Citadel: First Colony (9 page)

“It looks like we leave tomorrow,” Thomas said. “Better make sure your bags are packed.”

“I don’t have any bags,” Alan said.

“It’s ... well, it’s kind of a joke. Sort of.”

“Oh,” Alan said. “Sorry.”

Mitch smiled. These two were quite a pair. Alan—stoic and introverted. Thomas—constantly making jokes and odd references. It was like one of those “buddy comedy” vids. It would be interesting to see what happened with these two out in the wilds of this planet.

Mitch reached up and closed the housing of the maintenance port, snapping it shut and locking the bolts in place. Whatever they came across out there, it couldn’t be any worse than what they’d already faced.
After all, any colony ship crash you can walk away from ...

Inside
the shuttle, with most of the systems on idle,
it was getting a little on the warm side. Or maybe it was just tension that made the sweat bead in his armpits as Thomas locked the seat straps into place. It had taken a few days of hard work, but they were finally ready for takeoff.

“Good luck, Shuttle,” came Somar’s voice over the wireless. It was one of the few technologies that worked without the need for repair. It didn’t have the range of the satellite communication network, but the SCN wasn’t online just yet. Which meant there had been no contact with Captain Alonzo and the orbital platform. It also meant they would have no means of communicating with the base once the shuttle was out of radio range of Citadel.

“Thank you, Captain,” Thomas said. He was manning the navigation system. This had been the station that FC Marcos had manned just before his death. It seemed fitting, somehow, that Thomas should take up Marcos’s post. Hopefully the fact that the last occupant of this seat had died wasn’t some sort of an omen.

In front of Thomas was the pilot’s station, where Reilly had the controls in hand. Alan and Mitch were strapped into seats before two non-functional consoles. Everyone was a little tense—painfully aware that the last time they were in this shuttle, they were nearly killed.

“You are cleared for launch, Shuttle,” came the voice of one of the Blue Collars, Billy Sans, from the makeshift control room.

“Roger that,” Reilly said, as she lightly revved the thrusters at her feet. She directed the force downward using the hand controls and pushed slightly up and forward to indicate their desired trajectory.

Thomas was completely fascinated.

This was so different than anything he had seen before. The manual controls weren’t completely unexpected, of course. But they were so much more ... primitive-seeming ... than he had expected. Intuitive, surely, and sleek. Elegant, even. But so far from the touch screens and voice control he had imagined, it was like comparing two different species of animal. These controls had a nostalgic, bygone-era feel. Brass rings and fixtures, leather straps, polished wooden handles, piping and cabling and bellows—it looked almost like something from an earlier age, as if Jules Verne had consulted on the design.

It was a little like watching a marionette play, only in reverse. Like watching the puppet manipulate the master by its own strings. Minute finger movements and gestures determined what the larger body of the shuttle would do, and the smooth and fluid motions resembled nothing so much as a dance or mime of some kind.

Poetry. Flying one of these machines was less mechanical and more organic than anything he’d ever imagined possible. He looked with profound new respect at Reilly as he grasped how much skill and finesse simply flying this craft entailed.

Once they were in the air, the thrusters didn’t have to work quite as hard, and the noise level dropped off dramatically. The repulsion system took over for keeping them aloft and vertical, and the thrusters only kicked in when they needed a change in elevation or direction or required an additional burst of speed. As it was now, they might have been floating serenely on a pond or maybe in space.

Very different than home
, Thomas thought, then shook the memory away. Home was an unreachable place, so far away as to not even exist anymore. Best if he stopped thinking in terms of the past and started concentrating on this “new beginning” he’d gambled everything on.

“Ok, we’re up,” Reilly said. “Now what?”

“The computer isn’t showing any hits on pod transponders yet,” Thomas said. “Can you make a few slow circles? Start moving out in an expanding pattern?”

“Aye, Sir,” Reilly said, and Thomas felt the shuttle vibrate slightly as the atmospheric thrusters kicked in to move them about. He was watching intently for any sign of a signal, but nothing was popping up.

