Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (49 page)

“Cascading controls, status.”

“All systems cycled,” replied McAllister. “Antigravity field standing by. Can initiate condensed space with twenty-eight second lag. Condensing factor of 65.250K.”

“Guerrero, status.”

“Thrust engines check out,” replied a female crewmember. “Ready to initiate full burn.”

“Shiffrah, status.”

“Dorsal turret powered and ready,” replied Club’s twin.

“Outstanding,” said the pilot. “Eighteen seconds until full bay depressurization.”

“Pilot,” I called. “Disposition of nearby Crax vessels?”

“Ventral turret, two Crax attack shuttles in vicinity. Several fighters in support.”

“The Primus escort?”

“Destroyed,” said the pilot. “Ten seconds to full depressurization.”

Crax escort, destroyed? I rechecked turret systems.

“
Kalavar
,” called the pilot. “Cargo bay hatch open, thrusters at one-third.” The floor fell away. “Clear. Full acceleration, now!”

Without the gravity plate energized, I braced for the inertia change.

We accelerated across the top of the
Kalavar
and came about. The
Kalavar
’s portside engine ignited as we sped away. “She’s damaged but going to make a run for it,” said the pilot. “Take some of the heat off us. Look sharp! We’ve got to build up speed before engaging the cascading engine.”

“Two bogies six o’clock high,” called the dorsal gunner.

I spun my turret, seeing none. The shuttle rocked as the pilot took evasive action. Several taps ran across the hull. Muffled explosions responded. Reactive armor? “Be ready, ventral turret.”

The two fighters shot past. I adjusted and fired, going wide left. “They’re coming about, paring up with another two.”

The pilot fired thrusters randomly causing the shuttle to jink as it fled. “Maximum thrust,” he called.

This exploration shuttle was fast. The Crax fighters were gaining, but slowly. I fired several long-range bursts, gauging the deflection angle. Then I poured it on. Bursts from the dorsal turret reached out as well. I came within twenty yards of one when we climbed to evade.

“Scratch one,” called the dorsal gunner. She still had the arc to fire.

I searched for targets without success. The shuttle spun and dove. I snap-fired several bursts as five fighters came into view.

“Two bogies on dogleg approach,” called the pilot. “Four o’clock low. Get them, Ventral.”

“On it,” I said, spinning the turret. Just like skeet shooting I told myself, then opened up. The lead attack shuttle crossed my line of fire, taking two hits. It continued to bore in with its wingman. I fired again going wide left.

“Can’t keep the fighters off,” called the dorsal gunner.

“Attack shuttles getting through,” I said, trying to keep calm and focused.

The pilot responded with a series of radical spins and maneuvers. Twice I snap fired when I spotted the enemy. Several thuds sounded forward.

“We’ve taken hits in the nose,” called McAllister. “Engine stabilizing. Recalibrating.”

“Prepare for condensed space. Emergency initiation.” The pilot leveled out. “Let’s hope we’re pointing in the right direction. Now, Engineer.” A distinctive hum ran through the ship. “Gunners keep them off of us. Twenty seven seconds.”

I searched for targets. The five fighters formed into a wedge and gave chase. Again, I test-fired to estimate angle of deflection. The dorsal turret had already opened up.

“Get on them, Ventral Turret,” called the dorsal gunner. She connected with a wingman. It slowed and spun out. “Come on, Ventral.”

I took my time, estimated, and then fired a burst. Too far ahead. I adjusted and laid another stream. One crossed into it, taking a blast to its engine and fell out of line.

“Ten seconds,” announced the pilot.

The fighters opened up. We fired back. I clipped another while the dorsal gunner hammered the lead fighter. “Where are the attack shuttles?” I asked.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” called the dorsal gunner. “Keep on the fighters.”

I sent another string of fire and missed low.

“Attack shuttles broke off,” said the pilot.

Several more thuds rattled the hull. “Damage to port engine,” called Guerrero from the engineer compartment. “Seventy percent loss in power.”

“Adjusting,” said the pilot. “Six seconds. Anti-gravity field activated.”

