Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (31 page)

“If there was anything to learn, it might have worked.”

“I have eighty or so R-Tech colonists to attend to. I doubt any have experienced interstellar travel.”

“They’re monitoring my blood chemistry. Dr. Sevanto said he’d attach semi-permanent prosthetics.” She moved her hand and winced. “I’ll be here a few days. A visitor, as opposed to an interrogator, or spectator, would be nice.”

“If duty allows,” I said, leaving.

Before the door slid closed, she said, “I’ll take that as a no.”

Tahgs was gone when I left medical. I passed Mer on the way to the colonist area. He gave me a thumbs-up, congratulating me on my efforts against the offender. He had a spare radio hanging from his belt. Even so, I informed him his hand radio was in my quarters.

I entered my room and picked up my tarred canvas satchel and loaded it with cards, dominoes, and a small checker-backgammon set. I topped it off with my carving tools, the unfinished project for Mer, and a fresh woodblock.

I arrived at my duty area and assessed the situation. Most of the colonists were nervous, avoiding conversation. I selected a seat in the common area that provided a good view, and began carving. Eventually, some of the children came around and inquired what I was doing. The first was Michael. Until then he’d been running and sliding across the smooth plated floor sections, attempting to get his floppy hat to fly off.

“Sit right there, Skids,” I urged.

“Skids?” he asked, taking a seat.

I set aside Mer’s completed fish and pulled out the fresh block. “Better than Michael?”

“Sure is. Who taught you to do that?”

“Hold still, Skids, and I’ll tell you.” I continued cutting away with my knife and wood gouges. “A neighbor we called Old Man Miller. Some called him Crazy Man Miller. Those that didn’t call him crazy he took hiking and camping.”

“Does that glove protect your hand?”

“Correct.” Some of the other children watched with their parents hovering nearby, unsure as to my intentions. “Where are you from, Skids?” The question alarmed him.

A young boy said, “His name is Michael, not Skids.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s a nickname.”

“I want a nickname, too,” said the boy. He had short, black hair and was under ten years. Several others nodded in agreement.

I stopped carving. “Vargus, correct?”

“Vargus Idaduhut,” he said proudly.

“Well, Master Idaduhut, I can’t just assign a nickname. It has to fit.”

“When will you have one for me?”

“First, your father has to approve.” I looked at the other six youths. “Or mother or guardian. Then it will come to me.”

“I want an old-time one,” said Vargus.

“We’ll see.” I shrugged, and looked back to Michael. “Skids, look this way.” He grinned as I continued carving. The children began getting restless.

“Do you know any stories?” asked a woman. I looked up to see it was Michael’s mother.

I thought a moment. Maybe she wanted something educational. “How many of you have heard of the
Iron Armadillo
?” Several said yes, but with little conviction. Twenty minutes later I finished the background on the Silicate War and the
Iron Armadillo
’s contribution. Several adults joined the group.

“Have you ever seen a Shard?” asked a girl named Sallie. Her hair was braided like McAllister’s but it was dark, matching her complexion.

“No, I’m too young to have fought in the war.”

“Maybe that marine that was with you has.”

“Sallie,” I said, “I don’t believe Corporal Smith is old enough to have fought the Shards. But I think he’d have done a good job.”

An elderly colonist named Lowell Owen spoke up. “I worked in a lab that housed one of their offshoots, a Flake.”

Everyone looked his direction. He regretted speaking up. “What did it look like?” I encouraged. “I’ve only seen pictures and holos.”

“Well.” He stood up scratching his head. “It didn’t look like a Shard. They’re big. Eight foot masses of jagged crystals.” He stared ahead, recalling the memory. “No, the Flake was about this big around.” He held his hands eighteen inches apart. “Maybe it was a small one. Frosty white and fragile, like a three dimensional snowflake. Wouldn’t want to touch it. Or them touch you. But this one was dead.”

“Why not?” asked Michael.

Colonist Owen’s confidence grew. “Scientists in the lab were studying it. Said if parts of it got under your skin, it would rupture the cell structure. Get into the blood stream causing hemorrhaging. Internal bleeding.”

“How’d they move?” asked Sallie. “I seen a picture, and they don’t have legs, or wings.”

“They flew, but I don’t know how.” He looked toward me.

“You’re the expert on this one,” I said.

“Scientists said they manipulated micro gravities.” Colonist Owen shrugged. “That’s what I gathered. They’re rigid and can’t move like us.” He sat down. “That’s all I know.”

“My grandpa told me the Crax are going to start a war,” voiced an older child named Arden. His wide brown eyes shifted from Owen to me. “Is that true?”

“The only ones who know that,” I said, “other than the Crax and their allies, would be our generals and admirals. And they don’t consult with me.” A few of the nearby adults chuckled while the children looked confused. “The answer is, I don’t know.” I checked my watch, then set down my completed carving and pulled out the games. “We have about an hour before departure, and then another thirty minutes before passage through the con-gate.” I looked to Instructor Watts and the small assemblage of adults. “Last night of freedom. Schooling starts tomorrow.” I pointed to the games and the children scattered. “Make sure I get them back.” I tossed a deck of cards to Colonist Owen. “Maybe you can put these to use. I have to make my rounds.”

I got up and started putting away my carving equipment. “Here, Instructor Watts.” I finished carving my mark on the bottom of the completed bust.

She took it. “It looks just like Ma-ichel, Specialist Keesay.”

I ignored her stutter. “I’ll call him Skids. Unless you object.”

She was tongue-tied. “You really have talent.”

“My mother had artistic talent,” I said. “A political cartoonist. Marlene Keesay.” She didn’t recognize the name. “I have to make my rounds.”

She intercepted. “This was very kind. Wood out here must be extremely expensive.”

