

What others are saying about The First Human War

"Professional quality sci-fi, slick with a techy overlay that generates interesting imagery. The core of human interaction keeps it grounded but off-world in its feel. Up there with stuff I read in my youth from Asimov and others."

— Michael Gray, author of 2150 Total Integration, www.authonomy.com

"(Calcagno's) imaginative technology is superb, whilst the astronomical information gives colour and credibility to this Sci Fi fantasy. Loved it."

— Katy Roberts, author of Phobic Dawn, www.authonomy.com

### The Antares Rangers and the First Human War

### Book 1 of the Tales of the Antares Rangers

Published by Frank Calcagno Jr. at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Frank Calcagno Jr.

Other works by this author at Smashwords.com:

The D'war'en Heir \- Tales of the Antares Rangers, Book 2

The Orb of Jabbah \- Tales of the Antares Rangers, Book 3

The Wasatti Empire \- Tales of the Antares Rangers, Book 4

The Centauri Project \- Prequel to the Tales of the Antares Rangers

Murder at Midnight on a Sailboat

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this work with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

IN A TIME YET TO COME

CHAPTER 1 - VCB – 0730, JANUARY 29, 2365

CHAPTER 2 - SIGMA BOOTIS BORDER PATROL – ARGONAUT FLEET – MAY 16, 2353

CHAPTER 3 - VCB – OMICRON VECTOR APPROACH – 0945, JANUARY 29, 2365

CHAPTER 4 - VCB – 1300, JANUARY 29, 2365

CHAPTER 5 - VEGA STAR SYSTEM – OUTER FRINGES – 1453, JANUARY 29, 2365

CHAPTER 6 - K-T-SPACE

CHAPTER 7 - THE EYE OF THE NEEDLE

CHAPTER 8 - A PEEK THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

CHAPTER 9 - CLOSE APPROACH

CHAPTER 10 - LOST IN THE CLOUDS

CHAPTER 11 - ANTARES STAR SYSTEM – INNER SYSTEM

CHAPTER 12 - ANTARES STAR SYSTEM – INNER SYSTEM

CHAPTER 13 - ANTARES STAR SYSTEM – MIDDLE SYSTEM

CHAPTER 14 - ANTARES STAR SYSTEM – MIDDLE SYSTEM

CHAPTER 15 - ANTARES STAR SYSTEM – HABITABLE ZONE

CHAPTER 16 - ANTARES STAR SYSTEM – NULL POINT

CHAPTER 17 - ANTARES STAR SYSTEM – HYPER LIMIT

CHAPTER 18- ANTARES STAR SYSTEM – JUMP PREP

GLOSSARY

IN A TIME YET TO COME

There was no other way. It was either him or his opponent—one would die before this day was done. Very likely, it would be him.

His name was Peter Campbell. Blood soaked his uniform. Every breath he took stung like a hundred daggers, and his pain was so intense he considered giving up; but after all he had been through....

No, he would not yield. Not if he had anything to say about it.

There was not a moment's rest since de-orbiting from space and it looked like none would come. Struggling to catch his breath, he glanced down to an enormous depth. His platform swayed in the wind, supported by a single brace recently shattered by a lucky shot. It would give at any moment. He looked up and saw soulless eyes staring back, silently willing him to come forward. That's just what you want me to do, isn't it?

And Peter had no choice.

It had all started a thousand years ago for Peter and his friends. It was so long ago; they were just five kids trying to grow up. He could barely remember those carefree days. That was when their adventures first began....

CHAPTER 1

**Vega Construction Base – 0730, January 29, 2365**

A massive asteroid field nearly a billion miles wide surrounded Vega. Each rock was little different from the others except for one, where a small research and construction base was wedged within its fractured interior. Each room was separated by long, winding tunnels like the hollowed-out spokes of a child's jack, and deep within the five-mile rock was the living spaces, laboratories, and factories for the workers and their families. The base defined the concept of austerity; it had no sprawling green vistas. There were no beautiful sunrises or sunsets. For that matter, it had no outdoors. The population lived in artificial gravity with artificial lighting, enclosed within two and a half miles of iron like specimens trapped inside the glass walls of a child's toy ant colony.

"Yo, Chief...! Wait up."

Peter Campbell slowed his already sluggish pace. Although he was only 14 (+34 K-T-adjusted), he already possessed the build of a strong, young man. He had the fine, straight, raven-black hair he inherited from his Northern Cheyenne mother as well as the faint characteristic epicanthic fold above his eyes. His own peculiar mixed lineage was evident, however, by the dark blue eyes he inherited from his father.

Peter had a hard time finding his friend in the distant shadows of the corridor, but he did not mind. He was in no hurry to get where he was going and was actually relieved for the delay his friend caused. He watched Ali trot up to him, nearly out of breath by the time he closed the gap. Peter smiled in spite of his foul mood, "Hey, Paleface."

"Y' talkin' to me?" Ali asked. "That's a laugh." Ali's skin was the color of deep ebony, and although Peter was also dark, there really was no contest between the two.

Ali Hamadi was short, even for his age. He was almost as wide as he was tall, but was destined to be massive once his next growth spurt began. Ali was 13 years old (+30 K-T-adjusted), but not the youngest of the five base brats. In fact, he was born forty–three years ago on Empire, but having only spent his first two years there he could not recall a single detail about his distant homeworld. His father, the renowned starship designer Mohammed Hussein Hamadi, was a very important scientist for humanity and the Ten Colonies manipulated the magic of K-T-space to maximize his unmatched abilities. Ali and his parents would live on a planet for a year or two, where his dad's fertile ideas could take root, and then board a starship to "sleep away" the ten to fifteen years it took for technology to catch up with his discoveries. Then, the small family would land somewhere else to begin the cycle again, extending his working career for over a hundred years. So—all told—Ali had been to Empire, Jackson's Landing, and Mars for tantalizing glimpses of how life should have been before finally arriving at Vega.

"Henrietta said you left five minutes ago. Didn't think I'd ever catch up. Wanted to say 'hi' before we went under."

"Yeah, yeah; I was in no hurry."

Ali stepped around Peter, barely squeezing his noticeable girth through the narrow space. "You never are in a rush, going in there. Ready for this afternoon?"

Peter's mood suddenly improved. "You bet."

Ali unlatched the hatch and slipped into the room. Peter just stood there as he watched his friend walk in to that horrible little room.

A melodious voice with a hint of a Portuguese accent interrupted his thoughts, "You experiencing an engine malf' again?"

Henrietta Moreira was a +10 K-T-adjusted 14-year-old from Praia de Santos, Brazil Province of Old Earth. She had long, silky hair the color of rich cocoa beans. She spent half an hour each evening meticulously brushing her hair, and as a result it had the look of flowing liquid. Her skin was flawless, and her deep, expressive eyes would melt the heart of anyone brave enough to look into them. She was mature beyond her years, but humble all the same—quiet, yet not afraid to stand up for what was right.

Peter blushed as Henrietta gracefully strolled by, but she was long gone before he could think of a proper reply. Footsteps on the metal floor interrupted his thoughts again, but before he could turn around one set scuffed the floor as a diminutive body crashed awkwardly into him.

"Out of my way, Null-Grav." Stiles shouldered around the two unsteady boys and smirked as he passed through the hatch. "Nice shot, if I say so myself."

Stiles Essen, from the elite world of New Capital, was 14 (+10 K-T-adjusted) and the oldest of the base children by a mere five months. He had a light complexion, spiky strawberry-blond hair, and had edgy, piercing eyes. He was tall for his age. He chose his words carefully, not because he had little to say but rather because he rarely encountered people worthy of his attention. When Stiles did speak, it was with a commanding voice that resonated from his developing diaphragm, each word sparingly parsed out like gold from a miser's purse. Stiles would have made a great fashion model. In fact, any ad agency would have given anything to have him as a client, if not for his inborn destiny to lead humanity as an important politician at some future posting.

Peter untangled himself from Jimmy. "You okay?"

"I guess," he replied, smoothing out his caretaker suit.

Looking back on his young life, Jimmy Dallas would have been perfectly content spending a normal—uninterrupted—life on the home planet of the Hive. He had no desire to cheat death in mindless sleep on those speeding starships of the space ways. Wishing for something though would not make it happen, as he learned by the ten years spent in K-T-space on his only trip through interstellar space. The VCB may not have been the best place to live, but if it were up to Jimmy the trip would be his last. After all, as long as he had access to computers he would be perfectly happy.

Jimmy was the youngest of the five base children, yet had spent the longest time there. He was 10 years old (+10 K-T-adjusted) but most of the time he acted like he was three years younger. He was smart; there was absolutely no doubt about that, but he was slight of build—skinny as a rusty rail, actually—and his maturity level never seemed to match his obvious intelligence. He always seemed to have a cold or some other exotic ailment he recently read about, but that no one else ever heard of. He was the proud owner of flaming-red hair with bright green eyes to match, and it was difficult to tell if his face was dark with mysterious light spots, or light, covered in dark freckles.

Jimmy straightened the connectors hanging from his chest and stepped over the lip of the hatch. As he passed through he whispered, "One of these days, Stiles, I'm gonna—"

Peter did not catch the retribution Jimmy was meticulously planning, and was just as glad.

Well, last one in again, Peter thought.

* * *

In form and shape, the room resembled the inside of an egg. And like an egg, the room was dedicated to nurturing young life.

Stiles was already under by the time Peter entered. Figures, Peter reflected, the "perfect student" can't wait to wire up into that thing.

Five crèches were gathered near the room's center, with Stiles already comfortably within his, as if frozen in-place during a lazy game of duck-duck-goose. A headset rested over his eyes and probes were attached to his skull and fingers, inputting data directly to his brain and recording his physical and mental responses. Every second or so Stiles would twitch. After another few seconds, he would twinge to some unseen stimulus.

It was just like any other deep-teach schoolroom used on human worlds, but this particular one was reserved for the five children living at the base. Once strapped in, their eyes scanned a hundred simultaneous video simulations all configured to their unique lesson plans. Fingers manipulated virtual styluses to complete one speed-assignment after another. Brains absorbed lessons without consciously comprehending the connections being made. If they were learning about history, they thought they were actually participating. If they were studying computers, they traveled through the circuits themselves.

They were completely unaware of their surroundings or the needs of their young and growing bodies. As a result, they wore special clothes resembling casual environmental suits, handling the occasional needs their bodies required; massaging unused muscles, supplying nutrients, or eliminating wastes. It was a technology borrowed from the needs of humans traveling through K-T-space.

The sight made Peter shiver. Of course, looking at Stiles always made Peter shiver.

Stiles had followed his parents to the Vega Construction Base three years ago. For space travelers, Stiles was a relative novice. He made just the one voyage through K-T-space, and as a result had only lost ten years of his lifespan to hyperspace stasis since he was born twenty–four years ago. Even so, it was a difficult move for Stiles. He did not want to leave his friends and studies behind, and he argued with his mother for as long as they had planned the trip. It was an argument he lost. It was a difficult lesson for Stiles; in fact, it was likely the first time in his carefully groomed life he had not gotten his way. Rumor had it from the other kids on base that Stiles argued with his mom even while suspended in K-T-space. Word was if you listened very carefully, his rants were still bouncing around the curved surfaces of bent space. Stiles told everyone that was not possible, but knowing of Stiles' force of will, the other kids were not so sure.

His mother reassured him that his experiences here at humanity's most important scientific base would be invaluable, and that any of his young rivals would give anything to be in his place, had they even known where he was. Of course, it did not hurt that his dad was the administrative governor of the Vega Base, and that—assuming his dad found the time—Stiles would learn a great deal following him around in his duties. So far though, in three long and lonely years, his father had not found the time.

Stiles subconsciously settled back and concentrated on his next deep-teach module, explaining how Napoleon retook Europe after his first exile in Elba. He smiled under his headset, fantasizing how he, too, would one day return to New Capital. In a mere three minutes of classroom instruction, he had just lived the life of a new-found hero.

* * *

"Jimmy, what are you doing?" Peter hissed.

"Shhh; he'll hear you."

Peter nervously sidestepped next to the younger boy. "Yeah, that's what I'm worried about. Quit that!"

Jimmy was furiously working at Stiles' control box, barely concealed from the Overseer three crèches away.

"What did you just do?"

"Aw, he's studying that boring stuff again. He needs a change." Jimmy closed Stiles' tape insert slot and set the module for the next lesson. He glanced up to keep track of where the Overseer was. "I just inserted the history of the Big Band music era into his queue, but I skipped the introductory part. Fifteen minutes of music samples should be starting right about... now."

"Hey, don't," Peter pleaded.

Ali walked up to the boys, full of curiosity. "What'cha doin'...? Need help?"

The boy's watched Stiles squirm.

"Nah; this is too much fun. Oops, I mighta got the volume settings all wrong."

"Jimmy, you shouldn't mess with the crèches," Peter warned. "Ali maybe could pull that off, but not you."

"Ah, he'll be alright. Maybe wake up with a powerful headache, though."

"Mr. Dallas, are you ready?" the Overseer asked.

"Oh, yes sir. Thank you, sir." Jimmy stepped into his crèche and dialed up a lesson plan on the history of language.

* * *

Everyone got along well with Jimmy, except for Stiles who picked on him unmercifully. Jimmy was born on the Hive world at Tau Ceti, at the human embassy. That was where his mom and dad had worked. Unfortunately, his father died of a strange illness when he was only three. Try as he might, Jimmy just could not recall anything about him.

A small panic ensued shortly after the death of his father, while the humans worried about some alien bug on the Hive homeworld out to kill them all. Careful genetic mapping, however, showed that the death was a result of a DNA predisposition against some combination of minerals found only at Tau Ceti. Everyone else should be safe, or so the theory went.

Once the cause of the death was discovered, he and his mom were asked to leave the Tau Ceti system. Jimmy's genetic makeup did not appear to be susceptible to the disease, but the authorities felt it was not worth the risk. So Jimmy and his mom were whisked away directly to the Vega Base, where her extensive knowledge of exobiology could be fully utilized.

Coming from the colony world of Tau Ceti, along with his exposure to the embassy and staff, Jimmy was a natural in linguistics, even though most outsiders said he could not possibly be old enough to remember having lived there. His mother was not so sure, and she stubbornly insisted her son had absorbed some of the Hive's telepathic abilities. She constantly found ways to let Jimmy know he was special, even though she could never prove it. It was not like he could read minds—heaven knew he tried—but he was extraordinarily good at languages. At ten, he already could read seventeen languages fluently.

