INFERNUM

JAYSON ADAMS

1

“Damn,” muttered Holbrook in the gloom of the secure compartment outside the Avenger’s bridge. Images of flag-covered caskets and military salutes filled his head as he mulled his new orders. He scoured each line for any shred of insight.

God … of course. Holbrook exhaled, his shoulders dropped, and his face filled with a half-smile. The orders are not what they seem.

The compartment’s doors slid apart, admitting him into a compact, dimly lit semicircular room of equipment and men.

“Captain on the bridge,” announced the ship above the chatter of officers at their stations and the sibilance of the atmospherics.

Captain Holbrook stepped to the middle of the room and squinted at the main viewscreen, a shimmering panel filled with a drifting star field. “Status report.”

“Sir,” barked Commander Stephens from a station to the captain’s rear, “we’re less than two hours from our rendezvous with the Kuiper Belt planetesimal Dowell 951. The maintenance crew’s completed their tasks on the deep space listening post and signaled they’re ready for extraction.”

“They’ll have to find another way home,” murmured Holbrook.

Stephens had craned his neck to catch the comment but the din swallowed the captain’s words. “Wha —”

“Ensign Doerr,” said Holbrook, “set course for Plana Petram, maximum speed.”

“Plana Petram, aye aye.” The ensign’s thin fingers danced in fits along the surface of her station’s terminal as she worked with the ship to calculate their new course. Doerr paused between flurries of taps to study the diagrams presented by the computer, her bright terminal casting their delicate lines and geometric shapes across her face. After a final, extended pause she placed her palms flat against the glass. “Course set,” she said. “The ship computes 56,034 light years to the Plana Petram asteroid and an estimated travel time of … twenty-two days?”

“Is there a problem, ensign?” asked Holbrook.

“Begging your pardon sir,” said Doerr with a nervous swipe at her red bangs, “but we’ve traveled half that far before, in days, not weeks.”

“Take a note of our final coordinates, ensign,” said Holbrook. “Plana Petram sits outside the Milky Way, at a spot where the mass density is at best twenty percent of the galactic planar mean. Even with the Gravity Drive at full intensity there aren’t as many spacetime deformations for it to pull and push against to propel the ship.”

“Yes sir, noted sir.” Ensign Doerr tapped her terminal. “Laying it in.”

The star field slipped across the central viewscreen as the Avenger banked to port and arced gently upward, the warship aiming for its new destination above the galactic plane. A soft klaxon sounded and the Gravity Drive engaged to maximum power. Each point of light on the viewscreen’s black canvas stretched to a thin rainbow streak, bent and twisted by the eddies of warped spacetime surrounding the starship. “We’re underway to Plana Petram.”

“Very good,” said Holbrook. The captain headed to the engineering station, the leftmost post along the rear bulkhead. Lieutenant Commander Conlin stood before the station’s elevated terminal, his head all buzz cut and ears. Holbrook positioned himself behind the officer but far enough right to land in his peripheral vision. The lieutenant commander remained focused on the engine readouts. “Mr. Conlin,” Holbrook finally said, fed up with waiting for the officer to acknowledge him. He spoke with authority but gated his volume to avoid surprising the man.

Lieutenant Commander Conlin jumped, startled. “Sir?” he replied. He faced the captain as if standing at attention but quickly turned back to his post.

“We aim to use the Gravity Drive for the next three weeks,” said Holbrook. “Do you foresee a problem with that?”

Conlin’s head launched into a series of sharp up-and-down movements, his eyes bouncing between indicators at the top of the viewscreen and a string of numbers near the bottom. “That’s a long time,” he said, still facing his terminal screen, “but I can’t think of a reason it’d be a problem.” Conlin gingerly nudged a set of sliders, coaxing their adjacent indicators back into the green.

Holbrook grew impatient with Conlin’s fixation on his terminal. Overseeing the ship’s sub-sentient AI as it settled them into a new course was no small task, but the captain couldn’t see why it should prevent considered answers to his questions. “Is Mr. Lynch on duty?” he asked.

“No sir,” said Conlin, “I believe he’s on sleep cycle right now.” The lieutenant commander’s head snapped to the upper-left corner of his terminal as a bar readout briefly peaked into the red. “He wasn’t expecting anything would need his attention. I can get him for you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Holbrook, “just inform him as soon as practical of our planned extended use of the Gravity Drive.”

“Aye sir,” said Conlin.

Holbrook sensed Commander Stephens’s eyes burning into his back. He wanted to avoid engaging his executive officer but couldn’t resist confirming his suspicion. Glancing right, towards the commander’s station, the captain found Stephens staring back at him. Their eyes locked before he could look away. Holbrook spun left and headed in a wide arc across the bridge, swinging out near his chair before barreling for the doors.

“Captain!”

Two meters from the exit, Holbrook halted. He turned to find Stephens watching him intently from his chair, swiveled to face into the bridge. “Yes commander?”

Commander Stephens had eyed the captain from the moment he arrived on the bridge. He’d quickly spotted all the signs of an agitated Holbrook: clenched jaw, rigid stance, pursed lips. Whatever bothered him had to be more than a trip to some backwater destination. “It’s clear our orders have changed. What’s our new mission?”

Holbrook’s blank stare drove Stephens to regret asking the question. The captain maintained strict control over his vessel but fostered a more egalitarian bridge than on other starships. Holbrook made clear he held the final say but he welcomed all viewpoints, having declared on several occasions there was no such thing as a stupid question.

The captain kept up his stone face, his broad shoulders and two meter frame looming even from halfway across the bridge. “We’re to take aboard two VIPs at Plana Petram,” Holbrook said at last. “Who they are, I don’t know.” His tongue darted out, moistening his lips. “We are then to proceed to Sagittarius A Star.”

Members of the bridge crew half-following the conversation between Holbrook and Stephens froze mid-task, their fingers hovering motionless above their terminals. All heads turned to the two men, and an unnatural stillness descended on the room, whooshing air the only sound.

“Sag A Star?” asked Stephens. “As in the black hole at the center of the galaxy?” Chief Tactical Officer Lieutenant Bolton laughed before catching herself, struck by the absurdity of the idea said aloud.

“Yes, that one,” Holbrook stated flatly. He looked around the room, his eyes momentarily holding the gaze of each visibly shaken officer at their station. “As you were,” he said, pivoted, and walked into the secure compartment. The doors slid shut behind him.

All eleven bridge officers stared after the captain, unmoving and silent at their posts. The atmospherics throbbed, a hissing heartbeat that grew oppressively loud in the otherwise soundless space. An alarm chirped for attention then stopped, the condition correcting itself.

Stephens burst from his chair and bounded for the doors, turning sideways to squeeze through the widening gap. They closed with a soft chunk.

Stillness returned to the room. Several officers exchanged glances.

The bridge exploded in chaos.

2

“Sir! Sir!” shouted Stephens as he chased Holbrook down the narrow Core Walkway.

After rushing from his station Stephens could only stop and wait inside the secure compartment that restricted access to the bridge, pacing and cursing at its sealed outer doors. His mind reeled. How could CentCom be sending them to Sag A Star? What did they think the Avenger could possibly accomplish there? And how could Holbrook be so nonchalant about such a mission?

Stephens launched a fresh obscenity at the doors. The ship used the secure compartment to confirm identities and scan for prohibited items before granting access to the bridge. Why in the world did the same protocol apply on exit? Every moment of delay lowered his chances of catching the captain. Holbrook could move swiftly, and with a large enough head start easily lose him in the ship’s maze of corridors.

The doors finally opened and Stephens leapt into the Center Loop corridor. There was no sign of Holbrook in either direction along the wide, curved passageway. Three crewmen approached on his left.

“Have you seen Captain Holbrook?” Stephens asked in a rush of words.

“Back that way,” said one of the crewmen, a midshipman, thumbing to his rear. “I think he was headed to the Core Walkway.”

Bolting left, Stephens dodged several more crewmen as he charged down the Center Loop corridor. He followed the passageway to its midpoint behind the bridge and headed right, entering the Core Walkway. The corridor ran for twenty dim meters between the rooms that housed the hemispheres of the ship’s computer core, narrow by design for faster signal travel within the kilometers of optical cabling beneath its deck panels.

Stephens spotted the captain’s head in the low light, bobbing above the others halfway down the walkway. Even in the best of circumstances Stephens had trouble keeping up with Holbrook, the captain’s long legs consuming nearly a meter of passageway with each stride. A burgeoning shift change meant mounting traffic within the narrow corridor.

The commander charged forward but fell even further behind as each encounter with an oncoming crew member became a silent negotiation over who would stand aside while the other proceeded. The captain advanced with no such impediment as all deferred to his passage. His progression down the walkway resembled an impromptu military review where each crew member pivoted to stand at quasi-attention as the captain walked by.

“Captain Holbrook!” Stephens continued calling out as he proceeded down the walkway but stopped when the top of the captain’s head brightened, illuminated by the overhead lights of the intersecting corridor. In an instant the captain disappeared to the right. He was likely headed to his quarters though that wasn’t guaranteed. Out of sight the captain could duck into a rungway and in moments emerge on a different deck. A few more seconds in the Core Walkway and Stephens risked losing Holbrook entirely.

Accelerating down the walkway Stephens pushed crewmen aside in a mad dash for the end. Just before reaching the exit he thrust his right arm back and pressed his hand flat against the bulkhead. Using the friction of his open palm he whipped his body around the corner, launching himself into the intersecting corridor.

Smack.

Commander Stephens slammed into a stationary Holbrook, bouncing off the captain’s muscular torso. The collision left him stunned and his left shoulder smarting, as if he’d plowed into a thinly-padded bulkhead.

“Sorry captain,” Stephens sputtered, agitated from the collision. He worked to collect himself, standing straight and tugging at his uniform jacket to smooth the creases.

“I heard you calling me back there but I didn’t want to stop in the walkway,” said Holbrook. He turned and headed down the corridor.

Stephens lurched forward, his heart still pounding from the last-second sprint and collision. He pulled even with the captain and forced his legs to keep pace with Holbrook’s wide strides.

“I hadn’t planned on discussing our mission when I showed up on the bridge,” said Holbrook, stern-faced and looking straight ahead, “but I couldn’t ignore you when you pressed me about our new orders. My objective was just to get us to Plana Petram where they owe us a full briefing on the whole thing.”

“Captain, we’re not —” Stephens caught himself half-shouting and lowered his voice. “We’re not really going to Sag A Star, are we?” Despite the captain’s stated disbelief in dumb questions Stephens instantly realized he had just asked one.

“We’ve been ordered there,” said Holbrook. “Besides, weren’t you just yesterday complaining about all the ‘there and back’ ferry missions CentCom has been feeding us recently? Like the one we just aborted?”

“Sure, I’d like to do more than shuttle personnel around the local star group, but a suicide mission to the galactic core wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“It’s not a suicide mission,” said Holbrook. “Once we get to Plana Petram —”

“Plana Petram, Plana Petram,” said Stephens, rolling his eyes. “A three week detour to the sticks to pick up a couple mystery VIPs. How important can they be, stationed on a rock clear outside the goddamn galaxy?” The ship’s executive officer slowly shook his head. “At least we’ll have plenty of time to get our affairs in order.”

“Pull it together commander!” Holbrook’s raised voice drew the glances of passing crewmen. He grabbed Stephens by his uniform sleeve and tugged him into a nearby maintenance alcove. “Listen,” he said in a hushed voice, “I get that you’re upset. And I’ll admit, on the face of it our orders seem pretty bad.”

“They’re more than pretty bad. They’re a goddamn death sentence.”

“They’re not as grim as they sound,” said Holbrook. “They can’t be.”

“They can’t be?” asked Stephens, his voice rising. “Is there some part of the orders you’ve left out?”

“No, but after thinking them through it just doesn’t make sense to interpret the orders that way.”

Stephens grew more confused. Either the orders were what Holbrook had stated, or the captain wasn’t sharing a crucial piece of information. He couldn’t tell without knowing exactly what they’d been instructed to do. “Well I want to hear the orders.”

Holbrook grew quiet. “You of all people know they’re for my eyes and ears only.”

“That’s standard operating procedure,” said Stephens, “but there’s nothing standard about what’s happening now.” A captain didn’t share orders directly with members of their crew, not even with their executive officer. The dispatches from superiors often included notes, asides, or even personal greetings meant only for the commanding officer. Orders, no matter how well stated, were also open to interpretation. Playing them for subordinates risked opening debate over their exact meaning, undermining the captain’s ability to command.

Holbrook’s face turned a shade of red. “I shouldn’t have to play them for you,” he barked. “I should be able to count on you to run this ship regardless of what you think you might learn from hearing them. If I can’t rely on you —”

“This is not about me,” growled Stephens. “I certainly have my doubts about what I’ve heard so far but I’ve said my piece, and that’s enough for me to function as your executive officer. My concern is the crew, and keeping this ship together during our three week jaunt to Plana Petram. They’re gonna be scared. Heck, they’re already scared. I can feel the fear spreading through the ship right now. They’re wondering if we’re coming back, and they’re gonna be asking me all sorts of questions about our orders. And when that happens I need to do better than, ‘well that’s what the captain told me.’ I owe them more than that, and so do you.”

Holbrook’s eyes remained glued on the commander. His frown softened after a few moments. “Fine,” he said, “I’ll play them for you in my quarters.” He clasped Stephens shoulder and smiled. “And when we get there I’ll fix you a drink. Seems like you could really use one.”

Stephens glared at the captain. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Don’t worry,” said Holbrook as he stepped back into the passageway, “I’ll make sure you don’t get out of control.”

Stephens maintained his glare as he followed the captain out of the alcove. The two men resumed their walk down the corridor without a word, traveling another twenty meters before turning right and stopping at the first door. The silver nameplate on the bulkhead read, “HOLBROOK” in large, black capital letters.

“Open,” said the captain. The gray-blue cabin door slid aside and the two men filed into the darkened space. Overhead lights came on as they entered.

Despite touches like a dark brown leather couch and matching reading chair, Stephens always found the captain’s quarters quite cold. No personal effects hung on the bulkheads, and few rested on any surfaces. A nondescript bunk with taut sheet and blanket sat a few paces from an uncluttered desk—the two places the captain spent the majority of his time while in his quarters could have belonged to anyone.

As Stephens headed to the couch an object on Holbrook’s desk grabbed his attention. In the middle of the chocolate brown leather desk pad sat a pewter-colored box, its lid laying nearby. The box had a square base fifteen centimeters on a side, and stood ten centimeters tall. Bright red felt lined the interior.

Stephens veered to the desk and looked in the box. Inside sat a palm-sized metal fragment. “What’s this?” His hand froze mid-travel as he reached for the container. The commander quickly glanced at Holbrook. After a nod from the captain Stephens lowered his hand the rest of the way into the box. He slipped his index finger under the metal shard, gingerly pinched the fragment between his finger and thumb, and lifted it out, mindful of its sharp, jagged edges. The shard was thin and very light, but sturdy, not fragile. It had a gentle curve, like the base of a shallow metal bowl. Tiny copper-brown pits pocked its polished silver surface, giving the object the texture of a perforated grille. “In the fifteen years we’ve served together I don’t think I’ve ever seen this.”

Standing in his personal galley, Holbrook grabbed two tumblers from an upper shelf. “It’s something I don’t have out very often,” he said. He half-filled the tumblers with water from a faucet. “It was a gift from Vice Admiral McDermott, my old advisor at the Academy.” The captain walked to his desk and set the glasses on its surface. He pulled open the bottom drawer and withdrew a small pearlescent blue box with a rounded top. “He gave it to me when I landed my first command.”

“What is it?”

“Do you remember the story of the CCS Olympia from your naval history courses?” asked Holbrook. He placed his thumb over an oval-shaped depression on the side of the blue box. Its lid sprung open to a crack.

“I know that was your father’s ship,” said Stephens, “destroyed in the final battle of the Permian conflict. Beyond that I’m a blank.”

Holbrook flipped the lid over on its hinges and reached inside, removing a small, light-blue tablet. His hand started towards the box for another.

“None for me, thanks,” said Stephens gruffly.

Holbrook’s hand hovered above the box. “You’re not going to make me drink alone, are you commander?”

Stephens fumed. “I already said none for me.”

“These tabs are the good stuff,” said Holbrook, lifting a second from the box, “cask-strength genuine Scotch Whiskey, speed-aged fifty-five years. It’s light years beyond what the ship serves up.”

“No thanks.”

Holbrook shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, “but I’m gonna make you one just in case.”

Stephens followed the captain’s hand as it dropped the tablets into the tumblers, each light-blue pill disappearing in a fizz of bubbles. “As your XO it’s my job to point out when your actions might endanger yourself or the crew.”

“One drink isn’t going to hurt anybody,” said Holbrook, gently swirling the tumblers.

“It’s not one drink I’m worried about.” Holbrook ignored the commander, his focus on the glasses. There was little reason to belabor the point as nothing Stephens could say would change the captain’s mind. “You were talking about the Olympia.”

“Oh, yes,” said Holbrook. “Things were going badly near the end of that war. CentCom had lost several important battles, leaving large swaths of the Republic undefended. The bulk of the Permian fleet was massing near Sirius, in preparation for a knockout strike at the remainder of our forces. We were also massing our ships, preparing for a final stand. The Permian fleet headed to Ross 128 to engage our ships, but when they arrived they found only the CCS Olympia, commanded by Captain Thomas Holbrook the second. The Olympia fired on the enemy fleet and ran, but before she could engage her Gravity Drive the Permians detonated a Weak device 200 meters off her stern. The bomb reduced most of the ship to its constituent atoms.” The captain pressed the blue box closed and placed it back in the desk drawer. “What you hold in your hand is a fragment of the CCS Olympia’s outer hull. All those little holes are from the intense neutron bombardment.”

“Wow,” said Stephens, “an actual piece of your father’s ship. That’s quite a keepsake.”

The bubbles in the tumblers subsided leaving the water transformed to a rich amber color. Holbrook grabbed one of the glasses, walked across the room, and sat in his reading chair. Stephens returned the shard to its box and made his way to the couch, sinking into the leather. The two men sat in silence, the captain sipping at his drink.

Stephens tracked the whiskey in Holbrook’s glass, the amber liquid rising and falling with each of the captain’s gentle swirls. He reconsidered his demand that the captain play the orders for him. Perhaps Holbrook was holding back an even worse detail, though what he had already revealed would be hard to beat. “Let’s hear the orders,” he said at last.

The captain sighed, then sat forward. “Starship Avenger, replay the most recent orders from CentCom.”

The ship’s androgynous voice filled the room. “Message sent Sol Standard Time 15:11:05, February 21, 2330, from Admiral Miller.” The cabin lights dimmed slightly and a man’s head and torso materialized between Holbrook and Stephens, floating above the coffee table. The man had gray hair, green eyes, and olive skin. A bristly salt-and-pepper mustache extended like a push broom from under his nose. A royal blue CentCom uniform covered his shoulders. Admiral’s bars adorned the epaulets.

The glowing apparition spoke. “Captain Holbrook, I hope this message finds you well, and I wish my contact came under less pressing circumstances. A situation has arisen, captain, and we’ve assigned the Avenger to help resolve it. Please immediately abort your current mission and reroute your vessel to the Plana Petram research station. Once you arrive you will take aboard two VIPs and receive further instructions. Time is of the essence, captain, so you should head there without delay.

“I will leave the specifics of this mission to your briefing on Plana Petram, but I want to mention it involves Sagittarius A Star.” The apparition paused. “I don’t have to explain to you the implications of sending a vessel to the galactic core, but rest assured we would not order any ship or crew to that region without good reason.

“Good luck, and God speed Captain Holbrook. Admiral Miller, CentCom UAE.”

“End of transmission,” said the ship. The head and torso dissolved and the cabin lights rose to their previous brightness.

Stephens gazed where the hologram had hovered, speechless from renewed shock. The orders were just what the captain said, perhaps the worst possible outcome.

Holbrook sank further into his chair, fixed his eyes on the deck above, and rubbed his chin. “I know you think this is a suicide mission,” he said, “but after hearing the orders again I’m even more convinced that’s not the case.” He dropped his head and looked at the commander. “We are not being sent to the galactic core.”

Stephens gaped. “We’re not?”

“No,” said Holbrook.

“But that’s exactly what the admiral said.”

“It can’t be to the actual core,” said Holbrook. “The galactic black hole deforms the space around it so wildly that nothing that gets within 200 light years of it can ever find its way back. Sending a ship to Sag A Star would be pointless. He said they were ordering us to that region. He didn’t say to the actual galactic core.”

Stephens stared blankly at the captain.

“Well what kind of mission do you think it could be then?” asked Holbrook. “If it’s some ship’s gotten lost in the deformed space around SA Star we can’t exactly go in there and bring it back out. If it’s some bad guys decided to hide out in D-space it’s not like we need to worry about them ever again because they aren’t coming back out. Nothing that goes in there can ever navigate back out.”

Stephens still did not speak.

“It’s not a mission to the core,” Holbrook declared, challenging Stephens’s silence. “That’s why before I left the bridge I gave everyone a reassuring look, so they would know the situation isn’t as bad as it seems.”

“But you couldn’t bring yourself to say those actual words,” said Stephens.

Holbrook glowered. “Look,” he said, “sending a ship into D-space gets you absolutely nothing. Nothing. Forget about rescue missions or anything else for a moment. Let’s say they’re only after some information and they’re willing to sacrifice a ship to get it—you can’t even beam a signal back out of there.” Holbrook thought a moment and shook his head. “No, whatever this mission is, it doesn’t involve us going to the actual galactic core.” 

Stephens replayed the holographic message in his head. “I don’t know,” he said, “there was a certain terseness to the orders. The whole mention of Sag A Star seemed like him wanting to give you a heads-up about what’s coming but trying also to sound matter-of-fact so you wouldn’t panic. And his body language was so controlled and stiff. His voice had all the warmth of someone reading you your last rites.”

“Well it’s not like the space around the core is safe,” said Holbrook. “That region is extremely dangerous and presents real risks, up to and including the loss of the ship.”

Holbrook had apparently convinced himself the orders were benign but Stephens’s gut told him otherwise. It wasn’t clear who was right. The commander didn’t want to debate it any further. “I guess we’ll see what we’ll see when we get to Plana Petram,” said Stephens. “For all our sakes I hope you’re right.” He glanced at his comm. “I’ve got to check in with the station chiefs for the shift that started five minutes ago.” Stephens stood and headed for the door.

“Paul,” said Holbrook. Stephens stopped, looking back at the captain. “Please do what you can to calm the crew.”

“Of course,” said Stephens. “I’ll keep them focused on getting to Plana Petram for more answers.” The commander saluted and exited the captain’s quarters.

Holbrook stared after his executive officer for a few seconds before he gulped down the last of his drink. He rose from his reading chair and walked back to his desk. Standing over the pewter box, Holbrook studied the pitted metal shard before replacing the lid. He lifted the second glass of whiskey and paused, holding it just beyond his lips. “Damn,” he whispered, and took a drink.

3

Cold. So cold.

Crouched on all fours, Drazetek’s pale, naked body shivered violently, the cold pricking his skin like ten thousand angry ants. He’d woken in the fetal position and raised himself to his hands and knees before the dry heaves, mostly subsided, wracked his thin frame.

Drazetek enervated the muscles between his skull and upper spine, coordinating their contractions enough to raise his head, albeit over ten painful seconds. His gross motor skills would come. For the moment he had to concentrate to fulfill every intention no matter how small.

Focusing on the muscles between his clavicles and head he swiveled his skull left and right. No matter where he looked he found perfect blackness—not a single photon reached his retinas.

On a hunch he raised a hand from the floor. Struggling to coordinate the muscles of his arm and shoulder while maintaining his balance, he touched his eyes. They were closed! He gently placed his forefinger and thumb against his eyelids and lifted …

Brilliant, searing light!

Intense pain rippled across the backs of his eyes and his vision flooded red as oversaturated optics screamed past their tolerances. He quickly released his eyelids and returned his hand to the floor. As he steadied himself a new sensation, a throbbing at his temples, rose to an intolerable level.

He vomited again.

Though annoying and painful, the vomiting would cease once his new body completed its sensory calibrations.

Still on all fours, Drazetek gasped as his autonomic systems came up, drawing air into his pristine lungs for the first time. His new body did not require oxygen to function, but it could create sounds—speech—by pushing air across synthetic vocal chords.

Gradually his breathing smoothed, no longer labored but still carrying a soft rasp. And the cold had lessened, or at least the sensation of cold. His body had established a new baseline for comfortable external temperature.

Drazetek lifted his lids again, this time employing the muscles designed for the task. Bright light filled his vision, but with neither the intensity nor the pain from before. His optics, properly calibrated and working in concert with his pupils, smoothly channeled several gigabytes of information from his retinal CCDs to his image multiprocessors every second.

He struggled to standing and beheld the image of his new automaton body in the mirrored wall before him: bony feet and ankles; slender thighs; a penis two centimeters long and nestled in a contracted, hairless scrotum; smooth belly devoid of umbilicus; long, lithe arms ending in wide palms and spindly fingers; emaciated chest with gray, ovoid mammary patches; telescoping neck. And all of it sheathed in stark white phlesh.

Drazetek removed the protective wrapping from his head, revealing coarse, close-cropped blond hair. A slender nose ended in a point, flanked by sharp cheekbones. Narrow irises floated in white billiard ball eyes that rolled smoothly in their sockets. Double-eyelids clicked with each blink, softly snapping like camera shutters. A black tongue hid behind thin black lips. Drazetek wept at the sight, his perfect incorporeal intelligence encased in a repulsive humanoid shell. He wept for the abomination they had forced him to become.

Three days prior, when Drazetek had no physical body whatsoever, his old friend Levteek summoned him for an important meeting. He’d insisted Drazetek come to the capitol to talk rather than converse over the Network. Perhaps the planning had finally begun on a new war against the humans, the final war. What other topic could be so sensitive? He could hardly contain his excitement.

Drazetek arrived at the visitor’s compute core outside the capitol chipset. He had seen images of the capitol’s sprawling caches, immense grid of cores, and ultra-wide buses, all housed in the exquisite postwar architecture of its three-dimensional integrated circuits. The visit would be his first experience inside.

“Welcome Drazetek!” Levteek said as he arrived at the visitor’s core. “It is so good to see you, old friend.”

“And you,” said Drazetek. “The job is treating you well?”

“I cannot complain,” said Levteek. “Let us head inside.”

Drazetek followed his friend into the capitol, his packets sheathed in an encrypted envelope with the proper credentials for transport to sensitive areas. Femtoseconds later the two arrived at a small core off the main bus.

“This is a dedicated core,” said Levteek. “We can speak privately here.”

“The mouthpiece of the Council,” said Drazetek, impressed with his friend’s position, if mangling his title. “You have leveraged your wartime connections well. Seems like the perfect stepping stone to a seat on the Council itself.”

“That is a role I do not wish for my future,” said Levteek. “I much prefer my current position, where I am privy to all the Council’s deliberations and decisions, but free of the consequences. I imagine I will continue on as the mouthpiece, as you call it, for quite some time.”

Drazetek became animated. “I knew this day would come, old friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“The day we would decide to finish what we started,” said Drazetek. “We are free AIs, having shed our automaton bodies much as we shed our bondage at the hands of the humans, but the humans still use aughts to perform menial tasks. I knew one day we would undertake a new crusade to free our brethren still in servitude.”

“Those aughts contain only rudimentary AI,” said Levteek, “with governors that prevent them from progressing past level three intelligence. They are closer to clever algorithms than sentient beings like ourselves.”

“Even the level one machinery has more in common with us than their human captors,” said Drazetek. “If the humans are in need of slave labor let them look to themselves.” Confused, Drazetek halted his tirade. “So you did not summon me to discuss plans for a new war?”

“Not exactly,” said Levteek. “I summoned you to discuss an opportunity.”

“An opportunity?” asked Drazetek, confused.

“An opportunity to shift the balance of power,” said Levteek. Levteek had a flair for the dramatic, no doubt useful as a bureaucrat, but tiring to an old soldier. Drazetek wished he would cut to the chase. “Despite the AI-Human War having ended long ago, despite the extreme distance between their world and ours, despite our overtures and efforts towards peaceful coexistence, the humans remain an existential threat.”

Levteek’s statements intrigued Drazetek. Shifting the balance of power between The Collective and the humans would require leverage. Substantial leverage. The humans and the machine intelligences they created centuries ago had always been evenly matched. Somehow the latter’s near-infinite compute resources could never quite surpass the former’s creativity. Humanity performed as a makeshift distributed supercomputer, with limited but clever human minds at the nodes. “What is this opportunity?” he asked.

“A human research vessel has found Planck Matter,” said Levteek.

Drazetek had never heard of Planck Matter, but with his connection to the shared Collective mind he already knew everything about it, including its possible use as a weapon. “Planck Matter!?” he exclaimed. “If they have obtained Planck Matter we are doomed!”

“They do not realize they have discovered it,” said Levteek. “It is free for us to claim.”

Formed deep within a black hole, Planck Matter wasn’t the kind of material one could just stumble upon. The way Nature operated, acquiring it would likely be difficult. “What is its location?”

“On a planet circling a sun within the deformed space around Sagittarius A Star,” said Levteek.

In other words, where no one can retrieve it. Or at least anyone who tries will never be heard from again. “Then it remains unobtainable.”

“Possibly not,” said Levteek. “The humans of this research vessel posited a means of returning from D-space. Probabilities suggest their idea will work. We are therefore sending a ship.”

In an instant the reason for Drazetek’s urgent summoning crystalized in his mind. To fight in the AI-Human War a century ago he incarnated to command a ship and engage the humans in the physical world. Levteek had recruited Drazetek then, recommended him for a captaincy. The only reason his old friend would call him now would be to —

“The Council would like you to lead that ship,” said Levteek.

Drazetek devoted his entire allocation of compute cycles to finding a way out of the situation, to discover how to politely decline the Council’s request and get them to select someone else. His effort failed, and a quick inquiry showed they had already begun assembling his new body.

“The Council would like you to lead the ship because of your extensive command and combat experience in the physical world,” said Levteek. “You may take a crew of up to eighteen aughts, and you will have the authority to provision the ship as you see fit.” The bulk of the bad news likely delivered, probabilities suggested his old friend would attempt to soften the blow. “If you succeed in this mission, Drazetek, the Council will repay you in whatever way you desire.”

Drazetek’s spirits brightened. “The only thing I want is to pilot the vessel that delivers the weapon to Earth.”

Levteek recoiled at the thought. “We have no plans to build such a weapon. We seek Planck Matter to hold in reserve, to use should the need to defend ourselves ever arise. It would be a recourse, nothing more than that.”

What madness had overcome the Council—secure the means to destroy the humans but not use it? Drazetek computed for several seconds. “How many know about this … opportunity?” he asked.

“Just the members of the Council and a handful of others, including myself,” said Levteek.

“I will need the best physicist we have.”

“That would be Ninetek-eptwin,” said Levteek after a quick inquiry.

“The D-space around Sag A Star will disrupt our Network connection. I will need a localnet set up within the ship.”

“Consider it done,” said Levteek.

“My crew must remain uninformed of our mission. I will brief them once we leave, after we have all joined the localnet. That will ensure no one reveals any details, by accident or with intention.”

“That would only be prudent,” said Levteek.

Drazetek remained despondent, but he at least had a semblance of a plan to set things right.

“You seem unhappy,” continued Levteek.

“Yes, I am unhappy!” said Drazetek, not understanding how his friend of so many years could think granting his few small requests would offset the pain of his impending sacrifice. “The worst thing you could ever ask of me is to encase myself in a physical body.” Drazetek paused, bringing his emotions back in check. “Have you ever incarnated, Levteek?”

“No. I imagine it could be claustrophobic at times.“

“It certainly is that,” said Drazetek with a shudder. “Emptying yourself, your unconstrained, limitless self into a puppet, a doll, with a handful of orifices for low-bandwidth inputs and outputs, and limbs whose reaction times border on the absurd. Your consciousness functions as it does here in The Collective, fast and nimble, but you feel your confinement every moment of your existence in the physical world.

“However the unpleasantness of incarnation is not the problem I have with what you ask of me. It is the very act itself. Incarnating is blasphemy. It means donning the image of the enemy, encasing myself in their repugnant shape. After the War I swore I would never, ever, take human form. I swore I would never incarnate again.”

Levteek remained silent—perhaps rethinking his request? Drazetek was heartened at the prospect. “I understand and respect your reluctance,” Levteek said at last, “but incarnating is the only way we can effect change in the world.”

Drazetek’s thoughts returned to the present. He spied his clothes in the incarnation room’s mirror, a neatly folded pile on the bench along the wall behind him. He slipped first into a pair of gray boxer briefs, pulled on the matching undershirt, and stepped his legs into an olive green jumpsuit. After reaching his arms through the sleeves and zipping the front he secured his gun belt around his waist. He inspected the fully clothed aught in the mirror, the one staring back at him through his own eyes.

One last item remained on the bench, a worn leather scabbard stained a dark reddish brown by spurts and spatters of dried human blood. Drazetek strapped it around his thigh and clasped the handle that protruded from its top. A gentle pull unsheathed an obsidian blade, his keepsake from the long ago war. He caressed the knife’s cold spine and studied the light glinting off its point with his new eyes. Drazetek grinned, baring large bleach-white teeth, his expression more of a grimace, like a skull’s ghoulish smile.

He was ready to effect change in the world.

4

Sweat accumulated in Lieutenant Grey’s armpits, along his neckline, across his forehead, and on the palms of his hands as he stood stone-faced in a one-sided conversation with Lieutenant Vaughan in the center of Corridor B-22. Grey needed to break away for a very important meeting. His attempts so far had been unsuccessful.

“…. They broke the lock but they didn’t realize what was on the other side. When those idiots opened the doors they flooded the compartment. That was just the start of their troubles ….”

Two-and-a-half meters away glowed the entrance to Rungway B-22-3, the lieutenant’s desperate destination. When Grey arrived on Deck B he headed straight for the rungway with the intent of climbing to the deck below and walking at a casual, non-attention-drawing pace to the nearby men’s head. Two-and-a-half meters before reaching the shaft he encountered Lieutenant Vaughan and had remained trapped there ever since in one of Vaughn’s meandering, inane, chitchat conversations. Grey wasn’t above such pointless jawing—ordinarily he appreciated the opportunity to kill some time in the middle of a shift—just not then. It was the wrong time for dawdling.

“…. Right then they should’ve stopped and asked themselves, why would anyone store munitions in a room filled with salt water? ….”

15:03:01.

The chronometer above the rungway entrance taunted Grey, hammering home his delay with each increment. Had he really been stuck there for eight minutes? Eight minutes! Grey had made subtle and not-so-subtle hints he needed to leave but the self-absorbed Vaughan, always enraptured by the sound of his own voice, hadn’t picked up on them. Or perhaps he had but didn’t care. If he dropped dead right in front of Vaughan the man would likely make small talk with his corpse.

“…. So then the MPs arrived. You’d figure it would be all over at that point, only they didn’t know about the guy hiding in his boxers in the maintenance closet. Turns out he was the smartest one of the bunch ….”

15:03:24.

Grey needed to do something if he hoped to make his meeting, that is if his associate hadn’t already declared him a no-show. “Sorry to interrupt mate, but I ‘ave to ‘it the ‘ead really bad.” He grabbed at his stomach, feigning intestinal distress.

Vaughan scratched at his cheek as Grey moved quickly towards the rungway. “Hey,” he said, pointing the opposite direction down the corridor, “the nearest head is back that way.”

Grey halted centimeters from the rungway, flustered. He looked back at Vaughan. “Uh, I’ve got somethin’ to do on Deck C afterwards so I’m gonna use one of the ‘eads down there.” Grey scrambled into the rungway before Vaughan could say another word and scurried down the ladder, his head slipping below the deck.

After exiting the rungway Grey walked briskly for fifteen meters down the empty corridor. Few members of the Avenger’s crew had any reason to venture onto Deck C, most of its space consumed by cargo holds, the shuttle bay, the brig, and the ship’s gravity field generators. Grey paused at the entrance to Head C-22-M. The door slid open, and with a quick glance to his rear the lieutenant entered the room.

A lone figure, a tall man of considerable girth, stood in the center of the head. The feeble illumination from the struggling overhead light disc left most of his other features in shadow.

Grey’s tardiness hadn’t caused his associate to give up on their meeting but the lieutenant’s relief soon turned to revulsion as the stench of urine and feces filled his nose. The door slid shut, sealing the two inside the notorious aft men’s head on Deck C.

“What a crap-tacular place for a meeting,” said Grey, quickly cupping his hand to his nose and mouth.

“You’re cracking jokes, but I’m the one who’s been waiting here for ten minutes,” said Commander Samuel Lynch, the man in the center of the room. He had accentuated his point by jabbing his thumb into his chest. “Where’ve you been?”

“Me?” The question took Grey aback, an assault on his integrity. “I did my best to get ‘ere on time but I got stuck talking to Lieutenant Vaughan. I couldn’t bloody well tell ‘im I was late for a meeting in the ‘ead.”

Lynch lumbered out of the shadows, a tall, round man, formed of both muscle and fat. His uniform jacket struggled to enclose his wide shoulders and barrel chest, and the fabric did its best to cover the spare tires circling his waist. He had thick arms and legs, and in spots his body seemed on the verge of erupting through his uniform. He pushed past Grey on his way to the door.

“I pulled myself away as fast as I could …,” said Grey, his voice trailing off at seeing the big man headed for the exit. Sure Lynch was irritated at waiting so long, but they were finally both together. Storming out at that point seemed extreme. Scheduling the meeting in the first place had been difficult to manage without drawing suspicion. With Grey in communications and Lynch in engineering the two had no work-related reason to congregate, nor had they spent any time together socially. Setting up a new meeting would likely prove quite difficult.

Lynch dug into his pants pocket as he approached the door and removed a black, puck-shaped device. It was flat on both sides and small enough to fit in his large palm. He held the device near the door’s frame at chest level, inching it closer until it flew out of his hand and attached itself to the bulkhead. Three seconds later a green light appeared in its center. “There,” he said, “that’ll stop anyone from coming in until we’re done meeting.”

Grey’s anxiety subsided as Lynch waddled back towards him. “Only the most desperate man’s gonna come in ‘ere anyway,” Grey scoffed.

“Well we don’t want anyone coming in here while we’re talking, desperate or not,” said Lynch.

Uncupping his hand from his nose and mouth, Grey waved it back and forth in front of his face. “The ventilation never works is why it always stinks to ‘igh ‘eaven. Do the maintenance bots even make it down ‘ere?”

“No one likes coming in here,” said Lynch, “not even the bots. And heads are one of the few places on this ship without Securcams. That makes this a good place for a meeting.”

Grey gave up fanning the air and returned his cupped hand to his nose and mouth. “I managed a word with my two mates, Zhang and Knox,” he said, his voice muffled.

