabrication units and welding units. Details are available. Press key 15.”
So who cares, he told himself. Sam yawned again.
“Message Two – FM: Operations. The monthly transport disposition report will be delayed due to a lack of cooperation from PacRim. The report expresses some confidential concerns about PacRim directives regarding ore dumping on the surface around Moonbase. Details available. Press key 23.”
One eye closed followed by the other. But Sam was thinking. Ore dumping was PacRim’s policy alright. They had Moonbase personnel dumping ore to free up carriers for conversions. More PacRim interference. So what’s new? He’d considered bringing the entire thing to a halt but for now he was content on just slowing them down. He could procrastinate with the best. For now, though, the work was keeping his people busy and that helped. If it weren’t that PacRim was so officious none of this would matter.
He lifted the lid of one eye and peeked at the message monitor. It was blank. His first thought was that the messages were over but there had to be more than just two messages overnight. He was more popular than that. Something had to be wrong.
Both eyes opened. A blinking standby message greeted him.
He placed both feet on the floor. Who would pre-empt the message board? Mercifully the standby message disappeared – but nothing replaced it. The monitor was annoyingly blank. He was about to stand and leave for the Comm-Division when “Orbit Traffic Control” appeared. Now he was alert.
“What the hell is happening in Traffic?” he said aloud in the empty office.
The monitor cleared and a message started across the top of the screen. “An unidentified carrier-sized spacecraft has been approaching the Earth orbits. It has ignored traffic control instructions and does not respond to approach controls. At this time it has not identified itself by signal or transponder. Condition Yellow is in effect.”
An incoming carrier didn’t mean anything. So what if the transponder didn’t work, things break. He’d have a talk with someone down in Traffic and find out why they get so over excited at times.
Sam yawned.
The monitor lit up once again. “Condition Yellow – To All Key Personnel: A carrier type spacecraft is now approaching standard manufacturing station orbit. Estimated Destination --- Satellite Manufacturing Headquarters Platform or vicinity. Condition Yellow had been dropped --- Condition Red is now in effect. Collision procedures shall be mandatory beginning immediately.”
“Collision procedures,” he wondered what those were. Before he could reach the terminal and keypad, another message flashed on, “ALERT – a carrier is approaching this position, IT IS NOT UNDER OUR CONTROL.”
Now he could hear, and feel, the deep rumble of retrofiring engines. Whatever was happening, it was nearby. Sam was on his feet. “What the hell is going on around here!” A few quick strides put him outside the office and down the hall. “Not under our control!” Sam fumed. “Whose control then? Who could it be? Every damned ship out there is accounted for, we know who’s driving what.” Then he had a thought, a radical thought. “Naww,” he groaned aloud, “couldn’t happen.”
But it had to be, he reasoned, it was the only “unidentified” vessel out there. The Congo, the repeating automatic communication from Titan Station had said. There was the Intrepid but they wouldn’t come in like this scaring the hell out of everybody. What other ship could it possibly be?
Sam stepped into the gigantic Traffic Control Center. Chaos was in control. People seemed to be running in every direction. Outside, through the huge transparencies ringing the room, he could see a carrier in the final stages of retrofire – and he could feel the throbbing rumble of engines. Then it stopped. Thrusters blazed, adjusting the craft, and now the engines were pointed straight at them. But the engine glow had turned to a dull blue and small thruster bursts were beginning to diminish. Until now, he had not realized how large a carrier really was. The word immense did not cover it.
He stood frozen amid the chaos. People all around were in constant motion but he couldn’t take his eyes off the enormous ship gliding up to the station. Monstrous exhaust cowlings faced them, any of which were ready to gulp and swallow the entire Traffic Control Center.
Someone was violently shaking his arm. “Whaaaat!” Sam barked.
“Sir, there is a comm-link from the carrier. They’re asking for you.”
“Me?” Sam pointed to himself.
“Over here.” The technician continued to tug at his sleeve and pointed to a console with green lights dancing all over it. The console was just beneath the giant transparency and people were moving to the rear of the Traffic Control Center. Sam was very nearly alone.
“This isn’t happening,” Sam complained.
“Mr. Yamato?” a voice on the comm-link asked. It was a nice female voice and that helped.
“This is Sam Yamato.”
“You probably don’t remember me, I’m Michelle Santorini.”
Sam smiled as comprehension came to him. Yes, he knew Michelle Santorini; she was half of an old problem and along with Murph Santorini, a populist hero with the citizens of Earth in all nations and a real thorn in PacRim’s butt.
The faceless voice talked while Sam gazed at the carrier. The Congo, a curious name. Why would they call it that? What could these people possibly want from him? He’d already given.
Sam wiped a handful of sweat from his brow and tried to focus on the patient voice he heard. It was telling him to shuttle over to the carrier and enter through the shuttle bay, whatever that was. It was on the bottom of the carrier, they said. It would remain open until he arrived. No weapons, they said. They said they just wanted to talk with somebody important. He offered to find someone but they wanted him.
Sam stood then realized he was still in stocking feet.
No matter what those salvagers wanted, he told himself, this was an unprecedented opportunity. He’d be the first to see what kind of a conversion they’d done. Someone had misplaced the Moonbase design software package so they had to start from scratch and develop their own design. The exercise turned into an endless series of hair-pulling problems; hours and days had been wasted on discussions about what sort of interior design the salvagers had used. “If a bunch of salvagers can do it in one year, why can’t SatMan do it in one year?” the Board of Directors asked numerous times. Some suggested the salvagers had only managed individual shelters inside the old carrier but when they heard the news that they’d made it as far as Titan Station and rescued the cadre there, the Board wished they’d never heard of a salvager. The salvager design had to be a good one. Then member nations clamored for information.  Many wanted their own carriers. The Board said the salvagers stole the carrier and they sent a converted carrier out to bring it back - or destroy it.
   Sam walked toward the transport dock. He had questions to ask too. What had happened at Titan Station? The communication constantly repeated a vague message about a rescue but gave no reason for it. Did they ever see the Intrepid? Maybe the PacRim carrier was still out there searching.
   Sam glanced up at a sign, Orbit Clearance Division, it said. He took a quick step inside. Two technicians were hunched over a terminal. He could see the image on the screen; it was the carrier outside. But recognition brought a smile to Sam’s face and he pointed purposefully at the shorter technician. “What was your name?”
   “Gene, sir, Gene MacArthur.”
   “Gene, you are coming with me.”
   “Where are we going?”
Sam aimed a finger at the terminal. “There.”
“Why me?” Gene appeared thunderstruck.
“That out there is your creation. You let that contract, remember?”
“I remember.” His eyes flashed to the terminal and back.
“And I recall that you fly a transport, so come along.”
The other technician stood unnoticed beside the terminal. Puzzlement covered his face. He couldn’t decide if he was missing out on something important once again or if he was just lucky this time.
                                                        *    *    *
“Captain, there is heavy communications traffic between Moonbase and Seattle.” Skip’s eyes told him to be concerned this time.
“How about SatMan Headquarters?”
“They don’t seem to be involved in this round.”
 Murph paced the aft-bridge. Every station was being worked by a crewmember, everyone was fully alert. There was nothing more he could do at this point.
“It’s computer talk and it’s almost all one way from Seattle,” Skip said.
“It’s PacRim,” Murph muttered.
“Transport leaving the SatMan dock,” Michelle reported.
Murph nodded, all seemed to be going well.
                                                      *    *    *
The docking clamps opened with a thunk. A spring-loaded catapult nudged their transport into open space. With small gentle impulses Gene guided the vessel toward the converted carrier parked a scant two miles away.
The carrier loomed monstrously large and dark against the starlight of orbital space. Sam squinted at it; four engines glowed blue -- eyes from the deeper reaches of the universe watching every move; knowing eyes from the regrettable past.
A large dark opening presented itself just forward of center on the old container unit; the shuttle bay was open. The ex-carrier, Sam noted, did not look much like the used-up vessels he had become accustomed to in the parking orbits. The hull was flawlessly rounded on the underside and it smoothly blended with the huge drive unit where the idling engines might be causing an easy rumble if they could have been heard.
Gene turned the transport and aimed directly at the yawning hatch, which they easily passed through. He quickly engaged reverse thrusters. A lighted landing platform of clean burnished metal waited below.
As they touched down the lights ringing the platform turned red. A computer voice sounded over the comm-link, “Remain seated, atmospheric recompression has begun. You may exit at the green light.” They waited. 
The landing platform could have held twenty transports, Sam guessed. Beyond the curtain of red light he could make out a myriad of equipment all strapped down and stored in an orderly fashion. And everywhere were complicated ship-works; pipeways, conduits, pumps and compressors, platforms and sub-platforms, access hatches and much he could not begin to know what its purpose might be.
The computer-generated voice repeated the warning.
 Behind them the acre-sized hatch had closed. Now he could identify row upon row of robot-fabrication units, and robot-welders – the exact equipment Moonbase has suddenly found themselves short of. The ship looked absolutely indestructible. There was nothing to suggest that a bunch of irresponsible salvagers who knew nothing of spacecraft conversions had built it. Moonbase itself could not have done better.
“Recompression has been completed.” The platform perimeter lights changed to green.
“Let’s get out of here,” Sam said.
They climbed down to a platform that was solid and unyielding. Sam stomped with one foot then bent down to feel the machined surface. How, he wondered, had they accomplished all this?
Two men emerged from a hatchway high up and stepped onto a large open platform that quickly dropped down to the landing platform’s elevation. “This way,” one of them said, “the Captain is waiting.”
“The Captain?” The platform started back up before Sam was barely on it. It stopped before a pair of doors that slide open with surprising quickness.
The first thing he saw beyond the double doors was the last thing he expected; a small forest. Sam couldn’t help himself, he gawked. Trees reached high up into the artificial light and he could see machines working in a field beyond. Even further off was another forest. And there were numerous cantilevered decks reaching high up to the glowing dome of a ceiling. Nothing here came close to suggesting that this was a spacecraft, this was an Earth-like environment.
Sam stepped to the edge of the forest and bent to touch the surface; real dirt. Real soil, the genuine thing.
One of the men gruffly pulled at his arm, “The Captain is waiting,” he growled.
They were led to another elevator. People stopped to stare at the small procession and they muttered among themselves. None seemed overly concerned with events; there was none of the panic that had gripped the Traffic Control Center, these were people going about the daily business of living.
Up they went. Doors opened to more people on a broad mezzanine. Some stood next to a railing overlooking the forest and the fields, others gathered before a huge repeater screen with what appeared to be the SatMan Headquarters platform. But Sam was quickly shuffled through a doorway and missed the data streaming across the bottom of the screen. He had wanted to read it.
Inside was an entirely different world. The space was not brightly lit; all of the room’s illumination came from console mounted instrumentation. Transparent screens were everywhere; most had projections of data and graphics all over them and every chair had an official-looking person in it and working. This was clearly the soul of the Congo. And it was all business.
At the far end of the room, sixty feet or more away, a wide arching doorway led to another area, and although he could see only a portion of the space there, it appeared equally intimidating. Off to the right was still another passageway from which official people seemed to be coming and going quite frequently.
To Sam, this was an unexpected and stunning revelation.
A man stood from the large center console and extended a hand. No one else in the room acknowledged his presence. “Hello, I’m Murph Santorini,” he said.
Sam felt a sudden breathlessness. “Hi,” he managed, “I’m Sam Yamato.” He glanced at his technician, “This is, ahh, what was your name?”
“Gene MacArthur.” His eyes were wide. Sam wished he hadn’t looked at Gene just now. It made him feel worse to see the excitement he felt in someone else.
“Listen,” Murph said, “we’ve come a considerable distance to alert you to some problems we believe are of vital importance to you and the people of Earth, and to ourselves. We think there are solutions. But we need to talk.”
Most people on Earth had heard of this man, Sam mused. And most could relate the folk tale about him and his companions. These were the people who faced down PacRim and SatMan. These were the people who defied convention and did it their way, and found freedom from the tyranny of world economics. But the man standing before him in the rumpled jumpsuit did not quite fit the fable.
“But first,” Murph continued, “there are more immediate concerns. I’m told that four ships have been dispatched from Moonbase and are headed in this direction. Mr. Yamato, would you tell us what their intentions might be?”
“Four ships from Moonbase?”
Murph nodded.
“I don’t really know. I might find some answers if you permit me to contact my comm-center.”
The room quieted. Murph indicated a console position on the perimeter.
Soon Sam was speaking, “This is Sam Yamato. Tell me about four ships dispatched from Moonbase within the past few hours.” Pause. “Never mind how I found out, tell me what they are for.”
“Yes, tell me now.”
“I am fully aware of where I am.”
Sam listened to a long explanation. Finally he turned to the people on the bridge, “PacRim has ordered four ships out from Moonbase.”
Chief asked, “What sort of ships are they?”
Sam looked at the vaguely familiar face, “They’ve sent out battlecruisers on a mission of destruction. This spacecraft here, I am afraid, is the target.”
“Battlecruisers,” Murph said in a low voice, “never heard of battlecruisers. Can you tell me what these ships are?”
Michelle called out, “I’ve got ‘em here.” She had a perfect rendition of a battlecruiser on a graphic. She rolled the image looking first at the underside, then the topside, front and back. “It looks like a cut-down carrier with a standard drive unit.”
Sam was in a spot; should he reveal something PacRim obviously held secret or should he consider his own fate? Which came first? Sam chose neither. He was going to do what was right. “This is all PacRim’s doing,” he said, “they’ve been interfering with Moonbase operations for some time and it’s my guess that it has led to this. Those are stripped down carriers built for speed and maneuverability. Officially they are for outstation protection. Obviously they are on their way here.”
“Outstation defense,” Murph questioned, “defense against what?”
“You and whatever is out there.” Sam chuckled, “You’ve been credited with the huge loss of carriers over the past few years. If the truth were known however, those battlecruisers were meant for you.”
“What do you think is out there?”
Sam could only shrug, “Just you.”
Murph nodded. “What sort of armament do those battlecruisers have?”
“They have several rail gun type weapons. They do a lot of damage, I’ve seen several test firings.”
“Where are they located?”
Sam sighed, he was telling them everything. “Five in the bow.”
“Is there anything else we should know? Shields, any type of protective measures?”
That mystified Sam, “Shields? No, they stripped those ships down for speed, they didn’t want to add any mass to them. Those are modified container units like the lady said a while ago, and with the weapons, that’s all there is. I don’t think they’ve actually finished building ‘em.”
The chatter around the room increased. It was friendly banter, not the sort of talk one might associate with preparation for battle. There was no nervousness or tension here; just alertness.
“Well,” Murph said to Sam, “if your people sent those battlecruisers to the outstations they wouldn’t stand a chance, and that is one of the reasons we’re here. We want to offer assistance.” Murph returned to the crew.
Sam was confused, he glanced in Gene’s direction.
Gene said, “They aren’t worried about the battlecruisers, maybe we shouldn’t be either?” But his wide-eyed look gave him away, he was worried.
“I wished I had their confidence,” Sam rumbled, “they must know something we don’t, that has to be the answer.”
Murph returned. “Mr. Yamato, we did not return for this. I hope you understand that much.”
A shiver ran up Sam’s spine.
Murph said, “There are far more important problems facing both of us, problems bigger than you or me – or those battlecruisers out there.”
“What problems are those?” Sam asked.
“Aliens.” Murph was deadly serious.
“Aliens?” Sam squeaked.
                                                   *    *    *
As they moved into the closed session they knew about the subject to be discussed. Decisions had to be made and actions taken before the member nations heard from the news services. It was really preparation for the next open session. If they delayed, there would be hell to pay.
Director Maderos spoke first just as the door closed shutting out the gallery noise in the adjacent meeting room. “It’s those salvagers, they’ve come back.” She waved a hand at the Executive Director, “This has to be on SatMan’s comm-link or something, get it on visual so we can see.”
The conference room screen began to glow, then the image of a carrier sitting motionless before a star-studded black orbit appeared.
“Glad I’m down here in Seattle,” Director Fenton quipped as he collapsed into a squeaking leather sofa and stretched out his long legs. “Things are-a happenin’ in the orbits.”
“Did we not send a ship after them?” Director Tampico asked. She measured the distance between her chair and the screen then looked for a better angle. She moved behind the conference table, selected a chair and slid her portly middle up against the table. Now she was directly opposite the screen.
“That was years ago, dear, well before your time,” Maderos said.
Tampico decided she would not be put off. “What is this all about, then?”
Maderos explained with a decidedly condescending smirk, “This all started five years ago. Some salvagers managed to get ahold of a carrier. They were supposed to repair it but they made it into a habitat instead. When SatMan tried to get it back those salvager fired up the engines and took off. In other words, they stole it.”
“That’s it, they converted a carrier and took a ride in it?” No one responded right away. “Those out there aren’t the Santorini bunch, are they? If it is, I’ve heard a different story.” She gave Maderos a look.
Maderos sighed a sigh of profound impatience. “Well,” she said, “I suppose you’re new and some clarification is required.” She paced. “The first thing those renegades did was to take all the people and equipment off Titan Station, then they did the same thing to Ganymede.”
Executive Director Brooks looked away.
Tampico threw her hands in the air. “How about it? We apparently have a crisis here and nobody has an explanation.”
Brooks leaned across the table. “This entire incident may have started when a contract was inadvertently issued giving all salvage rights to a licensed salvager. Unfortunately, it is a legally binding document. Such contracts, as you know, include all rights of retention and in this case, the salvager chose to keep the carrier.”
“Now, listen here, Mr. Brooks,” Maderos was angry, “that contract was issued in violation of PacRim policy. It is not a valid contract. Those salvagers are just troublemakers and they stole that carrier.” She glimpsed at the screen; there was no change in the image.
“That isn’t quite true,” Brooks said sounding stern, “there is no written policy prohibiting salvage contracts on a carrier and you know member nations would kill any effort to pass a policy like that. What we’re talking about is an understanding between you and some of the old Board members, not official policy. All we could do after those salvagers were handed possession of that carrier was to try and convince them to return the carrier. They launched and left before we had a chance to meet with them. As for those outstation stories, some of the incidents attributed to them actually predate the salvager carrier incident.”
“Now see here, Mr. Brooks,” Maderos spat angrily, “those renegades stole that carrier and you know it.” Red faced, she clinched a fist and began pounding the table. “If you like the occupation you are presently in, maybe you ought to keep your version of this incident to yourself.”
Director Fenton sat forward on the sofa. “Now listen you two, rehashing this argument isn’t going to help with anything. We have a problem to deal with here and we need to settle down.” He waved a large hand at the carrier on the screen, “Now what are we gonna do about this?”
The senior male member, Director Bracken, said, “I thought we already had.”
“We did?” Tampico was confused again.
“Yup.” Fenton nodded up at the visual. “The solution was to convert another carrier and send it out there and destroy the salvager vessel. The Maderos army. It was all supposed to happen so far away from here that nobody would ever know about it. The answer to everything." He eyed Director Maderos. “Isn’t that right?”
“How do you know that isn’t our carrier up there?”
“It isn’t,” Brooks said, “SatMan reports that it is the salvagers. The SatMan Executive Director is aboard the spacecraft.”
Maderos said, “He should have waited for instructions from us.”
Tampico was shaking her head, “I’m having trouble understanding why this Board of Directors sent a ship out to kill those people. I thought civilization was passed that sort of thing?”
Fenton moved from the sofa to the conference table. “You see, we were sort of pre-empted.” He glanced around the table. “One of us, and I’ll refrain from mentioning names, ordered a carrier conversion without a vote of this Board. This was done without authority, you understand. When the SatMan Executive Director raised questions about it, the full Board here had to deal with it. This took sometime and before we could take any action someone dispatched the carrier and we were left holding the bag. Rather than embarrass a Board member, we gave it retroactive approval, although not an enthusiastic approval.”
Maderos squirmed. “I don’t know if I approve of that version either.”
Fenton narrowed his eyes at her, “You going to fire me?”
“If I could I would.”
Fenton stood from the chair and began to pace. “You know, this Board has big problems to solve, bigger than that space ship out there. We just are not dealing with our real problems.”
Maderos spat out an answer, “Those salvagers are thieves. We know that.”
Fenton leaned on the table and nosed up close to her. “You insisted on sending out that ship and you did it for the expressed purpose of killing people. Murder. We do not go around killing people.” He stood up. “It appears these salvagers are much more clever than you will ever be, give them credit. They managed to avoid your ship, didn’t they?” He gestured up to the screen and the carrier.
Maderos was struggling with her anger, blood lust was in her eyes.
Tampico spoke, “What do these people want? They must want something. Has anyone tried to find out?”
“We’ve never had a chance to talk with them,” Fenton said. “I don’t know what kind of dialogue we can have now that we sent an armed ship out after them. If our version of a converted carrier caught up with them I’d bet they’re sort of pissed off at us.”
“Don’t you think we should try?”
Fenton folded his hands and stared up at the screen. “Yamato’s already out there. I think we should give him some instructions.” He looked for a reaction.
“Those people are thieves and I don’t deal with thieves,” Maderos hissed.
“I doubt they are thieves,” Fenton said.
“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway.” Maderos was on her feet.
“What do you mean?” Brooks wanted to know.
“Yeah, what’s going on?” Fenton asked.
Maderos simply stood in place looking wild and trapped. She said nothing.
Brooks guessed at the answer and half-stood. He was shaking his head. “I don’t know anymore, I just do not know.”
Maderos was mumbling something and saliva crept out from the corners of her mouth. She was not understood except for a few words, “. . . four battlecruisers . . .”
“What was that?” Fenton tilted an ear towards her.
“I, ahh, I sent out some battlecruisers . . . to destroy . . .” She backed up against the wall bumping it. She felt for it with both hands.
Fenton’s mouth was open in astonishment.
“You ordered out those experimental battlecruisers?” Tampico asked.
“They will be there in nine hours, maybe sooner.”  Her voice was taking on a higher pitch, “We’ll be rid of them and their damned ship.”
Fenton was pacing again, “After the last time I thought you would have learned something.” He put a hand to his forehead. “I can’t believe you did this?” He turned to her, “You didn’t plan on talking with these salvagers at all, did you?”
Now Maderos was snarling, “They stole that ship and they made fools of us and they are going to pay.”
“Calm down.” Brooks looked concerned. “Has anyone considered the possibility that these battlecruisers cannot do the job? And the consequences of that?”
Maderos backed into a corner, snarling. Fenton paced. Tampico was staring at Maderos. The other two directors reclined on the sofa watching the motionless carrier.
Brooks tried again, “These salvagers are survivors,” he said. “Look, if they defeat your little fleet and if they are angry enough, SatMan Headquarters is at their mercy. If they take control of that facility they will have control of all the manufacturing capacity of SatMan and that spells the end of PacRim.” His voice trailed off and he looked at each of the directors; none were listening, all of them were busy with their own thoughts.
Brooks spoke again, “Perhaps we should officially deal with the business of these battlecruisers. Let’s get a vote while we still have time.”
Old Director Bracken was the first to address the question. “I for one, think these events have gotten out of hand. Looking back, I think we might have handled it differently, but we didn’t and we cannot change that. I recall dire forecasts about this first ship, the salvager’s vessel. It was supposed to be the beginning of the breakup of PacRim and member nations were going to defect and in some way acquire their own carriers and there were going to be independent trade agreements and all sorts of things. Well, it didn’t happen. None of it did. Earth folks aren’t complaining about anything having to do with this ship so I’m not complaining. Now these battlecruisers may be a bit of overkill, something we do a lot of lately, and I don’t applaud your bloodthirsty methods either, or your end running around this Board and it’s authority,” he waggled a finger at Director Maderos, “but this will end it. And I for one, will be glad to see it behind us.”
Tampico spoke. “We’re talking about killing people here. Doesn’t anyone have a conscience? Aren’t we even going to talk with them first?”
Fenton presented a thumbs down.
Brooks counted; two in favor, two against.
Director Argon had yet to speak. His boyish eyes darted around the room in response to the sudden attention. “Let’s vote,” he said quietly.
Brooks took the official rollcall vote. The result was three in favor of permitting the battlecruisers to complete their mission. He slowly rose to his feet, dropped a pen on the table, put both hands in his pocket and quietly slipped into an adjacent office.
                                                      *    *    *
“Rotate to face them,” Murph said calmly.
Perspiration covered Sam’s face. He could now see into some of the flightbridge up front and everyone there was indelibly focused forward. Small flashes of light glowed on some of the faces but he could tell little else.
Sam kept having the same thought over and over; these people were salvagers and it was only a few years ago that they were busy practicing their trade.
Gene did his best to catch glimpses of the aft-bridge screens; an information source he hoped might clarify their situation. He saw nothing that would ease his fears.
“Everybody stay alert.”
Gene leaned over to Sam, “I don’t see the battlecruisers yet.”
Sam gave a quick glance around. “I don’t see anything either.”
Gene wanted to know, “What’s going to happen?”
Sam peered into the technician’s face; he wore an unsteady pale expression. “Don’t know,” he whispered. “Yesterday I would have said these salvagers didn’t have a chance, but now I just don’t know.” It only took a glimpse at the aft-bridge to see the no-nonsense efficiency of the crew, and should the equipment match this obvious on-board competency then SatMan and the battlecruisers didn’t have a chance.
“Let’s power up all laser and rail gun batteries.”
Sam perked up, a monitor he could see came to life. Numbers and symbols jumped up and scrambled for a short while, then steadied and shrank down to the lower left corner. A ready sign blinked momentarily then disappeared altogether. He could hear Murph speak a few words and monitors everywhere seemed to change.
“All weapons powered up. Ranging now.”
“All right,” Murph was speaking loudly, “if there are going to be shots fired, let them be the first. Nothing is triggered until I give the word.” He paused and glanced around at the crew. It seemed to provide an emphasis on what his statement. “Let’s have repeater screens on all decks showing the telescopic real-time visual as soon as the battlecruisers are located, and put all firing pattern data and damage assessments on the lower third of the screen. This is the business of every person on board.”
Confidence, after the announcement that was Sam’s first observation. These people were not worried in the slightest.
Gene whispered, “Do they understand what a rail gun will do to a ship like this? The first to shot is going to win this thing.”
Sam had a sudden urge to go forward and warn the Captain about particle beams and their potential for creating damage. But he did not move. “They have their own weapons,” he said.
Gene had an incredulous look. “You heard him, they’re going to let the battlecruisers fire first. It’ll be over before it even gets started. We’re dead.”
Murph’s voice could be heard again, “Keep a sharp eye out for missiles or strange weapons, we don’t know what they have for certain.”
“Ahh, missiles,” a crewman growled, “we have lasers that can pick them out of the sky. We’ll board those battlecruisers and cut their masts down, and have our way with their women.”
A round of chuckles rippled through the aft-bridge crew.
“Geez,” Gene complained, “they’re telling jokes and those battlecruisers are breathing down our necks.”
Sam was beginning to mumble, the confidence the crew had baffled him. “Maybe we’re goners.”
Gene agreed with a shake of the head.
“Battlecruisers dead ahead,” someone said.
Sam leaned for a better look into the forward bridge. There was no discernible change from anything he had seen before.
“All weapons ranged,” another crewman reported matter-of-factly. “Five degree spread on lasers,” he said.
It was then that Sam saw it, a large yellow ball of flame that came out of nowhere and it was coming straight at them. He braced for the impact and squeezed both eyes shut. But nothing happened. There was no shaking or crashing ceilings, no sparking electrical fires or panic among the crew; there was a flash and a little thunder, and it was over.
But there was another ball of fire, and another. Each of them made the same noise and flash before evaporating, yet, there appeared to be no damage.
Sam was perspiring profusely.
Murph leaned out and looked back to Sam. In a raised voice so he could be heard over the distance and the bridge noise, Murph said, “Not much punch in those weapons of yours.”
Gene began hyperventilating.
Still another volley flashed and rumbled. And another.
“Okay,” Murph called out, “let’s engage them. Cut ‘em up with the lasers, hold the rail guns. Fire at will.”
“Lasers set for 10D, 11D, 9A, 10A. Firing at will.”
Pulses of blue danced over the most forward screens. It was a noiseless barrage lasting for several minutes.
Gene fainted to the floor.
“Cease fire.” Pause. “What do we have?”
“Their weapons have slowed but they’re still capable,” came the report.
Murph got up and walked back to Sam. “Look," he said, "we’re cutting those battlecruisers up but they aren’t quitting. There’s a lot of random fire coming from them. They might hit your headquarters platform and hurt a lot of people so we’re going to take ‘em out.” He gave a short sigh. “Hate to do this, I hope you know that.”
Sam shrugged. He didn’t know what to say. If it were up to him he wouldn’t have built those battlecruisers in the first place.
“Alright,” Murph said, “let’s be done with it. Rail guns on all four targets with the first barrage. I don’t want those shields down any longer than they have to be.” Then it became very quiet.
Suddenly someone asked, “Damage report?”
Murph came back again. “All four battlecruisers have been disabled. Three are in deteriorating orbit and they’ll crash to Earth in a few hours. The other one is completely gone. We’ll keep an eye out for lifeboats and transports.”
Sam said, “Just like that, gone?”
Murph said, “I really thought those battlecruisers would do better than they did.” He nudged Sam with a friendly poke to the shoulder. “Wait’ll we show you the vids of those Robot Guardians, you’ll stop wasting your time with those unshielded battlecruisers.”
Sam could only mutter a few words, “Robot Guardians, shields?”
Gene was still on the floor.
                                                     *    *    *
The battle had been witnessed. By now the Board meeting had regressed to a primal- screaming confrontation. Maderos’ diatribe, which was aimed at the Executive Director, was now reduced to a loud hoarse rasp of anguish. “In thirty minutes you destroyed everything. If you had done your job in the first place, none of this would have ever happened. You didn’t build those battlecruisers like they were supposed to be built . . .”
“I didn’t know anything about them . . .”
“. . . and you continue to sit there and argue with me. Who do you think you are? You’re only the Executive Director and you should be fired.”
Brooks struggled to remain calm. He folded both arms and stared at the table.
Fenton tried to intervene but Maderos’ anger merely refocused on him. He finally threw his arms in the air and gave up. “I should have never gotten in the way of that bitch.” He searched the sofa for a quieter place to sit.
The other Directors tried to ignore the hysterics by milling aimlessly on the far side of the conference table.
Fenton became anxious and moved from the sofa to a chair next to Brooks. He turned his back to the raging Maderos. “What sort of position are we in now?” he asked the Executive Director.
Maderos was not about to tolerate anyone turning their back to her. She grabbed at Fenton’s shoulder and he was instantly on his feet.
“You sniveling bastard,” she squawked, “you undermined me in every way you could.” Tears streamed down from blood shot eyes to mingle with the saliva draining from the downturned corners of her mouth. “You were hoping this would happen, admit it, you wanted everything I did to fail.” She shook a tightly wound fist in his face then began backing up to an exit door. She bumped the door, shook a fist at them, and swore a vile oath, then bolted outside. She was gone.
A ringing silence gripped the conference room.
After a time Brooks said, “Let me try and answer your question.”
“Yeah, sure.” Fenton was still reeling from the Maderos exit.
“It is unfortunate that this Board never considered the consequences of this battlecruiser action. With their firepower, these salvagers can have about anything they decide they want. We severely underestimated them. I suppose our attitudes about most things doing with salvagers might be reflected in the way we treated them as a people. We may have set ourselves up for a fall with our tenacious policy against the building of war weapons. I don’t know much about those things. I think, though, a PacRim collapse was or is inevitable. All organizations end. It is our turn, I think. It could have come at the hands of a group of angry member nations, which we all suspected; it could have been a citizen revolt or who knows. But salvagers, I think we failed to look in that direction and were caught by surprise.”
“You sound as if it’s all over with PacRim,” Fenton said.
“Look, we attacked them twice, I don’t see how these salvagers can have anything but a conqueror’s attitude towards us.”
“Magnificent hindsight,” Bracken said.
“Not so,” Brooks answered, “Sam Yamato warned you for years about the hazards of thousands of idle employees, and about outstations that might have thought they were abandoned. He even pointed out that new colonies can create new markets for PacRim but you did not listen. It’s all in the record, it’s all written down.”
“But we’ve done well,” Bracken said.
Brooks shook his head. “What have you done for the people of this planet, the very people we were here to serve? You’ve kept them under your control, that is what you have done. Most citizens here live a subsistence lifestyle. They are farmers and food gatherers, now. It is no wonder there is no demand for manufactured goods; the people have no use for such things. And how about the member nations? How many of them can stand economically on their own? Was not economic independence one of your charter goals? What happened?”
“Maybe Maderos was right, you should have been fired.” Bracken looked fiercely at him.
“Fired from what? This job is over. So is yours.”
Fenton interjected, “Now gentlemen, nobody is firing anybody.” He frowned at them both. “Much depends on what these salvagers do. If they just go away then everything stays the same. Whatever happens, I sure hope we learn from this.”
 “Possibly the entire treaty should be rethought,” Brooks said.
The old Director puffed his chest. “We built PacRim into what it is today and should it collapse we can do it again.”
“There is no resource, no weapon and no amount of people or persuasion that could wrest control of SatMan from those salvagers if they decide they want control of it,” Brooks gazed intently at Bracken, “and without SatMan, PacRim is nothing but a paper organization.”
Bracken bristled, “What do you mean we can’t take it back?”
“There is no army on Earth, hasn’t been one for more than a hundred years, we have no weapons these salvagers can’t handle, all of our trained technical people work either in the orbits, at Moonbase or on some outstation, that’s what I mean,” Brooks said.
“So you have given up,” Bracken snapped.
“No. I’d say, instead, to look for the positive in this. There is change coming, maybe for the good. If these salvagers abandon SatMan we should learn to serve the member nations and the citizens of this world. We should work ourselves out of business on some future day.”
Bracken struggled to his feet. “All we wanted to do was shoot down one little carrier, just one, and you think the sky is falling.”
                                                      *    *    *
“That isn’t why we are here.” Murph was firm.
“Look,” Sam explained, “SatMan has nothing larger than an orbit shuttle to fly, PacRim has nothing because they depend on SatMan spacecraft to get around. Now get the picture,” he said, “as you sit here with this gigantic spacecraft parked right next to the SatMan headquarters platform, you have control. If you declare control over SatMan and park here until a treaty is negotiated or until you build a few more of these magnificent carriers, then it will be so.”
Murph thought he detected a twinkle in Sam’s eyes.
“If you control SatMan, PacRim will have to follow your direction or face collapse. All the member nations will be clamoring to negotiate separately with you.”
“Look, I’m going to tell you one more time,” Murph said, “we came here to help, not to take over.”
“To help,” Sam said reflectively. He failed to understand. “Life here wasn’t so good for you, I know that now. You were sort of mistreated, ignored maybe.”
“We did not come back for revenge either.”
“Okay, so why did you come back?”
“Listen now.” Murph looked him straight in the eye. “One by one you have been losing outstations. For the most part it has been the Robot Guardians that destroyed these places.”
“Aliens?”
“Right, they have these shields they hide behind. You can’t see them right away. They could be here in the orbits right now and you wouldn’t know it.”
“Right here.” Sam’s eyes widened.
“I’d say they were here for sure,” Chief volunteered.
Murph said, “We put a colony down on this planet in the Alpha Centauri System, you see, and these Robot Guardians dropped bugs on them, millions of 'em. Our science people say it was a terra-forming project and we somehow got mixed up in it. Well, we had to rescue the people in the settlement. What we figured was we needed more training in setting up colonies, you know, like you do for outstations. Adversity training, something like that.”
“Aliens, Robot Guardians, colonies, bugs . . .”
“We can handle these Robot Guardians and we’ll show you how but we want something in return.”
“What?” Sam asked.
“Training.”
“You came back here for training?”
“That’s right. And to warn you about these aliens.”
“That’s all you want?”
“That’s all.”
“Don’t underestimate those aliens and their bugs,” Chief said, “that scared the hell out of just about everybody including old Pete. Those bugs made him crazy, we got him locked up on level two.”
Sam gathered his thoughts. “You parked here, took a couple of shots with those cannons of yours and conquered the world. Hell, more than the world. And you want training and that’s all?”
Murph was puzzled. He frowned. “That’s right. That isn’t so hard to understand, is it?”
“You have an entire world down there, Earth. It’s all yours,” Sam said.
“I have an big world already, Eden, and it’s better than Earth,” Murph responded.
Chief spoke, “Look Murph, we won this battle fair and square, why not consider the rewards that go with it. We can’t go around conquering places then just walk away from it, you know. I'd say we have some responsibility in this conquer-the-world thing.”
“Looks to me,” Michelle said, “that we could make this a better place than it was. You always said that salvagers could run things better than SatMan.”

 

[Gerald Lively]

                                                                   CHAPTER  TWELVE
 
                                      
                                              Five Years Later – February 2139 – Moonbase.