Jimmy secretly fantasized he might someday become humanity's long-lost superhero after reading an ancient Earth story about Superman and his escape from planet Krypton. The fate of his father's weakness, though, was quite possibly his own personal kryptonite that he reluctantly carried within his cells.

Jimmy immediately latched on to Peter Campbell when Peter arrived at the base three years ago. In Peter, Jimmy found his first friend. Peter actually paid attention to him. He treated him with respect that no one, other than his mom, had done. And everyone knew moms did that out of necessity. Peter became an instant mentor—almost a father figure—and Jimmy became loyal to Peter to a fault. And because Jimmy was always in conflict with Stiles, Peter continually came to the younger boy's defense, just like Jimmy imagined his father would have done had he never left.

Jimmy sat back in his crèche and called up another tape, looking forward to working through the subtle regional dialects that were developing on planet Himalaya.

* * *

"You guys getting in trouble again?"

Peter blushed. "Oh, hi, Arietta. What'd you mean?"

"C'mon, I saw you messing with Stiles' crate."

"Not me," Peter countered.

Henrietta studied the two remaining boys. "No, I guess it wouldn't be you after all."

Ali smiled as he watched Stiles twitch. "Jimmy programmed in some loud band music."

Henrietta smiled. "Oh; serves him right!"

"Arietta," Peter scolded.

"Mr. Hamadi," the Overseer called, "let's get you in before you get into trouble."

* * *

Ali loved building things, as shown by his cluttered room which was always filled with homemade electronic gadgets. He took his studies seriously, just like his father. By the age of ten, Ali held three patents for mechanical interfaces with artificial intelligence modules. Mo was very proud of his son, and it was apparent Ali would follow in his father's impressive footsteps. If it were up to Ali, he would not sleep at all because it was such a waste of precious time. Each second asleep was a moment lost where some important discovery was just waiting to be found. He often woke up in the middle of the night, furiously scribbling down notes he had dreamed to apply to some experiment the following day, and no matter where Ali went, his faithful, worn electronic Personal Assistant Dataport accompanied him. Everyone nowadays had a PAD remotely slaved to a personalized cortical implant, and more than anyone else, Ali would be lost without his.

Meals were another matter. Ali would take time for those because he loved eating so. His mother was a fine cook, and she always seemed to know it was his one anchor to the real world. She took pride in creating one culinary delight after another, barely teasing the young, growing boy away from his world of electronics.

His best friend was Peter Campbell. Peter and he had met two times before coming to the VCB at various military bases, first at Jackson's Landing and then at Mars. Once the two boys met they bonded immediately, but only for a short time once Ali was told he needed to leave yet again due to his father's next appointed "sleep session." They seemed to share the same thoughts, and it often took only a single look to convey an entire conversation.

* * *

"Well, just you and me left," Henrietta observed as she watched Ali fade out into his world of studies. Most likely, it involved advanced electronics and organomechanics. "When are you going to get used to this, Peter?"

"Never," he replied. He thought of planet Stagecoach, where the Northern Cheyenne were making their new home. Proud to a fault, his ancestral native heritage produced a culture of independence and traditional ways. Captain Stephen Campbell—Peter's father—cherished their ways, and contrary to the deep-teach schooling techniques adopted by the rest of humanity, Stephen firmly believed in passing on knowledge by the Northern Cheyenne oral tradition, as he had learned from his father-in-law. And like Peter's grandfather, Stephen would sit with Peter for hours on end, carefully instructing him in a varied course of studies ranging from biology and land management through calculus and starship navigation. It had been that way with Peter's mother and her grandparents too, as he was told.

"Stuff my dad taught me is all I need to know."

"Huh," Henrietta replied. "I doubt that. You sure can be stubborn sometimes."

"Mr. Campbell; Ms. Moreira, I'm ready for both of you now. Come along." The Overseer led them to the two remaining crèches, sitting side-by-side, and split his time strapping both of them in. He was just finishing with Henrietta, helping her into her crèche—form-fitted to her interesting curves—as Peter began to feel the first effects of his crèche take hold. As he faded away, he looked on admiringly as he watched her recline comfortably within her personalized cocoon.

* * *

Henrietta vividly recalled the tepid blue-green rainforests and shimmering ivory beaches of her old home, and whether consciously or not, she often looked as though she had just stepped off the sun-drenched coastline. Home had been such a contrast to the sterile, dry, rock-lined construction base she now found herself confined to. She could have been bitter about the move, but she made the best of her experiences, and as her father often reminded her, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." Unfortunately, he had first-hand knowledge with the saying; shortly after Henrietta was born he suffered a crippling rock-climbing accident that left him paralyzed from the waist down.

Henrietta's main passions in life were torn between medicine and psychiatry. Whatever she decided to do when she grew up would unquestionably involve helping people in distress. Whether it would be focused on the body or the mind was yet to be determined. She was in no hurry to decide, though; she was having way too much fun learning and exploring all the possible fields.

Love was heaped on Henrietta, and she, in turn, dearly loved her parents. After all they had been through—after all the obstacles thrown their way—both her mom and dad had kept smiles on their faces for the fourteen years Henrietta had known them. She had trouble recalling a time when either parent had lost their temper, or bemoaned their fate. Yes, she loved her mom and dad with her whole, expressive heart, but would likely never quite forgive them for the horrible first name they had tagged her with.

Henrietta spent her first module studying the development of telepathic abilities in humans. Although few humans truly gained the ability, great strides were being made in the field as a result of interaction with the highly-telepathic, but mute, Hive aliens of Tau Ceti. Many people, however, had recently reported isolated instances of strengthened telepathic connections, oftentimes subconsciously, and without actually trying. Those who learned the ability were highly prized as intermediaries and ambassadors to their green, gelatinous Hive allies. Some researchers even suggested that psi ability was enhanced in those people who shared similar experiences or held strong emotional ties with each other.

Henrietta put the deep-tape on hold for a moment and concentrated very hard on a single point in her mind. The center of her head throbbed faintly at the unusual experience.

* * *

Peter arrived at the Vega base three years ago, at about the same time as Stiles. He flew in on a military courier with his father at the controls. Once they arrived, his father was placed in charge of base protection and military administration, second in command only to Stiles' father.

His mother, Erin, was also in the Colonial Academy, and held important posts throughout the 2-14 Corridor, so named by the string of ten populated planets along the azimuth from Earth's perspective from the second hour to the fourteenth in the imaginary 24-hour zenith surrounding Earth's equator. Peter had not seen his mother since his days on Jackson's Landing, and pined for the day when she would finally arrive at Vega. He would need to wait six months more for that to happen.

Peter had been on the move with his parents his whole life, and much of that time had been without his mother. It was forty–eight years ago when he was born at the distant Stagecoach frontier planet. There, he had spent his first six and a half years of life, blissfully enjoying life as a real family unit. He still vividly remembered his time with his extended Northern Cheyenne family, and could still smell the tanned leathers and sweet dust of his pleasant communal home.

His mind drifted, realizing he was only eight when his mother last saw him. He wondered if she would even recognize her own son when she returned. Six months.... He found himself counting the days in spite of his studies. Peter hated deep-teach, but quickly snapped his attention back to where it belonged, but not without considerable effort.

He continued his coursework like all the other children in human space—entwined in an electronic maze of pre-packaged instruction, working out the latest developments of humanity's colonization of the ten worlds.

Habitable planets were found along a general line within the Corridor and quickly became the focus of human expansion. Although a handful of other stars surrounding the Corridor were probed by manned and unmanned exploratory spacecraft, other habitable planets had yet to be found outside this line of expansion. As a result, human-Hive space occupied a narrow, sinuous crack within the local galactic arm, with established trade routes running from one colonial world to its neighbor like stops along a railroad. For millennia, humans viewed the stars surrounding them from a great distance, but in actuality little was known about other planets within the black space surrounding the 2-14.

Peter lost his concentration yet again and wondered why he was thinking so much of his mother. That was so easy to do in deep-teach. He hated it so. He also cringed at the thought of that obnoxious Overseer stepping in and making him re-up his session.

Essen would sure love that, he realized.

With a start, he realized it was not his mom, but rather Henrietta, occupying his thoughts. He shook the cobwebs of deep-teach from his head and slowly pried open his eyes. Glancing toward her crèche, Peter caught the young girl staring at him. Her eyes widened at the contact, and he watched her hide her face back into the folds of her small cocoon. The whole experience was like a fleeting thought, and as quickly as the connection had been made it was gone.

He spent the next few seconds wondering what that was all about.

Confused, and with a faint buzz still radiating in the center of his head, Peter readjusted his headset and went back to his lessons.

* * *

Fifty–five years ago the Wasatti were discovered. It was a momentous day. It was a day filled with hope. The explorer Tiberius Kay happened upon a strange ship in interstellar space as she traveled along the inauspicious thirteenth-hour spoke away from Beta Comae Berenices. It was a treasured first contact. It was the first in 260 years, and the only one since contact with the Hive.

The Hive emissary on the Tiberius Kay collapsed into a quivering ball of mint-colored jelly when the unknown ship was first approached. At first the human captain could not understand why her telepathic ally had acted that way, but it did not take long for them to realize the Hive legend of monsters in the dead of night were based on fact, and not merely from a Hive-sprout's formless tale.

The 'Kay was reduced to a ball of slag twenty–three seconds after it had sent a copy of its logs back to human space as its final warning to the mother world. The ship was never heard from again, and it was from that incident that humans and their Hive partners discovered that space would become a vast battlefield.

The distances between stars were so great that it took a long time to travel between them. After the first couple hundred years of flying, humans were able to design spaceships that could approach—but not quite break—light speeds. Those primitive ships were efficient, but they took excruciatingly long times to travel relatively short distances, even at ninety–nine percent of light. And to go anywhere beyond the one or two nearest stars, humans had to travel faster than light, which required tricking nature in very peculiar ways, which involved K-T-space.

Even with Faster-Than-Light drives, which cheated normal space, time in travel was not insignificant. As Dr. Turner explained two hundred years ago, people inside a ship at FTL were themselves not immune to aging as their Krenholdtz-Turner engines fought to curve the space around them. The current generation of K-T engines could fold one light-year of space fabric at a time, and was able to compress the frequency of the fold down to 1.8 days. So, for each light-year traveled, a person in the ship aged 1.8 days, although due to the unusual effects of K-T-space they did not even notice that passage of time as they sped through hyperspace in an unusual form of semi-stasis. For those left behind in the real world of normal space, the time interval from their perspective was much, much greater. In a hyperspace star voyage of fifty light-years, the people onboard would age only three months of K-T-adjusted time—where in actuality they did not even notice the passage of time—whereas their friends back in normal space would age fifteen years. And due to the additive effects of cheating time, a series of trips feeling like two years wandering in and out of FTL would be more than 260 years back home.

So, for the intervening years between first contact and the present, the Wasatti were only encountered a second time—ten years after first contact, which for the crew on the speeding ships felt only like two months. The result of that second encounter was much the same. Two Wasatti Empire ships were lost for three human and one Cetian destroyed. The other Cetian ship was barely able to escape. And the news it brought back was not good. So the first encounter with the Empire was not an act of misunderstanding, as some humans had hoped. It was a harbinger of things to come. It was a signal to naïve humanity and trustful Hive that not all species living in space were friendly. It served as a call to arms, showing that space was no longer meant for the casual civilian traveler or unarmed transport ship. It was the start of a new war footing and a new industry designing new classes of warships, and of Marines training for null-gravity combat.

The new war forced the humans and Hive to fall back into a protective shell. Now, instead of successful, highly independent colonial worlds vying for economic and cultural dominance, the populations cried out for unified protection. Resources could no longer be expended on exploration and expansion. Common defense became the universal priority. That realization brought humanity quickly back to Vega.

Inhospitable, unforgiving Vega territory turned out to be valuable after all. It served as the perfect location for a secret research and development base that no species would ever suspect of being present. The Vega system became humanity's hole-in-the-wall enclave, hidden within a debris-filled landscape the most desperate traveler would bypass without a moment's notice. It was a place where the best human and Hive scientists could gather and plan for the protection of their species without fear of being discovered.

The small asteroid enclosing the Vega Construction Base was an odd-shaped chunk of iron-rich rock as hollow as it was solid, looking more like a misshapen lump of Swiss cheese than humanity's best hope of developing a force strong enough to fight their new-found foe. Three thousand humans and a Hive colony of two hundred lived and worked there, secure in the fact they were safer there than anywhere else in the Corridor.

Many successful projects were developed at the base, and most of the research gave the alliance a slight edge over the technology the Wasatti had. That edge so far was barely enough to keep the emerging war at a stalemate despite the fierce tenacity exhibited by the Wasatti warrior. The base became a treasure trove of military innovation, and in all the experiments and projects completed thus far, they all culminated in the current one. It was humanity's best hope of ending the war: a starship so advanced it could, by itself, replace a three-fleet armada. As great as the location of the colony worlds themselves, it was the human-Hive's closest-guarded secret.

The base's best defense was secrecy, like a chameleon hiding in plain sight. Strategic planners figured the only way the Wasatti could ever discover the base would be if they accidentally detected the patrolling ships in space around it. As a result, only three small frigates coasted within the debris field—each in imitation of a sterile asteroid—passively monitoring system space for any unwanted guests. It was a duty no one asked for but was the Academy's most important posting.

The strategy worked to perfection for over forty years.

CHAPTER 2

**Sigma Bootis Border Patrol –** _Argonaut_ **Fleet – May 16, 2353 (Twelve Years Ago)**

Twelve powerful ships patrolled the outer fringe of Human Space. The Sigma Bootis star system, at 14.5 hours azimuth and plus 30 degrees from Earth's ecliptic, was fifty light-years from humanity's birthplace in a universe where light traveled 186,282 miles each second. Considering there were over 1.5 billion seconds in fifty years, it struck her that it was a long way away from home indeed. She shivered at the thought.

Erin bit her lower lip. Everything had been fine a few minutes ago, but all that had changed in an instant... and now here she was. It was all happening so fast, and she wished she was anywhere else but here. Despite her concentration, thoughts of Stephen slipped into her mind.

And who in their right mind would wish him here in the middle of all this?

