Linkage: The Narrows of Time (32 page)

“Great timing,” Kleezebee said. “We just
finished the equations.”

“How many labs did you have to check?” Drew
asked.

“I found it on the third try. Good thing,
too; each door seemed to hurt more than the last one.” Lucas swayed
his hips to flex the small of his back.

“What does the generator look like?”
Kleezebee asked.

“The sucker’s huge. It has to be at least ten
times the size of our E-121 reactor, and it’s surrounded by giant
resonator coils. You should see the damn thing.”

“Let’s go check it out,” Drew said with
excitement.

Minutes later, the three of them were just
outside the generator’s test chamber, looking through the viewing
window.

“That thing’s enormous,” Drew said.

“I told you,” Lucas replied.

“What do you think it cost to build?”

“A lot more than the grant money they gave
us, that’s for sure.”

“I’ll bet it can crank out a few terajoules,”
Drew said, smiling. “Do you think it’ll work, Professor?”

Kleezebee nodded slowly. “With the new
equations, we just might be able to stabilize the reactor long
enough to generate the power stream we need. But we’ll need to make
sure your E-121 experiment is calibrated properly.”

“Uh, that’s going to be a little difficult
since the science lab’s been turned into Swiss cheese, Professor,”
Lucas said. “And we certainly don’t have another eighteen months to
build a new reactor.”

“You won’t need to.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve been working on something that’s not
all that different from your E-121 reactor. We should be able to
use it to run your experiment.”

“Not all that different?” Lucas asked,
wondering why Kleezebee chose those specific words.

“Actually, it’s a near duplicate,” Kleezebee
said. “You know the old saying . . . Why have the government pay
for one, when you can have them foot the bill for two, at twice the
price?”

Lucas understood the rationale behind
overstating project costs to obtain excess grant money, but he was
concerned why Kleezebee thought it necessary to have a duplicate
reactor built. Was there something wrong with its design? Maybe
Kleezebee thought they needed a backup, just in case the first
reactor crashed. It certainly wasn’t needed for Kleezebee’s BioTex,
nor was it needed to power their ultra-cool communicator
watches.

Perhaps the duplicate reactor existed solely
for profit. It wasn’t a total stretch to think Kleezebee’s men
could have been sponging off Lucas and Drew’s hard work, pilfering
their revolutionary ideas to line the professor’s pockets. He
didn’t want to believe it, but it was possible. “Where is this
near duplicate
?”

“On the seventh floor of the silo,” Kleezebee
replied without a hint of guilt.

“What about Trevor’s control system?” Drew
asked Lucas.

“Shouldn’t be an issue,” Lucas answered. “I
have his source code backed up to my cloud storage space. All we
need is a cluster of Linux servers and we should be able to
recompile and run it.”

“But aren’t this room and the silo too far
apart for the arc to take place?” Drew asked.

“Actually, we’re close enough if you consider
the vastness of space,” Kleezebee said. “Relative to the size of
the universe, they’re virtually right on top of each other.”

“That’s true. I never thought of that,” Drew
replied. “What do you think, Lucas?”

Lucas heard his brother say something, but he
really wasn’t listening. His mind was still churning over the
reason why Kleezebee needed a second reactor. Not knowing was
eating away at his gut like a swarm of maggots devouring a corpse.
“Sorry, but I have to ask, Professor. Why did you need to build a
copy of our reactor?”

Kleezebee hesitated for a moment before
answering, “We’re using it to power a trans-galactic communication
system.”

“A what?” Lucas said, scrunching his face
until it hurt. The professor must be putting him on.

“It’s the power source for our subspace
transmitter.”

Lucas held out his hands, shaking his head
slowly. “And you’re going to communicate with . . .?”

“Our people—to tell them where we are. We’re
ready to go home.”

Chapter
24

April 25, 2411

Kleezebee turned off the digi-pad containing
the final draft of his 1200-page historical manuscript entitled
“
Pathological Absurdity. A Historical Profile
of Twentieth Century Politics
.”
He had just put the
finishing touches on the yearlong project, and was ready to
transmit it through subspace to his copyeditor, Dorrie, back home
on Earth. It would be his second published novel in as many years.
He hoped his new exposition would be better received by the
critics.