A fighter exploded. The dorsal gunner cheered, “Take that, you sel-scum Crax!”

I fired again, low and to the left, then felt the wave of disconnect pass through me.

“Condensed space travel,” called the pilot. “Crax out of range. Now, let’s see where we’re headed.”

Most humans consider the Shiggs, fibrous scarecrow-like aliens, as different from humans as are the silicon-based Shards and Flakes. It’s an inaccurate belief, as the Shiggs’ biological makeup is carbon-based. When it is argued how physically different they are, a xenobiologist only needs to point to the depths of Earth’s oceans. Compared to some of the most bizarre native ocean organisms, the Shiggs may look like mankind’s distant cousin. In the scale of differentiation, compared to a Shard, giant tubeworms are humanity’s fraternal twin.

Three hours after our escape from the Zeta Aquarius Dock Pilot, Calvo Odthe called a meeting. We crowded into the conference room on the upper deck, behind the pilot’s cockpit. Besides meetings, it doubled as a dining and rec area.

Pilot Odthe looked rugged with a rough weather-beaten complexion. His graying hairline had receded, exposing more of his already bulging forehead. He closed his eyes and brought his hands together, pressing the tips of each finger and thumb against its opposite. “Engineer McAllister, report on the cascading atomic engine.” The wispy character of his thin mustache and beard did little to camouflage the hard lines as he spoke.

“I’ve been able to stabilize the system. We are at 50.135K and will be able to maintain for a maximum of 119 days.” I noted her left hand resting on her lap, balled into a fist. “However, the containment housing has been damaged. As long as the anti-gravity field remains intact, we’ll be fine. But the engine cannot be recycled.”

“Could the damage be mended?” asked the pilot.

McAllister forced air through her teeth as she thought. “No,” she said, shaking her head.

Guerrero, wearing sky-blue coveralls with a communications insignia, interjected, “This is a long-range exploration shuttle with extensive fabrication and repair facilities.”

McAllister glared at the wavy-haired brunette. “I am quite aware of the standard exploration shuttle model 3X-19’s design specifications, engines, systems.” McAllister’s eyes narrowed. “And in the case of the
Bloodhound III
, classified systems and parameters of its upgrade equipment.” The stress on ‘upgrade’ hung in the air.

“Engineer McAllister,” said Pilot Odthe in a level, but menacing voice. “I realize you are a brilliant engineer. Your skills and knowledge clearly surpass all onboard my shuttle.” He leaned close. “Note, I said
my
shuttle. I am the pilot. Let me refresh your memory on exploration shuttle command authority. There’s the pilot, me. Sometimes I consult God in command decisions, but often He and I are too busy. I’m always right anyway.”

He leaned back. Behind her swollen eye, McAllister appeared unimpressed. “Engineer McAllister, what happens when someone’s face gets too close to an active cascading atomic engine?” He didn’t await a response. “You know, their nose extends beyond the anti-gravity barrier?” He paused. “Kind of like crossing a black hole’s event horizon. I would imagine it to be agonizing, for what would seem an extended period.” He very gingerly pointed. “Monitor your conduct or I will give you a personal tour as to the internal workings of my cascading engine.”

There was a long moment of silence while McAllister and Odthe glared at one another. The Chicher diplomat twitched nervously upon receiving the completed translation.

“Now, Engineer McAllister,” Pilot Odthe said. “Would you please explain to Communication Specialist Tia Guerrero, who has served under me for fourteen years, why her assertion lacks merit?”

McAllister looked at the table, red-faced and silent, weighing her options. I could figure them for her. Odthe had the loyalty of Guerrero and Shiffrah, and the command authority of an exploration shuttle pilot. He correctly assessed that I wouldn’t back her. The Chicher was out of his element, and Skids was only a kid.

“My apologies,” said McAllister.

“It’s alright,” said Guerrero. “We just came through a difficult crisis. We all lost fellow crewmen and companions.”

McAllister nodded and stared at the pilot. “With the proper equipment and materials, a patch can be made over a structurally weakened containment housing. However, the risk of containment breach due to nineteen damage-related variables is increased a minimum of five-hundred fifty-seven point six percent.”

