The last icon turned green. The hatch to Auxiliary Control closed automatically in response to a command from the bridge. A few seconds later, the words ‘
SHIP COMPARTMENTALIZED’
scrolled across the main screen.
“Prepare to open hangar bay doors,” Smithson said.
There followed the distant sound of pumps as air in the hangar bay was pumped out. This was the most time consuming part of the process. Unlike an airlock, which was designed to minimize wasted volume, the hangar bay comprised some 30 percent of
Sasquatch
’s internal cubic. Pumping air into storage tanks required fifteen minutes.
An interminable time later, instruments showed less than one Torr of pressure inside the bay and the pumps fell silent. The pressure readout remained steady for several seconds, then dropped rapidly to zero as valves vented the remaining atmosphere to space.
“Doors coming open,” a spacer on the bridge announced. On the screen, the floor beneath the Trojan Horse parted and the black of space appeared in an ever-expanding line. Sunlight from the system primary bounced off the left door and bathed the bay in reflected white light.
They had fallen sunward for more than a week. Most of that time,
Sasquatch
was in a hyperbolic orbit, moving substantially faster than local system escape velocity. The high speed dive took them well inside the critical limit. The unpowered dive continued until they crossed the orbit of the seventh planet, the largest of the system’s gas giants.
They then decelerated at two gravities for ten hours, slowing to intra-system velocity. At the end,
Sasquatch
was falling in-system on the same orbital path the Trojan Horse would take following its release. It was an orbit that in ten days’ time would place the little starship within fifty planetary diameters of Karap-Vas.
Following release,
Sasquatch
would boost at right angles to their current course for a full day at three gravities. Fleeing north, away from the crowded space lanes, would minimize the possibility of detection once the egg began to squawk. Should luck be against them, their velocity vector would guarantee a long stern chase for any pursuers.
“Doors are open,” the bridge reported.
“Ready to disinfect,” Dr. Smithson announced.
He waited for the order to be acknowledged, and then pressed the control to open the pressurized tanks in the bay.
A short storm appeared on the viewscreen as the egg was buffeted by cloudy vapor. The power readout showed a slight increase in the strength of the little ship’s drive field as it compensated for the sudden asymmetric thrust. The storm passed quickly as the tanks exhausted their cargo of disinfectant. When all was quiet again, Smithson ordered. “Envelope off!”
Several sparks appeared around the periphery of the egg and the iridescent coating that had protected it ever since New Mexico sloughed away. Suddenly, the bare hull was visible in the reflected sunlight, with the jagged gash apparent on the right lowermost quadrant.
“Ready for biological material infusion.”
The telltales on the hangar bay airlock flickered again. Soon, Spacer Toland reappeared. He trailed a cloud of quickly evaporating vapor as he pulled himself hand over hand toward the Trojan Horse. The vapor was the residue of the disinfectant that had washed down his suit at the same time the bay was scoured. A pressure bottle and a small cage were strapped to Toland’s utility belt. Inside the cage was the body of a small animal that looked like nothing that ever evolved on Earth.
Toland reached the starship and pressed the airlock control. The door opened immediately since there was no pressure within. The gash in the side had destroyed the little ship’s pressure integrity, and would hopefully give the Broa a convincing reason why it had been abandoned.
Toland pulled himself head first into the opening until only his boots were visible. A minute later, the boots reversed direction and the rest of his suit slowly reappeared.
“Brahmin biological material has been sprayed throughout the egg. Cage has been mounted on the aft bulkhead,” Toland announced. “Close the airlock.”
The circular opening disappeared as quietly as it had appeared.
“Clear the bay!”
“Clearing now.”
“Stand by to power stardrive,” Smithson ordered after Toland was once again through the airlock. “Minimum energy, Felicia.”
“Stardrive coming to power. Minimum energy,” Felicia Godwin reported.
Felicia studied the results for a full minute.
At the end of that time, she announced, “Drive field is at minimum power and holding steady. Field detectors have a lock. None of the normal space instruments can see a thing. Ready for launch.”