Murph yawned and absently stared out through a window onto a public walkway. It was a wide circling walk and, for the moment, it was empty of people. Beyond the walkway, a railing circled the uppermost level of the cavernous District One; a mile wide, fifty level deep excavation housing commercial enterprises and a planned fifteen thousand residences. From his position he could see down in the shadows on the far side of the District where a neon sign blinked promising adult entertainment. He wondered about the establishment and thought about getting a closer look.
But he didn’t move. His eyelids grew heavy. He fought it off. Finally his chin rested in one hand and he leaned against the window. In the background, Chief was delivering a final lecture to a small group of colonists. Murph noted the time, then gave in to drowsiness and closed his eyes.
“Are you ready?” It was an insistent voice. A hand shook his shoulder and there was a hearty chuckle. “Come on big guy.”
“Ready? Sure. Ready for what?”
“You were asleep,” Chief said.
“Asleep? Couldn’t a been.”
“The lecture was going fine until you started snoring.” Chief wore one of those neutral looks of his.
Murph couldn’t decide if he was joking or not. “Didn’t seem like I was asleep.”
They sauntered to the door then crossed the walkway and leaned against the rail.
Chief said, “You ready for this?”
Today was the very first graduation day for the Free Trade Association’s Academy. Three disciplines of study made up the first graduating class; prospective colonists, candidate starship officers, and starship engineers and it was a group of trained colonists that had just left Chief’s classroom where they heard him talk about existing conditions on Eden. If today’s lecture was like his other lectures, the colonists had heard a rambling assortment of adventure tales to which he was witness, or so he said.
“I’m ready,” Murph said, “and I’ve been waiting for a long time.”
“This first group is 3,500, about,” Chief said. “Could be a few more by launch time. Everyone wants to be first, you know.”
“They’ve been trained.” Murph’s thoughts were on the old salvager, Pete, who hadn’t been trained and who should have been a part of this first group going back to Eden. But the strain of losing that first struggle on Eden had been too much for him. Some said he was a bit irrational, others said he had gone crazy – and Pete was in the last place he wanted to be - Earthside. But there he might recover. Time would tell that story.
“The important thing is to establish the settlement and set things up for the others coming later.” Chief sounded confident. “Before long things’ll be taking care of themselves.” He leaned out over the railing to look down. At the bottom a path wove among the trees of the park and a white foaming waterfall splashed into a small pond where tiny people figures were gathered. “I could get used to a place like this,” he remarked.
“The supply carrier got off yesterday,” Murph said.
Chief already knew that. “Support station’s on one of ‘em.”
Murph looked at him with a half smile, “We’re making small talk, aren’t we?”
“True enough.”
“Okay, the Congo is leaving tomorrow. All of these colonists should be on their way up to the carrier port or on board by now.”
Chief nodded.
“Alright, you take the Congo’s transport back up there, I’m going to take some public transportation. I wanna look around some.”
Chief looked questioning at him. “Why?”
“Just for the hell of it,” Murph answered.
“You’ll get lost around here,” Chief protested. And it wouldn’t be the first time, he recalled.
“We’re all taking off tomorrow, I just want to wander some.”
These orbit types, Chief mused, give ‘em a little flash and dazzle in those business districts and you can’t tear ‘em loose. “Okay, see up on the carrier port.”
And Chief moved down the concourse towards the shuttle port.
Murph leaned against the rail. Tomorrow, he estimated, most of the occupied residences in the district below would become empty. They’d be on the Congo. But the excavations and construction would continue here. When they were done with this project they’d dig another district out, place a sealed spaceframe over it and work until twelve districts ringed Moonbase central. Room for nearly a quarter million people. Moonbase was beginning to take shape. He wondered if he’d see the finished city.
Murph started down the broad concourse, walking a slow strolling pace in and out of the businesses that opened onto the pedestrian concourse. He picked at some of the merchandise and wandered here and there - until the shuttle port loomed before him. It would have been convenient to have had a Congo shuttle waiting but the thirty minute taxi ride could be endured. He could do that. Besides, Moonbase was thriving and privately he was proud. No longer was it simply a maintenance unit of SatMan; it was a planned and growing city and he wanted to linger, to feel what he had done, and to revel in it for just a while longer. 
Now, however, he faced an unfamiliar craft with an unknown pilot. An anxious moment.
The trip was uneventful.
The taxi glided to the top of the orbiting carrier dock complex where lights from the Free Trade Association and SatMan executive offices blazed. In among the chaos of lights the pilot managed to sort out the flashing taxi-port range lights and glided inside a very wide and empty dock. Most of the colonists had already boarded, the taxi pilot explained, things were quiet for now.
Murph hopped down and quickly spotted an elevator.
“Level puuleeze,” the elevator voice asked.
Murph had no idea what level he wanted. His dilemma was that he’d never used a taxi or a public elevator until now. “Starship Congo,” he said. To his surprise the doors closed and he could feel the elevator drop.
The trip was short. The double doors opened with a pronounced “ding”.
“You have arrived at level C, please proceed to docking bay five,” the elevator voice instructed.
There was a convenient sign pointing to dock five. Another sign cautioned that “Bay Five was in decompression, follow the line marked on the floor.” It was a yellow line in the middle of the floor. Light pulsed from it inviting him to proceed, so he began walking. It turned left. Suddenly there was a transparent wall. On the other side of the transparency, the Congo was floating suspended from port umbilicals and glistening beneath intense port lighting. He hurried.
The Congo seemed larger – and newer. The men and equipment spread over the topside looked tiny.
Another sign confronted him. This one was painted and it instructed all colonists to proceed in the direction he was already walking. He could see a long tubular transparent loading ramp connecting the Congo to the corridor he was in, but when he came to the entrance a pair of dark suited men stood waiting.
“Your boarding pass, please,” one of them asked.
“I beg your pardon.”
One of them took a menacing step closer. A shiny metal badge on his chest stood brilliant beneath the port lighting. “You cannot board without a boarding pass,” he said.
The man was taller than he was. Murph looked up into a stern unsmiling face, then to the other man. “Look,” he said, “I’m the Captain of this spacecraft.”
The man was tapping a pen against a clipboard. “I’ve already heard that one about a dozen times this week,” he said.
“Check with someone, I am the Captain,” Murph pleaded. He looked passed the pair then back the way he had come; there was no one around who could help.
“Look buddy, you’re wearing the same sort of grubby jumpsuit I wear on my day off, but that don’t make me the Captain of anything. Don’t you think the guy who runs this nice big clean spaceship has something better to wear than an outfit like that?”
It was his old jumpsuit but it was comfortable. A little tattered around the edges, perhaps. He tugged at the pant legs; they didn’t reach all the way down to the ankles. Maybe he didn’t look official but what did that have to do with anything? Murph sighed.
The Congo hovered behind the two men but he could see no way passed them – and he could think of nothing else to say to them. So he trudged back to the elevator where the pleasant elevator voice dutifully asked him where he wanted to go.
That required thought. “Executive Offices,” he finally said.
When the doors opened the air was filled with a hushed quiet. A prim young woman waited behind a desk strategically placed in the middle of the room. Murph carefully stepped across the expanse of fresh grey carpet regretting the trail of footprints left in the nap.
“May I help you?” she asked, looking him over in quick assessment.
 “Yes,” he said rubbing his day-old beard. “I need to see Sam Yamato.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Murph grimaced, “No I don’t.”
“May I ask your name?” She turned to a keyboard and waited for the response.
“I’m Murph Santorini.”
She looked up at him without keying in the name. “I’ll find someone who can help you,” she said and quickly disappeared down a hallway.
Five minutes passed, then ten minutes. Murph grew impatient. Fifteen minutes and no sign of the receptionist.
Murph carefully rounded the reception desk, then, with great assertiveness, marched down the hallway. Each door, he discovered, was labeled. The search was on. And he found it, a door with a sign reading, “Executive Director – Satellite Manufacturing”. Inside the receptionist and another older woman moved to intercept him. Murph aimed for the door they seemed to be protecting. And he made it but not without something of a struggle.
And he was inside.
Sam Yamato stood.
“Sam, we’ve created a monster,” and he relayed the long woeful story of the displaced starship Captain. Laughter filled the inner office that afternoon.
                                                    *    *    *
Once again Zack Holyfield walked through the living area and again opened all the closets and checked every drawer. Nothing had been forgotten. Nothing had been missed.
He liked it here on Moonbase. He didn’t want to leave. It was comfortable and clean and he didn’t have to share a living space with anyone; it was never cold, there were electric lights and an indoor toilet. But he’d made his commitment to settle on Eden and a contract was a contract.
SatMan was offering excavation jobs to prospective colonists, lifetime work they said. He could live right here and never leave. There were eleven more districts to build and the pay was good, and when those were finished there was a network of roads to build all over the Moon and possibly other communities, depending on how this new Free Trade Association worked out. They told him they’d already moved the complex of manufacturing stations from Earth orbit to Moon orbits, so he guessed they meant it when they announced all these big plans for the Moon.
Moonbase or Eden, it didn’t matter in the end; any place was better than North Dakota. But Eden it was, he had made his deal and he would live up to his agreement.
Zack opened another drawer, then another. Empty. One more look around the room. It was clean. Nothing was forgotten. Satisfied, he hefted a packed bundle over his shoulder and stepped outside.
Over the rail he peered down to the park and its splashing waterfall, then up to the trees reaching for the spaceframe and the light there. He took a deep breath; fresh air, it had been a comfort living next to the trees and he wondered if Eden smelled this good.
It was but a few steps to the housing office. At first he didn’t see anyone but when he looked around the counter he discovered a sleeping clerk. Zack slapped the house key down on the hard polished-rock counter and a bewildered clerk gazed questioningly at him. But Zack was quickly outside and waved at him through the glass partition. Let him figure it out.
One level up to the colonial office; it was there that an alert young lady waited with a smile as he came through the entrance. She raised an approving eyebrow at him. “Room number?” she asked.
“Level 41, room 114.”
She keyed the information and the screen glowed. “Zack Holyfield boarding this morning.” She handed him a white plastic boarding pass. “Wish I was going with you,” she purred.
Zack looked down into soft blue eyes. “I’m not too early am I?” he stammered.
“You have four hours until boarding time.” She smiled very big.
Zack backed away. After several unsure steps he turned and made for the door where he glanced back; she still wore a seductive grin on her lips and those inviting blue eyes were aimed right at him. With a rush he moved to the next concourse intersection, there, he consulted the directory stand and proceeded to follow the instructions to the “Port Facilities”. It was a winding course that seemed to weave in and out of the main flow of traffic, and he followed the directed course until a blocking turnstile halted him and an uniformed lady asked for his boarding pass. She examined it and ran the pass through a reader. “You’re early,” she said. “Boarding won’t begin for another hour.”
“Should I wait here?”
She shrugged. “We’ll let you know when it's time. All you have to do then is run your boarding pass through the slot over there,” she indicated a turnstile near a wall, “and walk down to the transport ramp.”
Back up the concourse, businesses were beginning to open and customers milled around the few merchandise displays out and ready for them. Zack’s gaze went to a carved sign over a set of doors. They appeared to be wood – the doors and the sign – but that wasn’t likely on Moonbase. The sign read, “Trader’s Saloon – Last Chance.”
Others began to approach the turnstiles.
Standing there he thought of Eden. The academy said they would all get a thousand acres and all the ag-robots they needed. It was good valley land, they said. He’d seen pictures of it. But it was his own father who put the damper on it, “Nobody ever gave away anything for nothing.” “Ag-robots break and somebody gets paid to fix ‘em. Where you gonna get the money?” “You had to pay the academy just to get educated; that land can’t be worth more’n that much.” Still Zack wished the family had come along with him. He was certain it would be a better life for them. He absently kicked at his bundle.
A slight blond girl walked up to the turnstiles. She handed the attendant a boarding pass and they exchanged a few words. When she turned back, for the briefest of moments, their eyes met. Quickly she looked elsewhere pretending not to notice him. And Zack looked away too.
When he peeked back over his shoulder she was gone. He searched but she was nowhere in his view.
“Hi,” a voice behind him said.
This startled Zack. He turned to find a short lady, possibly five feet four inches tall with piercing blue eyes that stared up at him. She smiled to reveal a pronounced gap in her front teeth that seemed to be an extension of the cleavage between a massive set of breasts that noticeably jiggled above her peasant blouse neckline. They were the largest breasts Zack had ever seen.
“Hi,” she said again. The breasts wiggled.
“Uh hello.”
“Say, big boy, are you on this first load to Eden?” She folded both arms beneath her breasts, lifting them slightly. And she took a deep breath.
Zack had to look away. The blond girl caught his eye; she was looking very disapprovingly at him.
He answered, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Say, where you from?” She narrowed her eyes to express a keen interest in his answer.
He could smell her powerful fragrance and felt a prickling on the back of his neck. “North Dakota,” he muttered.
“I came from Nebraska. Been here for a year waiting for this colony trade business to get started. That’s my business over there.” She pointed to the Trader Saloon place. “You can come in and see me anytime.” She raised a seductive eyebrow.
“Uh huh,” Zack answered, his eyes fixed on her cleavage.
“You sure are a good looking boy,” she said in hushed tone, “you make me feel right neighborly.”
Zack stammered, stopped what he was going to say and put both hands in his pockets.
“By the way, what was your name?”
“Zack, Zack Holyfield.”
“Zack, huh.” She smiled some more. “Sounds important. I’ll have to remember it just in case you come back this way sometime.” She lowered both arms; both breasts seemed to bounce. “Don’t wait too long, Zack.” She winked at him then walked away.
Zack picked up his bundle; sweating palms darkened the canvas straps as he threw the bundle over his shoulder.
The turnstile area was becoming crowded as people steadily approached. Boarding time was near. One ticket taker motioned for him to approach the express turnstile, and quite suddenly a single file formed that briskly moved through.
Boarding was simple and the trip up was a thirty minutes glide, not at all like the bone jarring transport up from Earth. As soon as they arrived at the carrier port people began shouting instructions at him. Follow the yellow line, one of them barked, and like sheep they did. The people in front of him chattered nervously but he was intent on a gigantic gleaming spacecraft on the other side of the hallway transparency. Bright flooding lights blazed down on a crew of workman as they spread a glistening black material over the burnished metal hull. It was fascinating to watch but the colonists had hurried and he needed to keep up. Then everybody suddenly stopped.
Two dark-suited men asked for boarding passes. He displayed his. They attached a metal clip and motioned for him to pass into the long transparent tunnel connected to the ship. As soon as he was inside he was gawking up at the trees like everyone else. Someone nudged him into an elevator and he was quickly up on level three. Once there he was assigned a living space - but the image of the trees and the fields remained with him. There was no going back to North Dakota now, not ever. His dad would never have believed him if he tried to describe the farmland he saw inside a spacecraft. He hardly believed it himself.
                                                      *    *    *
Six Months Later.
Passenger names filled the deck-three public screen. “Flight Three”, it said. Zack searched for his name; he almost hated to find it. The Congo experience had been a long series of marvels for him and the six-month trip to the Alpha Centauri system had zipped by. It was not like any six-month period he had ever experienced.
Three columns of names covered a real-time visual of the planet below. He could see the blue oceans and green continents, and the wispy white clouds between the words. It was just like Earth. Anxiousness gripped his stomach; Earth had not been a pleasant experience for him.
Zack finally searched the names; his was there. Large words appeared instructing the listed colonists to begin boarding. Zack shouldered his bundle, sighed, and then trudged towards the elevator going down.
The trip down to the planet was the exact reverse of the shuttle up from Earth; a bumpy ride through the atmosphere ending with a gut-wrenching skid across a large plateau.
Zack stepped out into a large cloud of dust. Above, broken clouds filtered the daylight and the double suns someone said was there. It was warm. Someone nudged him toward a grove of trees running along oneside of the open field; they said to find some shade and wait until things got organized. There was a very large tree with big spreading branches offering a circle of deep shade. He tossed his bundle up against the prodigious tree trunk then made himself comfortable.
A nearby river flowed swiftly to the west. It was easy to see from where he rested and he watched it for a time. Occasionally, he would catch a glimpse of the unending flow of colonists disembarking from the landed shuttles, and the dust swirled out in the field.
His eyes became heavy and he slept. In his dream there was a raging river beneath a heavy roiling sky. Miles of cultivated fields were being soaked in a driving rain that seemed to come down harder and harder causing a nearby river to threaten flood and sweep him away. He felt heavy with helplessness, unable to move. He wanted to run yet the mud held him fast. Panic began to rise in him and . . .
“Okay, listen up!” It came from out in the dust. A man stood atop an overturned box. He was trying to get some attention.
Zack shook the sleep off.
“Hey! Over here everybody!”
Behind Zack colonists were still chattering in small groups.
“Hey everyone, I have some announcements!”
Zack struggled to his feet. The man shouted again but most of the people were not paying him any attention.
“Hey!” Zack bellowed, “This guy has something to say!” Some of the colonists looked back at him. Quiet began to take hold.
“I have some announcements,” the man on the box said.
Zack sat again, cradling his head in a notch on the tree trunk.
The man began reviewing the same material they’d all heard before – at the Academy, on the Congo and now again. But he made himself listen.
“This plateau, from the foothills back there," he turned in a sweeping gesture westward, "out to the edges on all three sides belongs to the town we will establish.” The man unfolded an obviously old piece of cloth and held it up high. “This is the first record of property ownership here. It was made by the colonists here six years ago and it lays out the townsite territory, the Mayor will locate the town within these limits.”
Zack rummaged through some thoughts; rumor had it that this place wasn’t even the original settlement. He’d been hearing it since his arrival on the Congo, and it was a persistent rumor. There were no signs of a settlement here, he could see that much, but what difference did it make? Gossip, he decided, gossip with absolutely no value.
“The town survey is here,” he pointed to one side of the cloth map, “the parcels out in the valley are marked off all along the river. The first to claim a parcel gets the property. Every family will receive a one thousand-acre parcel and there are plenty to go around. Any disputes will be settled by the Mayor and the Mayor’s word is final on this.” He refolded the map and put it away. “And now the first item of business.”
Zack perked up.
“You all know a Mayor has to be selected from among your numbers. The Mayor is responsible for policy on commerce; he runs the town and has the ability to accumulate resources in the form of taxes for the town. This was all covered in each of your contracts.”
Back at the Academy there had been a lively debate on this. The Mayor had to be close to the town if that person was to provide a meaningful service but it might be difficult to run a farm and be Mayor at the same time.  So they decided to grant the Mayor three parcels. It was an incentive, they said. Most everyone there had been a subsistence farmer Earthside and land was something personal for them. If you selected a bad piece of land, that was your fault. If someone selected it for you, then bad blood could develop. The Mayor couldn’t choose, the parcels were selected for him. And the FTA instructor said that they weren’t going to Eden for subsistence farming, they fully expected commodity surpluses because there wasn’t any bad land in the big valley. None of the persuasion or incentives had brought forth a volunteer for the job of Mayor.
“I want nominations for Mayor!”
A murmur rolled through the crowd but no names were offered.
“You all know that a mayor is required and if you cannot appoint one we will do it for you. How about some nominations?”
Anyone refusing to serve, the contract read, would be shipped back to Earth. Zack recalled the threat. The FTA wanted someone selected back at the Academy, to work with them, they had said. Most thought the odds were good enough so they could avoid the mayorship.
The noise of the crowd rose to a point where the man couldn’t be heard. Zack looked out over the crowd and it came to him then that not every colonist was here. Half or more were still up on the Congo. It wasn’t fair. He started to speak up but thought better of it.
“Let’s have a name!” the man shouted. “I’ll pick someone if you don’t!”
Zack stood up on his toes to look over the crowd. He was tempted to climb the tree.
“Alright, I have to make this decision for you,” the man declared. “Okay, young man, I have selected you. Come on up here.”
Zack was intent on the crowd. Nobody he could see came forward. But the crowd had grown quiet – and they all seemed to be looking in his direction. He glanced at the man on the box; he was looking back at him too.
“You’re the new Mayor,” the man clearly said.
Zack shuddered.
“Come over here and sign off.”
“I don’t know anything about being a mayor. Why me?”
The man gave him a reassuring slap across the shoulders, “It seemed prophetic, you were sitting under the original survey tree for the townsite and you were the one who controlled the crowd.” He nodded knowingly.  “You’ve got leadership, I think you have what it takes.” He waggled a pen in front of Zack. “Sign here.”
“How am I gonna farm three thousand acres and do this mayor job?”
The man was unruffled. “We’ll give you a hand. As soon as we’re done here I’ll get together with you and we’ll cover all the details. Don’t worry, we need a successful Mayor more than the farmers need one.”
Suddenly, in the space of five minutes he owned thirty times the land his family had back in North Dakota – and he was the Mayor too. For the first time ever, he had something of his own. But it wasn’t satisfying; it felt more like a burden.
Zack sauntered back to the tree. Survey tree? He wondered about that. There was a notch in the tree but it had grown over. There was nothing recognizable about it. Maybe this was fate, or just bad luck.
People began filing passed the tables set up in the field to sign papers and pick up packets and instructions. There was information about survey parties down into the valley and a big crowd formed around the sign-up sheets. Zack was last in line. At the final table he signed something and they issued him a knife and side arm.
“In a few minutes the work crews will be setting up some lights out here. The pre-fabs will be down here in an hour or so – any idea where you want things?”
“We’ll need a large building for storage, another for food processing – warehouse size buildings. We need some city buildings for offices, some store buildings and living units.”
“Good. Where?”
Zack pointed east. “Up there a ways, up stream where the water supply is fresher. The town can grow westward out to the edge if it ever gets that big.”
“Good idea.” The man hurriedly wrote down some notes.
“Tap into the flow up there and gravity will provide the water pressure. Run the sewer down over the southern slope and build a dozen acres of leach fields there.”
The man eyed him, “You ever done this before?”
“Never saw a town until I got to Seattle.”
He looked disbelieving at Zack. “We’ll get you a central computer for those ag-robots. You’ll be needing them. We’ve got some communication equipment, farm buildings, heavy equipment and some other things you’ll need for that farm of yours.” He held out a long list. “Better look this over. If you need more things just add it to this list and we’ll get it to you.”
Zack looked the list over. The heading said, “Mayor’s Farmsite.”
“There’ll be a support station up there in orbit. It’s for the settlement here. You can talk to them anytime and they might be calling you from time to time about weather, shipping and whatever. It’s all in those papers.” He touched the bundle under Zack’s arm. “Read that stuff closely. Remember, the FTA is looking for exportable commodities. Everything comes through the town and we’ll pick it up. The town sets a tax on those products then trades for it’s own needs.
“All I have to do is tell the support station we have product and the FTA shows up.”
“It takes time but that’s the idea.”
Zack grunted an acknowledgement.
“In a few days there will be a town here and the colony will be official. We’ll go through the buildings with you so you’ll know where everything is. Then we’ll be outta here.” He reached a hand out, “Congratulations, Mayor.”
Zack returned to his tree just when the darkness of the forest along the river had become dotted with the yellow flame of campfires. He stretched out on the ground and gazed up at the broken clouds and the stars winking between them. Then he turned on one side and prepared for sleep. It was then that he saw her again; she was brushing long strands of blond hair and campfire light glowed on her face. She was looking at him. She wore a smile.
                                                      *    *    *
                              Aboard the Congo enroute to Earth.

Murph tensed as he revolved the three-dimensional holograph hovering inches above the console. Blinking yellow lights marked the three key locations on it.
Michelle whispered in a confidential voice, “What do you think?”
He stared at it not daring to blink for a time, then looked away. “It’s inconclusive,” he said. But he rolled it once more, stopped and considered the results. Then he marked a slow curving course line intersecting all three yellow markers, and he drew another course line, this one intersecting the same yellow markers but curving in a slightly different direction. Finally, he reduced the scale until it included several nearby star systems and extended both course lines.
“You see, it’s inconclusive. We have three locations where we’ve seen Robot Guardians. To begin with, we cannot draw a straight line and include all three locations.” He drew back from the star map and tilted his head at it. “We have no reason to believe they can only fly in a straight line, so I’ve curved them a bit. That opens up the entire universe as possible locations.”
“Nope,” she said, “it means it’s one of these two systems.” She pointed at a pair of red dwarf stars. “A big fleet like that wouldn’t make any sharp course changes, not a fleet under robotic control. It would have to be slow curving courses like these. I think you’re on the right track.”
“Those two systems are light-years apart,” Murph complained.
“You need more information?” she said.
Murph stroked his chin. “Sure, but where do we get more information?”
“You’ve narrowed it down to these two systems,” she said, “that’s not bad.” She thought for a moment, “ What are you going to do with this analysis?”
“I’d like to find out where these Robot Guardians came from.” Murph twirled the hologram.
“You’re planning to ask the FTA for authorization to go searching for those Robot Guardians, aren’t you?”
He detected something in her tone. “Well, maybe,” he said cautiously.
She was concerned and she didn’t understand why. “What systems are those?” she asked.
“Giclas 51-15 and Wolf 359. They’re about seven and a half light years from here, about ten light-years from Earth.”
Michelle studied the hologram. She had a feeling about it - a vague sense of something. She could see herself going to these star systems but somehow it was much more difficult to imagine Murph going with her.
                                                       *    *    *
                                     September 2140 – Eden City.

A warm autumn rain pounded the steel roof, sheeting down to overfilled stormgutters and spilling in curtains to the street below the covered sidewalks. The usually dusty street had long since become a rivulet washed quagmire.
Zack stood in the doorway of the processing building. Behind him the cannery line clattered along a conveyor, rattling until it’s cargo dumped into divided boxes.
Outside the street was empty of people. Usually farmers ignored the weather but the harvest was nearly over and most might have left town. Maybe the weather was too much.
Zack turned back inside.
“All done, boss.” The rattle of the conveyor halted.
Zack gave him a thumbs up. “Clean up and go home,” he said. “We’ll do inventory tomorrow.”
Zack glanced up at the murky canopy of clouds; it was going to rain a while longer. He checked the swampy street looking for a safe place to step; there were no dry places. He bravely stepped out into the downpour and water immediately streamed off the brim of his hat.
He darted around the first corner and up the steps beneath a covered walk. The excited laughter of children came to his ears. Out in the middle of the street, in the mud and muck, they were running and sliding – making a game of the inclement conditions. Zack stopped to watch.  The smallest ran and fell, then stood up and cried out loud. The others ran to her rescue but they began to laugh. And laughed until the small one couldn’t resist the frivolity and broke into a smile, then laughed along with the others. The sliding game resumed.
Zack ducked away from a leak in the overhang and looked back at the mud-covered children. He could only smile.
Outside the city offices he detoured to the sidewalk’s edge where he gave his boots a kick to dislodge the mud on them. When he went inside, the clerk leaned far over her desk to scowl at the wet trail he was leaving.
“I suppose that’s mud you’re tracking in here.”
Zack feigned a guilty sheepishness, “Aw, yes ma’am”.
She placed both hands on her hips. “What am I going to do with you?”
Zack looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Depends on how upset you are. You could pile up some twigs out in the street, put up a big post and tie me to it. Then you could set the whole thing on fire. Or, you could find a large tree and throw a rope over a branch . . .”
“Oh, Zack, just shut up.” She went to find the mop.
He eyed a stack of papers on his desk. “Any important messages?”
“Local stuff.” She swished the mop back and forth across his trail. “Your wife called. Said the river was still in its banks but she didn’t know for how long. I’d get going if I were you.”
Zack watched her mop for a moment. “Why don’t you let me do that?”
She held the mop tight to her, “Don’t touch my mop. You’ll just smear things around. I’ll do it.”
“Maybe I should get going.” The possibility of flooding was on his mind. Leaving now might mean he’d be stuck at home if the road washed out later, and that wasn’t a bad idea. He just had to get there as quickly as he could.
The clerk glared as he made a wide circle around the freshly mopped area. But just as he touched the door the urgent message alarm sounded. He halted, frozen in place.
The clerk touched the relay button and they listened, “Long range detection systems have located four large objects approaching at a range of 500,000 miles. This is an advisory message.” And it clicked off.
Zack paused to think, if they were picking up carriers they would know that. “Large” meant they couldn’t be Robot Guardians, but what did they mean by large? Big as a starship? Bigger? What was bigger than a starship? He shrugged and turned for the door. “Chuck will bring in the keys for the warehouse as soon as he’s finished cleaning up.” He waved at the clerk and didn’t wait for her inevitable attempt at the final word.
It was midday. The sky was very dark and the rain unrelenting. The children were gone from the street; he supposed someone’s mother had gathered them in and the entire tribe was experiencing a cleanup. He smiled again.
The smile lasted until he rounded the corner of the building where he discovered a crashing stream of rainwater from the roof that threatened to collapse the surrey top of the tractor. There was no way he could approach it without getting soaked, so he gritted his teeth and charged into the onslaught.
Mercifully the tractor started and he chugged safely out from under the cascade. Big tires splashed in the mud and flowing water until he reached the edge of town. There the mud lessened and the roadway became more secure, but this was open plateau and the wind pushed rain straight into his face. Eventually the road turned and he chugged over the short bridge spanning the river, and finally onto the connecting spillway road where it still rained hard but conditions seemed improved. Then the wind slackened as the tractor negotiated the downhill slope. Water poured off the front of the surrey-top. The grade steepened. Zack steered down the middle of the hard-unbroken granite roadway adjusting as the tractor leaned uncomfortably forward. Just a few feet away the river raged down the smooth fast sluiceway to crash a hundred yards ahead against huge alluvial boulders, raising a cloud hundreds of feet into the sky.
The rain ebbed turning into light drizzle. Far to the north dark clouds produced black slanting streaks of rain reaching down to the valley floor. The storm was not finished with them yet.
Just before the alluvial formation, the road turned away from the river to meander down to the valley floor and around the outfall lake. In it’s steady unhurried pace, the tractor eventually took him to the riverbank next to the swiftly moving rush of water.
“Beep”. His pocket communicator sounded.
“Yes, what is it?”
A computer-generated voice said, “Eden support station is under attack, alert, alert, alert.” He glanced skyward; there was nothing to see but cloud cover and there was no sign of anything threatening. It was a microburst transmission prepared in advance for emergency situations and someone up there had just pushed a button to send it. The City computer made the translation. He scanned the cloud cover again; the grey overcast had taken on an ominous appearance. If it was a real emergency the support station might have already been destroyed.
The message repeated. It would continue to repeat until someone shut off the City transmitter.
The tractor bounced over the road splashing pools of standing water. His eyes stayed on the clouds.
What was going on in the orbits?
In the distant north, a section of cloud glowed for a moment then faded back to grey. He waited for the sound of thunder but it never came. Again the cloud grew bright and again it returned to stormy grey. He stopped the tractor and listened; wind whistled through leafless trees, the river rushed westward, he could hear the sounds of water dripping from the tractor down to the puddled roadway. A nearby grove of trees made their own noises but he did not hear thunder.
His communicator sounded again, this time it said, “Zack, can you hear me?” It was the City Clerk.
“Yes, I can hear you.”
A moment of crackling static preceded her voice. “Did you hear the alert?”
He said he did.
“They were right in the middle of another message when everything stopped. That’s when we got this microburst message. You know how it makes the computer buzz. Well, it did that a lot this time. We haven’t been able to raise them.”
It was those radar blips, the large ones, he just knew that’s what it was. Working in a support station was an unforgiving occupation. “Get out a general alert to everyone. There isn’t anything we can do except let everyone know what’s going on.”
He glanced to the north. The light in the clouds had begun to flash with a pulsing regularity. Suddenly he felt an urgent need to get moving. The tractor started easily and he was bouncing down the roadway again.
Zack brushed at the moisture on his face with a soggy sleeve. To the north the flashes had gained a definite regularity. They were almost mechanical; first there was a noiseless glow, a fade, then it started again. He could count by it; one, two, three, - once every two seconds about. The glow seemed to move back and forth across the valley sweeping in a line as if it were some monstrous pendulum.
The faithful tractor chugged along, splashing in the puddles and bouncing out of the potholes, and the road turned towards the river again, and into a grove of trees. The view to the north was blocked now, yet he continued to gaze in that direction. Just then the tractor bounced over a fallen tree branch, jarring him some, and he vowed to watch the road more closely. Up ahead the road cleared again.
Drizzling rain swirled in the unsteady breeze. A squall line to the north was moving in his direction. The fields were already saturated; water pooled in the long unplanted furrows and anymore rain would runoff to flood somewhere. But Zack could not take his eyes off the flashes in the sky to the north as they steadily rolled back and forth, east to west, across the valley sky. The lightning was coming closer and when he squinted he could see a sharp streak of lightning at the glow’s center. It was not exactly lightning, this was more of a straight-down spark – and he could hear something - a thumping.
He strained to look and listen. The road wound its way into another of the series of groves along the river road. Even with the sound of the tractor and the running river nearby he could hear a thump, a definite thump.
He knew this grove, it was a five-mile stretch from here to the farmhouse and he wanted to hurry but it was one speed or walk.
Zack timed the noise; once every two seconds – slightly faster - a definite rhythm.
He cleared the grove. He saw the glow in the cloud and the sharp stab of light reaching down to the ground, and a dull thump. Thump, thump, thump, thump. It moved off across the valley, stopped, then moved a notch closer and started back. Whump, whump, whump - gigantic footfalls marching back and forth. Something, someone, was shooting down into the valley floor. Why? Was this what happened to the support station? Whump, whump, whump, whump. Each bolt of lightning raised huge sprays of mud creating a track of very big craters. He could hardly believe what he saw.
A new row started. The clouds lit up and a bolt of lightning blasted a stand of trees, exploding them into small branches and twigs – sending them flying with mud in every direction. Suddenly the tractor’s speed was too slow. Zack looked down to the road and contemplated running instead of riding. But he knew that wouldn’t work. “Come on tractor,” he urged, “faster, faster.”
Bolts of lightning were striking a new course, this time it was his own fields. The bombardment relentlessly marched closer and the tractor seemed to move slower. He was still a long way from the farmhouse and home, and his joy.
Thumping turned into heavy ground shaking. Then there was a pause. The lightning moved to a new line and when the road jogged north a bit, he thought he could see straight down the new bombardment course. When the road turned south again he could see, with much relief, that it would miss the farmhouse – this time.
The farmhouse stood prominently at the summit of a knoll. As soon as it was in sight Zack leaned out from beneath the surrey top and began to shout. “Get out of the house!”
She did not come out.
Another line of destruction began. There was a terrible high-pitched whistle as each bolt was fired and just before it struck the ground. The crashing marched closer and debris exploded in the western sky. Closer and closer.
“Get away from the house! Get away from there!”
Closer, until he could see that it would miss the farmhouse again, but not by much.
She came out on the porch. The wind blew her apron strings and blond hair. She raised a hand and looked in his direction.
“Get away from the house!”
She just kept looking.
Thump, thump. A strike just a few hundred yards away formed a gigantic crater and mud rained down collapsing the surrey top. He struggled with it, ripping and tearing.
“Get away from there!”
The thumping paused but he knew where the next course would come. It was the worst possible thing that could happen. Zack screamed but she did not budge from the porch.
Thump, thump, thump!
The ground contact was out of his view but he could hear the thumping cadence. The farmhouse was right in the line of fire.
“Get away from there!”
Maybe it would straddle the house.
A blast hit the big river sending water and mud high up to rain down on the house. It would be the next one.
And it came quickly. The farmhouse disappeared in a wall of rising mud. Zack collapsed. The next thundering explosion rained water and mud down on him, covering the tractor and the roadway. And the tractor struggled as it slogged into a new layer of mud but it still made steady progress to the road’s end and the very large crater there.

[Gerald Lively]

                                                                CHAPTER  THIRTEEN


                                          March 2141 – Moonbase Orbits.


“This is Moonbase Traffic Control. Instructions for entering Moonbase traffic patterns are on 1533.10MC. Please listen to them carefully. You have ten minutes before entering traffic patterns. If you wish to avoid any Moonbase traffic pattern you are instructed to change course immediately to a heading of 180 degrees from mid-latitude-Moon.”
Tiny blips swarmed across the radar screen. A small smile crept up on Michelle’s lips – signs of prosperity, she mused - the number of local spacecraft had dramatically increased in recent times. 
“This is the Starship Congo relinquishing to FTA Traffic Control.”
“Turn oh seven oh starboard and down oh one oh.”
“Roger.” She made the maneuver. They appeared to be headed through the middle of the uncontrolled swarm of orbital spacecraft.
“Reduce all engines to hot neutral, pilot on thrusters to enclosure C5, acknowledge.”
“Roger to C5, going to hot neutral. --- We have hot neutral. Thrusters reversing.”
The orbiting carrier port loomed through the forward screens, filling their entire view. It was immense. Only a thin row of office lights across the very top and a single rectangular opening marked with flashing lights kept it from looking exactly like a massive solid wall of steel.
“Slow to 1,000FM.”
“Slowing to 1,000FM.” Thumping thrusters slowed them to a crawl.
“Slow to 300FM and follow the visual guidance – you are on your own, Congo.”
At “mid-floor” in the port slot, an intermittent arrow of light pointed inside. She took aim. “Retro-thrusters to 300FM.” The Congo seemed to nearly stop.
“Radar and shields down,” Chief reported.
“Communications to comm-link only,” Skip reported.
Murph peered through the port screen where the large open slot had begun to engulf them.
“Full stop in ten seconds.”
“Umbilicals and mooring coming down.”
The Congo glided into a forest of dangling lines and cables. Suddenly the cockpit instruments jumped back to life. “We have hook up, umbilicals attached.”
“All stop!”
As was the custom the cockpit crew stood, their job was finished for now.
“Anyone know how long we’re in for maintenance?” Chief asked.
Murph shook his head. “Don’t know. Could be a week, could be longer. As soon as I find out what the next mission is going to be we'll know.” He gave Chief a curious glance. “Why do you ask?”
Chief shrugged. “Might stay on Moonbase for a while, might not sign up for the next outing.”
Murph looked wounded. “What’s this all about?”
“I don’t know. Got an interest in a few things here on Moonbase, you know. I might want to stay and attend to affairs.”
“Attend to affairs?” Murph grappled with the idea of not having Chief around.
“Well, yeah,” Chief explained. “The FTA Board might send the Congo out on some boring run like taking colonists back and forth to Eden, or hauling supplies. Doesn’t sound like much fun.” He gave Murph a look, “But if you tell the FTA Board what you want, I’d bet that’s what you’d get.”
Murph shook his head in disagreement. “Can’t press those people. We agreed that the FTA wasn’t ours and we’d get no special favors from them.”
“But if you asked . . .”
Chief knew as well as he, that pushing the Board wasn’t going to happen. After all, Chief was one of the founding members too; he was there when they reached the Understanding of Fairness, as Michelle liked to call it.
“Just can’t do it,” Murph said.
“Humm,” Chief scratched his head. “Now, if you was a-going to dig out those Robot Guardians – you know, go out there and find them and all . . .”
Murph quickly glanced at Michelle, she had bit her lip and turned away from the discussion. “Well,” he said dropping his voice, “it’s a long shot but we may get that one.”
Chief perked up. “You gonna petition the Board?”
Murph fidgeted, “You’d sign up for that one, huh?”
“Betchyer ass I would.”
Murph was still wearing a frown. “It’s kind of a vague mission, you know. It’s not exactly a colony search, it doesn’t fit in with the FTA charter . . .” He was thinking of their Robot Guardian exploration years ago, “If we had that nav-system of theirs we’d know where they were headed. I could get a mission to go find ‘em if I had that.”
Michelle interrupted, “Murph, look at this.”
For just a moment he thought she was going to be angry about their discussion, but it was something else. She was indicating something on the carrier port’s short-range radar. “There are some distortions in the star patterns. There,” she pointed, “look at that.”
He and Chief nosed up to the screen. “I don’t see it,” Murph said.
Michelle put one finger on a blank spot among the scattered blips of local traffic and the superimposed star pattern. “There and there, two places now.”
“This isn’t our radar,” Murph said, “there’s no telling what’s going on with this equipment.”
“Better watch for a while,” Chief cautioned. He’d been through this before.
They watched for a minute, then two minutes – an occasional blip from a small orbit craft flitted across the distortions.
Chief stood, “I’ll see if we can get a visual of this sector.”
“Something is there . . .” Michelle mumbled.
Chief returned with an announcement, “I have it,” he said.
The real time visual took some sorting out at first and after a minute Chief said, “I’ve got it, it’s right there.” He moved a cursor arrow to point at something. The stars there were faintly different from the normal pattern; some might have been distorted to elongate, some were even missing.
“I don’t see it.” Murph edged closer.
“Space ship drivers never see anything,” Chief grumbled. “If they moved, you might see ‘em.”
One of them moved.
“I saw that.” Murph sat back. “Better go to yellow alert, we’ve got a Robot Guardian out there.”
“We can’t go chasing those things,” Michelle protested, “we’re inside the port.”
“I sure don’t want to get caught inside here if one of those things decides to take a few shots at something. They’d put a hole through the port, through us and out the other side.”
“I’ll get the FTA on line,” Chief volunteered.
             “Yeah,” Michelle said, “let the FTA go around chasing those things. We don’t have to do it?”
“Better make that a red alert,” Murph said. He turned to Chief, “Explain to those people what we have out there.” He looked at Michelle, “Nobody knows those Robot Guardians like we do. If the FTA sends someone to go chasing those things, they’ll get killed.”
“Muurph,” she whined.
He leaned closer to her. “What is the matter?”
Pleading eyes looked back at him. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel right about this.”
“Look,” he said as calmly and as comforting as he could, “someone will be recording all this. It’ll be a great training aid for the academy. Then, when someone comes up against one of these they’ll have a much better chance.” He reached out and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Come on now, I need a good pilot to get us out of this slot, how about it?”
She sighed heavily. “All right,” and took her position at the pilot console.
Chief had already called for a mooring and umbilical release and the slot gate was rising.
“Moorings clear.”
“We’re moving.”
“Give FTA Traffic the word, we’ll be out there on our own and tell them to get the orbits cleared out.”
“I told them,” Chief said, “but they’re all confused over there. They want to know what we see. They’re more mad than worried, I think.”
“Tell ‘em again. Those Robot Guardians will feast on small orbit craft if they don’t get out of the way.”
Traffic Control protested. They didn’t see anything.  What they understood was that the Congo wasn’t going to follow standard orbit flight procedures – and that was enough for them – they were clearing the orbits under a general alert.
“Shields up as soon as we are clear.” Murph turned, “What are those positions?”
The local traffic began to drop down, slowly – almost reluctantly.
“I have my best guess on screen,” Chief said. Two blinking cursors marked the positions; one forward of the Congo, one to the rear.
“Alright,” Murph said, “let us pinpoint them. Start the search with the one out front.”
“Commencing search.” Michelle began saturating the first sector with laser fire – and the first Robot Guardian was found quickly.
“The one behind us has dropped shields,” Chief said.
“Turn to face it.”
A blast from the alien splashed over the shields – then another before the Congo was finally in position.
“Give me the time since the last shot,” Murph called out. History had told them the Robot Guardian took thirty seconds between shots; very likely it was a recovery and reload procedure. For them it was a window of opportunity.
“Twenty-five, twenty-six . . .”
Boom!
“Lower shields and pick ‘em off.”
“Shields down and commencing fire.”
A slight ‘thunk’ marked the Congo’s rail gunfire. Yellow lightning from the rail gun battery converged on the black alien vessel and exploded it in a yellow-black plume of fire.
“Let’s get to the other one,” Murph said. The Congo turned back to the shielded alien. “Let him fire at us. Range as close as you can to the exact origin of the Robot Guardian’s point of fire. The idea is to disable it. We want to get inside that nav-control box of theirs.” He winked at Michelle. “Got it?”
They waited through five assaults before firing a single shot, then hit it on the first try. But Murph was taking no chances, “Take out the rear of the engine, I don’t want this one to get away.”
Michelle’s shot destroyed the rear of the fuselage.
The Robot Guardian angled towards them to expose a gaping hole ringed with a torn jagged edge framing the blackness of the interior. There was the long spindly tail and the flat black metal hull that Chief had described so accurately over Alpha Station. But this alien vessel was dead. Yet, it defiantly waited for them, daring the brave to venture out and climb inside. See for yourselves, it seemed to say, explore the mysteries inside and discover secrets; those who dare shall share. 
“Pressure suit check.”
The order Michelle heard jolted her to keen awareness. Someone down in the shuttle bay was tugging at things on Murph’s suit while he stood with both arms spread out. The crewman gave him a final slap on the shoulder, a signal that certified the suit’s readiness. Murph returned a thumbs up.
The monitor seemed tiny as she watched Murph take deliberate steps toward the explorer transport and place both hands on the canopy threshold to pull himself inside. She had never seen him move with such confidence in a pressure suit before. Quickly the canopy dropped into place.
“Shuttle bay decompression.”
There was the usual scramble for the elevator and the rise to the main level airlock. By now the big pumps had begun to evacuate the atmosphere in the shuttle bay saving it from being lost into the emptiness of space.
“Bay hatch is opening.”
The metallic transport glistened beneath the flooding lights as it raised up and turned to aim at the ever-widening port. There it hovered until the blackness of space dominated the monitor, then it sped outside and was gone from the screen.
“Shuttle bay hatch closing. We’ll hold decompression until they return,” Chief said.
“Get the visual on the overhead,” Michelle said. An overhead screen brightened. She reclined in the aft-bridge chair to watch.
“Retro-fire,” someone said and all the heads in the image jerked forward.
Chief said, “The FTA has a video crew out there on their own transport.”
Michelle turned to him. “What are they doing?”
“They’ll be transmitting their own visual. I think all of Moonbase will be watching; they’ll probably be sending a link-up down to Earthside too.”
She frowned.
“Hey,” Chief said, “this is a big event for them, it’s their first look at an alien.” He reached for the console, “I’ll put it up on screen for you.”
“Just make sure they stay out of the way.” Their own homegrown alien event, she mused, aliens in their own backyard – history in the making – why not have the world see what it takes?
Murph could be seen standing in the cockpit. He crouched then jumped to cover the distance to the alien craft. The cameraman followed close behind.
The FTA visual was through a long telescopic lens – there the exploration team was just disappearing inside the disabled alien craft.
Murph went straight to the floor panel where he applied a prying hand tool. He managed to lift one corner, another crewman lifted with him and together they tore it loose. The panel sprang dangerously up to the ceiling.
“You all right?” a voice asked.
“Fine, just startled.”
As expected, stairs led down to a lower level. Everything looked exactly the same as the other Robot Guardian they had boarded; all the conduits were there, the stairs and the rectangular box in mid-room. Someone pried at the latch. It came loose and they raised the lid. This time there was no smoke. Instead, there was a regular flashing of red light that reflected on all their facemasks.
The camera turned to focus on the clicking red numbers. The light from it was intense; everything was in shades of red. Recollections of Titan. Michelle squirmed uncomfortably.
Murph reached inside the box and tugged at something.
Michelle watched the ticking numbers. They counted down; click, click, one number, one second.
Murph pulled hard. She could hear his groaning effort but on the screen she could see not much more than Murph’s straining back. A red hue was everywhere.
Then Murph moved some and the numbers were there again. What was it Johansen had said about the numbers? She bolted upright and tripped a toggle switch. “Abandon the alien vessel now? The device in the box is a self-destruct mechanism!”
Murph stood. “You hear that? Someone on the Congo thinks this is a bomb.”
“Hurry!” She shouted.
“Let’s get moving, no harm in waiting.” And they lined up to trudge back up the stairs.
“Move, move, hurry!” she screamed.
They seemed in slow motion as they climbed the stairs into better light. The cameraman was the last to reach the main deck. He was aiming the camera at the transport just as there was a sharp screeching noise – and the Congo’s visual went blank.
The FTA visual showed a huge black and yellow bloom of explosion and fire, and it had completely engulfed the alien and the transport.
Michelle was frozen in place.
The blast evaporated quickly leaving behind only the familiar pattern of stars and not a trace of anything else.
 




 

[Gerald Lively]

                                                     CHAPTER  FOURTEEN


                                 Ten Years Later – March 2151 – Moonbase.


(Moonbase Daily News – Book Review. Subject Publication: Asleep at the Showdown – Timothy Ryman – 1215 pages.)
On November 22, 2150, the densely trafficked orbits of the Moon became the stage for a surprise attack upon objects in the orbits and installations on the Moon. Although the actual identity of the assailants remains a mystery, even to this late date, that fact is not the subject of Ryman’s work nor was it the focus of the public outcry immediately following the attack itself. Ryman’s Asleep at the Showdown is a prodigious analysis of the F.T.A.  Security Force’s state of preparedness.
Last November’s surprise attack wasn’t the first alien incursion into the orbit space over Moonbase; readers will likely recall the events of ten years ago when an alien encounter resulted in the death of Murph Santorini, former Earth orbit salvager and co-founder of the Free Trade Association and one of the true, but rare, heroes in these modern times. November’s surprise attack was not the secretive hit and run assault of the Robot Guardians from a decade past; these were different in both its gargantuan scope and purpose. From the first moment when the Security Forces on a perimeter satellite station sighted the four monstrous spacecraft, the alien’s intentions were clear; this was to be a crippling mass destruction.
Ryman does make a comparison between the Doomsday Attack and the lesser events of ten years ago; and while they are interesting, they are not especially useful. Although controversial, many agree that the smaller Robot Guardian vessels of the Santorini days were not associated with the events of last November. The Robot Guardian’s contribution to all of this was a precise notice that we are not alone. Ten years ago we had our noses bloodied and we should have learned something of value. Ryman believes we were lucky.
Considerable of Ryman’s work is focused on the Jacobsen Commission’s findings published in a monolithic 322 volume 400,000 page set that, Ryman suggests, boils down to nothing of substance. Still, an intensely interested public is supporting improvements in Moonbase security, and the Jacobsen Commission’s sponsoring consortium of Earthside nations will likely support those changes regardless of criticism about a return to militarism.
Already Ryman’s Asleep at the Showdown has made the best seller list. We believe it is required reading for anyone interested in a balanced perspective on these historical events.
With Ryman’s consent, we offer several excerpts from the transcript portions of his book. No doubt these will impart a flavoring of Asleep at the Showdown. We give the publication four stars.

The first transcript segment deals with the FTA Security Forces’ operations in the distant early warning network of satellites circling both the planet Earth and the Moon. Recently, the Satellite Manufacturing Corporation’s Research and Development Division equipped each of the early warning satellites with new long-range detection equipment called LRU units. These have a reported ability to detect objects as small as ten feet long from a distance of 900,000 miles, and possible at a greater distance. Spokesmen for the Security Forces have said these units were experimental and as long as they were so classified they would not be operational on a twenty-four hour basis. When the Jacobsen Commission discovered that the LRU’s were shutdown during the initial phases of the Doomsday Attack, Security Force Chief, General Harold Smith cited the LRU’s experimental classification as the reason for the lack of vigilance during those critical early hours.
Ryman has come up with an interview that might give the reader a different perspective than that offered by General Smith. In a summary of the account given by Private Charles Sikes stationed in the perimeter satellite system on S115, the satellite closest to the initial point of contact, we see a dramatic and almost intentional lack of vigilance. Read and judge for yourself. Should we believe General Smith’s characterization of events or was there real nonfeasance among those responsible few on duty in the perimeter satellite system?

(Ed note: Moonbase perimeter early warning satellite S115 – Private Sikes interview recalling the events of 22Nov2150/am. Excerpts).
“. . . and they would take fifty or sixty of us into the comm-center and they would explain the operation of the LRU. We all knew this stuff anyway. I told Sarge once that I had all this back at the Academy but he told me to forget everything they taught me. It didn’t apply here, he said. Now that didn’t make any sense at all. Why would the Academy go through all that time and expense to teach us something only to have some dumbo Sarge tell us to forget all that training? Well, they have us all in this big crowd, you see, trying to teach us their way. You can barely hear anything and you sure can’t get close enough to an LRU to operate anything. Even at the Academy I logged in time on the darn thing – not here.”
“Well, I wasn’t getting anything out of these group lectures and instead of listening to what they were saying, I was back there trying to figure some way to get time on that machine. Yeah, I know Sarge said to leave it alone, but Sarge didn’t know how to operate the thing anyway. Here was the deal; he didn’t want some private learning the system faster than he could.”
“My plan was to get outta the sack early before they turned the lights on.”
“. . . that’s right, they only operate the comm-center in two shifts. At midnight zulu they shutdown and nothing comes back up until 0800. That means nobody is on watch. . .”
“. . . I grabbed some clothes and went out in the corridor to dress, didn’t want to wake anybody up, you know. After I got my pants on I ran barefooted to the comm-center. It was dark in there. I turned on the bank of lights at the rear of the comm-center. That was all I needed ‘cause the LRU is up against the wall there. Besides, I didn’t want anyone out in the hallway to see the light.”
“If you’ve ever seen one of those LRU’s you’d know it’s a long sucker. It might be fifteen feet across the back of the comm-center and it has a sliding chair system set in a rail so the operator can slide back and forth, you see, looking at this and that. Anyway, I turned the CRT on and waited a few minutes before I checked the display. The darn thing was pointed to Earth. Now why would anyone do that? You get nothing but a blank screen when you do that because the entire scope is filled out with planet. So I turned it around.”
“That takes some doing. But I did it. See, you gotta bring around all the antennae and calibrate ‘em to face the exact same point. We usually focus on some star. Why they pointed the thing to Earth I’ll never know. Betcha they thought it was broke . . .”
“I found some local traffic and ran up some displays out of Traffic Control’s transponder files. Got stuff in there like flight plans, ship specs, engine types, armament and things like that. I ran up some graphics too and checked all this against flight plans – it was kinda fun.”
“ . . . and I was still at mid-range, so I turned up the heat and went to long-range. That’s when I found out the antennae was out of whack. I ran this diagnostic, see. It tells you about antennae calibration for long-range then it sets up a sync program for the remainder of the unit. After you’ve got the antennae right, the rest of it almost falls into place. Sure works pretty when it’s right . . .”
“I recalibrated, anyway, and ran another diagnostic to make sure I had it right – then I set it for max-range. In the sectors I was looking at, nothing was there. I didn’t see a thing. I set a broad sweep and picked up a few parked carriers. There was some character zooming around over there, going in and out between carriers. I wonder, sometimes, if people really understand how dangerous that is.”
“. . . the broad scan shortens the range. I know that. After a while I narrowed the sweep and punched it up to max again. I was just fooling around. I had a ten degree scan and was out there ‘bout 700,000 miles, maybe as much as three-quarters of a mil. Can’t sweep too fast at that range so I set it real slow. For a long time I didn’t get anything. After a while I set the coverage on computer and let it do all the work. I just watched at that point.”
(Ed. Note: The computer coverage system activates a recording system, so a record exists of Private Sikes observations.)
“Then at 48 degrees above the orb-plane in sector 42G, the LRU picked something up. The sweep flashed right over it the first time and I had a hell of a time trying to get it back. But I did it. The blip was vague, class D image I think, but it was big. I think the antennae still needed more work. That LRU ought to go out twice as far as I had it. Well, I punched up a graphic but the computer couldn’t come up with much – the graphic looked like a long box. Real soon after that three of ‘em were on the scope.”
“. . . the graphic cleared up. I remember saying, “Holy Cow”, over and over when I saw those twenty decks and that long flat platform they were built on. Just one of those is about twice the size of a Congo class starship. They didn’t seem to have a hull; they were just decks built on engine driven sleds. Kind of reminded me of those old pictures of a paddle-wheeled riverboat. The specs I had, set it at around 300,000 tons earth-weight. I watched ‘em for a few minutes trying to figure out what to do. Remember now, I wasn’t supposed to be in that comm-center so if I told Sarge I’d be in big trouble. But if I didn’t tell someone and these things turned out to be some sort of trouble – oh boy, I hate to even think about it. Of course, you know what I decided to do – I woke Sarge up. I set the LRU on tracking mode and went to get him.”
“Sarge gave me all sorts of hell for waking him up. But he really cut loose when he heard I had been in the comm-center. He told me to go back there and shut everything down and forget it.”
“When I got back to the comm-center, these things were in retro-fire. Well, I couldn’t just walk away; I had to let someone know. That’s when I came up with this idea about notifying the FTA Traffic Control Division over at Moonbase. These big spacecraft were still 400,000 miles out and Traffic would be picking them up real soon anyway, provided I told them where to look. I figured Traffic would be watching them after I told ‘em and I’d be back in the sack asleep, so Sarge couldn’t come back on me if something bad happened.”
“Well, I did that and all hell broke loose ‘cause Traffic Control immediately jumped to a red alert and you know that rings alarms all over the station. And that brought Sarge a-running.”
“Sarge was madder’n hell. He ordered me out of the comm-center just as the OD came running in. The OD wanted to know what I was doing so I explained everything all over again about what I saw on the LRU. Sarge was fuming but the OD told him to shutup. Then the OD asked me why I hadn’t told anyone and I said I did. Then he chewed on Sarge for a while.”

(Ed Note: Mr. Ray Rasmussen was one of hundreds of colonial aspirant who chose to remain on Moonbase as an excavator. He participated in the construction of every district since District Four. The pressures of a growing permanent and a transient population processing their way to Eden has kept industrious citizens like Mr. Rasmussen busy and living a comfortable life. Mr. Rasmussen survived the Doomsday Attack but was trapped for 34 days inside the collapsed District 12. 1216 survived in District 12, another 6,313 perished there.)