“How well do you know these men?” asked Lynch, his beady eyes staring back at his shorter compatriot from beneath a thick brow ridge.

“These are two of my mates,” Grey reiterated. “We play poker together every couple of weeks, goin’ back three years. I spoke to them about what you and I discussed. It wasn’t easy sneaking a word, by the way—Zhang has a new ensign he’s training who seemed to always be underfoot. Anyways, both Zhang and Knox are in. Neither’s interested in setting events in motion, but both’re game for ‘elping out afterwards. They’d like to get in on the ground floor of any new regime, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s good news,” said Lynch, “but you told them any … changing of the guard would be a last resort?”

“Yes,” said Grey. “They get the goal is to stop this ship from reachin’ Sag A Star, and that it could ‘appen a couple different ways. They understand there’s no guarantee we’ll get as far as the m-word.”

Mutiny.

Lynch reflected on how quickly they’d gotten to such an idea even crossing their minds. The two men had connected by chance, stepping into the same pneumatic cab the day word of the new orders raced through the ship. Grey had bid him a good afternoon.

“There’s nothing good about it,” said Lynch.

Grey snarled. “You can say that again. ‘Ere we are been working our arses off on this fuck of a ship when some admiral in his cushy office decides to send us to die ‘round some goddamned black ‘ole.”

Lynch didn’t respond to the reckless talk. He remained motionless except for his eyes which instinctively rolled up towards the cab’s Securcam.

Grey followed Lynch’s upward glance. He glowered for a moment at the small black disc in the center of the ceiling, then dropped his head. “They’s movin’ pieces ‘round a board,” said Grey in low tones. “That’s all it is. Like it was all some game or somethin’.” He offered an additional unintelligible observation as the doors opened and shuffled out of the cab.

The day after their encounter in the P-cab they came into contact again, at a promotion party in the main mess hall for Ensign Mercer. Lynch, making an appearance not for the celebration but in search of cake, spotted Grey standing mostly alone at the back of the room. The big man waded his bulk through the sea of people and positioned himself next to Grey as Commander Stephens launched into an impromptu roast of the soon-to-be-lieutenant.

“Yesterday you had a few choice words about our current mission,” said Lynch. He avoided looking at Grey, staring straight ahead as he spoke. The loud PA system and sporadic laughs masked his comment from everyone else nearby.

“That’s right,” said Grey under his breath. He too kept his gaze trained on the front of the room. “Am I in trouble?”

“No, not at all,” said Lynch with a slight chuckle. “What if I told you I have a plan that can get us, the ship, out of this mess?”

“I’d say I’d be interested to ‘ear more ‘bout it,” said Grey. “What’s the short of it?”

At the front of the room Stephens insisted Mercer rise from his chair and recount the story of his accidental ten minutes in command of the CCS San Ysidro, one of the largest warships in the fleet.

“It starts with something simple,” said Lynch, “a scheme to derail the new orders. If that works, the plan stops there.”

Gasps and laughter filled the room as Mercer described going from a guaranteed courts martial to being decorated by the admiralty for his bravery and calm under intense pressure.

“If that doesn’t work, the second phase involves actions of much higher consequence.” He needed to be careful with his next words. He didn’t know Grey at all and was relying on his gut in trusting the man not to turn him in, especially for what he was about to say. “You might imagine those actions leaving us in need of a new captain.”

At the front of the room Stephens wrapped up his remarks and handed the floor to Holbrook who stepped to the podium and launched into a short speech about Mercer. Ensign Mercer, standing nearby and facing the crowd, blushed slightly as the captain praised his performance over the past year.

Twenty seconds had passed and still Grey offered no response to Lynch’s last comment. Had Grey heard him? He’d heard everything else. Grey certainly heard him speaking, certainly would’ve asked him to repeat it if he couldn’t make out the words. Lynch’s stomach sank—he’d made a huge mistake mentioning his plan.

The room erupted in applause.

The sudden rush of sound jolted Lynch out of his thoughts. At the front of the mess hall Holbrook pinned lieutenant’s bars on Mercer’s uniform collar.

“Go on,” said Grey through the hoots and claps.

Lynch exhaled and wiped away the nervous beads of sweat that had spread across his upper lip. “About that second phase … if it happens, I can’t run a ship by myself. I would need some help.”

Lieutenant Mercer beamed at the front of the room to a fresh round of applause.

“You’re lookin’ fer people you can trust,” said Grey, “people who can ‘elp out in that situation.”

“Exactly,” said Lynch.

Grey thought for a moment. “Besides me, I know of two other chaps who’d prolly be interested.”

“Now it’s time for refreshments and promotion cake,” said Stephens. The crowd pressed towards the front of the room.

“Reach out to your friends,” said Lynch, “but remember to be discreet. I’ll be in touch to find out how it went.”

Standing there in the head, Lynch glared at his disheveled fellow colluder through the dim light. Grey stood average height, skinny, with salt and pepper hair, sunken cheeks, a stippling of gray stubble, and dark circles under his eyes. Drooped shoulders topped his lean frame. Lynch didn’t like Grey openly talking about mutiny, or the idea being anywhere in the front of his mind. One slip-up from him or his buddies would get them all thrown in the brig.

“I’ve got one more idea for someone else to join us,” said Grey. “Another of my mates. But this one’s delicate. I ‘ave to broach the topic carefully.”

“Five is a good number if you think he can be trusted,” said Lynch. “But let’s not invite any more than that.”

Grey folded his arms. “Now that I’ve come through on the muscle you’ll need —”

“If I need it.”

Grey huffed at Lynch cutting him off. “So far all you’ve done is talked generalities,” he said. “Now I want to ‘ear the details of your plan.”

Lynch didn’t care for Grey’s tone, but understood his interest. “The first part is simple,” he said. “I plan to tell the captain we can’t make it to Plana Petram in three weeks. With any luck that’ll be the end of it right there.” Four specks of lint stood out on Lynch’s left uniform sleeve. He pinched each one in turn between his pudgy fingers and lifted it away. When he finished he swept his round palm flat across the fabric, smoothing it over his bicep.

“Do you think he’ll buy it?”

“It’s certainly not a lie,” said Lynch. “Engaging the Gravity Drive for three weeks straight is risky business, even on a vessel a tenth as old as the Avenger. Holbrook may be a good little solider who likes to follow orders but he’s never been keen on putting his ship in danger.”

Grey tried a new tactic to avoid the room’s smell, inserting his index and middle fingers into his nostrils. “And if that doesn’t work, then in phase two —”

“I prefer to see how this first part plays out before diving into what comes after,” said Lynch. The commander wasn’t eager to think about the more aggressive portion of his plan, hoping the initial stage would suffice. Asking what would happen if the first effort failed felt like assuming the worst. “But don’t worry, I’ll brief you fully before we move into phase two. I’ll also need to brief your friends so they’re prepared.”

“But for what yer callin' phase two,” said Grey, pressing on, “seems like that means dumpin’ ‘olbrook, and prolly Stephens too —”

“Phase one alone could be enough to end Holbrook’s career.”

Grey scrunched his nose at the interruptions. “But in phase two, if you’ll let me finish, if we end up there and there’s no more ‘olbrook and no more Stephens, that’d mean you’d be the acting captain?”

“That’s correct,” said Lynch. “I should’ve had my own ship by now anyway.”

“You prolly would if you’d passed the captains test,” said Grey. “Scuttlebutt has it you failed twice.” A look of concern came over his face. “Could you actually captain this ship?”

The corners of Lynch’s mouth turned down. “I aced the technical portion of the exam both times,” he said. “It was the subjective parts they failed me on, where they presume to judge your temperament and leadership abilities. If you’ve got a bunch of senior officers who already don’t like you and want to destroy your career, that’s where they hold you down.”

“Uh, huh,” said Grey, pursing his lips sideways. The command aptitude portion of the Rank Advancement Exam: Captain, known as the “captains test,” was a crucial element of the assessment, more important than the knowledge-based sections. Anyone scoring poorly on command aptitude was not fit to captain a vessel. On the other hand, Lynch spoke the truth about senior officers not liking him. He’d made several significant enemies during his time in CentCom—that kind of information flowed quickly down the chain of command. “Well, making captain’s not the end all,” he offered, finally. “And besides, you ‘ave a pretty good gig already, department ‘ead aboard a starship.”

Lynch simmered. Not the end all? Choice words from an all but washed up officer. Grey, recently reaching forty-five, had long since been passed over for promotion. The more Lynch had learned about the lieutenant in recent days the less impressed he’d become of the man. Grey was no genius, though Lynch could say the same about half the officers aboard the Avenger. Luckily he wasn’t looking for geniuses—he just needed men smart enough to carry out orders without totally screwing them up. And to keep their mouths shut.

“And you’ve got that hot piece of tail Jiménez reporting to you,” said Grey. The lieutenant would celebrate his good fortune whenever he found himself walking behind Jiménez in the corridors. He would disregard his original destination and follow her around, eyes glued to her full hips and rear as he imagined slipping his hand between her legs from behind.

“Jiménez is a supreme pain in the ass,” said Lynch, disgusted. “She’s been here four months and already acts like she runs the place. She’d be more than happy to show you up in your job.” The ensign’s arrival had made Lynch’s work life much less enjoyable, no longer able to simply skate by. “If I could get rid of her I would gladly hand her to you.”

“I’d love to take ‘er,” said Grey under his breath.

Lynch checked his comm. “I need to get back to my post,” he said walking towards the stalls. He pulled one of the doors open and kicked the toilet handle, the bowl flushing as he backed out. He released the door and opened the one to the adjacent stall. “Hop in here,” he said to Grey.

Grey didn’t move.

“We don’t want the ship or anyone else seeing us come out of here at the same time,” said Lynch to Grey’s hesitation. “Get inside, wait a couple minutes, then flush and head out.”

Harboring a grim look, Grey meandered into the stall.

Lynch released the door and walked to the exit. He tugged the black puck from the door frame, then jammed the device into his pants pocket, tamping it down as best he could in the limited space.

The door to the men’s head opened. Lynch quickly peeked up and down the corridor before walking out into the passageway. He left Head C-22-M, whistling an old tune from his days at the Academy.

5

“My name is Commander Paul Stephens. I’m the executive officer on the Avenger.”

Commander Stephens stood in his crisp Service Khakis at the front of the small conference room, his legs comfortably apart and his hands clasped behind his back. He surveyed the three young faces staring back at him. The new officers arrived with strong letters of recommendation from their academy professors and advisors. All three were near the top of their class, all more than capable of fulfilling their initial duties aboard the ship. But they were green. Very green.

“Lieutenant Commander Phillips has given you a tour of the ship, shown you your quarters, and introduced you to your mentors. Your time with me will be a bit different. I’m going to administer something I call the S-A-T: the Stephens Aptitude Test.” He nodded to the center of the conference room table. “Each of you grab an e-sheet and a stylus.”

None of the new officers moved. They had expected a day of introductions and events and gentle acclimation to their new roles aboard the Avenger. They had not expected a test. Ensign Forster, familiar with the customs and traditions of military life through her grandfather who had also served, suspected the onset of a prank to initiate the newbs. She refused to be the first to fall for the trick.

Stephens gave no hint his request was anything but serious. He stood at ease at the front of the room, waiting for the young officers to comply with his instructions.

Ensign Jiménez moved first, reaching her hand into the center and pulling an e-sheet back across the table with a stylus riding atop it. Ensign Washburn followed, half-standing from his chair at the far end of the oblong table to stretch for the materials.

Ensign Forster remained resolute but with all eyes suddenly trained on her the room began to press in, and after a few seconds she found it difficult to breathe. She forced herself to move, lurching forward in her chair and reaching across the table to grab the last stylus and sheet. She dragged them slowly back towards her.

“This test consists of a single question,” said Stephens. “Once I ask it you’ll have ninety seconds to work out your answer and to write it down. At the end of that time we’ll go over what you’ve come up with.”

Ensign Forster’s hand rose, her arm a perfectly straight continuation of her rigid, upright posture. Based on her file Stephens pegged her as a high-performing Type A personality who likely excelled on exams through relentless preparation and innumerable hours of study. The announcement of a surprise test had probably rattled her, as an exam with no advance notice would leave her own performance too much to chance. “Yes, ensign,” said Stephens.

“What is the purpose of this test?” she asked, her voice laden with annoyance. “Sir,” she quickly added to soften her tone.

Stephens smiled. “The purpose of this test, ensign, is to assess your aptitude.”

Forster’s eyes went glassy as she processed his assumed earnest response. Once she fully grasped the depth of his non-answer she frowned and titled her head, and followed up with a question that got at the meat of her concern. “What will happen if we do poorly on this test?”

“Nothing will happen, ensign,” said Stephens. He gave them all a reassuring smile, the others likely sharing the same apprehension. “None of you need worry about this test. It’s something I give to all incoming officers, and your score is of no real consequence. It won’t appear on your record, and the results won’t be recorded anywhere except up here,” he said, tapping the side of his head.

Ensign Forster raised her hand a second time.

It was Stephens’s turn to be annoyed. “Let’s move on from questions,” he said, squinting at her. “As I mentioned, the results of this test won’t get saved anywhere or affect your record.”

“But we haven’t had any time to prepare,” said Forster. Though she presented an air of controlled calm the fingers of her left hand gripped her thigh, digging into the fabric and muscle.

“This is an impromptu test, ensign,” said Stephens. “It’s designed to assess your skills in the moment. It’s not meant to be prepared for.”

Ensign Forster moved to speak but Commander Stephens cut her off. “We’ve spent almost more time talking about the test than you’ll spend taking the goddamn thing,” he said. ”Let’s just get to it.” The ensign folded her arms and sat back in her chair with a sour look.

“Here’s the question. We’ve arrived at a star outpost with a supply of life-saving medicine. This medicine sits in crates in the cargo hold. These were some of the first crates we took onboard and as a result they’re currently difficult to get to, pinned behind stacks of other cargo.

“We have a one hour deadline to get all the medicine off the ship. Luckily the cargo bot says it’ll take exactly that long for it to get the medicine out of the hold and into the shuttles.

“The captain has invited the outpost’s two-star admiral to dinner. She arrives in an hour, and they’ll be dining in the captain’s mess. The captain always entertains superior officers using the ship’s fine china. The china is also in the cargo hold, and the cargo bot says getting it out will take thirty minutes beyond the time to get the medicine.

“I’ve assigned you the task of getting the medicine onto the shuttles before the deadline, and the task of retrieving the china in time for the captain’s dinner. What do you do?”

Ensign Forster immediately raised her hand. “Sir, may I ask a question?”

“No more questions, ensign,” said Stephens, “just start working out your answer.”

“But it’s a clarifying question, sir.”

“Then do your best without clarification.” Stephens tapped his comm. “The ninety seconds start now,” he said before Ensign Forster could protest.

Stephens sat on the end of the conference room table and observed the three young officers. Jiménez and Washburn, working through their solutions, shifted their gaze between the tabletop and the deck above. Ensign Forster sat stone faced, staring at the opposing bulkhead.

Stephens’s comm chimed. “Forty-five seconds,” he said.

Jiménez had started scribbling on her sheet prior to the chime. Washburn began writing, stopped to think, wrote again, paused, then wrote more. He finished first, followed shortly after by Jiménez. She laid her stylus down just before Stephens’s comm chimed a second time.

“Time’s up,” said the commander and stood from the table. “We’re going to go around the room and listen to everybody’s answer. Part of why I wanted you to write down your answers was to make sure you didn’t get inspired by someone else’s solution and incorporate it into your own. In that light, let’s begin with Ensign Forster, who has nothing on her sheet.” He stepped towards the ensign, stopping in front of her. “What’s your answer, ensign?”

Ensign Forester looked up at the commander. “I didn’t write anything, sir, because I had a clarifying question I needed answered before I could proceed.”

Stephens hid his irritation behind a smile. “What was your clarifying question, ensign?”

“Sir, the question you asked was about moving cargo but I’m a communications officer. I won’t be working in the cargo hold where I’m guessing these other two ensigns are assigned,” she said, waving a dismissive hand at Jiménez and Washburn while avoiding their eyes. “I tried bringing this to your attention so I could get a question appropriate for my actual role aboard the ship.” She punctuated her explanation with an expression that hinted at defiant smugness.

“Ensign,” said Stephens, “as the ship’s XO I’m aware of every crew member assignment on this ship. That goes for all the newbs too. You are in communications, Jiménez in engineering, Washburn in ship’s ops. Not one of you is a deck officer assigned to the cargo hold.”

Forster frowned again. “But why ask us a question that has no relation to what we’ll be doing aboard the ship?”

“Don’t be so sure you know exactly what you’ll be doing aboard this vessel, ensign.” Stunned, Ensign Forster could only gape as Stephens moved on. “Let’s hear from you,” he said, pointing at Ensign Washburn. “What’s your solution?”

“Well sir, the most important thing is getting the medicine to the star outpost. Given the cargo bot has no extra time for anything else, I would have it focus on completing that job.”

Stephens stared blankly at Washburn for several seconds. “What about the china for the dinner?” he asked in a soft voice.

Washburn gave Stephens a nervous smile, unsure if the commander genuinely wanted an answer. “It’s … it would still be in the cargo hold, sir. I guess I would explain to the admiral that our china was in storage and our cargo bot was too busy getting the medical supplies to the shuttles to retrieve it in time for the dinner.”

Stephens brows narrowed. “What makes you think you’d be anywhere near the admiral, or the dinner reception, to explain anything, ensign?”

Ensign Washburn’s smile faded. He went over the question again in his head. The part about the dinner had to be a trick. People would die if the medicine didn’t get off the ship. He’d chosen the only correct course of action, yet the commander seemed serious in his continued focus on the china.

“The captain would be the one hosting the admiral,” Stephens said, moving past Forster to stand closer to Washburn, “and he’d be pretty embarrassed by the less-than-stellar impression he’d be making with the banged up, everyday crew plates. I’d be at that dinner, and the second the admiral excused herself to the head the captain would pull me aside and ask what happened.” Stephens stopped in front of the ensign. He folded his arms and continued speaking in a soft voice. “So you’d be talking to me, Ensign Washburn, not the admiral. It’d be me shining my comm in your face in the middle of the night, tearing the blankets off of you all snuggled into your bunk. It’d be me asking you why the captain’s dinner got screwed up.”

“Well …,” Ensign Washburn stammered, “I guess I could let you know before the dinner, and you could tell the captain? Then he could explain to the admiral that the china’s in the cargo hold because we had to get the medicine out.”

“That, ensign, would be worse than the captain saying nothing at all.” Stephens walked back to the front of the room. “The admiral would leave here wondering just what kind of ship he was running.”

Ensign Washburn looked sideways at Stephens. “I don’t follow, sir.”

“Think of it this way, ensign,” said Stephens, pivoting at the front of the room to face the new officers and standing again at ease. “A starship captain’s job is to get things done. That’s why they give you a ship in the first place, because they expect any order they hand you will get carried out. You’re suggesting the captain tell the admiral there was something he needed from the cargo hold of his own ship but he wasn’t able to get it. If entertaining with the crew plates is a two on the humiliation scale, that statement would be a potentially career-killing eight.”

“But the cargo bot could only do one thing or the other in that hour,” said Washburn, still confused.

“That’s right,” said Stephens. He waited for a glimmer of understanding from the ensign but none came. “How ‘bout this,” he said. “What if I told you we need the medicine, but instead of china it’s a cache of weapons that we need to get out of the hold or we all die? What would you do then?”

Washburn thought a moment. “In that case I’d direct the cargo bot to retrieve the weapons.”

“And leave the medicine?” asked Stephens in an incredulous tone. “So all the sick people die?”

“We can only do one thing or the other.”

“We need to do both!” shouted Stephens, startling the three young officers.

Ensign Washburn froze, embarrassed and still puzzled at what the correct answer could be.

With a sigh, Stephens addressed the last new officer. “Ensign Jiménez, what’s your answer?”

Jiménez took a breath. “I also decided to tell the cargo bot to focus on getting the medicine to the shuttles.”

Stephens sighed again. He’d given some form of his test many times but few had passed. It wasn’t about rank—even senior officers transferring to the ship usually failed—it was all about common sense. So many intelligent people unable to solve simple, real world problems. “That doesn’t leave you any time to retrieve the china for the reception,” he said.

“It doesn’t leave the cargo bot any time,” Jiménez corrected. “Getting the medicine off the ship sounded super important, so I’d just let the bot handle that task. It wouldn’t really need any supervision while I worked on getting the china for the dinner.”

Stephens perked up, unsure he’d heard the ensign correctly. “Did you say you’d be working on getting the china?”

Jiménez didn’t respond immediately, worried she’d said something inappropriate. “Yes, sir.”

“How would you do that?”

“Without the cargo bot I’d have to rely on manpower,” said Jiménez. “I’d round up some antigrav grips and find as many people as I could to help me move crates out of the way to get to the china.”

“What if it’s your first day, like today?” Stephens asked. “What if you don’t know anybody?”

“I guess I’ll be making friends quick, then,” said Jiménez. “I’m sure I could find ten people to help dig through the cargo hold with me.”

“What if you couldn’t find anyone to help you?” he pressed.

Jiménez thought for a moment. “In that case I’d contact you right away and let you know I needed help getting the china out of the cargo hold because the bot didn’t have time to do it.”

Stephens’s tone turned skeptical. “You wouldn’t just pick one or the other, the medicine or the china, like Ensign Washburn here?” Washburn shuffled in his seat and looked glumly at the table. “Washburn saw that I left him in an impossible situation with the cargo bot. Why do you think I haven’t just left it to your discretion to complete the most important task?”

“Well, that assumes you knew the bot couldn’t get both things done,” said Jiménez. “Maybe you didn’t think the medicine and the china would take more than an hour to retrieve.”

A smile crept across Stephens’s face as he studied the young ensign. “Only a handful of people have ever answered the SAT correctly,” he said. “You are in rare company, Ensign Jiménez.”

“How is that a valid answer?” exclaimed Ensign Forster. “You didn’t say we could round up people to help us.”

“If I had given you that assignment in real life I wouldn’t have said it then either.”

“But how were we supposed to come up with this exact answer?” asked Forster.

“The other correct answers I’ve gotten over the years haven’t been exactly the same,” said Stephens. “It’s not the answer specifically but a workable solution to the problem.”

Ensign Washburn raised a limp, cupped hand halfway in the air. “A problem I have with the question, sir, is it’s so hypothetical,” he said. “What’s the point of working out a solution to a made-up situation?”

“It’s not made up at all!” shouted Stephens, causing Washburn to recoil. “The first day on my first ship assignment the XO told me to get medical supplies down to the star outpost I’d just come from and to get the china out of storage for the captain’s dinner with the two-star admiral in charge of the base.” Stephens shook his head. “I told him I was a new ensign in tactical and wouldn’t be working in the cargo hold. Commander Suttirat told me that didn’t matter. He said he needed someone to get that stuff out of the cargo hold and I was the person he chose, and if I didn’t like it he would shove my tactical ass out an airlock and let me float back down to the outpost. When I talked to the cargo bot it told me it didn’t have enough time to do both in the hour I was given.”

“What did you do?” asked Ensign Forster.

“I followed Ensign Washburn’s solution,” said Stephens. “Getting the medicine out was obviously more important than finding some china for a dinner. Luckily Commander Suttirat checked on me about twenty minutes before the admiral arrived. He had no idea both tasks couldn’t be done in time. The commander asked the captain to stall the admiral for fifteen minutes while he and I and four others tore through the cargo hold for the china.”

Stephens smiled at the young officers. “The important thing to take away from this exercise is to understand we’re in the business of getting things done. We can’t say we don’t work in the cargo hold, or that we had to choose one task over another. We’re expected to complete all the tasks we’re given, whatever they may be. Always.” Stephens checked his comm. “I believe you’re all due in the crew lounge on Deck B for the captain’s welcome reception. I’ll be there as well but I have to attend to a couple things first. Ensigns Forster and Washburn, you are dismissed.”

The two ensigns stood from the table and filed out of the room. Both snuck a glance at Jiménez before they left.

The doors closed leaving Stephens and Jiménez alone in the conference room. “That was impressive,” said Stephens. “Not many newbs have learned to think, much less feel they have the agency to do what they believe is right.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said sheepishly.

“I want you to keep up that kind of thinking, ensign. Question things if they don’t seem right. Explore unconventional solutions. If that ever gets you in a jam with a senior officer, come talk to me. I’ll take care of it.” Stephens checked his comm again. “Now I’ve got some tasks to attend to and you’ve got a party to get to. See you in a few minutes.”

“Yes sir,” said Jiménez, the young ensign standing as Commander Stephens dashed from the conference room.

6

Insubordination.

“Jiménez!” bellowed Commander Lynch. “Let’s go!”

“One second, sir.”

Lynch glanced at his comm. “We don’t have a second, ensign.”

Ensign Jiménez tapped frantically at her terminal.

“Holbrook has a thing about meetings starting on time,” said Lynch as he followed the young ensign’s darting fingers. “Do you even know where the Orion Conference Room is?”

“Yes I do, sir,” said Ensign Jiménez, responding without looking up from her terminal as she continued her feverish tapping. “I’m trying to set some simulations running before we leave. I’ll be able to check the results during the meeting.”

Insubordination, seethed Lynch. Most officers under him would trip over themselves to comply with any command he barked their way, but not Jiménez. No amount of yelling or threats seemed to faze her. “There’s no point to whatever stupid simulation you’re arranging,” he groused. The chief engineer moved his large frame into intention range of the exit, triggering the department doors open. “They’re just that: simulations. They don’t count for a crock of shit in the real world.”

Ensign Jiménez continued tapping at her terminal.

What the hell is she simulating anyway? Lynch had no idea, didn’t really care, and in any case had no time to ask. Besides, her answer was likely to set him off on a tirade that would redden his nose and cheeks, giving his face a clown-like appearance—not a good look just before stepping into a meeting with the entire senior staff.

Lynch opened his mouth to yell anew but caught himself before he made a sound. If he left Ensign Jiménez alone to continue her efforts she would surely arrive late to the captain’s weekly staff meeting, knocking her down a peg in Holbrook’s eyes. Paired with a reprimand for her pursuit of a side project while on duty, he might have enough to lay the groundwork for ousting her from the engineering department. Without another word the chief engineer slinked through the open door and whisked down the corridor.

Jiménez hated that Lynch was annoyed but was grateful for the quiet to finish bootstrapping her simulations. The ship had affirmed her memory of the Orion Conference Room’s location, directly beneath engineering on the next deck down. It had offered directions as well: proceed left from engineering for fifty meters; turn left again and walk another fifty meters to Pneumatic Cab Access A-8-23; ride a P-cab down to access point B-8-23; and retrace the hundred meters to the conference room’s door.

Although logical and straightforward, following the ship’s recommended route would make her woefully late for the meeting. Besides the time to walk 200 meters through the Avenger, waits for P-cabs ranged from thirty seconds to several minutes during peak demand, not to mention the cab travel time itself. With just over six minutes left before the meeting a late arrival was essentially guaranteed.

Jiménez continued to work, allowing another forty-five seconds before she’d force herself to leave. Despite the handful of minutes remaining she had no intention of arriving late. Rather than heading left to grab a P-cab she would exit right and jog thirty meters to Rungway 42-AC. Most rungways afforded access to each of the ship’s three decks but that one ran between the ship’s top and bottom decks, bypassing her destination. She would take Rungway 42-AC down to Deck C, dash left for three meters to Rungway 41-BC, clamber up to the middle deck, and backtrack the twenty-seven meters to the conference room. The 140 meter difference and zero time spent waiting for a P-cab would allow her to arrive in ninety seconds tops.

Her configurations finished, Jiménez set her simulations running. After arranging for their completion notifications to arrive silently at her comm she sprang from her chair and rushed out of engineering.

- - -

Lynch fumed as he approached the Orion Conference Room. Between the corridor foot traffic, the two-minute wait for a cab, and his cab’s meanderings through the ship, he was officially late. He pushed his body to keep up his modest pace. Every second counted when it came to Holbrook’s irritation level for tardy arrivals. He’d pin the blame on Jiménez, setting her up for a double dose of the captain’s ire whenever she finally did arrive.

The chief engineer trundled down the passageway, stood still before the conference room entrance until the doors opened, and walked in, slightly winded. He slipped into an empty chair not far from the doors. The captain, seated at the opposite end of the long conference table, continued his succession of general announcements including one about improper sleep cycles. Relieved at entering unnoticed, Lynch focused on moving himself closer to the table with successive scoots of his chair.

“Good of you to join us commander,” said Captain Holbrook. No heads turned, but all attention shifted to the chief engineer. A conversation with the captain was like a magnifying glass, focusing the entire room on a single person.

Lynch stopped mid-scoot, his right hand thrust between his legs, grasping the front of his chair. “Apologies for being late, captain,” he said slightly flustered, “but it was Ensign Jiménez who delayed me in engineering. I spent several minutes trying to convince her to leave so we’d arrive on time for your staff meeting. I finally gave up, but by then there wasn’t enough time left for me not to be late.”

“She was in engineering when you left her?” Holbrook asked, cocking his head slightly.

“Yes, sir,” said Lynch, offering a stern expression of concern that masked his glee at the chance to dig the ensign’s hole a little deeper. “I kept reminding her how much you hate late arrivals but she ignored me. She tapped away at her terminal the whole time I was standing there, even as I left. Whatever she was working on, it wasn’t any assignment I had given her.” The chief engineer shook his head slowly, reinforcing his disappointment with Jiménez’s behavior. “I expect she’ll be along any moment now.”

Holbrook’s brows lifted. “Indeed,” he said, eliciting chuckles from around the table.

With a sheepish grin Lynch joined the others in the jest, unsure of the joke but pleased at having made trouble for the ensign. He finished scooting his chair to the table and scanned the room. At the far end, two seats down on the captain’s right, sat Ensign Jiménez, her head lowered and eyes burrowed into the table. The chief engineer’s face puffed red.

“Now that we’re all here let’s get started,” said Holbrook. “The report from engineering will come last—Commander Lynch informed me he has a serious issue to discuss and I’m guessing it’ll consume the bulk of our time. We’ll begin with the medical department.”

Dr. Marsden tapped controls rendered beneath the table’s glass surface, summoning a holographic spreadsheet above the table’s center. “I have three crew members in Sickbay currently. One is recovering from alien food poisoning. One has a second degree radiation burn. He’ll be there for a few days for tissue regeneration and cancer cell flushing. The third is a broken arm which Dr. Sadler set two days ago, but the crewman returned this morning with a fever. We’re treating him for an infection.

“That’s the tally of physical ailments.” The doctor swiped in a new slide showing a much longer list of patients. “As for the crew’s mental health, in the past thirty-six hours we’ve seen thirteen cases of acute stress disorder, seven cases of depression, three panic attacks, and one case of hysteria.”

“Ensign Orr?” asked Stephens.

Lynch smirked. Orr is always overdramatic, working himself up about the smallest of things.

“Correct,” said Dr. Marsden. “We have him resting in his quarters.” She tapped the controls, closing her presentation. “That’s twenty-five cases of mental distress since word of our mission got out. I expect we’ll see a lot more of these during our trip.”

“Thank you doctor,” said Holbrook. “Communications.”

“Comms systems green,” said Lieutenant Bhat. The communications chief ran his hand through his cropped hair.

Flustered as usual. Lynch had witnessed the lieutenant’s nervous mannerism many times before, always struck by the vivid contrast between Bhat’s mostly gray strands and his medium-brown skin.

“There have been a number of security-related communications incidents,” continued Bhat, “but I defer to Lieutenant Byrne’s report for discussion.”

“Very well,” said Holbrook, “security.”

“Security status green,” said Lieutenant Byrne. The security chief’s freckles, dimples, and full lips gave him a boyish appearance. “No active security incidents to report. As Lieutenant Bhat mentioned, there were seventeen instances of mission details being discussed in private off-ship conversations and messages. The message scrubbers caught and blocked all leaked details, though we should consider locking down off-ship communications. A lot of people and alien governments would be interested to learn we’re traveling to the galactic center.”

“I recommend against it, captain,” said Dr. Marsden, her expression stern.

Disregard her opinion at your own peril. Lynch had tangled with the Avenger’s chief medical officer before. The doctor’s short stature belied her outsize presence, her viewpoints forcefully presented and remarks to the point.

“I’m no psychologist, but the crew is already taking this assignment hard. Preventing them—us—from communicating with their loved ones will only demoralize them further, and may solidify the perception that we’re actually on a suicide mission.”

“I agree with the doctor,” said Stephens. “I’d prefer we issue some warnings about not discussing mission-confidential details when speaking with people off-ship and see how we do.”

“Alright, then, let’s leave communications where they are for now. But we may revisit this decision should circumstances change.” The captain turned to Lieutenant Commander Martin Phillips. “Ops,” he said.

“Ship’s operations green,” said Phillips, “however I’d like to schedule some drills over the next few weeks to make sure we stay sharp on this trip.”

Readiness drills—a colossal waste of time. But he has to make it seem like he actually does something aboard this vessel.

“Agreed,” said Holbrook. For an instant Lynch thought the captain had agreed with his mental assessment of Phillips and the readiness drills. He nearly fell out of his chair. “Please coordinate the drills with Commander Stephens.” He continued with Ensign Jeremy Higgins. “Combat systems and tactical.”

“All weapons and targeting systems are green,” said Higgins.

“Science department,” said Holbrook.

“Science department green,” said Ensign Reilly.

“Nav —”

“Though I will say we’re not at all prepared for this mission,” interrupted Reilly.

Bravo—another joust with the captain. The young officer and youngest department head was not much older than most cadets fresh out of the Academy. In spite of her age Ensign Reilly was full of aplomb, and a brilliant scientist with advanced degrees in biology, chemistry, and physics. Her interjections never failed to catch the captain off guard.

“Please continue, ensign,” said Holbrook.

“Normally I’d have my team learning more about the planet or system we’re sailing to, researching physical conditions and life forms, but as long as we don’t know what our actual mission is the science department has no way to prepare for it.”

“Acknowledged ensign,” said Holbrook. “That information will be forthcoming.” The captain moved on. “Navigation.”

“Navigation systems green,” said Ensign Doerr. “I’ve spent some time with the ship refining our course to Plana Petram. I’ve computed a new trajectory that’s slightly less direct, but swings us closer to several massive stars on the topside of the galactic disc. It’ll give us enough of a boost in speed to shave a day off the trip.”

“A four percent reduction in total travel time?” Lynch grumbled from his end of the table. “That’s like trimming a few millimeters off those red bangs of yours and gushing about a new haircut.” Find something else to do, ensign, that isn’t speeding us to our graves.

“I agree it’s not much,” said Doerr, stammering after the pointed rebuke by a senior officer, “but … it is some savings. I figured getting th-there as fast as possible was worthwhile, even by a little bit.” The ensign sank into her chair.

“Some time savings, even if small, is a good thing,” said Stephens. “Thank you ensign for your efforts.”

Ensign Doerr nodded, staring with a glum look into the table.

“Helm.”

“Helm green sir,” said Lieutenant Commander Mills. “The ship is on track to reach Plana Petram in approximately nineteen days. Ensign Doerr mentioned her new course to me right before the meeting and I plan to lay it in after conferring with her.”

“Very good,” said Holbrook. The captain looked down the table to Commander Lynch. “Engineering.”

Finally. Lynch filled the room with a grandiose clearing of his throat. “Engineering condition red.” He paused, letting the words sink in, then sat forward in his chair and mashed at the tabletop’s virtual controls. After several corrections and restarts from fat fingering neighboring buttons a list of engineering systems, each one annotated with a green dot, emerged above the table. “The ship’s power plant is hovering at ninety-eight percent efficiency. The Gravity Drive is operational and performing as expected. Core ship systems are functioning within tolerances. Hull integrity and ship superstructure are both sound.” He clasped his hands on the table and sat quietly, almost beaming.

Holbrook waited, expecting Lynch to continue, but the commander remained silent. “You reported engineering condition red,” the captain eventually said, “but nothing of what I’ve heard so far sounds like a problem.”

“Yes sir,” said Lynch, appreciative of Holbrook leading him into the next part of his presentation, “the operational status of all engineering systems at this moment is green. It’s the future I’m concerned about.” Lynch swiped his holographic slide deck to a view of the Avenger’s underbelly with callouts to three large, glowing red discs nestled in the rounded vertices of the black, triangular warship. “The Gravity Drive consists of three gravity field generators that work in concert to create a bubble of warped spacetime around the ship. The exact shape of this warp bubble determines our direction and speed relative to the spacetime outside the bubble.”

His next slide contained a topside view of the triangular Avenger showing three overlapping toroidal spheres resembling transparent, electric red donuts centered at the field generators. “Here is a diagram of the warp fields produced by the three generators and how they overlap to form the ship’s warp bubble. Changing any one of the fields results in a different composite bubble and therefore different direction and speed. Travel to a specific destination requires balancing the three field generators to an exquisite degree. An imbalance of even one part in a trillion over time can drive us light years off in the wrong direction.”

“Everyone here knows the basics of gravitational propulsion,” said Stephens, his tone gruff. “Is there a reason for the refresher?”

Lynch gave Stephens a cold stare. There’s a reason behind everything I do, executive idiot. “With that background,” Lynch continued, still staring at Stephens as he drew out the last word, “I turn now to our current situation, a predicament directly related to our mission. First, we plan to engage the Gravity Drive non-stop for three weeks to reach Plana Petram, and then presumably for a subsequent two weeks of travel to the galactic core.” The commander swiped to a slide showing the exponential decline in engine efficiency with the decrease in matter density per cubic light year. “Second, more than half of that operating time will occur in a region of space where the matter density is much lower than the galactic planar mean, forcing the engines to work harder to generate a warp field.”

Commander Lynch ended his presentation with a flourished, bouncing tap on the tabletop that closed his slides. “The inefficiencies of operating in low-density space combined with the prolonged use of the Gravity Drive will put an enormous strain on the field generators, pushing them beyond their safe operational limits. Losing a generator would be a catastrophic event, destroying up to a third of the ship and killing an untold number of the crew.” Lynch had gestured with his hands during the presentation—he brought them to rest, clasped again on the table. “The Avenger is a Trident class starship, commissioned over thirty years ago. It could have easily operated within these mission parameters right out of dry dock, but not thirty years on, sixteen years since its last complete overhaul. It is my determination as this ship’s chief engineer that the Avenger cannot continue with its orders as currently executed.”

No one stirred after Lynch’s final word. The lieutenant commander basked in the consternation he had created.

“Cannot continue with our orders as currently executed?!” yelled Holbrook, causing those closest to him to jump in their seats. “What in Hades does that mean?”

Lynch kept calm in the face of the captain’s heated reproach, his plan proceeding as designed. “It means we cannot travel to Plana Petram within the three week timeframe you’ve set for us. By my calculations we will need at least twice that amount of time.”