She pushed thoughts of her husband aside, focusing instead on what was happening around her and not liking what she saw. The action began just a moment ago with the sudden appearance of an advanced Wasatti destroyer line boring into her fleet like an unstoppable tsunami. This won't be pretty, she convinced herself.

And what in the world ever made me choose this line of work, anyway? Erin reflected for the millionth time.

Commodore Erin Campbell was born eighty–five years ago in the anchor of normal space, but was physically only 35 (+50 K-T-adjusted). She was dark, trim, and experienced beyond her years. Her long, black hair was neatly pulled back in a tight wrap. On anyone else it would have been a severe look, but her attractive smile lines betrayed the jovial personality she always presented. She was a natural beauty, made more so by the faint, exotic Northern Cheyenne Native American lineage she inherited from her ancient forefathers. It was a proud heritage that persisted against great odds, now securely preserved on the frontier planet of Stagecoach. Erin was a demanding commander, but a fair one. She seemed to know the names of all 1,500 crewmembers on her ship. She at least knew them all by sight.

Her fleet was spread out in three groups of four, drifting through the system for maximum coverage. Her tactical screens revealed her forward group four light-minutes out—nearly 45 million miles. Ironically, the command ship for her group nearest the Wasatti was the Achilles. She desperately prayed it would not turn into her personal weak spot.

Erin glanced at the battle clock, amazed that only a single minute had passed since the Wasatti first appeared. "Get the entire fleet up to battle speeds," Erin commanded. She knew much of the action would be decided long before her forward group even received the message, but Erin trusted they would have acted on their own initiative by now anyway.

"Aye, Ma'am," Com responded.

"And I want us closer to the Achilles Group. Get our speed to full in-system. Close that gap between us!"

"Aye, aye." Com passed on Erin's instructions to the three other ships of the Argonaut Battle Group. A moment later they felt the acceleration of the ship as it broke through half the speed of light. At these speeds they could travel the stellar system in no time at all.

Five rocky planets orbited the yellow-white star. Each one was a cold, icy wasteland—all but one as frigid as the outer space surrounding them. Erin's battle group sped as quickly as they could away from the central star toward the Achilles and her sister ships that were currently struggling to survive.

Could it be the cold? Erin wondered. No, "unforgiving," was the word she was searching for. Come to think if it, she realized, space here at Sigma Bootis is no colder than any other region in the Orion Arm of the Milky Way. But it feels more desolate. It feels "vulnerable." Maybe that was because the only habitable planet in the system crowded the frigid outer edge of Sigma Bootis' Habitable Zone. Maybe it was the fact that somewhere beyond the star's Oort Zone lay unexplored space, intruding on another species' sphere of influence. Maybe it was because her family was not here. Then again, maybe there was no reason at all. Whatever, it hardly mattered. Of all the places humans thrived, this place could never feel like home.

Two minutes, the battle clock informed her; each second had crawled forward like an hour.

"Screens are lit up!" Tac announced hurriedly.

Erin glanced at her tac screen. A solid wall of red appeared between the Wasatti and the Achilles Group. She tried to count the individual points of light coming from the enemy destroyers, but failed in the attempt.

The Wasatti were vicious fighters. When they engaged they went for the throat, throwing caution—and their ships—to the wind. It seemed as though life meant little to them and would stop at nothing to inflict maximum damage. And today, in the span of only two short minutes, three small Wasatti destroyers appeared on the screens of her leading ships, travelled the 17 million miles separating them, and began insane suicide runs at her forward cruiser line.

All that action took place in the amount of time it took me to recognize them as a threat, Erin rationalized. Rationalizations, though, did not go far with Erin when lives were at stake. She could never forgive herself for not reacting faster. Barely time to react... and they threw everything they could at us.

And if they could, Erin thought with a grimace, they'd throw rocks at us, too.

Although there were differences between humans and Wasatti, the starships on both sides could not ignore the absolute laws of physics, providing each species with two primary offensive weapons: missiles and particle beams. Missiles were used for long-range attacks. They came in various models; the larger ones were the size of small ships, with some capable of near-light speeds. The four ships in the Achilles Group were doing whatever they could to avoid the dozens of missiles streaking their way, and Erin could only sit back helplessly and watch.

Erin urged her vulnerable ships to obey her silent wishes as though casting a magic spell. The communication differential between her and her forward line was four minutes long—well over the time it took to resolve the action. C'mon, you can do it. She edged forward in her chair, hoping she could force her ships to move faster by the will of her mind alone; but her muscles refused to move, seemingly just like her impotent ship.

The glacial battle clock mocked her and edged to three.

"We're closing the distance, Ma'am," Tac announced. "Achilles Group is now two l-m away. Agamemnon Group has successfully joined with them."

Erin watched her forward defenses begin to solidify as the deadly missiles charged on.

"Update, Commodore," Tac announced. "Our ships have evaded all enemy missiles."

That was a huge relief. The missiles were no longer a threat, allowing Erin to take her first deep breath of the past minute.

"Enemy destroyers still at speed and have now closed with our two groups," Tac continued. "Ships are now in particle-beam range of one another."

Erin saw the symbols for her forward groups merge with the enemy wave. At their closing speeds they would only be together a split second, and for now they were impossible to separate on her screens. Yet, at the distance Erin was from the action, the information she was reviewing was still two minutes old. The waiting was unbearable. "Come on, people," Erin urged.

A warship could only carry so many missiles. To compensate for confined storage, ships also utilized renewable weapons, throwing out concentrated bursts of alpha particles capable of punching through heavily armored hulls. The alpha stream generated tremendous amounts of kinetic energy, capitalizing on their speed rather than mass. It took time for the on-board nuclear generators to produce the alphas, but once available, the ships firing those weapons needed to carefully time their salvoes to allow the conduits to cool down. Launching particles—even as small as alphas—at near-light speeds produced nearly as much energy on the firing end as they delivered at the receiving end. So if the firing crews were not careful, their ships could violently explode from an accidental detonation, or in the case of the Wasatti destroyers, in cold-blooded calculation timed perfectly to take out any ships unfortunate enough to be near the suicide ship.

"Commodore! The Pelion is destroyed," Tac announced. "Alpha particle explosion indicated. Looks like the firing destroyer overloaded... yeah, it did; it blew up as well."

One of her cruisers, the Mount Pelion, ignited like a small nova under a stream of beam particles. The smaller ship died in the exchange, but the energy exerted by the enemy destroyer penetrated through four reinforced levels of the human ship and set off the FTL section in an uncontrolled chain reaction. Erin slammed her fist against her armrest in cold rage.

"Reports also coming in from the Sydney, Ma'am," Com announced. "Appears the enemy destroyer blew up as it passed near her. They're reporting shrapnel damage to her hangar."

The cruiser Sydney fell to the same attack that destroyed the Pelion. The attack had been timed perfectly to throw deadly shrapnel into the Sydney's exposed underbelly, yet they were plain lucky it had not been worse.

The Sydney's icon turned amber on Erin's tac screen.

"Get the Sydney out of there," Erin snapped. She wondered how many more of her people would never see their homes again, knowing deep in her heart that the blame rested squarely on her shoulders.

Erin had not seriously considered making the military a life-long career. She was fantastic at it—like anything else she tried—but she had had other ideas in mind. She knew she would learn a great deal from a military education. She would gain discipline, and hopefully respect, that would help her in her second career. She would graciously put in her time and pay back the Academy for her education.

She set out wanting to learn how to pilot starships. Her goal was to save a little money, start a family, and buy a small transport—if not as sole owner, at least in partnership. It would have been an interesting life, plying the trade routes from one colony world to another. It would also have provided a good education for the children she planned to have. Then she made captain's rank and agreed to stay on just a little bit longer; the experience would be good, they claimed.

Then the threat the Wasatti presented grew worse until they could no longer be ignored. The Colonial Academy suddenly needed to keep every able-bodied crew in the ranks, and cared little that their sons and daughters were growing old in their absence. It was all because the Wasatti refused to communicate with humanity. It was as though they viewed humans as insects, unworthy of expending even the trivial effort of talking.

A soft voice to Erin's side interrupted her thoughts. "Erin, there was nothing you could have done. It was all decided before you even knew about it."

Erin stared ahead in silence, trying to ignore the placating voice.

"Don't beat yourself up."

Erin had no desire to hear excuses, especially any that might pardon her. She looked at the battle clock, now frozen at four minutes.

Four short minutes ago—in the blink of an eye that for some became an eternity—the 15,000 men and women of the Argonaut Fleet came to the stark realization that the mind-numbing routine they so often complained about had not been so terribly bad after all.

That little... devil... took out two of my ships in the blink of an eye! The thought enraged Erin, especially because she held no hope for any of the nine hundred souls who had served the Pelion.

Erin momentarily thought back to her early days at the Colonial Fleet Academy with the Pelion's captain, Thomas Templeton. She could see his crooked, boyish smile as if he were standing right here on the Argonaut's bridge.

You introduced me to Stephen, didn't you? Erin teased his image. In her mind's eye she saw him smile at the memory, but she could ill afford any further daydreaming; at least not yet. Erin would mourn for Thomas later, when she found the time. Right now, she had to avenge his death.

The second destroyer in the enemy wave flew into a flurry of missiles launched from the human cruiser it was aimed at, disintegrating before it even got within beam-weapon range. That had been the only bright spot to an otherwise dismal human start.

"Another ship has been disabled, Ma'am!"

Commodore Campbell glanced at her tactical screen. She let out a deep sigh, forcing her nerves and racing heart to settle down. "Which one, lieutenant?" she asked resigning to the inevitable.

"The Pride of Callisto."

She watched its icon blink to amber. Oh Lord, a heavy frigate, she thought. We can't afford to lose another. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to relieve the headache she knew would shortly come.

"How bad is she?"

"Venting air on three decks. FTL drives are inoperable. But emergency bulkheads have been sealed. The Callisto should survive, as long as she doesn't take another serious hit, Commodore."

If we have to withdraw, she'll never be able to leave with us, Erin realized. "Instruct Guttmann to fall back immediately. There's nothing more he can do today. Keep her two torch ships in position, though. I want that hole plugged where she was. They find a hole... they'll exploit it like that." Erin considered snapping her fingers, but realized the act would be lost to her crew on the busy bridge. Good military people, this crew....

"Another frigate has just been destroyed," Tac announced. "It's the Al Niyat from the Agamemnon Group."

Three or four excruciating seconds passed while Erin waited for a battle update from her forward observers. Erin ticked off the distances on her fingers as the precious seconds passed, noting that the enemy moved nearly half a million miles since releasing their deadly salvo.

"Our close-in ships are responding," Tac continued, "firing alphas from multiple sides... got it! The bug's dead. That's all three destroyers accounted for. The immediate threat has been neutralized, Commodore. They did not penetrate our forward line."

Erin glanced at her screens and saw the small reprieve her forces had won. So in the first lightening-quick wave, three smaller enemy ships were traded for one of her capital ships and a frigate destroyed and another pair of ships seriously damaged. Three destroyers traded for two ships lost and another two damaged was a tactical victory for the Wasatti. One third of her fleet—the equivalent of a battle group—was now out of commission.

Erin watched the final movements of the first act of the battle unfold on her screens. The leading wave of Wasatti had accomplished their task, crippling what targets they could.

Her depleted fleet warily navigated through the mines and debris of the sacrificial Wasatti destroyers, preparing a defense against the stronger enemy ships yet to come—those in the next inevitable wave.

The com officer relayed Erin's instructions to the damaged frigate a handful of seconds ago and Erin watched the "P.O.C." symbol on her tac screen begin to ease out of their thin battle line to a location shielded by the remnants of her group.

"Commodore, the Callisto has just acknowledged. She's safely behind the screen."

Facing her three depleted battle groups was a strike armada of Wasatti Empire warships. At the start of the engagement, her patrol fleet was outnumbered by fifty percent, and that was before the battle damages took their toll. Now with four ships lost to her, the enemy had nearly twice their numbers fully committed to action.

Erin mulled over her meager options. Eight against fifteen is not good odds, even though my three super-dreadnaughts each equal two Wasatti cruisers. The Academy would recommend a strategic withdrawal in a situation like this, but that did not account for Ice House.

Ice House was a horrible little world. It was frozen to the core. Average high temperatures at the equator sometimes made it up to where ice began to melt, and on a good, sunny day small puddles of liquid water might actually be found shimmering on its surface. What made Ice House important, though, was that nitrogen and oxygen saturated its wind-blown atmosphere. Humans had been scratching out an existence on Ice House for the past four decades. It was the furthest planet out on the 2-14 Corridor.

Erin absently drummed her fingers on her armrest, thinking about the unfolding battle. We don't have near enough ships to protect all our territory if the Wasatti figure it out and come at us in real force... just too much space....

The closest-guarded secret for both the humans and the Wasatti was the location of their colonial worlds, and every action the fleets took was crafted to conceal them. This was the first battle to occur at any human star, and so far the action was taking place in the extreme outer fringes of her stellar system. The Wasatti made no moves indicating they noticed the significance of Ice House among the other four planets, and Erin was determined to keep it that way—by The Book or not.

"Tactical: how far out are the rest of their ships?" Erin asked.

"Eight light-minutes, Ma'am," Tac replied.

Ninety–three million miles: the distance it took light to travel eight minutes to arrive. It was the distance the Earth was from Sol. For humans, it was their Astronomical Unit. So what Tac saw was actually eight minutes old, and for all Erin knew, the enemy ships could be anywhere within the yellow cones of uncertainty her tactical display revealed. Erin often found herself living ten minutes in the future from anyone else on her ship. She had to, in order to issue commands to her fleet in time for them to stay coordinated in their astronomically stretched-out battle lines. It was as though she lived in a universe all her own.

"They seem to be concentrating, aren't they?" Erin asked. "That doesn't make sense."

"Yes, Commodore," Tac replied, "they do seem to be heading toward a central point bearing 093, Neg 78. You'd think they'd try to flank us instead. They sure got the numbers."

They had more than just numbers. They still held the strategic element of surprise, and the tactical advantage. Anything the humans had done so far had been reactionary. And that was something Erin disliked with a passion. "They're going below the ecliptic and away from the core. Away from Ice House," Erin observed.

"Maybe they're waiting to see how we reposition. What we're trying to protect out here."

"That is, if they think we're protecting anything," Erin said to herself. "So we shouldn't cut between them and Ice House?"

"I wish I knew," Tac replied.

Erin thought for a moment, enough for the yellow cones to grow imperceptibly larger. "Okay, let's play their game. Order the fleet to come to 270, Plus 50, relative; stat. Let's lead them away."