“I was having morning coffee. Usually I have one cup each morning, you understand, too many cups does funny things to me. On this particular morning I was up and around early. No reason for it, I just get up early sometimes. It’s a good time of the day for looking at things. Sometimes I just sit there drinking my coffee and look out the window and think.”
“I remember the sun was coming through the space frame. The air out in the District was heavy, like yesterday’s smoke or something like that. Maybe it was those people down on level 38, they have parties every night, you know. I’ve been down there to see what goes on. They try to entice you to go inside but I never go inside. I hear they have naked girls dancing in there. Can you imagine?”
“. . . I was nursing my cup of coffee. It was about 0610 if I remember it right. That’s when I saw some people running around shouting and waving their arms in the air. Of course I couldn’t hear them, being inside and all. At first I thought there had been an accident. One man would stop and talk to people and then go running off again. It seemed curious but I didn’t think about it too much. Sometimes you get crazy people like that.”
“After that I thought I felt an earthquake. It was low and rumbling. I’ve heard those before. I come from California and they had some hum-dingers before I left.”
“. . . rumbling would stop, then start again. It wasn’t an earthquake, though; this was like a small rumble, stop, rumble again. Over and over it went. Besides, I knew they didn’t have quakes on the Moon. I decided to turn on the vid and see if the news had anything to say about it.”
“The first thing I heard was something about unidentified spacecraft. The rumbling got louder about then and I could feel it good. But there wasn’t anything I could do so I just watched the news. The announcer was saying something like, several unidentified spacecraft were overhead and we have reports of heavy weapons fire.”
“This is all very interesting so I decide to have another cup of coffee. My kitchen has a window looking out on the District and I could see more people running everywhere by now. Some of them seemed to be screaming but I couldn’t hear. It was odd, I felt like I was missing out on something. The newsman said there were space ships shooting down on the Moon but they hadn’t shown any pictures of that. By then I didn’t know what to believe. Anyway, it wasn’t enough of a reason to go around screaming.”
“After a while the news people got something. You could see lasers firing those blue streaks like they do. I didn’t know at first what they were shooting at but it was exciting. It wasn’t too long before I could make out a large ship going away from the video screen and all the time this big ship was shooting downward with big balls of flame.”
“The news guy said some of the Districts were hit. He didn’t say much more than that but I knew any shot from above had to first hit the space frames and that meant decompression. A lot of people were going to die. District 12 was one of the best equipped Districts, you know, each residence has an air containment system just in case of emergencies like this.”
“About this time I went to the windows again and just as I got there something came crashing through the space frame. It was hard to see anything in the bright light but I could make out the glass falling part way down before getting sucked back up and outside. I could see people too; they were all flying up and outside too. I guess they’re dead by now.”
“I pushed my emergency containment system button and the metal doors started closing. I wouldn’t be able to see anything outside anymore but I still had the vid to watch and the news was still on. I remember thinking about how slow those closures work.”
“The news showed another spacecraft. I think this was a different one. It flew straight over the carrier port up in the orbit shooting at everything. Metal and things were flying everywhere and that ship came real close. It wasn’t long before they showed a couple of Congo class starships coming out of their slots, the one on the top took a terrible beating from those white balls of fire. The other one took off and I don’t know what happened after that.”

   (Ed Note: November 22, 2150 was a Sunday and few were about the upper floors of the carrier port where the executive offices of the FTA are located. One person who was there at that time was Janice Gilchrist, an executive with the FTA Logistics Division.
Ms Gilchrist’s office is unique in that it faces away from the Moon and Earth out into open space – and as it turned out – into the teeth of the Doomsday Attack. Here is a portion of her interview.)

“I will go to my office whenever the feeling strikes me. Sometimes this is in the middle of the night so my presence there on a Sunday morning was not unusual. On the prior evening I had been attending a social function. It was an event put on by the Traffic Control Division. You can imagine why I was there; we need close ties with these people. In fact, I often wonder why we have not consolidated into a single division. Certainly there are efficiencies to be gained. Unfortunately I do not make those decisions."
“In my division we have an organization climber who thinks the way to the top is through the use of sex. Well, he has been stalking me, so to speak. The problem is, he’s as handsome as the devil himself. But I overheard him saying once, that all women executives were as cold as fish. That wrankled me. After a few drinks and not with good judgement I decided to teach this twerp a lesson. Let me just say that he wasn’t as good as he led people to believe. He’s probably suffering from nervous exhaustion about now. By the time he shows up for work he’ll find he’s been transferred and that ought to take care of that nagging little problem. By the way, is this for the record or are we . . .”
“I was almost finished when I heard this rumbling and felt several small vibrations. I first looked down at the slots. I could see that most of them were flashing alarms. A few of them had started to open. It was about then that I felt a sense of urgency - but I really thought the trouble was down in the slots somewhere.”
“Off in the distance I could see a pair of ships I did not recognize. I know every ship there is, or thought so. I’ve never seen spacecraft like these. I stood there kind of frozen. They were large, very large. One was in low orbit but another one was coming right at us, and he was firing. And he was finding targets and hitting them.”
“It may seem odd but it hadn’t occurred to me that these were alien spacecraft. I wasn’t thinking about where they came from or anything like that, I was trying to figure out why they were shooting at the carrier port.”
“. . . these ships had a lot of fire power and a huge amount of it was committed to the surface. It was easy to see the particle beams lashing down to Moonbase City. It was then that I decided I wasn’t going to stand around and watch everything I’d worked for go up in flames. It didn’t matter who was shooting at us; I was going to do something about it.”
“Down the hall from my office, there is a sign on the wall. I hardly ever paid much attention to it. It read, “Laser Battery”. I had absolutely no idea why it was there. But I decided to use it. When I got there the door was locked. I found a chair, and as unbelievable as it sounds, I started to pound the door and the lock with the chair. You should have seen this, an executive of the FTA busting up furniture while trying to destroy a door.”
“Eventually the door opened and some stairs inside led up to a small hatch. Inside of that was a Plexiglas bubble with a seat in the middle of the thing. I climbed into the seat and found the activate button. When I flipped that on, the hatch sealed. Apparently it is a design consideration that’s supposed to protect the defense system even if the port facility itself is heavily damaged. I was feeling trapped in there.”
“. . . I’ve never fired a weapon before. It turned out to be quit easy; just aim and push the button.”
“At first I fired randomly at the big ships. I was trying to hit something, anything would do. When I was firing about twenty or thirty lasers fired at once. It’s a great feeling of power. I rather liked it, I’m afraid.”
“Later, I began to select targets like engines and the inside of their exhausts after they passed overhead. I really couldn’t tell if I did any good.”
“. . . managed to get shots off in two passes by the aliens, most of the time they were seriously out of range. It was twelve hours before someone came and rescued me and the very first place I went was to the ladies room."
(Ed note: Video records document Janice Gilchrist’s defense of the Carrier Port. Her’s was the only weapons fire from the entire facility and many credit her with drawing fire from the escaping starships, including the Congo, during those first vulnerable minutes. To many, this experience pointed up the necessity of having FTA Security Force personnel on duty at strategic locations at all times rather than depend on civilians to man weapon stations – although Janice Gilchrist’s defense of the carrier port might not have been surpassed by even the most highly trained.)

(Ed note: During November 2150, Chim DeSoto was a maintenance crew chief assigned to the carrier port. At the time of the Doomsday Attack, he and his crew were conducting a hull integrity test on the Congo, a procedure that takes place before replacement of the photovoltaic film. The Congo, which sat idle without serious maintenance for the ten years since Murph Santorini’s death, was undergoing a complete refit and systems upgrade.)

“Fifteen of us were on the back end of a shift in the C5 slot working on the Congo. The old ship was in great shape. It’s not one of those tin cans we see on some carrier conversions, the Congo is tough. Built to last, that one.”
“I had guys spread out all over the topside doing hull work. It’s a messy job. First you peel off the old solar generator material clear down to the metal, then you sand blast it with something soft so you don’t take any metal off, then you coat it with carbon black. And let me tell you, that stuff gets everywhere. A good pressure suit will last you only a month in that sort of work.”
“. . . sandblast it again. Then you heat the hull with those lights they have up there and run those infrared robot cameras over it. If there is any kind of a crack, no matter how small, that thing picks it up. But let me tell you, that old Congo was in perfect shape. Whoever built that ship knew what they were doing.”
“Each of us was tethered from a mooring line and crawling around on our hands and knees followin’ one of those infra-red crawlers listening for the beeps those things make. All I could hear was those guys gruntin’ and groanin’ over the comm-link. Sometimes I think they over-do it. We were working in one-tenth gravity, that isn’t a heck of a lot of strain, you know.”
“Well, I heard one of the guys say something like, “What was that?” and I look around like everybody else but there’s nothing to see. I didn’t hear anything because the guys kept on talking. We went back to work. After a while someone said the slot doors were starting to open at both ends. Now, you know they don’t do that except in emergencies. I got scared about that time.”
“Right away I could feel the Congo vibrate under my hands and feet – then I could see we were moving. Everyone started cutting mooring lines and the equipment started dragging. I found a place to hook up a safety line because I didn’t know what was gonna happen. Some of us disconnected a few of the umbilicals but we didn’t get all of them. The old Congo just broke through and headed out. That Congo is one tough ship. Some of this dragging equipment caught Chuck and he had a hell of a time getting loose.”
“So the Congo pulls out of the slot and I tell the guys to get flat on their backs because whoever is flying the Congo might turn on the shields and we only have three or four feet of clearance when they do that. I’d sure hate to see someone get cut in half just because they were standing up for a better look. It wasn’t long before another starship above us was pulling out. It must have been in C1 or C2. It was all clean and shiny black, a real smooth looking job.” (Ed note: DeSoto was describing the starship Tokyo clearing from slot C2.)
“It was creepy hanging on the outside of a spacecraft when it decides to take off. The guys were yelling and cussin’, but they were hanging on.”
“. . . gigantic ship up there, like I had never seen before. It was passing overhead. Now the Congo hasn’t turned on it’s shields yet because it was still half inside the slot and you’ve got to have a mile clearance all around. Anyway, this big alien ship was pounding that starship above us. Down orbit I see another alien ship. I think that one already made a pass over us.”
“This alien is still hammering the starship above us. The starship is beginning to fade, sinking down towards us and I’m starting to think we’ve seen the last of this old world. Whoever’s running the Congo, though, had a different idea and suddenly we’re outta there.”
“This big alien ship was weird. It had fifteen or twenty decks on it and no hull that I could see, just a skid plate on the bottom. It had lotsa stuff on it; pipes, tanks, struts and passageways, if there was anybody on it they had to be inside some airtight compartment and I didn’t see one.”
“I’m hanging on for dear life when the Congo starts firing at the alien and I’m hoping they don’t fire back. I’m praying they don’t fire back. But we hammer that alien, tore it up. The guys are hootin’ and hollerin’ like they was watching football. I think the person flying the Congo knows what they’re doing.”
“The alien didn’t seem to have any fire power straight up, just down and around, and we stay above them. That alien took some heavy damage. We could see the alien sinking down to the surface but we never did see where it crashed ‘cause we were off chasing another one by that time. After a while you kind of get used to riding the hull. It was a great ride on a great ship.”
(Ed note: Niki Chong was on the bridge of the Congo to survey the equipment layout in preparation for his bid to redesign the bridge instrumentation. It was Niki Chong who piloted the Congo through the battle, an extraordinary fete since Mr. Chong had never flown a spacecraft until that time.)

“I was honored by the opportunity to work on the original starship, the prototype of all starships. Such an opportunity may never happen again in my lifetime. . . I was sitting in the Captain's position on the forward bridge and I had been there for more than one hour. It was the feel of the bridge I sought; I just wanted to absorb it all. It had the same sensation as going to church, you know, the Congo’s bridge almost compels one to whisper. There is something there; it is as if every little part of it is alive and aware. One never feels alone there.”
“Absolutely everything on that vessel is worth studying. One cannot help wonder how those salvagers put all this together. I doubt any ship has ever been built as well.”
“I was aware of the maintenance crew outside on the hull. They were involved in the laborious process of replacing the photovoltaic skin. It seemed a sacrilege to witness this. They were laying the emperor naked for everyone to witness.”
“I was listening to a communication specialist talk about the bridge equipment. He did go on a bit. I am certain he was trying to be helpful and I did listen to him. But he made me tired.”
“As you know, I was sitting in the Captain’s chair and the Congo was still connected by umbilical to the Carrier Port’s detection system. The chair was one of those old acceleration chairs of the type used on orb-salvagers. This one is a marvelous old chair, I don’t think they make them exactly like that anymore.”
“After a time, I noticed the status board light up with a flashing red signal. It was calling for the Captain. It was as simple as that. No bells or sirens, just a quiet little signal. Since I wasn’t the Captain, I did not respond. The sign seemed persistent, however, and I began to think it would do no harm if I found out what the reason for the status board alarm might be. After all, the Congo had been in port for years and it was curious for the operations computer to suddenly call for the Captain – was it not? And I was aware that there is currently no Captain of the Congo. So I pressed the button and the forward screen warned of an attack. I did not know what to do next. Then I thought of the Communications Specialist who was there. I instructed him to contact Traffic Control and find out what this was about.”
“He did not take it very well when I said an attack was about to occur and I had my doubts as well. He seemed confused, maybe even a bit in a panic but he did talk to Traffic Control and all they could say was that something was out there and it was shooting at the Moon’s surface and the Carrier Port too. They advised all starships to evacuate the port.”
“All we really knew was that something was going on outside and that Traffic Control had advised we get outside. I did not know if the Congo was flight ready nor did I know the status of its defense systems. It was then that I called for an operational status report. There was fuel on board. There was nothing amiss with the flight portions of the Congo’s operational systems. There were some alarming deficiencies in the eco-system, probably due to inactivity.”
“. . . could see the slot doors opening and I began thruster movement immediately. As we were clearing the slot we could see flashing bursts in the darkness outside and I wondered what we might be getting into. But we proceeded. Outside I could see another starship directly above us, I think it was the Tokyo. Above all of us was a rather large alien vessel which was engaged in heavy weapons fire against the starship above.”
“I firmly believe it was that starship above us that kept us from harm’s way.”
“Out ahead, I saw a large multi-decked alien craft moving away from us. We achieved hot neutral and I could not wait any longer, surely we would have been struck by weapons fire had we delayed. So I accelerated at the risk of burning out the contents of slot C5. We were moving at one G, I think – I really do not recall how much acceleration there was. We operated manually and my concentration was on the alien ahead of us.”
“. . . I gave chase to the lead ship; the other was still near the Carrier Port. The lead ship seemed to concentrate its fire downward and was using a heavy barrage technique of one large volley every two seconds. I maneuvered to get above it and the alien didn’t seem to notice at first.”
“I was not familiar with the Congo’s weapon systems but it has a great operations computer system. All I had to do was activate the weapons system of choice and the computer laid out the array status on a forward screen. I called for it to range on a specific target and fire until the target was destroyed . . . and it did all the work for me. I simply keyed in the instructions and the computer did the work. Anyone could have done it.”
“The alien was taking some terrible hits but it kept right on firing. Then it tilted up to bring its portside weapons into play against us. We went to shield protection but the alien began to fade to the surface. We fended off a few shots. There was no damage.”
“Then we continued in our orbit until we came around again. We were able to identify another target; it was in very low orbit and way out ahead of us. I think they were after surface facilities. The alien was laying out a very efficient bombardment pattern across the District complex. We took a number of long-range shots at them and we clearly hit the alien although I could not tell what damage we might have inflicted. We continued in this manner until the alien broke off the bombardment pattern. It tried to escape. We could see that the alien had engine problems judging by the way flame spewed from at least one of the engines. We were reluctant to give chase since neither of us aboard the Congo had ever flown a spacecraft before this time. Had I been more certain of myself I might have done that. I hope I will be forgiven by those . . .”
“We knew there was another alien involved in the attack and we did search for him but I am afraid it too escaped us.”

(Ed note: There has been considerable public attention on the FTA Security Force’s operational policies since the publication of Asleep at the Showdown and well there should be. 23,112 people lost their lives in the attack, most being civilians residing in the four destroyed Districts. Also lost were fifteen carriers, nine private craft and the starship Tokyo. During the attack, the FTA Security Forces did not fire a single shot in defense of Moonbase or the orbits.
Ryman does make a number of recommendations. The most significant of these are: the installation of a protective shield around the Carrier Port, the requirement that at least one starship be on patrol in the Moonbase orbits, that the Carrier Port be equipped with particle beam weaponry and staffed at all times by trained personnel, that all District space frames be protected by shielding systems, and that the early warning satellite network be operated full time around the clock.
Not all agree with these recommendations, however. The fringe group, Earth Society for the Preservation of the Human Race (ESP) claimed that the Doomsday Attack was caused by the FTA’s aggressive expansionistic policies and has demanded an immediate reversal of colonial programs. The ESP, through leaflets distributed on Moonbase, promotes the belief that the human race will come to an end at the hands of a parent planet desiring to discipline their errant offsprings on Earth and on the Moon – and presumably on Eden too.
Our only comment is that a diverse population makes for interesting times. Fringe group or not, read Timothy Ryman’s Asleep at the Showdown.

[Gerald Lively]

                                                                  CHAPTER  FIFTEEN


                                                            October 2151 – Moonbase.


“How many are there?” The big Samoan’s dark deep-set eyes swept the crowd. “How about it, little guy, how many people do you see?”
Jason eyed the crowd carefully. He knew Samson well enough to take a moment to think whenever he was confronted with a sudden proposition from the big man. But it was a regular crowd out in front of the turnstiles; he couldn’t see anything much different than it ever was. Close in where the gatekeepers were, the people were packed tightly together, further back the density lessened. And as always the regular pedestrian traffic made an accurate estimate impossible to verify. This was bound to end up in an argument. He gave the Samoan a sideways glance, “Why do you wanna know?”
Piercing eyes glared down at him. “I’ll bet there are more than five hundred.”
Jason attempted to duplicate Samson’s ferocious intensity, something that no one else would dare try without risk to limb and life. Samson stood at least six foot ten inches above the heels of his boots – but that was only a guess; he never permitted anyone to measure him nor would he consent to weighting. Such insights into his physical specifications were considered personal. Jason estimated him at three hundred lean pounds. But height and weight aren’t everything; those dark and frightening eyes glared from a Maori decorated face of scars and tattoos that swirled up from a pronounced chin to bloom uniformly across both cheeks, then up to his temples and around to meet at mid-forehead in a way that made him appear ferocious even when he laughed. Jason had always insisted that Samson’s ferocity was a cultivated image. He was really a pleasant guy. Nobody believed him.
Jason glanced out over the crowd again. “What’s the bet?”
“You bet there is less than five hundred and when you loose, you buy the beer all night long.”
A squad of ticket-takers approached the turnstiles and the already crushing mob of colonists compressed forward. Near the front, dozens of waving arms holding white boarding passes tried to gain immediate attention.
“How are you gonna verify the numbers?” Jason asked.
Samson growled in a deep rumble. “What’s it gonna be, bet or no bet?”
“Crowd control policy only lets in five hundred per wave, you know that. Why bet there is less than five hundred? Someone always sneaks in.”
“Bet or no bet!”
“No fair,” Jason shook his head, “you drink more’n me. If I loose I have to buy more extra beer than you would.”
Samson rumbled. “You don’t wanna bet. You little guys are all the same, never take a chance. Little chickens.”
Many of the colonists struggled up to the turnstiles. It seemed needless to Jason; the turnstiles could handle just so many and the spacecraft wasn’t going to leave without them. Why hurry? It had to be the nature of things; people were always in a hurry. Jason shrugged to himself as he watched a man pass through the turnstile and race up the almost empty concourse and around the corner. “Let’s go get that beer.”
“You first, little chicken.”
“No, you go first.” They had to wade through the mob; it was best if Samson went ahead.
One colonist after another turned to protest the sudden shove from behind only to confront a set of glowering eyes towering from far above. Miraculously the crowd parted. With a gleeful grin, Jason followed close behind. At the double doors beneath the Trader’s Saloon sign, Jason turned to wave but the response wasn’t a wave, it was only one fingered salutes.
The inside was a large rustic wood-toned room with an unpretentious bar running the length of the back wall. Booths graced either end of a large open room. A door behind the bar led to an unseen room, tables and chairs filled out the open areas. It was nothing fancy but it had that booze-soaked quality that the professional trader seemed to favor.
Jason sat at a table in the middle of the room. Samson stood glaring at each person he could make eye contact with.
“Samson, damn it, why do you do that?” Jason yanked hard at Samson’s sleeve. “Why do you have to gobble up every ego you can find when we come in here? Some day these people are gonna gang up on us and we’ll have to find another watering hole. Sit down.”
Samson sat down. “Just wanted to see who was here.” He had that unmistakable glimmer of mischievousness in his eyes.
“Hello, big boy.” It was a nasally female voice. She had walked up to the table virtually unseen, and she showed a toothy smile and big jiggling breasts.
Jason was about to order but she hadn’t noticed him.
Samson stared unabashedly into her ample cleavage. She shimmied for him. Samson moved closer.
“What’ll it be, big boy? Better make it good ‘cause if I have to come back here again, I might drag you behind the bar so you can help yourself to whatever you like.” She cocked a hip at Samson.
“Gimme a beer.” Jason sighed deeply.
“Yeah, beer,” rumbled Samson.
“He means a pitcher, something big.”
“He likes ‘em big, huh.” She took a slow deep breath before going for the beer. When she returned there was another round of heavy breathing and jiggling.
A tall man arrived at the same time as the beer. Jason half stood. Samson didn’t.
“Word has it you two want to get out of the freighter business.” Chuck was his name. He brushed back a mustache and his eyes darted from Jason to Samson and back.
Jason hoisted his fresh beer, took a long pull from it then wiped the white foam from his face. “You doing brokerage work now?”
He gave them a nod. “If you want to peddle that freighter of yours, I’m your man. That’s why I’m here isn’t it?”
It was true, Jason had left word at the FTA offices that he might have business for an old friend, but he hadn’t expected so swift a response. He left the FTA offices only an hour ago.
“If you sell that freighter, I guess that’s what it is, what are you going to fly?” Chuck asked, hinting at a two-ended deal.
Samson glared. Jason motioned for him to take another drink of beer – which he did. “What we have for sale is a carrier converted to freighter uses. It isn’t some beat-up tin can. Don’t play down my end of any deal before we’ve even started.”
“Okay, what is it you want?”
Samson banged the empty pitcher down hard. He opened his mouth to let out a long waist-reducing belch. The jiggling barmaid made an appearance with another pitcher.
“Tell me what’s available?”
“Not much. What do you want, I’ll shake a tree or two and see what falls out?”
Already it was a standoff. Jason decided to try the direct approach. “We want a Congo class starship.”
Chuck’s hands slipped from the table and fell into his lap. He looked squarely at Jason. “Assuming I could put something together, what kind of money are we talking about? Starships do not come cheap.”
Jason fidgeted. “You tell us how much its worth. We have a carrier that is in good shape and we have some cash. Our record will qualify us for a starship license, what else do we need?”
“What plans do you have for a starship, provided I can find one?”
There were fifty-four starships in existence, anywhere. Maybe ten of them are around Moonbase in maintenance at the Carrier Port or parked somewhere. Three or four might actually be out exploring for a new E type planet or moon and the rest were somewhere between here and Eden. Availability was going to be a problem; that’s why they needed Chuck.
“We have the certificates, we’ll apply to the FTA when the time comes.”
Chuck shrugged. “It might help to know if I’m expected to deal with a questioning starship owner. Congo class starships aren’t just waiting around for someone to buy them, you know.”
Jason fiddled with his beer glass. “Well, if you can’t make the deal we’ll just have to find someone who can.”
“You don’t give me much to work with.”
Jason leaned on the table. “This is a straight forward deal, nothing complicated about it. We have cash and if it’s in the cards, we have a carrier available for trade. If we keep the carrier, we’ll contract it out. If you make this deal you won’t have to sell a thing for at least another decade.” Jason relaxed back in the chair. “You’d better work fast, after today everybody on Moonbase that thinks they have a line on a starship will be out there looking for us. You’ve got at least a half-day head start on the pack. Better get moving.”
Chuck pushed himself back from the table, thought for a second, then was on his feet. “See you later,” he said.
Jason hoisted his glass, “Just like that,” and he drained the contents. He gazed at Samson, “Shoulda bet you on that crowd estimate, I feel lucky.”
                                                       *    *    *
The mirror told the story. The evening at the Trader’s Saloon had been long and rowdy, and his nights sleep had been far too short. He ran both hands back through his hair before pressing one finger against the bags under both eyes. Jason groaned. He remembered that once Samson found his rhythm with the pitchers of beer, there was no stopping. It was all Samson’s fault.
Jason cinched his belt and zipped the front of the jumpsuit. “Where are we going?” His head throbbed and no one answered. He negotiated his way out the door.
Samson looked the same, stoic. He showed no ill effects from the evening’s celebration.
Chuck wasn’t concerned with how they felt; he herded them onto a tram, told them to find a place to sit and said little else.
Jason had no energy for protest. He didn’t know where they were taking him and he did not care. He just sought the most comfortable position possible and closed his eyes. And he dozed. One time he woke when the tram jostled them and he looked around to find nothing familiar and noted that he still felt terrible. Then he closed his eyes again.
Someone shook his shoulder and he groaned. He woke to find a set of elevator doors in front of him and Samson nudged him inside. It was a short ride up. As the doors opened Jason asked, “Anyone wanna tell me where we are? Did I do something last night that you guys won’t talk about?”
A pair of security guards approached them. Samson rumbled something in a low snarl and the guards retreated. Chuck pushed through a set of doors emblazoned with gold lettering identifying the location, “Free Trade Association – Headquarters,” it said. The security guards trailed them inside.
“You guys got me up at this ungodly hour, shove me inside a transport and march me into the FTA headquarters – and you won’t talk to me, what is going on?”
“Look,” Chuck turned to him, “the ungodly hour you’re talking about is noon and we are here to talk about starships. Okay?”
“Alright, alright, you don’t have to get excited about it.” Jason stumbled up to the receptionist’s desk and waited behind everyone else. “Are we here to talk about some deal?” He whispered. Now he regretted not shaving before they left.
“I don’t know,” Chuck answered.
With large blue eyes, the receptionist looked up at Samson. She was having trouble speaking. Chuck passed her a card that she took with out a glance and shoved it into a reader slot. Their appointment was confirmed. She directed them down the hall.
“Maybe it’s a license thing,” Jason mumbled, “maybe I rubbed somebody wrong and they called in my papers.”
“The party just wants to talk with you.” Chuck tried to sound reassuring. “Hang in there. All you have to do is talk for a while, you can handle that, can’t you?”
“Doesn’t sound like a deal in the making to me,” Jason grumbled.
Small eye-level signs labeled every door; Training, Logistics, Maintenance, Research and Development . . . “What are we doing here?” he whispered.
Chuck stopped before an opaque glass door. There was no sign on this one. Jason could see his own reflection and judged himself as looking very bad, just a couple of steps from the grave. He combed his hair with a handful of fingers but his hair refused to behave.
“The outer office is in here,” Chuck said. “When we go in, I’ll handle everything.”
“Okay buddy.” Jason sucked in his stomach. “I’m ready.”
Samson rumbled something.
It was a very large office, almost as large as the main room at the Trader’s Saloon. Across what seemed to be acres of grey carpet, a stern and much-wrinkled secretary eyed them with undisguised disapproval. As Chuck started towards her she pointed, without word, to the inner office door. Samson glared in her direction and she nervously grinned back.
A woman in an ill-fitting business suit greeted them. “Gentlemen, please sit down and make yourselves comfortable.”
Jason eyed a chair with obvious glee. Nothing sounded better, right now, than a comfortable chair.
“It is my understanding that two of you wish to acquire a starship, is that correct?” She was standing in front of a desk, leaning on it as she appraised them.
 Jason focused on her. She was one of those ageless women, the kind that could be twenty or forty, and she had smooth pale skin on a pleasant face framed by dark brown hair pulled tightly back in a single braid. It was the clothes that didn’t fit in, Jason decided, they were out of place on her.
Her gaze went to him. “You’re Jason Click, is that correct?”
His stomach did a flip-flop. “Yes ma’am, I’m the one,” he stammered.
With fluid grace she moved behind the desk and gazed into a live terminal filled with data, then she looked at Samson. “You’re Samson Hiva, then.”
Samson did not move.
“You two have quite a history.”
“You can’t believe all that stuff,” Jason blurted, “let me explain . . .”
She held up a hand to stop him.
“We are licensed to operate any carrier or starship,” Samson said. “We have as good a record as any.” That was as much explanation as Jason had ever heard Samson give.
“Yes, I can see that,” she said and suddenly she acquired a thoughtful look, stood and came around from behind the desk. “What do you plan to do with a starship?” She folded her arms and looked at him.
She was wasting herself in here, Jason mused. She was familiar to him although he was quite certain he’d never been in the FTA Headquarters offices before. All his business with the FTA was down in the hub sub-offices. Maybe it was deja vu or maybe his hangover was fogging his memory. “Samson and I have been working the freight business between here and Eden until we got bleary-eyed. After this last trip we sat down and counted our bucks and decided we had enough to do something better. We want a little adventure, maybe some exploration under a FTA charter. That would do it. It sounded great to us.”
“Exploration, huh.” She was nodding her head like she understood.
“Yeah, there has to be more to life than back and forth to Eden.” Yeah, Jason decided, she was definitely familiar. Maybe he’d run into her at the Trader’s Saloon one night. Maybe she was down there slumming. Jason wrinkled a brow in his best rakish expression. “Maybe you ought to try a little adventure.”
Chuck winced.
 Samson elbowed him hard.
She smiled very large, “Yes, I could use a little adventure.”
“It might turn you into a new woman. Nothing like the experience of the unknown,” Jason said, pleased with his new approach.
Samson slugged him hard. This time pain shot through his shoulder.
But the woman ignored it. “Let us suppose a starship is available, Mr. Click, what sort of contract do you anticipate with the FTA?”
Jason made a guess; the FTA wanted to find out his intentions before any purchase of a starship took place. If that was the case, he might as well lay it on. “Specialized crew fresh from the Academy, some veterans of course, royalties on any colonist moving to an E type planet we have discovered plus a finders fee for the planet itself, upgrades and refits at FTA expense whenever we call at Moonbase, refueling and maintenance too. We will deliver location data, exploration findings, video records of exploration, and all the scientific data the ship can deliver. The crew signs for the duration, at least 1,500 hundred of them, families and concessionaires are okay, the FTA handles base pay, we’ll share in royalties.”
“Why the large crew?”
“We may be out there for a long time so we’ll want craftsmen, artisans, business people, all the things it takes to make the ship a working community. We don’t need a lot of homesick crewmembers. We want life aboard to be well-round and interesting.”
His ideas cause her to pause. “Well thought out, Mr. Click.”
He hadn’t thought about it at all, it just rolled off his tongue.
“How much are you offering to pay for a starship?” she asked.
“Well,” she caught him by surprise, “that depends on a lot of things such as which starship we are talking about and what sort of shape it is in – and if there is a FTA contract in the future.”
She studied him closely and seemed to consider his comments carefully. But she did not respond, instead she returned to her terminal.
“What is that?” Jason asked trying to angle a look at the screen.
“It is your background record, Mr. Click.”
Suddenly he remembered every questionable act he’d ever committed.
“It says here you are a womanizer and you often take short cuts in procedures. That would seem to indicate a tendency towards impatience.”
“Well, all of that wasn’t my fault. It has to say I’m capable, innovative and qualified.”
“Yes, it says that much.” She was looking squarely at him with unblinking brown eyes. “Tell me about this cargo of women you were caught with on M515.”
Chuck groaned, he wanted to be somewhere else.
“Ah, well,” Jason stammered, “we were, ah, just responding to the demands of the market, you see. That’s what those engineers said they wanted. We even signed a contract with ‘em. Your record there should say we brought ‘em back to Moonbase, right? No harm, no foul.” He gave a toothy grin.
She gently nodded. “What kind of bridge crew do you have in mind?”
“Bridge crew?” Again she surprised him. “Three at the most for the command crew, a lot more on the aft-bridge.”
She turned to Samson. “What role do you play on the bridge?”
“I fulfill the needs of the moment but I prefer operations and weapons,” he answered.
“There are procedures for the operation of a starship, Mr. Click, are you aware of those?”
His head swirled in a jumble of thought. These unending questions had begun to sound like a license hearing instead of a negotiation. Possibly he was missing something; after all he was awake, this wasn’t a dream. He was sure of it. “With all due respect for your responsibilities here at the FTA, whatever they are, this starship we want is for exploration into places humans have never been. That requires flexibility. Everyone on my bridge will know everyone else’s job. Academy procedures are fine for regular flights but they require more people on the bridge than I want. The last thing I’d need is to be tripping over someone at a critical moment. Experience tells me what to do, not regulations.”
“You don’t think much of Academy training, do you Mr. Click?”
“It’s essential stuff and it has its place. They teach theory and basic operations but that is only half of what you need.” Jason gazed downward, whatever they were here for, he was sure he had ruined their chances at it. “Some of those people teaching over at the Academy have never been off the Moon, most never flew anything bigger than a kite.”
“So you have ideas of your own.” She placed both hands under her chin and rested. “Well, Mr. Click, I don’t believe there are any starships on the market at this time.”
Jason was puzzled. Why had they been put through this grilling?
“But I have a deal for you.”
He perked up.
“I have the Congo and you may have a partnership in her at no cost to you, but that comes with a condition.”
“The Congo?” He slumped back into his chair. “Whaa,” it didn’t come out right, “What condition is that?”
“You must sign me on as your third bridge commander, as pilot, for an indefinite tour. I come with the starship. Where it goes, I go. I will be your equal partner but you will command the Congo.”
“Who are you?”
“Michelle Santorini, I thought you knew.”
                                                       *    *    *
Quiet fell over the briefing room. The SatMan official searched the small group for comments.
Jason had not been listening. He stared out through the window into the floodlighted C5 slot at the glistening black-jacketed Congo. Light could be seen through transparent panels in several places on the ship. They were too distant to discern any detail but he imagined there were people looking out of them. His eyes wandered over the sleek lines, over the gleaming black photovoltaic hull up to the towering engine cowlings and around the huge perimeter where he could almost see the airlocks and the people working on the outside there. The starship was immense. He could never tire of looking at it even though it was identical to the exterior of his freighter. There was history in this starship.
“Click!” A voice boomed into his woolgathering.
Samson was his caller. But it was the SatMan instructor who wore the expectant face. He wanted something from him. “Summarize please,” Jason said.
The Instructor sighed, “The FTA is providing a crew of 1,600. With families and others, you will have about 3,500 aboard. Your crew was selected from approximately 20,000 applicants all wishing to log time aboard the Congo. I believe you have the best of the crop. The bridge, I believe, is to your specifications, although it is not much different than the Chong design. I think you will find many innovations there.”
“Can we go now?” Jason asked. The Instructor looked disturbed. Jason might have hurt the man’s pride. “There is much we have to do,” Jason added.
“Certainly. In three days the entire ship’s complement will be aboard. You may depart at any time after that.”
“Good.” Jason jumped to his feet. “No more briefings?”
“Sir, we have completed all necessary briefings.”
“Good.” He trailed Samson out the door leaving the SatMan official standing in the middle of a semi-circle of empty chairs.
Michelle asked him in a quiet voice, “How did you like the meeting?”
“Yuck!” He responded. It struck him then, how different she looked in a standard flight-jumpsuit. It fit snugger for one thing, and he liked that. She seemed more buoyant and alive, although she still commanded his respect and certainly his awe. He was beginning to feel more comfortable around her.
“File a flight plane yet?” she asked.
“Yep, did it this morning.”
“Well?”
He was puzzled, what did she want? “Well, what?”
“Where are we going?”
“Oh that. We think the Wolf 359 system is a good prospect.”
She stopped dead in her tracks. “Why that system?”
Again he was puzzled. “Just threw a dart and that’s what we got. Is there a problem?”
She started walking again, “No, just old memories. I’ll have to get used to things I haven’t thought about for a long time.”
His instinct told him not to pry. They walked together in silence – to the gangway and onto the Congo.
                                                     *    *    *
“Contact at 190,000 miles, dead ahead.”
Jason rolled the creaking acceleration chair back several feet. “What is it?”
“Spacecraft.”
“Bring up a graphic, let’s have a look at it.” It took several long minutes of work before a swirling assortment of lines settled into a familiar pattern. It was a long multi-decked alien spacecraft. “I don’t know how we have such luck,” Jason said, “we come out of a jump for a navigation check and we get a big surprise.”
Samson ignored him. “185,000 clicks and closing.”
“ETA?”
“Twelve minutes. We’ll pass within 10,000 miles on our present course,” Michelle said.
Jason glanced at the graphic, then the radar blip; what the alien was doing out here alone and traveling at this low velocity? But the answer wasn’t on any screen. “Better go to red alert,” he said.
A rasping horn sounded somewhere in the distance. It gave three short bursts. In his minds eye Jason could see hundreds of Academy trained rookies scrambling to their alert stations. No doubt they were moving quickly, as rookies usually did.
“What is the alien’s condition?”
Samson said, “We know it is moving at a low velocity but we see no sign of damage. They may have engine trouble.”
Jason rolled the graphic. “Close in on it, get up next to it and run a parallel course. Match its speed and stay above it.” Lessons from the Doomsday Attack; he wasn’t there for the attack but he’d seen enough videos of it to last a lifetime. The graphic didn’t tell him much. “That damn ship doesn’t have a hull, you couldn’t see damage on that thing even if we blew a hole clear through it.”
“All alert stations have reported, we are battle ready,” Samson reported.
Armament estimates scrolled up a screen; heavy siege-type particle beam weapons all on the lower decks, eight batteries of the big weapons on each side of the ship, sixteen lighter particle beam defensive weapons on each side of the ship but nothing topside – nothing that they detected.
“Message for the science team,” Samson said.
“What is it?”
The report came over the bridge speakers. “The alien’s present course could take them to any of three star systems: Lalande 21185, Wolf 359 or Giclas 51-15. A small course change could put them in the Procyon system. Wolf 359 is the nearest system. They could reach it in twenty-four years at their present velocity.”
“How long to the other systems?”
“A couple more years to reach the Lalande system, the Giclas system is thirty years away – and this assumes a straight line course.”
“And you backtracked to a point of origin?”
“Yes sir. 402 days out of Moonbase.”
It sounded incredible; a stop for a nav-check out in the middle of nowhere and they have a Doomsday alien fresh from the battle right next to them. Jason could hardly believe it. He checked the radar; it was there alright. “Anything else in the vicinity?”
Michelle said, “Two sweeps at max says they’re all alone.”
Jason rocked back. “Alright, what're gonna do about these guys? That thing out there is a big siege weapon, bombardment capable and it doesn’t maneuver well. Chong shot one down by staying on top of it. What else do we know?”
“It can take a lot of damage,” Samson said. “Chong said he hit one from long distance and nothing happened. Any ordinary ship would have disintegrated under the firepower he was laying down.”
“I remember something about these aliens turning on their sides to cope with targets above them,” Michelle offered. “The FTA had some reports that it was these aliens who bombarded Eden about ten years ago.”
“They get around,” Jason muttered.
“Approaching alien position.”
“Turn a portside profile to them and bring all portside weapons to active status.” Jason paused, there was nothing more to do until they caught up with the alien. But he checked his board again; all portside weapons were ready, they had position on the alien, they were running with shields up, and be patient.
Michelle struggled to concentrate. Sweat beaded up on her forehead and recollections of her last encounter with an alien spacecraft were vivid at this moment. For all these years she hid behind the daily grind of office work-a-day but hiding hadn’t proved to be an answer. Her private demons were out there, still haunting her dreams, still waiting. Find them, she told herself, confront them and be done with it. Now, one of them was out there, right beside them, waiting.
“Open communications with the alien,” Jason said.
Michelle growled, “We should be shooting at them.”
“Come on, get ‘em on the horn.” Jason felt confusion and dismay.
She complied.
It was easy to see the outgoing transmission on the spectrum scanner, and it was easy to see the lack of response. They waited an appropriate length of time.
“We have tried all the usual frequencies and the normal comm-link channels, there is no response,” she said.
“Could be there is no one alive on that ship.” Was that possible? Jason mulled the idea over; there had been no communication response, no defensive maneuvering, no visual light signals, and no real sign of life. The craft was simply cruising at less than half light-speed. “Get us a little closer.”
Michelle took a deep breath. “Closing distance and pulling along side.”
Jason searched the graphic for the location of a bridge, if it was there it was unidentifiable as a bridge.
“The alien is engaging starboard thrusters,” Samson reported. With surprising agility the big ship began to roll – and it rolled until its underside was turned to them.
 “Someone is on board and they know we are here,” Jason said.
“Still no communications response,” Michelle reported. Anxiety was creeping into her voice. Everyone knew what it meant when these alien ships turned on their sides.
“Range all weapons on their propulsion system. Make sure we have . . .” Before he could finish, the first volley from the alien thundered against their shields. The crash felt like giant fists against the hull. Jason had to grab the arms of the acceleration chair for support. “Power up!” he shouted. “Get us outta here!”
Michelle struggled at the controls, the thunderbolts crashed repeatedly against the shields. But with the manual thruster control at maximum, the Congo finally jumped clear of the barrage.
“Let’s bring ourselves around,” Jason ordered. A head-on approach would position them for a maximum firepower opportunity. He meant to make the alien suffer for his own mistake; he had delayed, he gave the alien an opportunity. “Any weapon fire from the alien?”
“Not in our direction.”
“Drop shields and hit them with all available particle beam batteries. Thirty seconds of fire then raise shields.”
Even as the alien ship absorbed the Congo’s barrage, it continued to roll. The alien was making itself a difficult target but the Congo pounded the alien’s mid-section. The Congo flew by, then turned for another assault. The alien kept up a steady but random lashing of fire.
Samson did not let up. On the second pass debris from the alien vessel began to fly out into the surrounding space. The alien weapons fire dwindled. Samson kept up a punishing barrage.
“Cease fire,” Jason called out. “You’re gonna cut ‘em in half.”
Long rows of weapon status indicators became steady green in the “active ready” condition. Samson turned to them. “I want to break him up.”
The alien craft had been reduced to a black-sooted mass of twisted metal. Sputtering yellow exhaust flame was all that remained of a massive drive system. The alien siege vessel had become a derelict.
“We have an incoming signal,” Michelle announced with surprise.
“Let’s hear it,” Jason said.
Samson snarled.
Then, in everyday standard English, the voice said, “This is the Captain of the Stalwart calling the predator black ship.”
“I am the Captain of the Congo.”
“You have been successful in disabling my vessel. We are now entitled to rescue.” The voice was demanding in tone.
Samson said, “I would not object if you left them where they are.”
Michelle spoke. “Destroy them. Do not bring them here.”
“These aliens,” Jason pleaded for understanding, “they speak plain English. Doesn’t that inspire any sort of curiosity around here?”
                                                       *    *    *
Samson maneuvered the transport over the heavily damaged starboard side. A suitable landing area was beginning to prove illusive – and the alien Captain had proved to be of no assistance. There was no time to inspect the craft, the alien had claimed. Samson suspected he had no inclination to inspect the ship, either. Who needed prisoners?
Torn twisted metal was everywhere. Much of it protruded dangerously into possible landing sites. After several passes over the starboard side no acceptable landing point was located – Samson flew over the alien ship to the port side. Had it been anything but a rescue he could have tethered the transport; in any case a landing area of some sort had to be found. And just as it seemed there would be no landing point he found a small opening in a forward quarter section. There, the deck was heavily warped but the real damage was immediately below where a huge hole had been blasted far into the interior of the ship leaving a very large black cavity surrounded by twisted wreckage.
“We are going to land there?” one of his rescue team asked.
 Samson ignored the question.
The crewman leaned forward from the back seat. “We can’t land there, it’s too small.”
He snarled and the crewman retreated to the comm-link, “We will be landing on the portside in the forward quarter section. Has the alien Captain given us any information on the location of the bridge?”
“It is in the nose of the ship, that’s all he says. Proceed with caution.”
“Should have left ‘em.” Samson slid the transport neatly into the opening. A large continuous bulkhead seemed to surround the landing area. Access to the ship’s interior would be difficult. But when the canopy raised the team quickly moved out. Samson circled to the right, climbed a railing to a catwalk and found an intersection up ahead. Once there he had the choice of three directions. He chose to go toward the interior of the ship. The crew hastily followed him down the shadowy passageway until confronted with a crosswalk. Samson went left towards the bow. Several times the route seemed to vanish in the blackness. Always they found a way through. Sometimes it was the damage that made the way difficult, sometimes it was just a confusion of bulkheads and railings, twice it was a locked door. Never did they find a way “inside”; the vacuum of space was constantly with then – until they came to a bulkhead running the width of the ship.
 Samson searched the wall with a handheld light; up high at first, then leaning over a catwalk rail and down on the levels below. What they were searching for turned out to be only a few steps away in deep shadow; a small recessed door equipped with a spoked wheel locking mechanism. Samson grasped it with both hands and with a mighty twist rotated the stubborn wheel until the hatch popped open. A short corridor inside led to another hatch. A crewman struggled to close the first door. Samson opened the inside hatch. The crewman barely managed to close the outer hatch in time.
Inside, a lighted passageway led to a flight of stairs. Samson bounded up to the top, stopped and removed his helmet.
It was a wide narrow room. A transparency ran the full width of the upper half of the forward wall above a confusion of consoles and instruments. Located behind the console were several fixed sitting positions. Two more chairs, mounted on high pedestals, were in the middle of the room. More instruments surrounded a tactical table, but no aliens were anywhere in their vision.
Samson moved to one of the mid-room chairs. Several headsets dangled from above as well as several helmets and breathing equipment. There were two rows of switches on the low ceiling; all were labeled with unfamiliar symbols. Samson picked up a module with a number of buttons on it. Slowly he turned it over in his hand.
From the shadows at the far end of the room, two figures stepped into the faint light. Each of them stood about six feet tall and was similarly garbed in a thick black leather-like material. Small overlapping silvery metal plates, each several inches long and reminiscent of old armor plating, formed a pattern that ran from shoulder to shoulder.
Samson approached them. At first it was their long dark hair and dark faces he noticed, then it was their hands, which they held out with palms up. The gesture was clear, they carried no weapons.
Samson motioned for them to stand apart. Each took one step sideways. Both glared at him. He returned it with a ferocious sneer. Neither uttered a sound and neither took their eyes from him.
“Which of you is the Captain?” Samson asked.
Neither responded.
Samson moved to one of the mid-room chairs then motioned for the two crewmen to search them for weapons.
“No weapons on either of them,” they reported.
Samson stepped in front of the alien with the fewest metal plates on his chest. He flipped several of them. Then he proceeded to crack his knuckles – and fear registered on the alien face.
“I said, which of you is the Captain?”
One alien made an almost undetectable nod to his companion.
“You!” Samson growled at the one with the most metal plates. “Where is the remainder of the crew for this miserable ship?”
Both looked straight ahead.
“Well, I suppose there is no need for a crew on this garbage scow of a spacecraft.” Samson gave them one more hard look. “Get them inside some pressure suits.”
Despite much coaxing neither alien moved to don a suit.
Samson was standing in front of them now. “Enough of this. We’ve tried to help, we’ve cooperated but you have not. So you stay right here.” He turned to his own crew, “Get your helmets on,” and he moved to the inside hatch, which he opened. Then he removed his laser pistol and cut a line across the door seal. He examined the finger-sized notch, grunted satisfaction and moved to the outer hatch and began to turn the wheel. A glance back revealed that both aliens were struggling to get into the unfamiliar pressure suits and helmets.
He paused, then opened the hatch and walked through. He didn’t bother closing it.
                                                                *    *    *
“Two minutes to recompression.”
Samson drummed his fingers and glared at the alien Captain. They waited. Samson could feel the deep drone of the Congo’s primary engines, they were moving again. Then there were green lights all around and he reached for the canopy release. Just as he pulled it the comm-link came on.
“Samson,” it said, “just thought you might like to know – the alien vessel exploded – it was a big one. You got away just in time.”
He stood in the cockpit, reached down to the Captain’s chest and gripped a handful of material, and with one hand lifted him off his feet. The alien pulled at Samson’s wrist to no avail. The Samoan’s iron grip held fast. He shook the alien hard then held him high outside the transport above the landing platform. Then he released him – and the alien dropped to the platform below.
A small crowd gathered.
Samson leaned out of the transport, “Shoulda left you on that junk ship of yours.”