McAllister looked back to Specialist Guerrero and then around to the rest of us. “The molecular effect of Crax corrosive weapons on the housing makes the patch, using standard methods and materials, unstable. Without proper facilities to study the particular corrosive introduced to the containment housing, which could take months if not years, my confidence of any patching effort would be near zero.”

I think she avoided what I believe to be fact, that Phib tech was probably integrated into the cascading engine. I’d never read of an exploration shuttle housing one with such a high condensation factor.

“Thank you for that assessment, Engineer McAllister,” said Odthe. “So for the time being, wherever we happen to drop out of condensed space, we find assistance, or plan on raising grandkids.” He tapped at the table, bringing up star charts and allowed us a moment for orientation.

He extended a line from the shuttle’s location, indicating the direction of travel. Then he highlighted Tallavaster. “As you can see, our running battle with the Crax knocked us off course.” He extended the line of travel into a narrow cone, and then truncated it. “Not only did they damage our cascading engine, lessening the condensation factor and eliminating the possibility for re-initiating condensed travel, but they damaged our port thrust engine, further limiting our range.”

I voiced the obvious question. “Are there any colonies within the parameters of travel?”

“Dr. Shiffrah?” asked Odthe, again with eyes closed and finger tips pressed together.

“First, our food and recycling capacity is diminished due to improper stowage of necessary supplies. That being said, even if we decide to stop, jettison a message rocket, and put half our number in cold sleep.” She paused, shaking her head. “With the Crax invasion it would be very risky.”

“Yes,” the pilot said. “Discussed and rejected.”

The xenobiologist continued. “Standard charts do not show any habitation within our parameter of travel. Colonies, docks, or mining operations.” She tapped the screen and entered an elaborate code. She looked up to the pilot who then followed suit. Immediately four red dots appeared on the screen. One was within the cone. “We have one option.”

I gestured, holding my hand up in front of me. “Don’t feel obligated to respond. Your specialty is interstellar espionage?”

Pilot Odthe kept a strong poker face. “And what would lead you to that conclusion, Specialist?”

“Experience,” I said. “Past experience.”

“Oh,” he said. “Dr. Shiffrah, would you continue?”

Skids asked, “Is this a spy ship?” His speaking up surprised everyone except me.

“Skids, that’s a question the pilot will neither confirm nor deny.”

That didn’t satisfy him. “Specialist Keesay isn’t afraid of you. Colonist Potts is the meanest man I know.” Nodding his head,
Skids’ eyes widened. “And he said he was glad he never messed with him. Said Specialist Keesay was a brave SOB.”

I put my hand on Skid’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Regulations won’t permit him to.”

But Skids was on a roll. “He did tangle with him once. Specialist Keesay broke his jaw. Colonist Potts was hit so hard he couldn’t even remember. And he killed a bunch of aliens, too. More than you, I bet.”

“Young man,” interrupted Pilot Odthe. “I am well aware of Specialist Keesay’s exploits. I will be happy to discuss the issue at length some other time.”

I squeezed Skid’s shoulder. “Pilot Odthe has the floor.”

Odthe nodded to Specialist Club’s twin. “As you can see,” Dr. Shiffrah continued, “I have identified one destination within range.”

“Please report,” said Odthe.

“The planet has been stricken from most charts. Listed is a corporate research facility.” She called up a file. “It’s a level-one quarantine planet. Details are few. Habitable oxygen and nitrogen atmosphere. Water present.”

“What corporation?” asked Pilot Odthe.

“Primary research funding is through the Capital Galactic Investment Group.”

“Any other available data?” he asked. Dr. Shiffrah shook her head. He frowned. “Reason for quarantine could be critical.”

“If we reach the planet,” said Specialist Guerrero, “they could at least provide supplies. Send a message rocket.”

The Chicher diplomat, who’d been following via delayed translation, interjected, “My pack temporary nested in that orb’s gravity.” All eyes shifted as he continued. “Abandoned far migration when human pack marked territory.”