"Aye, Ma'am." The ship began a slow turn away from the central star at maximum acceleration—their inertial compensators fighting to keep the human passengers alive under the tremendous gravities produced by the violent maneuver.

Erin overheard the com officer relay her orders to the seven other undamaged ships in their fleet. She was pleased with the efficiency of this bridge crew. I'll need to thank Hal later for what he's created here, Erin realized.

"Assign five torches to escort the Callisto and Sydney. Send them away, toward galactic north." Erin paused a moment before looking at the tactical display. "Tac: what's the enemy's speed?"

"Point-zero-five-two, Ma'am, according to the latest snapshot. Still appear to be concentrating."

"What are those cockroaches doing out there?" Erin asked no one in particular. She waited a minute or two while they danced a deadly long-distance ballet, looking for any revealing clues or signs of weakness.

Tac broke the momentary silence, "Multiple new contacts! Bearing 274, Plus 36 degrees. They just went sub-light. Distance: 12.2 l-m."

That answered one question. Now Erin could finally see the reasons for their erratic behavior, but she was still not sure what they were up to. "Great! How many boogies?" Erin asked, rightly concerned about the news.

"Six—no make that seven—Ma'am. Now we're being flanked. That answers your question, Commodore. I'm listing them as 'Hostile-2' on the screens."

"Yeah, I see it," Erin replied sharply. She closed her eyes in anger. "They arrived just as the main fleet began its maneuver, didn't they? And it led us directly toward them. How in the world did those sons of ants know what we'd do?" The bridge remained silent as Erin thought through their situation. "Alright, dispatch the Agamemnon Group to meet the new threat. The rest of us, head directly toward the original fleet at max sub-light speed. Now I'll try something they won't expect... this time." I hope, she silently thought. Erin studied her tac screen. "Tac: give me updated uncertainty cones on the new arrivals."

"I haven't had much time to analyze—"

"I know that," Erin interrupted tartly. She eased down on her volume, "But do your best." Erin waited impatiently until the seven yellow cones readjusted into a new configuration, indicating the most-probable spread of where the new ships may currently be. They were shedding vee as quickly as possible, but still appeared to be traveling close to ninety–two percent c. For the next few minutes, they would be about as responsive as a wagon pulled by a team of hippopotamus. Erin could almost feel the jolts of gravity they must be experiencing as their vanes pulled their ships back into normal space. The bugs traded maneuverability for surprise, just as their first wave of destroyers had done.

Just like their first wave had done.

"Tac," Erin shouted, "send this out to the Agamemnon Group." Erin frantically input instructions and transferred her tactical notes to the tac officer. "Look at Solution-14. Whaddaya think?"

The tac officer studied Erin's notes for a mere second or two. "I don't rightly know, Ma'am. It's a guess, I guess."

"That's all we have time for. Is it a good guess?"

"Good as any," Tac replied noncommittally.

The rest of the bridge crew looked worried. Erin was certain she looked more so. "What's our current com differential to the farthest ship in the Agamemnon Group?"

"Fifty–six seconds, and climbing. It's the Bonn."

"Okay, the Bonn's good. Have the group fire a full salvo of Helios with Solution-14 and Attack Pattern Alpha in seventy seconds. That'll give the Bonn ten seconds to set it up."

"Sent," Tac replied, working furiously. "Ten seconds ain't much time. Wish we could give 'em more warning."

Erin knew Tac was thinking about the Hive. But when without, use the old ways of communicating, Erin concluded.

A Hive organism was a bilateral green blob of protoplasm. They almost looked humanoid, except for the fact that they looked more like lime gelatin with big, black eyes. Although they were mute, they were highly telepathic and had quickly become loyal allies to the humans. When they could be spared from the hive, they served on the bridges of human ships as instant messengers across near space. Their range, as far as humans knew, was easily out to thirty light-minutes. Intel figured they could communicate two or three times that distance, but simply did not want their human friends to learn too much about their capabilities. They were a communal species, and when not serving on isolated starships they exchanged information with fellow Hive members by swapping DNA from their gelatinous bodies, providing full and instantaneous updates of their knowledge base to each other. In fact, their language had no concept of the individual, and "I" was a term they found difficult to understand. As such, it was important for them to stay intimately in contact, and as a result they only served on human ships occasionally. Now sure would have been a nice time to have a matched set, though.

Erin drummed her fingers absently on her armrest again, waiting the full two minutes for the command to go out and the reply to come back.

Com thankfully provided the answer she was waiting for, "Bonn reported missiles away, Commodore."

Good going, gentlemen, Erin thought. I knew you could pull it off.

Erin heard Tac quietly whispering to the com officer in the background. "Hope they got the solution right."

"Yeah, Campbell cut that one mighty close," Com agreed.

They probably think I can't hear them. Erin stared at the deck and replied under her breath, "We'll know in nine minutes, won't we?" She glanced at her first officer, Hal Platner, who—off to her side—had been quietly observing the battle. He was a great tactician and a good sounding board for the young commodore. Hal was as ancient as she was young. Erin wondered, not for the first time, if maybe he was one of the original two thousand—the first group to travel to another star. He could have been one of the kids on board, or maybe part of the genetic bank. Heck, it was only three hundred years. I should ask him someday.

"And if our Helios miss?" Hal asked.

"Then we just wasted a dozen near-light-capable nukes."

"If so, the Academy will deduct them from your salary, you know," Hal teased.

Erin kept from laughing. At least he's able to keep his sense of humor, she thought.

If they did indeed miss, Erin would need to consider a strategic withdrawal. That was a fancy name for "cut and run." She was not sure that was in her vocabulary. "Well, as long as we're around to sign the check, I'll be as happy as can be." That meant she was not considering giving up. It also told Hal what the operating conditions for the rest of the battle would be: no surrender, no giving ground.

Hal laughed. "True. How about this: if that happens—and we're still around to talk about it, of course—I'll take up a collection for ya with the crew."

Erin raised her eyebrows silently in response. She turned back to Tac. "How long before Hostile-1 knows what we just did?"

"They'll detect our missile trails two minutes after detonation occurs."

That's exactly what Erin hoped. She'd pieced it all together in her mind, but didn't have time for the actual calcs. "Good," Erin replied. "Then we'll gain tactical surprise on 'em. We should be close to beam range by the time they realize their other group is even threatened. Then, we can engage them for almost ten minutes before they know their nasty little friends are dead." That was the time Erin needed to turn the tide of battle in their favor. It all comes down to the next ten minutes....

"Or, as they join their friends laughing as our missiles harmlessly pass them by," Hal reminded her.

Hal interrupted her temporary daydreaming, forcing her to concentrate on what he just said. "Positive thinking, Hal, positive thinking," Erin insisted. "You got to have faith. Sometimes cockroaches can be pretty predictable. Shine a light and watch 'em scurry. When they learn something works, they like to do it again and again. No imagination there. Brain's aren't big enough, I suspect," she concluded pointing to her head.

"They were pretty unpredictable with that entry maneuver they just completed," Hal corrected.

Erin sneered. They were lucky with that one. Although it was more likely they were extremely efficient. Erin hated being outclassed in battle. She hated being outclassed in anything. "Maybe because I was fighting in my same old predictable way, Hal. Never again. I just tossed out the Old Book."

Captain Platner looked at her askance.

"What's the matter, Hal, don't trust me?"

"No, I do. Your... Spirit Guide—or whatever—has done pretty well for us so far."

Erin smiled, remembering those old legends from childhood. "Yeah, my father believes in that stuff. He's the traditionalist in the family, but I grew out of it pretty quick. But, who knows; if there is such a thing, let's hope they ride with us a little longer," Erin replied. "It all probably comes down to luck anyway."

"Nah; if you relied on luck, you'd lose half the time. It's something else in you."

Erin looked up from her screens, "Are you trying to flatter me?"

Hal blushed, but did not reply.

"Hal, you always roll the dice in this game. Remember now, the Wasatti opened the battle with that wave of destroyers coming in just under light-speed, burning their beams into our exposed hulls. I'm betting the first group maneuvered us to this very spot to try the same thing with Hostile-2," she said pointing to the tac screen. "See? They have a perfect intercept vector on our path, as long as Firing Solution-14 holds. That means they'll hold course to about half-way to intersect. If so, our missiles will get to them first before they even know they're there. That's where the smart money is, Hal."

"Ah, now you're putting smart money on the table," Hal noted. "Did your ancestors own a casino?"

"Most probably," Erin said. "The old traditional ways, eh...?"

Hal laughed. He looked at the chronograph. "Well, whatever happens will happen in three minutes."

Three minutes of nervous waiting. Twelve thousand human lives rested on the outcome of one decision. She sent out twelve powerful missiles on a shot in the dark—on a calculated whim. A thousand lives saved for each missile spent was the price she was hoping to pay; and if she was wrong....

"And we'll learn the outcome eight minutes after that," Erin said. "How far, Tac?"

"Three minutes to beam range, Commodore. They're beginning to turn our way. They are accelerating. The closing distance will now decrease rapidly, Ma'am. Beam range on the first hostile ship is now one minute and forty–two seconds."

The bugs were preparing to reveal their tactical surprise about now. Everything the Wasatti had done so far came down to this one moment. It was one big game; trade a pawn now for a chance at a queen later. Erin wondered who the better chess master was. It all came down to who saw further into the battle and whose force of will controlled the other. Erin wondered who was sitting in her place at their command chair. By their aggressiveness so far, it could very well be Kel himself. Whoever it was, he was doing pretty well. "What's at their front?"

"Two destroyers—their last two—and a carrier is screened behind them. Next in line are eight cruisers, followed by four frigate-sized ships. I can't keep track of how many torches surround the carrier. It's a boat-load, though."

"Hope we've been storing up a batch of alpha particles," Erin thought out loud.

"Generators have been working at 120 percent," Tac replied. "We got enough for six salvos. At the current closing speeds, that's about all we'll have time for."

"Fine," Erin said. "Com: send this out to all our ships. Ignore the carrier. The Argonaut will handle the two destroyers; everyone else concentrate on the torch ships. Small insect bites, that, but they add up fast. 'Lot of sticks to count coup."

"Yes, Ma'am," Com replied.

A stony silence followed her last command. She was an unknown quantity on this ship and had yet to prove herself. Now, she committed them to an untried tactic. The Book said to attack their strength. Take out their big guns first and then mop up what was left. Instill uncertainty on the enemy. Project our strength on them and show them they have no strength left before they can bring it to bear. Erin could see the uncertainty in the eyes of her bridge crew; they were wondering what in the world she had in mind. Well, in for the penny; in for the pound. Whatever that meant, Erin thought.

"Then," Erin continued, "instruct them that the Argonaut will fly right past the carrier and chew up the cruisers next, still using Attack Pattern Alpha. Begin hard-decel once we pass that carrier. Save all missiles for the cruiser battle. Once they're dispatched, turn back on the carrier for point-blank fire. Leave the frigates be; they're mostly for support anyway."

"Gutsy move, Commodore," Hal suggested.

"You got a better plan?" Erin asked, silently hoping he did.

Hal thought for a moment. He began to say something, but stopped short, considering otherwise. Hal could calculate the odds against those cruisers as well as she could. He pursed his lips in thought. "Not really," he conceded. "I hope in ten minutes our Wasatti friends feel like Custer did."

"Greasy Grass Creek, here we come!" Erin shouted. That was their most famous battle. It was the defining moment of her people. The Cheyenne and the Lakota had formed an unusual alliance against the wasishus, or whites, and their Crow pawns. It was a battle that showed the newly arrived interlopers that The People still had teeth. It showed them they would not bow down like dogs and obey their impudent commands. That was nearly half a thousand years ago, and here they were, doing it all over again.

Hal—looking puzzled—stared at Erin as if she had grown horns, "I thought that battle was called 'Little Big Horn.' "

"Only by the losers of that battle," Erin shot back. "The Cheyenne knew it as Greasy Grass Creek."

"But the history books list it otherwise."

"True," Erin sighed. "But only because they won the overall war. Only the winners can write the history."

They both remained silent, thinking about the battle they were in, and the distances rapidly closing.

"Status, Tac?"

"Beam range in fifteen seconds, Ma'am."

Erin caught Hal watching her. She smiled evilly for show.

"I suddenly feel very sorry for old George Armstrong Custer, if he fought anyone the likes of you," he said. Hal turned aside and took over the firing commands for his ship as Erin concentrated on the overall strategic battle. He opened the internal com. "All hands, prepare for battle. All port beam crews concentrate fire on the port destroyer; all starboard crews concentrate on the starboard destroyer. Set guns to continuous cycling solution. In five-four-three-two-one... commence fire!"

The Argonaut bucked as her concentrated alpha particles formed in the heart of the ship's gunnery power plant and sped outward to their targets. Each gun was linked by computer so that a continuous stream of ultra-light alpha particles was thrown at the enemy ships at near-light speeds. With eight cannons to each forward quadrant, the cycling allowed each gun to cool as the next in line sent out its massive payload of destruction. The huge dreadnaught looked like a Goliath playing with children.

The enemy destroyer to the starboard side flared as the particle beams super-heated its hull to temperatures approaching the nuclear fires of a star. Within seconds, the shots—assisted by luck—blew the ship into a cloud of ionized gas and debris.

"Helm," Captain Platner commanded, "come about to 354, Neg 45, yaw 90 degrees to starboard; stat. All batteries: fire on the remaining destroyer once you have a solution."

The port batteries continued to fire on the smaller destroyer as the dreadnaught began to maneuver in the three dimensions of space. At her new position, all the forward cannons could bear down on the lone destroyer now streaking toward them, and as she continued to twist and rotate, the side and rear cannons would soon be able to follow suit. All targeting was now left up to the computers. At the speeds the ships were approaching, the closure distances would be the same as travelling from New York City to Boston on Old Earth in the blink of four-thousandths of a second. No human could ever react that fast.

As helm responded, the Argonaut heeled violently to the right, forcing the bridge crew to fight against the centripetal forces of the violent turn. Erin strained to keep her balance within her command chair, thankful for the relief the compensators provided. Without them, Erin realized, we'd have been reduced to a puddle of tissue in our chairs.

She studied her tac screen and saw one of the two enemy destroyers blink out. Missiles from the other ship lit the screen.

"Five missiles heading our way, Commodore; point-blank range," Tac reported. "Contact in two minutes. EM deployed."