[Gerald Lively]

                                                       CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 


                                                              Planet Eden.


Janice Gilchrist leaned against the transport canopy. Far below the river tributary flowed in gentle sweeps, snaking across the plain, ducking in and out of small clumps of trees and finally disappearing into a large grove at mid-valley where it joined the big central river flowing south. She recalled that the tributary ran through the Holyfield land grant and that the famous river road ran next to it. But the transport flew to high for them to see it. Yet, it was easy for her to create an image of the river road in her mind; she could even imagine Zack Holyfield down there bouncing along on his fancifully decorated tractor.
The transport gracefully swooped down low over the broad smooth flow of the central valley river where a jungle of trees choked the banks of the river and extended in heavy forest, both east and west, up to the cultivated fields. From there, farmland covered the entire territory of the valley in a patchwork of crops right up to the foothills.
The flight was scheduled to proceed down the river to the delta and the bay, then return. The air tour was customary and obligatory for new governors; she only had to be patient and the ritual would end soon enough. Once per governor, she’d never have to do it again.
When was it, she mused, ten, eleven years ago, when Zack Holyfield made that fateful journey over the river road? It was ten years ago, she decided. It didn’t seem like ten years ago. That was a huge event for Eden. Zack had exportable commodity production up and running in his very first year. Then the alien bombardment and Zack disappeared, and so did Eden’s export production. Farmers became subsistence oriented. There was plenty of food around but no one wanted to export anything. The bombardment had its effect on Eden’s mindset.
Like everyone else, she wondered what happened to Zack. There was the bombardment, some radio communications, then a final message. He said he’d had enough and explained it no further. No one has seen him since – not to leave Eden or anywhere else.
As human nature often provides, Zack became a folk hero. Frequent Zack sightings were reported - Zack on another farm, Zack on Earth, Zack working in Eden City. Her favorite is the story where the bombardment aliens send down a transport and spirit Zack away but they give him one last communication opportunity. He was the head of government at the time; what better way to disrupt a colony than to kidnap the government?
Whatever Zack’s fate, he left very big shoes to fill.
The pilot circled a puffy cloud formation and swung eastward. Farmland turned into                               
rolling foothills that spread eastward for miles. A man could hide in that wilderness forever, Janice told herself. They turned towards the delta and the bay.
“Governor, there are land grants further south extending another four hundred miles along the river. The farms below go all the way up to the foothills back there.” He pointed to where they had just flown. “Across the river, to the west, some of the parcels are still unclaimed. It’s good soil there, I suppose they are still available because it’s hard to get over there. Maybe we need a bridge across the river.” Already someone was promoting a pet project.
The transport circled over the delta changing to a heading back to Eden City.
Okay, she told herself, sum up what you have seen. Farming on Eden was extensive but it was the only industry and it was located in a single valley. The remainder of Eden remained untouched. And the only city was Eden City. The bombardment frightened Eden City off Zack’s Mountain to reestablish itself in an underground location inside Zack’s Mountain. Not very much else had changed since Zack’s time.
The long sloping plateau of Zack’s Mountain was in sight now and the pilot angled for the broad runway running east to west. The nose of the transport dipped, and for a time she thought the pilot had aimed too steeply. Yet, they touched down smoothly. Then the flight was over. She gingerly stepped down the portable stairway, eager to reach the ground. It was as if she needed to escape the ritual flight.
At a glance she located the terminal building only a short distance away, the only building on the plateau. Once there she could be governor again instead of tourist.  She turned to the pilot, “Good flight,” she said loudly, and left him standing at the top of the rolling staircase. She marched off to the terminal.
It was a stoutly built but unpretentious building just large enough to house an elevator complex that carried both freight and people. She liked the building; it was functional. Inside she searched for an open elevator from among the dozens of elevators. Some colonists lingered in the lobby undecided about where in the city they were going. But she resolutely stepped into the first set of open doors and rode down. When the doors reopened, all were greeted by a sweeping vista of the southern green valley through gigantic windows running hundreds of feet along a broad corridor. Arriving colonists would walk up to the windows and stand until they had absorbed the view. This was one way of distinguishing colonists from long-time citizens, according to some – immigrants gawked, citizens walked.
Janice skirted the crowds to find the government offices. Inside, the atmosphere was hushed. Another set of large windows ran along the mountain’s western edge, sometimes passing beneath broad frothy waterfalls. The effect inside the offices was a calming one.
Janice turned to go inside the office of “Commerce Director”. She had met him on her first day as governor. He was one of those career public servants that every governor inherited – an employee who found government work a security blanket rather than a profession. His resume claimed government work experience for twenty-six years beginning in the old SatMan organization. If she hadn’t started there herself she might have written SatMan experience off as a negative.
He rose to his feet when she entered. He was short, average looking with silver grey hair contrasting with a dark brown mustache. Office rumors had it that he occasionally boasted as being a key player in the SatMan transaction involving the carrier that eventually became the Starship Congo. At other times he flat out claimed it was his signature that enabled that original salvage contract. A preposterous claim, she calculated. But she resolved to ask old Sam Yamato about it the next time they met. Sam, she reflected, was probably doing what he always did, sitting at his desk with his feet up trying to get an ulcer over something insignificant. The thought brought a smile to her face, the first of the day.
“Listen Gene,” she said, “I’ve looked over these files,” she waved a handful of paper, “and they all tell me the same thing; we’re producing more farm product than we’re shipping. And we're capable of producing much, much more. We're accumulating a large surplus.”
“We don’t have control over shipping. There isn’t anything I can do about that. The answer is in packaging. If everything is packaged here, it’ll last forever.”
“So what do we do with this packaged surplus?”
“Store it.”
“So, if we should never get more carriers than we get now this surplus of packaged food grows larger and larger. When do farmers get their money for all this? When do we get our tax revenue?”
“We buy it all from the farms now, so all of it is ours.”
“You don’t seem to understand, Eden doesn’t have an infinite supply of money to spend on farm surpluses. The secret is to sell the stuff so we can all get paid.”
Gene looked hurt. “What is it you want from me?”
She showed no mercy. “I want solutions. Recommend some solutions.”
Gene made a show of shuffling through some notes. He had spent two years concentrating on the intricacies of packaging and storage. It seemed like an answer. “To ship commodities we need carriers and we do not own any. Otherwise we are dependent on the FTA for getting contract carriers to us.”
“Right, and why don’t we have any carriers of our own?”
“That requires a licensed pilot and no one in the employ of Eden government has a license.”
“What about the citizens of this planet, any of them qualify for a license?”
“They’re all farmers.”
They were getting no where. “You are the Commerce Director and I expect recommendations from you on this. Commerce is not limited to a single product. Ask yourself, what else can we do? Figure that one out and we’ll talk about potential markets.”
“You’re talking about rethinking the entire Eden economy.”
“If that’s what it takes.” She knew this was sending shock waves through his thinking. “I want to develop the capabilities we already have, maximize agriculture, but I want to do other things too. And start thinking about how the FTA fleet fits into all this. Look at everything and if you have an idea that might work, we’ll try it. Lets get this economy clicking.”
“But that isn’t my job. Why not try Research and Development or the Economic Director?”
“Your job is what I tell you it is.”
                                                      *    *    *
The seat belt snapped solidly into a locking position. She tugged at the heavy straps and found them secure, then reminded herself to relax. Shuttling in a tug was not her most favorite thing to do; in fact anything that removed her feet from the ground was disorienting. It had been that way since the Doomsday Attack; an unexpected consequence of the event and it was a continual trouble to her.
The tug pilot worked his way down a checklist that slowly scrolled up a small screen. Outside a small tractor maneuvered the tug-transport into position at the head of the skyrail.  When the entirety of the skyrail came into view she knew they were in alignment. And there it was, she could see the long run to the hills and the swoop up into the blue sky, and infinity beyond.
Janice checked her safety harness again. A clunking sound caused her to stop and listen. A slight rocking meant they were mounting the track – her anxiety rose. Something made a whirring noise and she gripped her chair tightly.
 “Ignition!” the pilot called out and the whirring stopped, replaced by an explosive roar. This was the worst part, the run up the rail and the jump into nothingness.
“Lift!” There was no sensation of lifting, this was only a signal to activate the super-conductive rail, and by now the tug was floating a frictionless miniscule of an inch above each rail.
“Test . . . secured!”
She closed both eyes.
“Release!”
The pilot gave a thumbs up and the thunderous roar grew louder. Crushing pressure rolled her acceleration chair back on its track burying her deep into the cushion. When her eyes opened the end of the track was just running out  – and she held her breath waiting for the drop – which never came. Ten long minutes of acceleration put them into the upper atmosphere and the roar of the engine lessened. In another ninety minutes they would dock.
“Station one, we have orbit.” The pilot keyed in more flight data.
“Roger, one orbit to docking.”
They pushed into higher orbit. The pilot stayed busy seeming to push an endless number of buttons, twisting of knobs and flipping of switches, and constantly studying a list of changing numbers on a small LCD. Finally the support station loomed up ahead. At first there was the big antennae array then the big grey superstructure jutting up into space.
Docking was a clunk, some hissing and a few flashing lights. Without delay the station’s airlock closed behind them. With surprising speed the tug’s broad side doors opened and most passengers moved quickly out onto the docking platform. Janice waited for the aisles to clear then made her way to the platform, to the elevators and up to the  “Eden Government Offices”. This wasn't the ground she was standing on but it would do.
“Governor,” said the young man at the reception desk.
She walked passed him after issuing a nod then proceeded directly to the office of the Export Director. Inside she abruptly asked, “When is it supposed to get here?”
The Director quietly closed the door behind her. “It is in retro-fire now.” She was nervous, he could see that much. “Stop worrying, the operation has begun and everything is covered.”
“Your end of it, perhaps.” The Export Director gave the impression of self-confidence. It might have been the way he meticulously dressed in sharply pressed one-piece jumpsuits, or it could be his slow calculating manner. Or it was all of these. Whatever it was, he never rattled under pressure. “What’s the next step?” she asked.
He walked up next to a vid-screen with a brightly colored rendition of the Eden orbit traffic patterns on it. “The carrier is right here,” he pointed at something that seemed very far out in space. “It will enter a standard orbit here and after a half revolution, we’ll have a half-dozen transports around it and we’ll board her. That’s all there is to it.”
She was worried. This was a gamble – but she had to get something started. Let the FTA rant and fume, let them threaten, then, when they’ve run out of bark she can make her argument and this time they’ll listen. Sam Yamato always said, “Never negotiate unless you have the hammer in your hand”. And that was what she was going after, the hammer.
“Don’t mess this up,” she said.
He held out both hands as if to calm her emotions. “Everything is under control.”
That’s what she expected him to say. “I’ll be down the hall,” she said and turned for the door.
Her secretary saw her coming from a long way down the hall. By the time she arrived in the outer office everything would be the picture of efficiency. They were faking it; she knew that. But it didn’t matter, now. Later, they will be genuinely swamped with work; how they performed then was what counted.
“Get Jamison in here,” she barked, passing through the outer office. By the time she organized her desk, the Chief Economist was standing in the doorway.
He grinned in her direction. “My we look cheerless this morning.”
“Close the door!”
Jamison reached behind and gently closed the door.
“Within the hour we’ll have the carrier.” She fumbled with a keyboard in an attempt to bring up the same orbit traffic display she’d seen earlier.
“You know, of course, but one carrier is hardly enough. You need a fleet of them, twenty in transit at any time might do it.”
“There aren’t twenty out there, there is only one.” She glanced up at him. “There’ll be more.”
“You have something else up your sleeve, don’t you? As soon as the FTA hears about your pirating they won’t permit anymore flights.”
She hated behaving like some maniacally rebellious head of state but the FTA had closed all her options. Time and time again she communicated Eden’s shipping needs to them, including Eden’s need to expand into other economic pursuits. She knew, and so did the FTA, that if all else failed, Earthside nations could retool their agricultural efforts and go to hydroponics instead of buying Eden's commodities. That would put Eden out of business. Even during her campaign she complained about it. But the FTA turned a deaf ear to her. If the FTA shipping continued at the present low rate, Earthside nations might just start to consider options. Why the FTA didn't listen, this she did not understand? They had to be made to listen.
“Look,” she said in a moment of defensiveness, “Eden controls the planet surface but everything from the ground up belongs to the FTA. They have the transport fleet, the support station here, they regulate the traffic coming in and out, and they decide policy on everything. When we ask permission to purchase a fleet of our own, we are demeaned. The FTA is supposed to be an organization that maintains a high standard of space flight and colonial discovery; not some economic regulatory agency. When they turned our fleet request down they established a dominance over everything Eden does. Well, I am here to tell you and anyone who will listen that Eden is our responsibility. This planet’s future will be determined by us.”
“Fine, when the FTA stops sending carriers we’re out of business.”
She grinned. “That’s when they’ll have to do without our ag-product. For some Earthside countries that means hard times. Then they can decide what’s more important to them.” She paused. “But that isn’t why I called you.”
“It’s this other thing you have up your sleeve, isn’t it?”
“We’re going to take control of this support station and you are going to get it for me.”
Jamison did not move. He let the idea sink in before moving to a chair. This was going to take more than a few minutes. “How does this help the Eden situation?”
“This station is the control point for the FTA. We want to have that control.” She was pacing. “We’ll have control of the surface-to-orbit transport system, weather forecasting, communications – and I think it will lead to other things. Who knows, we might get into some other non-agricultural business.”
Jamison listened intently. The Governor was clearly way out ahead of him on this. “Okay boss, what other product are you talking about?”
“Manufactured goods.”
There were no manufacturing capabilities on Eden; they both knew that. There was not a single mine on Eden much less a raw material processing system. At the same time he knew better than to underestimate her ideas, she could be clever. Then something came to him, “You’re going to open up the Proxima and Alpha mines, aren’t you?” She tried to appear coy and when she did that, he knew he was right.
“Those carriers come out here like they were some old general store. Those farmers down there have to buy whatever they have on board and a lot of it is junk. All of it supports an agricultural economic system; there is no diversity at all. And when something special is ordered it becomes a gamble about whether it’ll ever get here.”
“That is not an answer.” He grinned conspiratorially.
She sat down. “Nobody's touched those mines in fifteen years and we know they’re big producers. That says to me that SatMan has enough raw materials to meet their needs without Proxima and Alpha Stations. Well, we need ‘em both. Development may be slow at first and we have a lot of learning to do but we’ll do it. After that the next step is manufacturing. Then we’re completely independent from Earthside and their petty policies.”
“SatMan thinks they own those stations.”
Janice caught his eye. “I already pointed out that the FTA is not a government, they are shipping regulatory organization. They cannot claim territory. We're going to annex those mines, all the planets in the Alpha Centauri system and all the moons too.”
“You’ll be on the FTA’s list.”
“What are they gonna do, shoot at us with one of those starships?”
Jamison shrugged.
“That’ll never happen, I’ve got plans – and that’s the reason I called you in here.”
“To reveal these plans?”
“Well, that and something else. I’m sending you to Moonbase as my Special Ambassador to negotiate an agreement with them – that is after you take control of the support station here. Remember what we’re trying to do here – and we’re not backing down.”
                                                          *    *    *
Jamison waited. Time was turning his mood to grim – as much as he tried to remain patient, the Station Chief had not reacted to his pronouncements. The Station Chief simply stared trance-like out through the control room’s transparent screens. There wasn’t anything for the Station Chief to see out in the dark orbital space. Eden itself wasn’t even visible.
“How about it?” Jamison prodded.
No reaction. The Station Chief hadn’t even acted like he heard the question. Instead he shifted in the chair and stared. His mind regurgitating the many contingency plans he had prepared for the station. He had thought of everything imaginable; alien attacks, meteorites, many systems failures, even a plan on what to do should there be an orbit collapse due to a polar gravitational shift, but he hadn’t anticipated a mutinous take-over by the very government he was sent to protect.
“I’ll give you another two minutes then we’re going to have to do something.” There was detectable anger in Jamison’s voice.
Choices, the Station Chief thought, what were the choices? He couldn’t just give the station up. What would that do to his career? He had taken a huge risk when he jumped from SatMan to the FTA and his loyalties came into question when he made the move. Yet, with deft organizational guile he’d managed to become Station Chief here, and now this. What to do? What was the proper procedure in cases like this? “Whaa,” he sputtered. “What are you proposing . . for the operation of this station?”
Frustration gripped Jamison. All of this had been covered several times. He guessed that this was a delaying tactic. “Same people doing the same jobs. The only difference is that Eden sets policy now.”
A take-over from the inside, why hadn’t he anticipated this? These Eden people had pulled it off. They showed how easy it was. What was the FTA going to think of him now? He’d never get another posting, he just knew it.
“I don’t think he’s going to answer.” Jamison bent down in front of the Station Chief who stared wide-eyed straight ahead. He doubted the Chief even saw him. Jamison motioned for two of the security men to come and get him, and they lifted the Station Chief from the chair and helped him walk a few paces. He looked at Jamison and mumbled something.
“What is it?” Jamison asked.
“How can you do this to me?”
“Didn’t you understand anything I said to you?”
Perspiration began to bead on the Station Chief’s forehead. “I understand you’re taking my station away from me.”
“We’ve asked you to stay and run the station.”
“You’re stealing my station!” He was shouting.
“You really don’t know what’s going on, do you? You’ve flipped out.”
“My station, you’re taking my station away from me!” He was ranting by now.
“Take him down to sick bay and have someone watch him.” The cause was a good one, Jamison reflected, but he had not been prepared for the human toll. He grimaced as the security men dragged the now former Station Chief through the door.
“Bring in his assistant,” he growled.
                                                        *    *    *
Niki Chong did not completely understand what was going on. They wanted his ship, he knew that, and they could seize it anytime they wanted. But their argument did not justify their actions. All of this was unnecessary. So he insisted on seeing the Governor or the person behind this.
She did not recognize him at first. It was the name that made her think. They had met only once and that was at the awards ceremony following the Doomsday Attack a long time ago. That had been an emotional time for her. He doubted she had even looked at him during those ceremonies.
She had been polite when she explained the need for his carrier. She said it was bad luck that the carrier was his but Eden’s needs came first. “SatMan owes its allegiance to the Earth nations and the FTA regulates just about all spacecraft. Somehow Eden doesn’t fit into that picture,” she explained.
When Niki finally had a chance to speak, he asked, “Is that all you want, the use of my carrier?”
“Yes, except we need it for a variety of uses, for uses we don’t know of at this moment.”
“You do not intend to destroy it?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, I am in the business of contracting my services. As long as you intend to pay, what is the big deal? I will operate my carrier in whatever way you want.”
She was taken aback. “There isn’t any big deal, I suppose. Give us your rate schedule and we’ll work something out.”
“Can you give me some idea what work you want to do?”
This was not what she expected to happen. In the middle of the big take-over and all the fuss with the FTA here was a cooperative carrier operator. “Yes, we plan to have a carrier orbiting over the old Proxima mining station for the time it takes to re-equip the place and begin operations there. The carrier will function as a support station.”
“Then you need to do some work on the carrier. The container unit is designed for cargo, not people.”
“True. We’ll have engineers take a look at it.”
Niki handed her a small card. “Registered Starship Operations Engineer” it said.
“You designed the Congo’s bridge, didn’t you?”
Niki’s pride showed through, he grinned. “Yes I did. And I do conversion work, providing you are willing to pay for my services.”
“You took the Congo out in the middle of the Doomsday . . .”
“Yes, but let us handle our business first.” Niki flushed at the recognition.
Janice said, “Yes, I remember now, your design talents extend well beyond carrier conversions.”
Niki nodded.
She was suddenly more pleased with the turn of events. “Well, here is what we planned up to this point . . ,” and she explained their plans for economic diversification.
Niki, it seemed to her, was the missing element in all of this. Up until now she had only a vague idea on how her goals would be met, now there was an answer.
 Niki started with a series of ideas, “I feel we have to begin with the mining capabilities at both Proxima and Alpha Stations, concentrate first on reactivating those mines. If I recall correctly the principle elements for these mines were titanium and iron ore. With this combination and a few other elements we should be able to produce a quality alloy. It would save much time and cost if you locate all of the manufacturing on the Proxima surface. It is a low-gravity moon without an atmosphere so there are no life forms to worry about.  So pollution is not a concern . . .”
 Once Niki got started the ideas flowed. This was a welcome difference from recent history where she had to produce all of the original thinking. Janice rocked back and listened.
“. . .then, I would think you would need a fleet of small defense craft, large enough to carry starship defense systems and travel to Earth and back if you decide to use them that way, and small enough to be very maneuverable in the orbits around Eden. This planet has a history one must respect; robot guardians and bombardments, if you know what I mean.”
She did.
“With a diversified economy and an adequate defense system, you would have achieved true national independence. At that point you could do anything.”
“Like what?” Janice asked.
“Build a fleet of cargo carrying spacecraft, your own starships, a set of orbiting star cities . . ."
“Hold it! Gimme that again. You ran the parade past me much too fast. What are these orbiting cities?”
“It is an idea I had but I could not sell. The FTA said they didn’t need it, no Earth nations ever responded to the idea.”
“Tell me about it.”
“The idea is to build two or four of these. They are large orbiting cities counter-balanced in similar orbits and of similar size. For Eden, the idea would be to provide a place for the bulk of the population to live and work. The Planet below is easily capable of producing all the food, water and atmosphere the cities will need; in exchange the cities handle all the business and commercial enterprises, especially trade. It is a symbiotic relationship. All outside contacts are with the cities. The Planet never becomes polluted since the major industry is very nearly a non-polluting agricultural enterprise using modern methods.”
Janice was almost breathless. “How large are these cities?”
“Two or three thousand times larger than a manufacturing station. They should handle two or three million each.”
His ideas had the sparkle of clarity. They were perfect for a new planet just starting up. It was exactly what she was looking for.
 

[Gerald Lively]

                                                        CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN


                                                          June 2152 – Moonbase.


It was an angry mob that rushed down the concourse and jammed up against the turnstiles shouting demands to be let through. All of the gate officials stood cautiously back assessing the scene, waiting for the official signal to advance and begin transport loading.
Chief stayed comfortably out of harm’s way leaning against the Trader’s Saloon doors. He could see the bobbing heads and the hands held high waving boarding passes, the noise was deafening. Mercifully, the gate officials, in unison, stepped up and began the processing. Some passed through the turnstiles and raced up the empty concourse to the transport docks – but almost as quickly as the processing began, it came to a halt. The crowd became hostile.
This was not unexpected.
That was why he was here, to watch and see the chaos develop for himself. It happened just as it was reported to him. By now each gate official was dealing with a forged boarding pass and an argumentative citizen who refused to make way for the legitimate pass holders. If the pattern held true, the Security Police would soon arrive and be pushing through the mob scene to reach the fake colonists and a struggle would ensue. It would take all of the Security Police’s skill to avoid a riot.
It was almost a certainty that the fraudulent boarding passes were crude imitations of the real thing and not intended to fool a gate official. Someone wanted to create a riot, or jam up the turnstiles – but to what end? Chief had asked that question many times but the answers had been blank faces. It was perplexing.
Shaking his head he stepped back through the swinging doors. Inside, a vigorous discussion was in progress in a booth at one end of the room. The near argument turned his head- a group of FTA Security Officers. He could see some finger pointing. One person seemed to be doing all the loud talking. Typical.
At the opposite end of the room, a family of colonists huddled over a table trying to look inconspicuous. They hadn’t bought anything but that didn’t matter; there were few places on Moonbase where one could just sit and rest. Maybe the Trader’s Saloon could do its part to remedy that small deficiency.
Chief stepped around the bar eyeing the dozing bartender slouched in a chair before pushing through the doors back into the living quarters. There was quiet back there. Only the flash of the message board intruded, and it blinked incessantly, refusing to be ignored.
With a sigh he punched in and the screen erupted with a string of message titles. It was the usual diet of FTA memos and reports. He set it for read-mode and began the plodding task of digesting one report after another. It wasn’t long before he’d had enough.
There was never a day when the message board was short, he lamented. It was a facet of the FTA Executive Director’s job that he had not counted on. Already he was President of the FTA Academy, and there was his partnership in the saloon too, but when Michelle decided to go exploring she hadn’t said much about the time involved in the simple tasks of reading and just keeping up with events. He had assumed that all of this amounted to no more than a time management problem; he could cut there, prioritize here, and somehow handle it. He had even thought of passing the FTA Executive Directorship on to someone else. But he couldn’t do that either, he’d made a good faith agreement with Michelle Santorini and he would honor his agreement, even if he had been somewhat naive about the job when he made the deal. 
“Hi Chief.” The voice from behind whispered seductively. It was Gracy, his saloon partner. She nudged up against him and gazed up into his eyes.
 He could feel the heat of her and could smell her fragrance.
She flashed both eyes in a series of blinks and went into her little girl act. With her head bent slightly, she shyly smiled. A smattering of freckles bridged her slight nose and tended to emphasis the look. She wanted something. With a turn of her head, she tossed long strands of hair back across her shoulders, then bumped breasts-first up against him.
Chief’s focus went from her blinking eyes down to her cleavage. “What’s new, Gracy?”
She rubbed against him, grinding huge breasts into his chest.
“Okay Gracy, what is it you want?”
She stepped back looking playfully upset. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other jiggling the portions of her breasts above the peasant blouse neckline. “Oh, nothing,” she said expelling a deep breath.
Chief narrowed his eyes, “What’s the matter, you horny or something?” He took a big step in her direction.
She moved back. “Is that all you ever think about?”
“Just checking.” He turned back to his keypad.
“You jerk!” She gave him a swift kick in the back of the knee.
He turned just as she wound up for another kick. With both hands he gripped her upper arms and controlled the struggle, although she did squirm some.
“Think you’re so strong,” she protested but her struggle became submissive.
“Uh huh,” he said, sliding both hands down her arms and pulling the peasant blouse down until he could see only breasts and cleavage between their bodies. He pulled her tight with one arm; with the other he reached behind and released a clasp, then pushed her backward, holding her at arm’s length – and watched the big breasts spilled out. Chief dipped down, reached around her waist and picked her up with his face buried in her chest, and carried her into the adjacent room. There he dropped her on the bed.
“Animal,” she growled, struggling to pull her skirt up over her hips. She lay exposed to him gyrating in a slow grind. “Come here,” she breathlessly demanded.
Chief bent down over her. She grabbed at him and buried him between her breasts.
“Mummmph!” he said.
She lifted his head by the hair, “What did you say?”
“I wondered what the hurry was. Slow down.”
                                                       *    *    *
Chief rested somewhere between a dreaming slumber and semi-awareness. Someone was saying, “FTA” again and again. Images of the message board seemed threatening in his dream. He groaned and rolled his head. Then he was awake.
Gracy was sitting up next to him with a finger pressed to her lips. “Quiet,” she mouthed.
Sounds filtered through the thin wall. Chief listened but quickly decided that it was the FTA officers in the bar. They were on the other side of the wall in a booth. “They just had too much to drink,” he said and rolled over. “Jack is out there, if there’s a problem he’ll handle it.”
Gracy gave him a shake. “They’re talking about the FTA. They’re arguing.”
“Who doesn’t talk about the FTA these days?”
Gracy put an ear up against the wall.
“Come on, they’re just drunk.”
“I don’t think so.”
He rolled his eyes at her but he began to listen. The conversation did seem unusually loud, but he reminded himself that Jack was out front and that was what mattered.
Gracy scooted off the bed to a chest of drawers where she started a digging search. She found what she wanted and held it up; a long cord with a small suction cup on one end, dangling from a hand-sized recorder. She scampered back. Crouching on the bed again, she pressed the suction cup to the wall and clicked the recorder on then pointed to a meter that bounced up and down; apparently it was recording. She looked pleased with herself.
Chief looked at her nakedness for a moment longer then rolled over on the bed and drifted off to sleep.
                                                      *    *    *
Chief slipped the tiny disk into the player and turned back to Sam. Together they listened.
The recording was muffled and broken by an occasional bump sound. “Not good quality,” Sam commented.
“This ain’t no concert,” Chief said. “Just wait, you’ll hear what you need to hear.”
“Where did you get this?”
Chief gave him a sideways glance and seemed to redden. “Never mind that, just give me your interpretation of the things you hear.”
Sam knew when to stop pressing and turned his attention to the muffled noises rumbling out from the speakers. Abruptly, the noise acquired a sparkling clarity.
 “What’s the point, you don’t need my participation in this? People get shot for that sort of thing,” the voice said.
Sam raised an eyebrow. Chief grinned.
“Listen,” another voice said, “your big dream is to buy a starship of your own. How are you gonna pay for one of those on your wages? Atkins says he’ll give you a starship and all you have to do is cooperate. That’s all. Nothing more than that. We’ve gotta have ya, buddy.”
“What’s wrong with old-fashioned hard work and prudent savings. I’ll get some kind of spacecraft on my own. Besides, I don’t like what you’re doing.”
“Where are you gonna be when this is all over? If you don’t help and we’re in, maybe you’re out. What then of your dream?”
No voices sounded for a long minute.
“Listen, we’re all in this for our own reasons,” the persuading voice reasoned, “Atkins reasons are probably different from mine and those are different than yours. The idea is that we all cooperate.” Pause. “Atkins told me those FTA and SatMan exec’s aren’t going to part with any carriers for a long time. They’re trying to control that fleet and help out personal friends so they can line their own pockets. You just don’t figure into their plans.”
“I don’t know.”
“You saw those colonists out front didn’t you? Those were our people messing with the port authority, so you see, this thing has already started.”
“This is nuts. What kind of loyalties do you people have? What about the colonization program and the FTA that gave all you people the training and jobs you have? Where would you be now if the FTA hadn’t been helping you?”
“I’m loyal and don’t you forget it. I’m loyal to the idea of a strong military and that’s just what we need to keep those aliens away from our doorstep. We have been weak. Moonbase has suffered for it. All this has to change.”
“The FTA is stronger than it’s ever been. I think you’ve sold out just because Atkins makes promises.”
“Well, Jackson, you’re either in or you’re out. You can’t straddle the line on this one. Better take my advice and come with us before this thing gets too far along. You have a couple of days; Johnny-come-lately won’t be trusted. Remember that.”
The sound shut down. Chief clicked off the player. The disk, already inside a soft plastic sleeve, popped out in his hand.
“Well,” Sam said, “my guess is someone named Atkins intends to engineer a take-over of the FTA, probably with force. Sounds like we have a couple of days before the big event.”
Chief grinned at the confirmation.
“Do you know anybody named Atkins?”
Chief nodded, “We have a number of Atkins but only one that matters. He’s presently in charge of Moonbase Internal Security.”
“The cops, huh. A coup attempt by the cops, of all things.” Sam folded his hands together. “If they gain control of the FTA then they’ve got to have SatMan. That’s an easy step. They’d control everything and there’s no one around to challenge them.” Sam rocked back. “We haven’t learned our lesson; Moonbase is a bottleneck and whoever controls Moonbase controls just about all the commerce there is.”
“I can’t get excited about how things should have been; I’ve got a nutcase revolt on my hands and I’ve got to do something about it.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right, of course. If we survive this, we will definitely need to sit down and work out a plan for decentralized authority.” Sam stared at the floor. “Yes, we will have to do that.”
“I’d say a good strategy for a take-over would be to grab the Carrier Port and the executive offices there. With that you’d have control over the orbits on both Moon and Earth. After that you take Moonbase itself.”
“What about the starship posted out there?”
Chief attacked his terminal keypad. “The Perth isn’t due for three days, the Peking left this morning.” He looked at Sam, “We have a three day gap in coverage.”
“It’s going to happen, isn’t it?”
“I’m gonna need some time to work this out,” Chief said sourly. “How’d we get into this position?”
Sam generated a small smile, “I remember asking myself that question once or twice a long time ago. First of all, we’re much too centralized. We got this way because it was expedient. When PacRim cashed it in we made the minimum changes. I don’t think we thought about someone else with a coup interest. We thought everybody would like what we could do, and like us for it. But after all of the available carriers were gobbled up, we experienced a shortage of trained pilots. That slowed things down – slowdowns bring complaints and so on. We’re just catching up on the pilot numbers. But Earth nations want their own carriers and we don’t have them. More unhappy people. All those colonists and they have to get their training here and that showed us what a real bottleneck we have. Discontent and organizational weakness equals nothing good.” Sam paused. “Hindsight is great, isn’t it?”
                                                                    *    *    *
Chief spent a long night with the Chief Justice. He discovered that there were legal limits to what he could do but there was surprising latitude as well. Much, it seemed, depended on the situation. By now, Chief knew there was no point in waiting for the assassination squad to show up at his door. In his judgement, initiative was the key. Even so, the situation was anything but clear. A group of beer drinking cops talking about revolt was dubious evidence at best, and he might not have the time to wait for more evidence to show itself. However, should the evidence presented itself, then . . .
A scowling Chief entered the FTA offices. He paused at the secretary’s desk, “Find Major Atkins, Chief of Internal Security and get him over here right away. And get a Captain Jackson up here too. He’s in charge of Shuttle Security.”
She was wise and perceptive, and could see that something important was happening, and quickly punched up the directory of offices and placed the necessary calls. Within minutes rumors were racing through the FTA offices.
Inside his office, Chief went to a long row of cabinets and a certain drawer there. Inside lay an old .45 caliber military pistol, a type not manufactured for a hundred and fifty years. He picked it up; it felt like an old friend. He bounced it in his hand and felt the heft of it then turned it over fondly inspecting each familiar line and recalling how every scratch had been made. Then he slid a full clip inside the handle until it made that comforting snap of mechanical certainty. A pull back on the action brought the first bullet into the chamber, then he let go and it slammed shut. It was ready. So was he.
The pistol went into a large thigh pocket; he left the zipper open then he sat behind the desk, and just in time; the inner-comm issued a soft buzz. “Major Atkins is here and so is Captain Jackson.”
“Send them in.”
From the very first glimpse Chief could discern all he needed to know about the Major; he was a neat man, his light almost blond hair was perfectly in place and his uniform appeared fresh and unwrinkled. Yet, despite his mannequin appearance it was his cold steel- blue eyes that spoke the most about him. 
Captain Jackson entered close behind the Major.
Chief invited them to sit.
The Major occupied a chair in a ramrod stiff position but his eyes moved carefully around the room. The Major wasn’t going to miss much of anything.
Captain Jackson fidgeted.
“Captain Jackson,” Chief said, “you are the head of Shuttle Security?”
“Yes sir.”
“There have been near riots at the turnstiles. I witnessed several of them myself. Tell me what you know about them.”
Captain Jackson’s eyes darted to the Major then down to his own nervous hands. Finally he tried an answer. “It seems to be a group of some kind whose purpose is to hold up the turnstiles. I assume these people are opposed to colonization.”
Chief permitted an uncomfortable pause to run on. “I understand,” he finally said, “that these people use phony boarding passes and these are usually very bad forgeries. So bad they’re bound to be spotted.”
“That is true.”
“What have you found out from those arrested?”
“Ah, well, we aren’t holding anyone presently.”
“You did not learn anything from them?”
“No sir.”
Chief sighed. “There was an incident yesterday, are you telling me no one is being held after that incident?”
“They were bailed out.”
“By who, the Major here?”
Jackson was stunned. His eyes widened and his mouth opened but no words came out.
Major Atkins reacted calmly, “I beg your pardon?”
“What time is the coup?” Chief growled through clinched teeth.
Jackson started to rise.
“Sit down,” Chief barked.
Jackson collapsed in his chair.
The Major did not move.
“How about it Major, what time is the big deal? You haven’t called it off, have you?”
The Major spoke not a word; his eyes were intent on Chief.
Chief said to Captain Jackson, “And you, have you decided to work for your starship or have you given yourself over to the sub-rosa in hope of getting one for nothing?”
Jackson was stammering by now. “. . . I’m . . .”
Chief reached across the desk and stabbed a button in the middle of the panel. Sound burst from hidden speakers. “. . . Atkins says he’ll give you one and all you have to do is cooperate in this . . . take over is in a couple of days . . .” Chief carefully felt for his thigh pocket. When the pistol was firmly in his hands he pulled it out. With a slow deliberate movement he raised it above the desk and placed it down on the desktop with the barrel pointed between them.
“You both know the penalty for those who attempt a coup and lose.” Neither moved. “It is the same as what you planned for me when you take over.”
“Listen,” Jackson sputtered, “I don’t want any part of this. I never did . . .”
“Shut up!” barked the Major. His face reddened in anger but his eyes remained on Chief.
Chief gazed into the cold-blue ferocity.
“You incompetent oaf,” Atkins snarled, “these are good officers and men here on Moonbase and they deserve more. We have aliens out there and you are content to sit back and do nothing about them.”
Chief rested his hand close to the pistol.
Jackson seemed near collapse.
“Moonbase has become a tourist Mecca instead of the fine military outpost it should and could be. It’s man against the universe and you’re setting us up for a fall. We’re sending those damn fool colonists out to who-knows-where without protection and they’ll die on some forgotten planet as sure as I’m sitting here. And there are aliens everywhere. I will not subordinate to any inferior race whether it is from Earth or Eden, or somewhere else, and I oppose anyone who puts a man in that kind of position. All aliens and all inferior races must be sought out and eliminated.”
“You mean to kill them, Major?”
The Major’s head twitched. His lips grew thin and his jaw flexed from the clinching of teeth. One hand reached into a pocket. When the hand reappeared, it held a laser pistol. He aimed at Chief. “Yes, and we begin with you. The Earthborn are the masters and all else are of lesser value. Even on Earth you can see who is destined to be supreme, one can tell by merely looking.” He squeezed the laser weapon and a streak of blue burnt the air above Chief’s head.
The .45 came up from the desk and Chief triggered a single shot.
The Major raked a wildly aimed shot across Chief’s middle.
The Major collapsed to the grey carpet with both hands tightly gripping his chest as he tried desperately to hold back the leaking blood; his eyes raged in cold unremitting anger.
Chief gasped for air. The laser had lashed across his belt line nearly cutting him in half. He would not last the day.

[Gerald Lively]

                                                    CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN

                                       
                                                   Planet Terra – June 2152.