“Do you have information on this planet?” asked Pilot Odthe.

“My pack has scratched knowledge. Other pack member’s task. Story of planet, its packs breed no more. Water giants, scratch knowledge longer tell my pack war of unseen death and decay end packs. Leave nests empty. Crumbled.”

Dr. Shiffrah asked, “The Umbelgarri say germ warfare killed all inhabitants?”

The diplomat signed, “Yes, unsure.”

“How long ago?”

“Orb not rise on my pack. Not on any pack.”

“Before the Chicher,” said Dr. Shiffrah. She looked to us. “The Chicher don’t account for time before their race came into being. So we can figure at least 45,000 years.”

“How long have the Phibs been around?” I asked.

“One of their many secretive points,” Dr. Shiffrah said. “We estimate Umbelgarri civilization to be at least 90,000 years old. Possibly more.” She rubbed her chin in thought. “Studies, which factored in long life span, peculiarities in reproduction and development, known rate of interstellar expansion compared to the known extent of expansion, bits of information on technological advancements and the time in between, the Umbelgarri may have been in space as much as 60,000 years ago, or as little as 18,000 years ago.”

“But they knew of this planet,” said Odthe. “Indicated its inhabitants were destroyed by warfare. High probability it was biological, but possibly chemical, or even radioactive fallout.”

“The planet is under level-one quarantine,” said Guerrero. “Possibly due to residual microbial contamination. However, if there was a civilization there, and Capital Galactic was the first to locate it, mightn’t they jump at any chance to keep competitors at arm’s length?”

“I wouldn’t put it past CGIG,” said the pilot. “Level-one restricts any unauthorized vessel from establishing orbit.” He stroked his wispy mustache twice before looking across the table. “Chicher Diplomat, did your pack members take any precautions or suffer any illness?”

“Pack stronger than many unseen deaths. Stronger than
anywhere human pack marked territory.”

“I take that as a no,” said the pilot. “Human immune systems are as effective as the Chicher. Correct, Dr. Shiffrah?” She nodded. “So my guess would be that they’re engaged in biological warfare research. If we establish orbit, the invasion may be news to them. It may also be our ticket for assistance. Knowing CGIG scientists,
a reasonable chance it won’t be.” He rubbed his hands together and resumed his favored finger-to-finger position. “I will double-check my calculations and initiate course alteration to the quarantined planet. Next?”

“You’d already determined our destination,” said McAllister. “Why didn’t you simply inform us?”

“To ensure it was indeed our only viable option.”

“By sitting here,” added Guerrero, “Pilot Odthe considers you a member of his crew. And by doing so, we’ve combined our knowledge about the objective.”

I knew McAllister was hardly flattered, so I changed the topic. “Is our ultimate destination Tallavaster? Did any of the other shuttles escape?”

Guerrero said, “Our monitoring of the situation indicated that one shuttle escaped. One damaged yacht crash-landed on the ZQ Dock.” She looked to Pilot Odthe.

“Last tactical report from the
Kalavar
estimated seventy percent casualties among marines, crew, and passengers. With an estimated two dozen Stegmar and maybe half that number of Crax still onboard, victory is unlikely but not impossible. According to communications intercepts, thanks to Specialist Guerrero, we know that except for the elite troops from the escort, the boarding troops were reserves.”

“They didn’t expect large or organized resistance,” said Guerrero. “And I was able to send a false recall order to a flotilla of reinforcement pods.”

“Even if they do prevail,” said Dr. Shiffrah, “with any luck they’ll intermingle and infect their associates with the pox and pneumonia.”

“A tuberculosis was to be released,” said McAllister. I nodded in agreement.

“Misinformation,” said the xenobiologist. “If any crew or passengers from the
Kalavar
, except Dr. Sevanto and the captain, were questioned, the Crax would obtain inaccurate information. TB and the strain of pneumonia have similar initial symptoms in Crax, but it’s estimated to have a ninety percent mortality rate. Very contagious, and unlikely they’d find an immediate cure.” She thought a moment. “And the Stegmar are immune, but would be carriers.”