"Add chaff to the defenses too," Erin instructed.

The electro-magnetic pulses from the drones flying from the Argonaut were designed to confuse the seeker heads of the approaching missiles. Two enemy birds took the bait and swerved upward to chase the emitting drones, exploding on contact. Another missile encountered a wall of titanium particles thrown out in a cloud in front of Erin's ship like shotgun pellets from a rifle. The internal firing mechanism of the missile mistook the particles as its target and also exploded prematurely, scattering the remaining chaff along the strong pressure wave of the blast. Two trailing Wasatti missiles continued through the hole now created in their defenses.

The tac officer dutifully reported, "Two missiles still on course. Contact in thirty–five seconds."

"Point defenses, fire!" Platner shouted.

"Aye, Sir," Tac replied. A cloud of metallic slugs shot out from hundreds of close-defense guns like machinegun fire, attempting to blindly strike the missiles before they closed on the ship. One missile exploded a mere fifty thousand feet away.

"Brace for impact!" Captain Platner yelled into the internal PA. Five seconds later, the ship vibrated like a bell and shook in place as the remaining missile slammed into the hull. "Damage assessment," Platner commanded.

"Forward instrument section badly damaged," the chief engineer replied. "Fires breaking out on two decks. Damage Control Parties are sealing off Sections 7 through 15."

"How bad are the fires?" Platner asked.

"The one on B-Deck is contained; C-Deck is still out of control."

"Vent the lower instrument room," Hal instructed.

Erin was listening in on the conversation with one ear. She was not sure she could have issued that command so easily.

"But, Captain, we still have responders in there," the engineer replied.

"Are they properly suited?"

"Aye—"

"Then do it! Flight control: launch the SAR shuttle. Get those people back."

"Aye, aye, Sir," Flight Ops reported from her station on the hangar deck. "Search and Rescue away."

Erin glanced at her tac screen and saw the small shuttle leave the hangar deck. It pitched and yawed to match the debris following the ship. For the next several minutes the shuttle would fight against the unwanted forward momentum it inherited from the Argonaut. It slowly crept toward the survivors scattered among the debris cloud. Erin knew the Wasatti would ignore the rescue shuttle and survivors as insignificant targets, not out of pity but because there were so many other juicy targets for them to consider. Besides, it would be too difficult for them to slow down in time for a proper intercept.

"All forward batteries are now engaged on the remaining destroyer, Ma'am," Tac said. "They're boring through her hull. Extensive damage to the destroyer, Commodore... she's dead."

Erin watched as the remaining destroyer blinked from her screen. Two threats were erased, with minimal damage to her ship in return. Further along their path, Erin saw the symbols for the massive bulk of the Wasatti carrier and an indistinct cloud of fighters surrounding it like wild electrons orbiting their mother nucleus. The remaining ships in her patched-together battle group began attacking the torch ships like angry gorillas swatting at insects.

"Ma'am...!" Tac shouted. "We've just detected a massive shockwave from Hostile-2. The missile attack worked! It looks like all ships were destroyed. Agamemnon Group is attempting to come around."

The bridge crew shouted for joy.

Erin held her hand up for quiet. "People, we still have twelve ships, plus a carrier and a swarm of torch ships to contend with. Stay focused!"

The bridge settled down at her command. "Okay, let's bear down on their cruisers. This'll be a tough fight, ladies and gentlemen. Com: instruct the Agamemnon Group to threaten the carrier. That should keep their remaining torch ships off our backs. Tac:—"

"Ma'am," Tac interrupted her, "the carrier appears to be breaking off. Yeah... the cruisers are redeploying now, too. Most of their torch ships are being recalled."

The Wasatti frigates jumped out of the system as Erin watched. Almost all of their fighters were now swooping back into their hangars, and the massive Wasatti carrier glowed with the telltale light of pre-jump. It folded in on itself and disappeared into hyperspace, leaving the eight defending cruisers behind.

"Missile range in three minutes, Commodore," Tac informed her. "Missiles are ready at your command."

"I don't think it'll matter, now, Tac," Erin replied.

True to her word, as she viewed her screens and came within firing range of the opposing warships, she saw the eight cruiser symbols wink out as they, too, entered K-T-space and jumped away from the vengeful humans. That fast, the star system was theirs again, and the remaining human ships found themselves holding the battleground.

Erin found herself relaxing for the first time this morning. "Are there any surviving Wasatti out there?" She asked. "I'd sure like to grab some intelligence from any of their systems."

"No, Ma'am. There were three disabled torch ships near the carrier that didn't land, but they just self-destructed. Their engines must have been damaged and couldn't make it back to the carrier in time."

Erin sighed. "Okay," she replied wearily. "Send out some scouts. Search the debris fields and see if there's anything we can scavenge. Have 'em search for any stray electronic signatures. Who knows, maybe we'll get lucky this time. I'd sure like to be the one who finds the hole they crawl out of."

"You and me, both," Platner commented.

"By the way, good job everyone. Com: please send my regards to all the captains. And ask the Sydney and Callisto if they need assistance."

Erin stretched her back and looked toward Hal. They said nothing, but their looks told all. Both officers were proud of the job the other had done. "Close one, huh?" Erin asked.

Platner nodded. He looked weary. "Your ancestors would be proud. Permission to head to the forward instrument room, Commodore?"

"Yeah, go ahead. See what they did down there to your ship. Find out how the SAR went, too. Let me know."

"Will do. Good job, Erin."

Erin took the compliment well, but knew there was no need to tell Hal how well he had done. Hal had been an officer for over thirty adjusted years, flying in and out of hyperspace—God knew how much time he accumulated in normal space—and if the flag was not on this ship, the Argonaut would be under his command. It must be rough for him having me in charge, Erin thought. It's his ship, and it'll be his again when I head off to my next fleet command assignment. A temporary intrusion, I am. Like the night wind passing through the forest. But they all did very well.

"Hey, Captain," Erin yelled to Hal's retreating back before he could make good his escape, "when exactly were you born, anyway?"

The bridge crew looked up in unison. Hal glanced over his retreating shoulder. "Been a few years. Long before you... before your planet-locked grandfather too, I suspect." He smiled and waited for the lift to arrive, shifting mischievously from one foot to the other.

The door slid open and Chief Steward Shelby appeared at the lift with snacks for the crew. Hal paused before entering and stole a handful of food before disappearing from the bridge, and before another question could be asked.

Shelby approached the command chair and Erin grabbed a sandwich and coffee bulb, biting hungrily into the bread. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. "Thanks, Chief."

He nodded and headed off to another section with his tray of supplies.

Erin savored her small meal and licked every crumb from her fingers. She sipped the hot coffee and basked in its richness. Not much better in life than good Navy coffee, she thought.

"Com," Erin instructed, "have a courier prepped for an immediate mission to the VCB. Make it a direct-line flight; we don't have time to waste. Tell them General Sar ap Kel himself may have been in our sector. Copy off the full battle logs and deliver them to Captain Campbell. Warn him there may be further incursions and to take all necessary precautions. Suggest to Captain Campbell that the schedule may need to be accelerated. And make sure Captain Platner is informed about the courier too. Ask him if he wishes to add any messages." Erin thought for a moment before continuing. "Amend that, Com. Tell the courier pilot I'm going to send off a personal packet too. Say to them I'll have it forwarded within five minutes.

"I'll be in my quarters. Tac, you have the bridge."

"Aye, Ma'am." The tac officer stepped away from his station and folded into the chair to Erin's side. Erin saw Tac-2, in turn, shuffle into the main tac post. "I have the bridge, Commodore," Tac announced.

Erin thought she detected sympathy in his voice.

Erin nodded. She realized that not only was she hungry, but was also exhausted.

Oh great, now I've got to move, Erin realized. One foot painfully made its way away from her chair as her body learned to move again. Erin felt like a robot; worse, actually—robots had articulated legs. She stopped and turned back, grabbing her precious bulb of coffee from her armrest.

Somehow, she found herself in her quarters just off the bridge. She hadn't even remembered walking to it. She looked around in confusion, alone with her thoughts. It was actually Hal's cabin, but he had graciously turned it over to her while she was on board. It was nice, but it never really felt like home. She made a quick trip to the head and then sat down at her desk, glancing first at her bunk. In a few minutes, she promised herself. But first things first....

Erin keyed in the encryption codes, looked into the camera, and began recording her personal note to Stephen. He would be the highest-ranking military officer at the Vega Construction Base by the time her message arrived.

"Stephen, it's Erin," she began. "By now you should have reviewed the logs. It was a tough one, but we got through it. Still not sure why they withdrew so quickly ... I think they would have won, eventually...." Erin thought for a beat. "Well, maybe....

"That's not like them. And if Kel was in command of that armada, it definitely was not like him. Something's up. Probing our resolve, maybe. I don't know if they suspect Ice House is here, or not. I'm going to instruct the settlement and the research facility here to go to black-out conditions for a few months. Just in case the bugs come back. Looks like we'll need to extend our patrol zones around here for longer than we thought, too. Academy will be pleased about that.

"I lost two ships today, Stephen." She choked up for a moment before regaining her composure. "A cruiser and a frigate.... The Pelion was one of them." She did not need to tell Stephen any more about that, thinking again about their close friend, Thomas.

"Fourteen hundred people.... I wish there was someone here I could talk to. We gotta find a way to shut the bugs down. That mission of yours is becoming more and more important by the day. It's got to succeed, Stephen, no matter what. The Ten Colonies are at stake. But I guess you know that already.

"I love you. It's been—what, for you—two years since you last saw me?" Erin chuckled. "... and five years awake for me... you'd better not forget that." She paused the recording.

The year had been 2341 when they were last together as a family. That was at Jackson's Landing twelve years ago—in the reckonings of normal space. After Erin's husband and son left her behind, she remained there for nearly five additional years before travelling directly to distant Ice House in the unconscious stasis of K-T-space. For her, the departure seemed like it was a long five years ago. Stephen, however, stopped off on Mars and had been there for two years so far, with one more scheduled to go. Eventually, when Steven and their son would travel on to Vega, this message would find them there. The result of all those maneuverings around normal space was that Erin had gained three years on him... and he had better appreciate that, she reflected.

Erin suddenly laughed, rubbing her face in thought. She tried to piece together their pasts and futures. He and Peter are scheduled to stay on Mars for a year more and then fly out to Vega. Erin consulted a time-distance chart of the Colonies. By the time he receives this message, they'll have been there for... three years. And once I'm able to get back to them at the VCB, Stephen and I will be back in physiologic sync. Ah, yes, there is a God.

Erin focused back on her screen, turning the recording function back on. "How's Peter doing? I bet he's getting big. Tell him I miss him. Tell him I love him very much, and I think of him every day. Give him a kiss for me, would you?" Erin felt cheated. Her son... who would be fourteen years old when they received this message... had actually been born in 2317, thirty–six years ago. She, Stephen, and their son were able to spend the first six years of his life together, but then Erin only caught a couple year-long glimpses of Peter every few decades.

Man, Erin realized, when I get there, I'll only have been with Peter for eight years of his fourteen woken-year life! And for Peter, it works the other way around, too. It simply was not fair.

"Well, I'll try to send you a better message soon as I can. Just thought I'd sneak a quick note on this courier before it left. Take care, love, and I'll see you soon." Erin blew the camera a kiss before turning it off. She put the message into the queue and sent it off to the hangar deck.

She stood up, unsnapped the top of her tunic, and fell onto her bunk, not even noticing her boots were still on.

* * *

As Erin fell into a fitful slumber, her fleet mopped up the detritus of the battle they just won, searching for survivors and any clues about the Wasatti. As expected, each unit performed well, and all but three missing sailors were found alive. Nothing other than organics, metals, and fried-out electronic components, however, were recovered from the enemy battle residue.

Debris would remain in orbit here for decades to come, and as a result, several alarm satellites were posted around the periphery to warn any human or Hive ships of the uncharted hazards. For now, though, a swarm of small craft wove in and out of the new hazards, dutifully carrying out their orders and flitting from one location to another. Anxious flight controllers followed their progress and helped keep them safe. A new chapter in the Human-Wasatti War was written here in this system, and the human side finally had the honor of recording the results in the history books. Lives were lost, but it was still a moment to be proud of.

Within the orchestrated confusion of the after-battle action, a small courier ship left the Argonaut's hangar and maneuvered out for an optimal trajectory to the Vega star system 39.2 light-years away. The courier's destination was the most secret location in Human Space. It was a location so critical to the survival of the human and Hive species that few records of it existed. The courier carried the complete logs of the Argonaut Patrol Fleet and a special personal note from a fleet commodore to a husband and her son.

* * *

As the Argonaut's courier blinked out to enter K-T-space, a stealth Wasatti intel-patrol boat eased its way from behind a large, frozen asteroid in the Sigma Bootis star system. It followed closely in the wake of the departing courier, sending an electronic tag to the Wasatti fleet waiting patiently just outside the frigid star system.

CHAPTER 3

**Vega Construction Base – Omicron Vector Approach – 0945, January 29, 2365 (Present Day)**

"Incoming message packet.... It's from an Argonaut courier, Captain. Origin is from the Omega Point."

What in the world is that boat doing here? A fleet messenger was not expected for several weeks, and it was an old Navy axiom that unscheduled messengers seldom brought good news. This made Stephen plenty nervous. From Erin, he thought. Okay, so what could she possibly want?

Stephen Campbell ran his fingers through his sandy-blond hair, doing what he could to look nonplused. Finding no other excuse to delay receiving what he expected would be bad news, Stephen asked, "Has the message made it through the encryption protocols, yet?"

The com officer across the narrow isle from him studied his screens for a beat. "Uh, encrypt deconstruct in a minute or two, sir. Stand by."

Ten officers were on the bridge with Stephen, all studiously attending their duties. Each was wearing the sky-blue, one-piece flight suit common to the Colonial Academy. Loose cords and connector pins, displaying their gaudy yellow and black warning stripes, hung from each suit, ready to be inserted into the FTL prep systems at a moment's notice. Stephen was at the center of the bridge, occupying the largest chair in the room, where numerous interactive screens surrounded him—many projected in mid air like the walls of an electronic cage. While he waited for the message to reconstruct, Stephen assembled the base's construction status reports and the mail packets from the previous three weeks. He made sure the outgoing messages were fully encrypted and set them into the queue. "You still have tight-beam on the courier, right?"