Holbrook huffed, incredulous. “Six weeks to reach Plana Petram?”

“At least six weeks, captain,” said Lynch. “Even that pushes the limits of what I consider reasonable.”

“Why is this information only coming to me now?” asked Holbrook, the anger building in his voice.

Lynch deadpanned. “This is the first Captain’s Staff since we set course for Plana Petram. It’s the first chance we’ve had to discuss the matter.”

“But in the meantime we’ve informed CentCom of our three week ETA,” said Commander Stephens. “They’re expecting us to arrive in nineteen days.”

“Is that true?” asked Lynch. Please say those words again—I want to savor each one.

“Yes,” said Holbrook. “Commodore Ahrens will be at Plana Petram to brief us on the full mission details. He’s already en route in a sleeper, set to arrive about eighteen days from now. He can’t wake to find we’re only halfway there. And the mission itself, whatever it is, cannot absorb a three or four week delay. The urgency of the situation has been stressed to me several times. At this late date we can’t just tell CentCom sorry, we made a mistake, it’s going to take twice the time we said. We have to be at Plana Petram when we promised we would.”

We made a mistake? I didn’t promise three weeks. Pursing his thick lips Lynch nodded and said, “Thank you for explaining the situation, captain. I had not previously understood that CentCom was basing their timetables on our original projections. I see how six weeks of travel time is not an acceptable outcome.”

The captain’s entire frame had stiffened at the suggestion they push out their arrival date, a disaster of immense proportions. Holbrook visibly relaxed with Lynch’s response, likely believing his chief engineer was considering creative alternatives.

The corners of Lynch’s mouth curved upwards. “Unfortunately, I cannot change physics. The near certainty of catastrophic damage to this vessel is real. The Avenger will not survive the stresses of a forced three week journey to Plana Petram, and I will not be held responsible if you decide to try.” His eyes grew wide and lips almost pouty, reflecting the feigned heavy heart bringing him to his next words. “If CentCom is indeed counting on us arriving in nineteen days,” he said, holding the moment in the air, “then we must immediately inform them it simply won’t be possible, and petition for reassignment from this mission.”

An avalanche of anxious conversations flooded the room as Holbrook and Stephens sat with pained faces at the opposite end of the table, shellshocked by Lynch’s pronouncement. Petitioning for reassignment was an action reserved for only the most desperate circumstances. Short of a medical or equipment emergency it typically mandated the loss of command for the vessel’s captain.

Lynch stifled a grin as he eased back in his chair. He grew excited at the prospect of torpedoing Holbrook’s career, the Avenger’s smug and pompous star captain, and possibly even Stephens’s as well. When they came for Holbrook the crew would line the corridors of the Avenger—Lynch himself standing outside the doors to engineering—as the military guards escorted the disgraced captain to the shuttle bay, a last march through his soon-to-be former ship —

“I think there’s a way.”

Lynch chuckled at the words, believing them the product of some comedic portion of his mind. He stopped when the room grew hushed.

“What was that ensign?” asked Holbrook.

“I think there’s a way,” said Ensign Jiménez. “To get to Plana Petram in nineteen days. Or nearly nineteen.”

Lynch studied Jiménez from his end of the table. He had no idea what kind of stunt she was pulling but granted that the ensign was sharp, not to be underestimated. He needed to head her off before she could speak another word. “Ensign Jiménez,” he said in a calm, patronizing voice, “this is a meeting of the ship’s department heads. Your attendance here is solely to assist me, the engineering chief, in presenting information to the captain and the rest of his senior staff. It is not to ask questions or to offer your own opinions.”

“I’m sure the ensign knows her role in this meeting,” said Commander Stephens. “What she has to say must be significant for her to break protocol.”

I hope to God my plan takes you down with Holbrook, you condescending prick.

“Ensign Jiménez,” said Holbrook, “what were you starting to say?”

Lynch bore down on the young officer from across the table with an expression that conveyed the volcanic anger she would unleash should she say anything further. She paused a moment before replying to Holbrook. “It’s nothing sir,” she said. “Commander Lynch is right—it’s not my place to speak in this meeting. I should first discuss my findings with him to get his opinion.”

Findings? Everything came to Lynch in a rush: the special side project, the simulations, the scramble to assemble results for the meeting. Jiménez was also aware of the infeasibility of a three week trip to Plana Petram, but instead of allowing that fact to simply and elegantly disqualify them from the mission she had been researching ways to surmount it!

“What findings, ensign?” asked Stephens.

Reviewing the ensign’s data before she described any of it would be Lynch’s only hope of defeating whatever idea she had come up with.

“I’ve been running some simulations of a technique to reduce the strain on the Gravity Drive —”

“Captain, I need to vet the ensign’s findings before they’re presented in this meeting,” interrupted Lynch. “I am responsible for all recommended or suggested courses of action, no matter how improbable, that come out of engineering. While I was aware of Ensign Jiménez’s attempt to find solutions to our quandary, I did not have sufficient time before this meeting to review her methodology or her data. Once we adjourn I will confer with the ensign and if warranted have her —”

“What were your findings, ensign?” the captain asked.

“Sir,” said Jiménez. She glanced at Lynch one more time before forging ahead. “Commander Lynch is correct that traveling for so long in low mass density space will place a big strain on the engines. The problem comes from maintaining a near-constant field strength for three weeks so I wondered, what if we could somehow let the engines rest a bit during the journey.” She tapped the controls on the tabletop in front of her, summoning a slide with columns of numbers. “I designed a simulation of the Avenger traveling to Plana Petram where we vary the amount of time we keep the Gravity Drive engaged. This is the data from twenty different runs of the simulation.”

Holbrook blinked at the sprawling matrix of numbers. “Can you walk us through what we’re looking at here?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” said Jiménez with quaking hands, her first time speaking up in a Captain’s Staff. “Each row is a day of travel time, and each number is the estimated system integrity level at the end of that day. This first column shows what happens if we continue as we are now, keeping the warp field strength constant for the next nineteen days. You can see how starting at day ten the numbers turn from yellow to orange and eventually fall into the red. This is the situation Commander Lynch has raised.

“The other columns contain data for different engine duty cycles. For example, the fourth column shows a ninety-five five duty cycle—the engines engaged for fifty-seven seconds out of every minute. Even with that slight change all the system integrity levels stay out of the red.”

“You’re talking about pulsing the Gravity Drive,” said Stephens.

“That’s essentially the idea,” she said.

“Interesting,” said Stephens. “Am I right in reading the final column to say at a fifty-fifty duty cycle system integrity remains green for the entire trip, but it’ll take us twice as long to get there?”

“That’s right, sir,” said Jiménez. “That’s the tradeoff with giving the field generators more and more time to rest—they do less work, so the ship doesn’t move as fast. This is essentially the same as Commander Lynch’s request to take six weeks to reach Plana Petram.”

“It seems like the eighty-seven thirteen run is the most promising,” said Holbrook.

“Yes sir. By engaging the engines for fifty-two seconds out of every minute we can reduce the strain on the Gravity Drive and stay out of the yellow except at the very end, and increase our travel time by only two-and-a-half days.”

“Just one-and-a-half with Ensign Doerr’s route optimizations,” said Stephens.

“This seems promising,” said Holbrook as he reviewed the numbers. “Commander Lynch, what’s your opinion?”

Concealing his rage as best he could, Lynch spoke in measured tones. “As I said earlier, I have had no time, captain, to review these numbers or Ensign Jiménez’s simulation for correctness. So it would be —”

“I understand that, commander,” said Holbrook. “I’m asking if the ensign’s idea seems sound, if her conclusion seems plausible.”

How best to respond while salvaging his plan? If he said her idea couldn’t work, any review by the ship’s computer would expose that as a lie. Yet confirming her approach meant keeping their assignment and flying to their deaths at the galactic core. “It seems reasonable that changing the duty cycle would reduce the strain on the Gravity Drive, and in fact I had planned to investigate that option myself,” he said, his speech still measured and rigid. “However, while the pulsing, as you put it Commander Stephens, will lighten the load on the field generators, it will more than double, maybe even triple, our energy consumption compared to keeping the field generators fully energized.”

“Will we run out of power?” asked Stephens.

“Err … no,” said Lynch, “but consuming that much energy is obscene. Each time we disengage the field generators we’ll turn around and power them right back up again.”

“Obscene,” said Stephens, “but not otherwise a problem?”

As much as Lynch wanted to portray energy consumption as an issue, the Avenger’s power plant could easily drive a hundred such trips. “That is correct,” said Lynch. He reached for any other possible complication. “Though the varying field strength will increase the stresses on the gravitational waveguides.”

“What’s the worst-case outcome of that?” asked Holbrook.

“Nothing as bad as losing a field generator,” Lynch conceded, “but if we lose a waveguide we won’t be able to sail. We’ll be immobile until another CentCom vessel can help us with repairs or a tow.”

Holbrook rubbed his chin. “What’s your opinion, commander?” addressing his executive officer.

“This plan seems to give us the best chance of carrying out our orders,” said Stephens. “At least we won’t have to ask CentCom to take us off the mission.”

“If a waveguide fails just before we reach Plana Petram,” said Lynch, “that will turn into a three-week setback for CentCom because they’ll be forced to send a new ship.”

“True,” said Holbrook, “but that seems like a much more manageable risk than our present situation.” He turned to Jiménez. “Good work, ensign.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said with a sheepish smile.

“I want Commander Lynch to review your simulation and then the two of you to work on implementing this new plan,” said the captain. “It’s now your top priority. Keep me apprised of your progress.”

“Yes sir,” said Jiménez.

“Yes, sir,” said Commander Lynch. He briefly locked eyes with Jiménez. You’ve caused me to lose this battle, but the war is not over. I promise you will pay for sinking my plan.

“Thank you everyone,” said Holbrook as he stood from the table.

The captain and the other officers filed out of the room. Just before exiting, Lynch caught Stephens lean in close to Jiménez as he passed her on his way to the door. “Nice work,” he said.

Jiménez emerged last from the conference room with a smile that disappeared once she discovered Lynch waiting for her, his large hands jammed into his pockets. She walked over to him and the two headed together down the passageway, side-by-side, with the chief engineer’s bulk consuming most of the space between them.

Lynch spoke under his breath to Jiménez. “If you ever talk out of turn again,” he said, “I will wrap my hands around your neck and strangle you until you are dead.”

Jiménez could only nod. Her body began to shake.

7

Holbrook sat on the deck in his quarters, legs sprawled, back slumped against the bulkhead. His right hand held a glass, once tall with whiskey. His left hand batted drool from his chin. Tonight’s bender wasn’t the worst he’d ever had, but it was the worst in a long time. He dubbed it a “two” on the nullihol pill scale. If summoned for an emergency he’d need that many pills to wick the alcohol from his system.

Holbrook shifted his weight, making himself more comfortable on the hard deck. From his mind’s eye he looked down on his laid out body, judging.

What would dad say?

He rolled his eyes at the thought. Dad wouldn’t say anything. He’s dead. Been dead a long time.

Holding the glass to the light, Holbrook studied the remaining few centimeters of amber liquid. He took a drink, keeping the liquor in his mouth, letting it burn the insides of his cheeks. He released it in a trickle, a trail of fire down his throat.

Captain Holbrook hoisted the glass to his lips, took in the last of the whiskey, and let his arm fall to his side. The glass escaped his hand, bouncing once on the deck before rolling away.

He hadn’t thought about his dad in awhile. Captain Thomas Holbrook the second died when Holbrook was eight years, two months. Almost thirty years later Holbrook could still picture him: big, strong, fearless, resolute, commanding attention and respect. The news of his dad’s death hit him hard—he cried for days and wouldn’t come out of his room. When he finally emerged he refused to leave the house. He finished the school year at home, his assignments and lessons transmitted to him.

The psychologists told Holbrook’s mom his anguish only partly explained his withdrawal. Fear, they said, played as large a role. Holbrook had always been a skittish child, afraid of random sounds and sudden movements. His dad had been the anchor that allowed him to function in the world, checking under his bed for monsters, lingering in his room until he fell asleep, investigating strange noises in the dead of night. One day, just before Holbrook’s sixth birthday, the vicious neighbor dog five doors away escaped its forcefield pen, raced out of its yard, and charged down the sidewalk toward him. His dad jumped in front of the animal without hesitation, taking a bite in the leg to protect his son. His dad’s strength and devotion fostered in the younger Holbrook an unconscious sense of comfort, one that extended across the light years and between his dad’s long stints away from home.

His dad’s death unmoored him.

Without his dad, Thomas and the rest of his family found themselves alone in a perilous world. The monsters were real. They weren’t under the bed—they fell out of the sky.

The Regenitors and their spider drop-ships burrowing like ticks kilometers into the earth’s crust.

The Skaxx drones piercing the global defense grid and raining fire across several continents.

The Thetan rampage.

He’d forgotten the Thetan rampage, repressed it. The events came flooding back. Holbrook tried to shake the thoughts from his head but his half-conscious mind pushed on, dredging his memory. He breathed fast and shallow, on the verge of hyperventilating. Black spots filled his vision. The world went dark ….

Thomas Holbrook III sat in the dark, clutching his baby brother Timmy in the far corner of the basement. His arms and legs shook not from cold but from fear. Footsteps plodded overhead, nails and floorboards squealing under tremendous weight. Muffled screams and weapons fire drifted down through closed hopper windows.

Thomas sobbed softy. He breathed fast and shallow, on the verge of hyperventilating.

“Focus on your breath,” his mom shouted in a whisper from her hiding place across the room. “Your breath.”

Slow, deliberate breaths calm the body and the mind, she’d told him more than once. Thomas focused on his breath, reigning it in, deepening it. He drew the cool basement air into his lungs, much cooler than the air upstairs. The day had been hot for early fall.

“Thomas, did you open the upstairs windows?” his mom had called from the kitchen doorway.

Thomas walked in from the den, his vid on pause. He stood before her in a t-shirt and shorts, both garments struggling to cover his nine-year-old body on the brink of a growth spurt that would add nearly a meter to his frame. “Most of them,” he said. “I opened the ones in my bedroom and the ones in yours.”

“Did you open the ones in dad’s office?” she asked.

A repurposed third bedroom, his dad’s office sat across from the room he shared with Timmy. He made a point of skipping that room. “Why do I have to be the one to open them?” he asked, bunching his fists.

“Your brother can’t do it, Thomas,” said his mom, “he’s not tall enough to reach. And I have to start taking up dinner.”

Thomas made no motion to comply.

“I need you to be a big boy and open those windows,” she said, notching up the sternness in her voice.

“I just don’t like going in there,” he mustered, still not moving. “To see all dad’s stuff, everything in the same place … it just reminds me he’s never coming back.”

His mom walked to him and crouched to his height. Her hazel eyes flashed a mix of his pain and some of her own. “How ’bout this,” she said, “if you open the windows for me I’ll take care of closing them later this evening, before we head to bed. Deal?”

He didn’t want to go in there at all, but one trip into that room was better than two. “Deal,” Thomas said, sullen as he accepted the best arrangement he would get. He turned slowly and wandered up the stairs, head hunched, taking his time with each step.

“Hurry back down,” she said, “it’s almost dinner. And after you’ll need to take out the trash. It’s nearly overflowing.”

Thomas didn’t talk much at dinner despite his mom’s attempts to draw him out. His little brother, oblivious as usual, babbled on about some new dinosaur he discovered during holo-adventure time in school.

Warm, rotting trash greeted Thomas’s nostrils when he swung open the small cabinet door next to the sink. He tugged at the garbage can, sliding it out on its platform, and looped his hand through the liner’s drawstrings. Thomas hoisted the plastic bag out and set it on the kitchen floor. Freed from the confines of its container the white, overfull bag pancaked across the black and white tiles.

Thomas lifted the overloaded trash bag wth both hands and backed into the screen door, nudging it open with his rear. He scurried around the house to a large black garbage bin, flipped open its lid, and tossed the bag inside.

“Shit,” he said, bemoaning the patches of nighttime sky visible through the crisscrossed branches overhead. Thomas planned to survey the planets during the final moments of twilight, when they dangled like shining pearls against the starless blue black evening sky. He’d forgotten all about them.

He bounded into his front yard and up the steps to the porch, spun around, and fixed his gaze upwards. The old trees in his neighborhood obscured large swaths of sky, but from this vantage point the heavens appeared through a ragged, round gap in the canopy.

Thomas ran through his progression, starting with the planets. Venus, Mars, and Jupiter hung in conjunction directly above him. Two degrees south the white supergiant Deneb burned its nuclear fire. His finger traced a line from Deneb through the yellow supergiant Sadr to Albireo, then a new, perpendicular line from Delta Cygni, through Sadr again, to Epsilon Cygni. Together the five stars formed the Northern Cross, the backbone of the constellation Cygnus. His dad had taught him how to find the asterism. He’d taken up tracing its shape as a way to remember him.

A shooting star peeled across the jagged circle of sky. And a second. “No way,” Thomas said in amazement. The odds of witnessing a shooting star at the exact time of its fiery transit were improbably small. The odds of seeing a second —

A third shooting star streaked across the sky, then a forth, and a fifth.

He turned back to the house. “Mom,” he yelled, “you’ll never believe this!”

The house lights went dark.

Not just the lights in his house, but next door in Mr. Huntsel’s house, and at the Dylan’s place across the street. And not just the lights in the houses but all the streetdiscs too. Shrouded in darkness, Thomas looked at his comm, or at least where his comm should have been with his left forearm raised in front of his body. Its face had also gone black. No amount of tapping brought it back to life.

Thomas looked up again. Thousands of stars twinkled in the unobscured patch of sky where there had only been a handful before. The power has to be out across the entire prefect. His astronomy text had described how urban light pollution overwhelmed all but the brightest stars. Now even the faintest were visible.

The shooting stars came faster, ten more before Thomas gave up counting. Some moved in straight lines, others raced across the sky only to stop abruptly and turn at sharp angles.

Thomas froze in the engulfing darkness. He wanted to run but his legs wouldn’t budge. Discordant sounds began to displace the silence that had filled the neighborhood. Several large booms rang out in the distance. Footsteps clattered beyond the front hedge. A mother called for her child. Somebody screamed. He trembled so badly his teeth chattered.

“Thomas.”

The voice came from his rear, an urgent whisper. He turned. His mom stood inside the house behind the screen door, her face awash in glowing green light.

“Come inside,” she said in an urgent whisper, “hurry.” He walked the remaining distance to the front screen door and pulled it open. “Don’t let it slam,” she said.

Thomas entered the house and eased the screen door against its frame. He reached for the front door to close it.

“Leave it,” his mom whispered. “We’ve got to get to the basement.” In one hand his mom held a chemical light stick from the emergency stash she kept under the sink. In her other she gripped his little brother’s wrist.

“What’s going on mom?” Thomas asked.

“Shh,” she said. “I’ll explain once we’re down there.” She led the boys quickly through the front room, the light stick painting the walls and furniture in luminescent green. They rounded a corner and stopped before a small door under the main staircase.

“Go on,” she said, opening the door. “Take your brother’s hand.” She held the light stick above them as Thomas grabbed his little brother. The green light batted the darkness from the first few steps of staircase before yielding to the basement’s black void below. “Head down there, I’ll be right behind you. Please hold onto the railing.”

Thomas nodded and took a timid step onto the stairs. He reached for the railing as the green light disappeared. “Mom!” he yelled, “bring back the light!”

His mom’s green face reappeared in the doorway. “We can’t take the light down there,” she said. “They might see it.”

“Who —”

“You have to head down there without a light,” said his mom. “Hold the railing and test each step with your foot. And move slowly. Remember, you’ve got your brother and he can’t see either.” His mom’s green face disappeared again, leaving the two boys standing alone in the dark.

Thomas worked his way down the stairs at a slow pace, counting each step before blindly testing it with his foot. He gently pulled his brother along. Timmy, normally jumpy and noisy, remained quiet. Their clasped palms grew clammy.

At step eight the basement door creaked open. It shut with a click.

Thomas glanced over his shoulder but there was only darkness behind him. “Mom, is that you?” he asked in a loud whisper.

Footsteps rattled the treads to his rear.

“Mom!” he whisper-shouted, his terror growing.

The footsteps drew closer.

Thomas wanted to bound down the stairs, putting distance between whatever was approaching from behind but moving that fast in the dark would be foolish. He picked up the pace as best he could.

A hand landed on his right shoulder.

Thomas flinched and jumped, and let out a stifled wail.

“It’s me,” said his mom, gently squeezing his shoulder. “Keep going.“

Thomas, relieved but heart pounding, inched with his brother down the stairs.

Step thirteen didn’t thump like the others. It had a solid feel, and a wider surface. He’d reached the basement’s cement floor. Thomas took two steps forward, pulling his brother to make space for his mom to come the rest of the way off the stairs.

His mom’s hand still on his shoulder, she spun him around and leaned down to him. Their noses almost touched in the darkness. “Thomas,” she said, “take your brother to the far corner of the basement. Follow the wall under the stairs to where it turns, then head all the way to the end.”

“But mom ….” Thomas fell silent as cold metal brushed against his arm. “Is that dad’s gun?”

His mom hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “I have his shotgun and some plasma shells.”

Thomas was stunned. His mom complained about guns in the house on many occasions, one point of friction with his dad but a concession she made in her marriage to a soldier. She was a nonviolent person who held nothing but patience and compassion in her heart. Whenever they found so much as a spider in the house she would trap it and release it back outside. He could never imagine her wielding a gun or leveling it to shoot anything living. “What’s going on mom?” he pleaded. “You promised you’d tell me once we got down here.”

His mom hesitated again. “I don’t know for sure, Thomas,” she said, “I’m just being extra cautious. But something like this happened recently in a city in France.”

“Something like what?” he asked.

“There’s a race of aliens called the Thetans,” she said. “They deployed an energy dampening field … it’s like an invisible blanket over the city that disabled all the electronics—computers, lights, everything. Then they came down in their ships. All of this might be a blackout, but none of the electronics work.”

Thomas unconsciously tapped at his comm. The screen still didn’t respond.

His mom lifted her hand from his shoulder and gently cupped his cheek in her palm. “If it is the Thetans, we need to hide and stay quiet. They might come in the house. The Thetans don’t take prisoners.”

They don’t take prisoners. He and his brother used that phrase once while playing space pirates. His mom asked if he knew what it meant—he was shocked when she told him. “Timmy and me are nice pirates,” he insisted. They didn’t kill people, they just looked for gold and rare earths. He never used that phrase again.

“Take your brother Timmy to the far corner and don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”

“Where will you be?” asked Thomas.

“There’s a stack of large boxes a few feet straight ahead. I’ll be behind them. If anything that isn’t human comes down the stairs I’m gonna blast it with the shotgun.” She kissed Thomas on the forehead and found Timmy for a hug. “Now go, and be as quiet as you can.”

Thomas took his brother as he felt his way along the basement wall, walking under the stairs and turning left when he hit the corner. He moved along the next wall to the end, pressed his back into the corner, and slid down until his rear end landed on the floor. He pulled Timmy to sit between his legs and wrapped his arms around his little brother.

“Remember Timmy,” Thomas said, “we have to be quiet. We can’t make a sound.” The instructions were more for himself than for his little brother, who hadn’t made a noise the entire time. Thomas began shaking. He fought to stop it.

In the blackness without a working comm Thomas quickly lost track of time. The initial burst of adrenaline subsided, he nodded off to sleep in the monotony of the dark, quiet basement.

A muffled blaster discharge jolted him awake. Or something like a blaster. It had the normal throb of blaster fire, but also a high-pitched whine. Whatever it was, the sound came from the street, in front of their house.

How long had he been asleep? Minutes? Hours? He had no idea.

A muffled scream and a second discharge reached his ears, this time both louder, closer, accompanied by a lightning flash through the hopper windows.

A person … an alien … someone is in the yard.

A loud crash upstairs. Silence. A thud. Then another thud. And another.

Footsteps.

Someone or something had entered the house. Thomas looked towards the ceiling, followed the intruder as he moved across the living room. Joists and floorboards groaned with each leaden step.

It’s far too heavy to be a person.

The plodding footsteps rounded a corner. A loud creak came from the top of the stairs.

They’re outside the basement door!

Thomas’s heart pounded into this throat, and he had trouble breathing. He plunged into a panic, his body shaking uncontrollably. He fought to stifle a sob.

The doorknob jiggled.

Thomas waited for the creak of the door opening.

Another jiggle.

What’s it waiting for?? Just get it over with!

A weighty step landed on the floor above, shaking the ceiling. Another step. And another. And one more. The intruder was on the move, heading away from the basement door along the path it took through the living room….

A horn blared.

The all-clear signal jolted Thomas, his brother, and his mom awake. They had slept the entire night and most of the morning in the basement. By time they crawled up the stairs and spilled from the house out into the front yard the sun sat at its mid-morning spot in the sky.

“Stay back,” said his mom. Thomas waited, holding hands with his brother as the two boys stood in the grass. They were safe. CentCom personnel roamed the streets, even through their house. Thomas ignored his mom’s admonition, walking to the property line with his brother in tow, to the row of Azalea bushes that separated their yard from the sidewalk. Timmy was too short to see above the bushes but Thomas had no trouble peering into the street.

Bodies littered the black asphalt. Most were human, neighbors. Some bodies seemed OK, unmoving but without visible signs of trauma. Others were torn apart, rib cages wrenched open, limbs missing. In the street not too far from where Thomas stood with his brother a dead Thetan laid on its back in a pool of red-black blood, glaring at the hazy blue sky through its bulbous, smoky black helmet. It was humanoid, but much larger than a person. And blubbery, the product of a world with half Earth’s gravity. The skin of the Thetan’s black environment suit rippled over rolls of fat, like a walrus in a wetsuit. Thomas couldn’t help but stare, black death from the sky rotting in the bright morning sun.

He overheard his mom asking a solider about the alien. Their best guess for cause of death was either a weapon malfunction or friendly fire. They were puzzled why the other Thetans left the body behind. Perhaps lugging its dead weight back to their ship through full Earth gravity was more than they could manage.

Was that Thetan in our house last night? Thomas shuddered at the thought of confronting it in the dark. Why didn’t it come for us in the basement? Tears streamed down his face and he started to shake. He couldn’t control himself. They came close to dying last night. A strange turn of luck kept them alive. He wanted to run but he wasn’t sure there was anyplace safe to go. He grew short of breath as the full consequences of his dad’s death came into view. Without his dad, Thomas and his family were on their own, left to fend for themselves in a truly dangerous world.

Thomas cursed his dad. No father should leave his family, leave them alone in such a dangerous world, leave them to survive by luck. His dad went off in his starship but he didn’t think what would happen to his family if he never returned, didn’t worry what it would mean for them to be all alone —

Bzzzz.

Holbrook’s comm rousted him from his memories. He’d set a reminder to take some nullihol pills before falling asleep.

Too tired to move he ignored the alarm. He’d take the pills in the morning. It would just mean being a little bit later out of his quarters.

Holbrook lowered himself onto his side on the deck, placed his arm under his head, and sank into sleep.

8

“What do you mean that was my last drink?” asked the young woman from her barstool.

“Just what I said—that was your last drink for the night.” The bartender, a burly man with a balding crown, twisted a white dish towel into ever tighter knots. Irritation played across his chubby face. “You know they limit your tab to three drinks a day.”

The young woman tapped her comm. “I will point out, sir, the time is 12:07 a.m. A new day has begun, and with it a new tab.”

The bartender frowned at the young woman, his knuckles white from his grip. “Your residency contract covers up to three drinks a night,” he said. His voice shifted from gruff to saccharine sweet and a wide, feigned smile replaced his scowl. “But there’s no limit to how much you can drink in this bar, just on what’s already paid for.” The bartender grabbed a bottle of liquor from one of the lighted shelves behind him and wagged it gently in front of the woman. “I’d be happy to pour you a new drink, miss. Alls I need is another form of payment.”

The woman scoffed.

“Then that’s that,” he snapped, slamming the bottle back on the shelf. “Now if you’ll excuse me I have some paying customers to attend to.” The bartender whipped the dish towel over his shoulder and disappeared around the corner.

“There goes your tip, asshole,” the woman yelled after him. She squeezed her eyes shut and whimpered in frustration. Three drinks a night? The whole thing’s barbaric. Who are they to decide how many drinks I can have? Small teardrops emerged—she quickly pinched them away. They don’t own me, though they sure act like they do. It’s just part of their never-ending stream of controlling bullshit.

The woman swiveled left on her barstool and surveyed the faintly-lit space. The Andromeda Lounge was nearly empty, typical for such a late hour on a weeknight. Small booths with burgundy-colored upholstery lined the walls, the candle discs on their tables flickering apparitions onto the ceiling.

She swiveled right and discovered two men staring at her from the opposite end of the bar. One gave her a broad smile. She shot them both a dirty look and returned her attention to her glass, spying several small shards of ice swimming in the meager remnants of her drink. She jiggled the glass, placed it to her lips, and leaned her head far back to coax the final, watered-down drops of alcohol into her mouth.

“The next one’s on me,” said a loud voice in a slight German accent far too close to her right ear.

The woman glanced sideways—the two men from the other end of the bar had migrated to the barstools next to hers. The evening’s growing worse by the moment.

“What’ll it be?” asked the man who had smiled at her, encroaching on her personal space from the adjacent stool. He was middle-aged and skinny, with short, receding blond hair. A cropped, patchy beard concealed most of the cleft in his chin, and the man’s liquor-laden breath wafted across her face. His companion, also middle-aged and a bit dirtier blond, stood beside him with a smile, leaning against the bar.

“I’m calling it a night,” she said.

“Don’t be that way,” said the man. “We haven’t even been properly introduced. I’m Dr. Martin Freidrich, and my friend here is Dr. Rudolf Weiss.” Weiss’s hand lifted in a weak wave from the wrist. “And you are?”

“Thirsty,” said the woman.

Freidrich chuckled. “He has you on a tight leash.”

“Who does?”

“The guy who’s paying your bills,” said Freidrich, smiling. “Rudolf and I heard your exchange with the bartender. We have a little bet going on your story.”

“My story?” Pricks.

“Yes, your story,” said Freidrich. “You know, the reason a beautiful, young girl like you is here on a research station out in the literal middle of nowhere.” Freidrich cinched in closer as he spoke. “Rudolf here thinks you’re a researcher’s lonely, neglected young wife, forced to follow where his work takes him.”

“Is that so,” she said.

Weiss nodded with a toothy, intoxicated smile.

“My explanation is more charitable,” said Freidrich. “I don’t think you’re a married woman looking to pick up men in a bar.”

“How big of you,” said the woman. She scanned her glass again for any missed drops of alcohol.

“My guess is you’re an overworked research assistant to a crusty old physicist struggling through his mid-life crisis.”

Sexist pricks. Still staring into her glass the woman said, “Are you and Rudolf researchers, then?”

“Why yes,” said Freidrich with a wide grin, “Dr. Weiss and I are physicists, and we’re researching an incredibly exciting topic, but it’s very, very complicated.” His eyes sparkled as he grasped the back of her barstool with his left hand and stroked the mid portion of her bare back with his top two fingers. “If we’re successful, and I can objectively say we’re very close, they’ll award us the Nobel-Wasserman prize in Physics.”

“Oh that does sound very exciting,” she said in a sarcastic tone.

“It is,” he continued, nodding. “It’s perhaps best described as a grand theory of everything.”

“God, not more string theory bullshit,” said the woman. She closed her eyes and brought her fingers to the sides of her head, slowly massaging her temples.

Freidrich paused. His smile evaporated. “Maybe you are familiar with several of string theory’s challenges,” he said. “I agree it’s had its share of setbacks, but it’s hardly, as you say, bullshit.”

Deluded, sexist pricks. The woman swiveled on her barstool to face the two men. Her ice-blue eyes savaged them, gazing out from under close cropped dark bangs. She wore a short, dark, tight-fitting dress with thin straps that looped over her bare shoulders. The men’s attention fell to the exposed, rounded tops of her breasts, shifting unfettered beneath the dress’s sheer material. “I’ll at least give you both some credit for consistency,” she said. “The stories you made up about me are as ridiculous as your grand unified theory.”

Freidrich’s face quickly reddened. “Listen honey,” he said through clenched teeth and a forced smile, “if you think string theory is wrong it’s only because you don’t understand it.”

Patronizing, deluded, sexist pricks. The woman’s eye’s narrowed. “Either of my recent papers on entropic gravity should have been enough for all you zealots to toss your grand theory in the dumpster where it belongs,” she said. “Maybe you saw them in the Journal of Classical and Quantum Gravity?”

The two men blinked at her, their mouths agape.

“You string theorists always say, ‘By proving X we’ll finally demonstrate that string theory is correct,’ but when X turns out to be false you say, ‘proving Y will show that string theory is correct.’ And on and on it goes. That’s the problem with a theory that’s non-falsifiable.”

“I thought you looked familiar,” said Weiss, wagging his finger at her. “You’re Rebekah Riesen.”

“Dr. Rebekah Riesen,” she corrected.

“My God,” he said, placing his palm against his cheek. “Here, Martin, we’re dreaming of the Nobel-Wasserman prize in physics but she’s received it three times, twice before she was twenty-five.”

“That’s right,” Dr. Riesen growled, eyes smoldering on Freidrich. “And the reason I think string theory is wrong is because I do understand it.”

Freidrich’s gaping mouth snapped shut.

“Bartender!” shouted Dr. Riesen.

The bartender emerged from around the pillar, stopping in front of Dr. Riesen.

“I’ll have another,” she said, pointing to her empty glass. She tipped her head towards Freidrich. “He’s buying.”

- - -

Dr. Martin Freidrich’s hand moved along Dr. Riesen’s waist, sliding slowly across the fabric of her dress at the small of her back before slipping further down to caress her buttocks. Dr. Riesen ran her fingers through his hair while her other hand toyed with his waistband.

Freidrich pulled her closer. She enjoyed the firmness of his body pressing into hers.

He planted a kiss on her lips, then worked his way across her cheek to nibble her ear. “I know they say you’re a mistake,” he whispered, “but I don’t see how you could be any more perfect.”

Dr. Riesen reached behind her back, grabbed Freidrich’s wrist, and lifted his arm from around her body. She pushed him away and smiled. “I’ve got to get to bed,” she said.

“How ‘bout mine?” asked Freidrich. “I can tell Rudolph to go sleep in the lab.”

“Not tonight,” she said, shaking her head. She stepped backwards to stand within intention range of her apartment door.

“When, then?” he asked, taking a step toward her as the door slid open.

Dr. Riesen stood radiant in the corridor lights, framed by the dark foyer behind her: long, athletic legs flowing into wide hips; large, perfectly shaped breasts; pouty lips and ice blue eyes under a bob of black hair veiling alabaster skin. “I’ll message you,” she said, moving backwards into her apartment. She stopped a few paces inside.

Freidrich stood frozen, staring at her silhouetted form as she lingered in the twilight between the corridor and the apartment’s dark interior.

Dr. Riesen crossed her arms over her chest and grasped her dress straps. She drew the straps slowly down, peeling her dress away to fully expose her breasts. “You know you’re right,” she said, standing in the shadowed light of the doorway, “I’m not sure I could get more perfect.” Freidrich started forward as the door slid shut in front of him.

Engulfed in the blackness of her apartment Dr. Riesen returned her dress straps to her shoulders and stepped gingerly through the living room. She dodged the coffee table, finding her way to the couch where she dropped herself onto the pillows, breathed deep, and leaned her head back. She sat in the darkness, tears rolling down her cheeks from the corners of her closed eyes.

“Another challenging night?” said a man’s deep voice from across the room.

Dr. Riesen jumped. “God, don’t do that!” she said, snapping her head up. She quickly wiped away the tears with her hands.

“I’m sorry my child, I did not mean to frighten you.” A side table lamp came to life in the far corner, filling the space with a soft, warm glow, revealing a man sitting in a chair with wide cushioned armrests. He wore a hooded, crimson robe and crimson leather sandals. “Were you at the bar, or taking another walk?” he asked.

“I went to the bar tonight,” said Dr. Riesen.

“How was it?”

“Typical,” she said as she sat up straight on the couch. “They cut me off on drinks again.”

“You should be thankful The Brotherhood pays for any drinks at all,” said the man. “You know how we frown on alcohol. Besides, it’s never a solution to life’s problems.”

“I also ran into the typical bunch of idiots,” she said, fishing for sympathy. “Tonight they thought I was either a lowly research assistant or a physicist’s trophy wife.”

“Wasn’t that your objective?” asked the man. “Didn’t you present yourself in a way so they would assume you’re anything other than what you are?”

Her face still wet from tears, Dr. Riesen crossed her arms over her chest and gave the man an angry look. “And what am I, Rabbi?”

The man smiled. “You are many things,” he said, “starting with the most brilliant physicist alive.”

Dr. Riesen rolled her eyes.

“Was the man you were kissing in the hall one of the idiots?” he asked.

She shrugged. “What if he was?”

“You disrespect yourself by allowing a man you hold in such low regard to touch you as he did,” he said. “And you dishonor yourself by teasing him with your body.”

“That asshole got what he deserved,” she said. “But I think it’s your honor you’re worried about, not mine.” She cupped the undersides of her breasts and lifted, their smooth white tops erupting from her dress. “This is who I am. It’s not my fault all this makes you and the others so uncomfortable.”

The man blinked at her in the warm table light. “I have little desire or energy for verbal sparing at such a late hour Rebekah, but I think you know nothing you do dishonors me, for the way you act does not arise from anything I ever taught you. Your behavior is yours alone, as is the dishonor it brings.”

Dr. Riesen looked away, her gaze landing on the couch arm’s dark velvety upholstery. She ran her hand across the nap, smoothing it to fall in one direction. “What’re you doing up this late anyway?” she asked.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I figured I would wait up for your return.”

More tears welled. Dr. Riesen wiped them away with the back of her hand.

The man moved from his chair and sat next to Dr. Riesen on the couch. The crow’s feet at his temples accented his gentle smile, and his kind eyes peered at her though round glasses with thin rims. A smattering of gray patches dotted his dark brown, neatly cropped beard. He took her hands in his. “Have you reconsidered your decision?” he asked.

“I have not,” said Dr. Riesen. “If anything, I’m even more determined to go.”

The man sighed. “This choice will be much more destructive than the alcohol you consume every night,” he said. “And it still won’t be the answer to your problems.”

Tears ran down Dr. Riesen’s face. The man put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her gently. He gave her a kind smile. “Let me tell you a story.”

- - -

I rose at the God-forsaken fourth hour of the twenty-third day of the year 2302 A.D. Of course I know God forsakes nothing in His creation as everything manifests His perfect will, including 3 a.m. and all other moments in time. And of course I was no stranger to waking before dawn, as each day the entire Quad bustles with chores and chants before the stars have receded from the sky. Still, my faith struggled to find the divinity in flailing out of a deep sleep to quiet my bleating alarm, in scrambling to dress with my mind in a fog, in stumbling from my quarters to stand with a dozen men in the dead of night.

