Her Brother's Keeper - eARC Page 18

  Zak felt a pit forming in his stomach. He couldn’t risk multiple meetings with these people while whatever committee they had deliberated and discussed the matter. Sooner or later his luck would run out. “It is extremely risky for me to get away like this,” he said, “and I do not want to risk sending you a message remotely, even if it’s encrypted. If Lang even suspects that I’m talking to someone on the outside…well, let’s just say that I’ve seen him crucify people.”

  Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Crucify?”

  “Yeah, crucify. Like from the Christian Bible? Ancient Rome? He takes people, nails them to a big cross, and leaves them up there to die slowly. And that’s what he’ll do to all of you, in a heartbeat, if he thinks it’ll get him weapons from the Combine. So whatever meeting you need to have, I suggest you have it soon.”

  “I am afraid I am not familiar with the myths of Ancient Earth, but you have made your point. You need not be concerned. While you were talking, I contacted those I need to discuss this matter with, and have relayed to them our conversation in full.” There was a pause, as if she were listening to a voice Zak could not hear. She probably was. “We will help you send your message. First we will need to know what it is you wish to say, and to whom you wish to send it. You can record it here, if you are ready, but we cannot send it right away. We will have to wait until a ship comes to Zanzibar that can carry your message. Couriers do not come here often, but they do come here. It will take some time, but your message will be sent out.”

  A euphoric wave of relief washed over Zak, so much so that he wanted to sit down. “My God…thank you. Thank you so much. I’ll do whatever it is you need, whatever I can do. Thank you.”

  “What I do not understand,” Maggie said, “is what you think will become of you. Are you calling for a rescue?”

  “No. This is bigger than me. There’s more at stake than saving my own skin. It’s not right that a madman like Lang can rob the graves of the dead to buy weapons to further terrorize the people here. Zanzibar has suffered enough.”

  “We can keep you safe, Mr. Mesa. You needn’t go back. You can stay with us, and Aristotle Lang will never find you.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but no I can’t. My partner, Anna, is shopping for supplies in Freeport. That’s the pretense we used to come here. If I don’t come back, Lang will kill her, or worse.”

  “It is risky, but we may be able to get her to safety before she leaves the city.”

  “It’s…it’s not just her. It’s Cecil.”

  “The Avalonian?”

  “The same. He’s not a bad man. He just made some very bad decisions, and I made most of them with him. I can’t leave him like that. Lang probably won’t kill him if I disappear, but he’ll do terrible things to him all the same. Me searching for that vault keeps Lang happy, and that keeps Cecil safe. I can’t just save my own skin and leave him to his fate. It’s not right. He stuck his neck out to save me from Lang more than once.”

  “Your loyalty is admirable, Mr. Mesa. It gives us more confidence in your intentions. Are you ready to record your message?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Very well. Where would you like this message to go? I hope you don’t expect to send it to the Concordiat Security Council on Earth.”

  “What? No. No, I have a better idea. I’ll address my message to the Historical, Archaeological, and Anthropological Society of Columbia. HAASCA has ties to the most prestigious universities on Columbia, the colonial government, and its counterparts on other worlds. They know me there. I’ve presented dissertations and published papers with them. They’ll listen. They’ll bring it to the right people. It’s the best hope I have.”

  “Very well, Mr. Mesa,” Maggie said. “The camera is ready. Stand over there when you’re ready to record your message.”

  “I also want to upload some data from my handheld.”

  “If you insist,” Strelok said. “Give it to me. I will copy the data and we will send it with your message.”

  A few moments later, after smoothing his clothes and going over what he wanted to say, Zak stepped into the indicated corner. A camera mounted to the ceiling was aimed at him; Maggie and Strelok fell silent and indicated that he should begin. He cleared his throat and said, “my name is Zachary Dionysius Mesa, formerly of the University of Columbia on the colony of the same name. This message is intended for my peers and fellow scholars of the Historical, Archaeological, and Anthropological Society.”