“It is if you don’t bring your own.” I winked. “I do.”

“How can I repay you?”

“I needed to build rapport with the colonists. Carving was one way to get their attention.” For some reason I didn’t classify Instructor Watts as a colonist. I looked around, finally seeing a few smiles. “But if you could help ensure return of all the parts to my games, that will be appreciated.”

“I believe that can be arranged,” she said, turning to look for her son, cradling the wooden bust.

I wandered and chatted with the colonists. Most were friendly enough. Vyctor Putin, Stosh Meadows and Custer Simon made a show of avoiding me.

Lowell Owen was an amateur historian and we discussed aspects of the Silicate War. Colonist Owen said he’d worked for a military contractor bought out by Capital Galactic Investments. They non-renewed his contract. With no family or friends tying him down, he signed on with the first company that hired him.

“It’s almost time, Colonist Owen,” I said, and walked over to the floor-mounted holo-projector. While adjusting it, I received a call through my com-set.

“Specialist Keesay, this is Club. All in order for departure?”

“Affirmative. Everything is in order.”

She wasted little time. “Acknowledged, out.”

I adjusted my com-set to receive launch information before returning my focus to the holo-projector and tapped into a local satellite feed. “For those of you who are interested, you can watch our departure and movement through the con-gate.” About forty colonists gathered around. Those in front sat so the others could see the three-dimensional view of the
Kalavar.
Two other ships docked alongside dwarfed the
Kalavar
.

“Which is ours?” asked a colonist.

“The smallest of the three.” I examined the ship outlines. All were long, rectangular, and boxy in shape. “The largest is an interstellar freighter. The other appears to be a military troop transport.” I looked closer. “Orbiting in the distance there’s a large transport.”

“Where’s the con-gate?” asked the same colonist.

I examined the projector’s menu, tapped several directives, then sat back. “Projector, switch to view local con-gate.” The holographic image flickered to show the distant gate. “Enlarge image.” The con-gate, a series of five enormous hoops tethered by a skeletal superstructure, zoomed into focus.

“What are those four big boxes on each circle?” asked Vargus.

“Those are power generators,” answered Lowell Owen. “The more condenser rings a gate has, the more it can condense space. Generator sizes are pretty standard for maintenance reasons, so if you count the rings, you can tell the strength of the con-gate.”

I didn’t point out that a lot depended upon the gate builder’s tech level.

“Why is it moving?” asked a young lady colonist.

I waited for Colonist Owen to answer, but he didn’t. “It shifts orientation,” I said. “So when a ship passes through, it enters condensed space with proper trajectory.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Sallie, looking to her mother and father.

“Going the right direction,” her father replied. “You can’t turn very well in space moving so fast.”

Her father had the gist of it. “The
Kalavar
,” I added, “will maneuver for the correct approach. She has a cascading atomic engine and could condense space independently. But it’s more efficient to use a gate.”

“Why?” asked Sallie.

Michael began to speak, but his mother grabbed his shoulder and whispered in his ear.

“With all of those generators on the con-gate,” I said, “it takes less time to build up the energy needed.”

“Also less strain on a ship’s engines,” added Colonist Owen.

“All systems check, Captain,” came over my com-set. “Ready to detach from the Mavinrom Dock.”

“Projector, return to view of Mavinrom Dock,” I commanded. As it switched, I announced, “The
Kalavar
is preparing to depart. Every colonist except Instructor Watts and Colonist Owen braced themselves. I found myself with the majority. A small metallic vibration ran through the hull. On the screen the
Kalavar
’s docking thrusters flared.

Vargus said, “That was boring.”

“I’m glad it was,” said Willie Beddow, Sallie’s father.

“It’ll take about thirty minutes to reach the gate,” I said, getting up.

“What does it feel like going into condensed space?” asked an unseen colonist.

I looked around. “I’m hardly an expert,” I said. But many worried expressions beckoned for an answer. “Ships really don’t enter condensed space. They ride just ahead of the wash. The anti-gravity field generated protects the ship.” I was unsure of the actual physics behind the phenomenon and the physiological consequences. Still, I tried to come up with an adequate analogy. “Scientists say it’s easier to enter condensed space than exit. They describe it like running into a soft foam barrier. But if you come out too abruptly it can damage your organs and tissues, mind and body. Like ocean diving. You come up from the pressure too fast and it causes internal chemical imbalances.” My explanation clarified little, and only heightened anxiety.

“It will feel like you’re accelerating in a fast rocket,” said Colonist Owen. “But you don’t experience the gravitational forces. And once we’re traveling, you’ll feel unusual. Kind of disconnected.” He strained for the right words. “Almost like you’re waiting for something to happen.”

“You’ll hardly notice it by morning,” I said. “I recommend, after we pass through the gate, you turn in for the evening. Breakfast arrives at 7:00 a.m. Your instructors will be awaiting you.”

“Prepare to fire main engines,” came the order from the captain over my com-set.

“Projector, switch view to departing medium transport
Kalavar
,” I ordered. As the engines blazed to life, I felt the change in inertia. Most of the colonists noticed it as well. “At least that orients you as to the fore and aft of the ship,” I said. The almost inaudible hum of the main engines added their voice to the mingling background sound of the lights and other machinery.

The colonists didn’t notice or care. The main center engine’s exhaust glowed a whiter color than the two secondary. I recalled Mer stating that the main engine had been torn out before mothballing. The replacement
had to be more advanced and powerful.

“Prepare to fire auxiliary engines,” the captain ordered. The two temporary rockets packed with liquid hydrogen fired. A second shift in inertia ran through the hull.

“Wow, look at those engines!” Sallie pointed. “They’re brighter.” She tugged at Colonist Owen’s brown shirt. “See?”