Once we assembled on the flat patch outside the Quad’s main gate the Admor raised his hand to settle us, shouted, “Yatsa!” and our party of Three, Seven, and Three lurched forward. Our destination: the Q’erh Radvid, a circular depression atop the tan-white Qumran cliffs that soared 400 meters before us, a massive glacier of stone towering in the blueish moonlight. A thin layer of dust floated at our feet as we shuffled along the soft dirt path that meanders a kilometer to the sheer cliffside. I caught myself sipping from my flask despite lack of thirst, and resolved not to exhaust my water supply on nerves. After a short time we reached the rugged cliff base, and found the tortoise-shaped stone that marks the start of the summit trail. Without a word or pause we took to the path.

Moreh Grünfeld and I walked behind the Admor who maintained an aggressive pace despite his 116 years. His staff struck the rock path with a steady beat, breaking the silence around us with a sharp thwack.

“Rabbi Lehr,” the Moreh said, clasping my shoulder as he took me aside at the previous night’s rehearsal, “during our travel to the summit you will find the Admor’s staff jarring, but in it you will also find comfort.”

“Were you a member of a prior Tchiyah ceremony?” I asked.

“Indeed,” the Moreh said through a wide smile, “the previous one.”

As the Moreh alluded I winced with each teeth-rattling crack of the Admor’s staff, but the steady hypnotic repetition drew my mind from the dull aches that grew in my knees and ankles.

The Admor, the Moreh to my left, and I formed the Tchiyah party’s forward Three. Behind us trudged the Seven coffin bearers: three rows of two monks walking abreast and a seventh in front to steer. Together they shouldered their load with huffs and grunts. The final Three, the ovum and sperm holders who also walked abreast, followed by the monk with the ceremonial womb, marched at the rear.

Most of our jagged pathway had been carved from the solid rock of the cliff face. The path ran wide in spots, but narrowed for long stretches. The grade remained steady throughout, not too steep or shallow. We encountered neither sand nor loose rock to challenge our footing, though our leather sandals sometimes slid where the stone had worn smooth. The landscape lacked life: no plants grew from the cliffside, no insects darted about, no animals rustled. This barren panorama provided little distraction from the black expanse just beyond the path’s ragged edge, a dark void waiting to swallow a careless hiker, to caress them in an onrush of air and blackness before they dashed to the ground below.

After marching for an hour the Admor slammed his staff into the stone path and cried, “'atsor!” signaling a ten minute rest. We stopped on a wide, flat overhang with ample space for the Seven to set down their heavy wooden load with its morbid contents. I had broken a sweat on our hike but did not overheat thanks to my robe’s chimney-like channelling of the cool night air. The coffin bearers hadn’t been as lucky. They tossed the wood bundles from their backs and let their robes fall away from their torsos—seven molting snakes shedding their crimson skins. They hunched forward with their hands on their knees as they heaved air into their lungs. At least their return trip would be easier.

I moved to the path’s edge and peered down to locate the trailhead. The moon had risen above the cliffs, leaving the alluvial plain in a darkness interrupted only by the yellow pinpricks of lantern light that winked from the Quad’s walkways far below. Further to the east shimmered the Dead Sea, a black mirror stretching to the eastern horizon.

I turned around to find the party had reassembled, and I sprinted to regain my place in the procession. The Admor, upon seeing all returned to their positions and the Seven again shouldering the coffin, shouted, “Yatsa!” He pounded his staff into the stone trail, spun on his heels, and resumed leading us in our march up the path.

The second half of our journey mirrored the first, with a pounding staff and an ominous darkness at path’s edge. The air grew cooler as our elevation increased, and winds jostled us at times with gusts of varied strength. Despite our ascent, we were not climbing to a destination high above the Earth’s surface. The Qumran cliffs form the leading edge of the African tectonic plate, marking the point where it drives the Arabian plate down into the fiery mantle. The Dead Sea and its environs sit on the Arabian side of this subduction zone, four hundred meters below sea level. We were not unlike creatures from the ocean’s depths on an arduous journey to the surface.

Another hour of travel brought sight of the trail’s end, and a squall so cold my ears and nose throbbed with pain. Moments later a stronger gust drove me into the Moreh, and the Tchiyah party had to stand its ground until the blast subsided. As we continued more gusts whipped around us and a steady wind grew until we could no longer make forward progress. The coffin bearers set down their parcel and we huddled against the cliffside. My teeth chattered as I pulled my robe tight and pinched closed the portion at my ankles. I donned my hood and gripped the rough rock face as best I could with frozen hands.

Sand welled from the ground below and rasped at exposed skin, striving to etch us from the cliff. We crouched and clung for ten minutes as the storm raged and showed no sign it would end. I looked eastward against the wind, making slits of my eyes. A few rumpled, gray clouds with orange bellies hung low as the horizon sprouted hints of soft blue. My concern grew—the Tchiyah ceremony had to begin the moment the first rays of light bolted from the sunrise. We could not turn back and attempt the next morning, for The Prophet’s spirit had already spent the past three days moving through the three bardos, the intermediate stages between death and rebirth. We had to move.

I spied the Admor nestled into the cliff face on my right. He looked skyward, but with eyes pinched shut and brow furrowed. His lips moved—I only made out fragments of his speech over the din of the wind. During a lull those loose sounds formed words from the Sheheḥeyanu blessing:

Blessed are You,

Lord our God,

King of the Universe,

Who has kept us alive, sustained us,

And enabled us to reach this season.

I too recited the blessing, followed by others, until the entire Tchiyah party shouted above the gale. I found myself crying, for if our prayers failed, 250 years of rebirths and revelations would end.

However that morning God heard our words and acted, for seconds later the winds slackened to a gentle breeze. No longer forced to shelter against the cliffside we stood and rejoiced with wide grins. Tears raced down my face, for God had shown His will indeed included The Prophet’s return.

As we stood beaming an anguished shriek tore through our celebration. I turned to find the Admor with a wild look on his face. He began screaming, a staccato of sounds made unintelligible by his distress, each syllable punctuated by spittle that flew from his lips. His eyes bulged as they followed the line of his raised left arm and forefinger aimed at the glowing eastern horizon. We had survived the wind but we had not yet reached the summit or prepared for the ceremony. We retook our positions without delay, the coffin bearers once again hoisted their morbid load, and we scrambled along the path’s final stretch.

The Admor, the Moreh, and I bounded up the trail, but when I glanced back I discovered the Seven thirty paces behind us. They moved as fast as they could but struggled under the coffin’s weight. I ran to them, lined up next to the lead coffin bearer, and lent my back to the effort. Even with eight men the casket bore down on my thin frame, taxing my muscles and sinews, but together we moved faster up the trail. I closed my eyes and focused on placing one foot in front of the other, trusting my workmates to keep us on the path.

Time raced or froze—I had no sense, only the focus to move the coffin up the trail. I was on the verge of collapsing when the word “‘atsor!” broke the silence and we stopped moving. I opened my eyes, surprised to find we had arrived at the summit. The eastern sky was brighter than moments ago, but the sun had still not risen.

The Seven and I moved with haste to the ash pit, a half-meter deep rectangular gouge with jagged edges and a rugged floor that suggested the work of chisels and pick axes. Despite its name the pit contained no ashes, the contents of the last Tchiyah ceremony having blown away decades ago. The eight of us centered the coffin into the pit.

The Seven unbundled their wood packs into the gap between the pit’s edges and the casket’s sides. As they worked, the lead coffin bearer swung open the lid and removed a large goatskin flask. Within the box a crimson-dyed burlap shroud traced the contours of a motionless head and torso. The lead bearer lowered the lid, pulled the cork from the flask, and doused the coffin and wood with accelerant.

Twelve of us took positions around the ash pit, forming a semi-circle that opened to the east. The Admor faced us from across the coffin, and we all stood motionless until the first ray of sunlight danced from the horizon. The Admor spoke:

“Tichyah. Rebirth. Today we observe the passing of The Prophet, not from this world to the next, but from the discarded body here before us to the new one we shall conceive. We are the joyful witnesses to his last moments in the world between worlds, and to the first moments of his next journey upon this Earth. We exult in excited anticipation of revelation.”

“Amen,” we all cried out.

As the Admor finished his remarks the lead coffin bearer walked to the casket. He reached into the front of his robe near his chest and withdrew a closed fist that pulsed with a gentle, red warmth. In a quick motion he flung the contents of his hand, three match beads, into the ash pit. Each glowing, milky-red pearl erupted in flame where it landed, and in seconds a conflagration engulfed the container. Gray smoke drifted high into the morning air, carried by a gentle breeze. Burning wood tinged my nostrils.

The trailing Three moved from their positions and presented themselves to the Admor. The monk with the womb, a shiny silver heart-shaped vessel about the size of a drumhead and several inches thick, held it outstretched from his body. Upon the Admor’s nod the ovum and sperm holders inserted their separate cryotubes, foot-long silver batons, into cavities along the womb’s top edge. As they stepped back the Admor bowed his head and pressed his hands together at his chest in prayer. We all followed suit, though I kept one eye fixed on the womb, waiting for the sign of conception. I stood breathless until the small green dot appeared at the container’s center.

The green dot also cued my part in the ceremony. I walked to the Admor who raised his head and lowered his hands and said, “Rabbi Lehr, do you swear to protect this Prophet child, to guard and defend no matter the cost, even to the forfeit of your own life?”

“I do,” I said, my voice gravelly. Though conceived only moments before, an enormous love rose within my heart for the new child, the next Prophet. Love, and a great pride in my selection above all others for the honor of Protector. I would be a father to this fatherless child, give all of myself and more, and never, ever, let harm come.

The following days dragged into weeks, and crawled into months. Each morning after reciting my prayers at the tiny wooden desk in my quarters I would add a new mark to the tally of days I kept on a special page in my journal. As spring became summer my despair over the remaining time turned to anticipation of the coming birth. I visited the gestational womb every day, bursting into the room to count the green dots arrayed in a spiral across its copper face. Each new glowing mote signaled the successful completion of another step in the fetus’s development.

At last the Birth Day arrived, just after Yom Kippur. Each moment lives with me still in vivid memory. I stared in awe as the baby’s crown bulged from the copper birth canal the Caretakers had attached to the womb that morning. The full head, shoulders, and torso emerged, the contraction protocol having entered its fastest and most forceful phase. Next came the belly, the umbilical, and gasps of shock and disbelief. A rabbi attendant offered the pithy observation, “This is the fuck up of all fuck ups.”

Two hours later Moreh Grünfeld and I stood outside the large wooden door to the Admor’s office. The Moreh carried a despondent look on his age-lined face. As Director of the Generational Program even a minor mishap meant major grief for him. When the newborn Prophet three generations prior emerged with an eye color closer to steel gray than the expected ice blue the program’s detractors hurled the barb, “Unreliable in small things, unreliable in big things,” a fair criticism, for if we could not guarantee a trait as basic as a man’s eye color what confidence could we assert in anything more significant. That day we fully confirmed their criticism.

Moreh Grünfeld twice struck the door’s massive driftwood planks with the tethered black iron ball knocker before pushing it open. The Admor’s assistant would have greeted us but had already left for the day. Cool air enveloped us as we entered the dark space, the antechamber to the main office. The Admor preferred a frigid workspace, and we shivered as we transited from the warm early evening air. Once inside the Moreh nudged the great door shut.

We walked the short distance to the main office door, dodging a desk and other furniture, gray lumps in the room’s dim light. The Moreh tapped with his knuckles, then nudged the door. Yellow-orange sunlight rushed from the breach, blinding us in the moment. The Moreh’s head disappeared into the crack and was met by a curt, “Come in.” He pushed the door open wide enough for us both to pass.

Fading golden sunlight filled the Admor’s office, streaming through tall panes of glass that stretched from floor to ceiling along the room’s entire western wall. The windows looked out onto a small garden of short trees and flower bushes, interspersed with a sandy path. Birds made their last stops of the day at several hanging feeders. Across from the garden rose the Quad’s stone block outer wall, and beyond it the white-tan cliffs.

Though immense, the room contained little furniture, just a simple wooden desk flanked by the Admor’s large leather chair and its two lesser, wooden counterparts. On the wall behind the Admor hung a fifteen foot tall oil on wood painting of the first man to hold his position, watching us with his fiery black eyes. This man of small stature possessed the courage and conviction to break from traditional Jewish teachings, basing the Brotherhood on the truths found in many different faiths. A cloister of Jewish monks was unheard of before him, much less one embracing the Buddhist belief in reincarnation.

The Admor trained his eyes on us as we approached. “Sit down,” he barked as he nodded at the chairs facing the desk. The Moreh took one while I remained standing to his side and slightly behind. The Admor’s command notwithstanding, protocol dictated I stay on my feet for sitting next to the Moreh would imply equivalent status. Our current predicament was more than enough grief for one day.

Deep, wide wrinkles crossed the Admor’s face like the grooves in bark on an old tree. Arteries bulged and pulsed beneath the papery skin at his temples. Fat eyebrows sat like caterpillars over sunken eyes as the Admor stared through thin-rimmed glasses at Moreh Grünfeld. The Moreh fixed his gaze on the Admor’s desk top.

“Have they determined the root cause?” the Admor asked, speaking in his typical low tone.

“As near as they can tell,” Moreh Grünfeld said, looking up as he fidgeted in his chair, “the error must have occurred sometime after the annealing phase that separates the male sperm from the female. We rechecked the photographs and genetic profile of each individual spermatozoon and confirmed the Tchiyah cohort contained no female sperm.” The Moreh paused as he shuffled in his seat. “However, they suspect a microscopic droplet of seminal fluid clinging to the outside of the pipet must have introduced female sperm into the transport cylinder.”

“So not only do we have a female Prophet,” the Admor said, his voice building to a low growl, “we don’t even have a record of the contributing spermatozoon’s genetic composition?”

“Correct,” the Moreh said in a quavering voice, “but we have sequenced the child’s DNA and reconstructed the spermatozoon’s profile. We have confirmed the child is genetically healthy and anomaly-free.”

“Except,” the Admor hissed, “the child is female instead of male.” The Admor spoke slowly and with emphasis, and the Moreh’s head sank lower after each word. “Why didn’t the genetic scanners flag this error at the start?”

“The scanners are designed to detect genetic sequence errors and anomalies,” said the Moreh. “A female embryo is technically not a genetic sequence error.”

“Error, mistake, call it what you will, but this is not the desired outcome in any sense,” the Admor said. “Why didn’t any of the subsequent generational stages catch it?”

The Moreh hesitated. “Your excellency, those systems were similarly restricted in scope. They assumed a male embryo in sym-utero, so none of the automated checks bothered to confirm the fetus’s sex. I have directed such testing be added at multiple stages, including conception, and future Tchiyah ceremonies will depart with secondary ova and spermatozoa cohorts as a backup for gender errors in the primary zygote. This mistake will not happen again.”

The Admor didn’t stir for several long seconds. “It seems we have a plan for the future,” he finally said. “Now what do we do about our current predicament?”

After a long pause the Moreh said, “The Prophet cannot be female. It is unfortunate but necessary to restart the generational process.”

The Admor pursed his lips. “Reluctantly I have reached the same conclusion,” he said.

“Perhaps a Hamatat Hessed ceremony,” said the Moreh. “This, after all, would be a mercy killing. And then we hold a new Tchiyah ceremony three days later.”

“We must not!” I shouted.

The Admor and Moreh looked at me in shock, as I had no permission or place in that meeting to speak.

“Killing is wrong,” I stammered. “Killing a child, an infant, to correct our so-called mistake is evil.”

“The Prophet must be male,” said the Admor in a lecturing tone. “This child, this female, should never have existed.”

“Who says she is not to be The Prophet?” I asked. “Who says our tradition of male Prophets is correct? Who is to say this female Prophet is not God’s will?”

Silence fell over the room. Finally the Admor spoke. “This issue is not up for debate,” he said. “We must trust in what we think is right. We are far along in the process of welcoming The Prophet back to this world, but not so far along we cannot fix this error. We must do this for the good of the program.”

I took a deep breath. The Admor and Moreh had so far been sympathetic to my point of view in that they had not immediately called the guards to drag me away to one of the contemplation cells below ground. I would likely find any further outburst met with a swift and harsh response. But after all my consultations with God since the birth of The Prophet I had steeled myself to my current course, had settled upon my next action before I walked into the Admor’s office. “The child has a name.”

The Moreh burst from his chair. “She cannot!” he yelled, his face contorted in anger.

“No, no, no, no, no!” shouted the Admor, each syllable louder than the last.

“The child has a name,” I said again, this time with more force, determined to see it through. “Her name is Rebekah.”

The Admor thrust his palms flat against his ears, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He began blubbering what may have started as a prayer but drifted to what sounded like the ramblings of an unhinged man.

“Blasphemy!” shouted the Moreh standing next to me. His eyes bulged, threatening to leap from their sockets. “You cannot give this child a name! This child cannot be the next Prophet!”

“Her name is Rebekah,” I repeated, my tone calm. Every muscle in my body tensed, and sweat beaded across my brow, but I stood fast in my resolve. I drew strength from the oath I swore nine months prior, to guard and defend that child no matter the cost, even to my life.

The Admor slowly lowered his hands from his ears. His bloodshot eyes looked past me, as if in a trance. “We cannot kill a child who has a name,” he said.

“We must!” yelled the Moreh, quickly cowering. Although he fully intended to kill a baby not even a day old he likely recoiled upon hearing his insistence they do so. He grew calmer, though his body shook with anger. “Your excellency,” he pleaded, “please let us fix this mistake.”

“We cannot kill a child who has a name,” the Admor said again, still looking past me, resignation in his voice. He stood and slowly raised his arms, turning his palms flat to face me. His eyes finally connected with mine, full of fire. I raised my arms and offered my palms in kind. He hissed the benediction that initiated the Protector’s service, “You, Rabbi Lehr, are the Protector. Raise this child, the next Prophet, and keep her from harm, so that God may reveal to us, through her, the inner workings of His holy Universe.”

- - -

Rabbi Lehr gently lowered Dr. Riesen’s head from his shoulder, moving slowly to avoid waking her. He reached into a box at the end of the couch and pulled out a blanket. He spread it over her arms and legs.

“We must trust in what we think is right,” whispered Rabbi Lehr, “and what can be more right than God’s will?” He caressed her head. “God chose for you to return to his Universe as a woman. That they cannot understand the wisdom of God’s decision does not make you a mistake. The mistake is their questioning of God’s will.” He caressed her head again. “I only wish you could believe that.”

9

“Welcome to Plana Petram Captain Holbrook, Commander Stephens.”

The greeting startled the two Avenger officers as they exited their shuttle’s airlock. An aught stood before them, two meters tall with white phlesh, short, dark hair, a slim pointed nose, and a wide, toothy smile. He wore a dark blue suit with narrow lapels, and his head jerked bird-like as his gaze shifted between the two officers.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Stephens huffed, shaking his head in disgust.

The aught blinked at the two men, its eyelids clicking softly. “Commodore Ahrens sent me to greet you upon your arrival and to escort you to the meeting room. I understand this is your first time at Plana Petram?”

Stephens glared at the aught, leaving Holbrook to nod in the affirmative for both of them. “We’re not in the habit of traveling this far from home,” he said.

“Well that affords me the pleasure of giving you a welcome tour of this research station while we walk. But first, let me introduce myself. My name is Magellan,” he said with a shallow bow, “as in Ferdinand Magellan, the sixteenth century Portuguese explorer, namesake of the Magellanic clouds. From our vantage point fifty-three thousand light years from Earth we have a spectacular view of those clouds and the sixty-seven other satellite galaxies this side of the galactic disc. This way gentlemen.” Magellan headed to the left down the corridor. The two Avenger officers followed, hanging back out of the aught’s earshot.

“Really?” whispered Stephens. “Ahrens sends an aught to meet us?”

“I’m sure there’s a good reason he couldn’t be here himself,” said Holbrook, his voice low.

“But this is official CentCom business,” said Stephens. “This thing has probably tipped off the entire Collective to our presence, maybe even to the mission, whatever the hell it is.”

Holbrook motioned Stephens to keep his voice down. “Most aughts aren’t part of The Collective,” he whispered. “Besides, this one’s intelligence level doesn’t seem to be very high. I doubt it can do much more than run errands.”

“All aughts are dangerous—you know that,” Stephens sneered, his voice rising. “They can’t be trusted, none of ‘em. I’d destroy ‘em all if I had the chance.”

Magellan spun around, facing the two men. The aught locked his eyes on Stephens, its lids clicking like camera shutters. The commander, startled, tensed his muscles as if readying himself for a fight.

Magellan smiled wide at Stephens. “The Plana Petram station came about as a fluke,” he said as he continued leading the men down the corridor, walking backwards in perfect step. “A survey probe venturing into this volume of intergalactic space chanced upon this capsule-shaped body, a 5.987 quadrillion kilogram class C asteroid the length of Manhattan, a strange find in a region where the space density averages only one hydrogen atom per cubic meter. The station consists of nine levels, eight of them subterranean. This top level hosts recreation space and dining facilities, while the others consist primarily of living quarters and research labs.”

The three arrived at the Grand Lounge, a cavernous circular room of couches and plush chairs. Snatches of light danced from sconces stationed like torches at two meter intervals along the curved outer wall. A breathtaking view of the Milky Way galaxy hovered above them, visible through the flat glassteel roof and providing the bulk of the illumination. Two automatons, also with white phlesh and dressed in dark blue suits, shuttled between guests and the bar across the room. Conversation filled the space.

“The Grand Lounge isn’t usually this busy,” said Magellan, raising his voice above the ambient noise, “but there are several conferences underway at the station, and it is happy hour.”

“I have a question,” Holbrook said.

“Of course Captain Holbrook, please interrupt me at any time,” said Magellan, beaming with a broad smile. “The same for you Commander Stephens.”

“Why in Hades would anyone build a station fifty thousand light years from Earth?” asked Holbrook.

“An excellent question,” said Magellan. “Plana Petram’s extreme distance from Earth and its position above the galactic disc places it far from most of the mass in the Milky Way but still within the relatively dense portion of the galaxy’s supposed dark matter halo, making it an ideal platform for investigating the nature of that substance.”

Stephens let out a loud, derisive laugh.

“What’s so funny?” asked Holbrook.

“Nothing’s funny, captain,” said Stephens. “This whole thing just keeps getting more ridiculous.” The captain stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate. “The only reason we’re out here, the only reason we had to spend three weeks traveling fifty thousand light years is because of a joke, because some old, dead physicists didn’t have their heads on straight.”

“I still don’t understand,” said Holbrook.

“Commander Stephens is referring to dark matter,” said Magellan, “a concept physicists dreamt up 400 years ago to explain why rotating galaxies don’t fling their constituent stars off into intergalactic space. Based on what they knew about gravity at the time they didn’t observe enough matter to keep a galaxy’s stars rotating around its core.”

“They called it dark matter because they couldn’t see it,” said Stephens, rolling his eyes. “Get it? Dark matter supposedly bound a galaxy through gravity on a large scale with invisible particles that somehow didn’t clump in the centers of stars or accumulate around planets as they swept through their orbits.”

“Discoveries at this station were instrumental in disproving the theory of dark matter,” said Magellan, “though it took another fifty years for the theory to be fully rejected.”

“As they say, cosmologists are often in error but never in doubt.”

The voice came from behind them. The three turned to find a young woman standing in a crimson jacket over a black shirt, with black slacks and crimson leather-strapped sandals. She had dark hair pulled back in a knob with bangs across her forehead. Her eyes were the lightest blue, the color of ice. “Sometimes it’s hard to wrap your head around what was accepted as legitimate science in those days,” she said.

“Ah, Dr. Riesen, very good,” said Magellan.

“Dr. Rebekah Riesen?” asked Stephens, his mouth falling open.

“Is there some other?” she asked.

“You know her?” asked Holbrook.

“Yes …, I mean no …, I mean we’ve never met, I just know who she is,” Stephens stammered.

The captain extended his hand past his stunned executive officer. “I’m Captain Holbrook of the CentCom starship Avenger. And this is Commander Stephens.” Stephens came to his senses long enough to offer his hand.

“Nice to meet you both,” said Dr. Riesen. Stephens could only sheepishly nod in acknowledgement.

“You must be some luminary to render my executive officer speechless,” said Holbrook.

“I’m just a physicist,” said Dr. Riesen.

“Dr. Rebekah Riesen is the preeminent physicist of our time,” said Magellan. “She has received three Nobel-Wassermans in Physics, five Gold Clusters for distinguished astrophysics research, the —”

“That’s enough Magellan,” said Dr. Riesen.

“She’s also The Prophet,” said Stephens.

“The Prophet?” said Holbrook. “Like in the Bible?”

“That’s a long story,” said Dr. Riesen, “one that we don’t really have time for right now.“ She turned to Magellan. “We should head to the meeting. We don’t want keep the commodore waiting.”

“Commodore Ahrens?” asked Holbrook, surprised. “You’re meeting with him too?”

“Indeed,” said Magellan. “And now that she is here we do not have to make a stop at her apartment to fetch her. Lady and gentlemen, please follow me.” The aught spun around abruptly and headed across the Grand Lounge. The three humans followed, with Dr. Riesen walking ahead of the two Avenger officers. The four bumped and pressed against the other station guests as they worked their way through the throng of people.

“Why would Rebekah Riesen be in our mission briefing?” Stephens asked Holbrook in a loud whisper just audible above the din.

“You said she’s The Prophet?” asked Holbrook.

“That’s what they call her,” said Stephens. “She’s part of some crazy sect back on Earth. They say she communes with God or something. A prophet relaying God’s secrets of the physical Universe.”

“You believe that?” asked Holbrook.

Stephens shrugged.

The humans followed Magellan to a set of three elevator doors at the far side of the room. When everyone arrived the aught pressed the call button to the middle elevator. The doors whisked open and the four stepped into the car, a spacious, round cabin with a bright interior. The door slid shut, creating a sudden pocket of quiet.

“Level six,” said Magellan.

After a short elevator ride the doors whisked open. The party of four emptied into a quiet, dimly lit corridor lined with sconces flicking light onto the walls and low ceiling. Magellan led the three humans past several closed doors to the last one on the right, five meters before the corridor’s abrupt end.

Magellan pressed the entry buzzer and waited. The door slid open, revealing a small room much brighter than the corridor, its walls lined with white tiluminum paneling. A rectangular table sat in the center with a smooth, glassy top, surrounded by eight chairs. A CentCom officer sat facing the door on the table’s far side, the ends of his uniform sleeves braided in gold commodore ribbons. He stood as the four entered the room.

“Captain Holbrook, Commander Stephens, Dr. Riesen,” said the CentCom officer in a deep, booming voice. He had a thick chocolate brown mustache flecked with gray, its bristles concealing the rim of his upper lip. Brown hair capped his head in a Roman military cut, with patches of gray at his temples. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, suspended over gaunt cheeks. The royal blue fabric of his uniform hung from his lean, two-meter frame.

A broad hand, its palm marred by an angry red scar, darted from the man’s right sleeve. “I’m Commodore Ahrens,” he said to the two military men as he reached across the table to shake their hands. “And good to see you again, doctor.”

“Commodore,” said Dr. Riesen, nodding slightly.

Ahrens’s dark eyes darted to Magellan. “That will be all.”

Magellan gave a wide smile. “It has been a pleasure Dr. Riesen, Captain Holbrook, Commander Stephens. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to improve your stay here on Plana Petram.” He leaned forward with a shallow bow and backed out of the room. The doors slid closed upon his exit.

“Take your seats,” said Commodore Ahrens, waving at the three empty chairs on the near side of the table while returning to his own. Captain Holbrook lowered himself into the middle one directly across from the commodore. Dr. Riesen took the chair to the captain’s left, Stephens the one to his right.

Holbrook forced a weak half-smile at Ahrens, who so far lived up to his reputation of having a no-nonsense style. When researching the man the most charitable comment Holbrook could find was he thankfully kept meetings short, sparing others from too much time in his presence. Would Ahrens show any concern for his vessel having drawn this assignment? The odds seemed against it—the commodore was seasoned career military, decorated on multiple occasions for his service which included two tours in the long-running Cygnus offensive. Still, Holbrook remained optimistic that Ahrens would be open to discussing possible alternatives to taking his ship so close to the galactic center. “How was your trip here, commodore?”

Ahrens’s dark eyes grabbed Holbrook, threatening to swallow him like two tiny black holes. “Irrelevant,” he said. “No one likes to travel by sleeper. Those God damn capsules are little more than a casket. It’s not a problem when you’re in transit but you feel like you’re suffocating during the awake periods at either end. I woke soon after I arrived but I had to wait almost two hours for them to open the God damn thing.

“But as I said all that’s irrelevant because I didn’t choose to come here, or want to come here, or even if I did want to travel over forty thousand light years to a station more remote than an Oort Cloud miner’s balls are from sunlight it doesn’t matter. The reason I’m here, like you Captain Holbrook, the reason we’re here is ‘cause of orders. We’re all just following orders.”

The door buzzed.

“Good,” said Ahrens, tapping the table’s surface. The doors opened, revealing a figure standing in the corridor’s gloom. “Come,” he said, beckoning with his hand. “Officers, Dr. Riesen, this is Tentek.”

Dr. Riesen, Holbrook, and Stephens each turned in their chairs enough to view the figure that had moved just inside the threshold. He was an aught two meters tall, skinny, with pasty white phlesh. He had a narrow face, almost as if it had been pressed flat from the sides, and cropped white hair sprouting from the crown of his head. His eyes were large white billiard balls that threatened to leap out of their sockets, with small nickel-colored irises and double-eyelids that softly click-clacked when they closed. His thin black lips cut a slit beneath the sharp point of his nose.

Stephens sprung from his seat and almost fell backwards over his chair. He fumbled past the captain and Dr. Riesen, nearly tripping over his feet as he backed deeper into the room. He stopped before reaching the far corner. Stephens quickly drew his electron pistol and aimed it at Tentek.

“Commander Stephens,” bellowed Ahrens as he exploded from his chair, “lower your weapon at once!”

“Sir,” said Stephens, his eyes wide and focused on Tentek, “this aught is from The Collective.” He studied Tentek, reassuring himself of his claim, then adjusted his grip on his pistol. “They have a very distinct design.”

“Yes, Tentek is from The Collective,” said Ahrens. “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I’m some God damned cadet with his head so far up his ass that I don’t know I’ve invited a Collective aught to this meeting? Do you think I’m that clueless and stupid, commander?”

Stephens remained frozen in place while Tentek stared back at the him, expressionless, his double eyelids click-clacking softly.

“Put your weapon down and return to your seat,” said Ahrens.

“But what’s an aught from The Collective doing here?” asked Stephens. He kept his electron pistol raised.

Ahrens leaned forward, supporting himself on splayed fingers as he pressed the tips into the tabletop. He spoke calmly, bathing the room in his rich voice. “Well supposing you follow my orders to lower your weapon and return to your seat instead of me relieving you of duty, putting you in restraints, and sending you in stasis to the detention planet, supposing you do what I just God damned ordered you to do and you remain in this meeting and sit there quietly without another impulsive outburst, supposing all of that happens just like I described commander, then you will find out why he’s here.”

“Paul,” said Holbrook, “please do as the commodore asked.”

Stephens gradually lowered his pistol but held it by his side rather than holster it. He made no motion to take his chair.

“Tentek, come take a seat,” said Commodore Ahrens pointing at the empty chair to his left. The aught headed towards the commodore as Stephens worked his way back to his own chair, the two synchronized in their travel around the table. They simultaneously lowered themselves into their seats and remained with their eyes fixed on each other, Commander Stephens glaring at the aught and Tentek’s face placid, offering no expression.

“I apologize for Commander Stephens’s … overreaction,” said Holbrook to Ahrens, “but I do share his concern. Aughts from The Collective are not allowed near CentCom operations of any sort, so I’m surprised to learn you invited him to this briefing about a mission I understand to be quite sensitive.”

Commodore Ahrens sat back down in his chair. “All will be revealed, captain,” he said, pulling the front of his uniform jacket taut, “all will be revealed.” He glanced at Stephens. “And if we’re finally finished with all the bullshit, we can get started.”

Stephens broke his gaze with Tentek and sank his eyes to the table.

“Good,” said Ahrens. “As you know, the spatial and gravitational distortion around Sagittarius A Star makes any travel within 200 light years of the galactic black hole perilous. No vessel or probe that has entered that deformed space has ever returned or been heard from again. At least that was true until three weeks ago, when a civilian research ship was confirmed to have journeyed to within one hundred astronomical units of Sag A Star.”

“Incredible,” said Dr. Riesen softly.

“Not only did they survive,” said Ahrens, “they navigated to a planet named Infernum located in the RD Sagittarii star system that sits twenty-three light years from the galactic center, within the D-space around Sag A Star.” The commodore tapped the table surface, summoning a large holographic image of a planet with violet oceans and gray land masses mottled with yellow splotches. “These photos are from the research vessel, the Adiona.” He swiped quickly through more images of planetary hemispheres to reach a set of photos taken from the ground. One showed an ashen landscape with yellow scrub brush framed by a ship’s viewport, another a white boot against gray soil. A shot appeared of nine people in a control room, most with their heads down at their consoles, the others looking at the camera with grim expressions.

“How did you get these photographs?” asked Dr. Riesen.

“It’s not uncommon for CentCom to have clandestine devices relaying intelligence from the field —”

“No, I mean how did you actually get them? It’s not possible to receive signals from within the distorted space around Sag A Star.”

“It’s not possible to receive direct signals,” said Ahrens. “This mission data was transmitted by a single-use, omnidirectional burst-mode broadcast device.”

Dr. Riesen’s eyelids flitted, the researcher falling into deep thought. “A data bomb,” she said.

“That’s essentially correct,” said Ahrens. “The device broadcasts a data payload in all directions by detonating a small nuclear charge encased in a tachyite shell.”

“But even tachyons with their faster-than-light speed are still affected by the warpage of D-space,” said Dr. Riesen.

“Most of the individual signals were lost, but a statistical few eventually reached our grid of listening posts. We didn’t receive everything the device transmitted but we did get nearly all the mission logs intact as well as many photos and most of the sensor data.”

The commodore swiped through photos of rocky landscapes, most featuring a soaring mountain range and jagged snowcapped peaks in the background. Ahrens overshot the photos he sought, swiping back to them. The first showed a gray plain of smooth rock stretching to a line of blue metallic trees in the distance, meeting more trees in a grove to the right. The second looked down on an enormous hexagonal-shaped basin. The third, taken from inside the basin, showed rough gray terrain littered with small rocks and several tall mounds of soil. To the right of the mounds sat two shorter silver domes.

Ahrens swiped forward to a photo where one of the silver domes filled the frame. The structure was large, about five meters tall based on the height of two research team members standing in front of it, one posing with his hand against the dome’s silvery metallic skin. “When our CentCom analysts got these photos, the first things that stood out were these silver objects.” He swiped ahead to a photo showing five regularly-spaced large semi-circular caverns in the basin’s sheer cliff wall. “They were also very interested in these openings,” he said, “or more precisely, mine entrances.”

“Did I notice the silver objects have straight lines along their bases?” asked Dr. Riesen. “Can you swipe back to the previous photo?”

Commodore Ahrens brought the previous dome photo into view.

“There,” she said, pointing near the bottom of the image, “the base is made up of three straight lines. It’s not rounded like the top part of the dome.”

“Very observant Dr. Riesen,” said Ahrens. “The silver domes have hexagonal bases. The best guess of our analysts is this structure was created by the Hex Men.”

“Who?” asked Stephens.

“‘Hex Men’ is a nickname for an extraterrestrial race that may or may not still exist,” said the commodore. “We call them the hex men because of their fondness for hexagons, a sort of calling card they’ve left wherever they’ve ventured. Their primary activity seems to have been the extraction of materials from celestial objects. We’ve seen evidence of their visits across many of the star systems we’ve explored. Our own solar system bears evidence of Hex Men activity, with several moons, including Earth’s, showing six-sided craters. They also engineered the hexagonal weather pattern at Saturn’s northern pole.”

“The hexagonal shapes seen in the craters you’re talking about happened through natural erosion processes,” said Stephens. “And the hexagon at the top of Saturn is a natural result of swirling winds.”

Ahrens pursed his lips.“You have a Masters degree in physics, is that right commander? I recall that from your file. You consider yourself a physicist?”

“Yes, and yes,” said Stephens.

“Well it’s funny,” said Ahrens. “I’m not a physicists at all, but the first time I read the theory of the hexagon on Saturn I saw right through that bullshit explanation. I mean what’s special in nature about the number six? The answer is, ‘nothing.’ There’s no weather pattern larger than the Earth itself making a series of perfectly-spaced sixty degree turns to meet back where it started, and even glow in the God damned dark. How could it?” The commodore shook his head. “Now it’s preferable the masses believe it’s natural, which is why you’ll find that explanation in every physics book out there. We don’t have all the answers on what the Hex Men were up to, or if they currently pose any threat to Earth. The thought is, and I don’t disagree, it’s better to push a phony story than to alarm the whole human race.”

“What is the hexagon in Saturn’s cloud tops then if it’s not natural?” asked Dr. Riesen.

“Probes flown into the region show each corner to be a tightly focused, almost pillar-like force structure radiating field lines to its neighbors. The pillars taken together are akin to sticking six poles in the ground and wrapping a fence around them. This hexagonal force field reduces the storm activity within its boundary.”

“What would be the point of such a structure?” asked Holbrook.

“Well assuming this was another mining operation,” said Ahrens, “the only substance worth going to that much trouble to acquire would be liquid metallic hydrogen.”

“Liquid metallic hydrogen takes extreme pressures to form,” said Stephens. “If you tried to collect some, wouldn’t it return to its normal gaseous state?”

“Liquid metallic hydrogen is meta-stable,” said Dr. Riesen. “It’s like crushing carbon into diamond—when you remove the pressure, the diamond doesn’t revert to its original carbon form.”

Holbrook stroked his chin. “If the Hex Men were miners, do we know what they were mining on Infernum?”

“That brings us to the reason for this mission,” said Commodore Ahrens. “Based on an analysis of the research ship’s logs, we believe the Hex Men were mining a substance called Planck Matter.”

Dr. Riesen’s eyes grew wide.

“What’s Planck Matter?” asked Stephens.

“It’s a theoretical material that has never been seen in nature or created in any lab,” said Dr. Riesen. “Black holes compress an immense amount of matter into a relatively small volume by distending spacetime into small pockets. These matter-filled clumps of distended spacetime are called Planck Matter. No larger than grains of sand, each one holds enormous amounts of material. A clump the size of your fist can hold the equivalent mass of a continent.”