He leaned back in his easy chair, rubbed his
eyes, and then stretched out his arms until he heard the bones in
his elbows pop. It was almost time for his duty shift on the
bridge, which began in less than an hour. He needed to get into the
sonic shower, but decided to remain in his chair a few more minutes
to enjoy the spectacular view of the galaxy streaming by his
quarters at faster-than-light speed. He had earned the extra break;
it had been a grueling six months in deep space.

He propped his feet up on the leather ottoman
with his hands behind his head, then called out to the computer,
“Stella? Music, please.”

“Specify source and volume,” the computer
responded.

“Why break with tradition? Let’s go with
Paradise Theatre, track three. Volume ten, as usual.”

“One moment, Captain.”

He closed his eyes and sang along to the
lyrics when the cabin’s audio system kicked in at full volume. The
classic rock ballad dwarfed the hum of the ship’s Quantum Pulse
Drive engines, and the deck plating pulsated beneath his
fleet-issued boots.
Too Much Time on My Hands
was his all-time favorite Styx song, something that he played right
before every duty shift to energize his soul. His fingers tapped
along to the thunderous beat as his mind slipped away to bask in
the mood-altering rhythm. Just a few more minutes, he thought—he
didn’t want to leave his sanctuary. His historical writing and his
music were his escapes.

Kleezebee’s handpicked science crew had just
finished an intensive study of a stellar nursery near the fleet’s
two outposts in the Neethian System. They were a shade over two
hundred light years from home on his newly christened starship, the
USS
Trinity
. The ship was performing admirably, despite a
few glitches with its revolutionary Quantum Pulse Drive engines,
and the occasional problem with the gravity plating on the lower
three decks.

Despite the minor setbacks, it had been a
fruitful mission thus far, highlighted by the discovery of a
scarlet-colored substance germinating in one of the nebula’s
molecular clouds. His team of astrobiologists was still analyzing
the gelatinous material, but its bio-mimetic properties were
promising. He intended to send a full report to Fleet Operations
once they had completed the analysis.

“Stella, music off,” he shouted to his empty
cabin. “What’s the exact time?”

“Seven oh seven a.m.,” the synthesized female
voice reported. “Captain, I just received an encrypted communiqué
from Admiral Jenkins with Fleet Ops. Would like me to play it?”

“Yes, pipe it through,” Kleezebee said,
moving to his work desk. He sat down and moved a digital picture
frame out of the way. He kissed his index finger, then touched it
to his wife’s lips, which activated the living 3D holo-cell he had
recorded a year earlier. Caroline and their five-year-old son,
Brett, were standing in front of the souvenir lodge atop the north
rim of Grand Canyon. They were smiling and waving on a glorious,
sunny day in Arizona. He had not seen them since he took command of
the
Trinity
six months earlier.

He had met Caroline while waiting outside the
chancellor's office during his final year at the New York Science
Academy. A whirlwind romance soon ensued, culminating in their
marriage a month after he earned advanced degrees in both physics
and engineering. That same summer, he was successfully recruited by
Fleet Operations, rising to the rank of captain in only six
years.

He waved his hand over a rectangular niche in
the center of his desk, activating three twelve-inch cylinders that
rose up out of the recess in a triangular formation. Once fully
extended, the multi-spectral emitters powered on, displaying a
full-color, 3D representation of an elderly man’s head and
shoulders, wearing a red fleet uniform with five silver stars on
the collar.

Admiral Jenkins reminded him of his
olive-skinned father; short in stature, plump, and neatly groomed,
with a bulging nose that was too large for his face. Jenkins always
spoke in a deliberate manner, enunciating every word completely,
just as his late father had.

“Hello, DL, I hope this message finds you
well. I’m pleased to see by your last mission report that you and
your new crew are meshing well. I look forward to reading your
final analysis of the Hawthorne Nebula, which I expect will be
riveting. Also, congratulations on receiving Fleet approval to
build the first rift-slipping prototype. It’s truly exciting
technology, which has everyone here in Fleet Operations acting like
school kids before summer break. Keep us apprised as you run the
first beta test.