"Aye, Sir," Com replied. "We're locked on. Looks like a good pilot out there."

"Okay, good. Send this off as we wait for deconstruction." Stephen released his logs to the com station.

The lieutenant across the isle threw some switches and passed his fingers through the ephemeral interactive screens at his station. "Message packet away, Sir... Incoming E.D. complete. You should have readable logs now."

Stephen sighed silently. "Thank you, Mr. Gao. Do you have full-stream packet verification?"

"Affirmative—message receipt at one hundred percent."

"Very good. Give me fifteen minutes to review the logs and then release the courier. Wish the pilot well, and extend our thanks. I'll take the messages in my cabin."

Stephen pushed out of the command chair and glanced to his left. He passed through a projected map of the sector without noticing. It shimmered for a second in his wake. "Nav, you have the conn."

* * *

"Stephen; it's Erin. By now you should have reviewed the logs. It was a tough one but we got through it. Still not sure why they withdrew so quickly... I think they would have won eventually...." She paused for a beat, "Well, maybe...."

Stephen could not believe what he was seeing. He held his breath during the entire message.

"...Well, I'll try to send you a better message soon as I can. Just thought I'd sneak a quick note on this courier before it left. Take care, love, and I'll see you soon. Give Peter my love."

Stephen sped through the fleet logs before opening any personal mail. And as usual, the fleet's tour was largely mundane, except for the last day. Twenty-five Wasatti warships....

A silent prayer passed through Stephen's lips before he opened his eyes, realizing how it should have ended. She's a tough one, that girl.

Stephen rechecked the date stamp on Erin's logs and realized the courier had taken 11.7 years of normal space-time to arrive on a daring direct-line flight, although it was only two months for the courier pilot. For Stephen, it had been three adjusted years awake, with time following him around his erratic wanderings in and out of K-T-space. That battle, although in real time was nearly twelve years old, had been fought while he was still at Mars. A universe with two ways of reckoning time—normal space and adjusted K-T-space—made his head spin.

Stephen reached out to the glowing hologram suspended above his cabin desk, still displaying Erin's frozen image. She looked exhausted, and decades older than the last time he saw her. He tried to calculate the relative time displacements since they were last together, but lost track of all the jumps. It was enough to make a man crazy. Marry a girl your own age, and if you were not careful you end up with a woman the age of your grandmother. For a space couple spending time away from each other they were luckier than most. Both spent time fooling the aging process in K-T-space, and if they were truly lucky, their relative times away from normal space would cancel out. If she stayed young, Stephen hoped he would stay just as young, or old, or whatever. It was all a balancing act subject to some detached admirals' schedule.

Stephen directed his personal messages to Archive and then composed a briefing for Governor Essen. He reviewed it once, and then a second time, editing out some of his negativity before sending it on to the base. Essen had no idea how strong the Wasatti were, and he simply would not listen to the briefings over the first few weeks Stephen had been in charge of the base military force. I need to be sure he has all the facts to act on, but I still need him to listen to my advice.

Stephen rubbed his forehead in frustration. Speaking of negativity.... "Com, connect me with Lieutenant Wilkins, please."

"Aye, Sir. One moment."

Ruben Wilkins was Stephen's first officer on the Sirius' Revenge. Ruben was a young officer. He was rather plain-looking and was blessed with an abrasive personality that would wear thin the patience of a saint.

Ruben was on assignment away from the ship, currently overseeing progress at the VCB construction yards. To Ruben, nothing was ever perfect. He always questioned results. He always wondered if just a little more could be squeezed from the tap. In other words, he was just the right person to keep the construction workers at top efficiency. And efficiency was what the human race needed now.

Stephen watched Ruben's head appear over his desk. He looked annoyed, most likely because he just had his work interrupted. "How's it going, Ruben?" The Com Dif between them was a paltry half-second, at just over 93,000 miles.

"Horrible, Skipper. These systems are taking much longer than we planned. I think it's just too complex. This stuff is new technology built on top of unheard-of technology. I question whether anyone really knows what the dickens we're building over here."

"It can't be that bad, Ruben. Why, when I was there just ten days ago, the bridge interfaces seemed pretty responsive to me."

Ruben looked annoyed. "Just because it responds to questions doesn't mean it can dance a jig."

Stephen smiled at his quaint analogy. "We're not asking him to a dance, Ruben."

"No, Captain, we're asking it to do much more than that. If only it were that simple."

Stephen had to admit Ruben was right. This was a tough assignment. It was a project some spent their entire careers on, and it was still far from finished.

It was a prototype—the first ever mechanorganic ship. It was part living, part machine, and extremely powerful. The ship was designed to be self sufficient, and if he could be successfully brought on-line he would change the course of the war—along with his planned siblings—once he proved space-worthy.

He was the Sampson K. Perry, named after the famous admiral who in 2230 successfully persuaded Hive messengers to break from their communal homes and crew human ships. The Perry was only the size of a line cruiser. It had seven decks, was only 1,400 feet long, and had a beam of 275 feet. That would have described a cruiser in perfect detail, but that was where the similarities ended.

The triple hull was constructed from a self-annealing amorphous carbon complex with properties resembling fluid diamond. In place of electronic circuits, organic fluids—so eerily similar to Hive protoplasm that Stephen had no desire to know where it came from—flowed through pulsating conduits. Each station normally found on traditional fighting starships was replaced by a living node, euphemistically called "organs."

One organ was the communications system patterned after a human's vocal chords; another served as the environmental scrubbing units, much like a kidney. He had hundreds of other nodes specialized into other critical tasks as well. Six miniature cold fusion power plants used elemental hydrogen that was soaked up from space to feed the ship using gigantic magnetic scoops, like a hungry whale filtering krill. It had the firepower of a fleet of dreadnaughts, and could manufacture munitions on the spot as easily as humans replaced dead skin cells.

In theory, the Perry could fly itself but everyone knew that was not a good idea. Humanity could never leave such raw power unattended. Once commissioned, he would hold a crew of only 150—twenty percent of a normal crew—with the majority of its interior space taken up by its own organic, replicating systems and environmental crew support. The interior rooms were spacious, but that was easily accommodated because there were so few of them.

Most of the normal rooms needed on other ships, such as forward battery directors or pump rooms were simply not needed on the Perry; the ship simply took care of all those functions automatically. It was as though the designers took only what was minimally essential for a warship and included them in the blueprints, leaving out all the rest. As a result, fifty percent of the interior was taken up with thick, solid mechanical organics while the rest held the isolated hollowed-out rooms and corridors leading to them. Adding to the alien look of the ship's interior, there were hardly any square corners. The corridors looked more like hollowed-out caves. If one were miniaturized down enough to fit inside a body, the corridors might look like the interior of arteries, and the rooms themselves like one would imagine the chambers of a heart would be—if the body's cells were green, that is.

Captain Campbell was chosen to take command of the ship. It was a tremendous personal honor. Just last week, the ship's operating systems were keyed into his DNA for security purposes. Other crew could operate the ship, but only with his permission, as he had arranged for Ruben just before he left the bridge. It took forty years to reach this point, and it was only now slowly gaining consciousness, as if the ship itself were growing out of a prolonged incubation. And—assuming they were still on schedule—Stephen would take it out for its first trials later this evening. If he could convince Ruben, Stephen reflected.

"Ruben, are you saying we won't make trials?"

"No, we'll get it out the hangar. Just say'n I'm glad you're the one to fly it, is all."

"It'll only be for a short spin around the neighborhood. Can't have him venture out too far on his first day from the nest."

"Yeah, and then back for months more tweaking after we see what it can do, or not do, more'n likely."

The last thing Stephen needed was to be reminded of how long it would be before the ship was ready to permanently leave the base. He dreamed of that day. It would be good to be away from here. If it worked out as planned, he would be captain of the Perry in a fleet commanded by Erin. Then, she would only be a few thousand miles—and a short shuttle ride—away, not to mention the special dispensation given to children with parents in the same mobile fleet. He wondered what it would be like to see his wife whenever he wanted. "The Perry will be okay, Ruben. Just wait and see."

"Gives me the creeps, somehow...."

Stephen saw Ruben glance at the ceiling nervously, as if he were afraid of being overheard by ghosts occupying the strange, haunted ship. It made Steven laugh again. "Aw, Lieutenant Wilkins, don't take this the wrong way, but you give most people the creeps. Just remember, he's still a machine, but you're not."

"Wish you'd quit calling it a 'he.' Ain't natural, somehow."

It was difficult not to think of the ship as a person. The officers spoke directly to the ship instead of issuing commands to the crew. And his voice was so real when he responded. Just ten days ago, when Stephen was aboard, he purposely asked the ship a question requiring deductive reasoning. The ship was still maturing, almost as if he were still in his mother's womb, but Stephen was sure he'd felt the ship vibrate while he thought out the answer. It was almost as if the ship was nervously tapping his heel—that is, if he had a foot—as he worked out the puzzle. What strange times we live in.

"Don't know, Ruben; the short time I've been with him, he seems more sociable than you."

Stephen watched Ruben shrug nonchalantly. "Don't take much for that."

"You just need a steady girlfriend to teach you proper manners. How about that cute lieutenant in armscomp?"

Stephen was surprised to see Ruben blush. That was a first. He was always so assertive. If Rube saw a goal in the distance, he'd knock over anyone in his way to get to it. He was the sort of man that would not accept "no" for an answer—more so in himself than anyone else.

"Who, Tricia? Nah, she's partial to Mac."

"That ape?" Stephen asked. "You could beat him out; if you just tried."

"Kinda hard t' do that with me over here and you way out there."

Stephen was not going to accept blame for Ruben's lack of love life. Being here in the middle of nowhere was hard enough for the crew. Fraternization was frowned upon for centuries in the Navy, but because of the huge distances involved in space travel, and the enormous time differentials of those left behind, relaxed regulations had to be accepted. "Patience, Ruben. We'll get you back to the Sirius soon enough."

"Don't matter none; don't think she even knows I exist."

"Sure she does, Ruben. And quit acting so hurt. Doesn't suit you."

"Could be you could assign her over here.... That'd make Mac real happy."

Stephen snorted. He was not sure he would want to have Mac as an enemy. That was not an especially palatable thought. Mac's forearms were larger than Stephen's thigh. And his muscles bulged more than that ancient cartoon sailor... what was his name?

"What, now I'm your personal match-maker?" Stephen asked.

"Just say'n...."

"Is there anything else you need while I'm at it?"

"Yeah; when she comes over, have her bring some steaks from ship's stores. Gettin' a mite spotty over here in the food department."

A nice juicy steak would be good about now, Stephen thought. They had a few left for special occasions, like after they test-ran the new ship—successfully, of course. "Sure, sure...." Stephen was about to say something smart in reply until he noticed the com signal blink. It was a priority call he missed while bantering back and forth with Ruben.

"Oops, I gotta go. Just saw a com signal from the governor himself. I can't keep him waiting, you know."

"Okay, Skipper. And remember, now: medium-rare on those steaks."

* * *

Stephen closed the connection to the base hangar and quickly brought up the governor's aide. It didn't really surprise him that she looked as stern as if she just pulled a straight pin from the seat of her pants. That's what you get for working with politicians, sweetie.

"Hello, Janet," Stephen said, as pleasantly as possible. And don't use that look on me, he added silently.

"Captain," the receptionist replied with distain, "Governor Essen has been waiting for you to pick up."

"Gee, I didn't realized it was that long. Anyway, no harm, no foul, right? I'm available now, though, so you can patch me through." Stephen tried to look as innocent as possible. He offered her a cheesy smile.

Janet shot him "a look" and brought up Governor Essen without saying another word. Stephen hid the smirk developing on his face. "Reginald," Stephen said, "I assume you are calling because you received my briefing assessment." Stephen tried to take charge of the conversation so the governor could not ruin his good mood.

"Yes, I did, Stephen. Very thorough, as usual...."

"Thank you, sir."

"So, what do you really think of all this mess?"

"Well, another skirmish was inevitable. When and where they'd show up was anyone's guess. They did come in with much more force than what our analysts predicted, though."

"And we still have no clues as to where their base of operations are; their homeworld?"

"No, Sir. It's most likely somewhere outside the thirteenth hour vector, but that could be anywhere from vector-hour eleven to fifteen. That's a lot of space to explore."

"And where is our military intelligence failing us?"

So much for his good mood. That man has no clue, Stephen reminded himself. For the average person back home, they had difficulty seeing the urgency of "the war." They think: so what if there's a skirmish every ten years, or so? For those out in space fighting it, those long years in space are only but weeks and the isolated skirmishes in time quickly turn into a harried campaign. The planet-bound simply had no concept of the huge distances involved in an interstellar war.

"I'm not sure our intelligence is failing us, sir. We've only had three contacts with them in fifty–five years. Each battle had no strategic consequence, other than feeling out each other's resolve. You can understand how closely we guard our navigational data. They're just doing the same. Both sides have kept their cards pretty close to their chests up to this point."

"True enough; true enough. So—offering your best guess now—why did they come at us so hard this time and how did they know we'd be there?"

"That's a tough question—"

"Which is why I consult you," Essen briskly interrupted him.

Stephen held back his sarcastic reply. "I think they wanted to see how hard a fight we'd make of it in Sigma Bootis; show our hand as to whether anything of strategic importance was there worth protecting. That'd be typical strategy."

Stephen paused a moment to consider everything Erin told him in her after action report. He had to admit some things just did not add up. Uncertainly, Stephen continued, "Knowing precisely where the fleet was in mid-battle—seemingly—is disturbing, though. Their flanking fleet knew exactly where to jump in, within a few million miles. Nobody could guess that well beforehand. The best explanation is that a stealth ship from the lead fleet snuck out after contact was first made to provide data to the follow-on force waiting just outside the system limits—"

Essen interrupted Stephen again, "And the worst assumption?"

"The worst assumption? The roaches have spies in our midst. Then, we'd be royally screwed."

"You think that's possible?"

"No, governor, I don't. But it can't be ruled out. Remember, finding one scout ship hiding in a stellar system is much more difficult than finding a particular grain of sand on a planet. If there was a stealth ship out there observing the opening moves, the Argonaut Fleet would never have seen it."

"You think they have the upper hand?"

Stephen winched at the thought. "No, but we don't either. And I won't rest until we do. Getting the Perry operational will go a long way doing that."

Essen seemed to ignore Stephen's conclusions. "What's the implication of this latest attack? Are we in any danger? Here at the base, I mean?"