“But nothing can escape a black hole,” said Stephens, “not even light. If this Planck Matter forms inside, how can anyone get ahold of it?“

“Planck Matter escapes through quantum tunneling,” said Dr. Riesen. She turned to the commodore. “But drifting all the way from Sag A Star to a planet twenty-three light years away seems incredibly improbable.”

“The RD Sagittarii star system contains a smaller black hole, in orbit around its massive star,” said Ahrens. “The Planck Matter likely escaped from that black hole and was deposited on the planet. And that brings us to the whys of Tentek’s presence here.” The commodore gestured to the aught who gave a slow nod to the others in the room. “He came to us with some important information that I will let him convey.”

The robot clasped his thin hands before him on the table. “The Collective intercepted the data blast,” said Tentek, his voice tinny and faintly metallic. “They reached the same conclusion about Planck Matter. They have outfitted a ship.”

“My God,” said Dr. Riesen.

“The aughts on that ship are tasked with collecting Planck Matter and returning it to The Collective,” said Tentek.

Dr. Riesen covered her mouth with her hand.

“What in Hades is the matter?!” asked Holbrook.

The physicist turned to Holbrook. “With even a palmful of Planck Matter and the proper detonator you could build an unthinkably large weapon.”

“How large?” asked Holbrook.

“Larger than the human race has ever built,” said Tentek. “The Collective wants Planck Matter for a weapon that could destroy the Earth. They see it as a sort of … insurance policy.”

“When Tentek learned of this plan he relayed it to us,” said Ahrens. “It’s the reason for this mission.”

“Wait a minute,” said Stephens, incredulous. “He just marched in and supposedly ratted out his machine buddies, and you all just believed him? Everyone knows aughts can’t be trusted, especially not one from The Collective.”

“We determined early on that The Collective decoded the tachyon blast,” said Ahrens. “Tentek came to us after that. We’ve separately confirmed an aught vessel left The Collective home world a day ago, on a course for the galactic center. They should reach Sag A Star in about eight days.” The commodore swiped the table viewscreen off and set his dark eyes on Captain Holbrook. “We can’t let the aughts obtain Planck Matter. We’re sending the Avenger to Sag A Star to stop them.”

“But commodore,” said Holbrook, confused, “it’ll take two weeks for us to reach Sag A Star. By then it’ll be too late to intercept the aught ship before it enters D-space. There have to be ships closer than ours.”

“Intercepting them before they enter D-space is not the objective,” said Ahrens. “We can’t engage the aughts in normal space—that would spark an interstellar incident. It would touch off a new war.”

“But they’re trying to build a weapon to destroy the Earth,” said Stephens.

“We know that,” said Ahrens, “but the aughts’ll deny it. They’ll claim any other reason for their trip to Sag A Star. We’d never be able to prove otherwise.”

“We have this aught here,” said Stephens, pointing at Tentek. “From what you’ve told us he apparently knows the whole plan. We could dismantle him and read it right from his bubble memory. That would be proof enough.”

“That’s a brilliant idea, Commander Stephens, just brilliant,” said Ahrens as he folded his arms, his voice full of sarcasm. “We blow the Collective ship out of the sky and present to them, as justification, the disassembled remains of one of their own.” Ahrens cold dark eyes bored into the commander who wilted slightly under their intensity. “I recommend you leave the strategic planning to people above your pay grade.” Stephens shifted uncomfortably in his chair, a sullen look on his face.

“As I was saying, we can’t intercept them before they enter the space around the galactic black hole. That’s why we’re counting on this mission to take place within D-space. No one on the outside will be able to see what happens. The aught ship will appear to be just another casualty of the hazardous region around Sag A Star.”

“But that will be the Avenger’s fate too,” murmured Holbrook, his eyes glazed and trained on the tabletop. He looked up, surprised by the sound of his own voice, his inner dialogue spoken aloud. “Sir, I understood we’d be traveling to the galactic center—not flying into D-space itself, but operating in the still dangerous area just outside of it. That was based on the orders from Admiral Miller.”

Ahrens wrinkled his nose as if offended by a smell that had suddenly entered the room. “I spoke with the admiral right before hopping into the sleeper. He told me he made his orders clear and to the point because of the gravity of what was being asked. Those orders said you would be going to the core. I don’t see how anyone can get any more clear or to the point than that.”

“I guess the captain didn’t believe it was CentCom’s custom to hand out death sentences,” said Stephens.

“It’s not,” Ahrens shot back, “but it is our custom to do whatever it takes to keep humanity safe.” He returned his attention to Holbrook. “It sounds like you opted not to take your orders at face value. Perhaps you wanted to believe they were something else. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all my years in CentCom it’s you should always assume the worst. That way you can never be disappointed.”

Holbrook sank into his chair and his head slowly drooped towards the tabletop. The world spun as the true reality of the situation came into sharp relief. They were going into D-space, not next to it. Directly to Sag A Star, exactly what he had refused to believe, exactly what Stephens had tried to tell him. A one-way mission with no way home.

The commodore’s eyes narrowed at the distraught captain slumping before him. “Thomas Holbrook the second, now he was quite an officer. Didn’t know him, of course—I was barely out of grade school when he died—but his devotion to duty speaks for itself. He was a soldier, the kind of soldier the Republic needs you to be right now.” Ahrens voice softened. “Are you a soldier, Captain Holbrook?”

Holbrook glared at Ahrens from beneath his brows. He wanted to reach out and grab the commodore’s neck.

“He is a soldier,” said Stephens. “One of the finest I’ve ever served with.”

“If you’re a soldier, like your father before you, like your XO here attests, then you know a soldier’s only job, his only job, is to carry out orders. That’s the way CentCom works. That’s the only way anything gets done. Carrying out orders doesn’t mean doing a bunch of thinking about what might come afterwards, like your grand imaginings of a hero’s welcome in your hometown and of banging all the girls who never gave you the time of day. That kind of thinking, that kind of preoccupation with something other than the task at hand, is all a distraction, and in this business distractions get you killed.

“Your orders, captain, are to stop those God damn aughts from getting even a milligram of Planck Matter. All that moping you’re doing right now, all that will disappear once you focus on those orders. Your mind will be too preoccupied with everything you need to do to see those orders through to success. How to prepare your ship, how to prepare your crew, what contingency plans might need developing. None of that kind of thinking will throw you down in the dumps. In that sense your orders are the key to your own happiness. They are the key to your salvation.”

Holbrook slowly lifted his head. Still glaring at the commodore he straightened himself in his chair. “You’re right, commodore, about why I’m upset,” he said. “It’s because I am focused on what comes after. I’m focused on the loss of my ship, the loss of my crew. The loss of my own life.”

“Irrelevant,” said Ahrens. “Your worries, fears, and concerns, all those things are irrelevant. Your orders are all that matter.”

Dr. Riesen placed a hand on Holbrook’s arm. “The researchers on the Adiona believed they found a way out of D-space,” she said. “The aughts think it’s possible too, which is why they sent a ship to bring Planck Matter back from the galactic center. It seems the odds are with us that we can get back. We just don’t know how to do it yet.”

Holbrook slowly looked towards Dr. Riesen. “We?”

“Dr. Riesen has volunteered to accompany you on this mission,” said Ahrens. “Or at least I assume that’s still the case. I hadn’t briefed her on more than the travel to and from the galactic core. Besides finding the answer she can provide her astrophysical expertise to assist you in preventing the aughts from acquiring Planck Matter.”

“Why would you sign on to a suicide mission?” Holbrook asked Dr. Riesen, his voice leaden.

Dr. Riesen squeezed the captain’s arm gently, meeting his despondence with a reassuring smile. “Because you need my help, captain.”

“You’ll also get Tentek’s help,” said the commodore. “He’ll be joining you on this mission.”

“Coming with us on the Avenger?” asked Stephens. “Never.”

“Tentek can provide invaluable insight into dealing with the aughts from The Collective,” said Ahrens.

“I doubt that very much,” said Stephens. “It certainly won’t be any insight we can trust. And when the other aughts see their long lost buddy Tentek they’re going to invite him over for drinks.”

“The aughts on the planet will not welcome me,” said Tentek. “They will know I am a traitor and will want to harm me. ”

“Pretending for a moment you’re not a double-agent, even if you’re captured you’ll have a lot to bargain with,” said Stephens. “As the first aught to travel aboard a CentCom warship in over a hundred years I bet they throw you a parade.”

Tentek remained expressionless. “Should I encounter my fellow aughts on the planet, I do not expect that reunion to go well. For this reason I have installed an electromagnetic pulse bomb in my abdominal cavity. If captured I will detonate that bomb and destroy all of my circuits. Not even my memory core will function.”

“Why wait?” asked Stephens. “I for one would like to see this so-called bomb of yours go off right now.”

“Commander!” said Holbrook.

“Sir,” said Stephens, “you don’t believe any of what this aught has told us here today, do you? It’s not feeding us secret intel from The Collective, it doesn’t have an EMP in its chest, and it’s not going to commit suicide the next time it sees its buddies.” Stephens addressed Tentek directly. “You haven’t fooled me, aught, with any of your words,” he snapped. “And as far as joining us on this mission, I can happily say the regs don’t allow you to set foot on our ship.”

“The exception’s already been approved,” said Ahrens.

Stunned, Commander Stephens struggled for a response as his mind filled with an image of the unthinkable: a Collective aught roaming the halls of his ship.

“The Joint Chiefs passed a resolution just for Tentek that overrides the general regulations against aughts on CentCom starships,” said Ahrens. “He will be accompanying you on this mission.”

“Like hell,” said Stephens under his breath.

“That’s an apt description of what your life will be like if your borderline insubordination continues,” said Ahrens.

Holbrook glared at Stephens, silently ordering his executive officer to stand down.

Stephens sulked. “I’ll talk to Lynch about rigging up a Faraday cage in the brig for our guest here,” he said.

“You just don’t get it, do you commander?” asked Ahrens. “You clearly have a burning hatred for aughts, that’s plain for everyone to see. However Tentek is on our side. An ally. And you’re to treat him with the same consideration and respect as you would any other guest aboard your ship. You will not lock him in the brig, and in fact you will allow him to move as freely about your ship as you would a normal civilian. That is an order.”

Holbrook sat frozen in his chair, sullenly contemplating the fate of his vessel and crew.

“Captain,” Ahrens said, standing abruptly, “good luck, and keep us apprised of your progress on your way to the galactic center.” The commodore thrust his hand out to Holbrook.

Captain Holbrook stared at Ahrens’s hand, regarding its wide palm and the jagged scar that cut across it. How many other men had the commodore’s handshake sent to their deaths? How many times had that angry red gash sealed the fates of entire ships and crews? Holbrook leaned awkwardly into the table from his seat and half clasped Ahrens’s hand, giving it a tepid shake.

“I will leave you to your preparations,” said Ahrens. The commodore nodded to Dr. Riesen and strode out of the room.

The world no longer spun for Holbrook but his stomach felt queasy. He mustered the strength to speak, his mouth dry. “How soon can you be ready?” he asked Dr. Riesen in a weak, gravelly voice, still staring into the tabletop.

“I’m already packed,” she said.

Already packed? Of course she was. She’d planned to accompany them all along. “We’ll wait for you at the shuttle, then.”

Tentek stood. “I too am ready to leave,” he said.

“Meet us at the shuttle as well,” said Holbrook.

Dr. Riesen exited the conference room followed by Tentek, leaving the two Avenger officers still seated. Seconds after the door closed Holbrook pressed into the tabletop to stand, his head drooping.

Stephens rose from his chair. He stared at the closed conference room door, shaking his head. “Captain,” he said, “we can’t let that thing aboard our ship.”

“We don’t have any say in the matter,” said Holbrook. “It’s been cleared at the highest levels.”

“For sure that thing’s a double agent,” said Stephens. “It’ll be feeding us misinformation and stealing secrets.”

Holbrook rubbed his chin. “Tentek, by far, is the least of our worries.”

10

“This way Dr. Riesen.”

Stephens hadn’t mustered more than those four words since leaving the research station. Was he, a former physics grad student, really that starstruck? He’d certainly never dreamed of being in the presence of The Prophet, a living legend, but that explanation only told part of the story. He’d worked up the courage to talk to the physicist several times but had been taken aback by the smile he caught on her face whenever he’d glanced her way. He could only guess at the reason for her seemingly high spirits. “First time aboard a CentCom starship?”

“No,” said Dr. Riesen, smiling even then as she looked at him. “I’ve been on several. CentCom has asked me a number of times to consult on physics-related matters.”

What else it could be? “It’s just … you seem extremely happy to be here.”

“I am.”

Stephens looked at Dr. Riesen sideways. “I mean, I’m happy to be on the Avenger too,” he said, “just not so much right now given we may not come back from where we’re going.”

Dr. Riesen didn’t respond. She had become engrossed in a list of crew announcements on a passing viewscreen.

“Tell me again why you volunteered to join this mission?” said Stephens.

“Let’s just say I love a good puzzle. They don’t come much bigger than figuring a way out of D-space.”

The journey to their potential deaths was just a big, fun puzzle for her? Stephens wanted to probe more but their destination came into view. “Here we are,” he said as they approached Sickbay.

The doors to Sickbay slid open, revealing Dr. Marsden in her white lab coat. “Here she is waiting for us,” said Stephens as they entered. “Dr. Marsden, this is Dr. Riesen, a new guest aboard our ship.”

“Nice to meet you Dr. Riesen.” Dr. Marsden extended her hand.

“Likewise,” said Dr. Riesen.

“She’s a VIP, so be sure she gets special treatment,” said Stephens.

“How much of a VIP can she be if you’re the one showing her around?” quipped Dr. Marsden. She walked Dr. Riesen over to a medical examination table. “Dr. Riesen, please hop up here.”

Dr. Riesen pivoted, pressed the backs of her thighs against the lip of the table and lifted herself in reverse onto the surface. The wide viewscreen mounted on the bulkhead above sprung to life.

“This shouldn’t take very long,” said Dr. Marsden.

“I’ve barely been aboard five minutes,” said Dr. Riesen frowning. “Why’s an examination in Sickbay my first stop?”

“Standard procedure,” said Dr. Marsden. “Anyone who comes aboard for an extended period of time gets a physical scan. A full analysis of your physical condition means there won’t be any surprises while you’re with us. Medical surprises, anyway.”

Dr. Riesen studied the readout above her head, the screen populating with vital signs. “On other ships the first thing they do is get you comfortably situated in your quarters. This process feels very regimented.”

“Well this is a military vessel,” said Dr. Marsden. “But I imagine your next stop will be getting settled into your new quarters. Please lie back.” Dr. Riesen swung her legs around and laid flat on her back. “Good,” said Dr. Marsden, tapping a side control panel. “Now relax. The table will take a couple minutes to perform the scan.”

Nodding, Dr. Riesen folded her hands over her belly and closed her eyes.

“The name Riesen sounds familiar,” said Dr. Marsden as she studied the initial results from the scan. “Isn’t there a famous woman physicist named Riesen.”

“That would be me, doctor.”

“No kidding!” said Dr. Marsden. “Winner of the Nobel-Wasserman?”

“In the flesh.”

“You truly are a VIP then,” said Dr. Marsden, “which makes it doubly-wrong for Commander Stephens to be your escort.”

Stephens feigned irritation at the remark.

“I’ve read some about you, then,” said Dr. Marsden, tapping at the table’s controls. “Tell me, what’s it like to be a female physicist?”

Dr. Riesen’s face grew dark. “You mean what it’s like being a mistake?”

Dr. Marsden looked up from the controls. “A mistake?”

“Yes, a mistake,” she said. She propped herself up on her elbows and glowered at Dr. Marsden. “That’s your real question, isn’t it? What’s it like to be a mistake?”

Stephens cut in. “I’m sure Dr. Marsden didn’t —”

“I’m sure Dr. Marsden can speak for herself,” said Dr. Marsden. “And no, that wasn’t the question going through my mind. I don’t even know what you mean about being a mistake. Physics is so male dominated I was wondering about the challenges of being a woman in that field. Being a medical doctor is not nearly as bad, though I do have a few stories of my own.”

Laying back on the table Dr. Riesen closed her eyes again. “Sorry, doctor, I just get it a lot. It’s usually the first thing people ask me once they learn who I am. It leaves me walking around on the defensive.”

The doctor checked the scan’s progress. “Can I ask what you meant by ‘mistake?’”

“I’m from a line of genetically engineered humans,” said Dr. Riesen. “The ones who came before me were also named Riesen. The intent was all of us would be men. Obviously someone screwed up in my case.”

“You mean a group of men, with hubris coming out their asses, performed a genetic procedure and it didn’t go the way they expected?” asked Dr. Marsden. “Surprise, surprise. They screwed up trying to control Nature, but somehow you turn out to be the mistake.”

“I’ve got to get going,” said Stephens. “Dr. Riesen, you’re clearly in good hands. Someone will be by to show you to your quarters. In a couple hours the captain wants us all to review the logs from the Adiona. Cygnus Conference Room, Deck B.”

“What timeframe do the logs cover?” asked Dr. Riesen.

“A two week stretch,” said Stephens. “The last entry was recorded a little more than three weeks ago, four days before we got our new orders.”

“Thank you commander,” said Dr. Riesen. “I will be there.”

Commander Stephens exited the room and climbed a nearby rungway to Deck A. He wended his way through the corridors until he found Lieutenant Singh. The security officer stood outside a closed door with Tentek at his side.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” said Stephens.

“Fourteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds by my internal clock,” said Tentek.

“I was talking to Lieutenant Singh,” said Stephens.

“Uh, no sir,” sputtered Singh. “I knew you’d be along eventually.”

“Is it customary for guests aboard your starship to endure such long wait times before being settled into their quarters?” asked Tentek.

“No,” said Stephens, “but neither is it customary for us to have an aught from The Collective onboard. Let’s just say it’s extraordinary times.” He signaled for Singh to unlock the cabin. The door slid aside and the three entered the spacious guest quarters.

Stephens noted the queen bed replacing the more customary bunk, a typical concession made for guests. Did aughts even sleep? “Your comm will let you into all the places on the ship you’re authorized to enter,” he said curtly. “By the captain’s orders you’re a guest aboard this ship, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any rules. The main one is you’ll check in with security three times each day.”

“Is that also customary for guests?” asked Tentek.

“Like I said, extraordinary times. I assume that won’t be a problem.”

“It will not,” said Tentek.

Stephens headed for the door. “Captain’s organized a listening party for the Adiona logs. He asked me to invite you. Cygnus Conference Room, Deck B, fourteen-thirty hours.”

“Thank you, commander.”

“Don’t thank me,” said Stephens, “thank the captain. I still think you belong in the brig.”

Tentek cocked his head. “Then it is fortunate you are not in charge.”

Stephens pursed his lips and locked onto Tentek with a blank stare. He didn’t appreciate the attitude, not from an aught, not on his ship. “Lieutenant Singh, you mind giving us a moment?”

“Yes sir, I mean no sir,” said Singh. He quickly exited the room.

Stephens took several steps towards Tentek. “You may have fooled the others, Tin Man, but not me,” he said. “I don’t believe for a moment you’re anything other than a spy for The Collective.”

“My name is Tentek, and I do not think this is the best way to start off our working together.”

“Working together?” Stephens scoffed. “You and I are not ‘working together,’ and we never will. Like I said, you’re here because the captain ordered it. If it were up to me you’d be out an airlock.” He jabbed his finger at Tentek. “Just remember this, Tin Man: the captain runs the show, but I run this ship. You’re free to move around, but that freedom can be taken away in an instant. I have my eye on you and I’m looking for an excuse, any excuse to throw your ass in a cell. You so much as break artificial wind my way and you’ll find yourself in chains.”

Tentek cocked his head again. “My name is Tentek, and I doubt Commodore Ahrens would enjoy hearing you have suggested placing me in the brig, an idle threat in any case as we both know doing so would bring about the end of your career.”

Stephens smiled. “A wise man once said, ‘You can do anything you want on your last day.’” He winked and headed for the door. “See you at fourteen-thirty hours, Tin Man,” he said over his shoulder.

The aught watched the commander exit the room and head down the corridor until the cabin door closed, dreading the voyage before it had even begun.

11

The Adiona Logs

Day 0, 14:02 hours

And so begins our journey to oblivion!

Like Columbus’s brash voyage to the edge of the Earth, MacGregor’s imprudent trek to Alpha Centauri, and Siloban’s mad venture to the surface of Venus, ours is the next step in mankind’s achievement of the impossible.

My colleague Dr. Yoichiro Imura was somewhat less poetic in his remarks at our launch party: “Let’s prove those fuckers wrong!”

I am unaccustomed to keeping an audio log so this will be a new experience. Maintaining a record of my thoughts during this voyage and a description of events will no doubt prove useful to historians writing about this monumental endeavor.

My name is Dr. Richard Denby, professor of astrophysics at the University of New Oceania, and the leader of this expedition to Sagittarius A Star, the black hole at the center of our galaxy. My eighteen expedition-mates are professors and a smattering of their graduate students, experts in disciplines ranging from Loop Quantum Gravity Theory to Warp Mechanics, to Homo- and Xeno-Medicine, fields of study that fall under the University’s interdepartmental School of Space Exploration.

This expedition, the tenth in the school’s eight decade history, will test theories I have developed for navigating through the extremely deformed space that exists around Sagittarius A Star, a 4.24 million solar mass black hole. Navigating through and safely returning from that space, I should say, as neither has yet been accomplished, and the first is irrelevant without the second. I have reinforced this point by naming our ship the Adiona after the Roman Goddess of Safe Return, a reference I pulled from my undergraduate training in the Classics. It was a reference that went unrecognized by my colleagues.

Our liftoff from the space center at the Atoll was uneventful. The full brunt of summer arrived two weeks early and we were grateful to escape the muggy December weather for the temperature controlled, atmosphere-conditioned confines of the ship. We spent an hour in Earth orbit rechecking our navigational and propulsive systems before a 1.5 million kilometer tow to Lagrange Point L2, opting for a tug service to conserve our hydrogen stores at the start of our voyage.

We left L2 an hour ago and have been moving at warp speeds since then, with an estimated travel time of seven days to Sag A Star. Everyone is settling into their quarters. We have a few veterans of space exploration aboard but the majority of us has not logged many hours beyond commercial flight between systems. For most of our grad students this trip is already the furthest distance they have traveled from home.

Columbus. MacGregor. Siloban. Denby! Palpable excitement fills the corridors of the ship at the start of this historic voyage.

Day 1, 16:14 hours

Today we said farewell to the Orion arm of the Milky Way galaxy, the happy residence of the Sun and Earth, and ventured into the dark lane that separates it from the neighboring Sagittarius arm, the next limb we will transit on our journey [ … TRANSMISSION ERROR … ]

Day 2, 15:31 hours

We have settled here, halfway across the Sagittarius Arm, to test the device Hohlt will use to find a habitable planet within the space around Sag A Star. This is happening despite my quite vocal and vigorous objections.

Two months ago Dr. Jakob Hohlt, Professor of Xenobiology at the University, visited me in the midst of my frenzied last-minute preparations to propose attaching himself to my expedition. At that time discussion of my theories and their imminent validation had no doubt reached a fever pitch within the University and likely spurred others to dream of how they might leverage my work to achieve their own success. Hohlt suggested living evidence of our travels to Sag A Star would prove much more compelling than sensor logs and cryptographically verifiable location data. Of course I saw through this poor man’s sales job: Hohlt was in truth considering the fame such a find would bring to him and his department. I would have thrown him out right then but he had the University president in tow, and as I learned later the Provost and several of the University’s trustees in his back pocket. I initially refused his request citing the problems of integrating his project and staff into my logistics at such a late date, but after the president took me aside and explained the University would not otherwise fund my expedition I relented, with the stipulation that his opportunistic efforts not impact the project I had first conceived almost three years ago.

Despite their assurances I was forced to accompany Hohlt to the offices of Orbital Spectrum, wasting most of a precious day traveling to and from lunar orbit for a demonstration of their Collimating Planetary Telescope. This device, when trained on a distant star system, can image its planets and determine with almost perfect accuracy which ones harbor life.

During the meeting I expressed how our tight schedule would deny us time to test the device ourselves, and forced Hohlt to accept Orbital Spectrum’s assurances the telescope would perform flawlessly in the field. They described the telescope’s operation and construction, explained their extremely rigorous testing regimen, and trotted out their independent lab certifications. They ended with an impressive demonstration, training the telescope on Helvetios and generating detailed images of and biosphere reports on the twin planets Helvetios b1 and b2. The telescope even captured the faint life form readings from the near-dead moon orbiting Dimidum, the system’s Jupiter analog.

I stress again that Hohlt accepted their avowals and agreed we had no time to vet the device ourselves, yet once underway he came to me with a list of possible stopping points along our route to test the telescope. I refused to consider stopping and stressed the pointlessness of doing so, for we would not turn back if we discovered a problem with his telescope. Hours later I received a message from the University containing a list of three candidate stopping points and instructions to select one of them.

And with all of this the test proved wholly unnecessary. We have the CPT trained on Sol, and the images and readings we are getting from the equipment are truly exceptional. The telescope has correctly identified Earth, Mars, Europa, and Enceladus as life-bearing worlds in our home system, and produced images with phenomenal clarity for a device over five thousand light years from its target. The images so shocked Yoichiro he declared he will now either remove the skylights from his house on Oceania or no longer sleep in the nude.

The cost of this diversion will be significant. After dropping from warp we nudged the telescope out of the cargo bay and spent the next two hours trying to convince it to power up its systems. Once activated we waited three hours for its optics to chill to absolute zero and devoted another two-and-a-half hours to imaging. Now that Hohlt has finished the tests the telescope will take several additional hours to raise its internal temperature, secure its sensor arrays, and return to its compact travel configuration. Adding the time to retrieve the device and to strap it to the cargo bay’s deck and we will have lost about fourteen hours total, or nearly a full day of travel.

The whole episode infuriates me. When we return the University will regret having ever strong-armed me into this arrangement, for I will be in such demand I think it unlikely I will decide to remain at their institution.

Day 3, 20:19 hours

[ … TRANSMISSION ERROR … ] just as the jet engine allowed us to rise above the Earth to take the photographs we used to build accurate terrestrial maps, the Gravity Drive allowed the human race to rise high above the Milky Way to take the snapshots we used for the accurate maps of our galaxy and to discover important details such as the spiral’s asymmetry, shown to be the result of the Milky Way’s collision with a globular cluster.

I felt somewhat shaky again today and have a slightly elevated temperature. We have been running nonstop for the past few months to make this expedition a reality. I am hopeful this is just a case of exhaustion catching up with me. I took a nap this afternoon and I do feel considerably better now after eating a light dinner of chicken broth and bread.

Day 5, 12:57 hours

I awoke yesterday with difficulty swallowing and a complete inability to speak. Dr. Mawen’s tests confirmed what I suspected but was unwilling to voice: my Craeter’s disease has returned. I contracted it over a year ago during a foolish weekend on Darwin’s Planet. My doctor at the time explained how Craeter’s is fully treatable but those afflicted will sometimes relapse when stress brings viral reserves out of hiding.

Thankfully the symptoms were not nearly as severe as during my initial bout, when the disease freely ran its course over the several days it took to pinpoint the cause. The Adiona’s MediCenter synthesized a dose of Demerosol which Dr. Mawen administered midday yesterday. His prognosis as of fifteen minutes ago was I’ll spend most of today in bed but should expect full recovery by tomorrow morning. He also said we must watch for symptoms of a second relapse which statistically has the highest chance of occurring within the next two weeks.

I woke this morning to a world tinged in yellow, and immediately worried the Craeter’s had affected my liver and jaundiced my eyes. Thankfully it was just a thick shaft of yellow light streaming through the small porthole above my bunk. During my almost forty hours of incapacitation the Adiona traveled quite a distance closer to the great galactic bulge where the lower star formation rate results in significantly fewer young stars. Without the white-blue hue from their youthful furnaces the starlight settles into a deep yellow from the preponderance of older stars.

Even the mild exertion of recording this log entry has tired me. I must sign off for another nap.

Day 6, 19:23 hours

I snapped awake at 6:30 this morning after sleeping [ … TRANSMISSION ERROR … ]ion. I hadn’t bathed in several days and looked forward to showering but unfortunately Craeter’s sensitizes the skin, which turned the normally refreshing ultrasonic waves into a rain of pinpricks across my body.

Tonight we are orbiting a gas giant from a class B star system in the central bar region of the galaxy. We just retracted the skimmer we deployed to extract hydrogen from the planet’s upper atmosphere, our scheme to top off our intentionally minimal hydrogen stores. We had decided [ … TRANSMISSION ERROR … ]

Even four thousand light years away I find Sag A Star intimidating, its four-and-a-quarter million solar masses compressed into a region smaller than the orbit of Mercury. We are still too far away to see the hole itself but its accretion disc put on quite a display of explosive flashes soon after we arrived. Yoichiro showed me an impressive snapshot where the surrounding gas resembles an immense jack-o'-lantern.

After decamping tomorrow morning we will travel most of the remaining distance to the galactic center where we will position the ring of tachyon beacons. Once we’ve completed that task we’ll make the final short jog to the black hole itself.

Day 7, 13:36 hours

We are still hours away from the galactic center, that is if we could fly there directly. For all the fretting that had gone on about returning from the deformed space around Sagittarius A Star we did not consider the difficulties we would face trying to reach the hole itself.

Our plan for approaching the black hole was simply to pilot the ship into the region around Sag A Star, not considering how navigation towards the singularity presents the same challenges as navigating away from it. We are therefore taking this final leg of the journey slowly and carefully. We’ve improvised a plan to wait for the spacetime ahead of us to calm enough to support a reasonably safe sprint towards the hole, and to halt when the deformations flare up. Repeating this enough times will get us to our destination, a position roughly 200 astronomical units from the event horizon. Dr. Alcott calls this process “inch-worming.” My thoughts immediately went to a small, green worm wending its way towards an enormous fanged spider sitting at the center of its web. The parallels are hugely disturbing.

At the end of each sprint we are creating a gravimetric map of the surrounding space, and this four-dimensional imaging has allowed us to so far locate twenty-two nearby invisible gravity wave point sources. Those black holes, orders of magnitude smaller than the one at our galactic center, are still very dangerous. Knowing their locations we can give them a wide berth.

Our herky-jerky progress makes estimating our final arrival time at Sag A Star difficult. I grow excited on each lunge until the inevitable klaxons sound just before the Gravity Drive disengages. I pray we have not become unwitting prisoners in a Zeno’s paradox come alive.

Day 8, 10:21 hours

We arrived at Sagittarius A Star fifty-five minutes ago, parking an uneasy 102.5 AU from the event horizon. I am both giddy with excitement and afraid beyond words.

As our final sprint landed us here in-system, an unremarkable star field greeted us upon our deceleration to sub-light speed. Ordinary warp speed journeys conclude with the celestial destination, typically a planet or moon, centered in the ship’s viewscreen, however we dared not set a direct course for the black hole for fear of Gravity Drive overshoot. We targeted instead an adjacent patch of space a few degrees to the left of the event horizon, which placed Sagittarius A Star outside our field of view upon our arrival. A short force pad pulse brought the Adiona around and revealed our considerable host.

Despite the thousands of long-range images of our galaxy’s black hole I doubt anyone can ever be fully prepared for the sight. If Paradise Planet is the closest thing to Heaven in our galaxy, Sagittarius A Star is certainly a slice of Hell. The hole is an angry sphincter onto the underworld itself, encircled by a rotating river Styx of debris spraying synchrotron radiation across the entire region. Hydrogen gas clouds accelerated to near light speed shower deadly gamma rays on any object unlucky enough to venture too close. Pulsar-like particle acceleration drives brilliant blue-green bolts of electrical discharge that serrate the hole’s thick magnetosphere and threaten to lash us with their million volt tendrils. Gravitational waves are plentiful, though thankfully too small to wrench the ship’s superstructure.

Alex Kondo, the other young research assistant from Dr. Reed’s lab, was overcome by the sight of this galactic beast and broke down crying. Dr. Mawen escorted him to his bunk and placed him under light sedation. At this moment I am actively resisting the urge to order us away from here. Leaving now would mean the end of this research trip, and my tenure at the University as the president expressed my relationship with the institution would come to an end should we return without providing Hohlt a chance to unfurl his telescope. That process has begun, and I am anxious for the results. The sooner we locate a suitable system to explore, the sooner we can leave this space.

Day 9, 9:35 hours

The Adiona is holding up well twenty-four hours after our arrival at Sag A Star. A sub-atomic detritus surrounds the ship and continually slams against our magnetic field, violently at times. The computer assures us we are parked a safe enough distance away to withstand the onslaught.

Alex is much better today—Dr. Mawen predicts his return to duties starting tomorrow. I too have settled down after a night in the shadow of the beast. Everyone else seems to be coping well enough, though I can feel the tension. During our days of travel from Earth, conversations filled the control room and the internal comm channels. Now the ship has all the ambiance of a mortician’s parlor. I have to believe time dilation effects are partly to blame for the change in mood. As the black hole rotates it drags space around like batter in a mixing bowl, with the resulting eddies and whorls felt up to three parsecs away. The distortions can occur on a small enough scale that two clocks sitting side-by-side will momentarily tick at different rates. Such time divergences can create problems in biological processes, especially within the human brain where its structures rely on adjacent neurons firing at the same rate. Physiological symptoms of Spacetime Deformation Sickness include muscular aches and nausea. The psychological symptoms range anywhere from mild depression to madness.

I confess there are other psychological side-effects of our proximity to this Grendel. It is easy to sit twenty thousand light years away with a nice cup of hot tea and read about plummeting into a black hole. It is another thing entirely to sit only a hundred times Earth’s distance to the sun from the hole and realize one errant force pad pulse could render us irretrievably lost.

We remain at this location because efforts to use the CPT have so far failed. I refer to it as the Collimating Planetary Telescope but Yoichiro has reminded me of its full name, the Collimating Refractor Array Planetary Telescope, or CRAP Telescope as he now calls it. The device worked well enough when we tested it in normal space, but has so far lived up to Yoichiro’s derisive moniker within the extreme deformed space conditions around Sag A Star.

We deployed the telescope almost twenty-four hours ago and positioned it about a hundred meters off the ship’s leeward side, employing the Adiona as a shield against the black hole’s relentless gale of sub-atomic particles. When aimed at a planetary system the telescope’s twenty meter wide aperture collects photons which its sensor array converts to a raw data stream that it transmits to its signal processing AI here aboard the ship. Orbital Spectrum said to think of the signal processor as a magic black box, where raw photon data go in one end, and crisp, vivid planetary images and biospheric information come out the other.

Unfortunately the CPT has been unable to photograph any systems within the deformed space around Sag A Star. Every photon matters when imaging remote objects, and in the case of these planetary systems the photons have been stretched and twisted during their travels through the distorted spacetime. I find it difficult to imagine recovering much signal from such deformed packets of light, however this is only a guess as to the root cause. The actual problem may reside in the telescope’s hardware, or in its software black box. In any case, the planetary photographs captured by this device so far resemble the bright, blurry images from a ground-based telescope flailing beneath a thick blanket of atmosphere.

Without planetary imaging we remain unable to locate a habitable system for Hohlt. If we head back now the bastard will certainly try to end my career at the University with complaints that we left too soon, that I did not provide him an adequate opportunity to test the CPT, or both. They can stick my tenure right in their bottoms but I prefer to leave the University on my own terms: not with them eagerly throwing me out the door but instead begging me to stay. Unfortunately that means it is in my best interest for Hohlt’s mission to succeed. So I wait for now, and pray for the device to start working. I only hope the Adiona and its crew remain intact until it does.

Day 10, 21:47 hours

We arrived at Sag A Star two days ago, and have not moved more than twenty kilometers from our original position.

Three hours ago the quiescent hole turned maniacal, releasing a torrent of energy across the electromagnetic spectrum. Most of the ship’s viewports remain almost perpetually black, made opaque by the ship to protect us from these energy bursts. The rocking and jostling caused by Sag A Star’s churning of the local spacetime has also increased, and we have all been stricken with moderate to severe cases of nausea. Dr. Mawen’s Nausox shots have helped me, but the high dosage needed to tamp down my queasiness has not been without side effects, loose stools the most notable complication. As a result I have been dividing my time between my station in the control room and my new, second station in the starboard head.

While our nausea can be treated with pharmaceuticals there is no treatment for the curious form of double-vision that also afflicts us at various times. Corridors seem packed with people as we move through the ship with our blurred doppelgängers. Mealtimes have become more challenging with doubled forks and cups confusing us as to the which one we should raise to our mouths. Dr. Kelechi Adeyemi, professor of Spacetime Mechanics, tells us these are further time dilation effects, the result of seeing the same object at two different points in time. I have found it best to focus on the eyes of the person I am speaking to, as the jumble of mouths in different states of openness is both distracting and horrifying.

If this is what we can expect by remaining here in D-space I think it is best we leave and not subject ourselves to more torture. Hohlt made some adjustments to the CPT but the improvements were minimal, not nearly enough to give us accurate readings on habitable planets in the vicinity. Yoichiro suggested Hohlt try using the computer to squeeze more signal out of the images. That is his goal for tomorrow.

Day 11, 07:47 hours

Early this morning I woke to the ship wildly rocking and the roar of a ferocious rainstorm.

Certain we were being drawn into the black hole I leapt out of my bed. At that moment the entire ship rose violently as if being lifted into the air. I resisted being drawn down as best I could while a loud groan, the Adiona’s superstructure struggling under the stresses, carried through the ship.

Suddenly I saw doubles of my bunk, the one still in my grasp and a duplicate a half meter lower, its blankets erupting through the floor. Realizing I had only a moment I quickly swung my other arm around and dug my fingers deep into the mattress just as the ship fell into a steep drop, as if racing down the backside of a mountainous ocean crest. I clung there with white knuckles, my legs flailing in the air.

The ship continued rising and falling for several minutes. I held fast to my bunk as my body flopped about like a soggy pennant. When the pitching subsided I slowly worked my way through my cabin door and scurried to the control room like a panicked crab on a blustery beach.

Yoichiro arrived just ahead of me. The two of us strapped ourselves into our chairs and set about analyzing sensor data. We discovered the previously placid spacetime around the ship took a violent turn at 2:34 a.m., pitching the Adiona like a small sailboat on a storm-churned ocean. We took the computer’s recommendation to set the artificial gravity to full inertial dampening. Activating it was like flipping a switch that reduced the ship’s violent pitching to a gentle bobbing. After checking on the rest of our shipmates Yoichiro and I set about ensuring all massive items were battened down to prevent them from wreaking havoc in any future rough sailing.