  Zak fetched from a pocket one of the ancient alien rune stones, so well preserved after millions of years. “I am presently stranded on the frontier world of Zanzibar, in the Danzig-5012 system. I am being held captive by a brutal warlord named Aristotle Lang. This artifact is a relic from the ancient Zanzibari species, who vanished four million standard years ago. Against my will, I am being forced by Lang to hunt for and turn over these artifacts. He intends to sell them on the black market and use the money to buy weapons.

  “I send this message not as a plea for rescue. It is likely my fate will have already been decided by the time anyone receives this. This is a plea for intervention. The people of Zanzibar live in poverty and fear. Warlords and bandits control everything outside of the city of Freeport, and the planet is a refuge for pirates, criminals, and smugglers. These artifacts are the last remnants of an extinct species. We know so little about the Zanzibari, and we still don’t know what happened to them or what killed their homeworld. Colonial researchers were working on this same problem over a century ago, when the Maggots attacked. They hid everything to save it from destruction, and to prevent looters from stealing it later on.

  “Don’t let the efforts and sacrifices of these people be in vain. Don’t let a madman like Lang rob the graves of extinct beings so he can spread more misery and suffering on an already miserable world. The records left behind by my predecessors indicate that they were hiding something big, some major discovery. I have not yet ascertained what; the xenoarchaeological program was secretive and compartmentalized. It could be something dangerous. In any case these artifacts cannot be allowed to flood the black market unchecked. Once they get off-world, they’ll never be recovered, and so much knowledge will be lost forever. Something must be done.”

  Zak took a deep breath, and looked up. “This is Zak Mesa, from Zanzibar. Uh, signing off.”

  Maggie seemed satisfied. “Well said, Mr. Mesa. Our people will edit your message and incorporate the data you indicated. As soon as a ship arrives that can carry your message, we will get it sent off.”

  “My God, thank you,” Zak said, relieved. “Thank you so much. I do need to be going, though. Lang’s spies will grow suspicious.”

  “Very well,” Maggie said. “Strelok will escort you back to the market. Try to stay alive, Mr. Mesa.”

  Zak managed a weak smile. “No promises, but I’ll do my best.”

  Chapter 16

  The Privateer Ship Andromeda

  Deep Space

  JAC-83-45891 System

  With a silent flash, a ripple in the quantum foam, and a pulse of x-ray radiation, the Andromeda winked into existence one hundred and forty million kilometers from a red dwarf star known only as JAC-83-45891. It would take her a hundred and ninety-nine hours on the planned trajectory to swing across the system to the next transit point. Such was the unglamorous reality of interstellar travel—countless hours with little do while the ship coasted through one empty system after another. This system had no planets or asteroids, or anything of note. It was simply one stop of many on the Andromeda’s long journey.

  Down in the crew compartment, Marcus Winchester’s head was spinning. He fumbled for his space sickness bag, feeling severely nauseated, but couldn’t muster the necessary fine motor function to grasp it. It mocked him, tumbling lazily in the air a few centimeters out of his reach. Every time he reached for it, it simply glided out of the way, spinning and dancing merrily in freefall.

  “Fuck you, bag!” Marcus growled. At least,
that’s what he intended to say. What actually came out of his mouth sounded more like “F-f-f-fuuuuu—yoooo…” accompanied by a spray of spittle. The droplets of Marcus’ saliva joined the vomit bag in its zero-gravity dance, orbiting it and shimmering in the light like so many tiny stars. The lights in Marcus’ berth flickered unevenly, and his display screens remained dark as the system struggled to reboot.

  What Marcus was experiencing was formally known as the Vestal-Black Effect, named for the two physicists who first postulated it. In over a millennium of effort, no truly effective counter to the effect, known colloquially as “transit shock,” had ever been devised. It affected the human mind and electronic devices alike, and was thought to be the byproduct of these complex systems being shunted from one star to another, effectively leaving the physical universe for an infinitesimally short amount of time. That kind of space-time displacement had side effects, and the side effects were unpleasant.