“Trojan Horse ready for orbital insertion!” Smithson announced. “Captain Vanda, do we have your permission to launch?”
“You may proceed when ready, Doctor,”
Sasquatch
’s commander answered from the bridge.
“Commander Rykand, do I have your permission to launch?”
Mark scanned the instruments. Everything appeared normal. Despite the fact that his heart was racing, he found his command voice and replied, “Permission granted, Doctor. You may launch when ready.”
The launch itself was anticlimactic. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the Trojan Horse slid downward toward the open hangar bay doors, then out into direct sunlight. When it was ten meters distant, the captain ordered the doors closed. The view on the screen shifted to one of the hull cameras.
With the departure of the Trojan Horse, control of the mission shifted back to
Sasquatch
’s bridge. A flurry of orders emanated from the command circuit, ended by Captain Vanda saying, “Stand by for prolonged acceleration!”
On the screen, the Trojan Horse had achieved a separation distance of approximately 100 meters.
“Engines to power!” Vanda ordered.
In response, a familiar weight clamped down on Mark’s chest. The plan called for a smooth increase in acceleration to one standard gee for an hour before going to three gravities.
Something was wrong!
Instead of a steady increase, the force pulling Mark down into the couch seemed erratic. The cruiser felt like a ground car that has lost its traction on ice.
He was thinking how nonsensical that idea was when the universe reached up to smash him into his couch. The impact of his head with the cushioned interior of his helmet was hard enough to produce stars. The rebound into the restraining straps was worse as his nose smashed into the faceplate.
Then he slipped into blackness.
#
Chapter Thirty-One
“Oh, shit!” an unidentified voice exclaimed on the command circuit aboard
Galahad
. “
Sasquatch
has blown up!”
Lisa had been dividing her attention between listening to the Broan intercepts and watching the star field that contained her husband. With the warning from the bridge echoing in her ears, she snapped her attention back to the main viewscreen. What she saw sent an icy dagger lancing through her stomach. There was a new star in the display, one that had not been there ten seconds earlier, and it was growing brighter.
Time stopped. In that moment, Lisa Rykand died. That single, awful, horrible moment seemed to go on forever as the import of the news sank into her disbelieving brain.
Mark was dead! What would she do now?
Mark had often spoken to her of the moment when he’d learned of his sister’s death. Lisa always responded sympathetically, patting his hand in public, drawing him close to her breast in private. The biological impulse to give comfort was automatic. But she really hadn’t grasped the pain Mark suffered — not until this very moment. One instant, he was alive. She’d heard his voice over the comm laser just a few seconds ago. The next, he was dead.
The awful moment of timelessness stretched until Lisa took her first, sobbing breath. It didn’t help. She wondered how it was that she would ever be able to breathe again.
As the spark on the screen began to subside, the universe came rushing back. Her ears, which had been rendered momentarily deaf, suddenly turned painfully sensitive. The excited cacophony of voices on the command circuit was a roaring waterfall of white noise. Yet, her sharpened perceptions allowed her to discern the individual cursing and gasps of a dozen different voices.
That came to an abrupt halt as
Galahad
’s captain overrode the pandemonium. “Silence, everyone!
“Communications, do we have
Sasquatch
’s laser beam?”
“No, sir,” the communicator on duty responded. “It shut down at the moment of the explosion.”
“Monitoring!”
There was a long silence. The Captain had to repeat the command.
“Uh, here, Captain,” Glenn Humphreys’ voice answered. It was only then that Lisa realized the query had been to her.
“Any indication the Broa have seen the explosion?”
“Nothing yet, Captain.”
“There will be. We need to know the enemy response as soon as you have something.”
In a daze, Lisa reached out and keyed her comm set. “We are on it, Captain,” she said in a voice drained of emotion.
“Commander Rykand. Do you wish to be relieved?”
“No, sir!”