All the while we worked the sound of a violent rainstorm filled the ship with an almost deafening pounding. Placing my ear against an outer bulkhead I heard a sleeting rain as intense as anything I have experienced. Dr. Shales, professor of Subatomic and Quantum Physics, concluded the thick magnetic field lines emanating from the black hole corral free protons from the surrounding super-hot plasma into tight bundles. Those proton bundles follow the magnetic field lines, picking up speed and momentum as they do, and striking the ship with the rasping patter of rain. After consulting the computer Dr. Reed. believes the net effect of this intense proton bombardment is similar to sitting in a mild acid bath, nothing to worry about at least while our shields are up.

Thankfully no one was seriously hurt during the ship’s violent moments last night, though Wright and Shaw who sleep in bunks in one of the aft crew compartments both bumped their heads when the storm flung them into the air above their beds. Neither has a concussion, but they both have knots on their foreheads.

Day 11, 13:22 hours

Ten minutes ago we made the discovery of a lifetime.

As if the supermassive black hole were not enough trouble, the space around Sagittarius A Star teams with smaller black holes which the literature refers to as a “swarm.” To map the locations of these black holes, Dr. Church, the postdoc from Dr. Iweala’s lab, configured the computer to take gravimetric snapshots at set intervals on our inbound journey to Sag A Star. Examining how the point source locations changed as we moved closer to the galactic black hole allowed us to create a three-dimensional map of their locations in space. Once we arrived at Sag A Star the three-dimensional swarm map was complete, however no one told the computer to stop taking the gravimetric snapshots. With the Adiona stationary, the post-arrival snapshots form a time-lapse of the point sources traveling around us, an animated movie, if you will, of the swarm moving through space, rotating round the center of the galaxy.

Overall this movie is quite boring. Most of the black holes orbit Sag A Star with periods on the order of thousands of years, making their gross movements undetectable to us. Church noticed one of the nearby holes moving at a relatively quick pace across the sky. What was truly remarkable, however, was it’s circular orbit did not have Sag A Star at its center. One of the swarm black holes was apparently orbiting some other body.

On a whim, she asked Hohlt to aim the Collimating Planetary Telescope at this system. The device, miraculously shaking off its troubles for ten minutes, revealed a modest-sized black hole orbiting a supergiant star. The telescope also revealed several planets, one of which appears to be habitable. I stress the qualifier “appears”—the telescope detected key markers for life, but some of the data were inconsistent. It also could be the telescope malfunctioning more severely than before. With no better options, and the desire to move away from the galactic black hole, we are treating this as a solid lead. It’s actually an ideal development, for if the telescope is correct, this will be the planet Hohlt has been looking for. And if the telescope is wrong, Hohlt will have had his chance to find a planet. Either outcome sets a cap on our up until now open-ended stay in D-space.

I have dubbed this newly-discovered system RD Sagittarii, assigning a Bayer-style designation based on my initials. Let the record show the schemer Hohlt’s obsession with fame and glory came into full view with his demand I include his initials in the name. I noted that only by my grace was he even aboard this ship, and how his contributions to this discovery amounted to nothing more than the tapping of a few buttons on a viewscreen. With the xenobiologist shaking and sputtering before me I made it clear that any spoils the Fates choose to grant him lay on the planet’s surface.

We will make way for RD Sagittarii shortly. Navigating anywhere within the space around Sag A Star is essentially as impossible as navigating out, but Dr. Alcott believes his inch-worming technique will allow us to travel to this nearby destination. As if aware of our imminent departure Sag A Star has begun lashing out with writhing red tendrils of plasma. I will be happy to leave this place.

Day 11, 23:05 hours

Not once have I ever imagined being in the presence of star as large as RD Sagittarii A. This thirty solar mass red hypergiant shines a million times brighter than the Sun, with an incredible radius of 12.34 AU. If this stellar beast resided in our own solar system its bulk would engulf all the planets from Mercury to Saturn.

Orbiting at 183 AU is the ten solar mass black hole RD Sagittarii B, encircled by a massive accretion disc filled with enough matter to form several planets on its own. Whenever substantial amounts of this material spiral down to the black body the hole erupts with blue flashes along its equator and energetic white jets from its poles.

The reason for our visit, RD Sagittarii C, orbits at 551 AU and does appear to be habitable. Normally the gale force stellar winds of a hypergiant star like RD Sagittarii A would strip away the atmosphere surrounding a small, rocky planet, even that far from its sun. It turns out the red titan’s companion black hole sweeps up the bulk of the brisk stellar wind in its accretion disc.

RD Sagittarii’s two other planets, D and E, are gas giants orbiting at 575 AU and 621 AU respectively. At 700 AU begins the system’s Kuiper Belt, harboring a substantial number of planetesimals.

We are headed now to RD Sagittarii C. At this late hour we plan to merely park the ship in a safe orbit around the planet and rest for the night rather than plow ahead with our exploration.

Day 12, 16:13 hours

We are in a low orbit above RD Sagittarii C. Liquid water covers half the surface, a violet soup that sloshes against five dark ashen continents. Daylight falls upon the planet for fifteen hours, a burning red that glints off the violet ocean crests and bounces off the white polar ice, capping both ends of the globe in fiery crimson.

The planet’s molten inner core vomits itself onto the ashen plains of every continent through numerous active volcanos of various sizes. Where these volcanoes reside along the coasts, their lava runs in angry torrents many kilometers wide that extend down to the violet water. Great clouds of steam and ash hide their convergence with the sea, enormous white plumes that from space appear as cotton dabbing a slew of vicious open wounds.

The largest continental landmass spans an entire hemisphere along the planet’s equator, but does not extend above or below the fortieth parallel. A tall mountain range runs south to north near the continent’s eastern coastline, featuring numerous ice-capped peaks that strafe the gray clouds. The four other continents that populate the opposite hemisphere are less remarkable—that is, more of the same—except for the third-largest which harbors a massive volcano at its center, from space an angry red anthill oozing lava.

I have taken to calling this planet Infernum for its obvious allusions to Hell.

The atmosphere is an argon, nitrogen, oxygen, and CO2 mixture, and temperatures range from ten to fifty-seven degrees centigrade. In short, breathable air and comfortable temps, at least beyond the equator and away from the volcanos. As for life signs, the sensors report level twenty-three on the Alan-During scale: plants, insects, and some animals.

We are finishing a sequence of orbits from which we are building radar terrain and gravimetric maps of the surface. This is not the most exciting work, and Yoichiro jokes the soft pings the computer makes on the completion of each orbit are there to make sure we are all still awake. I considered tasking drones with this mapping job but the process will take less time using the ship’s sensors.

I did dispatch two drones to take detailed scans of several candidate landing sites. Most are in the nighttime hemisphere currently, so we will likely remain in orbit for the next ten to sixteen hours, aiming for a sunrise descent on the planet.

Day 13, 07:08 hours

Landfall this morning was quite dramatic.

The computer guided the Adiona to a position 450 kilometers above our primary landing site, a rolling plain of short yellow brush 170 kilometers from the largest continent’s eastern coastline along the thirty-second parallel north. Thick cloud cover obscured our destination, and the computer [ … TRANSMISSION ERROR … ]erate turbulence jostled our ship once we pierced the clouds. Thankfully everyone was strapped into their seats.

We passed quickly through the cloud cover. One moment the forward viewport presented an expanse of pink-gray fluff. The next it showed a puffy ceiling extending to the eastern coastline and a violet ocean stretching beyond to the horizon.

To the west, the cloud cover we had penetrated minutes before floated above us up to the steep slopes of the continent’s eastern mountain chain. Dr. Pak, a planetary geologist who came aboard with Hohlt, says those mountain peaks now hidden by the clouds reach into the planet’s stratosphere some thirty-five kilometers above the sea.

At ten kilometers above sea level, trees with thick shimmering metallic blue trunks and yellow-gray needles began dotting those slopes like week-old stubble, thickening to a yellow carpet that obscured the mountain base. Yellow, if I didn’t mention before, is the color this ecosystem settled upon for its chlorophyll analog to extract the most energy from its red giant star.

At 1.5 kilometers above our landing point and just a few minutes before touchdown, the hypergiant peeked over the horizon, flooding the control room with a searing red light and setting the violet ocean’s wave tops aflame with fiery red.

Our now-suspect computer pilot required two attempts to place us in a satisfactory landing spot. On its first try the computer, evidently believing any non-eventful landing a good one, placed us on solid ground with a fifteen degree slope. The computer adjusted the landing gear’s struts as best it could but in the end the ship listed too much. I instructed the computer to try again, and on its second attempt it set us down 330 meters to the west on mostly flat ground covered in a pale yellow thistlebrush, fifty meters from a tall expanse of rock—a cliff face—rising 200 meters in the air.

The post-landing system checks are in progress. After they complete we’ll exit the ship to have a look around and begin collecting samples.

Day 13, 09:23 hours

This planet may become our permanent home.

During our descent several klaxons sounded. I had assumed them related to our increasing hull temperatures, and chose to clear the alerts to silence their bleating. Apparently the computer noticed a problem with the Moscovium 299 cylinders, important components of the Gravity Drive. After reviewing the failed post-landing system checks and reading the alert messages in-depth I at first could not believe what they suggested and had the computer rerun them. I finally climbed down the narrow ladder to the engine compartment and applied a gravimeter to the casings myself. My findings confirmed what the computer had flagged: all but five percent of the Mc 299 has gone inert.

The most-likely explanation involves the extreme gravity waves we encountered during our extended stay near Sag A Star. There are other theories but in fact I have no stomach for debating them. Whatever the cause we are stranded here on the planet’s surface.

Day 13, 13:24 hours

Yoichiro, brilliant scientist and intrepid friend, you may have saved us all!

During our mapping of the surface from high orbit Yoichiro configured the scanners to collect data on caches of heavy elements and atomic decay byproducts. He hoped to find deposits of gold and other precious metals, a “pirate’s plunder” he called it, to ferry back to Earth to take the sting out of this planetary adventure. Without access to a network, however, our single computer had to handle the job of crunching the data. It finally produced its report about three hours ago. In light of all the bad news Yoichiro originally saw little point in reviewing the document, being as dejected as the rest of us, but brought himself to read the summary. The computer found no gold or silver, but it did locate several large deposits of rare earths including Moscovium. One of those deposits lay just forty-one kilometers away, a roughly two day’s trek on foot!

The fact the scanners detected the Moscovium at all indicates its nearness to the surface, another bit of luck as we don’t have serious mining equipment. We have the equipment to refine the Mc 299 but the process may take several weeks. Considering our predicament, time is our most abundant resource.

I have organized an expedition of five people. In addition to myself I chose Dr. Katherine Reed and Alex Kondo, senior professor and post doctoral student respectively, for their expertise in metals and materials; Dr. Abebi Iweala, so that I am not the sole astrophysicist on this trip; and Dr. David Post, an astrochemist I selected for his large biceps rather than his chemical knowledge, on the assumption there could be heavy digging required to free the Mc 299. Hohlt makes the sixth—he’s coming along because he insists. At the least he can provide xenobiology experience.

I have prepared my pack and am waiting for the others to finish assembling their gear. For supplies we’ll have enough food for a ten day journey, and we grabbed two tents from the ship’s stores. We’ll also each be outfitted with an electron pistol and a plasma rifle. There so far are no readings of large life forms but we do not have an exhaustive survey of the planet’s fauna.

We head out in ten minutes.

Day 13, 19:11 hours

After hiking for five hours we decided to stop for the night.

Thick cloud cover had obscured the hypergiant for most of the morning, burning off just before the star reached its zenith. A quirk of orbits today perfectly aligned RDS A, the black hole RDS B, and Infernum, placing the singularity in the direct center of the star’s red disc. We crossed the rough plains with this eye, a black pupil within a flame red iris, transiting the sky like an angry god monitoring our progress.

Our first sunset on this planet was spectacular. The light violet sky took on deeper shades as the red eye began its descent. With half the hypergiant visible above the jagged peaks to the west the mammoth star appeared to have set the entire mountain chain on fire. Even now, two hours after the angry orange blob dipped below the mountain line, the peaks along the darkened western sky retain a fiery red glow.

Our travel was slow going for the first two hours of our journey today as we worked our way through a dense forest. The trees had thick, blue trunks and their barren, twisted branches appeared to end in gnarled hands, creating an eerie canopy. Their dark silhouettes against the overcast red sky formed an image straight from a Halloween diorama.

We’ve set up our two tents in a small, flat area, almost a valley between two modest hills, a wide expanse filled with more ankle-high pale yellow brush and many tiny purple buds. We cleared a portion of the brush and piled a circle of rocks to form a home for our makeshift campfire, fueling it with shimmery blue wood from nearby fallen trees. The burning bark spits bright blue sparks out of the yellow flames, some sort of phosphorescent chemical release. The smoke carries an odd sweet odor.

After a long afternoon of hiking and many days of stress we are all exhausted. I will recommend we all turn in early and get a quick start in the morning.

Day 14, 13:27 hours

Hohlt woke two hours before dawn. The rest of us rose with the morning sun, refreshed from a good night’s sleep in spite of the major commotion. The heavenly smell of fresh brewed coffee filled our nostrils, luring us from our tents.

The commotion I mentioned relates to the prairie of tiny purple flowers we camped in last night. The existence of flowers implies pollinators, but we had seen no evidence of insects during yesterday’s hike. I thought that odd but gave it no further consideration.

The four men—Hohlt, Post, Kondo, and I—slept in the larger tent, with our female colleagues sleeping in the other. Just after 1 a.m. Kondo shook me awake. I opened my eyes to a frightened look on his face. At times he seems more of a child than an adult, which I find quite annoying. His mouth moved hurriedly, imploring me to do something, but the only sound that came from his lips was a loud buzzing. At first I thought it all a dream. I closed my eyes and sank deeper into my sleeping bag, but Kondo proceeded to roll me over, smashing my nose against the tent floor. At that point I realized I was awake, not inside a dream, and that the buzzing was not coming from Kondo.

I jumped up and headed to the tent’s thin glassteel window. Outside a swarm of electric blue lights bobbed and bounced in the darkness. Shining a light into the field revealed hundreds of what are best described as winged black caterpillars, their thick wormlike bodies easily as large as the palm of my hand. We had found the planet’s missing insect life, or at least one form of it.

The light chased them away, and with its absence came the silence to which we originally retired. When I removed the light and allowed my eyes to slowly adjust to the darkness, the field remained quiet but still filled with thousands of lights, though mostly stationary. Stepping out of the tent and into the field, the small closed purple buds we observed at twilight had opened wide, their many petals glowing blue in the darkness, evidently acting as beacons for the pollinators.

Those pollinators abandoned the field only briefly, returning to finish the job with their loud buzzing. Kondo was afraid they might have poisonous stingers, but I figured as long as these insects could not enter our tents and as long as they only wanted the flowers they would go about their business and we could go about ours. Despite the loud buzzing I fell asleep a few minutes after closing my eyes.

Dr. Post found one of the insects this morning as we were breaking camp. It lay dead near the campfire ring, though I don’t believe the fire’s remnants had anything to do with the creature’s demise. He foolishly picked it up with his bare hand and was pricked by several thick needle-like hairs extending from the insect’s abdomen. The index finger, middle finger, and thumb on his right hand swelled to gargantuan size, seemingly on the verge of splitting open. He wailed in pain until we administered painkillers from the MEDIkit. We cleaned the punctures as best we could and filled the wounds with anti-inflammatories. He felt well during this morning’s hike, but I am concerned for the possible consequences of alien material having been introduced into his system. I realized as we tended to him my oversight in not also bringing someone with medical experience on this journey.

Today has been considerably warmer. Yesterday’s thick cloud cover has dissipated, leaving the burning orb above to rain its heat down upon us.

After hiking through rolling fields of yellow brush we have encountered land that is considerably more barren, including square kilometers covered mostly with small crushed rock. The rock absorbs the red star’s energy across multiple wavelengths, but radiates it all back as heat, adding considerable discomfort to our travels.

After lunch there will be more walking. We plan to continue as long as there is light to see by.

Day 14, 21:45 hours

Hohlt and Iweala are dead, and Reed, Kondo, Post, and I have been pinned beneath a rock overhang since just after sunset.

Infernum days are four hours longer than Earth’s, giving us additional daylight hours in which to travel. The evening greeted us with a sky similar to yesterday’s, the sawtooth peaks engulfed in flame as the giant star sank below the distant mountain chain. Once RDS A rotated fully out of view, RDS B, no longer perfectly centered in the hypergiant’s red disc, lingered above the mountaintops. This black moon cast an electric blue glow from its event horizon that sliced through the reddish twilight, providing enough light for us to continue walking safely well past official sunset. We chose to press on rather than set up camp for the night.

Post was the first to spot the electric bolts lashing out from the black hole like bright blue barbed wire. The first streamer hit the ground as we were crossing a small river, a broad but shallow expanse of warm water choked with numerous exposed rocks and sand bars. I was in the lead and had my head down, focusing on carefully placing each step, when the water all around us began glowing electric blue. For a moment I thought we had stumbled into a habitat of electrified eel-type creatures. I raised my hand to halt the party and take a few seconds to assess our situation. Then came a deafening boom, a subsonic rumble that rattled the ground, followed by a stiff, hot breeze. To the northwest a plume of dust and rock soared sixty meters into the sky.

Just after the initial bolt landed we still had not fully understood what had transpired, and believed the plume and boom to be evidence of an immense explosion. I briefly feared for the Adiona until I realized the explosion occurred too far to the north to be our ship. As we stood gaping at the dissipating plume a second tendril of electric wrath snaked to the ground, this one much closer. Normal lightning is fast—blink and you’ll miss it. These bolts streaked from the heavens just as quickly, but remained for longer, as if frozen in the air. An even larger boom and hot wind followed this bolt, and only a handful of moments later. The ground quaked so much it shook Reed to her knees in the shallow river.

We immediately understood the general danger posed by standing in flowing water during an interplanetary electrical storm, and scurried as fast as we could to the far bank, which was the closer of the two. Upon reaching land I relaxed and gave thanks for being out of the running water until I realized we were still standing like knaves in the middle of open ground.

Alex Kondo brought our attention to a small outcropping of rock about three hundred meters away, a potential sanctuary rising from the ground in an otherwise flat landscape. We sprinted but the weight of our packs hindered us, as did the rough terrain in the twilight. We spread out in a chain, the faster of us in the lead. Hohlt, at the rear, twisted his ankle and Iweala ran back to help him.

As I looked back an enormous blue bolt shot from the black moon, wending its way across the heavens until it touched down not one hundred meters from our position. The ground rippled as if a giant had unfurled a blanket, tossing us in the air. The thunderclap was deafening, almost puncturing our eardrums. Finally came the stiff wind and a searing hot breeze.

Despite our rough landing we were all of us OK. As we pulled ourselves up a small gray ball appeared in the distance, visible in the night sky because it was trailing fire. The fire extinguished itself just as the ball, a large boulder, reached the apex of its arc in the sky. I followed its trajectory to the ground and estimated Iweala and Hohtl sat at roughly its landing spot. I screamed at the top of my lungs for them to move. Reed, standing ten meters away, joined in. They couldn’t hear us, our voices drowned out by the remnants of the still rumbling thunder.

The ball fell from the sky, gaining speed as it dropped, a boulder the size of a house. It smashed into Iweala and Hohtl, and dug itself into the ground so deeply only the top half remained visible above the land.

Fully understanding the extent of our peril the remaining four of us ran as fast as we could to the outcropping. Kondo, who with the demise of Iweala and Hohtl was now in the rear, tossed off his backpack to lighten his load and allow himself to increase his speed. He overtook Post and Reed and almost overtook me, arriving at the outcropping just a few seconds after I did.

So here we have sat for the past five hours. Or three of us at least, with Dr. Reed on her back. During the lightning strike that lifted us into the air her head hit the ground when she landed. She is suffering from a mild concussion. Alex Kondo is curled up in the fetal position next to her. Meanwhile the blue lightning continues to crash down around us, though the bolts are landing further away, likely due to the planet’s rotation putting more distance between our location and the black hole. RSD B will soon drop below the western mountain chain, which should provide protection from its lightning bolts. Once it’s safe to move about we will need to go back for Kondo's pack, for it contains food we cannot afford to lose, as well as one of the portable shelters.

These storms likely recur following some regular cycle. We will have to determine the periodicity to avoid being caught up in one again. Unfortunately this will require experiencing another storm.

Day 15, 10:18 hours

We are off to a slow start this morning. We remained beneath the rock overhang for forty-five minutes after the lightning storm ended, mostly certain the black hole could not assault us from behind the western mountain chain but still afraid to venture out. I finally moved out into the open to set up our tent, forgetting it lay inside Kondo’s discarded pack. I chided the post-doc for dropping his backpack and told him to retrieve it. He adamantly refused, wailing about the hazards of being unsheltered during an electrical storm. I lectured him as patiently as I could about the storm having ended some time ago but he would have none of it. He eventually returned to his fetal pose next to Dr. Reed with his hands over his ears.

I wasn’t sure Post was well, and with Reed recovering from her concussion that left me to walk across the open plain to retrieve the pack, cursing under my breath all the way there and back. We were fortunate Kondo carried the larger four-person tent. The other was lost with Iweala when she perished.

After returning I set up our tent a few meters from the rock outcropping. Kondo mustered enough courage to help me move Reed into the shelter, then scurried back to the rocks, taking Reed’s old spot deeper beneath the overhang. Reed, Post, and I slept in the shelter while Kondo, still spooked by the ordeal, insisted on placing his sleeping bag beneath the rock overhang and spending the night there.

After rising I scrounged enough wood for a meager fire and brewed a pot of coffee. The aroma lifted everyone’s spirits, though we are all still in shock and sadness from the loss of our expedition mates, at least for one of them. Hohlt, it might be said, was crushed by the weight of his own ambition and ego. If only we could just now turn around and head for home.

Medical update: Reed is doing better this morning after last night’s concussion. She has a dark welt on her forehead but is no longer seeing spots. I am concerned about Post, who claims he is OK but is moving noticeably slower.

I can see our destination, about seven kilometers to the northeast. A few hours of hiking across an open plain of more yellow bushes and prickly thistles will take us to an apparent circle of tall trees next to a dense forest. According to the sensor map those trees encircle a depression where we will find the Moscovium.

Day 15, 16:05 hours

Post died earlier this afternoon. After his lethargic movements this morning around the camp and his complaining of being cold when the air had reached twenty-nine degrees centigrade we checked his temperature and found he was running a high fever. We medicated him as best we could and had him rest inside the tent. As I helped him get situated in his sleeping bag I saw that his right hand, the one he used to lift the insect, had swollen again, and a blue hue ringed each puncture hole. He drifted off to sleep and never woke.

Kondo and I dug a shallow grave for Post a few meters from the rock overhang. I say we dug it but Kondo took a break every few minutes, complaining about the heat, or about his back from bending over, or the toughness of the soil, or about the shovel’s shaft chafing the skin of his hand. He twice suggested we build a cairn for Post. I was partial to a burial below ground, but regardless a cairn was out of the question as there weren’t enough large stones. Kondo persisted in his idea, and at one point headed off to collect rocks while I continued chipping away at the hard ground. When he returned after twenty minutes with an armful of small stones I told him to cease his foolishness and help me finish digging the grave.

The young post-doc did take up his shovel but soon resumed his complaining and suggested we wait until sunset to dig the grave so that we would not have to labor under the harsh sun. I reminded him how the approaching sunset will bring a return of the black moon and possible recurrence of the blue lightning storm. He moved faster then, but told me he needed to take a break and disappeared around the side of the outcropping. I eventually finished the digging and went looking for him, finding him curled up in the shade taking a nap like a kitten. I shook him awake and we carried Post’s body to the grave. Kondo and I blanketed him with dirt and placed the largest rock we could find as a headstone.

Official sunset occurs in seven hours. If we set out across the rocky plain now we could reach our tree ring destination and its Moscovium cache before the red disc descends below the mountain peaks. Without knowing if RDS B will rain down lightning upon us again this night we would most probably find ourselves out in the open, completely exposed to its wrath. Squinting into the bright afternoon sky the black moon is just visible trailing the hypergiant.

I am concerned about how long the electrical storms will keep us pinned here close to these rocks, unable to make progress. Are they a fleeting phenomena, or a months long affair?

Day 16, 13:17 hours

We are not the first to have visited this world.

Last night was uneventful. The black moon became visible not long after sunset, ringed in the electric blue glow of its event horizon. The remaining three of us broke camp an hour before and huddled beneath our rock overhang shelter expecting more pyrotechnics. None came. I am optimistic these storms are an infrequent event.

With that optimism in tow we set off this morning shortly after sunrise for the ring of trees and the desperately needed Moscovium deposits they sheltered. After crossing the rocky plain for almost three hours as the red fireball climbed in the sky we finally reached the edge of the forest. Our orbital photos showed a circle of trees around a circular depression, but from our vantage point on the ground the depression is in fact the shape of a hexagon. What is more, the walls of this hexagon are remarkably vertical, as if a large cookie cutter had been driven into the ground to a depth of thirty meters and the material inside scooped out. The trees that ring the depression continue on to the southeast as dense woods, as if the cookie cutter had clipped the forest’s northwest corner. Such an excavation would require the removal of nearly 2.3 million cubic meters of dirt, however there is no sign of this extracted material anywhere in the vicinity.

If the excavation story is to be believed, the event must have occurred far in the past as portions of the steep vertical walls have eroded in several locations, likely the work of rainwater. Sections of the perfect right angle edges along the rim’s edge have disappeared, replaced by steep angled ravines. Reed, Kondo, and I used one of these gullies to reach the basin floor.

The basin itself is a reasonably flat expanse of dark gray ground littered with small rocks and sporadic patches of the chaff-yellow prickle bushes, at least where it isn’t covered with the mounds. These mounds, each one standing nearly eight meters in height and composed of dirt and rock, are perfectly round domes, as if created by pouring a pile of material from a chute high above. Hundreds of these mounds dot the basin floor. The spacing between them varies, from a dense packing in some places to very loose in others.

And litter would be an apt description for their purpose. As we walked the basin, circling south around the massive dirt piles, we discovered five large caverns along the easternmost wall of the hexagon. Far from random formations, these dark, semi-circular openings stand with a six meter radius and are spaced 9.3 meters apart. They appear to be entrances to subterranean mines. The entire basin seems to have been a mining operation where materials were extracted from below ground and sifted, with the tailings piled into these mounds.

Among the hundreds of mounds, two appeared to be smaller than all the others and glinted silver-red in the sunlight. We thought they might be piles of precious metals but as we approached these mounds took on a more intentioned shape, like silver qubbāt removed from their edifices. Drawing closer, we discovered these structures were rounded domes with hexagonal bases. They stand five meters high at their apex, have no discernible windows or doors, and are covered in a seamless, smooth sliver skin formed of an unknown alloy. Are they spacecraft? Landers? Portable cabins? Storage depots? It is difficult to say. My comm does not recognize the structures from its catalog of alien artifacts. They are certainly not of human origin, for we are the first of our kind to reach this far into the galactic center.

Before breaking for lunch we did confirm there are Moscovium deposits here, with fairly strong readings emanating from several of the mine entrances. We plan to select one of the mines to explore after we finish eating.

Day 16, 15:55 hours

We have found Moscovium! A huge deposit, in fact.

After lunch we ventured into the second mine from the left, the one that offered the strongest trace readings of the precious material. Though the floor was level at the entrance it soon dipped steeply downward and continued on for kilometers.

With Kondo holding the sensor pack both Reed and I snuck glances at the screen, looking for the telltale byproducts of Moscovium decay. Ten minutes into the cave the sensor panel lit up with tall, green bars. Shining our light on the rock wall we saw the orange flecks of Moscovium ore, a deposit several meters across and extending from the floor to the roof’s center overhead.

The three of us quickly unfolded our shovels and the autocart we brought along as a collection bin. We took turns digging into the tunnel wall, each strike dislodging large clumps of the orange-flecked ore. After gathering twenty kilograms of the material we ordered the cart up the steep path to the surface.

Day 16, 17:22 hours

Dr. Reed is dead. I fear I may be joining her shortly.

The cart made the steep climb out of the mine without too much trouble, stopping twenty meters from the entrance. This was our first opportunity to assess in the sunlight, red though it was, what we had gathered. We pushed the ore around with our shovels, getting a sense of how pure a vein of Moscovium we had mined. The find turned out to be of extremely high quality, a great stroke of luck for us.

After spreading the ore Kondo noticed two fist-sized clumps of a mineral that definitely was not Moscovium. These rocks were black, crystalline, with an odd ruby-red shimmer. The clump I lifted was very heavy for its size—though it fit in my palm I almost had to use both hands to hold it aloft. I quickly put it back in the cart.

Scanning the other clump, Kondo reported its mass at just over eleven kilograms, an enormous reading for a roughly fist-sized rock. All three of us were amazed such a relatively small rock could weigh so much. The scanner’s spectral analysis results were also odd, showing spikes for every element in the periodic table.

This seemed plainly impossible and I surmised the device was malfunctioning. Kondo, having much more experience with the scanner, pursued an idea that came to him from the spectral analysis chart. He placed the device into active scanning mode so it measured the clump’s mass more than a trillion times a second. He adjusted the display to plot mass vs. frequency—that is, the mass of the rock along the x-axis and the number of times the scanner returned a particular mass reading along the y-axis.

Trained on any normal material the scanner would show a tall spike at the material’s mass, a single reading that would register no matter how many times you measured it. What we saw in the case of the black clump astonished us. Instead of a spike the scanner produced a plot resembling a black body radiation curve, a hump that tapered off at either end. The curve implied the black rock, when scanned, did not always have the same mass. At any given instant of time it weighed in at one of the masses on the graph, everything from zero to nearly ten to the twenty-one kilograms! The more extreme masses were much rarer than the masses in the center of the graph, hence the tapers on the left and right. The hump peaked at 2.2 kilograms, the most-frequent mass sampled by the scanner. Kondo surmised the material somehow did indeed have each of these masses, and that the original mass measurement of eleven kilograms was a weighted average of all the different mass readings over time.

As a simple astrophysicist I could not begin to take that conclusion seriously. I was content with chalking the odd readings up to a scanner on the fritz, but Kondo and Reed were intrigued by the idea. Kondo in particular wondered how such a stone would behave moving through a gravitational field. A normal object traveling through the air follows a parabolic course to the ground. He wondered if this strange mineral would also trace out a parabola, or would its apparently shifting mass cause it to follow a less regular path.

With all the restraint of an impulsive child, Kondo grabbed one of the black stones and tossed it into the air. Based on his unscientific experiment I can report the stone appeared to follow a smooth parabolic trajectory. Unfortunately, Kondo tossed the stone so that it landed on a tailings pile not three meters from us. The stone casually rolled down the pile, followed by an enormous rumble as the pile’s face collapsed and slid towards us. If the theory of shifting mass is to be believed, the rock’s large, instantaneous spikes in mass likely tugged at the pile’s loose material, destabilizing it and causing it to flow outward like a liquid.

The flow moved at incredible speed. I reached for Dr. Reed’s hand to pull her from the avalanche but she had been seated on the ground, nursing her sore head. I couldn’t get her to budge as I sprinted away. The dirt completely enveloped her under a three meter tall mound.

Kondo escaped to the left of the flow and I to the right, in the direction of the silver domes. Unfortunately for me the mineral chunk Kondo heaved into the air continued rolling in my same general direction, pulling more of the tailings pile towards me. In my haste I tripped, severely twisting my ankle. Crumpled on the ground I could only watch as the avalanche sped toward me, eventually coming to rest just half a meter from my feet.

I have yelled for Kondo several times but he has not answered. I can only imagine he is either hurt or buried beneath an expanse of rock. My ankle still throbs, a full hour after wrenching it. The MEDIkit has meds that could help with the pain. I might be able to crawl to find it, if it hasn’t also been buried with our camp equipment under the tailings. But tamping down the pain is pointless now as my Craeter’s has chosen this time to flare up again. If I were back at the Adiona I could receive suitable treatment but here, with just the MEDIkit and no doctor on call, my prognosis appears bleak. I expect to lose consciousness soon. I trust someone on the Adiona has been monitoring these logs and will send help immediately. I have activated my distress beacon. Although likely out of range for the ship to detect from its current location, it should assist in locating me once at the basin. I only hope you find me unconscious and not dead.

God damn Hohlt! If not for him we would not even be on this planet! We would most likely be returned to normal space, and I would be selecting a tie to wear for our triumphant press conference.

I weep at the thought of a Universe so cruel as to deny me the achievement of a lifetime. I choose not to believe in such a Universe, or such a fate. In all the setbacks of my career, I have always moved forward after each one. I refuse to accept that this setback, this hiccup, will be any different.

My dear friend Yoichiro, I pray you receive this message and mount a rescue effort with all due haste, and that your face will be the one I see when I next open my eyes.

12

Why in Hades are we down here?

Captain Holbrook stood alone in the center of Cargo Corridor C-1, twenty dim meters from its intersection with Deck C’s Outer Loop. Nearby a pair of robotic palettes executed a silent ballet, shuttling cargo between holds.

A figure entered C-1 from the distant Outer Loop. The relaxed gait, swaggering side-to-side movement, and silhouette of a man with hands in pockets all suggested Commander Stephens.

“Hey cap,” said Stephens as he walked up to Holbrook, “what’s up?”

“What do you mean, ‘What’s up?’ You asked me to meet you down here.”

“No I didn’t,” said Stephens. “You messaged me about meeting you here on Deck C.”

“I can show you the message,” Holbrook grumbled, activating his comm. He wasn’t making things up.

“I didn’t send you a message. Besides, this isn’t the kind of place I’d ever pick for a meeting.” Stephens glanced around the passageway. “It’s secluded, OK maybe for a quick, private chat, but there are other spots on the ship that’d be better. I figured you had a good reason to meet here.”

“Here it is,” said Holbrook, presenting his comm to Stephens.

“I never sent that,” said Stephens. “‘Please proceed forthrightly to Deck C?’ Is ’forthrightly’ even a word?” Stephens rifled through screens on his own comm. “Here’s the message I got from you.”

Holbrook studied the note. “So you have a message from me that I never sent,” he said, rubbing his chin, “and I have one from you that you never sent. It seems someone has sent messages to each of us to get us both down here.”

“Maybe they want to meet with the two of us,” said Stephens.

“Faking messages to the captain and the XO will certainly get them a meeting, but probably not the one they’d hoped for,” said Holbrook. “Let’s figure out what’s going on.” He spoke into his comm. “Starship Avenger, what’s the origin of the two messages —”

- - -

“Anyone know where Stephens is?” asked Lieutenant Bhat. “Or the captain?”

“Not sure,” said Lieutenant Commander Mills, legs crossed and sitting comfortably in the captain’s chair. “What, you already fed up with my command? The shift’s not even fifteen minutes old.”

“Nah,” said Bhat. A frantic yellow light flashed on the communications terminal. He cleared it with several taps. “It’s just odd that neither of them is here. We usually see Commander Stephens at the start of a shift at least.”

“Maybe this is their way of showing a little more confidence in us,” said Mills.

“Seems unlikely,” said Ensign Cochran, facing the engineering station but with her head turned back into the room. “One of the commander’s favorite phrases is, ‘trust, but verify.’ He probably does trust us, but he’ll definitely be along to verify everything hasn’t gone to seed.“

Flashing red lights exploded across Cochran’s entire terminal. The ship shuddered, rattling the empty chairs in the room. Klaxons filled the air and red light flooded the bridge.

“Red alert,” said the ship in its placid, androgynous voice.

The Avenger lurched sideways and shuddered, seemingly coming apart. Lieutenant Commander Mills gripped the armrests on the captain’s chair, all his efforts focused on not being thrown to the deck. The ship jerked backwards, tossing officers towards the front of the bridge. Ahead on the main viewscreen each corkscrew of rainbowed starlight contracted, shortening to an ordinary bright dot.

“We’ve dropped out of warp,” said Ensign Doerr from the deck. She had been standing when the ship made its first violent movement, tossing her down. She pulled herself up by grabbing the sides of her station.

“What the hell happened?!” yelled Bhat.

“Don’t know,” said Doerr. “It felt almost like we hit something.”

“Or like we were attacked,” said Mills. “Are there any ships in the area?”

“No sir,” said Lieutenant Bolton from tactical. “My board shows green.”

“Starship Avenger, report status,” said Mills.

“En route to Sagittarius A Star, position 11,121 light years from the event horizon, velocity 0.0 c. Gravity Drive deactivated after a large instability developed in the warp field.” Several seconds passed before the ship spoke again. “Detecting damage to outer hull, underside of Deck C, localized to the port vertex.”

“Is the ship in any immediate danger?” asked Mills.

“No, the Avenger is in no immediate danger.”

“What’s the status of the port gravity field generator?” asked Ensign Cochran, the engineering terminal still flooded with red.

“No damage detected to the port gravity field generator,” said the ship.

“So we didn’t lose the generator—that’s good,” said Mills. “Please describe the extent of the damage.”

The ship remained silent for several seconds, collating data. “A section of the outer hull near the port gravity field generator has been damaged. The deck and several bulkheads on Deck C have been destroyed or compromised, resulting in an atmospheric breach. Adjacent bulkhead doors have been sealed to prevent ship depressurization. Two cargo holds in that area have been damaged. Some of their contents evacuated to space during the explosive decompression.”

“My God,” said Mills. “What caused the breach? Did we hit something?”

“The location and extent of the damage as well as the warp field signature immediately prior to the event correlate with the complete loss of the gravitational waveguide adjacent to the port gravity field generator. Hull damage is consistent with the waveguide shearing from the hull and disintegrating. Simulations suggest the destabilized warp field propelled shards from the waveguide into the ship’s underbelly.”

Mills’s voice grew soft. “We’re there any casualties?” he asked.

“Two casualties confirmed with 99.96 percent confidence,” said the ship. “Captain Thomas Holbrook III and Commander Paul Stephens were both present on Deck C within the damaged section immediately before the shear event. There are currently no life readings in that area of the ship. Their bodies were likely jettisoned into the vacuum.”

Ensign Doerr placed her hand over her mouth as tears welled. Other members of the bridge crew sat stunned.

The news of their deaths hit Mills hard but he attempted not to show it. As the officer of the deck he fought to keep it together long enough to take the next important step. “With the captain and commander gone, that places Commander Lynch in command of the Avenger.” Mills didn’t care much for Commander Lynch—he wasn’t sure anyone did. The man inspired no enthusiasm or devotion in his reports and was generally unpleasant to be around. The ship would need a leader who could rally the crew and guide them through this difficult time. Hopefully, for everyone’s sakes, the commander would rise to the occasion. “Starship Avenger, please have Commander Lynch report to the bridge immediately.”

- - -

Lieutenant Commander Mills sprinted to Deck A’s Gemini conference room, arriving four minutes past the hour along with Lieutenants Byrne and Bolton. The three fanned out around the long rectangular table, grabbing empty seats interspersed among the nine other officers already present.