Joshua jerked his head back from the corner, squeezed his eyes closed and flattened tight up against the wall. In his minds eye he could see the shadowy unlit street, the intersecting boulevard beyond, and the distance he'd have to run, but the detail of the street escaped him. He sighed. It was going to require another flash look. Most carefully he edged up to the corner. In a blur, as fast as he could, he glimpsed around the corner and up the darkened street.
Dim light spilled out from several windows on his side of the street to cast odd shaped patterns on the pavement – and there was just enough light to silhouette anyone foolish enough to walk past them standing up. But nothing on the street moved; there were no shuttles and no people, the street was empty. The shadows at the far end of the block were deep but immediately beyond those, the boulevard was dangerously bright.
He examined the mental picture again: were there any tele-monitors hidden in the darkness, were there doors that might open and surprise him, was there anything to stumble over that might create a disastrous noise? Remember, remember, he prodded himself, but there were none in his recollection. Was he certain? Could a chance be taken?  Was it worth the risk of another look? Uncertainty began to shake his confidence. Maybe the street was too minor for a police tele-monitor. That seemed likely.
Joshua looked back the way he came; streetlights splashed wide bright yellow circles from wall to wall every forty or fifty feet marching right up to where he stood. It had been risky to come that way and it was just as much risk going back. He needed the comfort of the shadows - the sanctuary of the darkness – and he wasn’t getting that where he stood.
Joshua chanced another flash look. There were no tele-monitors he could see. Carefully, slowly, he reached down and gathered in the excess material of his robe and pulled it up to free his legs for quick movement. He slid around the corner staying as close to the wall as possible. And made it easily. In a quick walk he came to the first lighted window. Nothing moved. A street sign beneath the lights out on the boulevard announced, “Level 152 – Block 110 – Commerce”. He was not lost after all. Relief swept over him. Out on the boulevards in the Commerce Districts, like this one, elevator complexes were established on every second block. If luck was with him, an elevator was just around the corner on his side of the street. If it wasn’t, well, he did not wish to think about that.
Joshua rolled his head against the wall and peeked through the window - a bakery shop and it was closed. Gathering up his black outer robe in one hand, he bent in a low crouch and shuffled beneath the row of windows into the deeper shadows. The corner was only a few feet away. Once there he would have a commanding view of the boulevard.
With careful sliding steps he flowed to the corner, halted and peered out from the shadows; the boulevard was a large one, ten lanes wide and brilliant beneath the light. For nearly a block in one direction and a half block in the direction behind him, there was no one in sight. But across the street a tele-monitor methodically swept back and forth and were it not for the shadow and his black outer robe, he was sure the tele-monitor would have picked him out.
Everything was quiet. He had time, now think, he told himself; if the boulevard had the usual tele-monitor coverage there would two of them, the one he saw across the street and another one, probably on his side of the street. He needed to look; he'd have to chance it. And he did. The flash look revealed a flood of light splashing out into the street in the middle of the block, and it was on his side of the street. It had to be an elevator complex, probably a freight elevator. Joshua offered a little prayer in thanks for his good fortune. But he missed the tele-monitor, if there was one.
He calmed himself; this was no time for mistakes. Tele-monitors alternated sides of the street; there had to be another one above the elevators, there just had to be. Another look. Yes, it was there; he could see the sweep going back and forth right where it was supposed to be. Timing the coverage was critical, and he needed to inventory the street too. The worst thing that could happen was to rush out and find a police shuttle waiting for you. No surprises.
He took a long look this time. The boulevard was well lighted for about five blocks. High up overlooking the street, one of the giant public information screens glowed with the government’s channel marker; a grove of leafy trees bending before a brisk wind with snow-capped mountains in the background. Except for the dancing lights from the tele-screen, the boulevard was quiet and empty. There were no police shuttles.
Then something in the shadows across the boulevard moved. Joshua stared hard at the blackness there. It moved again. Joshua shrank down and wrapped himself in his black outer robe. If it was a policeman a light would come on and he would be completely exposed – and there was no safe place to run and no safe place to hide. He was going to be shot, he knew it as sure as it was night and this was Terra.
Fear was creeping up on him; he worked consciously to squelch it by repeating a reminder to be careful and alert in times of crisis. Unplanned movement will result in capture; capture results in punishment and sometimes death. Be calm. Fear was acceptable but one does not move unless it is planned. And he had another thought; this was absolutely the last time he would go out after curfew. He swore an oath to it.
The shadow moved again. Joshua’s heart skipped a beat. Whoever was there had stood up. His face was visible above a slanting shadow line. The man’s outer robes fell carelessly open. Suddenly the man bolted out from the protection of the shadow into the blazing boulevard lights. He was running; his outer robe trailed behind exposing the brilliant white robes beneath. Joshua’s gaze froze on the spectacle. What could that man be thinking? Every tele-monitor within ten blocks will pick him up.
Joshua wanted to shout at the man to tell him to cover up. He was going to give himself away. He would draw police to the area with their lights and their sweep-lines.
Joshua looked back at the way he had come; the thought of retreat was becoming more inviting by the second. But that thought lasted for only a moment. There were far too many lights, especially for someone in a hurry.
The man had made it to the middle of the street and was running straight at him. Blinding light reflected from the white robes. Joshua covered his head, but the man kept coming. His face stretched in the panic of a soundless scream and Joshua held his breath; the last thing he needed was a screamer in the vicinity. But the man charged past Joshua’s corner and down the boulevard behind him. Maybe the man did not see him.
There was a commotion. Joshua listened. It was near the elevator entrance. He did not dare look – but it sounded as if a robot freight cart had come out of the entrance just as the man arrived. Freight carts occupy an entire entrance when they are in them. All one can do is wait for the freight to clear. What incredible bad luck. If the man did not make it to the elevators inside and was caught, and he certainly would be caught if he were forced to stand and wait out in the open, it was prison for him. Worse, if there was a past history with the police it might be a death sentence. Everyone knew that. That man had to know. Why be so incautious?
The police came quickly blocking off the boulevard. Two policemen ran down the middle of the street to Joshua’s intersection just ahead of a skidding black police shuttle. Back on the side street behind him, barricades were going up. They had the curfew violator surrounded, and so was he.
Flashing lights were everywhere. There was shouting and the sounds of a struggle. Shouting turned to screams and there were heavy footfalls. Suddenly the running man came back into his field of vision; he was headed back to his side street. Snapping laser shots came from behind and some were finding their mark deep inside the flailing robes. Then the man turned towards the middle of the intersection, spun once with his mouth wide as if to shout, looked right at Joshua, then collapsed to the pavement to never utter another word.
The pursuing police arrived just as the last of the white robes fluttered down on the now prone figure. Two policemen unceremoniously tossed the dead curfew violator into the back of a black police shuttle, joking and laughing as they strained to the task. Then the police and their barricades vacated the intersection. It was clear once again.
And the side streets were clear. Joshua edged up to the corner. The robot-freight cart was nowhere in sight, the tele-monitor across the street was aiming away and the police were gone too. The tele-monitor above the elevator was just beginning to sweep back in his direction.
Then a surprise. Two policemen came walking down the middle of the street. Their behavior was casual. They stopped at the scene of the incident, talked for a moment, and one of them bent down to inspect the pavement. The other took notes. Finally they walked back and disappeared from his sight.
Again Joshua checked the tele-monitor sweep, across the street it was coming towards him. If they were in synchronous movement, like they were supposed to be, the tele-monitor over the elevator would be aiming away. He took a chance and stepped out into the boulevard light.
Wrapped in black outer robe, he guessed the more distant tele-monitor couldn’t see him – quickly he was beneath the tele-monitor above the elevator, a blind spot. Very carefully Joshua backed through the elevator entrance. It was a freight elevator, he could see that now. He wouldn’t have to use his counterfeit service card to make a people-transport elevator work after-hours. All he had to do now was find a place to hide among the boxes on a lift going his way.
The robot cart was down at the far end of the complex loading an open elevator. Another half dozen lifts waited open, some half loaded, some completely empty. The first one he looked into had an arrow pointing down; Joshua needed an elevator going up. The second one looked good. Joshua ran into it; ducked beneath a closing gate and clambered over stacks of boxes to drop down to a steel platform. Somebody was already there.
That brought a gasp. The man merely moved over and made room, and they rode up in silence. The ride up lasted almost ten minutes. When the gate lifted they climbed out quickly. Even if it was the wrong level they had to get out; when the robot cart began to unload it would detect any passenger as an uninventoried package and report it. That brought a government official and probably the police to the premises, not exactly what they wanted. If this was the wrong level he had to find another elevator going in the correct direction. In this way clandestine elevator riders worked their way to the level they wanted. It was cumbersome but it might be the only way of getting around after curfew.
Joshua jumped to the concrete floor, gathered in his robes and searched for a sign that told him where they were. There was nothing inside the freight room. He crept to the entrance and peered down the street. This was another boulevard with a tall ceiling of a hundred feet or more and another gigantic public information screen with the government channel marker showing the same winds whistling through the limbs of the same trees.
Joshua thought often about that channel marker; there weren’t any naturally occurring trees on Terra. At one time he thought it was the Promised Land in the channel marker but that turned out to be just another broken promise. There wasn’t any Promised Land. It was all made up.
He supposed that places such as the Promised Land existed, after all there was a picture of real trees and the wind, and the mountains. They got it from some place. However, a picture is a picture; it is not the real thing. Just like everybody he knew; he wanted to experience the sensation of breathing fresh natural air and drink water from a stream, and look up at the open blue sky. He wanted to see a landscape uninterrupted by buildings. But, he wondered, were such things real?
His gaze drifted down from the big screen to a street sign, it was much too far away to read. His companion curfew violator shuffled to the far end of the entrance and attempted to read it from there.
Of course, Joshua mused, if the government had kept the promises it made to the citizens about sending them all to the Promised Land, he would not have to scurry about the streets like some odious nightside vermin. Promises, such as the Promised Land promise, had been designed to buy time to stave off citizen complaint about the conditions on Terra, he suspected. But that was hindsight. He had bought into this promise. It all seemed so convincing at the time. There were years of videos showing the beauty of the Promised Land and the progress reports that told of this new planet. It was a place far from this worn out solar system and it had more than a few of the trees that swayed in the wind. Alas, just as the Trinity was supposed to announce departure schedules, a process that could take as long as twenty years, the final and last video depicted a huge invader ship over the Promised Land and it was attacking the Angel Fleet.
Joshua recalled the first time he saw it. He was with the family and they had gathered around their own tele-screen. The invader destroyed one Angel Ship after another on that video. He had screamed out loud that this was just another Trinity lie. Yes, he had said it so they could all hear him. His own spouse had called him a cynic. Perhaps. More like a victim of profound disappointment, he would say. Maybe that made him a cynic; maybe he didn’t care.
Then it came, as he knew it would, the Trinity announced a halt to the Promised Land project. It had been an effort, they said, that had taken thousands and thousands of years to accomplish but there was evil in the universe and for now evil was in command.
There were many of the evil ships, according to the Trinity. They had shown videos of the invader ship years ago but the threat seemed to have gone away. But they came back, and they were black – black ships now. The Trinity changed the color of their invader ship to make them more menacing, he was sure of it. The Trinity made the whole thing up. It was all some sort of unsavory plan and the old videos were made to soften up the citizens on Terra; to reduce their expectations. Joshua growled whenever he thought of it.
They were even mightier than the Lucifer Fleet, they said. He was so ashamed of the Trinity for their broken promises and at himself for such a lack of self-control that he had announced he would find out where the next Lucifer bombardment would be and throw himself into the path of destruction. A sure way to heaven. But his luck ran out there too, the Lucifer Fleet has not been back for years.
“We are on level eight,” the stranger said.
Eight was fine. He lived on level eight. Joshua carelessly bolted out through the entrance and down the boulevard.
                                                     *    *    *
The door closed tightly behind him and Joshua leaned against it as if to hold out the night and all the threats it brought. A thin metal door made that kind of difference. Then someone turned the room lights on.
“Joshua, you look frazzled.” His spouse gasped the words sympathetically.
“I am. The police were everywhere,” he said wearily. “People were all over the place. It seemed someone was in every hiding place before I arrived. I saw a man killed at the hands of the police.”
She gasped.
“Did you make the bargain, Joshua?” Abraham had an anxious look. Evidently he had no concern for the deceased man in his story. But, it was Abraham who reminded him of why he had risk so much. His friend’s pleading eyes begged to hear the answer.
“Yes, they promised to take us. It was not all we wanted. We can only take what we can carry. They will drop us off and leave immediately. We will be on our own from that time on until forever.”
His spouse protested. “We cannot do that, Joshua. We do not know how to live in the wilderness. How will we find food, find shelter?”
Joshua raised a hand to quiet his spouse. “We will have to find a way.”
“Joshua, when do we leave?” Abraham asked.
Joshua took a deep breath for he knew the answer would be an unexpected and perhaps unpleasant surprise. “In four hours, right after curfew has been lifted. We must go to hanger 4221, it is thirty blocks from here.”
“So soon.” His spouse placed both hands on her cheeks.
“We had no choice, it was the only bargain I could make. Anything large enough to carry the load of all our possessions cost more than we had. This was the only transport we could afford.”
“Joshua, can we trust these people?” Abraham wrinkled his forehead in worry.
“I gave them ten percent even though they insisted on all of it. They argued for a time but we eventually agreed on tonight as a departure time. That way there will be no delay in delivering the money they want. It is an inconvenience to us but we will meet our objectives a little sooner.”
His spouse wrung her hands. “I do hope it will be an easy trip.”
“The Mother Planet is only one planet away,” Joshua said hoping that would be enough to calm her fears. If the rumors were more than just myth, he and his family could live out their lives amid the wonders of nature even though the Trinity forbade such adventures to this planet. There was a need, the Trinity said, to preserve the virginal qualities of this particular planet. Man would spoil the wonders there and that could ruin any future opportunity for another Promised Land. Man, they said, was a sinner and by his very nature a corrupting element. To believe that, Joshua had said once in the privacy of his home, was to lose all hope. So he set out to learn more about the Mother Planet.
First he looked in the Book but it made only a vague references to the planet and then only when it was talking about the Angel Fleet. It said, that with the help of the Angel Fleet, the Mother planet was the source of all promised lands. Not much help. Everyone knew the Trinity Center computer controlled the Angel Fleet and nobody, including the Trinity themselves, could explain how it all worked.
But Joshua was not without resources; he knew a merchant who claimed to have visited the Mother Planet years ago. He and Joshua spent endless hours talking about those adventures – about the trees, and the rivers that actually flowed in the open over bare rock and ground, and where it pooled into a lake. Ah, to see a real lake. The merchant said it was all beneath an open blue sky. This had stirred his imagination.
It was now or never. Abraham had argued this might be their last opportunity to be in a place surrounded by nature. The Trinity, he was so fond of saying, was charged in the Book to produce three Promised Lands and everyone knows that the Lucifer’s had stolen one of them. Now the black ship had taken another, and there was an obscure passage that suggested a third Promised Land already existed. Perhaps it was the first one. Abraham was certain it meant there would be no more Promised Lands and that left only the Mother Planet to escape to. With the Lucifer Fleet bombarding Terra for some long forgotten sin and no further prospects for another Promised Land, why wait and suffer – and Joshua had to admit there was an excitement in leaving this misery behind?
                                                       *    *    *

                        Three Months Later – On the Mother Planet.
Joshua did not know which to watch; the hundreds of trees surrounding the meadow, or the transport that had departed with such finality. For now, he studied the shrinking sight of the transport that by this time was a mere twinkle in a vast blue sky. It seemed to speed up then fade from view. He watched the spot where it was last visible but the image did not linger. They stood alone now, four against the wilderness and not one of them knew if this was heaven or hell.
Joshua looked to the trees at the edge of the field. There were hundreds of them – no, thousands of them – all pointing upward, tall and crowded together. Joshua marveled at this. The grasses grew right up to the trees and suddenly there were trees galore. This was an amazing thing.
“What do we do now, Joshua?” His spouse begged for a satisfying answer with a very concerned expression.
“Yes, Joshua, what is the next thing we must do?” Abraham asked.
Joshua scanned the field to the edge of the trees. He sighted no sign of the lake that was supposed to be near. They had flown over it; he had seen it himself so he knew it was there, somewhere. He turned to them and he could see it in their eyes; they were looking to him for leadership and they going to depend on his judgement. This was a burden he had not shed. Freedom was going to be elusive. “This way,” he said and struck out in no particular direction. All he knew was the lake was not where they stood.
Everyone hefted up a bundle and trudged off after him across the dry dusty field.
But Joshua paid them no attention. He was occupied with the wonders of this new place. It was difficult to imagine so many trees at once when just one of them would have created a sensation on Terra.
He began to perspire. He had not realized that the unfiltered sun could bring such warmth. And the dust, it was beginning to accumulate on his sandals and legs, even on his robes.
“Wait!” he barked. The tiny caravan stopped. Bundles fell to the ground. “Do we have anything to drink?” Joshua wiped his very damp brow.
“We have nothing to drink, Joshua,” answered Abraham. He was panting from the unaccustomed exertion.
“Nothing to drink,” Joshua grumbled in a low tone, “what next?” His eyes searched the forest again but he saw no clue to where one would go and find a drink. There were no fountains or spigots, or refreshment businesses, just nature and the trees.
Abraham removed his black outer robe and held it up for inspection; dust marred the clean smooth blackness. Disgusted, he rolled it into a tightly wound bundle and stuffed it inside his bag.
Joshua bent down and grabbed a handful of dirt letting it sift through his fingers. Dust. He gazed out over the field and realized there was no pavement anywhere. He knew soil; it was moist and crumbly, and it was in planters all over Terra, but not in the hydroponics vats. He knew it was below the pavement of Terra too, but here it was dry and loose. A few feet away it was hard as stone. Again he hoisted his bundle. “This way,” he said and struck out into the heat of the dry field.
At the first tree Joshua reached out and felt the rough texture of the trunk. Further inside the forest, in the deep shade and cool, low lying brush with small leaves rose up to his shoulders. There were ferns and they grew tall as a man.
Joshua followed a small meandering path between the ever-larger trees. Soon the forest floor began to slope and the caravan turned to follow the path of least resistance, downhill. They came to a gully. At the bottom a trickling creek flowed among the fronds and big leaves making a gurgling sound. Joshua dipped a hand into the flow and brought a palm full of water up to his face; it was clear and cold, and it didn’t smell of anything. But the creek itself flowed right on top of the ground. There were twigs in it, and grass too. Was this a forest gutter flow? He only knew that he thirsted. This, he concluded, must a place where the creatures of this world found water to drink.
“Is it safe to drink, Joshua?” Abraham asked.
“I believe it is.”
“Where does it come from? Is there a fountain up at the top of the mountain?”
“I will not think of such things. This is water and it appears to be pure.” Joshua sipped at it. The others watched. When he did not collapse they joined in with a chorus of loud slurps.
Birds twittered in the forest. Joshua rested against a tree with his eyes closed. He often claimed he could hear better when not seeing. The sounds echoed in the forest. A breeze rushed through the treetops and the birds kept up their banter. He felt contentment.
Joshua scratched at an itch. Another itch caused him to look at the affected spot; small black things with many legs were crawling on the skin of his arm and at the first sight of it he was startled. Near panic, he jumped up and began shaking them off.
His spouse noticed them, “They are on your back,” she said and brushed at his robes being careful not to touch the tiny creatures except with very quick strokes.
But soon they were gone from his clothing. Joshua gave the creatures a close inspection; they just crawled from place to place. Perhaps they were harmless. A small parade of them marched up the tree along an invisible trail. Some of them carried tiny pieces of forest debris; others simply nosed up to the others and did little else. He was intrigued. There was chaos amid order. He found a twig and used it to disrupt the trail then watched as they recovered from the tiny disaster and rejoined their caravan of industry.
“Did they bite you, Joshua?”
“No,” he said to Abraham, “it was an itch, a tickle, a minor thing. I had rested on their trail and they were lost, it is my fault.” There was a lesson in this; he must be careful where he sat and rested, and he must consider the forest and the creatures that live here.
“Where will we stay tonight?” his spouse inquired.
“I do not know. Let us follow this stream of water and see where it takes us.”
The hike was easy, a mere stroll in the woods. And it was a pleasant time they had. Eventually they came to an inlet where the tiny creek disappeared into the much larger pool.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Abraham asked as he stood at the water’s edge.
Joshua was shaking his head. “I wonder why it is so blue?”

[Gerald Lively]

                                                                   CHAPTER  NINETEEN 


                                    September 2152 – Wolf 359 Solar System.


Samson growled at the alien pair, “Do you recognize this place?” They were intent on the hologram; no encouragement from Samson was needed.
The display held seven planets and a host of lesser objects circling a red dwarf sun. Jason rotated the hologram to make certain the aliens saw every aspect of the solar system.
“They have not spoken since they arrived on the Congo,” Samson said.
“And they won’t talk now, is that it?”
Samson looked into the faces of the pair. “Talk!” he barked, pretending to be angry. He turned back to Jason, “See, they do not talk.”
“Better take ‘em back to the brig, they’re not going to help us.” But the aliens knew this solar system, Jason could sense it. It might even be their home out there somewhere. Why else would they study the hologram so closely?
The security guards herded the aliens off the aft-bridge and Samson glowered at them until they were completely out of sight. He never missed an opportunity to express himself to the alien pair.
“Two of the inner planets are within E-type parameters,” Michelle reported, “the second and third from the sun – and it’s a flare-star.”
“Flare-star, what’s a flare star?”
“Gigantic solar storms." She could see that he didn't understand. "They most likely reach out past the first planet. Probably creates havoc with communications when it happens,” she explained.
Jason frowned in puzzlement, "How does a civilization live with a sun that has storms capable of reaching the planets?" No one answered.
Instead, Michelle reported, “We’re picking up radio traffic. It’s weak; we may be too far out for analysis.”
Jason paused, “Those signals are coming from one of the two E-types?”
“Probably, but we can’t confirm that. They seem scattered, I wish we could be more definite.”
“That means there is an alien population in this system.” This was confirmation. “I suppose we have to go in there and catalog all the planets for the good old FTA.” Jason sighed hugely. "It's in the contract; explore and catalog – find those E-type planets and moons – and if you find aliens - make friends with them, the FTA wants the trade.
“That’s our job,” Michelle said.
“Might be the Doomsday bombers,” Jason quipped.
“What’s the matter, the little guy turning chicken?” Samson chided.
Jason grumbled something inaudible and glanced up through the upper screen. The Wolf system’s red sun was up there somewhere among the millions of stars and were it not for the proliferation of electro-magnetic signals, a casual traveler might have passed by the entire system without noticing it was there. “You guys know those aliens are bad, bad. They shoot first and they shoot hard. Are you ready for that?”
Samson grumbled something.
Michelle couldn’t help but smile.
“Okay, okay,” he waved his hands to ward off any disparaging comments, “we have to do our duty. If this system has those big battlecruisers hiding in there the FTA is going to hear about this. Provided we ever get back.” He was mumbling by now, “Robot Guardians, doomsday battlecruisers, alien prisoners, and now this solar system. We’re finding aliens everywhere. Look, this is the first star system we’ve come to and there’s aliens in there. We’ve even got ‘em on this ship. Why’d we pick ‘em up, they were perfectly happy drifting out there in space? Who talked me into this?"
Michelle said, grinning, “I have some course options for you.”
Surprised, Jason asked, “Already?”
“Sure,” she said, “I was working while you were talking.”
Jason rolled his eyes; the task of exploring an alien infested solar system was becoming inevitable. “Alright, go ahead, what are they?”
She began by marking off two blue course lines that ran towards the red sun and inside the first planet. Another course took dead aim at the two E-type planets. A third was far more circuitous and it involved fly-bys on five of the seven planets.
“That one,” Jason indicated the more winding course.
Michelle sighed.
Jason relented, “Alright, this one.” He tossed his hands in the air. “What the hell.”
                                                           *    *    *
Ten uneventful days later they crossed the fourth planet’s orbit.
“Captain,” Michelle called quietly. She was pointing at the jiggling spectrum scanner. “We’re getting a lot of traffic over a couple hundred megacycles.”
Jason glanced at the misbehaving blue line, “Find something to listen in on.”
After a while she said, “We’re ready. After we eliminated all of the machine and telemetry signals, I’m surprised we had anything at all.”
“Put ‘em on speakers.”
There was a gush of background noise. They listened for a time but it didn’t change.
“What do you have there?” Jason asked.
Michelle could only shrug at him.
Then, in plain English language a voice said, “281 acknowledge.” And the background noise rushed back in.
“I’ll be damned,” Jason said.
“Turning,” the voice said.
“Maintain that plain,” another voice said, then a long silence.
Jason turned to Samson, “We have aliens.”
The voice spoke again, “We have you on course and on time.”
“Coming around.”
“You hit it on the first try, very good.”
Michelle broke in. “We have a long-range contact to port.” It was a flock of blips, perhaps a hundred or more out on the bare edge of the screen. “It’s too far out for a graphic.”
Jason watched the blips for a time. The aliens seemed to be in some type of churning formation, one that turned in on itself. “What other signals do you have?”
Michelle set the second frequency. “Judging by the direction, this one is coming from the third planet.”
Full orchestra classical music poured out from the bridge speakers.
Samson covered his ears. “Abominable!”
The music seemed unending.
Jason asked, “What is this?”
Michelle did not know. “I’ll try something else.” She turned to yet another frequency. Once again the sound was music and it too was in the classical style. But there was a difference this time; it carried a strong hissing noise in the background – and as the strident music marched through the melody it built strength - an energetic swirl rising in intensity like wind before a storm.
“Motivational music,” Jason said, “this stuff is just like the music they played at the academy.” He began waving his arms in time with the music.
Samson snarled.
“That hiss,” Michelle said, “it’s a carrier signal for the video portion. I’m afraid we’re too far away to sort out to see anything.”
“We’re not missing anything,” Jason surmised. “Let’s get that signal back, the one with the voices.”
They all listened.
There was a sharp snap of static then a voice. “There is a quickness to it,” it said.
“There it is again. It does not appear to be a fleet signal.”
“Give us an idea what it is. Guess if you must.”
“If we were not in fleet exercises I would say we were being scanned from the outside.”
“Maintain vigilance. Fix a position on it when you are able. This might be a general staff trick.”
“It is all over the place, a fix is impossible. The best I can do is a confidence rating of four. It might be coming out of the (unintelligible),” the voice said.
Jason’s gaze went to the LRU scope. The tiny blips there were active but nothing had changed. He had a hunch, “Shut down the LRU.”
“Why?” Samson questioned.
“Just do it.”
Jason rocked back, the speakers were quiet, and now, there wasn’t anything to see. His thoughts drifted; what were the crowds down on the lower decks around the repeater screens doing? Business out on the commercial zones would be ongoing and the people there were probably concerned with the transaction of the moment. It was likely, he guessed, that they were oblivious of the Congo’s new encounter with an alien society even though everything was being shown in the repeater screens. A few might stop and take notice but that was about all. Everything was as it should be.
The voices came back. “Rim post 281, acknowledge.” This was a new more authoritative voice.
“281 here.”
“What is it you have?”
“We are monitoring a sweeping signal of some type. It is almost as if we are under surveillance. The signal is irregular and it probably originates from a long distance. At the moment it is gone.”
Jason let out a chuckle.
“Maintain vigilance,” the voice instructed.
Jason said, “Turn the LRU back on.”
They all leaned closer to the scope. The blips returned the same as before.
“It has come back,” the voice announced.
Michelle turned to him, her eyes were wide with surprise. “What do we do now?”
“Turn the unit off.” Samson flipped a toggle and the LRU went blank.
“It is gone,” the voice reported.
Jason grinned with satisfaction. “Any recommendations?”
“Depends on what you want,” Michelle said. “Right now we’re on a course that skirts the formation. There are still two planets we want to survey. Perhaps we should take a wide route around them.”
“Undoubtedly,” Samson said, “those spacecraft come from one of those planets we’re supposed to survey. I would not want to get between them and a planetary force if they decide to be aggressive. I do think it is wise to have a closer look at them and get some measure of the type of craft they are using.”
“We know who those aliens are,” Michelle said, “they’re the bombardment aliens just like the two down in the brig.” She seemed to tense up. “I think you were right at the beginning of this, maybe we don’t need to explore this system.”
“This, I should point out,” Samson argued, “is our first alien contact in another solar system. We should not pass up an opportunity to make friendly contact.”
“But they aren’t friendly.” Michelle grew angry. “We already know that much about them. They’ve bombarded Moonbase and Eden, they did the same thing on Ganymede.”
Jason said, “I’m not looking for combat and I don’t like taking risks.” His thought immediately went to his first contact with a doomsday battlecruiser; that big ship, wounded and limping along, rattled the Congo’s teeth and he didn’t like the way it felt. But he had to say, “We don’t know anything about those ships out there and we’ve got to make contact with someone sometime. All we really know, right now, is that a couple of alien prisoners got excited when they saw a hologram. Who knows, that might be a fleet of Robot Guardians out there.” He thoughtfully scratched at his chin and not believing his own words. “The FTA would tear us to pieces if they found out we dodged a bunch of aliens without finding out something about them.” That part he believed.
Michelle expelled a nervous breath. “What’s the course?”
“Straight at the fleet, max power. If we don’t like what we see, we’ll have a running start at getting out of there.” Jason gave Samson a look. “Make sure your science team is on their toes, we’ll be making just one pass.”
Michelle reported, “New course – ETA to the fleet is forty hours approximately, two weeks to the third planet.” Once, a few months ago, she told herself that it was the therapy of adventure she needed. It had to be something exciting enough to fill a void that had existed for longer than a decade. Well, this was adventure – this was what she asked for. She glanced at the LRU scope; the little blips already seemed menacingly close.
                                                          *    *    *
The graphic displayed three vessels, one above the other. The tiny blinking cursor told him that there were other ships yet to be identified. But these three were enough. The first was a large transport/fighter, perhaps as large as two of the Congo tugs. The second vessel was a cruiser type about a third the size of the Congo itself, and lastly there was the familiar doomsday battlecruiser.
Jason was talking, “Is it possible to turn away from this formation?” He looked expectantly at Michelle.
“Our momentum will carry us well into that fleet no matter what we do now,” she answered wearily. "If we rotate and fire all engines we'll still penetrate the alien fleet."
“Okay crew, I’m looking for options.”
“The best course of action is straight through at max power,” Samson advised.
Michelle agreed.
And he couldn’t think of anything other course of action. He knew Samson would go through the formation just for the hell of it, and Michelle had acquired some nerve from somewhere. “Alright,” he said, “damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.” His nerves tingled when he looked up at the battlecruiser graphic – it wasn’t just one of them out there, there was a fleet of them directly in the Congo’s path. This was going to be a rough day.
The voice on the alien frequency had been following them carefully for most of the day, “Signal is strong, sir.” Pause. “We are getting secondary returns. Whatever it is, it is coming in our direction.”
“Have you identified the source?”
“Negative, but the image is firming up.”
“Estimate the source,” the voice insisted, “give me your best guess.”
“Sir,” the voice barked, “I have direction but I cannot determine what it is. Direction is,” pause, “182 degrees Lupus equinox, two degrees above fleet horizon, and that is an estimate at this time. The image is obscure.”
“Is there anything other than this one thing?”
“No sir. There is a pulsing scanner type sweep on 773.12 directional variable, quality 5 – our own detection unit has an ion trail return in the direction we have previously reported. There is no object in the vicinity of the ion trail.”
Jason turned to the others. “They aren’t picking up the Congo itself. They’re tracking our exhaust trail.”
“It’s the photovoltaic film on the hull,” Michelle offered. “I’ve heard maintenance people talk about how it absorbs a broad spectrum of electro-magnetic energy.”
The voice sounded again, “I think I have them! The ion trail is verified and it is very long. This must be something very large.”
“What do you have on the vessel type?”
“Nothing. We know the engine exhaust is traceable and it is huge. It is trailing an ion comma at least two thousand miles long. It must be as large as (unintelligible).”
“Maintain protocol, soldier. Military language only.”
Michelle reported, she was all business, “I have a formation schematic.” She lit up one screen where thousands of dots were arranged in a doughnut shape. Most of the alien vessels were on the perimeter, very few were near the middle.
“What is the distance to the formation?”
“A hundred fifty thousand miles.”
“We’re almost there,” Samson said.
“We’re heading into a trap,” Jason observed. Their present course would take them squarely through the middle; aliens would be all around the Congo. He backed up the cursor to where the Congo was now then followed the projected course into the formation. They would penetrate through the formation’s edge where the aliens were densely positioned, then into the vacant middle – where the formation would close in on them; the jaws of a trap snapping shut. “The large blips at the back of the formation, are they what I think they are?”
“Battlecruisers,” she answered.
Jason winced; they were going to run a gauntlet unless they thought of something.
Michelle spoke, “Why not try to contact them?”
A stunningly simple idea. They had been listening to them for hours, the language was understandable and the aliens knew they were here, what was there to lose? “Make ready communications,” Jason said.
Michelle spoke into the comm-link. “Unknown sentinel, this is the Starship Congo, please acknowledge.” They registered no response and she tried once more.
Then there was an answer.
“No one is supposed to be on this frequency,” the voice said.
“Unknown sentinel, this is the Starship Congo. We expect to pass your position soon. Please acknowledge.”
“Who is this?”
“This is the Starship Congo.”
A long pause ensued. “There is no Congo in the fleet. Identify yourselves or face certain destruction.”
“This is the Starship Congo,” she repeated, “we are not of your fleet or from your solar system.”
Pause. “Come on, who is this?” Then in a low whisper, “Is that you Klinket?”
Michelle shrugged.
Samson belly-laughed.
Another voice broke in, “Post 281, what do you report on that contact?”
“Sir, I have been talking with them. They refuse to identify themselves.”
“What have they said?”
“Sir, they claim to be from another solar system. They call themselves the Starship Congo and they speak military so I assumed it was one of ours. Could be from the general staff, sir.”
“They used military, you say?”
“Yessir. I would think they are listening right now.”
Pause. “Try and contact them, soldier. I want to hear this for myself.”
“Congo, Congo, this is post 281, speak.”
“This is the Congo.”
“Stand by,” and the frequency fell silent.
“Look!” Samson pointed up to the formation schematic; it was changing. Thousands of the alien ships had abandoned the churning formation and were on the move into the vacant middle.
“Time to contact?”
“Nineteen minutes.”
There remained no doubt what the alien fleet intended.
“If we can make a course change, no matter how slight,” Jason said, “this is the time to be plotting it out. Get it ready, we may need it.” If they moved now the fleet would merely follow, but as time passed their ability to make a course change lessened. This was going to be tricky. He turned to Samson, “Make sure those aliens down in the brig have a repeater screen to watch."
“They have one. I will have it turned on.”
“Good, make sure they see this. We may want to talk with them later.”
“They can witness the destruction of their fleet,” Samson said with his usual bluster.
Michelle called out. “We have an incoming communication.”
“On speakers.”
“Invader spacecraft, Congo, this is General Roussel.” The voice thundered in a way that brought a smile to Samson’s face.
“This is the Congo,” Jason responded.
“To whom of your puny race am I speaking?” the General growled.
Samson erupted in a burst of laughter.
“This is Jason Click, Captain of the Congo. Our visit is intended to be peaceful and we wish to pass through.”
“Captain Click.” Pause. “It is obvious that you are an invader. You have no business here. You have unlawfully entered a protected zone of the Lupan Invincible Forces, you will, therefore, suffer the consequences.”
Samson’s smile evaporated.
Jason squirmed in the old acceleration chair making the leather crackle and squeak. “General Roussel, we come from a distant solar system. I think you should consider that we have not come this far unprepared.”
“Captain Click, it does not matter to me where you have been or your place of origin. What is important is that you are an invader, a trespasser and you will be handled, as trespassers must. You are but a single vessel and we are many; open your eyes and gaze upon your fate.”
Jason smoldered. “Listen, weasel brain, you came to my planet and bombarded places where the innocent live. You destroyed spacecraft, you took shots at everything and anything, and you did it without provocation. Your insults pile up; one of those heaps of flying junk you used to bomb my home took a few shots at us out in open space, and that was for no good reason too. Well, it’s just like I told you, we’re still in one piece after all that and we intend to stay that way.”
Samson regained a grin. “I didn’t think you little guys had it in you.”
“Contact imminent.”
The comm-link fell silent. Apparently the General wasn’t going to respond. Within seconds, light weapons fire began to splash over the shields in a gossamer-thin film of blue.
“Laser fire at will, take any target,” Jason ordered.
                                                            *    *    *
He was dark and large in the low light of the battle-command bridge. Four full rows of silver medallions over the heavy black combat-cloak declared to any observer his bravery under fire, and the black shoulder-length military-cut hair gave him a much-coveted dashing, yet menacing demeanor. He was the arch-typical general of the Lupan Invincible Force.
As he strode to the edge of the command platform, his medallions glinted in the perimeter lights. He addressed those at the tactical table, the junior officers of his team, “What is “weasel brain” and what bombardment was this alien Captain talking about?”
One of them said, “This renegade invader had come for revenge. A puny effort; there is but one of them, this must be a suicide mission.”
They had not answered either of his questions. He stared at each of the five officers who hovered over the tactical table giving them time for further words. But none were forthcoming. He released them from his gaze – and they returned to their duties on the lighted table and the thousands of colored symbols there. He was certain the alien Captain had insulted him. Even if this was to be expected, he had not understood the insult and that could not be tolerated - the alien may have bested him in the exchange. No one had ever gotten away with that. The alien vessel must be destroyed. It no longer mattered that his curiosity had been aroused about the origins and capabilities of this single vessel; honor came before all else.
“First Officer, what is your interpretation of the invader’s intent?”
One from the table turned and snapped to attention. “General Roussel, we are able to determine the alien trajectory and it will pass through our defense line. We do not have any indication of a strategy beyond that.”
“Tell me what capabilities this vessel of unknown origin has.”
“We have not gained a visual of the vessel, it is much too far from our observation ship. We believe it is equipped with five engines using hydrogen fuel to power it. This vessel leaves behind a significant ion trail.”
“Anything else, weapons?”
“We do not know of any weapons at this time.”
There was something else; he could sense it. “Yet, you think you know something about them. Out with it.”
The First Officer shifted anxiously. “General, there were reports from the Terran spy network of black ships with extraordinary capabilities. This vessel could be one of them.”
Yes, he recalled those reports. General Tracken issued warning bulletins about them. Those pesky little robotic vessels of the Terrans had run into something that gave them trouble. General Tracken had to report something to justify his elaborate spy network and even if his report had an element of value to it, the events described were far from here, thus it was irrelevant per the current situation. Yet, Tracken claimed to have dispatched three battlecruiser class vessels to a minor moon that had barely enough inhabitants to call it settled, and lost two of his fleet to these mysterious black ships. It was a cover up. Such a report had to be a preposterous fabrication. Tracken had lost face, he was certain of it.
The General acknowledged the First Officer’s suggestion. “A single vessel of dubious origin has invaded our military exercise. This is an unprecedented opportunity. I suspect everyone is cheering with excitement.”
“General, we should guard against overconfidence.”
“You think you know this alien vessel? Tell me what we can do to make a game of this for the fleet.” The General paced behind the railing of the two-step high platform. “Yes, tell me what you know about General Tracken’s abortive expedition and the lessons learned there, if any. And tell me what measures you feel we may take to relieve over-confidence.”
“Sir, already the alien has engaged the fighters in the initial defense line. We will soon discover the capabilities of this intruder.” He did not respond to the General’s disdain of General Tracken and his reports, nor was he expected to respond.
General Roussel nodded at that; but he was weary of all the cautions being thrown in his direction so he found a chair to rest in.  He hoped the alien would not be destroyed too soon. “Report to me the damage inflicted by our rim fighter squadrons as soon as that information becomes available.”
“The alien vessel has passed through the rim fighter squadrons with no reported damage. The squadrons report damage to twenty-three fighters craft from the alien’s energy pulsing weapons.”
No reported damage to the alien, it was a haunting thought. This was just one alien spacecraft against his fleet and already there were twenty-three casualties. He tried to recall the details of Tracken’s briefing report - it was just luck that Tracken’s task force discovered this moon. Tracken guessed that it was a lost colony of the Terrans; that was his justification for the attack. Lupan historians have long claimed that a colony existed but it was younger than the Lupus settlement by hundreds of thousands of years. But these black-ship stories kept creeping into the General Staff reports. It was simply inconceivable that a colony younger than Lupus was technologically superior. A better bet was that the General Staff had worked something up and they were springing it on him right now. Yes, that was it. Those alleged aliens spoke military, did they not? The language was heard on Terra in religious ceremonies, but it wasn’t heard anywhere else. And this spacecraft was absolutely not from Terra.
General Roussel ventured a little smile. The General Staff was testing him, how wonderful.
“The alien is on course, General, we have a visual. Standby.”
A jiggling image of something dark covered the screen above the tactical table. Were it not for a long trail of white exhaust flame they might not have seen it at all.
“Four minutes to contact with our main defense line.”
This spacecraft did not look like something the General Staff would dream up; in fact it appeared very alien. Everything on it was round as if aerodynamics were a consideration. Where was the customary statuesque Command Bridge, the massive bulges housing the gunnery squads and the red insignia of sun and sword to tell the universe that this was the Lucifer Fleet? Only on the battlecruisers with their specialized crew had the General Staff permitted a design differential.
The image bounced making his intense study of it difficult. But it was an all-black spacecraft.
“The infamous black ship will now face an armada of four hundred combat class destroyers. Nothing can survive the firepower they deliver, not even our own battlecruisers.” The General checked the tactical board. He traced the alien’s course from the point of entry through the fighter screen across to the waiting destroyers. It was then he realized what was wrong, the alien was traveling too fast. The destroyers would not be able to focus a concentrated barrage. The black ship will be past them before weapons lock-on could take place.
“Contact imminent.”
A burst of yellow grew from the side of the black ship, then another. Both lightning bolts reached outward and disappeared off the screen.
“What was that?’ The General barked.
Again the yellow lightning erupted, and again. It kept firing, again and again.
“General, twelve destroyers have been fatally damaged.”
“Why are we not blasting that ship into a million pieces?”
“General, we are firing every weapon we have. No damage to the alien vessel has been reported.”
General Roussel paced back and forth across the command platform.
“General, the battlecruisers are in formation as ordered.”
A glance at the situation board showed the battlecruisers lined up in two orderly rows, one on either side of the alien’s projected course. He could almost see the battlecruisers ranging their weapons, preparing for a moving target coming down the middle of the "Gauntlet of Death". A tight grin crossed his lips. Soon it would all be over. A battlecruiser could level entire colonies; no black ship was going through an entire fleet of them. He felt much better; in fact, he began to wonder why he had worried at all.
Minutes ticked by. He kept an eye on the visual and noted that the clarity had measurably improved. White flame from the exhaust had become very pronounced and he thought he could pick out a small raised bridge. Then, quite suddenly, an unmistakable burst of thrusters turned the black ship. It seemed to both roll and turn, and it happened very quickly.
“What are they doing?” His demand was near panic.
A curtain of blue streaked outward from the edges of the black ship’s flat fuselage apparently aiming at hundreds of unseen targets.
“General, the alien vessel has changed course.”
“Calculate the change immediately.”
The First Officer huddled with his lieutenants, then said, “General, the new course will take them outside the battlecruiser gauntlet.”
“Estimated time of arrival at the battlecruiser formation?”
“Seven minutes approximately, not sufficient time for a change of formation, sir.”
Not enough time. That devilish black ship was going to skirt the battlecruisers. Damn, he cursed his luck. The chair squeaked in protest as he slumped into it. He barely noticed the first of the yellow lightning spewing from the black ship.
“General, the battlecruisers are reporting heavy damage.”
General Roussel swiveled his command chair away from the tactical table and the visual. He wished to see no more.
“General . . . there are reports of heavy damage . . . General . . . the alien vessel is leaving the formation on a course of . . .”
That alien black ship was devilishly clever. It had weapons from hell and it was invulnerable in battle. He had to have one of those. A fleet of them could rule the universe. But how, the General racked his brain, how to acquire one?
                                                           *    *    *
“They did what?”
“The Chief of Security said the aliens hung themselves. They are dead.”
“What kind of people are these?” Michelle groaned. “We were almost at their home planet, we could have taken them home.”
“What does security say about it?” Jason asked.
“These aliens are a militaristic bunch,” Samson explained. “They go for that honor, the glory of victory kind-of-stuff. We disgraced them when we charged through their fleet.”
Jason’s gaze drifted up to the screens. There was a planet there, the third one the Science Team said, that swarmed with population. The LRU showed thousands of orbital blips. In the background the red sun was in the receding stage of a minor flare and red was everywhere.
A vision of hell. 
   

[Gerald Lively]

                                                       CHAPTER  TWENTY 


                                                  January 2153 – Moonbase.


The man seemed extraordinarily tall to her.  He towered far above her desk and leaned in her direction when he spoke to her. She almost had to look straight up at him. And she liked his tailored jumpsuit; all black and trim at the waist and tight around the bottom. The terminal told of his appointment, it was with the FTA Executive Director. She re-appraised the big elegant man. He must be important. Others had stood there before her desk and others had loomed tall but none had been so appealing.
The terminal signaled her, the Executive Director was ready to receive the man from Eden.
 “This way please.”
She scurried down the long hallway almost at the speed of a trot, struggling to look graceful while staying ahead of the Eden Emissary who devoured the hallway in long easy strides.
A secretary with a pasted-on smile rose to direct the Emissary to the inner office. Soft grey carpet cushioned his steps. Sam Yamato waited behind the desk. “How may I help you?” he asked.
“I am here representing the interests of Eden,” Jamison said as he presented his credentials to the FTA Executive Director.
“I would hardly expect you to do otherwise.” Humor came easy to Sam; he chuckled at his own remark. “It says here that you’re a special emissary. Special? Meaning what?”
“I have special news that I am certain you will receive with grave concern,” Jamison said. “I do hope this is a good time.”
“Why would it not be a good time?”
“The old Executive Director has recently passed away and . . .”
Sam’s good humor faded. If this was to be bad news, no time was a good time and the man from Eden was probably lucky Chief wasn’t here to receive the news, whatever it was. “It seems to me that you have come a long way to say something,” Sam shrugged, “so say it.”
Jamison was edgy. “The Governor of Eden, as leader of the people of Eden, has declared independence from any other government or organization.”
Sam waited for another statement. But the Eden emissary just said the one sentence and nothing more. Eden was way out there, unique in the distance that it was from any other settlement of humans, and as far as he knew, it wasn’t organized under any national identity. And no one claimed it. “So what?”
“In doing so, Eden has declared itself free from external regulation. I have this declaration in writing.” He passed a paper across the desk.
“Okay, what does this mean to me? I’m just a temporary Director of the FTA, not some government stiff, you know.”
“The FTA might as well be a government for it has such control of commerce that it influences the economic pursuits of nations.”
“I get it, Eden has some gripe. Right?”
“Eden believes it has been limited in its economic pursuits. Eden blames no one for this and will accept responsibility for its own destiny. If the FTA wants an arrangement with Eden an agreement can be negotiated.”
“What’s this all about? Something is not being said here.”
“This begins with the FTA denial to Eden to purchase a fleet of cargo carriers.”
“What is Eden going to do?”
“Certain steps have been taken towards the goal of economic diversification. I believe we will further develop our agriculture potential and we will begin certain endeavors in mining and manufacturing.”
“Stop this diplomatic beating around the bush, what the hell have you people done?”
Jamison flinched visibly. “The government of Eden,” he took one deep breath, “has taken possession of the support station presently in the Eden orbits and is operating the facility as an arm of the government. It has also declared annexation of the entire Alpha Centauri Star system and all planets, moons and satellites within that system.”
There was a pause before Sam said, “I suppose that includes the Proxima and Alpha mining facilities?”
 “That is correct.”
Another long pause. “Economic diversification, I suppose.”
“That is also correct.”
“You know,” Sam wrinkled up his nose, “the FTA and SatMan have put a lot into those mines. I think they have some ability to claim ownership, don’t you?”
“The Free Trade Association is not a government, neither is SatMan. While both can own land and facilities they do not make decisions as to the overlying nationality of the territory. And neither has operated these mines for twenty-five years or more. If a technical label must be attached to Eden’s action on these mines, then declare them nationalized. Now, by written agreement between SatMan and the FTA dated July 2134, both must operate in the economic interests of Earth nations and Moonbase. Eden has not been a consideration. Eden, therefore is not bound by those agreements or any interpretations of those agreements.”
Sam did not like the sound of this. “And the support station, was it abandoned?”
“The support station is in our air space and its function was to control the orbital environs around Eden. Eden will not tolerate that situation any longer. You may send a fleet of tugs and tow the facility back to Moonbase or you may leave it where it is. This is your choice.”
“You have us surrounded. You know we can’t tow the support station back here. So what about exports?”
“Agri-exports are a matter of shipping and in that you have several options; you can send a fleet of carriers or you could sell such a fleet to the Eden government, or you may wait until Eden develops its own fleet.”
“Eden pulled off a revolution when we weren’t even looking." Sam scratched his chin. "I suppose export traffic will suffer if we show up and destroy that support station.”
Jamison knew the answer to that and so did Sam.
“Well, young man, how much time do we have?”
“No time, the declaration has been made by Eden and officially delivered to you.”
Sam wryly looked at the Eden Emissary. “You know, I had a revolution on my hands once. As it happened the people pulling off that revolution didn’t know they were doing a revolution, even after they won the thing. This time Eden pulls off a revolution and we didn’t know this time. Kind of crazy, huh.”
“Time changes everything.”
“The smart ones see change coming.” Sam raised an eyebrow, “I didn’t see this one coming.”
“If it is any consolation, neither did I.”

[Gerald Lively]

                                                            CHAPTER  TWENTY  ONE


                                 May 2153 – Giclas 51-15 System - Terra.