Now that they were in the air, Mitch and Alan had removed their restraints and were gathering around him and the console. “Nothing?” Mitch asked.

Thomas shook his head. “I had expected an immediate hit, actually. I mean, we collided as we came into the atmosphere. I was hoping that meant we were on a similar trajectory.”

Mitch leaned in and pointed to one corner of the screen. “What’s that?” he asked.

“This image is taken from the data we collected just before the crash. It’s not live. That may be some debris.”

Mitch paused, thinking. “So there might be an image of the colony module on this thing?”

Thomas blinked. “Yeah ... and if we have a shot of it ... ”

“We might be able to figure its trajectory,” Mitch smiled.

Thomas grinned as he started moving through the map images. “Wish I’d thought of that,” he said. “We could have plotted a course before going up.”

“Maybe,” Mitch said. “As it is, we’re going to have to land soon to keep from overheating.”

“You’re kidding!” Reilly shouted from in front of them. “We just got up here!”

“Yeah, we did,” Mitch said. “And if we don’t want to have a little
déjà vu
crash for old time’s sake, we’ll have to put down pretty often and let the engines cool.”

Alan spoke up, “The heat-sink coils we rigged will keep the engines cool enough to run for ten minutes at a time.”

“There you have it,” Mitch said. “Ten minutes, Reilly.”

Reilly grumbled a little but kept the shuttle moving in its slow, coiled pattern. “Ten minutes,” she repeated.

“Let’s make the best of them,” Thomas said, pointing at a dark, cylindrical object taking up a small portion of the screen. “There’s the colony module. We can get coordinates from that.”

Mitch looked closer. “What the hell is that?” he asked, pointing at several specks that dotted the screen.

Thomas peered closer at what he had assumed was debris or even dust on the lens. He felt his stomach clench. “Pods,” he said quietly. “This shot must have been after the collision. The module breached.” He looked up at Mitch, who looked as sick as Thomas felt. “Those are stasis pods falling to the ground.”

S
omar
couldn’t afford to keep to himself.
This presented him with a great deal of discomfort, but it was unavoidable. His species was naturally solitary most of the time. Large social engagements were rare, and they were certainly less flamboyant and chaotic than what he’d seen of human gatherings. Officers among his people were even more reclusive, keeping social interaction down when among one’s subordinates. It was a means of maintaining propriety and preserving authority.

But above all, Somar himself was a solitary person. Even among his own people, he preferred to remain by himself. He had excellent relationships with his immediate subordinates and his superiors, but he rarely attended celebrations or parties, and even state functions were something he would avoid if he could.

It had been a point of contention with some of his superiors. Norchek, the admiral who had promoted Somar to the rank of Captain, had been particularly concerned about the man’s apparent introversion. In fact, it was the reason he had ordered Somar to take part in the Human-Esool Exchange Program.

“It will be good for you to be among the humans,” Norchek said. “The ability to interact with others is what gives an officer strong leadership skills. You are a good leader, Somar. But you could be a great one.”

“I understand,” Somar said. Though in fact, he didn’t understand at all. He had led men for some time now—many decades in fact. In the conflict with the humans, he had led troops of men in battle. He had led a crew of men into intricate combat in space. He had led men since he was just a cadet. How would living among the humans make him a better leader than he already was?

But it was not his place to question the orders or wisdom of his superiors. Norchek had proven himself to be a brilliant leader and a true friend. Whatever reasons he might have for wanting Somar to be involved in this experiment, they would be good ones. For both Somar and the Esool.

At present, however, it wasn’t his own people that concerned him. It was the humans. For the first time since that conversation with Norchek, back on the Esool home world, Somar saw that he would have to form relationships, not to be a better leader but to simply survive and to keep these people alive as well.

It was proving very difficult.

“Why should we listen to the scrub?” he heard one of the Blue Collars say. It wasn’t meant for his ears, of course. Or maybe it was. After all, there were few places that could be considered private, here in the shadow of Citadel. And the man had spoken quite loudly. “He’s not an official officer of the Earth Colony Fleet. He’s not even human!”