“I would rather not have to disrupt your
study of the cosmos, but we have a situation brewing. Long-range
telemetry from the colony on the Neethian-3 has detected sudden
activity along the Krellian border, indicating they may be massing
for an invasion.
Trinity
is the closest ship to that sector,
so we’ll need you to change course to investigate.

“Your orders are not to engage the Krellian
Empire unless given no other choice. It’s been twenty-nine years
since our last encounter with them, so we have to assume they’ve
beefed up their capabilities since then. Your ship’s limited
armaments would be no match, which is why we’re sending the battle
cruiser
Challenger
to assist . . . but she won’t be there
for three days. So keep a safe distance until she arrives. Good
luck and God speed. Jenkins out.”

Kleezebee deactivated the vid-screen, then
sat back in his chair to contemplate his next move.

* * *

“Here’s this week’s duty roster, Commander
Benner,” a striking female bridge officer said, handing Bruno a
six-inch Digi-stick, which resembled a 20
^th
century glow
stick, only black, with a pull-tab on the side.

“Thank you, Lieutenant Nellis,” Bruno said,
sitting back in the captain’s chair on Deck 1. He used the pull-tab
to slide out a wafer-thin screen, activating the transparent
display containing the digital roster; everything was in order.

“Excellent work, as usual, Lieutenant. Log
this into the ship’s computer. Make sure all department heads are
notified,” he said, closing the Digi-stick and giving it back to
her.

She nodded and walked back to her duty
station to his right, then she straightened. “Captain on the
bridge,” she announced to the bridge crew.

Kleezebee stepped off the jump pad, next to
the science officer’s duty station, wearing his red and white
captain’s uniform with four brass pips on the collar.

Bruno and the rest of the bridge officers
snapped to attention, waiting for Kleezebee to assume command.

“At ease, everyone,” Kleezebee said.

Bruno stepped aside, allowing Kleezebee to
sit in the captain’s chair.

“Set course to one-eleven mark three, maximum
speed,” Kleezebee said.

“Sir, that will take us directly into
Krellian space, across the DMZ,” Bruno replied.

“You have your orders, Commander.”

Bruno turned to the helmsman. “Mr. Heller,
come about, set course to one-eleven mark three, best speed.”

The helmsman ran his hands over the
navigation console like a concert pianist playing a Bach concerto.
“Course laid in, sir.”

“Time to the border, Mr. Heller?”

“Eleven minutes, sir.”

“Shields up. Charge all weapons.”

Two minutes later, the communications officer
said, “Captain, I’m picking up a long-range distress call on one of
the lower EM bands.”

“Source, Mr. Blake?”

“It’s coming from Colony Three-Five-Nine on
Neethian-3, half a light year away.”

“Alter course, maintain speed,” Kleezebee
said.

Just then, something rocked the ship, sending
everyone lunging to the port side. Two of the bridge officers and
their chairs fell to the floor, while sparks flew from one of the
unmanned duty stations behind the captain’s chair. The tactical
alert siren sounded.

“Captain, we were just hit by the leading
edge of an intense gravimetric shockwave,” Nellis reported.

“Ship status?” Kleezebee asked, helping Bruno
off the floor.

“Minor hull breach on decks eleven and
twelve—contained—shields holding,” Nellis replied. “We also lost
gravity plating in Cargo Bay Four.”

“Dispatch repair crews,” Kleezebee said.

“Minor injuries on Deck Twelve, but
engineering reports all systems operational,” Nellis said, before
she entered additional commands into her console. “Shields at
ninety-two percent.”

“Entering Neethian System, Captain,” Heller
reported.

“Slow to sub-light.”

“The origin of the shockwave is Neethian-6,
an L-class planet. We’re in visual range,” Nellis said.

“On screen and magnify.”

The bridge’s twenty-foot viewscreen showed
floating hunks of rock and rubble loosely assembled in a spherical
shape. Other than a few dozen pinpoints of starlight scattered
across the background, nothing else was in view.

“It appears the debris cloud is all that’s
left of the planet. Sensors are picking up substantial amounts of
charged ididium-236 radiation, suggesting a massive detonation,”
Nellis reported.