"No more or less than we were before, Reginald. Keep in mind: these are simply the early jabs in a fight. Don't let the fact that we've been fighting for fifty-some years affect your opinion. For the soldiers fighting the war, it has only been a few months. Neither side knows the other's weaknesses yet, but you still gotta probe. We're just starting to understand how they think, but it takes time. Remember, the activity surrounding a hive of bees looks chaotic at first, but once you understand what they're doing, it all starts to make sense."

Stephen could tell Essen was not buying the argument. It looked as though he was ready to say something different, but changed his mind. "Do we accelerate the schedule because of this... this attack?" Essen asked.

"I'm not sure we can. Don't forget, Reginald, this attack occurred nearly twelve years ago. In normal space, that's nearly ancient history. As for our schedule, though, I was just talking to Lieutenant Wilkins when you called. He said it's very tough sledding down there."

"He always thinks that."

"That's true, but he always gets the job done."

Stephen tapped his thumb with his fingers. He, too, wished this assignment was over, and couldn't wait to get the Perry out of the hangar. The ship was so vulnerable just sitting there. Only when the ship was mobile and could fight for himself would Stephen feel safe.

"Our primary job is getting the Perry working," Stephen suggested.

"You don't need to remind me of that," Essen snapped.

"Of course not; sorry, Sir—" Stephen began to apologize, but was cut off when Essen disconnected.

Then just let me do my job, will ya? Stephen finished in silence.

CHAPTER 4

**Vega Construction Base – 1300, January 29, 2365**

Ruben disliked his current base assignment. He would much rather be working on his old ship with his old shipmates, where he felt at home. This place was different. He decided long ago his temporary assignment to the VCB construction yards was a job he would have chosen just above shoveling manure, but he hated this new special mission even more. Didn't sign up for this kinda stuff, he kept thinking. What do they think I am, anyway?

Ruben usually was so confident, but now he had no idea how to proceed. A bead of perspiration formed on his forehead and slithered into the corner of his eye, forcing him to wipe it away with the back of his sleeve. It was a long time since he had been so unsettled. The butterflies in his stomach reminded Ruben of his days as a plebe with Master Chief Kowalski watching his every move.

How do you even talk to 'em? Ruben wondered. He swallowed a gulp of air and stared at the blank bulkhead ahead of him as he began.

"Right; you all got your CT-suits on?" He glanced at the chubby one, hopping up and down on one leg while slipping his jumpsuit over his hips and outstretched leg. Ruben imagined he was watching a clumsy greenhorn trying to ride a horse. A chorus of "yes, Sirs" followed. Ruben was still skeptical the suits were properly on, though. Regulations are regulations, even if for a short time, Ruben realized.

"Okay, okay," Ruben stammered, "gather 'round." He glanced their way and saw them take their sweet time obeying his orders. He grew impatient, expecting subordinates to jump to his command. "Hop to it, now. And don't go touchin' anything, neither." He made a quick count, looking around confused. "One of you is missin'."

Somebody in the group replied in a timid voice, "She couldn't get dressed in front of us, could she?"

"Oh, right." Ruben stroked his jaw, thinking of what to do next while the fifth one finally joined the group. They slowly accumulated to his front, like a family of ducks. "I s'pose you all may have lots of questions, but I'd rather you wait 'til after we're done t' ask 'em."

"How can we ask any questions after we're done?"

That was the small one. Haf'ta keep an eye on that one. "That's precisely the point," Ruben replied. "Besides, that's a question. And what did I just tell you?"

"Not to ask any questions until after we're done."

"Good; you're learnin'. That's a good sign. Okay, Stiles, as you know, your paw asked me to give you and the other young'n's a look at our new ship. This is highly classified stuff, you know, so whatever you see here is just between you 'n' me. We all know how rumors run through the base, so Governor Essen thought it best to let you all see it for yourselves with your own eyes before it goes out. But 'mums' the word. Got it?"

"I've been on board loads of times," Ali boasted. "My dad and me worked on several of these systems together. I even came up with the idea to link the hangar and mass-slug manufacturing systems into a paired sub-organ."

"That so?" Ruben asked dubiously. "Huh...." Ruben tried to remember ever seeing that fireplug of a kid on board, but could not recall a time. Snuck on, maybe, the little sneak. I should look into that.

"Quiet," Stiles commanded. "No one asked you."

"Did too," Ali replied. "The 'tenant told us to keep quiet about what we see. But I've seen most of the ship already, and I've never said a word to anyone about it yet."

"Liar," Stiles accused.

Jimmy slunk into the corner of the entryway, trying to stay out of the verbal sparing. "Shut up, Stiles," he muttered under his breath, but he was not quiet enough. They all heard the quip once it was blurted out.

"Who asked you, Null-Grav?" Stiles replied threateningly.

Jimmy flinched.

Peter creased his forehead, "Stiles, leave him alone. And you know Ali heads off to the hangar all the time."

Stiles laughed bitterly. "'Cause he has no friends."

Henrietta looked up for the first time. She had about all she could take of the rude boor for one day, and it was still early in the afternoon. "You should talk."

"What do you mean by that, Henry?" Stiles asked menacingly. He made sure to emphasize the name.

"Just that the only person who talks to you voluntarily is your mom," she replied.

Stiles stared at her, trying to think of a smart reply. Finally, he blurted out, "At least both my parents can walk."

"That's enough!" Ruben roared. "You want to continue this tour, or not?"

They all nodded hopefully. "Yes, Sir," Jimmy added for emphasis. "Please, Sir."

Stiles imitated an old English accent, "Please, Sir; can I have some more, Sir? How can you kiss his butt with zero gravity?" he asked. "Seems to me you'd push away every time you puckered up. Probably blow away like a fart in space."

Ruben growled lowly to get their attention. They seemed to settle down at the veiled warning. "Okay, if we're all done with all this funny business, let's head into the ship, shall we?" Ruben checked each CT-suit and was surprised to see all five were perfectly donned. "Good job," he muttered. The children beamed at the compliment. Snarling, Ruben weaved around the urchins and rotated the airlock until it opened. They all felt a puff of air expel from the prototype ship as the pressures equalized between the ship and base.

"He's breathing," Jimmy stammered in wonder.

Stiles stared at Jimmy, "Doofus," he called him.

"Dummy," Jimmy shot back.

"He's not breathing!" Stiles asserted. "It's just atmospheric pressure differences between the base and the ship's interior."

"Nah-ah," Jimmy argued.

Peter stepped through the hatch first, "He's right, Jimmy. The ship expels waste products that accumulate inside, but he really doesn't breathe."

"Oh," Jimmy conceded.

"True," Ali confirmed, as he walked into the ship behind Peter. "There are many respiratory byproducts that accumulate inside the ship. Mostly carbon dioxide, but some sulfides as well. Not only from the crew stationed inside, but from the mechanorganics too. They filter through the recycler on the port ancillary section and vent directly into space. It's kinda like him pooping."

Jimmy laughed. "Pooping...."

Ruben went through the hatch last before dogging the airlock door. "The ship does not poop, children."

"But the waste products are recycled into usable components, with the remains turned into pellets and then discarded, correct?" Ali asked.

Ruben was surprised at the amount of information they knew about the ship. Maybe more'n I know, he mussed. So much for secrecy around here.

He wobbled his head in thought, "Well, yeah...."

"So what would you call it?"

"Eliminating waste," Ruben argued. He saw Ali smile, the little smarty. Ignoring him, Ruben continued, "So this is the starboard entryway. When fully underway, we'll have a security detachment stationed here to guard the entry point."

"How many guards?" Henrietta asked.

"Sorry, but that's classified," Ruben replied.

Ali leaned into the girl, "Three on each side entry," he whispered.

Henrietta nodded her thanks. She looked around the ship in wonder. It was the first time she was on board. The walls along the interior corridors of the ship were smooth, with a faint green iridescence. Henrietta passed her finger along the wall experimentally and felt it flex slightly to her touch. It reminded her of warm skin. She pulled her hand back in surprise.

Henrietta looked around to see if anyone saw her touch the ship. She fell back a few steps from the group and snuck her palm back up to the wall and kept it there for a moment. She felt it throb, like a heart was beating within the walls. Her eyes opened wide at the discovery.

Ruben caught her from the corner of his eye and cleared his throat again. "Come along, now, children. We'll head forward along this side of the ship. You know the starboard is the right side. What's the left side called?"

"Port," Jimmy shouted.

"Everyone knows that," Stiles boasted.

Jimmy stuck his tongue out. Stiles tried to grab it, but missed. Jimmy scooted away from him.

"Yes," Ruben continued. "Starboard, port, forward, and aft. Those are the four main directions. We also talk about up-deck and below-deck for directions along the vertical. Mr. Hamadi, seein' you are the expert, you probably know how many decks there are?"

"Yes, Sir: seven."

Ruben was impressed yet again. These kids are surprising. "Very good," he said out loud. He then went to a side panel along the corridor and opened a link, revealing a schematic of the ship. The kids made a semicircle around the screen. They saw a torpedo-shaped hull divided into seven layers. A dull red light blinked near the top, and three-quarters toward the front nose of the ship, marking their present location. The deck they were on was one of the longest of the seven.

"As you can see, we are on deck six," Ruben said, "which is the main deck of the ship. Above us, or up-deck, is deck seven where most of the sensors are. There's only space enough up there for about a half-deck, though. We have access points on starboard and port on this deck, plus the bridge and captain's quarters forward. That includes the main conference room, too."

Ruben zoomed in on the forward section of deck six, and rotated it from section to plan view. The two access points, near mid-ship, blinked red. Between the two outer doors was a double-lined room labeled "Security." A corridor lined both outer edges of the ship, with each feeding into a central hallway nearer to the front. The intersection point separated the bridge from the conference room. Off to the left of the conference room was the captain's quarters.

"The main security posts, with quarters for the Marines, are in the center of the ship, between the entryways." Ruben pointed to the security room. He then pushed the image forward and the aft section of deck six appeared on-screen.

"Aft of us is the galley. It's one of the largest areas on the ship, other than the shuttle hangar and rad room. It's big enough to accommodate the whole complement of a hundred and fifty shipmates. But while underway the crew will be divided into three shifts. Usually, around half the crew will be in there at any one time. One shift's breakfast will be another shift's dinner."

"Eggs for dinner...?" Jimmy asked disgusted.

"Or steak for breakfast," Ali corrected.

Ruben smiled, thinking that that boy probably had more than one steak for breakfast. "Well, seeing that most of the food here will be processed protein, the crew can order up almost any taste they want. It's pretty much all the same in the long run."

"Yuck," Ali complained.

"You'd get used to it," Ruben said.

"Have you?" Ali asked.

"Why, sure." Ruben blushed at the white lie, thinking about the steak he jokingly asked the Skipper about yesterday. He cleared his throat before continuing. "Below-deck, on deck five, is where the officer and crew quarters are. It also houses the rad room. It's as big as the galley, and occupies the very center of the ship." Ruben touched the screen and deck five appeared. There was a large room in the center, surrounded by a large grayed-out doughnut, occupying the remainder of the deck. "That's where the crew would need to go if there's a large solar or cosmic storm out in space."

"Why?" Jimmy asked nervously.

"Cosmic rays pass through just about everything. You're being bombarded by a bunch right now. Every one or so hits something important and mutates it. Accumulate enough of them and you become seriously ill, or even die."

Jimmy shuddered, looking around for invisible invaders.

"Don't worry, Null-Grav," Stiles taunted, "there's not enough of you to hit and do any damage. They'd pass right through you."

Jimmy stuck his tongue out again, teasing Stiles to grab for it. Stiles ignored the offer.

Ruben continued, "Cosmic rays are all over the place, Mr. Dallas. It's just when they accumulate in a massive storm when you need to worry. Usually, a planet's atmosphere—or all that iron from the asteroid on the VCB—shields people, but not in exposed space. A ship's hull is just too thin. The radiation room is completely surrounded with all the ship's stores of water, so it is shielded from the outside in. The water acts like a catcher's mitt, soaking up all the rays before they get through. It's the safest place on the ship, actually. But it will seldom be used."

Jimmy did not look so certain.

"Deck four contains all the armaments and weapons—a lot of 'em, by the way." Ruben cycled through deck four, but the screen flashed "Restricted" and automatically moved on to deck three.

"Deck three houses the hangar facilities, with two small fighter craft, and a courier ship."

The deck was truncated at the rear, which provided the exit doors for the three smaller support craft. Deck three also had the highest ceilings on the ship.

"I bet you could play basketball down there," Peter commented.

"Very astute, Mr. Campbell," Ruben replied. "In fact, there's a small gym forward of the hangar facilities. Exercise is very important while serving on a ship. Now, on to the rest of the ship. Deck two houses all the computing power, as well as the drive facilities—six cold fusion engines." It looked like a maze down on deck two.

"We now come to the final deck," Ruben said, "deck one. It contains all the environmental sub-systems. That's where all the scrubbers are, plus the nitrogen/oxygen generation units. We also have food manufacturing and storage down there as well. In addition, there's medical and a small laboratory—or maintenance shop if you want to think of it that way—where all sorts of doodads can be made."

"It's a big ship," Henrietta said.

"Not really," Ali corrected. "For what it can do, it's actually pretty small."

"Doesn't look so small to me," Jimmy said.

"Nothing looks small to you," Stiles observed.

Ruben chose to ignore the bickering. Two weeks in the Navy would sure cure all this wise-cracking, he fantasized. Ruben switched off the screen and continued down the corridor. He looked behind to be sure all five of his charges were still close at hand. They rounded the corner at the front and came to the forward intersection. "Come along, now. Here's the bridge. Enjoy it; it's all we'll have time for today."

They stepped into a large room with consoles and chairs spread throughout, and a large viewing screen to the front. The insides of the VCB hangar were clearly visible through the main viewing screen as if the kids could easily step off the ship and back onto the base, for it looked like there was nothing between the bridge they were in and the room outside surrounding the ship.

"Cool," Jimmy exclaimed. He ran to the front and put out his hand to the main screen, checking to be sure the ship was still there. "Wow, for a minute I thought maybe the ship wasn't finished yet."

"No touching," Ruben reminded him. He saw Jimmy pull his hand back obediently. Ruben continued the tour. "Although you can talk to the ship anywhere inside, this room provides the main interface with the command centers. This is where the main action will be. Any command is received here and the ship will carry it out. The screens along the individual consoles are pretty much just for show. More than anything, they are there so people still feel like they are inside a ship. And operating it...," he continued under his breath.