  It had been years since Marcus had experienced transit, and he was all the worse for wear because of it. With a grunt and a lunge, he managed to snag the wayward vomit bag just as his acceleration restraints locked. With both hands he brought the bag to his mouth and threw up. Acrid fluids burned his nose and mouth, and made his eyes water. He desperately held it to his mouth, dry heaving several times, before sealing it and releasing the bag of puke to float around his berth.

  I forgot how much I hate this. His head was mushy, his eyes were still half focused, and his thought processes were slow. It was like waking up after going on the worst bender ever. His motor skills were coming back, though; he successfully retrieved his water bottle on the second try. His berth stunk of sweat and vomit, and was growing uncomfortably warm. The environmental systems hadn’t turned over yet. And she wants to be a spacer, she says. His daughter had been in cold sleep when they made the long journey from Hayden to New Austin. She’d never experienced the misery of transit shock.

  Until now. Through the throbbing of his head, Marcus remembered that his daughter was on the ship with him. Why is she here? What’s her name again? He clenched his eyes shut, trying to concentrate through the pounding in his skull, as he struggled to remember his daughter’s name. Starts with an “a”…Anna. Ann. Annie. “Fuck,” he said aloud, before having another drink of water.

  TAP TAP TAP.

  Marcus froze. It sounded like someone had just tapped on the hatch of his berth. Did I imagine that? He strained to listen, but heard nothing but the air circulation system and other ambient ship noises as the Andromeda’s systems slowly came back online.

  TAP TAP TAP. He definitely heard it that time. Somebody was rapping on the hatch. Marcus strained to sit up enough to see past his feet to where the hatch was. He was still restrained in his acceleration couch (which was also his bed), and didn’t know if he had the dexterity to get the restraints unfastened. He tapped the panel on the wall that was supposed to open the shutter, revealing the small window in the hatch. After four tries, the system finally responded and the shutters opened.

  Black eyes studied Marcus from behind blood-matted hair. A stained, tattered purple scarf hung from the girl’s neck, her face was shrouded in shadow and confusion, but Marcus immediately knew who she was. He covered his face with his hands and tried not to scream. His heart raced, his head spun, and a pit of cold fear formed in his chest. TAP TAP TAP. TAP TAP TAP.

  “Go away!” Marcus shouted, his eyes still clenched shut. He opened them in horror when he realized the hatch was being unsealed. Blinding white light poured in as the door slid open. “Leave me alone!” he cried.

  A reassuring woman’s voice answered. “You’re okay! Hey! Look at me!”

  Marcus’ eyes slowly came into focus, and so did the haggard-looking young woman drifting just outside of his berth. Her hair was tied in a tight bun, and what looked like vomit stained part of her sage green flight suit. She had a medical bag in her hands.

  “My name is Felicity,” she said. “I’m a medic. You’re experiencing severe transit shock.”

  “No shit,” Marcus managed.

  “What did you see? I think you were hallucinating.”

  Marcus was quiet for a moment. “Nothing,” he lied. “It was nothing.” The dead girl from Mildenhall would never let him go.

  “All of you groundhogs are having bad reactions,” Felicity continued. “Here,” she said, producing an auto-injector. “This will level you off.”

  “I don’t need—gah!” Marcus wasn’t able to finish his sentence before Felicity jabbed the needle into this thigh.

  “The hell you don’t,” she mused. “I don’t want to get puked on again, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Marcus’ heart rate slowed as the chemical concoction made its way through his veins. The overwhelming sense of anxiety faded away, and his head stopped spinning. “Is my daughter okay?”

  “The kid?” Felicity asked. “Don’t worry, I checked on her first. She’s doing okay, better than the rest of you. Is this your first time translating or something? Did we just pop your quantum cherry?”

  “Believe it or not, no,” Marcus said. “It’s just been a long time. Ugh.” He shook his head. “So, which one of us puked on you? Rest assured, I won’t let him live it down.”

  * * *

  Fastened into her seat on the command deck, Catherine idly sipped nutrient- and electrolyte-infused water while she waited for the dizziness to reside. Even experienced spacers were not immune to transit shock. Neither, for that matter, were the Andromeda’s systems. Catherine’s own displays were mostly offline, leaving her to look through a few blank transparent screens. One screen was solid blue, with a standard fatal system error message in white text.