“He has an honorary rank,” one of the Blue Collars said in Somar’s defense.

“Honorary! I’m an honorary member of Commander Carrot’s Cartoon Cavalry, but does that make me an animated vegetable?”

Several crewmembers laughed. “Tell ‘em, Jack! Maybe the scrub knows Commander Carrot personally!”

“Come on, this is insane,” a woman said. From Somar’s vantage point, it looked like one of the White Collar crew. One of the veterinarians, he thought.

“What do you care, he’s not a puppy,” spat another White Collar worker. “He’s an alien. And I can’t help but notice that we crashed and nearly died on an alien world. Didn’t the Esool want this one for themselves?”

“They want all of them!” someone shouted.

“They agreed to let Earth put a colony here. It was part of the treaty.”

“Some treaty,” the first Blue Collar, Jack, said derisively. “They convince us to split up the good worlds, and then they send one of their agents to sabotage us.”

“We don’t know that,” the woman said sternly.

“I know what I know. I know that I’m stuck here, planet-side, instead of back on my ship heading for my next assignment. I know that after the hundreds of lightrail drops I’ve been on, this is the first one that’s ever gone wrong. I know that I nearly died. And I know that one of those green-blooded bastards was right there when it all went bad!”

There were plenty of grumbles of agreement in the crowd.

This was not a good situation. The humans were afraid and looking for someone to blame. They were looking for an enemy at a time when they should concentrate on bonding and working together. Somar knew that the situation was becoming more and more volatile and would require some sort of action to head off disaster. He would have to decide what to do, and quickly.

Whether they realized it or not, these people needed a leader, and he was best qualified for that position. Unlike the humans present, he had actual command experience. And he was obviously far less volatile. Several times since the crash, he had been forced to intervene and bring peace between the Blue Collar and the White Collar crews. It seemed to be a constant battle. They just could not understand that they were all in this together, a group of humans in a bad situation on an alien world. They were determined, it seemed, to stick to their prejudices and class distinctions.

These people needed a cool head in charge. They needed Somar, whether they realized it or not. It was time to take action.

Somar stepped out from where he’d been seated. The reaction was immediate as many of the humans realized for the first time that he’d heard everything. Those who assumed he had been listening from the start were suppressing grins or open expressions of hostility. They were daring him to attack them. They were daring him to defend himself.

Somar moved deeper into the crowd, past Jack and his gathering group of malcontents. To the humans, he must have appeared to be oblivious to them. He continued to step ahead as if no one were before him. And if anyone refused to move from his way, he would step around them and then immediately step back to his path. His steps were deliberate, focused, and intent. Many of the humans watching seemed enthralled by what they surely assumed was some sort of strange, but purposeful, alien behavior.

Somar, however, was making this up as he went along. The only thing he knew for sure was his destination, and that he wanted all eyes to follow him.

Now he arrived at the base of the module, which rose above him and broke through the tree line into the blue sky. The sun had moved past the mid-day point and was now glinting from some of the more polished surfaces of the module. As the humans looked his way, Somar made sure that he was square in the midst of the near-blinding reflections. He stepped up onto one of the equipment crates that had been brought out from the cargo bay, and as all eyes locked on him, some shaded by palms or caps, others narrowed in squints, he spoke.

“This is Citadel.” His voice was strong but quiet. He had not shouted, as many had expected him to do. He had not used a tone of arrogance or authority. He had simply made a statement of fact.

The response of the humans was silence. Mostly. There were some titters from further in the crowd. From his vantage point, he could see clearly the faces of everyone present. There were some who were scraped and bruised. All were dirty. Many were belligerent.

After a pause he said again, louder, “This ... is Citadel!”

He raised his arms and turned towards the gleaming tower. Moments before it had merely been wreckage, a standing symbol of chaos, a routine landing gone horribly wrong on a planet impossibly far from home. Somar, though, was turning it into a symbol for something else.