Light streamed down to the carpet of damp green ferns around them. Jason visually traced one of the tree trunks up into the deeper shadows of the high branches, then further up where the loftier limbs bathed in the brilliance of the artificial daylight. Some of the trees in the grove reached up eighty feet, so he had been informed. He strained to see the tops of them.
Michelle waited on the swinging bench. When he finally looked back she patted the empty seat next to her inviting him to sit. Jason abandoned the gazebo rail to take a place on the swing. He immediately pushed with both legs raising the swinging movement to long easy arcs. He pushed again and achieved even greater altitudes.
“Why do men always do that?”
Jason contemplated another push but her frown overruled the thought. “Do what?” he asked.
“Try to make this a thrill ride.”
“So you have a lot of men come here, do you?”
Michelle felt a flush sweep up to her face. “It’s a nice place. It’s almost romantic.”
He had to agree, it was pleasant, comfortable and reasonably private. He went to the railing again and gazed out into the deep cool shadows. It was at times like this that he had to remind himself that all of this was inside a metal spacecraft hurtling through the vacuum of space.
Michelle sidled up beside him. She wore an expectant look but she said nothing.
Sometimes he would watch her and wonder about life aboard the Congo when it was a rambling pioneering enterprise, and what it felt like to be among those adventurous few. To be sure, others had ventured out before the Congo’s initial flight but those were engineers and miners on large slow moving transports. The Congo had no boundaries and no plan. They possessed only their freedom and the opportunities of a wide-open universe. He craved to hear her talk about those times but she never brought them up. He wanted to ask about those days.
Now, he turned to her ready to ask but there was an anxiousness in her eyes that he did not recognize, it made him pause. They were saying something, something . . . “The forest almost needs bird sounds, doesn’t it?” he managed to say.
They were locked in a dew-eyed stare.
“Yes,” she said and moved a step closer.
He was suddenly gripped by nervousness.
She bumped up against him and almost involuntarily his arm slipped around her waist. He could feel the slenderness of her now, and the rapid breathing against his chest. It was then that he realized what was happening. This was Michelle Santorini who had bumped up against him. She was the foremost exploration pilot among all those of Earth, a member of the original Congo crew, co-founder of the FTA and . . .
A communicator buzzed.
At first he did not realize whose it was but Michelle reached for her unit. “What is it?” she snapped. Then she looked at him. “This happens everytime.”
The communicator voice said, “We have dropped out of super-light speed at the edge of the Giclas system.”
                                                         *    *    *
She aimed a finger up at the active scanner line, “Radio traffic is heavy.”
“Run an analysis.”
“Running.” It took but a moment. “There is a string of ‘em – it’s an early warning satellite network. They should have picked us up by now.”
Jason looked at the blips with some apprehension; this was another star system and there were more aliens. The universe was crawling with them. 
“There is a strong possibility of an alien population on the second and third planets,” she said. “They are definite E types.”
Samson agreed. He reported that the science team was most interested in these planets.
“Alright,” Jason sighed, “we’ll go straight in, no point in fooling around this time. Keep a sharp lookout.” He clinched his teeth and hoped for the best.
                                                        *    *    *
The technician yawned and shook from the strain of it. Then, leaning back, he stretched his feet out above the floor placing them on the metal tabletop in front of him and folded both hands across his stomach. With one open eye, he scanned the instrument panel running across one entire wall, checking each screen and every dial, and found nothing worth an entry in his log. He adjusted the communication network gain control downward, reviewed the equipment once more, and then relaxed in his chair. Both of his eyelids collapsed beneath the overwhelming weight of imminent slumber. Soon his head bobbed in a gentle tilt. And his breathing became regular and heavy.
The fuzzy blip made its first appearance high up in the right side corner of the large detection screen. It was a mere indistinct glow. Had the technician seen it, he might have dismissed it as some sort of anomaly, but the fuzzy blip progressed from the screen’s edge and sharpened in clarity causing the detection system’s alarm to flash over the top of the screen. It was a futile alarm.
Gradually other equipment picked up the object. A telescopic lens ranged across the dark star-studded heavens until it too located the unusual object with the long glowing tail. It was the outpost computer that registered the coordinates and checked them against the findings from other equipment units. And the lens followed the computer-developed trajectory.
At that instant, the computer contacted all neighboring outpost computers, placing them on alert. Finally, the object moved to mid-screen, it was going to come very close to the outpost. But the computer had calculated that it was not on a collision course; the thing would pass harmlessly by them. Now, the telescopic lens focused down and began recording the approaching object. It was very large, black and fire spewing.
Then, in the silence of space, the object passed through their orbit course line. The outpost computer recalculated the object’s course, projected it as a looping swing around the red sun and communicated this to the inner satellite warning system. The telescopic lens swung hard around to follow the intruder and it detected the blue-white glow on the tail of it, and noted it’s diminishing size as it rapidly put distance between them. Soon, only the detection equipment took note of the intruder, as it became a fuzzy indistinct blip once again. Finally it slipped off the bottom of the screen and outside the satellite’s sensor range. 
The technician’s head rolled as he dreamed. He made a sound, and it woke him. Then, realizing that he had fallen asleep, he sat up and tried to shake the sleep away. Still rubbing his eyes, he made an attempt to survey his equipment panel. But he knew that nothing ever happened at his outpost. Even when the Lucifer Fleet was on the move they always passed some other outpost. Sure enough, all of the surrounding sectors were clear. Everything was at peace. In a half dozen breaths the technician was asleep once again.
                                                      *    *    *
Samson was huddled with the science team on the lower bridge when Jason came in. Most of them looked as if they had been up all night and they probably were, yet, all of them stood when he entered – an unexpected sign of respect - something that he had not insisted on. This was Samson’s work; he just knew it.
“We will be passing through the fourth planetary orbit in twelve hours, ten minutes,” Samson said. “So far we have passed by five satellites which appear to be a part of an early warning system. Each satellite has reacted to our presence but so far we have observed no ship movements.”
“What do we have on the fourth planet?”
“It has a mass of .8 Earth, a single moon, atmosphere and a temperature range suitable for human habitation at the equatorial latitudes. Most of the planet is too cold. There does not appear to be a population on the planet. We have identified vegetation.”
Jason let it sink in. “Lot’s of ice and snow. Could be useful, better catalog it as a find. Who knows, the FTA could be interested.”
One of the younger academy-fresh officers said, “We have preliminary data on the third planet.” He looked eager. “Two moons, it is Earth size or very close to it and it is fully vegetated. No cities or detectable settlements, there is plenty of water in the weather systems and oceans, and some lakes and rivers. This planet is capable of supporting a human population.” He grinned broadly. Samson issued him a look of approval. 
The report was encouraging. The FTA would like this; the royalties should come rolling in. It made Jason grin.
Samson said, “But that isn’t all.”
Jason’s grin evaporated. Samson was perfectly capable of killing a good time.
“One of those moons has plant life on it too. The stuff is growing like hair on a dog.”
“On a moon?”
Samson nodded.
Nothing wrong with that. In fact, they could report that to the FTA  – and collect on it as a discovery. “Catalog it.”
“And there are Robot Guardians in parking orbit around that moon.”
“Robot Guardians?” Jason wheezed. Samson was going to ruin his entire day. “How do you know that?”
There was a telescopic image on one screen. At first glance it was just a blur of greens, browns and grey. With a moment’s study, however, unwelcome shapes became evident - thousands of tiny spacecraft parked in neat orderly rows were there.
“Geez,” Jason gasped, “how many are there?”
“Fifty thousand in this parking orbit. There is the possibility of other parking orbits.”
That made Jason shake his head.
“What’s the matter, little guy scared?”
“Who me? Those are supposed to be terra-formers, right? That explains the vegetation all around here. On that planet and that moon, too.”
Samson said, “Robot Guardians are combat ships too.”
Jason frowned.
Just then Michelle stepped into the lower bridge. “Robot Guardians? Did someone say Robot Guardians?” Her eyes widened as she discovered the images on the screen. They all knew she was the only officer aboard who had any experience with the Robot Guardians, and she was not pleased.
                                                     *    *    *
The journey to the second planet was uneventful. For days before their arrival at high orbit, the Congo detected swarms of local traffic buzzing through the planet’s atmosphere and orbits. Even as the Congo approached, a few of them ventured up for a peek at the unfamiliar visitor. After that initial curiosity, however, the Congo was ignored and the swarms vanished.
Samson trudged through the doorway up from the lower bridge to his chair and flopped into it. “This planet is overbuilt,” he announced. After days of nearly around-the-clock observations, he concluded, “This planet is covered building to building, from shore to shore. Only the oceans, some lakes, and the polar caps remain undeveloped. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had buildings on the bottom of the oceans.”
Pictures of structures with unending rooflines had occupied a bridge screen for the past week, so nobody was surprised. There seemed to be no space between any surface structure. No streets were visible, no ground traffic, pedestrian or otherwise, could be seen; there was only the tops of buildings at irregular elevations and random design, and the occasional exposed wall of white or light brown.
Samson turned to another screen, “You must see this.” He clicked the screen to an image that plainly depicted a path of destruction across the monotonous continental development. “This particular swath is three hundred miles long and goes from a couple miles wide to forty miles wide. There are seventy-two of these.”
Michelle said, “The Doomsday aliens must come here regularly.”
The sight of it held some fascination for Jason. This was a completely built-out planet, so, as large as the destruction was it was insignificant compared to the entirety of the continental structure. This destruction technique had to have been an exercise in futility. Practice for the bombers.
“It has an atmosphere overburdened with carbon dioxide and there are a variety of pollutants. We think this is attributable to overpopulation and a scarcity of vegetation – which is so rare that we have questioned how a civilization survives.”
“Are they human down there?”
“Based on what we are able to see of the buildings, they are humanoid. The Robot Guardians were built by humans,” Samson said.
“Back there,” Jason said, “we did not see any population of size on a perfectly fine fully-vegetated planet and moon. Why would anyone live here when they have an opportunity to live there?”
Samson explained the science team’s theory about it, “The Robot Guardians are parked in large numbers around that moon in full view of anyone who looks. This tells us it is home for them and possibly the Terra-formers. The planet and moon may be an animal, insect and vegetation preserve for terra-forming projects but it will require an expedition to confirm that.”
 Jason peered into the screen with the endless buildings and tried to imagine what it would be like to live there. “There is another possibility; those Robot Guardians may have the people of this planet pinned down. We don’t know who controls those Robot Guardians.”
“My guess is otherwise,” Samson said.
“But that population down there is breathing non-human air. Could be the terra-formers live somewhere else.”
Samson glowered at Jason. “They are human down there, just like us. Wanna bet? Or are you gonna retreat like you little guys always do?”
“What’s the bet, big guy?”
“You buy beer at Jakes down on deck three.”
“We’ve been through this a hundred times, if I lose I pay more because you drink more.”
“Take it or leave it. You little guys never take a chance, do you?”
“It’s a bet,” Jason grumbled, “these aliens better have two heads and three arms.”
                                                           *    *    *
It was the next day when Michelle announced they had picked up a broadcast visual. It was a continuous image of a stand of trees bending, with leaves fluttering, in a vigorous wind. The wind gusts seemed to be mixed in with a subtle music that ebbed and flowed, and there seemed to be no end to it.
“It has to be on a loop. I think it’s a channel marker.”
“A channel marker,” Jason reflected, ”that means something will eventually come on this frequency.”
“Any pictures of the aliens on there?” Samson licked his lips.
The screen suddenly went blank.
“Uh oh,” Jason moaned.
“It’s never done that before,” Michelle said.
A man with a long black beard suddenly occupied the screen. He read from something off-camera and spoke in a completely unfamiliar language.
Samson’s teeth bared in a broad smile. “See you at Jake’s at three o’clock. How about it little guy?”
The bearded man read on, turning a page now and then, and maintained a steady pace. And he showed no obvious emotion and made no significant gestures. He merely read.
Jason asked, “What’s he wearing?" He squinted at the picture, "Looks like a robe or something he tossed over his shoulder.”
“Maybe he’s hiding a third arm.” Samson nudged him.
The man stopped reading. The camera went to a line drawing on a chart. The perspective was from beneath, the underside, and it was round with a large structure on one end. It was clearly the Congo.
“We are on the news,” Michelle whispered.
The line drawing vanished, replaced by a scratchy dark picture of five exhaust lights, two small flames on either side of a large exhaust flame.
“That’s us,” Jason said.
The exhaust array vanished and the man said a few more words, smiled, then the wind and swaying trees returned.
“Well,” Michelle said, “they know we’re here.”
Jason pondered their next step. “This may have been the alien’s attempt to contact us.”
“Indirect, don’t you think?”
“Could be a sociological quirk, after all, we haven’t tried to contact them.”
“Who do we call?”
She had a point. And for that matter, if you tried to transport down there, where do you land? Jason leaned on the console and gazed into the monitor trained on the surface. There was no place to land. And no one to call, maybe they could take a shot on some random frequency and just talk. Maybe the aliens might pick it up. But all of the local orbit traffic had disappeared. It was like they didn’t want to be contacted.
Samson said, “They’ve got neighbors that operate a Doomsday battlecruiser fleet. Could be they are cautious about strange spacecraft.”
“These are the people who built the Robot Guardians, remember? Doesn’t sound like a cautious people to me.”
“How about this,” Michelle said, “communication is a two way street, so why not try sending something on their frequency, the one with the channel marker? We’ll do a broadcast just like the one that man did.”
“Can’t do that. The very purpose of a channel marker is to block everything else out to save the channel for themselves,” Jason reasoned.
“We’ll power up on that frequency and block the channel marker out,” she said.
“Takes a lot of juice.”
“We can send a message of greetings and they will get an opportunity to see what we look like.”
“Come on, every space adventure video has a scene in it where the hero says to the alien, “I come in peace, I want to be your friend.””
“Alright,” Michelle placed both hands on her hips, “both of you march down to the gazebo right now. I will find someone with a camera and meet you there.” She eyed Samson, “And that includes you too. Now get!”
Samson glanced at Jason, “Don’t forget about Jakes.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“You little guys have memory problems sometimes.”
                                                          *    *    *
Perhaps for the hundredth time the video message repeated. It showed Michelle sitting comfortably, swinging on the gazebo bench. Samson and Jason stood on either side of the swing, and they all looked into the camera. Then the camera moved in close. Jason spoke, “Greetings,” he said with a toothy grin, “our visit here is intended to be a peaceful one. We wish to make contact with you and learn about you and your history. We offer this communication as a first step in a dialogue leading towards a long, friendly and mutually beneficial relationship.” Pause - he put on his most sincere expression. “We hope to hear from you soon.” The camera pulled back and panned through the forest greenery before slowly fading to black.
“I thought it was wonderful,” Michelle said.
“That was the take I clowned around in. Why didn’t you use another one?” Jason protested.
“You always look like that,” Samson remarked.
“Really . . .?”
“It was good,” Michelle said.
But it had not brought results.
They rechecked their transmission power then recalculated the power required to overcome the channel marker; the broadcast should be getting through with plenty of power to spare, and they were careful to avoid interference with the alien news reports. As best as they could determine, their greetings message had not interfered with anything except the channel marker. But the results had been zero.
Michelle had remarked once that they, “Needed another approach”. Despite their efforts to come up with something new, they hadn’t. It was Samson who acted on his own and he indeed used another approach.
He had transmitted an old entertainment video that lasted for two hours. It was a comedy fiction about someone who died by mistake and went to heaven but was sent back as another person to clear up some old business. It was supposed to be good fun but the alien news went silent for several weeks after that. There was only the channel marker.
“We still need to do something.” Jason was ready to fire up a transport and fly through the orbits. "Stir things up," he would say, "attract attention, do something to get noticed." Waiting was not in his nature.
“I have already done what I wanted to do.” Samson grinned at them.
“Maybe it is time for us to leave this planet.” Michelle said.
Jason asked, “What do you mean?”
“Let’s admit we’re out of ideas right now. Other than a small invasion, what is there to do? If we were welcome they would have responded by now.”
“The third planet is still there,” Samson said. “If it is the seed planet for the terra-formers we will want to send an exploration team. It could be invaluable to us. After we are finished we can come back and try again. Let us not admit failure yet.”
“The science team wants to do that, huh?” Jason’s thoughts were on the Robot Guardians, he had no intention of mixing it up with them and the third planet was a step closer to them. For all he knew, they could be guarding the third planet.
Michelle focused on Samson, “Are you serious?”
Jason said, “Coming away from this planet empty handed isn't so bad. It may be that the third planet is all we have. Remember the FTA, I sure don’t want them coming down on me after we found two planets and failed to come back with something. Hey, don’t forget about those Robot Guardians either.” He just wanted to mention them, again, in case everyone had forgotten, and maybe someone would say, "Hey, we better not go."   
Michelle showed concern. Running into a Robot Guardian and having to fight their way out was one thing, but going to a planet next to where more than fifty thousand of them were parked was another thing entirely. “What happens,” she asked, “when an exploration party is on the ground and the Robot Guardians start to move?”
Samson became stiffly erect, “There are times when a starship officer must accept certain risks.”
Michelle shrugged.
Jason deflated, Samson wasn't going to be talked out of this. “Third planet, here we come,” he said weakly.
                                                          *    *    *
He lifted the ornate gold cup to his lips, delicately sipped at the red wine, then brushed the residue moisture from his mustache and carefully placed the stemmed cup on the table. He gave his beard an unconscious stroke and turned to the waiting messenger.
“What is it you have?” he inquired in an overwrought whisper.
“I have been instructed to inform you that the black ship has left the proximity of our planet.” The messenger spoke the words rapidly. He must be new at this, the robed man guessed.
“Dismissed!” A wave of the hand sent the messenger bowing and backing out the door.
After all these months the black ship had finally departed. He chuckled. It was bound to happen, they could stand to be ignored for only so long. But their endurance was amazing.
He rose from straight-backed chair straightened his robes inspecting them for errant drops of wine. Then with a twist of the wrist he activated a wall mounted terminal screen. He hoped to catch a first reaction to the black ship’s departure. But he stepped back in disappointment; there was only the channel marker, that disgustingly repetitive scene in the low mountains of the Mother Planet. He made a mental note to have it changed one day soon.
Despite the ranting protestations of some others, he had admitted to himself that the feared black ship was not what was anticipated. Interpretations of Angel Fleet records had painted a picture of menace and incredible capacity for destruction. Nothing in his considerable memory had sent such shock waves through the people of Terra as those records of encounters with the black ship had. It was the first time that Angel Fleet defenses had been penetrated. He himself had felt anguish and despair, and ultimately, discouragement. But the crew of the black ship had not menaced Terra, they merely tried to communicate – and they tried it in a humorous way.
Regardless of the black ship’s crew and demeanor, he reminded himself and others, it was the black ship and others like it had taken the Promised Land from them. This was not a small thing. Terra was dying and now he might die with it.
But the black ship had found them. So the question was, what would they do?
While they were here, the black ship was an entertainment and that made for fast moving weeks and months. Perhaps a delegation should have been sent. Alas, none was. Unfortunately, the black ship had been declared “evil” prior to its arrival. Having achieved that status meant they were now untouchable. To have officially sent a delegation would have been an admission in public that the Trinity itself had made a judgmental error. Of course, the Trinity teaches that it is infallible.
He recalled questioning the “evil” designation at the time of the vote. The Book contained references to a single evil and since the Lucifer Fleet was already a declared evil, it was impossible to so label the black ship. Yet, he was overruled. The Angel Fleet had been violated and only an evil force could do that. It was probably the trauma of losing control of the Promised Land that did it. So many had pinned their hopes on the Promised Land, who could blame them?
When the black ship broadcast their well-meaning greetings in the sacred language, cries of blasphemy resounded through the sacred halls. My, how they protested. As if to turn the screws of blasphemy a bit tighter, they broadcast a rather long story that angered many. The purpose behind this entertaining episode escaped him but he was pleased that he had the foresight to record the hours long broadcast. It made him laugh like he had not laughed in years. They made glorious fun of heaven and angels, and life after death. However, one does not do that on Terra.
He tilted his head at the thought. He must view the program again. Soon.
Another glass of wine was in order. He poured from the handled cruse, still chuckling at the memory of the long broadcast.
So much had been discussed about the black ship’s blasphemy that much may have been overlooked. These people on the black ship spoke the sacred language with ease. There was an accent, but it was perfectly understandable. This raised questions, in his mind, at least. Where did they come from? There were rumors spoken in whispers that these people were from a lost second colony. Had the black ship actually come to save them, as the rumors held? Has the Trinity discarded their final chance at salvation by ignoring them? Yes, he worried about that and why not? The circumstances fit the teachings of the Book even though that required a scholar to delve deep enough to find the correct passages; selective interpretations, some would call it.
A pounding at the door intruded into his musings.
“Yes, enter,” he called out.
Another messenger. He bowed low.
“What is it?”
“I have been instructed to inform you that the black ship is on a course for the Mother Planet. It will arrive within one weeks time.” The messenger bowed deeply and waited for either a return message or dismissal.
Why go there? Why not? They have no fear of the Angel Fleet. Yet, there was nothing on the Mother Planet but wilderness. Perhaps they were just inquisitive; perhaps that is all they ever were and ever wanted, to make contact and learn. Is that not what they said in their greeting message?
The messenger held the low bow.
“Dismissed!” he barked and the messenger scurried away.
A persistent thought surfaced – they would return. They had only gone to the next planet and returning was not particularly difficult. Should they return what would he do? How would he prevent a lost opportunity if that were what it really was?
                                                          *    *    *
“Get those pressure suits secured! Put that headgear on! What is this, an old maid’s home?” Samson halted at the end of the inspection line and turned to his team. All six of them stood ready at attention. “Okay, all communication will be by comm-link. For reasons beyond my imagination, the bridge wants to hear what you have to say. Let us keep the unnecessary chatter to a minimum. We do want them to think we are professional, even if we are something else. Try and fool them this time.” Once again he stalked the line of crewmen. “Alright, begin your pressure suits tests.”
Six separate times he heard, “Pressure test complete.”
“Climb aboard!” And they scrambled into two transports. Samson leapt up to his pilot position, closed the canopy and signaled the bridge, he was ready.
“We have ignition.”
“Art-grav off, magnetic field on.”
The transports hovered. A quick thruster burst from both put them out into orbital space. “Number one and two out of the barn.”
“Glide path set, landing zone checked and locked in.”
“Telemetry on, comm-link on, camera active, the clock is running.”
And they rapidly dropped into the upper atmosphere.
Soon their vision included oceans, beaches and hills, and tree dotted valleys – and it all rushed beneath them. Ahead low mountains loomed beneath an endless carpet of pointed conifers. And they rose up until it seemed the trees would consume them but the forest parted to reveal a broad meadow where they touched down, bouncing at first then settling into a long roll to the far tree line where they came to a rest.
“We are safely down,” Samson reported. He raised the canopy. “Atmospherics good.” He jumped to the ground and began walking briskly to the edge of the meadow. The exploration team scrambled to follow.
“Atmospherics good, we will be removing headgear.” He took a long breath, the air was clean and fresh, and there was a hint of briskness mixed with the smells of forest. “Good air,” he declared.
Samson searched the tree line until he located an animal path, and followed it into the underbrush.
Someone was reporting, “Earth-like conditions, conifer forest, typical undergrowth of a near rain-forest. Grass in any open area. Bird sounds can be heard.”
“Let’s get moving.” He started down the path. “We are following an animal trail.”
The forest quickly thinned and became steeper. They stopped. “Take your specimens.” It was a process they would follow for most of the day - march, stop and take specimens – march, stop and take specimens.
Until they came to the lake.
Samson stood at the edge of a wooded knoll. They could see the water of a lake through the trees, a mere patch of sparkling blue among the green and browns of the trees. For a time he stood silent and gazed in the direction of the water, this was something he had not seen for a very long time. He started down the slope, stopping from time to time to scan the vista.
Across the lake the trees grew down to the water line leaving no beach. There were no breaks in the forest there, no roads, no animal paths, no nothing.
“Lake is in sight,” Samson said. His eyes searched the far shoreline, then the rippling blue of the lake. Then a white flash caught his eye; it was something on the near shore. He was instantly alert. Trees obscured the object, but from time to time it glared in the sunlight, and it was a definite white. And he knew of nothing in nature that was a brilliant white.
They moved closer. Samson peered into his field glasses. The object, he decided was cloth stretched between a frame of some sort.
“Congo, we have aliens up ahead,” he reported.
The camera bearer focused on the object. “You see that, Congo you getting this?”
“What is it?”
The knoll jutted out into the lake and the white cloth object was out on the point of land. They would have to negotiate the peninsula to get to it. Samson stood to his full height and started towards it. In a half dozen strides he halted. He could see them. There were ordinary people splashing in the water; they were laughing and talking with one another, and there were people sitting on the beach too – and nobody wore clothes.
Behind them, a small boat with its sail fluttering in the light breeze was tied off to a rock.
In plain view Samson walked out on the beach. A young woman saw him first. She gasped at the huge figure emerging from the forest and tried to cover herself behind a male companion. One of the men said something. Samson listened carefully but he did not understand the words. They were pointing at his face. They said something to him, again, but none of it made sense.
“I don’t understand that language,” he said.
All of them gasped. “Sacred language,” one of them said.
A woman, cowering in a half squat, started to back away into deeper water. She mumbled nervous moans.
“I have come a long way to see this planet,” he said. The woman was up to her neck by now. A man with brushy eyebrows took a brave step forward.
“Where . . did you come from?” He could barely mouth the words.
“We come from a planet called Earth.” It occurred to him then, that they had no idea what he was talking about. “It is a planet eleven light years from this place.”
“No, no,” the man said. He waved his hands as if to erase his earlier question, “I meant, how did you get to this lake?”
Samson was confused. “I just walked from our landing sight. Back that way, in a big meadow.”
“You are not from Terra?”
“I am from Earth.” Samson knew terra forming and terra firma; he had never heard of this planet called Terra. “Earth,” he said firmly. The exploration team filtered down to the beach behind him.
“They are not like you.”
Samson looked back. “Little guys, all little guys.”
“You are from the Lucifer Fleet?”
“We are not a part of any fleet. We are a single starship.”
“A single ship.” The man with the brushy eyebrows smiled. “You are not from Lupus or the Lucifer Fleet. You are from a place called Earth, you say. And we are not your prisoners?”
“You are not my prisoners.”
The man broke into a gigantic grin.
“Where is this Terra?” Samson asked.
They were nearly too ecstatic to respond. The chatter between the aliens carried obvious joy. But the man did answer, he said Terra was the next planet nearer the sun. It had once been their home.
“Why are you here?”
“There is no place such as this. Our government has promised such places for our people but they never take us there. They call such places the Promised Land. A large black ship came and took the Promised Land from us, so we came here to live.”
“I come from a black ship,” Samson announced.
In an instant their joy was transformed into questioning fear. “You?”
“My ship is black but that does not mean anything. Black is just a color.”
                                                          *    *    *
The elevator doors whooshed open. For a moment nobody made a move to step out on the main deck. They stood huddled together gawking at the trees in the eco-system. The first thing Michelle noticed was the unisex white robes they wore.
“These,” Samson gestured to those behind him, “are the aliens. Not what I expected to find.”
“Robes and sandals?” She whispered the question.
“That is their mode of dress.”
Why not, Michelle thought, she wore a jumpsuit and so did the men of the Congo. These aliens just wore something looser.
“This,” Samson said in a loud voice, “is the Pilot of the Congo.”
In an instant, all of them fell prone to the floor.
Samson shrugged.
“Why are they doing this?”
“I do not know.” He said it with more disgust than surprise.
“Come on, get up.” None moved. She tapped each on the shoulder. “Come on, get up.”
They began to rise and chattered in an unfamiliar language. A man asked, “Is this not a ship of war?”
“No, this is not a ship of war, this is my home.” Then she said, “Welcome to my home.” She bowed.
All six pressed their hands together and bowed in return.
“My name is Michelle Santorini, and yours?”
“I am Joshua. We have but one name. On Terra we have numbers. I hope that does not matter here on your wonderful ship.” Then he introduced the others. “Mr. Samson has said that we are not your prisoners, is that a correct statement?” He gave a hopeful look.
“True, you are our guests. We only wish to talk with you and learn about your home and Terra.”
More chatter ensued. Michelle waited patiently.
Joshua lifted his head from the huddle. “May we inquire what it is you want from us?”
“We wish to learn from you. There are no other requirements for your stay here. Do you wish to stay for a time, or do you wish to return to one of your planets?”
“Because we are guests,” Joshua bowed, “we choose to stay for a time.”
“Fine, I will find a place for you to live then I will introduce you to the Captain.”
 She had started to walk expecting them to follow, but they huddled again. One of them was heard saying “Captain”. They sounded frantic.
                                                          *    *    *
Joshua inspected the jumpsuit then placed it back on the display table. Most carefully he inspected the selection offered in the bin. Colors were something he had never considered wearing. It had a certain appeal, though. But jumpsuits, he couldn’t make up his mind about those. For one thing, they were nearly form fitting – everything showed. He glanced at Samson’s jumpsuit; it wasn’t unattractive. On him it seemed normal.
“How does one acquire one of these?”
Samson explained, “You purchase them. It’s an exchange of something for something else. For that jumpsuit you need either credit or something of value to the vendor.”
“How does one acquire credit and exchange?”
“Credit, is a promise to pay at a later time. One must demonstrate an ability to pay the vendor, and he must believe you.” He caught the shopkeeper’s eyes. “Over here,” he waved at the man.
Joshua asked, “Do you have credit?”
“Certainly.”
“How did you get it?”
“I am the Congo’s Operations Officer and I am paid for that service. When I am paid so shall my friends be paid.” He thumped the vendor on the shoulder nearly knocking him down. The vendor winced.
The shopkeeper’s professional gaze swept over Joshua, “You could use a change of wraps.” He tested the fabric of Joshua’s robe by rubbing it between two fingers.
 Joshua watched with great interest. He asked, “What is exchange?”
“Something the shopkeeper wants. Perhaps there is something you can trade with him.”
“I have nothing to offer this man and I have no credit. How could I possibly survive on your fine ship if this is the only method available for the acquisition of things?” He turned to the shopkeeper, “What is it you want, shopkeeper?”
The short balding man put a thoughtful hand to his chin. “I’ve never had it put to me exactly like that.”
Samson snarled, “No games.”
The shopkeeper agreed, “No games.”
“See these robes,” Samson gripped a handful of the white cloth, “this is handmade material. It’s all natural stuff. You don’t have anything like that, do you?”
Again the shopkeeper tested the fabric. “What is it?”
“It is from a plant. We pick it and spin it into thread and cloth.”
“It’s cotton,” the shopkeeper said.
“It is cotton, all of it.”
“How much of it is there in this robe?”
“Nine cubits,” Joshua answered.
The shopkeeper walked slowly around Joshua pulling at the robe here and there. “Nine or ten yards I’d say. What do you want for it?”
“One of these.” Without hesitation Joshua picked up a black and red jumpsuit.
Samson glared at the shopkeeper.
“I think we can make a deal,” the shopkeeper said.
Samson folded his massive arms in front of him.
“Listen, you’re gonna need a couple sets of under clothing. I’ll toss those in too.” A glimpse in Samson’s direction, “And I’ll throw in another jumpsuit. Here try this on and see how it fits.”
Samson grinned.
The shopkeeper exhaled relief.
Joshua dropped his robes where he stood and reached for the jumpsuit. Many people on the promenade turned to see the naked man.
                                                          *    *    *
The visible signs of life on Terra were few. The buildings were there and on the nightside of Terra the lights came on but the customary swarms of orbit craft were gone, as were the normal communications. Whatever the daily routine of living on Terra might be, it took place beneath the viewable surface.
Joshua had warned them. The Congo was classed as an “evil” and that meant many things; among them was the duty of every citizen to ignore and avoid. And there was no appeal. Possibly the Trinity itself could reverse such a designation but one did not call the Trinity on the comm-link and demand a meeting, or even ask for one.
“How does a citizen ever meet with the Trinity?” Jason was puzzled about this concept of governance. “If a citizen cannot interface with its own government, how does the government know what the people want or need?”
“A citizen does not meet with the Trinity,” Joshua explained. “An agent of the people might meet with them on rare occasions but I do not know who they are.”
“Well.” Jason groaned, “how do we find someone who can make decisions?”
“You must understand that you are “evil” so there is no one for you to talk with.”
Jason had shrugged at this; it didn’t make any sense.
“Proof of this,” Joshua continued, “is that you speak in the sacred language. Only ecclesiastics speak this language and only at services.”
“English? You talk in English.”
“It is a sin to speak in the sacred language and I have sinned.”
“But you know how to speak English.”
“Every citizen of Terra knows this language.”
The idea of it was beginning to seep through to Jason. They had broadcast their greeting message in English, and Samson’s entertainment vid was in English too. All they had accomplished was to reinforce this “evil” label. By now the entire planet must think of them as something especially abhorrent. “But we converse in English with you, there is nothing wrong in that.”
“Me and my family are outcasts. We choose this way of life, which is a life of sin because it is a life of freedom. For me it does not matter what the Trinity thinks of me for they have not kept their word. Therefore, I speak any language I choose.”
“Language is just a collection of words, how can . . .” There was no point in pursuing the question, Joshua had answered it as best as he could. It remained for Jason to understand how an entire planet of people could be convinced that an alternative language choice made outcasts of people. “Well, we’ve been back here for a month now and we’re no further along than the day we arrived. We need a fresh approach.”
And the aft-bridge became quiet where only the clicking and beeps of instruments were heard.
Finally Jason eyed Joshua, “How about it, Josh, you should have some thoughts on this?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. Any ideas on how to approach these old fogies?”
“Fogies?”
“Yeah, this Trinity bunch, how do we get to them?”
“They will hear whatever you broadcast on your video transmission. I do not believe they will respond to anything.”
Michelle said, “We can send messages and they’ll listen?  At least that’s something.”
“Okay, what do you have in mind?” Jason asked.
Michelle wore a sly grin. “If they won’t respond to us maybe they’ll respond to one of their own citizens.”
All eyes turned to Joshua.
Jason said, “Anything you wanna get off your chest, Josh?”
Joshua struggled to understand. “You want me to talk with them?”
Everyone nodded affirmatively.
“No citizen just talks to them, they pray to the Trinity.”
Samson growled, “You talk to them. Do not grovel to any person.” It sounded like an order.
“How are we gonna do this?” Jason wondered. “We’ve already talked to them, Samson tried to entertain them, nothing worked?”
 “Just open up a frequency and let Joshua go at it,” Michelle suggested.
No one had any hard disagreement with the idea and there was nothing to lose by trying. But Joshua was reluctant. So Jason was handed the responsibility for briefing Joshua, and this stretched into hours of persuasion. Joshua’s resistance wore down and in time he even welcomed the idea. “My family will wish to see this, I am going to speak to the Trinity.”
Jason was never absolutely certain Joshua understood everything. Sometimes Joshua nodded at most everything. Nevertheless, they prepared to go ahead with the broadcast.
Michelle set up on the aft-bridge, no more trees and gazebo, this time it was all business. They would use six frequencies, all of them Terran frequencies where they overpowered the channel marker. She mounted the camera from a ceiling brace and aimed it at Joshua. This would be a chest-high shot in the same style as the Terran news broadcast.
“Do you have your thoughts organized?” Michelle asked.
Joshua fidgeted nervously.
“We can record this and edit out the portions you don’t want?”
“I will have it correct the first time,” Joshua said.
“Okay, start on my signal.” She backed up to the center console then turned on the transmitter letting it run a few seconds. Every public screen on Terra should have gone blank at that moment, so any attentive screen-watcher would know something was coming. She raised one finger, held it up, then abruptly pointed at Joshua. He sat dead still.
“Josh, it's time.”
“Oh, thank you.” He bent in a polite bow. “Do you want me to look in there?” He pointed to the monitor and he seemed fascinated with his image.
Michelle gestured violently for him to start.
Joshua grinned at her.
“Start,” she growled through clinched teeth.
And Joshua turned to the camera. “Greetings from the Starship Congo,” he began. “I am a citizen of Terra and I am addressing the Trinity.” The words choked in him but he kept going. “I am speaking to the Trinity in this way so all citizens can hear.”
“I realize those words may have caused some of you to faint where you stand,” he chuckled under his breath, “yet, this is not blasphemy. It is merely a communication of information to the Trinity as well as to all citizens. For I believe this is information that all citizens should know and information on which the Trinity should act.”
“When I first met these people of the black ship, the Congo they call it, I thought they were aggressors from Lupus. They are not. Do not believe those among you who claim otherwise for they have less information than I. These are a people from a distant place and they are much different than anyone from Lupus. I know this because I have been here living among them and they are not steeped in the hatreds of Lupus nor are they burdened with the prejudices of Terra. They are free of these. They are a free people. They are a friendly people.”
“If you have the courage to meet with them and come to know them, you may also see their wisdom and what it means to be free of the constraints of hatred and useless regulation, and fear of the unknown.”
“Permit me to shock you one more time; it is necessary for you to hear this so you may understand all that follows in the days and years to come.” Joshua gulped. “These are your brothers and sisters from the second colony. Of that I am certain. They are not mythology; they are real. Their very presence is testimony that some of the Terran way of thinking about the order of things has grown erroneous. They are not the evil beings you have declared them to be. They are not out to destroy the Angel Fleet and they are not here to destroy Terra. They have done only what is natural for an adventurous people who have encountered what they have encountered and seen what they have seen.”
“It is my suspicion that many of you are still among the disbelievers. You should ask yourselves this question – they speak the sacred language – how could that be?”
“On their way to Terra this black ship visited the Lupus system, the home of the Lucifer Fleet. While there, the Lucifer Fleet attacked them. The entire fleet. I have seen videos of this. Brothers and sisters, they destroyed many in the Lucifer Fleet and they did this without damage to themselves. Can they be the evil you call them when they have done this? I do not think this is so.”
“Hear me! They are not here for conquest; they have only come to talk with you. They have not threatened, they have not used their weapons, they have only asked. It is their simple desire to exchange a few words.” Joshua’s face reddened. “Your arrogance has blocked all communication and you are worse off for it.” His lower lip began to tremble. “Your arrogance has prevented your children from coming home. They offer aid at a time when you need it most. You are subverting the prophecies of the Book.”
“The black ship has defeated the best of the Lucifer Fleet just as the Book said the savior would strike down the infidel. Why are you so blind? Salvation is here, it is before your very eyes and you do not recognize it. You are ignoring the sacred word for the sake of egotistical convenience. You do not know all of the answers and you are not infallible.” Saliva sputtered from Joshua’s lips. “You are the lowest of living things, you are what crawls at the bottom of dung heaps. Redeem yourselves or be lost forever.”
Joshua stopped. He trembled with near-convulsions.
“It’s off,” Michelle said. There was concern in her voice.
“Wow!” Jason was stunned.
“Sometimes you little guys are surprising.” Samson embraced the shaken Joshua. He would protect him.
“What was that second colony stuff?” Michelle asked.
Jason could only shrug. “You’re talking to the wrong guy. Better ask him, he seems to know about these things.”
They all gathered around Joshua.
                                                           *    *    *
It was twilight and the artificial light on the endless roofs sped swiftly beneath the alien transport. One building, many buildings, he still could not decide. The vista flashed by only a few hundred feet below and after just a few minutes he gave up on the idea of finding landmarks.
The stoic alien pilot had long ago engaged the unfamiliar guidance system and even though they were moving swiftly along a graphic glide path displayed in large fashion on the transport’s control panel; the pilot held the flight control bar firmly in his grasp.
The transport slowed. Up ahead bright light flooded outward from a wide port and they seemed to be headed straight towards it. With a jolt, the transport suddenly dropped velocity. The pilot concentrated straight ahead, never moving his head left or right. Suddenly the open port was very close, and with a rush they were inside.
“No welcome party,” Samson said. Except for them the port was empty.
“Looks like they don’t want us rubbing elbows with the people,” Jason muttered.
Joshua said, “You are surely right.”
The alien pilot raised two transport doors and climbed outside. Without a word he walked to a set of closed doors.
Jason raised a small meter to measure the atmospheric quality. It was marginal but he removed his helmet and tossed it back into the transport.
“Where to?” Michelle asked.
The pilot paused at the doors before opening one, eyed them, and then disappeared through the door and into the dark.
“Better follow him.” Jason rushed to the door and discovered that it was an elevator. The pilot stood waiting in one corner. Once they were all inside, the alien pilot worked a panel of buttons, and the drop was sudden.
“This takes some getting used to.” Michelle hung onto a rail with both hands.
The drop continued for a considerable time. There were no markings or symbols that they recognized, nothing to tell them of their progress. There was only a small click that seemed to mark one level after another. This continued for five, then ten minutes.
“How far down can this thing go?” Jason asked.
Joshua answered. “Three hundred, sometimes four hundred levels. I do not know where we are therefore I cannot determine how far we must travel.”
 The elevator began a knee-bending braking.
“Yes, this would take some getting used to.” Jason hung on. The pilot appeared unaffected.
When the doors opened the pilot exited and disappeared into the long dark corridor. Two guards made an appearance on either side of the opening. They stood tall, fully armed and they did not wear robes.
 “Stay alert,” Jason patted the laser pistol in his thigh pocket. “I don’t want any surprises.”
Samson stepped into the corridor and immediately growled in the direction of the guards – who backed up several steps.
When they gathered in the corridor one of the guards said something that only Joshua understood. The guards walked ahead. “We are to follow them,” Joshua said.
The corridor ran up to a set of doors that opened to a street. Jason looked up and down the avenue. Had he not known they were hundreds of levels below the planet’s surface he would have thought this was nighttime in some strange city. There were no people and no traffic but it was a paved street with lighting on both sides. There were stone-faced buildings that butted up to sidewalks of both sides of the street and buildings appeared to be entirely devoid of esthetic considerations.
“We’re four hundred ten levels down,” Michelle said.
Jason questioned her with his eyes.
“Josh told me. One of the guards said it.”
Jason glanced up; it was black, if there was a ceiling he couldn’t see it.
The lead guard stepped up to an all-black vehicle parked in the middle of the street. He opened a door and vigorously gestured for them to get inside.
“Oh, what have I done?” cried Joshua. “What have I done?”
“Take it easy, Josh.”
“That is a police vehicle, they are going to take us away. We will never come back.” Joshua was shaking with fear.
“These guards are only people, we can handle them,” Jason said trying to reassure him.
Samson gave Joshua an encouraging squeeze. “Don’t worry, little guy.”
They climbed in and the vehicle was noiselessly on it’s way.
“Tell us about this Trinity,” Jason asked. He wanted Josh to think of something besides fear.
“People never come back after they get inside a police vehicle. This I have seen.”
“Josh, they’re taking us to see this Trinity of yours. We’re not going anywhere else.” Jason glanced out the window. “At least that’s where I think they’re taking us.”
Joshua, trembling, shrunk into the seat next to Samson.
The vehicle stopped. They were in front of another unmarked building. The guards climbed out and walked up to a very large door. How they determined that this was their destination, he did not know. Jason searched up and down the street for some marker or sign; there were only windows, doors and plain walls, and no open space except straight up into blackness.
Joshua was sobbing uncontrollably.
“Quiet, Josh.” Samson guided him up to the door.
There the guard stopped. It was obvious that they intended to go no further. Jason became suspicious. He eyed the door to the building; it was utterly plain and without identification, but the guards insisted they go inside. Jason drew his weapon, the guards did not object. They went inside.
They were in a very large vestibule with ceilings forty or fifty feet high. There were no furnishings. Another set of closed doors, perhaps twenty-five feet tall and arching across the top, waited just ahead of them. Michelle pushed at one of them; it swung open easily.
It was cold and quiet, inside. Their footsteps echoed on a polished stone floor that ran several hundred feet to a railing, a platform, then a highly ornate back wall. Arches jumped from pillar to pillar down each side of the room. The middle area was completely vacant, but just the other side of the elaborately decorated arches, in the shadows, rested rows of benches, all facing forward.  High above, a vaulted ceiling met in crowns at a half dozen places and the entire ceiling was painted with fanciful scenes of over-weight women and robed men.
Jason peered into the dense shadows beyond the pillars on the left side. The rows of benches appeared to be empty.
Jason whispered, “Samson, you and Josh go over there.” He gestured to the pillars on the far side of the room. “We’ll work our way down here.” He squeezed the pistol in his hand and crept silently from pillar to pillar, listening and watching. He searched every shadow and looked down each bench – and advanced to the hip-high railing at the far end. There they halted.
Three elaborately decorated straight back chairs rested on a slight platform inside the rail.
“No one is here,” Samson said, igniting echoes in the room.
Jason holstered his laser.
Michelle quipped, “Those chairs aren’t for us, you know.”
“No, no,” Joshua shook his head, “they are for the Trinity. I have seen them on the tele-monitor many times. This is where they sit.”
“Where are they?”
Joshua shrugged. “I do not know. I have never been here before this time.”
Noises from behind the stage reached them, someone was coming.
Three men in long flowing robes walked from behind a partition at the back of the platform. One was young compared to the other two, and one was definitely the senior of the group. As they took their places, each glanced up as if to take a measure of their uncommon audience. Joshua collapsed to the floor mumbling an unintelligible chant. The command crew of the Congo stood alertly tall.
The elder of them spoke first. “You are the Captain of this visiting starship?” He stared straight at Jason.
“Yes, I am.”
“The remainder of you?” He waved an arm suggesting there be introductions.
“This is Michelle Santorini, the Congo’s Pilot. This is Samson Hiva, the Congo’s Operations Officer.”
“A woman among your ship’s officers?” the elder questioned.
Jason chafed. “She is the most experienced among us. She was the first to successfully defend against your Robot Guardians, the Angel Fleet, I believe you call them.”
“She?” He raised a set of very surprised eyebrows. “Such a beauty and so able a combatant.” His eyes lingered.
“And this one,” he pointed to the prone Joshua, “I presume is the speechmaker.”
Joshua quivered and made little moaning sounds.
The elder turned to Jason. “Just what is it we may do for you?”
“We only wish to be accepted as peaceful visitors so we may learn from you.”
“Nothing else?”
Michelle spoke, “We need nothing from you. Our mission is exploration. We simply came across your civilization and we are curious.”
The youngest of them said, “How is it you come here, claiming peaceful intentions and you consort with our enemies?” He extended a robed arm in Joshua’s direction. “Especially when you have this enemy of the people expound blasphemous utterances over a broadcast for all citizens to hear while arrogantly demanding an audience with this triumvirate head of state and spiritual leadership of all humankind? How is it that you defile us by using the sacred language which is reserved for use by the ordained?”
Jason backed up a step from the rail then let his hands dangle freely at his sides. He guessed that if a surprise assault, or whatever, was going to happen, it was going to be now. “You are not a peaceful man, I can see that. And you are not a man who is at peace with himself. You lack tolerance and you have no concept of things beyond your nose.”
Joshua groaned.
Jason continued, “And you are not some of the other things you claim to be; you are not my spiritual leader nor are you the spiritual leader of any of the billions of people who live on my home planet. Further, I will speak the language of my choice. You will not choose for me. I will associate with anyone I choose and I will think as I wish. If I were you I would be embarrassed to claim I was the leader of anything.”
The young one jumped to his feet.
Jason was ready; he raised a hand filled with a laser. It was up to the enraged man on the platform.
“Enough,” bellowed the elder. “Sit! There are clearly societal standards here that we are not familiar with, and ones that we must learn. Let us remain patient.”
“My standards are those of liberty,” Jason grumbled.
“Calm, let us have calm,” the elder implored.
“If either of us needs something from the other,” Jason said, “it seems to me you need us.”
“How is it we need something from you, Captain?”
“This planet is dead. That anyone lives in this environment is a credit to human resiliency. Add to that your enemies in the Wolf system, Lupus I think you call it, who have a most capable fleet of spacecraft and can lay waste to this undefended planet with only a modest effort. I would say you are in trouble. The clock is ticking on this planet; time is against you. I hear of the many promises made by you and I hear of them broken. The situation here is hopeless. Given the option, I think every citizen on this planet would leave.”
“Bluntly put, young man. Assume these ideas to be true, how is it you can help where we cannot help ourselves?”
The young one blurted out an angry question, “What business is it of yours?”
Joshua crawled to Jason and tugged at his ankle. Jason shook him off. “I represent my people in the area of commerce. Each of us should be able to find something that the other is interested in. Right here, right now, we can begin a commercial trade industry.”
“What is it you have that we may desire?”
“We have a colony called Eden and it needs good people. It is a world much like the planet next to Terra.”
“You speak of trade, what is there of ours that you wish?”
“You have the Angel Fleet and they performed a successful terra-forming project. We wish to learn how that is done.”
The young one burst out, “You are arrogant beyond belief. The Angel Fleet is sacred.”
“I am not arrogant,” Jason answered, “I am basic. I see what people need and I offer to fill those needs. What I speak of is fundamental to the idea of commerce between people.”
From the far end of the platform, the silent third man spoke. “Young man,” he said to Jason, “you must understand that we are

[Gerald Lively]

                                             CHAPTER  TWENTY  TWO


                                                September 2154 – Eden.