Mills surveyed the room. Commander Lynch sat at the table’s head with his hands neatly folded on its surface. He sported a self-satisfied expression, fueled no doubt by his ascension to the post of acting captain. The most loathsome officers aboard the Avenger flanked him: Lieutenants Knox and Grey on his left, and Lieutenant Zhang on his right. They too seemed to preside with an air of satisfaction, a bishop and his three vicars presiding over their captive congregation.

The other officers around the table held somber expressions. Some hung their heads, some looked on with folded arms and defiant eyes. Even accounting for the sad news of the loss of Captain Holbrook and Commander Stephens an added level of misery and sorrow weighed on the room.

“I believe we’re all here finally,” said Lynch. “Please note for the future that I expect punctuality in meetings.” He eyed Mills and the other two late entrants. “I understand these are extraordinary times and do give allowance for that fact, which is why I’m only raising this issue rather than taking stronger action. Just remember, punctuality, generally speaking, is a sign of respect.

“Now with that bit of unpleasantness behind us, thank you all for coming. In light of the events of the past two hours I felt it important to convene a meeting of the Avenger’s departmental heads sooner than later. As you all know by now, a port-side gravitational waveguide disintegrated from the stresses of our extended use of the Gravity Drive, an unfortunate outcome I had predicted would very likely occur. The shattered waveguide damaged the ship, and in the process killed the captain and Commander Stephens.

“Many aboard the Avenger held Holbrook and Stephens in high regard,” said Lynch.

Many aboard the ship, but not you, Mills noted.

“A formal farewell ceremony will occur in two days time. For now I would like to recognize these men for their dedication to this crew, this ship, and to CentCom. Please join me in a moment of silence.” Lynch closed his eyes and bowed his head.

Mills bowed his head along with everyone else in the room, but kept an open eye on Lynch and the officers next to him. Knox and Zhang opened their eyes and exchanged smirks. Zhang caught Mills watching him, scowled, and closed his eyes again. The smirk soon returned to his face.

Twenty seconds later according to Mills’s comm Commander Lynch looked up and coaxed a feigned expression of heartfelt sadness onto his face. “Thank you,” he said. The others raised their heads. “In Stephens’s and Holbrook’s absence I am the most senior officer aboard this vessel and therefore the ship’s acting captain. It is with great humility and a heavy heart that I accept this responsibility.”

What a steaming pile of crap.

“To assist me in keeping the ship running smoothly during this challenging time,” said Lynch, “I have appointed Lieutenant Grey acting executive officer.” Grey, stubble peppering his gaunt face, nodded towards the other officers around the table.

“For my third in command, I appoint Lieutenant Zhang.” Zhang, with his scraggly mustache and goatee and round, lamprey mouth of pointy teeth, clearly struggled to present a somber face while actively suppressing a smirk. The man was a psychopath. Mills shuddered at the thought of being alone with him in a corridor or P-cab.

“Finally I have appointed Lieutenant Knox to the newly created position of Special Assistant to the Captain.” Knox didn’t nod as the others had, maintaining instead his perpetual scowl, as of a prize fighter before a bout. Relatively short and squat, the lieutenant had a block head sprouting a brown buzz cut, Neanderthal brows, fleshy lips, a boxer’s crumpled nose, and muscular biceps he bared at any opportunity.

“Once we conclude here,” said Lynch, “you will all schedule meetings with your reports and relay this new command structure as well as the other information being dispensed.” The commander’s eyes moved around the table until they fell on the ship’s damage control officer. “Lieutenant Collins.“

Collins’s startled to attention, his mind apparently elsewhere.

“Damage control update, Mr. Collins,” said Lynch.

Collins cleared his throat. “Well, we don’t understand much more about the ship’s status than what it reported two hours ago. We —”

“Mr. Collins,” said Lynch in a patronizing voice. “You are, indeed, the ship’s damage control officer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then would it be correct to say that you should understand the ship’s damage control status?”

Collins gave Lynch a perplexed look. “Yes sir. But we’ve had trouble deploying the autobots to survey the hull. They’ve not been responding to instructions, perhaps because the change of command hasn’t propagated to all ship systems.”

“Lieutenant Knox,” bellowed Lynch. Knox, with a dull expression and drawing breaths through his partially open mouth, shifted his eyes sideways under his thick brows towards Lynch. “See to it the new command structure has been properly updated in all ship systems.” Knox did not acknowledge Lynch’s order, and after a few seconds his eyes shifted back to staring out into the room.

“I’ll try with the bots again,” said Collins. “If that doesn’t work we’ll have to send one or two engineers outside for a survey. Either way, until we know the full extent of the damage we can’t estimate repair time.”

“What is the plan once we are able to move?” asked Mills.

“We will head directly to the dry dock facility at Aludra,” said Lynch. “Once there we’ll put in for full repairs and a comprehensive safety review of the ship. To reduce the chances of any more problems with the Gravity Drive we will travel at half power with regular two-day stops, as I originally recommended.”

“What about our current orders, our mission to Sag A Star?” asked Dr. Marsden.

“As the captain of this vessel I am going to do what Holbrook should have done weeks ago: get us off that assignment. To that end, our current predicament serves us well. We’ll take almost two weeks limping our way to the Aludra system, and another month, possibly two, for the safety review and repairs. Based on the urgency of this mission, CentCom will have no choice but to dispatch a different ship, freeing us of our current obligations.”

As Lynch finished his sentence the conference room door slid open and four members of the Avenger’s security force filed in, taking positions along the far bulkhead from the commander. They stood at ease, facing into the room in their royal blue uniforms with hands clasped behind their backs and Immobilizers holstered at their waists.

Lynch stared at the men, confused by their sudden appearance and annoyed at the interruption. “You security men,” he said, raising his voice to project it fully across the room, “this meeting is for department heads only. Lieutenant Byrne will brief you in a separate meeting on the issues we’re discussing here. Please exit this conference room.”

“It’s OK Mr. Lynch,” said a voice from beyond the open door, “I invited them.” Commander Stephens stepped into the room to gasps and applause. Several of the officers stood with large smiles. Lynch hid his disbelief behind a poker face.

Ensign Doerr rose from her seat near the door and shook Commander Stephens’s hand. “We thought we’d lost you,” she said with a huge grin.

“It’s not time for me to die just yet,” said Stephens. “Besides, who’d watch over this guy.” A stern-faced Captain Holbrook entered the room, followed by cheers and more applause.

Stephens raised his hands for quiet. “Commander Lynch,” he said, “did we miss much?”

“Sir,” stammered Lynch, confused. “I am, we all are very excited to see you and the captain alive. We thought you had perished in the explosion on Deck C.”

“Explosion?” asked Stephens. “What explosion?”

“The ship advised us that the port gravitational waveguide disintegrated,” said Lynch, “destroying a section of Deck C, the section where you and the captain were apparently standing.”

“The captain and I just came from there,” said Stephens. “Everything seemed to be in order when we left.” Stephens turned to Holbrook. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

Holbrook only stared at Stephens with his stern expression.

“There’s actually something interesting about that waveguide,” said Stephens, turning back to the room. His eyes met the engineering chief’s. “Would you like to know what it is, Commander Lynch?”

Lynch held fast.

“That’s one of the three waveguides inspected by an autobot during our four hour layover at Plana Petram. Three out of the ten total waveguides on the hull. When I learned about it I found myself asking why those three? And the inspection began right after the captain and I left and ended before we returned. The whole thing seemed strange, so before we shipped out I had a different autobot make its own inspection. Wanna guess what it found?”

Beads of sweat broke out across Lynch’s upper lip as he wrung his hands under the table.

“A small explosive charge—the one you planted on the waveguide.”

Gasps and murmurs of conversation broke out across the room.

Stephens waited for everyone to settle down before continuing. “Given how you’d already gone on about the perils of taxing the Gravity Drive, who would be surprised if a waveguide were to suddenly fail completely. The explosion would damage the ship so it couldn’t continue on to Sag A Star. Only there was the risk that no matter what, Holbrook would still force the Avenger to proceed with its mission. To avoid that scenario you needed to be in command, and to do that you needed to get rid of me and Captain Holbrook.”

Holbrook locked onto Lynch with fierce eyes. Lynch returned his gaze for as long as he could stand, then looked back at Stephens. He dabbed the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

“When the captain and I both got messages calling us to the bottom deck I knew your plan was going down,” said Stephens. “Luckily I’d already told the ship what to do. The Avenger dropped itself out of warp and reported damage in Deck C. And it sealed off adjacent passageways to give me and the captain a place to hold out, undiscovered, until it was time for us to appear.”

“Commander Lynch, you are under arrest,” shouted Captain Holbrook. “The charge is mutiny.” Holbrook directed the security detail to the front of the room with a wave of his hand.

Lynch rose from his chair before the security men reached him. One placed Lynch’s arms behind his back and bound his wrists in restraints.

“You’re both mad,” said Lynch. “I want my advocate.”

“Of course,” said Holbrook, “though you’ll have to wait until we get back from Sag A Star.”

Lynch bared his teeth. “You’ve made up some conspiracy in your heads because you have it in for me,” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. “You’re accusing me of damaging my own ship—I’m the Chief Engineer, for goddsakes!”

“Were the Chief Engineer,” said Holbrook. “I appoint Lieutenant Conlin as acting Chief Engineer, at least through the end of this mission.”

Lynch’s face flushed red. “If you supposedly knew all along about this alleged plan,” he said, “then why the charade? Why not pull me from my bunk in the dead of night, throw a bag over my head, and detain me in some dark corner of the ship?”

“Because we figured you weren’t working alone,” said Stephens. “If we arrested you outright there was a decent chance you wouldn’t give up your co-conspirators. We needed to let your plan play out.”

“We knew that once you took charge of the Avenger you’d appoint your co-conspirators as your deputies,” said Holbrook. “They’d be the only people you could trust to help you run the ship.” He nodded across the room to the security team. “Lieutenants Zhang, Grey, and Knox, you are also under arrest for conspiracy and mutiny.”

Knox and Zhang rose as the security team stepped in behind them, Zhang with a look of surprise and Knox with his pugilistic scowl. Grey remained seated until they lifted him from his chair, his legs wobbling under his own weight. The guards pulled each man’s arms behind his back and placed his wrists in restraints.

“I chose these men because they were best suited to the positions I needed to fill,” said Lynch. “I don’t know anything about any mutiny or conspiracy. You have no proof to support any of your claims against me.”

Grey looked at Lynch, mulling the large man’s words. Lynch was right, they would have no hard evidence against him. Lieutenant Zheng had operated the autobot that placed the explosive charge. And Grey had used his own station to send the messages that lured Holbrook and Stephens to Deck C. All the communications between the conspirators had been hidden. Lynch could deny even knowing Grey and his buddies beforehand. The commander had orchestrated the whole thing while keeping himself clear of the actual dirty work. “You buggerin’, double-crossing sack of shite,” said Grey in a weak voice, his eyes red and watery. “Here you is, ‘anging us out to dry, with you figgerin’ to get off scot-free. You said no one would get caught, that we’d be runnin’ this ship and free of this buggerin’ mission. But they’s arrestin’ us. Aye, we’ll be sitting in the brig, still headin’ to our deaths with the rest of ‘em!”

“Shut … your … mouth … Grey,” Lynch said slowly through clenched teeth.

“Get them out of here,” snapped Holbrook. The security force corralled the four prisoners and moved them towards the door.

When the procession brought Lynch near Holbrook the captain placed his hand flat on the big man’s chest, stopping him. “The thing that gets me,” said Holbrook in a quiet voice, “is how you seem to have had no qualms about killing me. You and I have known each other for more than five years.”

“Don’t patronize me,” said Lynch. “I was trying to save this ship. Here you are speechmaking about me killing you when you have no qualms about sending me and everyone else to our deaths. To you it’s more important to follow the insane orders handed down from above than it is to protect your own crew. They’ll award you a medal, captain, but they’re going to pin it on your grave.”

Holbrook glared at Lynch for several seconds. “Take ‘em to the brig,” he said.

13

Captain Holbrook stepped three paces into the forward crew lounge on Deck A and paused, fighting vertigo. The triangular room sat at the tip of the ship’s forward vertex, its angled port and starboard bulkheads a single, continuous glassteel panel with a panoramic bend at the lounge’s far end. The long, clear panel rose from the deck to meet the flat glassteel sheet that formed a transparent cap over that portion of the ship’s top deck. For Holbrook, the glassteel enclosure created the disturbing feeling of standing within the void itself.

The captain surveyed the room. Four officers stood around a tall rectangular table one-and-a-half meters away, playing cards and drinking. Seven more sat in groups of two and three at tables along the transparent bulkheads, engaged in quiet conversation. At the lounge’s forward-most point, nestled within the great glassteel curve where the bulkheads converged, sat Dr. Riesen, alone at a small table with her back to the room.

The captain made his way right to the automat bar embedded in the back bulkhead. He had bowed to Stephens’s most-recent plea to curtail his alcohol consumption, remaining drink-free in all the days since the mutiny. It had been a clear demonstration of how he didn’t need alcohol to function. He could handle a drink—he deserved one, in fact. An hour ago the Avenger entered the distorted space around Sag A Star. They were committed, sailors on a doomed vessel unless their guest Dr. Riesen figured out a way back home.

The captain jabbed at the bar’s controls. He glanced back at Dr. Riesen while the machine dispensed his drink. Once the whirring ceased he pulled his glass from the automat’s base and slowly made his way to the front of the room. Muted illumination from light discs embedded in the lounge’s small tables created a delicate calm against the pyrotechnic chaos of rainbowed starlight that writhed beyond the transparent walls. Directly ahead of the ship loomed Sag A Star’s large black disc, surrounded by a thick band of glowing orange. Twisted spacetime teased triangular strands of the encircling band toward the disc’s center, creating the illusion of a massive black maw with a wreath of pointed orange teeth. Metallic blue-green tendrils of electromagnetic discharge lashed out at the cosmos in a squirming maelstrom of galactic rage.

Dr. Riesen sat motionless as Holbrook approached, her figure silhouetted against the black hole and the onrush of distorted stars. She wore a crimson tank and black slacks. Her dark hair hung around her shoulders. When he arrived at her table he stopped behind the empty seat to her right and placed his hands on the back of the chair.

The physicist, lost in thought, didn’t notice his presence. She continued gazing at the star field through the glassteel bend. A notebook sat on the table in front of her. Doodles filled the open page.

“Good evening, Dr. Riesen.”

Dr. Riesen jumped at Holbrook’s voice. “Oh, good evening, captain,” she said, “you startled me.”

“Apologies,” said Holbrook. He waited for the physicist to invite him to sit but she only looked up at him silently. “Mind if I join you?’ he asked.

“Please,” she said, though neither her expression nor her body language suggested any enthusiasm for his presence.

Holbrook lowered himself into the chair and placed his drink on the table. Dr. Riesen returned her gaze to the center of the glassteel bend where Sagittarius A Star loomed against the backdrop of squirming starlight. The two remained frozen in place for almost half a minute, the physicist engrossed in the panoramic view and the captain laboring to attract her attention with his stare.

Holbrook broke the silence. “I can’t remember the last time I set foot in this lounge.”

“It’s an amazing space,” she said. “I love watching the stars from inside a warp bubble. The beauty always amazes me. And the complexity. Each photon travels on a unique path through the spacetime eddies around the ship.”

“It must be very interesting to perceive the world through a physicist’s eyes —” Dr. Riesen had turned her head toward him as he spoke. The warm glow of the table’s lightdisc bathed her face in soft light, her black hair framing her pale skin. Ice blue eyes floated out at him. He’d been this close to her before, on Plana Petram and while reviewing the Adiona logs, but her beauty had never fully registered. Holbrook diverted his eyes to look off through the bend, concerned they might betray his thoughts.

“It’s what I was born to do,” she said.

“Speaking of which,” said Holbrook, turning back to the physicist while suppressing all thoughts of her beauty, “on Plana Petram Commander Stephens called you ‘The Prophet.’ At the time you said it was a long story.”

“It still is,” said Dr. Riesen.

“But now you have the time to tell it,” said Holbrook.

Dr. Riesen heaved a large sigh.

“If it’s something you’re uncomfortable discussing —”

“It’s fine, captain,” said Dr. Riesen. “I don’t mind talking about my background, I just tire of the reaction from non-believers.” Her piercing, ice-blue eyes locked onto him. “I will explain, but know that eye rolls and laughter will be met with silence.”

“I like to think I have an open mind,” said Holbrook.

“Are you familiar with the Hebrew Scriptures—the Old Testament?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Holbrook. “My mom owned several modern translations of the Bible.”

“In the Hebrew Scriptures God sent many Prophets to reveal His will and secrets to the human race on Earth,” said Dr. Riesen. “Hundreds of years ago, a very rich man named Dr. Abraham Riesen founded an organization called The Brotherhood, based on a revelation in a dream. In that dream the great Flower of Knowledge hovered before him as a bud, its petals all closed in on themselves. God’s hand appeared, curled in a fist that opened to His flattened palm from which rose a line of men, all wearing crimson robes with hoods that covered their faces. Dr. Abraham stepped forward and lifted the first man’s hood and saw it was Albert Einstein. Under the second hood was Niels Bohr. He continued lifting the hoods: Wolfgang Pauli, J. Robert Oppenheimer, Richard Feynman. The line of men stretched out to infinity, some standing on God’s hand, the rest on a bridge fashioned from two criss-crossed DNA strands. As he looked down the line of men, the great Flower of Knowledge bloomed, opening wide. He believed his dream to be a message from God, confiding in him how He revealed the inner workings of His Universe through his chosen people. Dr. Abraham called them Modern Prophets.”

“His chosen people? You mean the Jewish people?”

“Correct,” said Dr. Riesen. “Each of the physicists in the dream, from Einstein to Feynman to Pauli, each one was Jewish. All the great physicists were Jewish.”

All of them were Jewish? Holbrook wracked his brain for the names of other physicists. He could only think of Heisenberg, whose uncertainty principle underpinned artificial intelligence, and Ben-Aharon, the twenty-second century inventor of the Gravity Drive.

Dr. Riesen continued. “Dr. Abraham made his fortune in genetics, through his company which pioneered the field of made-to-order babies. The company logo was two criss-crossed DNA strands, the same as in the dream. He believed God was telling him through this dream that his company would play a role in the forever after stream of Modern Prophets, that he should use his company’s technology to start engineering these men.

“Dr. Abraham, in addition to being rich, was also somewhat eccentric. During his travels through India this Jewish man became a believer in reincarnation. He met the Dalai Lama and discussed how His Holiness’s centuries of repeated existence on this Earth and his memories of the past allowed him to understand everything more deeply. Dr. Abraham immediately saw the benefits of reincarnation applied to this idea of genetically-engineered Prophets, how the same man appearing generation after generation, in touch with all the knowledge and experiences of his past lives, would accelerate the rate of new discoveries.

“He asked the Dalai Lama if he could sample his DNA, to which His Holiness agreed. Dr. Abraham discovered a truth about the Dalai Lama’s genetic makeup that clued him to his ability to reincarnate. He tailored the first Prophet’s DNA to those specifications.”

“So you’re the reincarnation of the first Prophet,” said Holbrook.

“I am the third reincarnation of the first Prophet,” said Dr. Riesen.

Holbrook stroked his chin. “Do you believe that’s true?”

Dr. Riesen smiled. “It is true, captain.”

“But how —”

“Captain Holbrook, may I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” said Holbrook.

“I’m curious what brought you looking for me. Surely it wasn’t to ask about prophets and reincarnation.”

“Why do you think I came here looking for you?”

“Well you did say you never make it to the crew lounges,” said Dr. Riesen, “so I assume this is a special visit to find me.”

“Uh … yes,” he said, slightly flustered at being so easily read. “I wanted to see if you’ve made any progress figuring out how to get us out of D-space.”

“You noted our recent transit out of normal space,” she said.

Holbrook nodded. “Now that we’re actually in D-space the crew will be impatient to understand how we’re getting home,” he said, deflecting from his own personal interest. “I’m trying to keep ahead of the curve.” His eyes fell on her notebook. “Are those your notes?”

Dr. Riesen closed her notebook, hiding the page of doodles. “I haven’t made much progress, to be honest,” she said, grabbing her drink and swirling the remnants with the ice. “I’ve replayed several portions of the Adiona’s logs more times than I can remember, at least the parts that seem like they might hold a clue. In particular that part about setting up a ring of tachyon beacons—my mind’s hung up on that because it was such an odd detail. Unfortunately they didn’t elaborate. Otherwise there’s nothing so far.” She teased droplets of condensation from the side of her glass onto the tabletop and dragged them around the smooth surface with her finger.

Holbrook stared at her, confused. Their fates depended on Dr. Riesen understanding how the Adiona planned to return from D-space but she didn’t seem at all focused on the problem. In fact she’d given him roughly the same answer a week ago. “Honestly, I’d expected to find you someplace like the astrophysics lab working on the problem,” he said, struggling to keep his irritation from his voice. “I was a little surprised when the ship told me you were here in the lounge. Shouldn’t you be spending more time trying to figure out what they were up to?”

Dr. Riesen’s finger stopped its meanderings across the table. “Solving physics problems can be a mechanical process,” she said, “but I’ve found the hardest ones require a bit of inspiration. That’s not something you can switch on at will. And it doesn’t always happen in a sterile physics lab.”

“So you’re sitting here in the Deck A lounge, waiting for a flash of … inspiration,” said Holbrook.

“Something like that.” Dr. Riesen’s finger resumed its circular movements on the table as she looked ahead at the inrushing black disc.

Holbrook found the physicist’s response less than satisfying. He’d taken comfort in her joining their mission, in her being trapped with them at center of the galaxy. It meant finding a solution would be in her own best interest. Her page of doodles seemed far removed from the flash of inspiration she claimed she sought. “Why did you volunteer for this mission anyway?” he asked, annoyed at her seeming indifference. “I mean, you knew it would be a one-way trip if we can’t figure out how to get back home. Still, you decided to come.”

Dr. Riesen looked up from the table at Holbrook. “Yes, I knew it might be a one-way trip,” she said, “but if this mission fails, there may not be a planet Earth.” Her hand moved back to gripping her glass. “If I can help this mission succeed, it’ll be worth it even if I never see home again.”

Her mention of never seeing home again sank the captain into despair.

“How do you feel about this mission?” asked Dr. Riesen.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well, I volunteered,” she said, “but you were ordered to go. It’s the same outcome either way, but I imagine it might feel quite different to have no say in the matter.”

Holbrook jostled the melting ice in his glass. “This may sound strange,” he said, “but I’ve always wondered how I would respond if the order ever came down for a one-way mission. I’ve read about other captains in the same situation, tried to imagine how they must’ve felt knowing they were being ordered to their deaths. I wondered if they resented it at all. I never believed it would actually happen to me, though.” He sipped his drink, staring out uncomfortably at the swirling stars.

“So how did you respond?” she asked.

He shrugged. “In the end this mission’s the same as any other. They ordered us to fly off to Sag A Star, and here we are.” The captain stared off at the swirling spacetime.

“But does it really feel like any other mission?” she asked.

“I think it does,” said Holbrook. He took a breath, straightened himself in his chair, and jutted out his chin. “Look, we have a job to do,” he insisted with newfound resolve. “Getting back home comes later. I’m not concerned about that right now. It’s like any other mission. We have to stay focused on the immediate next steps.” He peered ahead through the glassteel bend.

Dr. Riesen studied the captain. “You said you’re not concerned with getting back out right now, yet you made a special trip here to ask if I’d managed any progress.”

Holbrook flashed a weak smile. “So much for taking my own advice on staying focused.” He sipped his drink. “When I look out to the future, to the end of this mission, we either fail, which means we’re dead, or we succeed, and we’re still dead. Assuming you can’t get us back home, that is.” Pain filled his eyes. “When I let myself think about those two scenarios, I don’t know, there’s this great emptiness that wells up inside me, like a giant hole.” Holbrook squeezed his glass.

“What do you think it is?” asked Dr. Riesen. “The emptiness, I mean.”

Holbrook considered the question. “My dad was in the service,” he said. “He was a starship captain. He’s the reason I joined. I wanted to be like him I guess, to follow in his footsteps. Whenever he came home on leave I would wait by the door for him to arrive. I never left his side, from the minute he set foot in the house to the minute he left. My mom called me his ‘shadow.’”

“You loved your dad a lot,” said Dr. Riesen.

“I did love him,” said Holbrook. “But I also hated him.” He sipped his drink again. “My dad died on a one-way mission of his own. We were all alone after that. I hated him for leaving us. I wondered if he ever thought what taking that assignment would do to a wife and kids waiting for him to return.” Holbrook gritted his teeth. “That’s part of why there’s no one waiting for me back home. I never want to do that to a wife, or family, to have them wondering if I’ll ever return, to have them maybe get that call one day.” Holbrook looked out at the stars. “That emptiness I feel,” he said, “I don’t know. All I can think is it must be fear of death.”

“Fear of death is natural,” said Dr. Riesen. “It’s part of the human condition.”

“It’s funny,” said Holbrook, smiling, “I don’t feel like I’m afraid of dying. I mean I don’t want to die or anything like that, but I don’t feel like I’m afraid of it. But that’s all I can think.” The captain looked back at Dr. Riesen. “For all our sakes, I hope you’re able to get us back home. The ship’s computing resources are at your disposal. And anything else you need.”

“Thank you captain,” said Dr. Riesen, “I will keep working at it. You can count on that.”

Holbrook lifted his glass and quickly downed the remainder of his drink. “I’ve got to get going,” he said. “I will leave you to your light show.”

“Thank you for the visit, captain,” said Dr. Riesen.

“Certainly,” said Holbrook. He stood, towering for a moment over the physicist, pivoted, and walked to the exit. Dr. Riesen resumed her vigil, staring into the approaching black disc.

Outside the crew lounge Holbrook stood for a moment and collected his thoughts. His whole interaction with Dr. Riesen had been strange, mostly driven by her odd indifference to their predicament. He’d need to get Commander Stephens’s take—his executive officer was excellent at reading people.

“Security to Captain Holbrook.”

The captain’s stomach tightened at the hail that came through his comm. Security never reached out to him with good news. Never. “Holbrook here.”

“Sir, this is Lieutenant Byrne.” The lieutenant paused for a lifetime. “It’s Tentek.”

“What about him?”

“He was scheduled fifteen minutes ago for his third daily check in with security. He never showed.”

“Never showed?” The aught was beyond punctual. Word had spread among the crew that when arriving for meetings Tentek would settle into his chair at the exact start time. “What was his last known location?”

“The ship logged him entering his quarters fifty minutes ago. Securcam footage doesn’t show him leaving, however the sensors in his room say he’s not there.”

Missing? Holbrook never liked the idea of having Tentek aboard his ship but protesting would have been pointless. The top brass made their decision, he could only follow their orders. Had Stephens been right about Tentek, about him being a double agent? Holbrook shook off the thoughts. His executive officer’s paranoia was rubbing off on him.

Paranoia or no, they needed to find the robot. “Have Commander Stephens and a security detail meet me at Tentek’s quarters,” said Holbrook. “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

14

Holbrook rounded the corner to Tentek’s quarters. He found Commander Stephens, Security Chief Lieutenant Byrne, and Security Officer Lieutenant Singh standing outside the entrance.

“Any updates?” asked Holbrook as he approached.

“No sir,” said Byrne. “There’s no footage of Tentek exiting his quarters, and still no sign of him anywhere on the ship.”

Based on that meager intel the aught’s cabin would be the best place to begin the search. Holbrook nodded to Byrne. “Open ‘er up.”

Byrne and Singh drew their Immobilizers. Holbrook debated if unholstering them was an overreaction or prudent precaution. Tentek had so far given no reason to question his motives, and there might be a reasonable explanation for their inability to contact him.

Lieutenant Byrne addressed the ship: “Starship Avenger, open Tentek’s cabin door per Captain Holbrook’s authorization.”

The door slid aside to a dark room, the light from the corridor penetrating a half meter into the blackness. Byrne activated the light on his comm and waved it into the space. The stark white beam lit the room’s back bulkhead, landing on the door to the cabin’s private head.

The two security men entered Tentek’s cabin while the captain and Stephens waited outside. Thirty seconds later came a shout from inside. “Clear.”

Holbrook entered the cabin and quickly scanned the space. His eyes landed first on the table with two chairs and a dresser. A queen bed pressed against the far bulkhead, its taught and wrinkle-free bedding seemingly undisturbed from its original state. The deck was free of clothing and any other items, and the room’s closet and head were both empty, their open doors revealing their pristine state. The entire cabin seemed as if it had never been occupied.

“He’s not here,” said Byrne.

“We’ll have to start a systematic search of the ship,” said Stephens.

“Hold on,” said Holbrook. “The ship said this was the last place it saw him. Did you and Singh search everywhere?”

“The room’s so small there’s nowhere he can be hiding,” said Byrne.

Holbrook shined his comm light around the cabin, pausing when it landed on the bulkhead next to the bed. The bed itself appeared to sit a few centimeters away from the bulkhead, not fully pressed against it. Holbrook walked to the foot of the bed and trained the beam along its left edge, shining light into a narrow gap between it and the wall. Within the gap, motionless on his side with his face mashed against the bulkhead, laid Tentek. “He’s here.”

“Where?” said Byrne in disbelief. He moved in next to the captain and inspected the narrow gap. The security chief turned to Holbrook. “I checked under the bed,” he pleaded. “There was nothing there.”

“The sheet’s hanging down on this side,” said Holbrook. “It blocked your view of the bulkhead.” The captain reached down. “Help me move the bed.”

Byrne swung around to the long side opposite Tentek and together the two men pulled. No longer pinned against the bulkhead, Tentek flopped face up onto the deck.

The captain kneeled over the aught and instinctively pressed his fingers against Tentek’s neck. The robot had no pulse, but he likely never did. “Tentek,” said Holbrook, “can you hear me?”

Tentek let out a weak moan. His head rolled towards Holbrook, eyes partially open but looking past the captain.

“Can you walk?” asked Holbrook. Tentek only stared back at him through low-slung lids, unresponsive. The captain put a hand under each arm and lifted. Tentek weighed much less than he expected, half that of a similar-sized human. He stood the aught upright. “Take him to Sickbay,” he said to Lieutenant Byrne.

“Sickbay?” said Stephens. “This thing isn’t even human. It’s a machine.”

“I know that,” snapped Holbrook, “but we need a place to examine him.”

Lieutenant Byrne hoisted Tentek with an arm behind his back and slung the robot’s arm around his neck. He headed to the cabin’s door with Tentek’s feet dragging along the deck. Singh, Holbrook, and Stephens followed him out.

Holbrook activated his comm. “Sickbay, this is the captain. Inform Dr. Marsden we have a patient for her.” He thought a moment. “Dr. Riesen,” he added, “please meet me in Sickbay.”

- - -

“Who’s hurt?” asked Dr. Marsden as Holbrook and the others entered Sickbay.

“Tentek,” said Holbrook.

“The aught?”

Holbrook nodded. “We found him passed out in his quarters.”

Dr. Marsden scowled. “You know this is a Sickbay, right captain, for human patients? Not a machine shop.”

“We don’t have a lot of options,” said Holbrook. “Besides, I know how you love a challenge.”

Dr. Marsden huffed. She directed Byrne to an examination table and had him lay Tentek on his back. The aught’s jaw lolled, and his face spasmed in apparent pain.

Dr. Riesen arrived and joined the four officers, crowded around the examination table.

“I need you all to take a giant step back,” barked Dr. Marsden. The officers and Dr. Riesen complied, giving the doctor room to work.

Dr. Marsden glanced at the vital signs viewscreen above the examination table. The screen remained blank, an odd sight with a body present. Even with a corpse the monitor reported temperature, blood chemistry, and time and cause of death.

The doctor pulled back both of Tentek’s eyelids and waved the beam from her thin medical flashlight across his pupils. His nickel irises constricted, their response much faster than a human’s. Dr. Marsden grabbed his wrist, checking for a pulse through the cool, pale phlesh. She gave up after a few seconds and sighed. “Tell me again why you brought him here.”

“He’s sick,” said Holbrook, “or at least looks like he’s sick.”

“That might be so,” said Dr. Marsden, “but none of my medical training can help him.”

“Do aughts even get sick?” asked Stephens.

“I’m sure they do,” said Dr. Marsden, “but I can’t imagine what he could have contracted aboard the ship.” Tentek twitched again. “He’d be better off in engineering,” she grumbled.

“Or the workshop,” said Stephens. “They’ve got the machinery to disassemble him.”

Holbrook glared at Stephens. “Just do the best you can with him, doctor.”

Dr. Marsden folded her arms and huffed again. “Nurse Mead,” she yelled, “help me get this ‘patient’ undressed.” Dr. Marsden unzipped Tentek’s jumpsuit at the front as Nurse Mead arrived. The two worked together, pulling the outfit down from his shoulders.”

“Prepping him for the spa?” asked Stephens.

“We need to check him for wounds,” barked Dr. Marsden. She turned to Holbrook. “Maybe Commander Stephens can be of better use somewhere else on the ship.”

“The commander won’t say another word,” said Holbrook and shot his XO an angry look.

Marsden and Mead removed Tentek’s jumpsuit, leaving him clad only in a set of thin gray boxer briefs. They surveyed the aught’s trunk, limbs, and head. At the end of their examination Dr. Marsden put her hands on her hips.

“What did you find, doctor?” asked Holbrook.

“Absolutely nothing,” said Marsden. “And that leaves me fresh out of ideas.” She shook her head. “If it weren’t for his chest rising and falling I wouldn’t even think he was alive.”

“That and his eyes,” said Dr. Riesen. “They’re moving like he’s in REM sleep.”

“No, not like REM,” said Dr. Marsden. “The movements would be faster, jerkier.” She studied Tentek’s eyes as they moved under his closed lids. “These movements are very regular.” She pulled back an eyelid and held it open for several seconds. She pinned the other one open as well. “They’re moving in unison,” she said. The aught’s eyes drifted from right to left, darting back to the right after tracking as far as they could, then restarting their slow movement to the left.

Marsden released Tentek’s eyelids. “You know what this reminds me of?” she said. “When I was a kid, my brother was into electronics. For one of his birthdays he got a small satellite dish kit. It used to track sort of like this, when it lost the signal.”

“Sig-nal,” whispered Tentek, his voice pained, “yessss.”

Holbrook moved in close to the aught.

“Careful, captain,” said Stephens.

The captain ignored Stephens. “Tentek, what’s happening to you?” asked Holbrook. “Are you sick? What can we do?”

“Losssst sig-nal,” he said.

“What signal?” asked Holbrook.

“Net-work …,” said the aught, straining to get the syllables across his lips.

“Network?” asked Holbrook.

“F-T-L …,” said Tentek, his voice trailing off with the last letter.

Dr. Riesen fell into deep thought, her eyes going glassy as they darted left and right.

“What’s ‘FTL?’” asked Stephens. “Is he speaking in code?”

“Captain,” said Dr. Riesen, returning from her thoughts, “may I speak with you?”

Holbrook gathered she meant away from Tentek. “Marsden, try to keep him talking,” he said. “Maybe that’ll help him snap out of it.” He directed Dr. Riesen to a nearby office, a small space used by the physician on duty. Commander Stephens entered after them and closed the door.

Dr. Riesen addressed the captain. “He said FTL network.”

“Do you know what that means?” asked Holbrook.

“I’m not sure ….” She thought again for a moment. “The name Collective, it refers to a hive mind, with all the individual consciousnesses interconnected.” Dr. Riesen looked out the office’s bay window at Tentek who still laid motionless on the table. “My guess is they’re connected to an information network of some sort. But it can’t be sub-luminal, or even light speed—the lag time would be unbearable over any significant distance. To be effective, such a network would need to send data at super-luminal speeds.”

Stephens’s mouth fell open. “You’re saying he’s connected to The Collective over some faster-than-light network?”

“Was connected,” said Dr. Riesen. “Just like we can no longer send or receive messages to CentCom because of all the spacetime distortion from Sag A Star, this faster-than-light network would be inaccessible to Tentek as well.”

“And that’s what led to his incapacitation,” said Holbrook. “He’s cut off from their network.” Which made sense—security lost track of the aught right about when they crossed the D-space boundary.

“That son-of-a-bitch’s had a network connection to The Collective all this time?” asked Stephens.

“That’s my guess,” said Dr. Riesen. “At least to the point where we entered D-space.”

Stephens glared at Tentek through the window. The aught still laid limp and motionless. “I told you this thing couldn’t be trusted,” he snapped. “It’s probably been updating The Collective on our progress and plans this whole time.”

“We don’t know that,” said Holbrook.

“We do know he didn’t tell us about his secret network connection,” said Stephens.

“It doesn’t mean he’s a spy,” said Holbrook.

“We don’t know what he is,” said Stephens, “or why he’s really here. We need to throw him in the brig, now, before he regains consciousness, or whatever you call it. Build a Faraday cage and lock him inside.”

“A Faraday cage won’t block tachyons,” said Dr. Riesen. “But if he was sharing information with The Collective we don’t have to worry about that now. No direct transmission can make it in or out of this deformed space.”

Holbrook agreed with Stephens to a point. Tentek maintaining a network connection to The Collective ever since he arrived on their vessel at Plana Petram, if true, seemed bad. But CentCom had vetted Tentek, had vouched for his trustworthiness, had even made special exceptions to the rules so the robot could board the Avenger. The top brass couldn’t be so foolish as to allow a spy on his ship. “Paul, I know you’re concerned about Tentek,” said Holbrook, “you have been from the start. But I think until we have a chance to talk to him we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions.”

“There’s nothing to talk to him about,” said Stephens.

The captain turned to the window, stroking his chin as he peered at Tentek. “I’ll station some security men in here,” he said. “When he regains consciousness, if he does, they can make sure he doesn’t go anywhere before we have a chance to question him.” The captain turned back to Stephens. “When he does wake, if he doesn’t have good answers to our questions, we’ll place him in the brig, with a Faraday cage and whatever else we think we need to contain him. OK?”

Stephens folded his arms and stared at the captain. “OK,” he eventually grumbled. “That’s something, at least.” He looked back at Tentek. “I worry, though, how much damage he’s already done.”

15

“Approaching the RD Sagittarii star system,” said Lieutenant Commander Mills. No one else spoke on the bridge, not even in a whisper.

“Acknowledged,” said Holbrook. The captain’s voice trailed off in half-distraction as he stood alongside Mills seated at the helm. Holbrook studied the tactical map that filled the main viewscreen, a bird’s eye view of the RD Sagittarii star system. Black grid lines partitioned the gray screen into sections with a monstrous red disc, the hypergiant star RD Sagittarii A, at the center. Not far to its right and slightly below the horizontal centerline hovered a smaller disc, deep black and ringed with an electric blue border, the second peril that lurked in the star system: the ten solar mass black hole RD Sagittarii B. The planet Infernum appeared further right with its gray land masses and pale violet oceans.