“Then get all of your translators wired up. We just lit up space like the Seventh of August! They should be burning up the comm circuits any second now. We need to know how they respond.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lisa switched to her private circuit with Glenn Humphreys. “You heard the Captain, Glenn. Get Harris, Ruiz, Sun-Ye, and Swenson online. Have them use the alternate stations. I want them in the loop in five minutes.”
“Right, Lisa,” Humphreys said. “And, my condolences…”
She responded with a short, silent obscenity under her breath before answering. “Time for that later. The captain’s right. We are about to see what happens when you surprise a Broan planet. The next few minutes are likely crucial for the war effort, so let’s get all we can. Make sure we’ve got plenty of storage space in the computers. Flush the low priority stuff if you have to.”
Ten minutes later, still numb, but functioning — barely — Lisa listened to the filtered output of the computers. Two other translators had slipped into the compartment and quietly assumed their duties. She barely noticed them.
As the computer switched through one intercept after another, everything seemed normal. Then, on one of the space control channels, she caught an excited inquiry in High Broan.
Loosely translated, someone had just asked, “Holy shit, what the fuck was that?”
Humanity’s secret had just died with Lisa’s husband.
#
Hand Leader Tor-Ken, late of the Broan Navy, sat at his console and wondered when his interminable shift would end. He originally joined the navy because it was expected of young males of his clan. It promised a life of service to the Race, an attitude many of his brood mates found to be quaint.
He’d spent a dozen cycles aboard ships and was largely content. However, after mating, he agreed with his female that the progenitor of a brood should not go spacing to the ends of Civilization.
So he transferred to Sabator Space Control. And here he stayed, through two cubs raised to maturity. His life in the Navy possessed variety, the camaraderie of other young males and exotic new worlds to explore. In the Control Service, all he ever saw was this dreary room and its oversized screens showing the location of every ship in the system.
He noted a new bulk freighter had exited the Garwin stargate and was currently providing its data to the traffic control computer. The computer, in turn, directed the ship to make orbit for the Vadsa stargate. The freighter would be in the Sabator System for two- twelve rotations, after which it would once again wink out of existence, to reappear in the Vadsa system dozens of light-cycles distant.
Because the stargates were located on the outskirts of the system, a position required by physics, speed-of-light delay prevented any dialogue between him and the freighter. Computers, with their infinite patience, would handle all instruction exchange required for traffic control.
Tor-Ken’s duty was to remain alert at his station and to provide command oversight should anything go wrong, which, of course, nothing ever did.
Suddenly, alarms began going off all around him.
Startled, he turned to his command console and began pressing studs. All through the control center, subservients hunched over their displays to figure out the cause.
“Zand, what is going on?” Tor-Ken snapped to his most senior operator. Zand was a small being, even smaller than Tor-Ken, a fact that made the Master tolerate him better than some of the operators from oversize strider species.
“There has been an explosion in our sector, Hand Leader.”
“What ship?”
“None. There are no ships at the location.”
“Then what exploded?”
“Unknown.”
“Two asteroids collide, perhaps?”
“No, Hand Leader. The spectrum is wrong for that. Also, the plot shows no rocks in the vicinity, either.”
Tor-Ken began pushing other studs, boredom forgotten. An actual mystery! He couldn’t remember anything like this happening in… well, ever. “Sensors, focus on the coordinates of the explosion. Maximum gain. What do you see?”
“The radiance is fading,” one of his operators twittered, its words automatically translated into trade talk. “There is some sort of object there. It is radiating in the infrared. Frequency shift indicates that it is cooling.”
“Some kind of a vessel?”
“Possibly. We detect a periodic change in cross-section. It appears to be tumbling.”
“What vector?”
There was a pause while sensitive instruments working at the edge of their range integrated readings over nearly a gross of heartbeats.
“Toward us. The remnant will pass very close to Karap-Vas in approximately twelve rotations.”
“How close?”
“Insufficient data to determine. We will need to watch it longer to refine our data.”
“Put everything you have on it,” Tor-Ken ordered. He watched the data flood in from the long range-telescopes and other sensors. Whatever was coming this way, it appeared aimed directly at the planet. That made it potentially hostile.