Janice Gilchrist’s gaze was intent on him. “What is this surprise? You know I don’t like surprises.”
Niki Chong could only smile.
That meant it wasn’t bad news. Niki wouldn’t smile at bad news; he was the most sincere person she knew. “A governor can’t go charging off at any whim, you know.”
“You’re not the governor anymore.” He nudged her towards the transport dock facility.
True enough, she wasn’t a governor anymore. She was the temporary head of government since no title had been bestowed on the position as yet. And she filled the position only until the spring elections – so far she was unopposed in the contest. It was still early, she was fond of saying to those who asked about the possibility of opposition, but it was unlikely anyone would challenge her in the contest. She had been a very popular governor.
The transport waited at the dock with an open side hatch. Someone had gone through the trouble of securing the busy dock facility and had pressurized the loading area. There was some sort of plan afoot. “Can’t you tell me anything about where we’re going?”
“It is a surprise but I can say that we’re going for a ride in the orbits.”
“What is this surprise?”
“You will just have to wait. It will do no good to become impatient with me.”
She rolled her eyes, “I’m warning you, Niki, this better be good.”
“Listen, I have already cleared this with your staff. They know everything. Besides, you know I have been working on something, you have made inquiries about it.”
“I didn’t find out anything.”
“I know,” he smiled, pleased with himself. “I made sure by telling everything to your spies.”
“You bought them off?”
“With knowledge.”
“They didn’t tell me anything. Sometimes I wonder who’s really running this government.” She recalled the various reports that seemed to say something, yet said nothing.
Niki gently pushed her into the transport and tossed a restraining harness into her lap. “Come on, strap in, your virtue isn’t threatened.”
The transport lifted from the magnetic hold on the landing platform and hovered a fraction of an inch above the half-acre metal plate. “Eden Traffic, Governor’s transport is loose.”
“Orbit is clear, depressurization complete, launch when ready.”
A quick burst of thruster power put them outside the station. Niki lit the engine, aimed down orbit and they were away. It was mere minutes before he pointed to something ahead. “There it is.”
She squinted but saw nothing.
“Right out there.”
There was a glint from something metallic. It was just a flash then it was gone, but it quickly grew into an object. Then it became a gleaming spacecraft.
“What is it?” She failed to recognize the class of ship; in fact she was certain she had never seen anything like it. The entire vessel was no more than twenty percent as long as a Congo class starship. There were two primary engines astride one main engine in the propulsion array. It was more than enough to move a vessel of that size.
“It is your new frigate. This is the prototype.”
Her eyes brightened above a large smile. “The frigate we’ve always dreamed about!”
A set of large bay doors opened admitting the transport.
“Welcome aboard the new “J” class frigate.”
“J class?”
“J for Janice,” he said.
Tears welled up; she was about to say something but stopped.
Niki shrugged, “Beats calling it the Gilchrist class.”
She was still beaming when they threaded their way through the spacecraft to the bridge. Niki was profusely apologizing because the frigate hull was not covered with a photovoltaic film. It was planned, he said, but the shipment hadn’t come in from Moonbase. He was talking about crew size, three was the minimum but it could accommodate fifty people. It used standard hydrogen canisters, had shields that could be shaped to collect free hydrogen; the same as any starship. It could out maneuver a starship and go just as fast, but it wasn’t large enough to house a complete eco-system. This was Eden’s new generation of spacecraft.
Niki coaxed her into the Captain’s chair. “Tell it what you want it to do.”
“Talk to it?”
“Sure, the operations computer will recognize your voice patterns, that is if you will stop sniffling.”
She damped her eyes. “What do I say?”
“Anything you want. The computer’s name is Janice, it’ll help if you start each command with her name.”
“Her?” Again the tears ran down her cheeks.
“Go ahead.”
“Janice,” she said in a tentative voice.
“Is this the Captain?” the ops-computer asked. It was an exact replication of her voice.
She smiled. “Yes, this is the Captain.”
“All systems are ready for flight. Do you have a destination?”
“Take us once around Eden in high orbit.”
“Flight will commence in twenty seconds.” Ignition followed immediately.
                                                           *    *    *
The traffic tech stalked the area behind the circular console. His practiced eyes scanned a series of scopes and found nothing of concern. He punched in several instructions and the response told him the Governor’s frigate wouldn’t come up orbit into his zone of control for another ten minutes.
Ten minutes, he reflected, it was not a very long time from now. He placed himself before the detection screens and prepared for the watch and wait. Traffic-ops called, something big was being towed from Proxima; it was most likely another platform section for the orbiting cities - they wanted a half-dozen tugs to help control the object before they reached the orbits. Three incoming Earthside cargo carriers were due; the parking orbit was already cleared and waiting for them. Except for the Governor’s frigate, it was routine day. But today he was going to be introduced to something new; he was going to see a new vessel with a new look and, undoubtedly, with new problems.
 Nothing on radar, all clear.
He began to relax. It would come. 
“Eden control, this is J frigate.”
 The detection screens showed nothing. He quickly searched through the transparencies; there was nothing in sight. “J frigate, this is Eden Traffic, orbits are clear for approach. You are not on our screens, please provide coordinates.”
“Eden Traffic, we are approaching up orbit just now clearing the horizon.”
“All lanes are clear. We are not getting you.”
Then suddenly they were there, exactly in the station’s orbit path. “I have you now, J frigate. What did you do?”
“New shields, Eden Traffic, just testing new shields.”
The blip advanced steadily. “J frigate, you are in the glide path. Continue on present course to 50 miles and park.”
“Roger Eden Traffic, we are in retro-fire.”
He could see the distant flash. “We have you in sight, J frigate.” He lifted another switch. “Clear docking bay 015.” He went to the binoculars. There was an irregular sparkle of metal hull but the frigate was still too distant to make out. Later, he would set up a real-time visual and make a record of the historic frigate.
“Retro-fire complete.”
He waited for another fifteen minutes for the transport to make its way in from the frigate.
“Request docking instructions.”
“Proceed to dock oh one five.”
“Roger, Traffic.”
He could see it now, a standard sharp-nosed transport speeding towards the support station.
“You are clear for entry.”
Roger to 015.”
There was nothing for him to do now but watch as the transport maneuvered to the dock. It slowed, made a course adjustment and set itself for a straight-in approach. Suddenly, out on the edge of his field of vision, a brilliant yellow light erupted like he had never seen before. The transport seemed to jump when the bolt of lightning streaked through it. By the time the lightning vanished, the transport was no longer there.
With only a reflex motion left in him, he hit the attack alarm. But he never took his eyes from the spot where the transport had been.
Station shields were coming on and nothing could enter or depart. The Eden surface link would have sounded an alarm by now and any vessel in a position to do so would have started a retreat away from the support station back down to the surface. Eden’s own alarm system would be blasting alert messages to anything capable of hearing them, and a communications alarm would be going out to all incoming traffic.
But the Traffic Technician stood stunned. He could only stare at the spreading pattern of debris. There was a refrain running through his immediate thoughts; it kept repeating itself saying something about “only the good die young”.

[Gerald Lively]

                                               CHAPTER  TWENTY  THREE


                   August 2157 – Enroute from Terra to Earth aboard the Congo.


She hesitated, unsure of herself. The crowd chanted. Eventually she would give in to them; it was only a matter of time and she knew that. With a surprising burst of energy, she jumped up on top of a table and wiggled in a tentative dance. There was the shaking of her hips and the pushing out of her chest, then she climbed down apparently overcome by her own embarrassment. But the shouts of encouragement thundered. The small crowd hooted and found unison of voice, “more, more, more!”
She hoisted a glass in a toast of thanks, stood and drained the contents of it only to regain her chair and huddle with female companions in a giggling discourse.
The chant raged on. “More, more, more . . .” The call gained momentum. Others joined the group and the chant, and the raising of drinking glasses.
Chief of Security, Chapman Powers sipped at the bubbling liquid in his glass. From his darkened corner booth he observed the entire scene including the dancer when she was on the table, and when she leaned low to snicker with friends. He could see the crowd as they produced their insistent shouts, and the patrons who belatedly joined the knot of boisterous admirers of the dance.
The woman stood and raised both hands high to quiet the noise but the cries for more was not to be stopped. “What is it worth?” she shouted at them then put both hands to her face as if to hide from them. She sat down again.
Chappy sipped. A short man bounced from table to table soliciting money. People were still joining the crowd, drifting in from the shadowy booths around the edge of the large saloon. The gaiety beneath the uneven colored light was an attraction that broke through the routine; this was an event.
The would-be dancer huddled in conversation. She glanced up from her group of friends to find a mound of paper money covering the adjacent table. She gasped at the heap - and the chant grew louder. Someone handed her another drink, which she immediately drained.
The chant dissolved into an earsplitting roar.
With both hands held high she rotated her hips in a wind-up preceding a sharp bump and grind. She pounced up on a chair and up to the table.
Chappy guessed she was 30, possibly a year or two older. She was short and he didn’t mind that – five three perhaps, with a body that could have very well served someone a few inches taller. She was graced with large bouncy breasts and appropriately wide hips. A very small waist accentuated it all. Judging by the fit of her blue jumpsuit she knew how to show it off. Mostly, he noticed that everything wiggled.
Shouts for more quickly changed to demands to “take it off”. She teased them, turning her back to them and running both hands down her sides, then her hips and thighs, wiggling and looking coyly back over a shoulder. A quick turn, a squeeze and lift of both breasts, then a slowly lowered zipper beginning at the neck and moving down to mid-chest brought on a gasp from the crowd. They were getting a return on their investment.
Chappy watched closely. He had to admit she knew how to move in the most tantalizing way.  He raised his glass to drink but discovered it was empty. He eyed the glass trying to recall when he emptied it.
Both hands slid down over her stomach and her hips jerked orgasmically. When she stroked her inner thighs the calls to “take it off” renewed. Then, as if she were enduring a moment of overwhelming pain, she froze with hips thrust outward and legs wide apart and both hands cupped over her lower abdomen. After a moment she stood and opened both eyes to look out over the crowd. She seemed dazed. A hand full of drink was thrust up from the onlookers. She tried to focus on it. In one hand she took hold of the glass and drained it finishing with a broad smile.
“Take it off, take it off!”
Chappy scanned the crowd; they were boisterous and energetic but events had not gotten out of hand. Not yet.
Staggering, she reached for the zipper on her jumpsuit and yanked it down the full length of her torso. The jumpsuit opened wide revealing the genuineness of her breasts. She tried to rotate her hips but she was beginning to stumble. Her hands slid down inside the suit and she began to move with the pounding music.
“Chappy.” The voice whispered loudly at first. “Chappy!” This time it was a shout.  He turned to the intrusion, “Yeah, what is it?” and found himself gazing into the strained concern of the bartender’s face.
“We’ve got a problem back there.” He pushed his face between Chappy and the dancer.
“Back where?” Chappy tried to look around him.
“Back in the men’s crapper, some guy is dead back there.”
“In the head?”
“Yeah, back in the men’s head.”
He slipped across the cushioned seat and was on the move to the rear of the saloon. By now the dancer was on her knees and the jumpsuit had slid down around her waist. As he passed the stage he could see that she wasn’t dancing anymore. There was no rhythm in her movements, just the drunken sway of someone no longer aware of their surroundings. He made a note to rescue her on his way back, but for now there was an emergency.
The dancer lifted her head and tossed hair back from her face, and opened both eyes to look directly at Chappy – the whites of her eyes had turned to a startling unseeing red that could not have looked worse without actually bleeding. Mercifully she closed them and dropped her head forward. Splashes of colored light drifted across her body.
Someone reached up and yanked at her jumpsuit. Chappy glared at the person and the hand retreated. The dancer’s movements had become small jerks at the hips but not much else. The crowd cheered on.
He wanted to rescue her right then but . . .
“Back here!” The short bald-headed bartender urged him through a doorway. Inside he slowly moved down a long row of cubicles, searching inside one after another. Each was adorned with a small steel commode, a cabinet of toilet paper, and everything was remarkably clean.
“He’s down here.” The bartender pointed inside the last cubicle where a man was sprawled over a commode, sitting and leaning against one wall face up with his mouth wide open.
“When did you find him?”
“Just a few minutes ago. About once an hour I send someone back here to clean up. You have to, you know, when there’s a crowd. It was the guy that cleans up that found him.”
“Where is this clean-up guy?”
“Out front watching the bar. There’s only the two of us.”
Chappy pressed two fingers against the corpse’s jugular vein and found no pulse. He took a step back to make an assessment. The man was fully clothed so it did not appear he was back here to relieve himself. He died within the hour, if the bartender’s account of events was correct. There were no obvious wounds. The man was just dead and sitting on a crapper.
“Do you remember this guy from out front?”
“Yeah, he came in by himself. Some other people came over to where he was sitting and they drank for a while. Then this dancer got started. I think he came back here just about the time that dancer got going.”
“Can you point out who he was drinking with?”
He shook his head. “No, I only remembered because he staggered back here. I remember thinking I was surprised.”
“Surprised?”
“Yeah, he hadn’t been here long enough to get drunk. He was here for maybe a half-hour before he went to the head. I don’t make my drinks that strong.”
Chappy looked again at the sprawled dead man; he was about six feet tall, 185 pounds. He seemed neat enough, definitely not the disheveled drunk type. He was just what one expected a Congo crewman to look like – clean and professional.
Chappy pressed the contact button on his comm-link. A tired voice came on, “Yeah, what is it?”
“Parker, I’m down here on deck three in Jake’s. We have a body. Get a Med-unit down here. Tell ‘em it looks like the guy either croaked from natural causes or he ate something.”
“See you in five.”
“Chappy, Chappy!” Another bartender came running.
“What is it now?”
“The girl, the woman out there.” He kept jabbing a finger in the direction of the door.
“What about a woman out there?”
“Chap, that dancer, she keeled over. I think she’s dead.”
                                                         *    *    *
The white-cloaked doctor approached the transparent partition then pushed through the door.
Chappy was anxious. “Okay Doc, what do you have?”
“My, my, aren’t we in a hurry.”
“Look Doc, I never expected anything like this when I signed on. I’d like to get this one behind me.”
“Thought you had a fluff job when you signed on, huh?” The doctor selected one of the many stacks of paper on the desk and placed his notes there. “Let me guess what you were thinking when you signed on; all these people on the Congo are trained engineers and technicians, and not the criminal type. So there won’t be the usual theft and assaults associated with the general population. A fluff job, in other words.”
Chappy sighed. “Same as you, Doc. The entire crew is young and fit; most are straight out of the Academy. What better group to serve as Medical Officer?”
“Except all the people on board are human and they bring all of their human foibles with them. Except for that we’d have it made,” he said. “Now, what were the names of those two you brought me?”
“Don’t know yet. The investigation team is a little slow, they haven’t done this before.”
Doc had a kindly rural manner about him, a little wrinkled but not overly worn, and never in a hurry. He seemed to think about everything before speaking. “The man was dead about a half hour before you found him.”
“I know that much,” Chappy groaned.
“What tidbit of wisdom caused you to reach that conclusion?” Doc asked.
“Circumstances, Doc, circumstances.”
“Sure. Well, getting back to this preliminary report, the man died from a drug induced stroke.” He leveled his gaze at Chappy, “We think. He appeared to be in good health, his cardio-vascular indicators were strong enough, circulation was good - that is until he ingested something that increased his blood pressure until it caused a hemorrhage in the brain.”
“What about the woman?”
“Same thing. This is all preliminary, you know, the autopsy is still going on. I don’t think the cause of death is in doubt, though. Stroke hemorrhage in the brain.”
“So these people ingest something that raises their blood pressure, something lets go, in this case it’s the brain, and they die.”
“Correct, a hemorrhage at the weakest point in their circulatory system, which is usually the brain.”
Chappy puzzled at that, “Why weren’t these people screaming in pain?”
“Yeah, good question. We think it’s a drug that’s also a painkiller. You’ll have to wait for the lab results on that one. This is all preliminary, you know.”
“What kind of drug is it? We’re on a starship, where does this stuff come from?”
“We think it’s a hallucinogen and we think both subjects took very heavy doses. And they both had alcohol in their systems. That adds up to a couple of cases of feeling-no-pain. My guess is they were probably seeing stars and lights and were lost inside the intensity of their hallucinations.”
The dancer’s eyes crept into his mind, those haunting red eyes that both saw him and stared right through him. She was dying at that very moment. The memory of it caused a shudder to run up his back.
“Where does this stuff come from?” Chappy asked.
Doc sighed heavily. “Not here, we don’t have anything like it.”
“Then where?” Chappy squinted, fearing the answer.
 “Don’t know. The only drugs I know of are right here and we can account for everything. Besides, this stuff has no medical value that I can see.”
“So, someone is making the stuff.”
“Or they brought it on-board.”
“In all the years since we left Moonbase we’ve seen none of this. All of a sudden two are dead from drug overdoses.” Chappy looked questioningly at the Doc, “What’s it take to make this stuff?”
“A little know how and some equipment, probably. Some basic chemistry.”
                                                        *    *    *
The terminal glared back at him. The name of the deceased male was emblazoned across the top of the screen and a list that constituted his background ran down to the bottom. A man’s life summed up on a single screen – and no second page. “Jack Schmidt, Engineer – co-inventor of the electro-magnetic reverse polarization shielding system – served on Titan Station with John Roberts – joined the Congo after the Rescue of 2129 and has served continuously on the Congo since. Expert on hydrogen collection systems – expert on drive system . . .”
Chappy scrolled to the next page. “Betsy Bonine. Engineer – specialty in ion detection systems – hydrogen propulsion systems – graduated from The F.T.A. Academy class of 2151 – signed on as a Junior Engineer. No prior work history.”
There was a clamor at door. Chappy glanced back; it was Parker Hicks, his partner.
“What ya got Chappy?” Parker straddled a backward chair.
“Just looking at some background data. What do you have?”
Parker extracted a wad of paper from his chest pocket. The wad, it turned out, served as his investigation notes. “I stayed with the Med people for a while. You know, Chap, they actually cut up those bodies. They take out little pieces of gut and do something with ‘em. It was gruesome. If I croak while I’m here, just shove me out the door. Don’t let those guys get hold of me.”
“Come on, Parker, what do you have?”
“Well, it was drugs, alright. They said it was the Blue Meanies.”
“Blue Meanies?”
“Yeah, the Blue Meanies.” He looked at Chappy in a questioning way. “You know, the Blue Meanies. It’s a blue powder that’s been around for three or four weeks. Incredible stuff. The early rush is something else, lights, colors swirling and getting all mixed up with things you’re thinking about. Stuff like that.”
“You know about this Blue Meanie drug?”
Parker hesitated. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s been around.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Chappy growled, “have you been taking this drug?”
Parker flushed. “Ah, no. Not me.”
“How do you know about it, then?”
Parker gave off a nervous grin. “Just by keeping my eyes and ears open.”
It was a mistake to press. Anything Parker knew about the drug was going to be doubly difficult to extract if he was pinned down much more than he already was. “We’ve got to find out where its coming from before it kills anyone else.”
“Okay, I got the message.” Parker tested a grin. “Say, have you decided if this was a murder yet? Do we have a case on our hands?”
“I don’t know. They could have taken an overdose accidentally. But those two people overdosing at the same time in the same place – and we have no history of this drug or any overdoses. I don’t know, I just don’t know.”
A comm-link buzzed somewhere. Parker reached into a back pocket. “Yeah!” He listened. “Yeah, uh huh,” and he clicked off. “Some guy climbed up to the top of the shuttle bay claiming he could fly and he jumped. He’s squashed all over the landing platform down there.”
                                                          *    *    *
Samson listened to the voice on the comm-link.
Jason waited, running his fingers through his hair, and glancing occasionally at Samson.
Michelle was grim.
“Alright, okay.” Samson ended the communication.
Chappy spoke. “I am here at your request.”
“Yes,” Samson said, “I have reviewed your reports and I have checked with the medical staff. It does seem we have some unusual events taking place. I wanted the Captain to hear this from you in case they had questions.”
Chappy said, “About a week ago there was an incident on deck three in one of the drinking establishments.”
“Which one?” Jason asked.
“Jake’s.”
Jason frowned.
“A man ingested a quantity of drugs popularly known as the Blue Meanies. He suffered a brain hemorrhage and died. A woman died also. This all happened at about the same time.”
“They were just drinking and dancing?” Jason asked.
“Together?” Michelle asked.
“We have no information that they knew each other.”
Michelle asked, “How do you ingest a drug while you are dancing?”
Chappy proceeded cautiously. “She was dancing for an audience of patrons. They were supplying her with drinks.”
“And money?” she asked perceptively.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Wait a minute,” Jason jumped in, “just give us the report, we’ll work out the insinuations.”
Chappy continued, “The Med unit tells us the drug is fast acting. It reaches full effect in approximately ten minutes, so two of these people consumed the drug while they were inside Jake’s. We’ve found some glassware with drug reside on them and the fingerprints on them match the dead man and woman.”
Samson asked, “And this third incident?”
“Down in the shuttle bay, yeah, the man jumped to his death from a pipe gangway. Witnesses tell us he was shouting something about swimming on a sea of colors. That was just before he jumped. Blood samples turned up the Blue Meanie drug.”
“And the investigation?” Samson asked.
“Someone is manufacturing the drug here on-board. We’re running down a few leads but we really don’t have much. We’ve been scouring background records. I don’t think we’ll find anything there. We’re in the process of checking vendor and family background records.” Chappy shrugged, he was not hopeful.
“That covers everybody,” Samson muttered.
“Not quite.” Chappy wrinkled his forehead. “There is the Terran delegation on board. We have no background records on them.”
Quiet fell over the group. Jason finally said, “If it comes to that we’ll . . .”
“I think we should exhaust all options before disturbing the Terran delegation.” Samson was firm. “They are on a diplomatic mission.”
Disappointed, Chappy said, “Sure, whatever you say. All of these deaths might turn out to be isolated events.” He looked at each of them and saw no hope of a counter opinion. For now the Terran delegation was off limits.
“What else do you have?” Jason asked.
“Both of the male victims were veterans of the Congo. The man who died at Jake’s was a member of the Titan Station team that came on board back in 2129; the other was the son of an original salvager. He’s been on board from the time the Congo was first built. He was even on the Congo when it was laid up. The female victim just graduated from the FTA Academy. This was her first mission. All three were assigned to Operations but that isn’t unusual, almost ninety percent of the crew is assigned to Operations.”
Jason said, “About as different as three people can be.”
“Different social circles?” Michelle asked.
Chappy nodded, he agreed.
Samson leaned closer, “You say the drug might be made right here on the Congo?”
“Right, the Med unit said it took only a basic knowledge of chemistry and some equipment.”
Samson said, “A few hours ago hull sensors detected an open starboard emergency airlock on deck six. It was open for only a minute and a half. It could mean something. Or it might not. Airlock sensors go off all the time.” Samson sat back. “And there was some debris that became trapped in the hydrogen collector. We had to shut down the shields for a time.”
“Where is the debris now?”
“Out in open space.”
“Too bad.”
“The shield engineers thought it was hydroponics equipment.”
“Hydroponics equipment isn’t much different than lab equipment,” Chappy said.
Samson said, “Except we don’t throw things away. Everything gets reused.”
Michelle said, “Could be someone decided to get out of the drug business. Maybe the entire episode is over.”
“I don’t know,” Chappy said, “I just don’t know.”
                                                         *    *    *
Chappy pushed two men back away from the equipment cubicle. “Come on Parker, get these people back. Clear this bay all the way back to that landing platform.” Nobody moved. “Now!!” he barked, and the crowd shuffled in retreat.
The crowd grumbled, “Fuzz.” “Pig.”
It turned his head. For just a moment he wanted to tear into the crowd and find the name-callers, but he thought better of it. Chappy turned back to the gruesome scene in the equipment cubicle. In one corner there was a lifeless torso that had been nearly ripped in half. Blood and intestines were splashed over three walls of the cove. In another corner, a motionless robotic fabricator unit stood covered with blood, the dead man’s arm still dangled from one of its clamping tools.
Chappy choked.
Behind him, Parker retched in loud convulsions.
Chappy looked back at the crowd, “Anyone know who this is?”
No voice was heard.
“Parker, get a body bag in here and put both arms in it, then find out where the hell the med unit is. When they get here, get the fingerprints off those hands.”
“Aw, come on Chap, let those med guys do that stuff.” Parker covered his mouth; his stomach was involuntarily seized with another convulsion. He bent and turned away.
“Okay, okay,” Chappy grumbled, “find those med guys and get them down here.” He focused on the robot. The unit stood motionless. It was easy to see what had happened, the fab-unit grabbed the victim and tore him apart and it never moved from the cubicle. And there was no assurance it wouldn’t start up again.
First things first, he told himself. Get the robot ID number and get it up to Operations and make sure the thing is shut down.
Chappy stepped carefully into the cubicle. The robot remained motionless. He took another step, then another, and he was next to the robot. If it moved now, he had no defense against it, including retreat. It didn’t move. He stretched to look over the robot’s shoulder, leaning so not to touch it. The identification plate was there, he could see it. Another lean and look revealed the ID number #52SM.DOM2061. Carefully, slowly, he backed out. Once out on the floor he carefully looked at the number and interpreted it; the fifty-second unit manufactured by SatMan, built in the year 2061.
And there was a metal box on the back of the unit. Sooty residue radiated out from it, the thing had been on fire. But he did not recall ever seeing a metal box on a robo-unit before this.
“Parker, where are those Med-people?”
“Geez, Chap, they’re coming.”
“Get a recording of this scene, can you do that? And keep an eye on that fab-unit, if it moves run like hell.”
“I can do that.”
Chappy looked at the crowd again. “Who can tell me what happened here?”
A rumbling swept the crowd of shuttle bay workers and he could see that some were edgy.
“Come on, all of you were standing around gawking at the poor slob, so I know someone knows something. Who can tell me what happened here?”
He waited with his hands behind his back rocking back on his heels. “Alright, I’ll need every ID card and each of you will be scheduled for a physio-graph. If you’re holding back information, your credentials will be pulled and you’ll be spending the remainder of this mission working in the recycling and sewer systems.”
“Everyone here was working. We were all in different places.” A woman stepped forward. “This screaming started and everyone was rushing around because we didn’t know where it was coming from. It wasn’t until we saw the smoke that we found ‘em.” The woman looked genuine. “Then we called you.”
“What about that fab-unit, has it moved?”
The woman shook her head. “Nope.”
“How about the rest of you? Did any of you see anything?”
A lot of heads shook.
“Who was assigned to this work area?”
“Don’t know. There wasn’t anything going on over here. The fab-units were in storage because we’re not building anything right now. They’re all supposed to be shut down. Shouldn’t have been anybody there.”
No witnesses, the thought perturbed him. “I want someone who can make certain this robo-unit is shut down. Can you do that?”
“Yup.”
Parker and the Med-unit arrived. Chappy gave them instruction, “Stay with this woman while she deactivates that fab-unit. Set up a constant watch until the Ops computer has a chance to run a complete diagnostic on that thing.”
“Got it.”
Chappy made his way to the elevator platform. He was muttering, “Four deaths from unnatural causes.” At first glance this one seemed unrelated to the others. Intuition told him otherwise.
Back in his office he address the Ops-computer. He sat erect, punched a key, then stared at the screen. It cleared and he began. “Query – Status Robo-unit #52SM.DOM2061.”
The response was quick, “Robo-unit #52M.DOM2061 inactive from 2Sept2157.”
Three days ago. Chappy pondered the information. The Ops computer assumed it had absolute centralized control over all of the robo-unit including the welders, ag-robots, fab-units and the hydroponics units. But this fab-unit dismantled a man on this very day, and robots did not run by themselves, and the ops-computer didn’t know about it.
He tried the same question, this time in a different way. “Note any activity of Robo-fab unit #52SM.DOM2061 since 2Sept2157.”
“Robo-unit inactive from 2Sept2157.”
No record of anything for the current day. He poked at the keyboard again, “Robo-unit #52SM.DOM2061 deactivated on what authority?”
“Deactivation of unit #52SM.DOM2061 by crew member #4701 – Charles Sykes – routine maintenance.”
“Duty roster – locate crewman #4701 this time/this date.”
“Crewman #4701 assigned to hydroponics/food production.”
Hydroponics? A crewman assigned to hydroponics couldn’t, shouldn’t be down in the shuttle bay deactivating robot units.
Chappy reached for his pager, tapped in the employee number and entered the code that required his immediate appearance. The pager clicked several times then flashed a light. The message had been received. Satisfied, Chappy returned to his keypad.
“Query – Med-unit autopsy most recent – identify autopsy subject.”
“Autopsy last.” The Ops-computer hesitated. “Crewman #3315 Ed Sparkman.”
“#3315 file.”
“#3315 – assigned shuttle bay maintenance – primary occupational specialty, mechanical systems – secondary, robotics. Sign on date: Incep. 2129.”
A salvager; Sparkman was an original on the Congo, one of the builders of the Congo. It was almost a shock to read the information.
He knew about the salvagers, he’d seen the vids like most everyone, and for a time he had wallowed in their heroics and fantasized that he was, somehow, a member of that band of intrepids. Now that he was here surrounded by all of the best a starship had to offer, it was difficult to imagine that this spacecraft had once been an ore-carrying cargo carrier. Those salvagers had pulled off something really amazing. And the deadman was one of those heroes.
#3315 glared at him from the screen. He choked down a momentary flush of anger and punched the keypad to change the screen.
“Run summary list of deceased since departure Moonbase.”
“Working:
     In order of death:
          Jack Schmidt           #1185     Engineer     Sign-on date – Jan2131.
          Betsy Bonine           #4195     Engineer     Sign-on date  - Jul2152.
          Sam Pescal               #2115     Maint         Sign-on date – Sep2129.
          Ed Sparkman           #3315     Maint         Sign-on date – Sep2129.”
There was a pattern to it. Betsy Bonine stood out as an exception but the other three were from the old-time original crew.
Chappy was pounding the keypad by now. “List all current crew members with sign on dates prior to Jan2132.”
This new list filled the screen with thirty-one names. But what did it mean? Michelle Santorini was there, other than that it was just a list of names. Maybe it wasn’t a pattern, maybe it was coincidental, maybe a bad batch of drugs got out and these four were just unlucky.
The evidence was pushing him to believe that all the old-timers were being targeted and Betsy just got in the way. How could a dancer in a very public display of talent with dozens of witnesses get in the way? The list of thirty-one weighted heavily on him. Three dead old-timers and twenty-eight others. If the old-timers were targets they had to be identified in someway; you couldn’t tell an old-timer from any one else by just looking. The perpetrator had to have background data. There was only one source, the Ops-computer; someone got into the personnel records just like he had done.
“Query – list all personnel files accessed since departure Moonbase excluding inquiries this date.”
Forty names ran up the screen. The dancer wasn’t there, but every name on his old-timer list was.
A bustle in the office turned his head. Parker and another man came inside.
“This is the guy you summoned out of hydroponics.” Parker was being very officious.
The pattern baldness of the man before him seemed to emphasize his obvious timidity. He sat with his knees clasping both hands between them. His unsettled eyes, set close together above a hawkish nose, darted nervously between Parker and himself.
“You Charles Sykes?”
The thin man nodded.
Parker shoved a stack of reports aside to clear a place to sit on a desk.
“Mr. Sykes, tell me where you’ve been during the past four hours.”
“I’ve been in hydroponics for the past ten hours. We’re harvesting tomatoes and preserving. It’s a busy time for us down there.”
“Are there others down there?”
“The entire hydroponics crew is down there.”
“You were in the presence of the hydroponics crew for the entire past four hours?”
“Of course.”
That was easy enough to check. “Our records show that you took a robot fabrication unit out of service for maintenance. Why did you do that?”
 “No, no.” He was shaking his head. “I didn’t do that.”
Chappy brought up the record on screen. “See that?”
“I don’t know what it means. I’m not even sure what a robot fabrication unit looks like.”
Parker said, “It’s about five feet tall with a pair of large . . .” His voice trailed off when his eyes met Chappy’s glare.
“The record is clear,” Chappy leaned close to Sykes, “it says it was you. How can the Ops-computer register your personal code unless you used it?”
Sykes began to shake, “I don’t know. Someone else used it, maybe they just guessed at a number, how would I know?”
Chappy slowly rose to his feet. Personal codes weren’t any big secret; every crewmember had one, a different one. They were used to track activity. It was an accountability thing.
“Listen Sykes, you ever give out your personal code?”
“No sir.”
“We can put you on a physio-graph, you know. That thing never misses a lie.”
“Honest, I hardly remember the number myself.”
Chappy believed him. If someone could access personnel records, they could also find out personal codes. It was explainable but his bad feelings about all this was growing. He excused the nervous hydroponics worker who quickly disappeared down the hallway. He asked Parker, “You manage to get that metal box off the back of that fab-unit?”
Parker held out the square inch box and Chappy took it. One side of the box was open; the contents had melted into a dark brown plasticized lump.
“What did that lady maintenance worker think about this?”
“She’s never seen one of these before. She didn’t know what it was doing there.”
“Better get this in the scanner.” He pushed a button and a long drawer came out of an instrument panel. As he dropped the object in, the drawer closed. They waited with an eye to the screen above the drawer. “Standby.” It read.
They waited.
The standby message vanished after several minutes; there was a flicker, then words: “Metal box – one inch cube – contents unknown.”
“Uses?”
“Unknown.”
“Estimate uses.”
“Housing for electronic device.”
“Origin of unit.”
“Unknown.”
“Estimate origin – estimate metal type.”
The terminal blanked. Chappy sighed with impatience. Then an answer appeared: “Metal alloy type observed in Robot Guardian hull fragment. Origin – Giclas 51-15 Solar System. Sightings: (1) Alpha Centauri (Eden), (2) Moonbase, (3) Giclas 51-15 (Seed Planet plus Moon).”
                                                         *    *    *
Samson stood glaring at each patron, one at a time. Finally he swung a chair around and sat down.
Chappy, completely mystified, leaned over the table, “What are you doing?”
“Just checking to see who was here.”
Parker fiddled.
“Are we getting any beer?” Samson questioned.
“Okay with me,” Parker chirped.
“Good,” Samson said, “you little guys always buy.”
Parker was crestfallen.
Chappy signaled a waitress and Samson proceeded to look her up and down. She was a short, severe, middle-aged woman with dark red lipstick painted over thin fleshless lips.
“Not like the good old days at the Trader’s Saloon,” Samson said.
Chappy ordered three beers.
The beer arrived with three clunks on the table. Samson frowned. “I wanted some beer,” he complained.
“Well bub, what do ya think those are?” the waitress snapped.
Samson drained the contents of one glass. “I think it is gone,” and handed the empty to her.
“Should’ve known you were going to make a pig of yourself.” She cocked a hip to one side and rested a hand there. “I suppose you want a pitcher.”
Samson’s eyes lighted up. The waitress left in a huff of disapproval.
“Okay, Mr. Security Chief, I am here.”
Parker leaned on his elbows.
Chappy said, “I think we have something. It’s inconclusive but I think we have enough that you ought to be concerned.”
“Why me?” Samson asked. “You’re the cops, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.”
“You’re the boss and this may be important.”
“Awright, get to it.”
“We have four deaths, two from drug overdoses, one from a drug induced suicide and this dismemberment.”
Samson eyed him. “Murder?”
“Probably. The robo-fab unit was deliberately taken out of service by someone using another crewman’s personal code and set it up with independent controls. It was those controls that killed the crewman.”
“Never heard of independent controls,” Samson said.
“It self-destructed and the contents melted.”
The waitress banged the pitcher hard on the table. She sneered at Samson but he hardly noticed.
Chappy said, “We have some analysis on the box, it probably comes from Giclas. It’s associated with hull materials found on Robot Guardians. It’s the very same alloy.”
“Robot Guardians - this does not make sense.”
“We don’t make alloys on board,” Chappy said, “this stuff was brought here.”
The pitcher of beer sat undisturbed in front of Samson; he simply stared, thinking.
Chappy said, “A drug problem and now this. It looks as if both were brought on board.”
Samson still stared, but he mumbled, “That Robot Guardian fleet was built thousands of years ago. I don’t think those Terrans know how to do it anymore. There’s a big computer that runs the entire terra-forming operation and they don’t know how to operate the thing. The Terrans almost have nothing to do with it.” Pause. He looked at Chappy, “You’re not thinking this Terran delegation had anything to do with this?”
Chappy sighed. “Who else could have brought this control box on board?”
“Only Lucifer soldiers could do this,” Samson said.
“We don’t have any of them here.”
Samson shrugged.
“Look,” Chappy felt frustrated, “a crime was committed, maybe several crimes. We have an enclosed population here so the criminal has to be someone on board. No one else could have done it.”
Samson did not look well.
“Your own science team tells me that SatMan makes alloys that are superior to the Robot Guardian material. There is no need for someone Earthside to make this alloy. Someone smuggled this device on board and we are years out of Moonbase and the only port of call we made was in the Giclas System. We don’t smelt on board, we follow a salvager’s method of reforming metal when we need it. I’ve checked. The likely source is from someone in the Terran delegation.”
Samson said nothing, but he was listening.
Chappy braced himself. “Three of the four dead were old timers dating back as far as Titan Station and the salvagers.”
Samson was alert.
“I ran a check on personnel records; someone has been searching through all of the old Congo crew records including Michelle Santorini’s file.”
“Any others?” Samson carried a huge grimace.
“Just a few; you and the Captain and some others.”
A low rumble rose up from Samson’s chest.
“How was the screening for the crew conducted at Moonbase?” Chappy asked.
“The FTA handled it. Most are fresh from the Academy. We’ve got vendors and families here too. The FTA handled it all.”
Samson thumped the pitcher’s handle with one finger; he still had not taken a drink from it.
Chappy drummed his fingers on the table.
Parker was perplexed. “But there aren’t any Lupans on the Congo.”
Both looked at him.
“How do you know that?” Samson asked.
                                                        *    *    *
Parker paused before the big repeater screen. A countdown in the lower left corner showed fifty-two hours to go. In just a little more than two days the Congo would drop out of super light speed; then for two or three days the old familiar universe would replace the mottled grey blur. And the crowds will pack the mezzanine areas near a transparency to catch a glimpse of the stars – and there would be no place to sit.
 He sighed, then continued on his rounds.
“How ya doing, Parker?” Someone greeted him as they passed by. He did not recognize the face.
“Hey, doing fine, just fine.”
The crowds were thin here in the commercial zone. The usual hustle and bustle would come later; it was still early. A vendor was piling jumpsuits into a bin heaping them high. He strolled over to the bin and began rummaging through the selection.
“On sale?”
“Yep,” and he tossed another armload on the mound.
“What’s wrong with them?” Parker asked.
“Nothing.” The shopkeeper gave him an irritated glance. “This synthetic fabric never wears out – lasts too long.”
Parker rubbed the material between two fingers. “Feels alright to me.”
“Everyone stocked up on suits when they come on board, so nobody buys another suit. A few maybe, but not many.” He shrugged, “So, what are ya gonna do?”
“I don’t know, what are you gonna do?”
“Put everything on sale. Get rid of this synthetic stuff. I’ve got a line on some cotton, now, and I’ll make a blend and we’ll make some suits out of that. Those suits’ll wear out and then I’m back in business.”
“Cotton?”
“Yeah, we’re growing some, me and this guy. He knows cotton.”
It didn’t make sense to Parker. He dropped the suit back in the bin. If the shop was filled with quality suits and nobody was buying them, then why would suits of lesser quality sell better? It was all so complicated.
“Hey Parker.”
He turned. It was a man in front of the vid shop; he did not recognize him.
“Good job down in the shuttle bay the other day.” The man was wearing a black jumpsuit. He came closer. He had long dark hair.
Parker smiled to acknowledge the compliment.
“Did you ever find out what happened to that poor slob?”
“Sure, the robot tore him apart.”
“I know that.” The man punched him lightly on the shoulder. “What made the robot do a thing like that? You’re on top of the investigation, right?”
Parker puffed. “Yeah, we have a good idea what happened.”
“Well, what was it?”
Parker struggled to recall the face. The man didn’t even look familiar. And he didn’t remember this face in the crowd down in the shuttle bay. “Maybe I shouldn’t . . .”
The man’s smile faded. “All of us working down there ought to know where the dangers are, don’t you think?”
“Well, there was something about a control device on that fab-unit. We have the control unit, so I don’t think there is anything to worry about.”
“I knew you would solve the problem.” The man banged his shoulder again.
Parker grinned.
“How did this happen? Who did it?”
Parker’s smile collapsed.
“Don’t you know? Come on, I know you figured something out, nothing gets past an investigator like you.”
The man seemed trustworthy. He said he worked down in the shuttle bay and no doubt that was how he knew about the incident. It wouldn’t do any harm to tell him a little something. “This control was a little box stuck on the back of the fab-unit. I figured it was alien, there isn’t anything like it in the equipment inventory.”
“Alien’s? On this ship?” He said it a little too loud.
Suddenly Parker wished he hadn’t said anything. “I didn’t say that.”
“What else could it mean?”
“I said that in the strictest confidence.”
“Yeah, sure. Figured out who the aliens are?”
Parker wanted to be somewhere else. “Yeah, we have a good idea,” he lied. “But I want you to forget everything I told you.”
“My lips are sealed. You can trust me.” The man made a zipping motion across his mouth as he walked away.
Parker wanted to pursue him and somehow retrieve his disclosure but the words had been spoken and there was no getting them back. His only hope was in the man’s promise of confidence. Glumly, he knew better.
Inside the video store Parker found himself absently searching the library: . . . educational, entertainment . . . minerals, mining techniques, music . . . He moved to another menu: Alaska, Albania (ancient), Algiers (ancient), allogamy, alloy(s) . . .
Alloys. He called for the disk. It began with basic definitions and some vids of a manufacturing station rolling white hot metal. Fast forward, “. . . mixtures could include such metals as chromium, manganese, molybdenum, tungsten and vanadium . . .” He sighed and fast-forwarded, “. . . achieve alloys of great strength and corrosion resistance, yet avoids the brittleness of steel alloys of extreme hardness. Most FTA starships today use alloys containing as much as eighty percent alloying materials to the base iron. This alloy formula includes quantities of tungsten, nickel, vanadium, molybdenum, and titanium, along with the non-metallic elements of silicon and carbon. These and a unique heat treating methodology have made hulls in the FTA starship fleet . . .” “. . . alloys in known alien vessels, use large quantities of tungsten or wolfram which gives the metal a dark, nearly black quality. Wolfram and tungsten are interchangeable terms designating the same base element. Some researchers have suggested the term “tungsten” originates in the Giclas 51-15 Solar System and the “wolfram” term originates in the Wolf 359 Solar System. There is considerable dispute with this notion. (See Human Origins, Beginnings in Religion, Chronicles and Transcripts of the Explorations in Terra and Lupus).”
Parker stopped the video. Much of this was not even available on Moonbase yet, and wouldn’t be until they arrived. It was too technical.
He had heard about the controversy on human origins; the Terrans, it seemed, claimed Earth and the humans were once a colony of theirs. It all started as a terra-forming project. Well, he didn’t believe it for one minute. Terran babble, political nonsense, it was all a scheme to bolster their sagging egos, a need to be superior.
He terminated the vid and started out of the shop. Next door a trio of ladies browsed over a sales bin. He put thoughts of alloys and aliens behind him and gave them his full attention. As he approached one said, “Hello Parker.”
He grinned at the recognition. Suddenly he felt more at ease. “Hello to you!”
The trio busied themselves with sale goods and Parker sauntered past them. Up ahead he eyed Jake’s Saloon. He went inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust but he could see that the place was nearly empty. The bartender came over immediately.
“How ya doing, Parker?”
“Hey, Al. Say, how about a soda?”
“Any particular flavor?”
“Make that lemon if you have any.”
A glass of bubbly appeared in front of him. “Say Al, you have any of that Blue Meanie stuff left?”
Al flinched. “What stuff is that?”
“You know, blue powder. Makes the light dance, it brings out all those make believe images, you know, the stuff that makes you crazy for a while.”
“Come on, Parker, you know I can’t do that stuff.”
“Sure you can. You’ve peddled this stuff before.”
“Yer the fuzz, I can’t sell any of that to you.”
“What’s this fuzz stuff?”
“Ah, it’s going around. Don’t know where it started.”
“Now Al, I know you’ve had the stuff before so how much is it?”
“I don’t sell that kind of stuff, but if I did, I’d have to tell you this Blue Meanie powder can’t be had anymore.”
Parker sipped. It was true that he hadn’t heard much about the drug lately, except in the investigation. He had assumed people were just quiet about it. “You don’t sell that stuff and it isn’t around anymore. Do I have that right?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Why can’t you get any Blue Meanies? What’s going on?”
“Don’t know. People started croaking on the stuff. Nobody wants it anymore, I guess.” He gave the bar a nervous wipe with a rag.
“Well,” Parker shifted in his chair, “who was your contact for the stuff?”
“Now look, I shouldn’t even be talking about this. People could get into a hell of a lot of trouble if the wrong person heard us talking.”
Parker glanced around the saloon. There were two people watching a vid in a far off corner and a solo drinker with his feet up on a chair but much too far away to hear their conversation. “Now Al, this is supposed to be a tightly run starship staffed by Academy professionals, but we find ourselves losing these special people to this fancy blue powder. The trouble has got to be coming from a vendor or the families on board. Now, it ain’t too far off before someone decides to restrict certain areas for the crew’s protection, and you know Al, the commercial zones will be first. That’s you, Al.”
“Now wait a minute, I’ve invested everything I have in this place. This is my stake for the future.”
“So?”
“So you don’t know what you’re asking? I can’t go around revealing sources.”
Parker narrowed his eyes like he had seen once in an entertainment video, “I suppose we have enough to close you down if we want. A few seconds ago you didn’t know anything, now you’re claiming you can’t reveal sources. What’s it gonna be, you talking to me or do I have to get Chappy to come down here and review your situation?”
“Alright.” Al scanned the room. “Look, I bumped into this guy one night and he was selling the stuff right out there on the floor. He was pestering customers so I ran him off. A week later he comes back. This time he offered to sell it to me in quantity at eight ounces for twenty bucks. A dose, according to this guy, is about a fifth of an ounce and a dose sells for twenty bucks.”
Al paused.
“Don’t stop now, you’re almost off the hook.”
“So I bought the stuff from him.” Al exhausted a deep breath. “There was a huge profit in it. It didn’t seem to hurt anybody. All it did was liven up the party in here and good parties mean people, and people dance and drink. It was good for business. The way I saw it was nobody got hurt, everybody was having a good time and I was making money. No harm, no foul.”
“So what happened?”
“After a couple of resupplies, the source dried up.”
“Because the man and woman croaked in here?”
Al shook his head. “Nope, not from my stuff. I’d been out of supply for more than a week when that happened.”
“So, you didn’t have any when . . .”
“My supplier was peddling the stuff that night.”
Parker’s eyebrows went up.
“That night, the night the dancer and the guy died in the can, he came in and was sitting around the big table out there. He just sat down with a bunch of engineers. The next thing I know is I’ve got dead people on my hands and this guy is gone.”
“What’s his name?”
“He never told me.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Always wears a black jumpsuit, has black hair and wears it kind of long.”
A lot of men wear black jumpsuits; it was the favored style. Even the guy out on the concourse that walked up to him and talked about the shuttle bay was wearing one. He had long black hair too.
“He’s just ordinary looking,” Al said.
“You just described half the men on the Congo.”
                                                          *    *    *
“You don’t remember?”
Stern serious eyes glanced up at him then returned to their steady straight-ahead gaze. “Nope,” he answered.
Chappy groaned at the weak memories of the otherwise competent crewmen. This one was no different. “I suppose you know we can test the accuracy of your recollections.” He had grown tired of threatening people. Maybe it wasn’t worth the effort of putting the words together. Threats only worked on the weak personalities, anyway.
“I suppose you know how to do that,” the engineer said.
Chappy grumbled, “Get outta here.” He peered at the list of those still waiting to be interviewed, “Send in the next one on your way out.”
“Geez,” Parker complained, “we’re getting nowhere.”
“We’ve gotta touch all the bases.” Chappy glanced up at the new arrival, gestured to the vacant chair, then said, “Chosin Johnson?”
“Right.”
“Any special significance to the name?”
“I’m named after my great great grandfather. The name is in reference to a heroic American retreat during a small war in the mid-twentieth century.”
“Named after a retreat?”
The man shrugged.
“You were present at Jake’s the night the dancer overdosed?”
“Yes, it was tragic.”
“Were you there before the dancing began?”
“Yes, a group of us were there. Our shift for the week was over. We were looking forward to a couple of days of free time.”
“It says here your work assignment could be in the drive unit. You’re a hydrogen propulsion engineer and electrical generation specialist.”
“I do just about anything back there.”
“Did you know the dancer, Betsy Bonine?”
“She was on the team, we all worked the same shift.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Sure. We all decided to go there right after work. It was something we did after our workweek was finished. We’re regular about it. Betsy was there with one of her girl friends and we’d all been there for a couple of hours.”
Chappy recalled the tables filled with glassware when he arrived and thinking then that the party had been going on for quite a while.
“Betsy kept playing this same song over and over. We gave her a bad time about it. Once she danced all around the tables, sort of circling us and said then how much she liked that song. We all started telling her to “take it off”. We were yelling it sometimes. It was all so innocent. She giggled like it was fun.”
“And then?”
“Then, the next time the song played everybody got together, we were chanting and the next thing I knew somebody was taking up a collection to bribe her into a performance. She climbed up on a big table and danced.” Johnson shrugged. “Even now it seems like harmless fun. I don’t know how things could go so wrong. I really don’t know what happened.”
“What was everybody drinking?”
“We all started with beer. I remember that because we always drank beer. I bought the first round. After a while some of the guys were talking business and they went to another table. I don’t know what they were drinking.”
“So, for a time the group split up.”
“Yeah, they were a table or two away. When the dancing started they all came back. By then everybody was drinking something different.”
“Who was buying the mixed drinks?”
“I don’t know. People were coming out of the corners to watch the dance. I don’t think I knew who all those people were.”
Chappy rocked back. “Was anybody peddling drugs there?”
Johnson frowned deeply. “I hear you can get some Blue Meanies at Jake’s but I didn’t see any that night.”
“Betsy was handed drinks twice when she was on the table dancing, do you know who gave her those drinks?”
“Sure, I gave her one of them, the first one.”
“You did?”
“Someone shoved a mixed drink in front of me but I was drinking beer, so I handed it up to Betsy. She drank it.”
“Who gave you that drink?”
“Some guy I didn’t know. He was in a black jumpsuit, I remember that because it wasn’t work clothes and most of us still had on our brown suits. He had long hair but it was kind of different. He stood out from the rest of us.”
“Could you identify him if you saw him again?”
 “Maybe. He was ordinary in the face. It was his suit and hair that made me remember him.” He raised a questioning brow, “This guy could get a hair cut and a change of clothes, you know.”
Everytime it was a guy in a black jumpsuit. The guy was a slippery shadow. Chappy turned to his terminal screen. Johnson’s work history was there, and once he looked at it, red flags went up. Johnson, it seemed, had been on the Congo since 2129.
“You were an engineer on Titan?”
“Yes sir.”
“You drank beer all night?”
“Just beer.” Johnson looked uncomfortable when he asked, “Scuttlebutt has it that this Blue Meanie stuff was passed to Betsy in a drink, that right?”
“Could be.”
“Well, I handed her that first drink, it could have been the one that did it.”
“Could have been.”
Now, Johnson took on a serious look. “It was meant for me, wasn’t it?”
There was nothing slow about this guy; he’d put the puzzle together on the first try. And Chosin had zeroed in on the man in the black suit too.
After Johnson had been excused Chappy asked, “What’s this man in the black suit after?”
Parker thought for a moment, “All the old timers, Besty just got in the way.”
“Why the old-timers?”
                                                           *    *    *
“It’s supposed to be right here,” Parker insisted.
Ahead, there was the impenetrable blackness of the unlighted accessway. Behind them from the way they’d come, light flooded down from the overhead solars with enough illumination to eliminate every shadow in the hexagonal service tube.
“Samson said it was eighty paces forward of emergency hatch seventeen and this right here is eighty paces.” Parker stamped hard on the steel runway.
Chappy peered ahead into the darkness. “Samson’s paces are somewhat larger than yours. The airlock is in there somewhere.”
Parker flicked a beam of light into the blackness; he saw no airlock.
“Let’s get moving.” Chappy shuffled ahead, and the airlock loomed on their right partially hidden behind a stack of loosely organized boxes.
Parker reached over the boxes and gave the hatch a tug; it was tightly closed.
Chappy pulled the first box from the stack, it was an empty. Another empty. And another. He began tossing them into the dark passageway. There was a coil of quarter inch hose and some empty bottles, several lengths of metal flex-hose, and more empty carbon-plastic foam boxes. Now the airlock was fully exposed.
It was an ancient airlock equipped with a long arm crossing the hatch diagonally, which he lifted easily. Another pull on a shorter handle and the hatch swung open to reveal a ten-foot deep cell with an outside hatch at the far end.
Chappy’s light swept the interior. There was a bench on both sides of the cell. There was no loose equipment and nothing out of the ordinary. He sat on a bench. That was when he heard it, a sharp short duration zap. In an instant his nose was assaulted with the odor of burnt air and ozone.
He called out, “Parker, what the hell are you doing out there?” He could hear, then see, Parker’s scurrying crawl across the airlock threshold and he was still trying to figure out what happened when another zap ripped the air.
“Damn,” Parker exclaimed,  “someone is shooting out there,” and crawled into a tight crouch on the opposite bench.
Chappy approached the open hatch and darted his head out for a flash look. A pinpoint of light focused on him, it came from the lighted section of the accessway. He ducked back narrowly avoiding a laser pulse. “Someone has a laser rifle with a sighting beacon.” He glanced down at his own hand laser; it seemed strangely inadequate.
“What’s the plan, boss?”
“We’ll both reach out and lay down a half dozen blasts. We need to get him to back off long enough to get out of this airlock.” There was this uncomfortable thought he had about getting pinned down while someone figured out a way to open the outer hatch.
Parker crouched. Chappy stood over him and they both leaned out the hatchway and fired blindly in rapid sequence. Then there was silence. Suffocating burnt air wafted back into the airlock.
“On my count we’re outta here.” In a silent count, Chappy lifted one finger, two, three and they bolted out into the accessway.
A burst of rapid-fire lasers crossed in front of them from the left. Parker replied with his own burst. Another blast tore the air above them from the right – and the air was becoming difficult to breathe.
Chappy reached the opposite wall and tucked in behind a large strut. Parker crashed close behind him.
“We’re getting fire from everywhere,” Parker groaned.
“We’re surrounded. You cover our rear, I’ll handle the stuff up forward.” Chappy lifted his pistol butt up to his eyes. “Better check the charge on your weapon,” he advised. His was half gone already.
After another exchange of weapons fire he could see that they were getting nowhere. All they could do was defend their positions, and as soon as their charges ran down they were at the mercy of the shooters.
But the accessway fell strangely silent. Chappy pressed to hear any sound, anything that might tell him what the shooters were up to. There was nothing. He slid down in a crouch and Parker with him.
“Okay,” Chappy whispered, “here is what we do. We’ll charge in the direction of the light. There’s only one over there. Together I think we can handle him.”
Parker checked his charge; he was good for a few more bursts.
Slowly they stood.
A noise, someone walking from the direction of the light. “It doesn’t matter, we go anyway,” Chappy said.
Both of them burst out from behind the strut out to mid-accessway with lasers held ready to fire. Standing thirty feet away, silhouetted by the solars further back, was a huge figure standing tall with both fists resting on his hips. “What is going on?” the deep familiar voice rumbled.
“Holy salami, it’s Samson,” Parker stammered.
Chappy, sagging from overwhelming fatigue, asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Eco-sensors picked up ozone in the atmosphere at this location, so I came to investigate.”
Parker turned pale.
“I saved you guys from something, didn’t I?” Samson issued a rare chuckle.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Samson, still beaming, asked, “So, what did you learn from this little adventure?”
“That there is more than one of them and they have weapons.”
                                                           *    *    *
Chappy had just finished reviewing the case. He rubbed his aching eyes. An almost endless list of crew work histories and backgrounds, and vendor backgrounds plus family histories had finally scrolled past leaving an empty screen. There were some interesting things there but nothing suggested drugs or murder.
The Congo had been virtually free from outside intrusions. There were seven Terrans rescued from the Mother Planet and later the Terran government sent a delegation of forty to meet with Moonbase and Earth officials. That was it. The two Lupan soldiers they had picked up were dead so they didn’t count.
And the Congo hasn’t stopped since.
Crew files were clean, the dependents were all right, and the vendors were good, and the FTA had screened them all. That left the Terrans.
How about stowaways? That was reaching a bit. He walked aimlessly out of the office, stretching the weariness from his legs until he found himself on deck five sitting at a restaurant table staring out at the streaked grey universe through the transparencies. Was this the same place he had met Samson to discuss the murders? He couldn’t remember. Some of these places looked similar.
“Mr. Powers.”
Chappy gazed up at the rumbling voice.
“I have been looking for you.” It was Samson.
“How did you find me? I didn’t know I was coming here myself.”
“You are not exactly an anonymous person.” Samson felt satisfaction at his own detective work. “Tell me, where are you on this murder case?”
“I’m back to the Terrans. Everyone on board checks out. I don’t have any records on the Terrans. I know how the murders were done. I don’t know why, I don’t know where the drugs came from, I don’t know where the control box came from – but I have a good idea.”
“Uh huh,” rumbled Samson, “possibly it is time for you to meet the Terran delegation.”
Chappy perked up. “When?”
“Now.”
Within minutes they were standing in the Captain’s quarters where the Terrans were waiting.
Samson introduced him to the gathering. “This is Chapman Powers, Chief of Security.”
A pleasant looking man with brushy black eyebrows wearing long white flowing robes stepped forward. “My name is Joshua,” he said.
“This is the Ambassador,” Samson said. Joshua gave a low bow.
“Joshua. I saw you when you boarded from the Mother planet.”
“Most on the Congo call me Josh. I believe it is a friendly term, is it not?”
Chappy smiled. “It is. You must call me Chappy, everyone does.”
Then Joshua introduced each of the forty-member delegation. All wore the flowing white robes that had become the uniform of the Terrans; some wore a covering black outer robe. Everyone bowed.
“What will the delegation be doing when they arrive at Moonbase?”
“It is our intention to establish a relationship with the many governments of Earth and Moonbase, and Eden. That undertaking will require all of these people and possibly more. I hope we have not underestimated the task ahead of us, you see, we are new at the business of d