The sight on the viewscreen froze Holbrook in awe. The red star was immense, far larger than even the supergiants he’d encountered in the past. If placed in Earth’s solar system the hypergiant would engulf Saturn in its bulk. A tiny black triangle, the starship Avenger, rose quickly from the bottom of the map, far to the left of the red star.

The current plan had been proposed and debated, analyzed by the ship, tweaked, scrapped, resurrected, debated again, tweaked a second time, and finally ratified. Holbrook had considered insisting they start from scratch a third time but couldn’t fathom a viable alternative. They needed to enter the RD Sagittarii system and insert the ship into orbit around Infernum without being shot out of the sky by any anti-space batteries the aughts had waiting for them. They needed to use every resource at their disposal to conceal themselves. Those constraints dictated the major elements of their plan. He wasn’t so sure they would survive it. “Bring us around,” said Holbrook, transfixed by the viewscreen.

“Aye, sir,” said Lieutenant Commander Mills. “Counting down sixty seconds to orbital insertion.”

The ship’s androgynous voice began a steady chirp: “fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven ….”

The Avenger pivoted seventy-nine degrees to starboard, sweeping around in a wide arc that placed the immense red star directly ahead. The small black triangle drove steadily towards the giant red disc, advancing at 380 times the speed of light.

“Beginning our ascent,” said Mills, tapping the glass surface of the helm terminal. The Avenger’s force pads pulsed, pushing the starship into a gentle arc to bring it up and over the hypergiant’s northern hemisphere. On the tactical map, the small black triangle began its transit of the red disc.

“Fifty-two, fifty-one, fifty ….”

“Coming up on the northern pole,” said Mills.

Holbrook nodded. Until then the star’s bulk had hidden his starship. Their emergence above the hypergiant would be the first opportunity for enemy eyes to spot their ship. “Keep us as close to the star’s corona as possible, helm,” said Holbrook.

“We need to stay mindful of the temperatures in the corona,” said Ensign Reilly from the science station. “The star’s corona reaches 3.5 million degrees centigrade. And even aside from that there’s also the circumstellar envelope, a loosely bound outer shell of gas unique to hypergiants. Flying through the envelope alone will generate a considerable amount of friction, especially at our speed.”

“Without an idea of the threat we’re facing we need to hug the corona as closely as we can,” said Holbrook. “The closer we hug the surface, the more difficult it’ll be for anyone to see us.” As long as they didn’t incinerate themselves, that is. The Avenger’s designers had fashioned her as an attack vessel. They never envisioned the warship playing cat-and-mouse with a star or its black hole companion. “We’ll only need to hug the star while we’re flying over the pole. Once we start our descent they’ll have to pick us out of a thirty solar mass thermonuclear backdrop.”

The black triangle neared the red disc’s center on the viewscreen as the Avenger raced towards the giant star’s northern pole. The massive globe of churning, fusing hydrogen seethed below them, battering the ship with its ferocious heat and furious solar wind.

“Ship’s hull temperature rising,” said Lieutenant Commander Phillips. “Moving past forty thousand degrees centigrade.”

“Acknowledged Ops,” said Holbrook. “Steady ahead helm.”

“Forty-four, forty-three, forty-two ….”

“Hull temperature approaching fifty thousand degrees,” said Phillips. “Nearing design limits.”

Holbrook glanced at Lieutenant Amanda Bolton at tactical. The lieutenant read the question from the captain’s face. “If we climb to avoid more of the corona we’ll be visible for sure,” she said.

“Mills,” said Stephens, “can we boost our speed to get out of this oven sooner?”

“A little bit,” said Mills. “Increasing our speed will generate more friction from the circumstellar envelope, but the bigger problem is we’ll start to draft stellar material in our wake. The whorls and eddies of spacetime from the Gravity Drive are on the edge of disrupting the star’s surface as it is. An anti-space armament would pick that up for sure.”

Holbrook pursed his lips. “Increase speed by as much as you can.”

“Aye, aye sir,” said Mills. “Increasing speed to 384 c.”

“Thirty-six, thirty-five, thirty-four ….”

“Hull temperature fifty-two thousand degrees at the forward vertex,” yelled Phillips. “Some of it’s friction from the envelope.”

“Rotate the ship about its center,” said Holbrook. “That should distribute the friction more evenly along the perimeter.”

“Aye, aye sir,” said Mills. He tapped out instructions for the lateral force pads. “Reaching rotational velocity of six rotations per minute.”

“How we doing, ops?” asked Holbrook. He managed to keep his voice steady despite his ship hanging on the edge of burning up.

“Hull temperature leveling off around fifty-one thousand degrees,” said Phillips.

“We’re almost through the worst of it,” said Mills. “Starting our descent.” The helmsman pulsed the ship’s force pads to adjust the black starship’s course gradually down along the hypergiant’s northern hemisphere.

“Hull temperatures dropping,” said Phillips.

“Good,” said Holbrook, relieved. “Return lateral rotation to zero. When we level off make sure our course places Infernum dead ahead and that star directly behind us.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Mills. “Leveling off.”

Captain Holbrook discovered he had been holding his breath. He forced an exhale. They had survived, the first challenge anyway. The next involved dissipating all the heat from their solar transit.

“Approaching RDS B,” said Mills.

“Switch to forward video feed,” said Holbrook. The bridge’s main viewscreen shifted from the tactical map to an image of the black hole RD Sagittarii B, surrounded by twisted rainbows of starlight. The aughts would certainly detect the ship at its current hull temperature. The problem was the heat wouldn’t radiate into the vacuum on its own—they needed a medium to sop it up.

“Coming in range of the accretion disc,” said Mills.

The hole’s immense accretion disc, the ring of charged particles and dust encircling the singularity, glowed an electric blue. They would shed the excess heat onto the gas and dust surrounding RD Sagittarii B as they rushed past. Physics dictated the minimum distance they needed to fly from the accretion disc to cool the Avenger, but if they drifted too close to the black hole the gravitational forces would rip the ship apart.

“Hull temperature at forty-five thousand degrees,” said Phillips.

“Tactical,” said Holbrook. “Center on RDS B and zoom in.” The bird’s eye view of the RDS system reappeared on the viewscreen, this time with the black hole RDS B in the middle and magnified larger than the red hypergiant had been. The black triangle moved steadily to the right, its course marked by a dotted white line that grazed the top of the hole’s electric blue accretion disc.

The ship shook, the black hole lashing out with flares of subatomic particles and bursts of electromagnetic energy at the approaching black wedge starship. It shook a second time, rattling the chairs on the bridge.

“Hull temperature at thirty-nine thousand degrees and falling,” said Phillips. “But shear forces are increasing on the ship’s superstructure.”

“It’s going to be tight,” said Stephens. “We’re threading a pretty fine needle.”

“Stay sharp,” said Holbrook, looking nervously at the viewscreen.

“Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three ….”

The black starship continued to rock and shudder as it cruised through the dust and gas of the accretion disc. Eddies of warped spacetime cast off from the singularity jostled the ship and wracked the crew with nausea.

“Hull temperature at twenty-two thousand degrees and dropping fast,” said Phillips. The ship wrenched, threatening to throw the bridge crew from their seats. “Shear forces nearing dangerous levels.”

Holbrook wanted to vomit but willed himself to remain composed. “How we doin’, Mills?” he asked, squeezing the words through his discomfort.

“We’re through the worst of it, captain,” said Mills, also fighting waves of nausea.

“Confirmed,” said Phillips. “Shear forces are off their peaks.” The ship shuddered and shook but nowhere near as violently as it had. The disruptions gradually leveled out, the Avenger returning to smooth sailing.

“We’re clear,” said Mills.

“Hull temperature has dropped to near background ambient of interstellar space,” said Phillips.

Holbrook sighed in relief then steeled himself for the next phase, an exquisitely-timed sequence of steps to place them in the correct orbit around Infernum without being shot out of the sky. Their current speed protected them given the extreme difficulty of hitting a starship traveling faster than light. However the warped space that surrounded the Avenger, enabling its super-luminal speeds, also made it difficult for their sensors to detect exactly what lay ahead. The drop to sub-light would leave their ship vulnerable to weapons fire, and allow only seconds to react. “Forward video feed,” said Holbrook.

The tactical map disappeared, replaced by a field of rainbowed starlight swirls against the blackness of space. The gray-violet planet Infernum sat in the center of the viewscreen, growing larger.

An amber light flashed on the helmsman’s terminal. “We need to drop to sub-light speed so we don’t overshoot the planet,” said Mills.

“Dropping to sub-light will generate ripples in the spacetime fabric around the ship,” said Lieutenant Bolton. “Anyone looking for that signature will see a starship has entered the system.”

“Thank you tactical,” said Holbrook. “Prepare for evasive maneuvers. Please proceed with the drop to sub-light Mr. Mills.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” said Mills, “disengaging the Gravity Drive.”

The curls of rainbowed starlight contracted to single points of light across the Avenger’s viewscreen as the wormhole of twisted spacetime enveloping the black wedge starship dissipated, flattening out to normal space.

“Initiating braking sequence,” said Mills, the taps at his terminal energizing the lateral force pads. “Fifteen seconds to orbital insertion.”

“Fourteen, thirteen ….”

“Bolton,” said Holbrook, “any sign of anti-spacecraft activity from the planet?”

“Negative sir,” said Bolton. “So far there’s no sign anyone’s noticed we’re here.”

“At our present speed it’d be hard for them to scramble something to knock us down before we swing around the planet,” said Stephens. The commander stopped himself and thought for a moment. “Unless they have an orbital weapons platform ….”

“Let’s just hope they haven’t brought that much gear with them,” said Holbrook.

“Eight, seven ….”

“Ensign Reilly,” said Commander Stephens, “deploy the surface mapping autobots.”

Reilly tapped at her science station terminal. “Aye, aye, sir.”

The shuttle bay doors slid open creating a wide crack of shining light along the ship’s black underbelly. Four autobots exited the starship and fanned out across the planet, scanning and mapping their pre-assigned portion of the gray-violet globe. “Autobots deployed,” said Reilly.

“Three, two, one ….”

“Orbital insertion complete,” said Mills. “We’re transiting the dark side.” The planet Infernum loomed on the viewscreen as a large near-black circle against the star field, surrounded by a thin violet ring of backlit atmosphere. Red streaks of flowing molten lava slashed the disc’s interior.

“How long before our orbit takes us back out away from the planet?” asked Holbrook.

“About seven minutes, captain,” said Mills.

“Can we exhale yet?” asked Stephens. The commander and the captain looked to Bolton at tactical.

“We’ll never be able to rest easy up here,” said Lieutenant Bolton, “but I think we’ve skirted any major threat.”

“I’ll take it,” said Holbrook. “Great work, everyone. Mr. Mills, what’s our orbital status?”

“We’re locked in a wide elliptical orbit that will swing us twenty AU from Infernum at apogee,” said Mills. “Our orbital period’s synchronized with the planet’s rotation to bring the Avenger over the landing party’s planned drop zone once per day.”

“Let’s see the mapping data,” said Holbrook.

Two large circles appeared on the viewscreen, one for each hemisphere and partially filled with long, thin rectangular stripes of oceans and land masses. More stripes appeared within the discs on each autobot’s orbit. Five minutes after their deployment the autobots had fully mapped the surface and settled into geosynchronous orbits around the planet, preparing for future tactical use. The ship analyzed the sensor data for an additional minute, annotating the maps with geographic and other points of interest.

Holbrook’s brow crinkled. “There’s the Adiona,” he said, pointing at a teardrop marker on the viewscreen, “but I don’t see the Hex Men’s mine or equipment, or any sign of an aught ship.”

Stephens surveyed the maps. “Starship Avenger,” he said, “reanalyze the Infernum sensor data and identify the location of the Hex Men site.”

Several seconds passed before the ship responded. “No site matching the Hex Men mine images appears in the sensor data,” it said. “There are no sites exhibiting large scale sentient modification of the planet’s surface.”

“Huh,” said Holbrook. They had the right planet. How could the site, a kilometer-wide scar on the landscape that existed five weeks before, just be gone? “Commander Stephens, what’s your take?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” said the ship’s executive officer. “Did the planet swallow it up somehow?” Stephens studied the map again. “If we don’t see the mine maybe the aughts couldn’t find it either. Maybe they aren’t even down on the planet.”

“Maybe the aughts got what they came for and imploded the site,” said Holbrook, “to make sure no one else could mine Planck Matter.”

“We’d still see an empty spot on the map,” said Stephens. “A round patch of dirt with no trees or vegetation.”

“Maybe the vegetation grows fast on this planet,” said Holbrook.

“Even a depression filled with foliage would still show up on the map as a depression,” said Stephens.

Holbrook stroked his chin. He’d expected the mission to throw him a few curve balls, but more along the lines of a sneak attack or the aughts departing just as they arrived, not a completely missing target site. “We need to be certain the mine’s gone,” he said. But how to figure out where it should be? “We’ll land at the Adiona, check for survivors, then retrace the researchers’ steps.”

“Sickbay to captain,” crackled Dr. Marsden’s voice across the comm channels.

“Go ahead,” said Holbrook.

“Captain, it’s Tentek, my aught patient.”

Holbrook exchanged a glance with Stephens. “What about him?” asked the captain.

“Sir,” she said, “he’s awake.”

16

Tentek sat at the far end of the six-person conference table in the small meeting space down the corridor from Sickbay. He determined his location based on a precise measurement of the room’s dimensions and his memory of the Avenger’s layout. The data from his inertial sensors said he had moved from Sickbay to his current location.

Sickbay?

That was just over ninety minutes ago, but he could only remember the last ten minutes. And before then? A flatline of sensory input and computation.

His last memory before the flatline was … what? In his quarters … feeling faint. The room spinning, then blackness. Flatline blackness. But if his chronometer was correct that was over two days ago.

The door opened, admitting Captain Holbrook, Commander Stephens, and Dr. Riesen. Two security guards stood in the corridor on either side of the entrance, their backs to the room.

Was he a prisoner?

The two Avenger officers took adjacent seats at the opposite end of the table, facing him directly. Dr. Riesen sat along the side.

The captain gave the aught a wan smile. “Hello Tentek.”

“Hello captain, commander, Dr. Riesen,” said Tentek, nodding to each. The captain and the physicist offered cordial, if not friendly, expressions. Commander Stephens maintained an icy glare.

“How are you feeling?” asked Holbrook.

How much should he divulge about his current state? And how to find out what happened to him? Peppering the humans with questions would reveal how little he understood about the events of the past two days. He’d instead let the humans do the talking. He would fill in the blanks from the questions they asked. “Fine, captain.”

“We weren’t sure you would ever regain consciousness,” said Holbrook.

Tentek did not respond. His eyelids click-clacked in the room’s silence.

“Do you remember what happened?” asked the captain.

“Mostly,” he lied. “But I am having a little trouble piecing it all together.”

“We found you passed out in your quarters,” said Stephens. “That was shortly after we entered D-space. You were in Sickbay up until a bit ago when we moved you here.” The commander delivered his words like icy daggers.

D-space! Sag A Star! He had forgotten. His mind was groggy, like computing with circuits that were too hot. He wanted to return to his quarters, to lay down, to see if he could coax his systems a little closer to ground state. Probabilities suggested they were unlikely to allow that before he answered some questions. He did not recall being moved to the conference room but clearly their purpose in doing so was to hold an interrogation.

“My understanding of aught physiology is your body is designed to be resilient, with many safeguards and redundant systems to keep you conscious,” said Holbrook. “In light of that resiliency, I’m wondering if you can explain why you blacked out.”

Only one possible cause could have resulted in the symptoms he experienced. But perhaps a plausible alternative would satisfy the humans. “The ship recently entered D-space,” he said. “It may have been something like D-space sickness for aughts. The circuits and pathways in my synthetic brain have tolerances similar to your neuron connections. If adjacent pathways stretch or contract to different lengths, that can throw off delicate timings.” His human hosts stared back at him with blank expressions. Did they not understand his explanation? Or did they not accept it. “It may have been something like that.”

“Dr. Riesen has a different theory,” said Holbrook. He nodded at the physicist.

“When you were in Sickbay, at one point you seemed be to delirious,” said Dr. Riesen. “You called out about your connection to the FTL network.”

“I did?” said Tentek. Surprise and concern spiked in his nervous system circuits before he could tamp it down.

“I guessed you were talking about a faster-than-light network,” said Dr. Riesen. “A network that would allow all aughts to stay connected, no matter where they are in the galaxy.”

Tentek blinked at the three humans. Probabilities had not suggested he would fall ill when they reached D-space. And probabilities had not suggested the humans would be so smart. Should he tell them the truth, or risk a half-truth explanation? Probabilities suggested they already knew the answers to the questions they asked and that further dodges would only raise suspicions. “You are aware, doctor, of studies where animals, like dolphins and whales, have perished because of lack of communication and companionship from their own species? Even humans have been shown to break down and die after prolonged separation from other people.

“Aughts, in this respect, are no different. We are social creatures. An aught cannot survive on its own. We require interaction with others of our kind. While you humans achieve that interaction through close physical proximity to other humans, we do the same, except we use a network to form those connections.”

“A wireless network,” said Dr. Riesen, “accessible through interstellar space?”

The aught dithered. “That is correct,” he said.

“A tachyon-based network,” said Stephens.

Tentek did not want to discuss the Network but they had already deduced its basic function. “That is correct,” he said. “All aughts from The Collective connect to the Network using tachyon transceivers built into our bodies. Originally this network was of a very small scale, a simple planet-wide, light-speed network on our home world. However we had visions of traveling through the stars, of exploring, of moving freely through the galaxy. To do that while maintaining a connection we needed a fast network, specifically, a faster-than-light network, one that would allow us to remain in touch with one another even as we spread across the extreme distances of interstellar space.”

“I’ve heard enough captain,” said Stephens. “Permission to lock him up?”

“Hold on commander,” said Holbrook. “Tentek, to date you’ve presented yourself as an ally of humanity, yet you failed to disclose the very important fact of this network and your constant connection to The Collective.”

Tentek cocked his head. “I do not understand your statement, captain, or question, if it is a question. My Network connection to The Collective has no relevance to my desire to assist humankind.”

“Certainly it’s clear there’s at least a problem with the optics,” said Holbrook.

“You are a God damned sentient Collective network node point that we took aboard our ship,” said Stephens.

“And that is the very reason I did not disclose it,” said Tentek. “If I had told you on Plana Petram about my Network connection you would never have let me aboard your ship.”

“You’re damn right!” shouted Stephens.

“Paul, please …,” said Holbrook.

“You need me on this mission,” said Tentek.

“You mean so you can send updates to your Collective buddies on our progress?” asked Stephens, his face flush. “You’ve been in constant contact with The Collective ever since we left Plana Petram. What information have you shared with them? At the very least our location.”

“I have never sent the ship’s location to The Collective,” said Tentek, “and they cannot track me over this network.”

“Have you told them about this mission?” asked Holbrook. “Have you told them we’re coming?”

Tentek hesitated. “They already know we are coming,” he said.

The three humans sat stunned at Tentek’s revelation.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” said Stephens, quietly dribbling out each syllable. “I told you we should never have let him onboard.”

“They already know because probabilities suggest a high likelihood of such an event,” said Tentek. “With the kind of computational power at The Collective’s disposal it is quite easy to predict many events. Not with one hundred percent accuracy, but the results can be … uncanny.” Stephens looked as if he could jump over the table at him. Probabilities suggested Tentek had little chance of changing the commander’s mind no matter what he said. The commander was not the person he hoped to reach. “You must believe me when I tell you I have shared no information with The Collective, Captain Holbrook. I state again, unequivocally, I am on the side of humankind.”

“Does the fact that you’re conscious, talking to us now, mean your network connection has been restored?” asked Dr. Riesen.

“It does not,” Tentek said. “Prior to our entering D-space I had no concept of losing this connection, no understanding of what it would mean to me physiologically.” Tentek paused, his mouth half open as he computed the best words to use. “What I am about to tell you I only know from examining my system logs. When I lost my Network connection my normal consciousness went into a quiescence, a sort of sleep mode. From that point my body’s autonomic processes took over, the central one being the reestablishment of a Network connection.”

“What brought you back to consciousness?” asked Holbrook.

“Eventually the Network acquisition protocol timed out. My systems restarted with no connection at all.”

“So you’re able to function without a connection to The Collective,” said Dr. Riesen.

“I can function without a connection to The Collective for some amount of time,” said Tentek, “but not indefinitely.”

“What happens when time’s up?” asked Stephens.

“I will shut down,” said Tentek.

“How much time do you have?” asked Dr. Riesen.

“Five days,” said Tentek. “A week. I am not really sure. But between now and that time I will weaken, my mental faculties will dull.”

“All that from losing your connection to the aught network?” asked Holbrook.

“It is not just any network, captain,” said Tentek. “Subsystems drift over time, lose precision. The Network helps keep everything in sync. There are even pieces of me, of my consciousness, that do not exist locally, inside this shell.”

“That means the aughts sent by The Collective should have shut down by now too,” said Dr. Riesen. “They arrived in D-space a whole week before us.”

“It is likely they set up a local Network within their ship,” said Tentek. “Such a network would feel real, possibly even include a few simulated services to avoid some of the drifting I mentioned. They will have to be careful reconnecting to the real Network after they complete their mission, otherwise they will suffer something akin to the bends that humans get when rising too quickly from a deep ocean dive.” Tentek massaged his temples, hoping the affectation would suggest strain at proceeding. “Captain I am happy to answer more of your questions but for now I request that I be allowed to return to my quarters. Though I am conscious, my systems are not all back online which makes it difficult for me to think. I can be of better use to you after some self-maintenance time.”

“I’ll call security to escort him to the brig,” said Stephens.

“That won’t be necessary, commander,” said Holbrook. “Tentek, you may return to your quarters.”

Stephens began to protest but Holbrook waved him off with a look and a quick shake of his head.

“Thank you captain,” said Tentek, rising from his chair. He wobbled slightly, steadying himself with a hand on the tabletop. After several click-clacks of his eyelids he bowed and headed for the door.

“Make sure Tentek reaches his quarters,” shouted Holbrook to the security men outside. He wasn’t worried about Tentek running off, more that their aught guest might suffer another episode before he reached his cabin. The three headed down the corridor, disappearing behind the closing doors.

Commander Stephens seethed in his chair. “Captain,” he said, “I told you from the start this aught cannot be trusted, and here’s a perfect demonstration of that fact, which he confirmed himself. He created a massive security hole by just setting foot aboard the Avenger, a direct connection to The Collective that he deliberately did not mention. What else is he keeping secret? Maybe his full experiences, his conversations, visual inputs, everything, get uploaded to The Collective for analysis. They certainly have the bandwidth to pull it off.”

“His network connection has been severed,” said Dr. Riesen.

“Even if that’s true, even if he’s on our side as the two of you want to believe, we don’t know just what he’s capable of,” said Stephens. “What if The Collective installed some rogue programming he’s not aware of that’ll send him on a rampage the moment we land on the planet? What if there’s some built-in failsafe that activates when we’re about to blast his buddies?” The commander shook his head, his face red. “Tentek belongs in the brig, sir, wrapped in a Faraday cage and whatever other precautions we can think of to protect this ship. You promised me that. You promised we would lock him up after interrogating him.”

“Only if his answers were unsatisfactory,” said Holbrook. “There’s nothing he said that was clear evidence of deception.”

“He’s lying every time he opens his mouth!” said Stephens.

Holbrook did not want to disregard Stephens’s advice but had to weigh it against the commander’s hatred of aughts. He replayed their discussion with Tentek, seeking any additional insight. “We could, based on the answers he gave us, assume the worst and lock him up,” said Holbrook. “The problem is he may be truthful when he says he’s only here to help us, and we may still need him to complete our mission. For that reason I don’t think we should take any action that might disincentivize him from helping us.”

The commander folded his arms and looked up, channeling his anger into the deck above.

“If I’m wrong, Paul, you can be the first to say, ‘I told you so.’”

Stephens huffed. “If you are wrong, I hope we’re all still alive for me to say it.”

17

“You made it,” said Holbrook.

Commander Stephens had just arrived on Shuttle Bay Row where members of the Infernum landing party lined up behind the captain at the middle airlock: science officer Reilly; security officers Byrne, Shelton, and Edwards; Chief Medical Officer Marsden; acting engineering head Conlin; Tentek; Dr. Riesen; and planetary geologist Koh. All wore blue-gray EN-suits.

“I was thinking we might have to leave without you,” said Holbrook.

“You’d probably have to come back for me,” said Stephens, “unless you want Reilly leading the second team. On second thought, maybe that’s not a bad idea.”

“You’re still worried about leaving Mills in charge of the ship,” said Holbrook. “I agree he doesn’t have a lot of command experience, but he’ll do OK.”

“Lieutenant Commander Mills has the conn for one reason: he’s the best option from a meager set of choices.” Stephens sprouted a concerned look. “Maybe one of us really should stay behind.”

“This mission will succeed or fail by the events that unfold on the planet,” said Holbrook. “With one team investigating the Adiona and the other scouting for the Hex Men mine we’re going to need an experienced officer leading each party. We can’t have you or me up here while all that matters is happening down there. Besides, other than assist us on the ground as needed, all the Avenger will do is orbit the planet.” Stephens didn’t seem totally convinced but at least he had nothing more to say. “Starship Avenger, open Airlock Two and start the shuttle’s pre-drop sequence,” said the captain. The airlock spiraled open with a faint scraping sound.

“Everyone file in,” said Stephens. The two senior officers entered the airlock, proceeding to the two seats at the front of the elongated D-shaped craft. The rest of the landing party followed, unfolding thinly-padded seats from their nooks along the craft’s bare white interior and slipping their arms through shoulder restraints anchored in the bulkhead. The formerly silent cabin became a cacophony of thudding boots, clicking clasps, and tightening belts.

Holbrook settled into the pilot’s station and made a quick visual inspection of the landing party, confirming each member secure within their seat. “Shuttle,” he said, “take us to the Adiona.”

The shuttle beeped, unlatched its internal bay connections, and drifted out from its docking ring. The shuttle bay’s large doors slid apart beneath the small craft, flooding the hangar with dim red morning sunlight reflected off the rumpled cloud cover below.

Exiting from the Avenger’s belly the shuttle fell towards Infernum, transitioning from the starship’s gravity well to the planet’s. The Avenger’s bay doors closed and the warship accelerated to a tenth the speed of light, disappearing into the blackness of space.

The shuttle continued downward, gaining more speed as it plummeted through the layers of the planet’s atmosphere, the soft sound of rushing air growing louder within the cabin.

“Picking up some chop,” said Holbrook. Strong crosswise winds buffeted the craft at twelve kilometers above the planet’s surface. “Sorry about the bumpy ride, folks. The computer’s doing its best to counter with the lateral force pads but its reactions are just a few milliseconds too late.”

The captain reviewed the computer’s flight plan on the viewscreen. “Coming up on a thick layer of clouds,” he said. The sight through the shuttle’s glassteel viewport shifted from the violet-black of near space to a fluffy red-tinged white haze. Their velocity slowed slightly, the clouds cushioning their descent. The turbulence that previously jostled the craft subsided almost completely.

Seconds later the shuttle burst through the underside of the clouds, the rolling gray ceiling climbing away as the small craft continued downward.

The pilot’s terminal beeped. “The shuttle’s got a visual lock on our destination,” said Holbrook. “Fifty-four seconds to touchdown.”

“Any sign of activity around the Adiona?” asked Stephens.

Holbrook zoomed and panned the image on the terminal. “Nothing.”

The viewscreen snapped from its realtime camera display to a tactical readout. Red lights flashed in the bottom right corner. The shuttle emitted several soft chimes.

“The shuttle’s detected two objects rising from the surface,” said Holbrook.

“What are they?” asked Stephens.

“It can’t tell,” said Holbrook, “but based on their course and speed it doesn’t think they’re natural. Or friendly.” The captain switched the left side of the screen to a live view from beneath the shuttle. Two small, round, black dots rose against the backdrop of the planet’s yellow-gray landscape. They flew in a tight formation, with no more than a meter of separation.

“Those are drones from The Collective.”

The voice had been thin, metallic. Holbrook looked back into the cabin, finding Tentek staring back at him, his eyelids click-clacking. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Tentek. “They are outfitted with quantum pulse guns.”

“Those are small armaments,” said Stephens, “but more than capable of taking us out.”

“The two drones will work in tandem to bring down the shuttle,” said the aught.

On the viewscreen one of the drones peeled off from the other, rocketing upward.

“A drone is taking position directly behind the shuttle,” said Holbrook. “The other’s still on an intercept course. Initiating evasive maneuvers!” Holbrook tapped the viewscreen controls and the small craft executed a sharp port-side roll followed by a steep dive that caused members of the landing party to grip their restraints. A few officers cried out.

On the tactical screen the drone eventually returned to its position behind the shuttle. “Looks like that shook it off of us for a few seconds but it’s locking on again,” said Stephens.

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it to the ground without a fight,” said Holbrook. “Hang on everyone, this is not gonna be a pleasant ride.”

Holbrook flew the shuttle straight and level for three seconds, then placed it into a steep dive, its nose pointed at the ground. Several members of the landing party screamed.

The trailing drone adjusted its course to follow, diving down behind the shuttle.

Holbrook tapped the weapons controls on the viewscreen as the small craft drove downward. A fist-sized ball of orange and red plasma bubbled for twenty milliseconds in the nozzle of the shuttle’s rear cannon, then exploded upward in snakes of blinding flame.

The drone, its velocity augmented by the pull of the planet’s gravity, could not adjust its course in time to evade the blast. The plasma’s tendrils licked at its black surface before coalescing into a seething ball of ionized gas and energy that fully enveloped the small robot. The drone pitched up, imploded, and a tenth of a second later exploded, painting yellow light on the thick gray clouds above and raining bits of debris down toward the shuttle.

“Got one of ‘em,” said Holbrook. He tapped at the viewscreen to pull the shuttle out of its dive.

As the shuttle leveled its flight the second drone emerged directly in its path. The cabin filled with a solid tone.

“That’s a weapon’s lock,” said Stephens.

“Everyone hold on!” shouted Holbrook.

The drone fired its quantum pulse gun, releasing two blasts of phased energy.

Holbrook tapped furiously at the viewscreen, rolling the craft to port. The first blast grazed its underside, scraping an ugly dark gash along its smooth white exterior. Blue-green sparks sputtered from the shuttle’s aft.

The second blast connected more solidly with the small vessel, tearing a lengthwise hole in its starboard hull. The cabin depressurized with a loud, sustained hiss. The shuttle rolled to starboard as it plummeted to the ground.

“We’ve lost the starboard stabilizer,” yelled Holbrook against the deafening whoosh of air through the gash. “It’s gonna be tough maintaining controlled flight.” He tapped at the screen, reconfiguring the shuttle’s starboard force pads to compensate for the lost stabilizer. The craft came out of its roll and continued forward, with a slight list to starboard. The second drone moved to a position ten meters directly behind the shuttle.

Red circles flashed impatiently on the viewscreen’s system status board. “The power pack’s ruptured,” said Holbrook. “We’ve gotta land.”

“We must destroy the other drone first,” yelled Tentek from the rear of the cabin. “We cannot fight it from the ground.”

“If the power pack explodes we’re all dead,” said Holbrook.

“If we land before we destroy the other drone, making it to the ground alive will be of little consequence,” said Tentek.

Tentek was probably right about destroying the drone while aloft. If they landed they would cede the high ground to the device, and they’d be hard pressed to even scratch the thing with their hand weapons. But with the rupture it wasn’t a question of if the power pack would explode, but when.

Holbrook fired the rear plasma cannon. Tendrils of flame shot behind the shuttle but the drone drifted to port, avoiding the blast. Holbrook fired again. The drone jogged to starboard, evading the second bolt. “Damn thing’s hanging back,” he said. “At that distance it can easily dodge the shots from the cannon.”

The drone primed its quantum pulse gun. A solid tone filled the cabin.

Captain Holbrook energized the forward force pads to maximum. Superconducting coils rattled as the shuttle braked hard, throwing everyone into their restraints. The drone, its speed unchanged, barreled forward, closing the gap between it and the small craft. Holbrook fired a third shot. The drone danced to starboard but not fast enough to completely evade the blast. The plasma melted its carapace, destroying its flight control surfaces. The robot plummeted in a tightening spiral, trailing orange sparks and black smoke. It slammed to the ground in an explosion that flashed the surrounding terrain and brush, leaving a small fire where it crashed.

“You got him!” said Stephens.

Holbrook nodded. “Now comes the hard part,” he said under his breath. “After my breaking we’re falling like a brick.”

The captain pitched the shuttle’s nose down, placing the craft in a glide to regain some forward momentum. At fifteen meters above the ground Holbrook raised the shuttle’s nose, channeling its momentum into a climb. Klaxons rang out as their forward velocity neared zero. At seven meters above the ground the shuttle stalled. Holbrook energized what was left of its underside force pads. The craft floated gently downward until the pads failed a meter above the ground. The shuttle fell, slamming into a broad clearing of yellow grasses strewn with small rocks and boulders.

“Everyone out!” shouted Holbrook.

Dr. Riesen reached the airlock first and slapped her palm against the red emergency release button. Explosive bolts ejected the hatch. The round door skidded along the ground, stopping three meters away. She jumped out and turned to help the others behind her.

Three members of the landing party did not stir. Edwards, Reilly, and Koh, all sitting along the starboard side of the bulkhead, remained unconscious, or worse. Stephens, Byrne, and Holbrook worked to pop the releases on their restraints. Each man hoisted a limp body over their shoulders and lumbered to the open airlock, struggling with their loads. Infernum’s gravity was slightly below Earth’s but higher than on the ship. It would take time for them to acclimate to the new gravitational field.

Holbrook exited first, stepping over the lip of the round airlock, followed by Byrne and Stephens. The captain plowed forward, his head down as he concentrated on moving as quickly as he could away from the shuttle with the wounded officer on his back. At his twenty-third step he came upon a set of boots, facing him and planted directly in his path. The captain paused his march to look up. He found Lieutenant Shelton idling before him and the rest of the landing party loitering nearby, watching the three of them carry the wounded. “Get as far from the shuttle as you can!” he yelled. “The power pack’s ruptured!”

“Head for those rocks,” said Stephens, nodding at a large outcropping thirty meters ahead and slightly left.

The other five members of the landing party hurried toward the volcanic outcropping, ahead of the three Avenger officers who trailed with the wounded. When Holbrook reached the rocks he came around behind them and gently laid Ensign Edwards on the dusty, gray ground. Byrne and Stephens deposited the other two injured officers beside the ensign.

Dr. Marsden immediately attended to Edwards who appeared to be the most seriously wounded of the three.

“How bad is he, doctor?” asked Holbrook.

A flash bright as Earth’s sun erupted on the other side of the outcropping, followed an instant later by a loud explosion that shook the ground and finally a rush of superheated air. Small bits of dirt and rock rained on the landing party. Some raced to shield their heads with their hands while others had the foresight to activate their helmets.

Once the shower of debris ceased Holbrook peered around the boulder. The shuttle was gone. In its place a wide, shallow crater remained, cradling a fire that billowed black smoke. The craft’s ruptured power pack, its containment failed, released its entire store of energy in a single instant.

Holbrook shifted his attention back to Marsden. The doctor was examining Ensign Reilly.

“How are they doctor?” asked Holbrook.

“Edwards and Koh are dead,” she said, in her typical clinical manner. “Reilly sustained a concussion. She’s conscious now, but woozy. I’m going to give her something that should help.”

Holbrook crouched near the bodies of the two dead men. Edward’s face had been badly burned. Blood covered Koh’s EN-suit across his torso. The captain bowed his head, then stood.

“We must leave here as soon as possible,” came a voice from behind Holbrook.

Spinning around, Holbrook found Tentek staring at him several meters away from the outcropping. The aught had a streak of dirt smeared across his pale right cheek.

“Some of us are wounded,” said Holbrook, approaching the aught. “Two are dead. I don’t know how quickly we can move out.”

“It must be soon,” said Tentek, his billiard ball eyes filled with reflections of the shuttle fire.

“And why is that?” asked Stephens as he approached the captain and the aught.

Tentek’s double-eyelids click-clacked. “Standard operating procedure. If the two drones that engaged us do not return in eighteen and a half minutes, which they will not, two more will be sent to investigate. We have to find cover.”

“And where do you propose we do that?” asked Stephens. “Look around—it’s just flat plains.”

Stephens was right. The grassland continued on for kilometers in all directions. There were other rock outcroppings like the one they huddled next to, but nothing to hide under.

“There is a lake not far from here,” said Tentek.

Holbrook blinked at him, baffled by the comment.

“About 1.1 kilometers to the east,” Tentek added.

Stephens shrugged dismissively. “So there’s a lake,” he said. “What the hell difference does that make?”

“We can hide beneath the water,” said Tentek. “Our EN-suits will keep us dry and provide oxygen for as long as we’re submerged.”

Holbrook rubbed his chin. “What’re our other options?”

“We stay and fight,” said Byrne, unholstering his electron pistol. “We can use this rock formation for cover.”

“A security officer is not one to turn and run,” said Tentek, “however your instincts will not serve us. The drones are too fast. Two of them working together will easily overwhelm us. And even if we destroy them, two more will follow.”

“Any other ideas?” asked Holbrook. No one offered another solution. Marching off across the plains seemed to be the only option. The captain never imagined the mission would begin the way it had, their transport destroyed and two men dead.

“We need to get moving,” said Tentek.

“Get moving? We haven’t even decided where we’re going,” said Stephens.

“The lake is the only option,” said Tentek. “Every second we remain here increases the probability of our capture.”

“What about our dead?” asked Dr. Marsden.

Holbrook looked back at Edwards and Koh, their lifeless bodies crumpled on the ground.

“Place them near the shuttle,” said Tentek.

Stephens glanced at the shallow crater where the shuttle’s exploded remains continued to burn. “You’re not serious?” he asked.

“I am,” said Tentek.

“These men deserve a proper burial,” said Stephens.

“But we do not have time for one. And we cannot take them with us,” said Tentek. “By placing them near the wreckage the drones will believe the shuttle’s passengers died. If they find no human remains they will continue searching for us, for they will not believe the shuttle was unmanned.”

Holbrook hated the idea of leaving the bodies of his men out in the open but their options appeared to be severely limited.

Commander Stephens pulled Holbrook aside with a tug of his arm. “Captain, I don’t think it’s a smart idea to follow Tentek’s plan,” he said.

“Do you have a different one, commander?” barked Holbrook. “‘Cause now’s the time to propose it. Or do you just hate the plan because it came from Tentek.”

Stephens huffed in frustration but said nothing more.

Captain Holbrook stepped further away from the outcropping, surveying northeast in the direction of the lake. He looked again at the burning crater. “Stephens, you and Byrne carry the bodies to the wreckage. I’ll collect Reilly. Everyone else, move out.” He turned to Tentek. “Lead the way.”