  The more complex the system, the more susceptible it was to the ravages of transit shock. Usually systems would come back online after a few minutes, but not always. As a safety measure, most ships, especially those operating alone, had as many redundancies and manual backups installed into their systems as possible. Fully automated ships were rarely trusted for anything more than in-system duty, or routine transits between star systems (and unmanned ships were generally prohibited from transporting human cargo).

  There was only so much one could do with manual or analog backups, however, especially regarding something as complex as an interstellar-capable ship. Catherine waited patiently, relaxing in her chair and trying to get her bearings, as three separate computers ran test problems over and over again. When all three agreed on the answer, systems would automatically be brought back online, and the Andromeda would be underway again.

  “Status report,” Catherine ordered.

  Luis Azevedo rubbed his eyes, then looked groggily away from his myriad of displays. “Captain, life-support is one hundred percent. Engineering reports the reactor is in the green. The transit motivator will be fully cycled in approximately four hours. Medical reports no injuries, though our guests downstairs are still having a hard time with transit shock. Med Tech Lowlander got vomited on, and one of the mercenaries admitted that she saw a ghost.”

  Spacers’ tales, going back more than a thousand years, often mentioned sightings of ghosts or apparitions on board a ship after completing a transit. The superstitious liked to say that when a ship translates between systems, it leaves the universe completely. When it returns, the tales went, it carries with it the souls of the restless dead who follow the ship to its next port.

  Catherine didn’t put much stock in any of the old stories. Transit shock was hard on the human mind. People hallucinated, especially if they were not used to it, and that’s all there was to it. At least, that’s what Catherine told herself, even though she’d seen some strange and unsettling things in her career. Shaking off her wandering thoughts, she focused on the task at hand. “Sensors?”

  Nattaya Tantirangsi turned from her screens full of error messages and looked at her Captain apologetically. “Still not up and running, Skipper,” she said. “Radar, infrared, and passive sensors are all being difficult.
Optical tracking is online now, so we can eyeball it if we have to. We may have to pull some components on the main sensor suite though.”

  “I see. How long?”

  “It’ll take me about an hour, Skipper. I apologize. We should’ve done it after our last transit.”

  “It’s quite alright, Nuchy,” Catherine said, addressing the junior officer by her nickname. “These things are unpredictable. Get started on that. We’ll navigate by the stars if we have to.” She tapped a control that gave her voice communication with the ship’s pilot. “Flight Deck, how are we doing?”

  Colin sounded tired, but coherent, when he responded. “Five by five, Skipper. Aside from my scopes being down, all controls are responding. The autopilot crashed when I tried to reboot it, so I left it off for now. I’ve already laid in the course sent up from Astrogation. We can begin our boost anytime you like, ma’am.”

  Catherine smiled. “Flying by the seat of our pants, under manual control, while navigating by the stars. This is real spaceflight, ladies and gentlemen. Run final checks and prepare for acceleration. Let our guests know that they’ll have gravity for a while. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”

  * * *

  Half an hour after transiting from the Lone Star system, Annabelle Winchester was hurriedly getting ready to report to the cargo deck for more OJT. She’d spent the entire flight from New Austin to the transit point getting a crash course on the day-to-day operations of the Andromeda, and the First Officer von Spandau had been right: it was hard. The ship’s schedule was confusing at first, and she’d been working twelve hour shifts every day. There were texts she had to study, emergency procedures she had to memorize, and much she had to learn.

  Cargomaster Kimball, her immediate supervisor, had explained to her that on a small ship like the Andromeda, every crewman must be able to do multiple jobs. Everyone had an assigned job, of course, but cross-training was highly encouraged, and the more skills and certifications a crewman had, the more useful he could potentially be. Kimball, for example, was the cargomaster. He was also the ship’s extravehicular activity procedures expert, held a certification for a basic emergency medical technician, and had extensive training in damage control, emergency repair, and spaceflight firefighting.