[Gerald Lively]

                                                                    CHAPTER  TWENTY  FOUR


                                              October 2157 – Aboard the Congo.


Beth wore a pout. “But I want to get to know you.”
“We have been talking about me, let’s talk about you. It’s your turn,” Chappy said.
She fingered the glass of bubbling soda and looked into it for a long moment. Then she gazed softly at him. “I was an orphan. Someone found me in a box at 52equaWest, not a very good neighborhood.” A frown replaced the pout.
“Maybe this is too difficult for you.”
She moved the glass a quarter turn. “Why don’t we go for a walk?”
Without a word Chappy was up on his feet.
She brushed up against him as they started to leave. “Where do you reside?” she asked in a whisper.
“Deck seven, a level up from here.” A smile grew on Chappy’s face.
“Oh, take me there, would you?”
“Is that the proper thing to do?”
She seemed taken aback. “You mean being alone with you in your quarters? I am an independent woman, I do as I wish.” She steered him towards an elevator.
Chappy selected a button on the panel and pushed. “I’ll have to trust you on that one.” He had expected taboos. Terrans were products of strict social influences from a religious based government; somehow assertive independent females did not fit that notion.
The elevator closed and she snuggled, pressing her body up against him. When the doors reopened, she was again standing upright, dignified and tall, and apart.
“This way,” he urged.
She scampered after him – like a child doing something forbidden yet immensely enjoyable.
“Are you sure this is . . .”
“Shhh!”
“Look,” Chappy said, “I don’t mind a roll in the hay once in a while but you’re part of the Terran delegation. This might not be the correct thing to do.”
She looked questioningly at him, “Roll in the hay?”
“Yeah, you know,” he was embarrassed at having to explain, “hug, kiss, stuff like that.”
“Oh,” she feigned shock, “you were going to roll in the hay with me?”
“Now, come on, you know . . .”
Beth giggled. “Why Mr. Powers, what ever gave you a thought like that?” Her eyes twinkled as she took him by the arm and led him down the corridor. “Which door is yours?”
“It’s a couple doors down.”
“This one?”
He reached around her and pushed the door open, and they went inside.
“Oh, what a nice place you have.” The bed was unmade; his unlaundered clothing was draped over the foot of the bed, on the floor, and on a chair. She turned her back to it and gazed up into his eyes. “What do we do now?” she asked.
“I don’t know, maybe we shouldn’t be here.”
“Are you worried about your safety or what others might say if they found out I was here with you?” She leaned against him and began fiddling with a zipper on his chest.
“No.” He pulled her hand away but she found the zipper once more. “What about you, what about the rest of the delegation, what’ll they think?”
“I had not planned on telling them, Mr. Powers, did you?” She loosened her headscarf letting it dangle from her hands before it finally fell silently to the floor. With a toss of the head, dark flowing hair sprung free, falling down across her shoulders and face. With both hands she parted it and peeked at him. Her lips were wet and inviting.
“People have a way of finding things out,” he said. He could feel the brush of her breath against his neck. She leaned closer.
“Here, put your hands – right here.” Reaching down, she found both his hands and placed them on her hips. There was movement there; a soft barely felt undulation. He doubted it could even be seen, but he felt it and it sent shivers all over his body.
Deftly, she reached up to her right shoulder and loosened something. Suddenly her shoulders were bare. Chappy pulled her in tight to hold up the falling robe. It was almost a reflex. Despite his best intentions, he could feel her body next to his.
“You hold me so tight, you are so strong.” She squirmed.
He lessened his grip.
The robe fell to the floor.
His comm-link buzzed. Without taking his eyes from her, he answered the call, “Yeah, what is it?”
“Chap, we have another body. It’s down on the main level next to the fields. Better come down here and have a look.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Beth stood there, waiting for him in the dim light, inviting him to take whatever he wanted. And he had never seen a body so well proportioned, with skin as soft and smooth, and so sensuously his if he just reached out and took. But fate had cursed him with a vanishing opportunity. Duty called.
“Chappy,” she whined, “do you have to leave just now?” She pouted again, this time cupping her breasts offering them to him.
“Ohh,” he groaned, “I have no choice in this, I have to get down there right now.”
Dismayed, she dropped her hands. Breasts bounced and she bent to reach her robe. Suddenly the sensuality was gone; she was all business. “Take me to deck nine, please.”
Chappy held the door open. Together they made for the elevators. When they reached deck nine she turned to him, “You owe it to me to finish this business, Mr. Powers.” She wore a very stern expression.
Chappy was speechless.
“Is everything all right?” She stepped up to him and seductively caressed his thigh, then between his legs.
“Have to go,” he wheezed. He was uneasy and it was showing. He reached to the elevator panel and found a button for the main deck. As the elevator doors closed he could see Beth going through the door into the Terran delegation’s quarters, and he could see that a man had greeted her. He wore a black jumpsuit.
                                                           *    *    *
“He fell or jumped from up there.” Parker gestured up to the multi-cantilevered decks above.
Chappy followed Parker’s gaze upward. “Which deck, do you know?” By now people on every deck were leaning out over the railings looking down at the scene.
“Don’t actually know. If he came off deck ten he probably would have been out there in the dirt. My guess is deck eight or seven.”
“Who is he?” The deadman’s face was completely unrecognizable.
“Don’t know that either. The Med-unit’ll have to tell us that.”
Chappy said, “Looks like he bounced headfirst. Anyone see it?”
“Nope, it was deserted out here.” Parker moved around the corpse aiming his gaze in a line up to the decks above. “Most everybody was in front of some transparency looking at the stars. We came out of jump a couple of hours ago. It was the shift just coming off duty that found him.” Parker carefully stepped across a stream of blood running to a floor drain.
“From the looks of it, he’s been here for less than a half hour.” Again he followed Parker’s gaze up. It struck him just then; he was on deck seven only a few minutes ago, he’d been in the elevators, out in the corridors and on the mezzanine and he hadn’t seen or heard anything. If it happened then, he couldn’t have been more than a few steps away. “Parker, I want an identification first thing when the Med-unit gets here. It’s important.”
“Sure thing, Chap.”
“By the way, where is the Med-unit?”
“They’re scattered all over the place probably looking at the stars. It’s something to see, you know. Real pretty.”
                                                           *    *    *
Chappy placed his feet up on his desk and pushed the chair back into a leaning position. “Okay Parker, what do you have?”
Parker, pleased with himself, grinned. “The victim’s ID, workplace, last reported location and some of his fellow workers are waiting outside.”
“Alright, give me the ID first.”
Parker unraveled his wad of paper. “His name is George Mason.”
“Who is George Mason?”
Grief spread over Parker’s face. “I didn’t look into his background, Chappy. I can tell you where he worked and all that stuff.”
Chappy reached for his keypad and tapped in several instructions. The wait was not long. “It’s the grandson of Pete Mason, one of the original salvager families on the Congo.”
Parker consulted his notes. “Mason was a small arms specialist, handheld lasers and projectile weapons. I thought you would find that interesting.”
“Small arms like laser rifles with aiming beacons?”
“Right.” Parker had found a prize, he grinned.
It was interesting. A small arms specialist, one of a very small group that had custody of all the hand-held weapons on board and he just happened to be the one that took a header off an upper-level deck. His gut churned and that usually meant there was more to come. Chappy swallowed hard. He eyed the pair sitting out front. “Call one of them in.”
Parker tapped the window with a knuckle. The nearest to the door came inside.
“You knew George Mason?”
“He worked with us. We all work trick five down in the armory.”
“Shift five,” Chappy muttered entering the information into his investigation file. “We have knowledge that at least two laser rifles are missing. What do you know about that?”
The young man digested the bluff. “How . . . well, it was no big deal.”
A small success. “Tell me all about it.”
“Sure. A couple days ago some of those Terrans came down to the armory and asked if they could do some target shooting. George set them up with a small shooting range in the back of the shuttle bay.”
“Tell me, what did these Terrans look like?”
“Three men, dark hair, they all had dark hair.”
“What else?”
“That’s about it. They said they’d bring the lasers back after a few days.”
“Did you manage to get their names?”
“George did.”
Chappy huffed angrily. “I suppose you don’t have ‘em?”
The crewman winced, “They’re from the Terran delegation, it isn’t like we can’t find ‘em.”
“Okay, okay, what kind of weapons did you give them?”
“Three laser rifles.”
“With sighting beacons?”
“Right, how did you know?”
“Intuition. What was George doing on an upper deck?”
The crewman shrugged.
“Did George say anything about the Terrans after you lent the rifles to them?”
“He was worried about getting them back. Almost from the start he had suspicions about them. I don’t know why, the Terrans can’t go anywhere. We can always find them. There’s no policy about this, you know, we didn’t break any rules. I kept telling George not to worry but he said he might have to do something about getting those rifles back.”
Chappy leaned back. “When did you last see George?”
“A day ago. This is our two days off. We have swing shift tomorrow.”
“You didn’t see him today?”
“No, not today.”
“What do you think happened to George on the upper decks?”
“We all live down on deck two. He must have known someone up there.”
“Maybe he was looking for someone.”
“Yeah,” the crewman nodded, “maybe he was looking for someone.”
                                                           *    *    *
Beth came to the door; the black-haired man was standing close behind her. The doorway was crowded. “You’re a difficult person to see,” Chappy said.
“We do not receive many visitors, perhaps we do not know how it is done,” she said.
“Let’s go out on the concourse.” Chappy tugged her a few steps away from the doorway. It became apparent that the black-haired man was going to follow them. “Not you, chum.” Chappy stepped in front of the man blocking his way. He received a ferocious snarl for his effort.
“I go where she goes,” the man said through clinched teeth.
“What’s the matter, afraid I’ll toss her over the edge?”
“Perhaps that is . . .”
Beth stepped between them. She looked imploringly at her fellow delegate. “I will be safe enough with this man. Go back to the quarters and wait for me.” She gave him a little push. The man turned with a jerk and another look of menace. Beth asked, “Are you here to finish our business, Mr. Powers?” She fluttered eyelids and smiled pleasantly.
“Is that what you want from me?”
“You are a handsome man and I am just an innocent woman, what do I know of these things?”
“You aren’t so innocent.” He glanced around. “We need to talk, where do we go for that?”
“Chappy,” she moaned the name in a deep wanting way, “you know a good place, your quarters will do nicely.”
“The mezzanine here will have to do.”
“Here? I will do it but someone will see us. Can we not go to your . . .”
“I just want to talk right now.”
“Chappy, you are so serious. I do not like it when you are that way.”
“I have serious things on my mind, Beth.”
She touched his hand, then grasped it, and then held it against her breasts. “You can always change your mind.”
With firmness, he extracted his hand from the warm softness. “No, you cannot change my mind on this.” She had succeeded in muddling his thoughts but he decided to charge ahead no matter what. “We have three weapons missing from the armory and I’ve traced them here to the Terran delegation. I am here to retrieve them.”
“I know nothing of weapons.” Her smile turned insincere.
“We know the weapons are here.”
“I am not the responsible person on this mission. I would not know of such things. Besides, what would I know of weapons?”
“That really isn’t the question. Those weapons aren’t supposed to leave the armory. I want them back.”
She pouted and used a little girl voice. “You are more interested in those rifles than you are in me.”
Chappy groaned, she had said "rifles" when he hadn't, she knew all about them.
Her voice took on a serious, heavily accented quality. “I could ask about these weapons but I do not promise anything. Will that do?” She had grown somewhat angry.
“It’s a start.”
                                                           *    *    *
“You have not explained how the Terrans are implicated in this matter. They have laser rifles, so what does that mean?” Samson questioned.
This was not the reaction he had hoped for. “Isn’t it enough to know that the Terrans won’t give them up? And that the only rifles unaccounted for at the time we were shot at in the access tunnel were in the hands of the Terrans? This entire investigation points to the Terrans.” Chappy tried to calm himself. “I don’t see what choice we have in this, and it won’t hurt to ask them questions.”
“Questioning members of an ambassadorial delegation who are about to make their first contact with Earthside governments may not be something we want to do.” Samson had made his best and strongest argument. It was his reason for protecting them.
For Chappy this was a matter of crime. And it was crime of the gravest sort. “There are three men in that delegation I want to question, the rest may not be important to this investigation.”
It was not in his recent experience to have someone stand up and disagree with him. Samson grumbled his objection, “But you do not know which three. Next you will want the entire delegation together to interrogate them all.”
“I don’t know their names but I have numerous eyewitnesses who might identify them.”
“And you think these laser weapons were the ones used against you?”
“They are the only unaccounted weapons anywhere on board.”
“Not a perfect case,” grumbled Samson.
“It’s good enough to get a search anywhere else. It’s good enough to get a conviction on Moonbase. Are you gonna suspend what is just and right, and fair just to protect these people?”  Chappy gulped, surprised with himself. “We’ve investigated every possibility. We have eliminated every person on board with respect to these crimes. We’re talking about drugs and murder, and the only possibilities that remain are with that delegation. I have to have some chance at them.”
Samson paused. “Let us start with the Ambassador. He may have some ideas on this.” He glowered at Chappy. “Wait here, I will get him. You better be right.”
Yes indeed, he had better be right. A more poignant thought had never been expressed. But Chappy felt relief. It could be they were going to get somewhere, finally.
The wait was not long.
Joshua smoothed his robes before sitting.
Samson spoke first. “We have reason to believe that three missing rifle weapons from the Congo’s armory are in the hands of members of your delegation. We wish to have those weapons returned to us and we wanted to talk with you first. We wish to search the delegation residence.”
It wasn’t the best investigative approach but it did lay all the elements out on the table.
Joshua blinked surprise. “Did they steal these weapons?”
“No, they forgot to return them.”
“Did they do something with them that broke the rules?” Joshua was wide-eyed.
Chappy responded, “We think so.”
“Do you know their names? I can talk with them.”
Chappy said, “I’m afraid we do not have their names but I do know they live in the same residential complex as Bethany. They are tall, have long dark hair and sometimes wear black jumpsuits.”
“Ahh!” Joshua reacted. “I personally do not know these people. The Trinity delegation is different from my family who are the true ambassadors.”
“I thought all of you were representing the Terran government and you were the head of this delegation.” Chappy was confused.
As was Samson.
“True to some extent. The Trinity appointed me ambassador, which is correct. I think the others were appointed to quiet political opposition. That much I have been told but I do not understand it. I am just Joshua and I am just trying to do what is best for my family and friends. These others, I do not know them. They live separately from me as we travel on this wonderful starship.”
“What role do these others play?” Chappy wanted to know.
“The Trinity sent them to support me in my work, they said. I remember those words clearly but I have not received the benefit of it. These people do not do what I ask of them and sometimes they behave strangely on their own.”
“Behave strangely?” Chappy questioned.
“They observe no prayer time, they talk of things Terrans never talk of, at least the Terrans I know, and they are not familiar with traditional garb. I do not believe they will help me in my duties. Possibly they will make mischief.”
Samson asked, “Would the Trinity undermine its own ambassador and the mission to Earth?”
“I do not believe so,” Joshua answered.
Samson bent from his standing position to lean on the table; he had unknowingly struck a threatening figure. “Then what is their purpose? What are they doing?”
Joshua quavered. “I cannot determine what they have in their minds. I believe the Trinity thinks they are of genuine assistance to me. It is just that they are so unprincipled.”
Chappy was not surprised.
Samson was.
Chappy asked, “What did you plan to do with them?”
“I have not decided.”
“Josh,” Samson asked, “do you have any background records on these people?”
“No, and that is a curious thing. I have talked with some of them about their experiences, all have said they originate in the southern latitudes on Terra. None come from the north where I am most familiar with people and places. One of them told me of a birthplace that does not exist.”
“Which one said that?”
“It was the person you know, Mr. Chappy, Bethany. She says she was born on 52equaWest. It is a narrow strip of land with oceans on two sides. It is all sand there and it would not support fifty-two levels. It had only ten when I was there."
“If she isn’t from that address, where could she be . . .” Chappy’s question trailed off. He was thinking wild thoughts of spies and infiltration.
Joshua was speaking. Chappy heard him through the fog of his own thoughts, “ . . . I propose you accompany me to the delegation’s living quarters and there we shall ask them questions. I believe the best time for that is now.”
Chappy fumbled to get his comm-link; it made a bleep, then, “Parker, get up on level nine and wait for me there out on the mezzanine. Be sure to bring a fully charged laser with you.”
“Gotcha, I’m on my way,” Parker answered.
By the time the elevator doors opened on to deck nine, Parker was standing there with a big grin. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Nothing yet. Stay close, we’re going into the Terran living quarters.”
Parker nudged up close. "Who is that?” He gestured back at Joshua.
“That’s the Terran Ambassador. Don’t worry about him, it’s the guys inside we have to keep an eye on.”
“Sure, whatever you say, Chap.” He fell in with the procession still eyeing Joshua as they marched up to the residential door.
Joshua did not knock or announce himself; he simply opened the door and walked in. And everyone followed him inside.
The first room was large and utterly devoid of furnishings, and it was empty of people. There were several doors leading to sleeping areas, all of them were closed. But in one corner stood six large round containers. Samson went over to them, pried a lid off the nearest one and reached inside. “Water,” he declared, “plain water.” He splashed at it.
“Why water?” Chappy asked.
Samson began lifting the other lids; all of them were filled to the brim with water.
Joshua opened one bedroom door then took several steps inside. Two desks with chairs and a large tilted drawing table graced the center of the room facing a wall decorated with twelve large schematic drawings. One desk held a computer terminal. Other than that, the room was empty. Samson stepped up to examine drawings. They were schematics of each deck on the Congo plus the bridge and the shuttle bay. Each map was marked with blue-colored dots at various locations.
“What’s going on?” Chappy questioned.
“I do not know what it means.” Joshua was shaking his head. Like everyone else he had a foreboding sense of gloom about it.
“Parker, better get a look into those other rooms,” Chappy said, “and take precautions.” He patted his own side arm.
Parker understood and drew his weapon.
Samson studied the drawings, examining one, then another and another until he had closely scrutinized them all. Then he moved to the terminal where Chappy had already been examining a stack of papers he found beside the keypad. “What do you have there?” Samson asked.
 Chappy gave him a somber look, “Operating instructions.” He flipped through one page after another. “How to access flight operations, sensor systems, environmental management systems, personnel records.” There was more but he just flipped the pages. “They produced those schematics from this terminal.”
Samson’s expression darkened.
“I do not know what is happening here.” Joshua sounded apologetic.
Parker burst back into the room, he was holding a quart-sized container in one hand, and looked terribly excited. “I have something here, Chap, better have a look at this.” He lifted the lid from it. “There are fifty or sixty of these in the next room. The stuff looks like Blue Meanies.”
The cylindrical grey container was full of a blue, not quite granular substance. “Show me the rest of ‘em,” Chappy said.
The two of them went into adjacent room. There were a half dozen rows of small grey containers lined up on the floor. Another schematic decorated the wall but this time it detailed the forward bridge. On it, each operating position was accompanied with a long legend of operating instructions.
“Look Chap,” Parker pulled the lid from another small container. More blue powder. He held it out.
Chappy said, “I think we had better see what’s in those other rooms. Things are getting to the critical stage around here.” He pulled the schematic from the wall.
“Right behind ya,” Parker said.
As it turned out, no one was in any of the other rooms, but there were unmade beds and clothing strewn about. It looked as if they had departed in a great hurry.
“Count all the beds, Parker, I want to make sure everyone lived here. I’d hate to find out later that some of ‘em had camped out in a remote corner of the shuttle bay or somewhere else.”
Parker counted forty beds in three rooms.
When they had caught up with Samson, Chappy gave him the schematic from the wall. “Better see this.”
Samson’s studied the paper, his lips began twitching in a snarl and his breathing rumbled. “I should have listened to you sooner.” He looked down into Chappy’s face, “This is a plan to take over the Congo.”
Chappy agreed, he had reached the same conclusion earlier when they entered the room with the computer terminal.
Joshua fainted.
Chappy said, “The first thing we do is seal this place off.”
Parker looked questioningly at him.
Chappy said, “We’re gonna need at least three squads of reserves; one for the bridge, one here and one down in the armory. Get that organized. Get on the comm-link and start lining things up.”
“Josh,” Samson bent to him, shaking one shoulder.
“Yes,” Joshua responded.
“We are going to have to do some things,” Samson was explaining, “for our own protection.”
Joshua said, “I understand.”
 “I hope so, this may not be pretty.”
Parker said to Chappy, “The squad’s on its way here.”
“Good, Samson and I have to get up to the bridge, we will be there until a squad arrives.”   
                                                           *    *    *
“Take over the Congo, I don’t believe it.” Jason wanted evidence.
Samson explained, “There are twelve black dots, each marks a critical back-up control point for the operation of a ship’s system.” Samson unfurled one of the larger schematics. “See, each of these is in such a place that, with manipulation of the Ops-computer program, the ship can be operated from there bypassing the bridge altogether.” He looked Jason in the face. “No safeguards were ever built-in the Congo to protect from a remote operational take-over. I don’t think anyone ever thought of it until now.” He returned to the drawings. “Now, if they dumped this Blue Meanie drug into the water supply and incapacitated the crew, these blue dots you see, they could just walk in and take things over. If the effect isn’t quick enough or if it doesn’t do the job, then it is probably their back up plan to try and take over from those remote positions. Think about it. They’d sent an armed squad to the bridge here and engage you in a firefight and another group would be at these positions getting control of the Congo. The Ops-computer has no program to determine who has dominant control, so they try to kill you and get the Congo that way. Shoot you or drug you, they don’t care.”
Chappy said, “Doc down in the Med-unit told me this Blue Meanie drug reaches max potency in the first ten to twenty minutes and lasts up to a full day if it doesn’t kill you. Then it oxidizes into the atmosphere. If they dose the water supply and incapacitated the crew, they would have a full day to get control of things.”
Jason asked, “What’s the plan?”
“They have three laser rifles right now and there are forty of them out there somewhere. They will probably go after the armory first, they need weapons. Parker is getting a squad down there now. Another squad should be on its way up here and we’ll move the drugs to the security office. Then we plan to conduct a ship-wide search for them.”
“They were going to sacrifice the entire crew,” Jason said.
“I don’t think lives are important to them,” Chappy said.
Jason turned to the devastated Joshua, “What’s going on, Josh? Who are these people?”
“I do not know. They are not behaving like Terrans.”
“What are we to do Josh?”
“Ahh, but you know that already. You are an honorable people, you have done no wrong so you must protect this wonderful ship and yourselves.”
It was Michelle who asked the key question, “They aren’t Terrans, are they?”
“I believe you are right, they are not Terrans,” Joshua answered.
“Then there is no decision to make,” she said, “we must act to rid ourselves of them right now.”
Jason looked over to Samson, “Better go to full red alert, that’ll put everybody in the best position to defend themselves.”
Michelle’s face screwed up in anger. “I will not tolerate any god damn aliens who are trying to steal this ship, get them off this ship . . .”
“Going to full alert,” Samson said. He addressed his console; it took only a second.
 Chappy tapped his comm-link, a voice came on in a shout, “This is Parker!”
“What is going on down there?”
“Chap, the squad just got back from the armory when these Terrans came by. We’re in a firefight right now. I can tell you this much, they still have those laser rifles.”
“You’re under fire right now?”
“Right, we’re answering their fire from the doorway.”
Chappy didn’t need to explain; the entire forward bridge had overheard the conversation. “I’ve got to get down there right now.” He jumped to his feet. “If we can box them in on deck nine we might end this thing right now.” And he broke into a dead run for the elevator complex.
When the doors opened onto deck nine the acrid odor of ozone rushed back in. Two steps outside on the mezzanine was all it took, Chappy was hit with grazing laser fire to his right thigh. He retreated back into the elevator, reassessed the situation – then scolded himself for blundering into the open without thinking first.
He called on the comm-link. “Parker, you inside?”
“We’re inside the alien residence. I don’t know how many there are outside.”
That meant the aliens were in the hallways on either side of Parker – and Parker was pinned down.
Chappy stuck one foot out to trap the elevator door then ventured a flash look. The hallway to the right was the more exposed. Anyone there was vulnerable to his position. Chappy raised his laser pistol, felt for the trigger and aimed straight at the hallway – then peeked out. Something moved. Someone was sliding up against a wall edging up to the corner. Chappy fired. The alien yelped and returned two wild bursts, and disappeared deep into the corridor.
The comm-link sounded, “Did you get ‘em?”
“I chased him back, I might have hit ‘em. I don’t see any of the others.”
“Got anyone with you?” Parker asked.
“Nope.”
It got quiet. Chappy peeked out; no aliens were anywhere to be seen. Carefully, he moved out into the open, weapon at the ready. He stepped quietly to the opposite wall, maybe twenty steps from the elevator, then flattened himself there. It wasn’t a safe place to be, either alien could reach out and take him down. There was no where for him to hide. It was the residence or retreat. Chappy charge for the open door.
Once there, he bolted inside.
Inside, Parker’s squad stood on either side of the doorway. For a moment every weapon there was aimed at him.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Geez Chappy, you ought to let us know when your gonna do something like that,” Parker complained.
“I didn’t know I was coming inside until I did it.”
Grins erupted all around. People were beginning to relax.
 “Okay, here’s the plan, get a couple of men and rush the elevators. I don’t think anyone is there but if they come up, you’ll be waiting. Keep an eye on things up and down the mezzanine, they could be using the other elevators.”
“We can do that,” Parker assured him.
“Good. Leave two inside here. The rest of you divide into two groups. Each group’ll go down a hallway, you’ll be checking out all of the rooms there. If you have no choice, kill ‘em, if they wanna be captured then spread-eagle them out there on the concourse.” He looked at them all, they seemed ready. “Okay, let’s go do it.”
“I’ll be with the group going to the left,” Chappy said.
“Okay,” Parker said, “you go first.”
Chappy touched the wound in his thigh. There was a hole through his pant leg and some sensitive fried skin but he was all there. It hurt like hell.
The first man disappeared out the door, and then another followed without incident. Chappy blindly charged out after them.
“The hallway is empty,” one of them said.
He could see several doors back in the shadows. He picked the first one, “Let’s do it!”
One of them reached for the door handle, turned it and pushed, then sent a hail of laser fire through the open doorway. They paused, and then two of them reached inside and fired another blind volley into the unlighted room.
There was no return fire.
Chappy whispered, “One at a time, inside,” and they rushed in unchallenged.
There was no discernable movement inside the room, and no sounds. Someone raised the illumination. Beneath an angry swath of laser burns on the back wall lay a figure in black with a dazzling row of bright shining medallions across his chest. A laser rifle lay beside him.
Chappy kicked the rifle away. It clattered up against a wall.
“I’ve never seen an outfit like that,” someone said. He reached down to touch the medals. When he did they glinted in the room-light.
”Lucifer soldiers,” Chappy muttered, “we had two of them in the brig for a while.”
                                                           *    *    *
“Lucifer soldiers?” Michelle squeaked.
“Yes,” Chappy said. The bridge crew was attentive but only Michelle showed any sign of stress at the news. “Two are dead, another escaped over the deck nine railing using a rope. We never thought about that possibility, we simply missed him.”
“The rest of them are loose somewhere,” Jason sighed.
Michelle shuddered.
“I don’t think there is a need to worry.” This was Chappy’s attempt to calm her.
“We’ve shut down all computer operations except for the bridge and the alert stations. I think we can go for a day or so before we have to get everything back up and running,” Jason explained. “They’d have to take over the bridge if they want the ship.”
That did not reassure Michelle.
“We’re still vulnerable at the water supply access points,” Jason said.
Samson said, “The crew has been informed of the possible contamination, they will be using emergency supplies until otherwise notified. All that is left is to find the aliens.”
To find the Lucifer Soldiers meant searching the entire ship. It seemed an impossible task. Someone had to look at ten million square feet of living area, the shuttle bay and all of it’s rooms and cubicles, all of the pipeways, equipment rooms, maintenance shops, and the drive unit itself which held nearly half as much area as the main body of the Congo. But the search was underway, and after hours of work Chappy and Parker found themselves on the main deck. So far no one had found an alien.
Parker let the door swing closed behind him. “Hydroponics is clear.” He gazed expectantly at Chappy. “What next?”
“All that’s left is out there.” He gestured to the eco-system fields.
“You mean the woods?”
“In the woods, every square foot. Come on, let’s get to it.” He started toward the starboard grove.
Parker trudged close behind.
“Chap, we can’t cover all those woods.”
“We have too. If it’s tough to cover you can bet it’ll be a great hiding place.”
“But all those trees and brush. I’ll bet there are places in there where nobody has ever walked. We’ll get lost in there.”
Chappy turned onto an irregular stone path that led into the forest. Ferns soon blocked the way but he pushed through, moving carefully, stepping yard by yard and following the stone path there. The overhead light grew dim and the air turned cool.
Then a clearing.
“What is that?” Parker asked in a loud whisper. It was a tall structure with a pointed roof above a platform. And there was a chain suspended bench in the middle of it.
“Don’t know.” Chappy edged up to the steps and looked inside. “Nothing here.” He sat on the bench and pushed with his legs, and began swinging.
“Looks as if someone was here.” Parker bent to study several handprints in the dust on the rail. He looked up into the forest. “They’re out there.”
“Let’s get moving.” Chappy pounced to his feet. For the next three hours they tramped back and forth through the grove, squeezing between trees and ducking beneath tall brush and marking their path to avoid becoming lost. They found nothing of the aliens. Finally they stood at the border overlooking the open field. In the distance lay the portside grove.
A pair of ag-robot caught Chappy’s eye. Each was moving between rows of onions cutting the tops down. Nearer, a half dozen of them churned between huge piles of soil, mixing and leveling, and constantly moving in circles. “All that’s left to search is the other grove.”
“Everyone is reporting in, they haven’t found anything.”
He stared at the far grove. It mesmerized as impending danger might. He felt no compulsion to avoid the place and he had no fear of it; there was just a recognition that he would soon be in there, and so would the Lucifer Soldiers.
“Better tell the others where we’re going,” he said, “and tell them we could use some help down here.”
“You think they’re in there?” Parker asked. “There are places in the shuttle bay they could still . . .”
“They’re in there.” Chappy gazed at the tall conifers and the bordering hedge, then at the deep shadows within. “Call ‘em, tell ‘em we’re going in.” He started walking along the edge of the field. The trees were large and close together. This grove was drier than the starboard grove; here it was thorny with heavy thicket. The search would be difficult.
Chappy squeezed between two trees then waited to regain his bearings. Parker became stuck between the two trees.
“Straight ahead is the best route. We’ll work our way back and forth until we get to the far side.”
Parker struggled. Chappy failed to see his dilemma and moved off into the woods.
Finally Parker freed himself and ran to catch-up. By then Chappy had stopped and was squatting behind a fallen tree. Parker did the same.
The forest wasn’t particularly dark in this place; streams of light touched down to the forest floor in places. Branches spread out to touch the light and the brush here seemed to grow only where the light was strong. But it wasn’t the light that had captured Chappy’s attention; it was the sounds he heard.
“Hear that?”
Parker listened intently, he heard nothing.
“That,” Chappy whispered sharply.
Voices from a distance. They were faint but it couldn’t be anything else. Both drew weapons and crept up to the next group of trees. The voices stopped – and so did they. Up ahead was nothing but forest.
Chappy crept through the patch trees and up to the next cluster. Now he could hear it again and when he looked above the brush he could see the heads of people forty or fifty yards away. They seemed to be walking back and forth.
He turned to Parker. “Better make sure of that backup, we’re gonna need it.”
They crawled closer until they could make out the voices. “The plan, the plan, the plan,” someone was saying, “this is no time to be complaining about the plan. We need a way out of this.”
Parker finished with the comm-link. Chappy gestured for him to move over to a tree a few yards away. “We need a cross-fire.”
Another alien was speaking, “There was no room in this plan for contingency. They took the drugs, shut down the computer access points and confiscated our plans. They did it with the greatest of ease. We were sloppy, very sloppy. We did not stand a chance with these plans.”
“Stop this recrimination, we need ideas on how to get out of this situation. We cannot stay in these woods forever.”
A different voice, “I say we attack the bridge. If we succeed we have accomplished everything, if we fail, we will die as warriors.”
 “How do we do that? We have only two weapons and the bridge is up on the top level, ten decks away. We cannot possibly fight our way up there with two rifles. It is suicide.”
Chappy crawled closer. He raised up to see them. One of them rose to speak.
“The action plan fell apart, to this we can all agree so let us not argue over what we all know to be a part of history.” The man paced. “We tried to bring this space craft, this prize that General Rousell covets, back to the Consortium of Nations because this black ship was rumored to be superior to the battlecruisers of our fleet. Now we cannot do this. What can we do? We have plans of this vessel and certain data from their computers, and we have samples of their building materials. Why can we not be satisfied with those and return them to our government so a duplicate vessel may be constructed? Perhaps our people will improve on this design. Why do we find it necessary to kill when we think we have the advantage . . .”
Another interrupted. “Because we wish to render them incapable of victory. This is the only spacecraft of its type, why not take this vessel and the specifications? That is best.”
“That is not best. That sort of thinking has brought us to the brink of failure. We face the possibility of accomplishing nothing. And how do you know this is the only vessel of this type? Suppose there are hundreds more like it and suppose they decided to bring all of those vessels to bear on our fleet just to bring back the ship you have decided to steal? We know so little about these people. If we were not in this situation I might recommend we simply study them for several years to determine their capabilities. War should not be the only option.”
“Enough lectures, we need a plan.”
“Yes, a plan.”
“Our options are few. I believe we must attempt to take the bridge and turn this spacecraft back to our home.”
Parker crawled over to him. “They’re talking about attacking the bridge.”
“Yeah, yeah, I can hear.” Just then from behind, he could see Samson struggling through the trees with his squad close behind.
Eventually Samson crept up close. “What is the situation?” He gestured to his squad to spread out and form an attack line.
Chappy said, “I couldn’t get a count on ‘em but I think they’re all here. They’re planning to attack the bridge.”
Samson smirked. “We have them cornered. They cannot get away from here.”
“They have two laser rifles.”
“We will have to identify the ones with the weapons and disable them.”
They crept closer. So far the alien’s weapons were not evident, but then, as if he had willed it, two of the aliens stood with the laser rifles in their arms.
Samson’s troop open fired. Lasers seemed to erupt from every tree in the forest and the two armed aliens fell.
Samson barked an order, “Everyone stand where you are.”
The gathering of black uniformed aliens stood carefully.
Chappy struggled to his feet with pistol drawn and edged into the clearing.
With surprising suddenness one alien jumped for a rifle, grabbed it and rolled to a prone firing position. Laser blue streaked from his weapon.
Chappy flinched and ducked back to the ground. He gathered his wits and fired. His target of choice tossed the rifle to another. But something was wrong. The aliens with the laser rifles weren’t defending themselves; they were cutting down their own people.
In seconds, and it seemed much longer, the firing stopped. All of the black uniformed people were down. Chappy ran through the smoke and scorched air into the clearing and to the body with the rifle. He picked the rifle up. Quickly he looked around; someone else had found the second weapon.
“Chappy.” He heard a hoarse whisper.
He turned, then saw her. Bending down he could hear her labored breathing. “Beth, Beth,” he groaned, “why did they shoot their own people?”
“It was the honorable way out. In the face of certain defeat it is done.” She rolled her head to one side. “We underestimated you.”
“Beth, this was not a competition.” Lasers had raked across her legs and abdomen. She was bleeding profusely.
“Yes it was,” she wheezed, and was seized by a labored cough.
“Not competition.”
Beth’s eyes closed for a time, then opened again. “Chappy, my people could not accept Earth as superior in any way. We had to be better.” She was failing. It was becoming difficult for her to breathe.
“We could have shared ideas and taught your people new things. We could have learned from you.”
“To learn from another is to be subordinate to another. It is our own arrogance. Earth, you see, was once our colony and for Earth to do better was an insult.” Her eyes closed and Chappy was afraid they would never open again.
“No, no, we are Terra’s second colony. They have told us.” Chappy desperately tried to think of something he could do. He was consumed by an overwhelming feeling of helplessness.
“You are wrong, we brought you this far and for a time you showed a fine militaristic . . .” Her mouth showed a wince of pain. “Chappy, oh, Chappy . . .”
Chappy held the lifeless body and cried out, “No, no!”
                                                           *    *    *
In later years, Chappy would reflected on his starship days. He sensed he was searching for some significance in those events. There could be little doubt that those times were historically important and that humankind was changed forever by the deeds of those people in those times. All of that seemed unreal now. It was almost abstract to him anymore. It didn't feel like history, as people often told him it was, it was just people being people. It seemed more like the mere passage of time. Yet it seemed that the inevitable was in play. It was inevitable that citizens from Earth, Terra and Lupus would meet in one way or another, at sometime or other. It was fate and for Chappy there was a certain pride in being among the fateful few to be the first to meet other planetarians. 
And that other thing; could it be there was substance in the stories he heard that humans had not evolved on Earth but from somewhere else? Sometimes those rumors declared Lupus the mother society of human origins; sometimes it was Terra. Sometimes people held firmly to the idea that they evolved on Earth. For instance, there was the Earth Society for the Preservation of the Human Race (ESP); a radical group subscribing to certain principles of a segregated society based on the notion that humankind evolved on Earth and any other life form was not human.
Chappy decided, usually, that there wasn't enough information to draw any conclusions. Maybe he didn’t care about that sort of speculation. Where he was going was far more important than where he’d been.
People come and go throughout a lifetime. The real constants in the Universe are things and places. Earth is still there, as are Eden, the Moon, Giclas and the Wolf system; but Beth is gone, and so are Janice Gilchrist, Zack Holyfield, Chief, John Roberts and Murph Santorini, and others. Jason, Samson and Michelle still go on but someday they too will be gone. So, the adventure of life is in the people and what they do. The adventure in life is in the future, never in the past. There will be other people and other adventures. So, Chappy preferred to contemplate what was ahead.
But there will always be the Congo.





                                         


                                                                               THE  END