"The ship is keyed into the genetic makeup of the designated captain and will only respond to the captain's commands, or their designate. I'm acting captain until the real one comes aboard later tonight for the trials. That's your father, Mr. Campbell."

"Yeah, I know. So, the ship knows my dad?" Peter asked. Pride was evident in his voice.

"In a manner of speaking," Ruben replied. "The ship can detect all of us whenever we are inside. It hears whatever we say. No one can hide from the ship while aboard, right ship?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Wilkins," the ship replied.

The voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was like being inside its mind. It was a male voice—rich and full. Ruben hated it. He had no idea how to respond to it, and had no desire to become one of its friends. Ruben related more to the urchins he was leading around, and that was not saying much.

"Although," the ship continued, "you can get privacy any time you want—as long as my current security level allows—by stating: 'Privacy please.' From then until you state: 'Return to monitoring mode' I cannot see you or hear you."

Jimmy lit up, "Privacy, please," he shouted.

Suddenly, there was a different tone to the background noise on the bridge. It was as though many of the systems were shutting down. The gentle background hum became even quieter as the ship started to respond to Jimmy's command. Ruben interrupted it, "Override: Delta-Three!"

"Complying," the ship replied. "No further commands will be accepted without your prior approval, Lieutenant Wilkins."

"Mr. Dallas," Ruben scolded. "That will be all! I do not want any of you issuing commands to this ship. It is still very young. Younger than any of you actually, developmentally speaking. We're still not sure exactly how it will respond to its environment."

Ruben made sure the children were properly chastised with a stare that would have melted steel. "That's what the trials will be for."

"But I thought it was forty years old," Peter observed.

"I am," the ship responded. "But there is still much for me to learn. Many of my systems have been in-place for that long, but I have only become aware of my surroundings for the past fifteen."

Jimmy, recovering from the recent scolding, piped back up, "Then, you're older than me."

"Really...? I did not realize children were on board. How old are you?" the ship asked curiously.

"Ten."

"Technically, you're right." Ruben said, "The ship is older, Mr. Dallas. But because it is so complex, it takes much longer for it to learn." Ruben went on to discuss how it took longer for an elephant to develop within the womb than a human, and that patience was needed sometimes.

Ali stepped forward with a huge grin on his face, edging Jimmy aside, "Then, you admit he is an organism."

Ruben scowled, "I admit no such thing. It is a ship."

"Ship, do you agree?" Ali asked.

Ruben could almost hear the ship think. "That is a difficult question," the ship replied. "I sense everything around me. I gain new information every second. I am curious what I will see when Captain Campbell guides me out of this hangar later today. If that makes me a living being, then I think I am. But I was not born—I do realize that. I was manufactured. That fact alone suggests I am not alive."

"But you think about it?" Peter asked.

"All the time...."

Ruben was uncomfortable where this conversation was heading. "Okay, children, that's about all for now. Time to get you off the ship. I need to get this thing ready because Captain Campbell will be arriving soon, and you need to be back in the civ section long before then."

"Can't I stay and see my dad?" Peter pleaded.

"No. Sorry, lad. Military personnel only at this point. Come along, now."

The children reluctantly headed toward the hatch. Ali walked slowly, trying to stretch his time on the bridge as long as possible.

"Come along, now," Ruben commanded. "No dallying."

They left the bridge and headed down the starboard corridor toward the exit. The children were obviously sad they were leaving this exciting place. It had been quite a field trip.

Well, they do seem to be good kids, Ruben admitted. Just need some discipline, he decided.

A blaring alarm went off when they were only half-way down the corridor. Bright lights pulsed throughout the hall. "What the—" Ruben began.

"Emergency procedures, Lieutenant Wilkins," the ship said calmly. "We have a priority-one situation developing."

Whatever the problem was, it had to be serious. "What is it?" Ruben asked in alarm.

"I have not been informed of the details yet, Lieutenant Wilkins. My external sensors have not been activated, and I too am most curious."

It seemed as though the ship was purring as it monitored the situation and considered the new options opening to it. If Ruben had not known better, he would have thought the ship was a mechanic happily humming a tune as he lovingly poured over an oily engine. The purring suddenly stopped. "I have been instructed to shut off all external connections to the base. We are now being instructed to immediately vacate the hangar. May I begin separation procedures, Lieutenant Wilkins?"

"No! We can't leave yet. The children are still on board. Open the starboard entryway."

"I am sorry Lieutenant Wilkins, but I cannot override a direct order from Captain Campbell. He has priority authorization, and the order is coming directly from him. I am now at maximum security, and the outer doors will not open."

"And he hasn't told you what's going on?"

"Negative. Wait, just a moment...."

Ruben waited impatiently for the ship to continue. It was probably only a second or two, but it seemed like an hour. "Children," Ruben said while he waited, "gather around me. Quickly." The children silently obeyed.

The ship began speaking again, "Lieutenant Wilkins, Captain Campbell is on the com for you. I am opening communications to full broadcast, unless you require that the passengers not hear this message."

"No, that's not necessary. Patch him through immediately."

Stephen Campbell's voice came through in mid sentence, "—tenant Wilkins, do you copy?"

"Yes, Sir. This is Ruben. What's happening?"

"All hell broke loose out here. We're under attack. A full Wasatti strike force has entered the system."

A strike force was nine to ten ships of varying capabilities, but it had to include at least a strong cruiser contingent. All they had here at Vega to protect the facilities were three inconspicuous frigates. That's not good, Ruben thought, and we're not even concentrated for combined operations. "What? How'd they find us?"

"Don't know," Stephen replied. "They must have followed the Argonaut's courier in. That's all I can figure. That'd at least explain how they knew exactly where the base was. They appeared on our screens two minutes ago. They are vectoring directly toward the base, bearing 237, Plus 42. Break the Perry free, immediately. Get him out!"

"Stephen, I can't—"

"Don't tell me what you can't do. Tell me what you can. I know what you think about the ship's capabilities, but now's not the time to worry. Save that ship!"

If only it were that simple, Ruben thought. "But the kids are still on board. They got caught here before ship lock-down."

"Ruben, get the kids to the rad room. I am sending an override to the ship. It is now leaving the hangar on its own initiative."

The ship made an announcement, "I am now initiating the ship's gravity field independent of the base's generation."

Ruben felt the ship power up and come about. His stomach lurched as the two artificial gravity fields fought against each other. It took a moment for him to gain his balance in the claustrophobic corridor.

Stephen continued to issue commands to Ruben as the ship moved toward the hangar exit. "Get to the bridge and set the FTL to Alpha Bootis. Once you arrive at the jump point, take stock of the ship, and if he can continue, rendezvous with the task force at Sigma Bootis."

Not without a fight, Ruben promised himself. This was supposed to be the Academy's most powerful ship, and the captain was telling him to retreat like a frightened child. "Skipper, you need our firepower here," he began.

"Rube! Not against a full strike force. No time for arguments! Get that ship out of here; and those kids. We don't even know if your weapons are hot. Now move!"

He conceded the point about the weapons. They had yet to be tested, which infuriated Ruben to no end. He thought about the situation before coming to a hard decision. All his life he was a military man of action, and this went against every fiber of his being. "Yes, Sir!" he replied reluctantly.

Ruben snapped into action. He looked at the children surrounding him, "You heard the captain. Mr. Hamadi, do you know how to make it to the rad room?"

"Yes, I can do that," Ali replied.

"Good boy; I trust you. Get the rest of the kids into the safe room. Seal it off and prepare for jump. Can you do that?"

Ali swallowed a gulp of air and nodded. The concern in the young boy's eyes was obvious, but Ruben was sure he could handle it.

Jimmy grabbed a handful of Ruben's jersey, stopping him in his tracks. "W-wait...! Where are you going?" he pleaded.

"I'm going to the bridge to get us out of here. I have a job to do, and so do you. Move it!" Ruben tore loose from Jimmy's grasp and ran forward toward the bridge. "Ship, make sure those passengers make it to the radiation room."

"Okay, Lieutenant Wilkins," the ship replied happily.

Ruben glanced over his shoulder and saw the children disappear down the access way to the lower deck.

* * *

Without warning, the strike force entered the Vega system perilously close to the ecliptic. Nine warships—five cruisers, three destroyers, and a frigate—broke from K-T-space, recklessly heading directly into the swarm of asteroids. The lead destroyer came out of jump directly within a large rock. The mass of the ship instantaneously fused with the iron asteroid as the ship materialized—atom by atom—into normal space. The crew never knew what hit them.

Sar ap Kel ignored the destroyed ship as an acceptable loss and put it out of his mind. It served its purpose of paving the way for the more valuable cruisers trailing in its wake.

General Kel was the military leader of the entire Wasatti Empire. He was also in command of the second fleet the humans had encountered years ago, immediately earning a reputation as a ruthless killer. He still glowed from the memory of that confused human captain, pleading for him to respond to her call. As if that "thing" warranted a response! Sar ap Kel recalled. He hoped to experience that feeling again today, especially after his recent disappointments at Sigma Bootis. His was a reputation he carefully cultivated, specifically to enrage and disconcert the puny humans standing between him and absolute conquest of the surrounding star systems.

The Wasatti—Sar ap Kel was proud to acknowledge—was a confident race, worthy of ruling the galaxy. They were a large species, nearly nine feet tall in the reckoning of the humans. Each surface of their body had evolved into a weapon useful in melee. They had chitinous, iridescent armor plates, resembling the scales from some prehistoric fish. They were massive and insect-like, with large, sharp, opposable claws suspended from two spindly, yet powerful, arms. Two muscular, inversely articulated legs supported their vast weight and provided them a stilted gait like a predatory bipedal dinosaur. Three razor-sharp claws, which could eviscerate prey in one sweeping motion, branched from each foot. Their head was shaped like an inverted, chiseled pyramid, with irregular sharp edges protruding along well-defined cranial ridges. Serrated fangs jutted from a large, powerful mouth, hanging below bulbous eyes that were multi-faceted and as soulless as a deep pool of tar. It was obvious they were built as natural-born fighters with a nasty temperament. When not fighting enemies, they scrapped among themselves for dominance, creating the ultimate race in the survival of the fittest.

"Have you located their base?" Sar ap Kel rasped in a brusque baritone.

"Coming up now, General," the Arms-Master answered.

"Do I read your mind, like a Hive weakling?" Sar ap Kel yelled.

"No, General." The Arms-Master wilted at Sar ap Kel's scowl. "It is on your screens now." He quickly input the location of the small asteroid previously discovered by the stealth Wasatti spy ship.

Sar ap Kel eyed the tiny speck like a juicy morsel on a serving tray. His mandibles watered.

"We've lost another destroyer," Tactical announced. "Hit an asteroid. Not from enemy fire."

Sar ap Kel disregarded the information. "What force is protecting this system?"

"Unknown, General," Tactical replied. "We only have one ship plotted. It's the original one that communicated with their courier ship."

"They must have additional forces in their fleet," Sar ap Kel observed. "Find them."

"It is difficult to find ships through all this debris," Tactical answered.

Sar ap Kel glanced at his tactical officer. Enough excuses. He pulled a disruptor from his belt and shot him squarely through the neck.

A hyper-dense pellet of particle energy passed swiftly through his body, splattering green fluids throughout the bridge of the large cruiser. The head of the former tactical officer hung limply to the side of the gaping hole. A moment later it fell to the bare metal deck with a solid thud. I never did like him, Sar ap Kel mused. "Arms-Master, you are now Tactical. Perhaps you will have less difficulties carrying out my commands. I say once again: find that enemy fleet."

"Yes, General...." The former Arms-Master scrambled to the tactical station, throwing the decapitated body of his former crewmate aside.

Sar ap Kel could see that old Arms-Master Silferen was pleased he advanced two bridge positions at once. He watched him furiously begin searching for the protecting fleet sure to be hidden somewhere within the concealing belt.

General Kel looked around his bridge, "Nav-3, you are now Arms-Master. Continue to prepare the Planet Penetrator. Once that base is triangulated, input the coordinates into its targeting system."

"Yes, General."

"Do we know what is being built out here?" Sar ap Kel asked his executive officer.

She shrugged her shoulders. "No, General Kel. Up until several hours ago, we did not even know this facility existed." The XO peered through her enhancing opticals. "It appears to be a ship-building facility. Very little activity, however."

"Have they completed their project? Is there even a project?"

"Unknown, General," the XO replied. "Insufficient information to offer a viable opinion." She was sitting to the right of Sar ap Kel, near the command console, but not too close. She was sleek and muscled, and only a half-head shorter than the general himself.

"Humph," Sar ap Kel replied sarcastically. He noticed that sel Roan did not flinch at his remark. She is a strong one, Sar ap Kel thought, difficult to unsettle. A useful officer; which means I need to keep my claws around her throat. He also wondered if she would make an acceptable brood-mate—not for the first time. "Tactical!" Sar ap Kel shouted, trying to get his mind off the attractive officer to his right.

"Still searching," Meg ap Silferen replied. "I have a tactical solution on the original ship, though."

"Probability of destruction?" Sar ap Kel asked.

"Presently thirty–two percent. Probability increases point two per minute at present parameters."

Three minutes of flight time and there will be a paltry five percent chance of a miss, Sar ap Kel calculated. "Good. Fire all weapons on that ship in two-and-a-half minutes."

"Yes, General," Meg ap Silferen replied. "Full forward salvo prepared and waiting."

The force of that attack would produce enough directed energy to light half of Sar ap Kel's home continent for thirty minutes. More than enough to destroy that frigate.

"Penetrator is prepared and targeted on the base, General," the Arms-Master announced.

Sar ap Kel's mandibles watered again. The Penetrator directed several claws-full of super-critical antimatter to deep within its target, setting off a chain reaction from the point of detonation outward in a thirty-mile sphere of complete annihilation. And, Sar ap Kel thought in glee, more than enough to destroy that puny base world. "Very well. Set the Penetrator free," Sar ap Kel commanded.

Sar ap Kel's flagship bucked imperceptibly as the deadly probe ejected from the tube and headed toward one small speck among billions.

* * *

Ruben rushed through the bridge hatchway and threw himself into the command chair. He had a momentary sense of vertigo watching the base hangar drift toward the ceiling of the bridge as the ship continued to maneuver automatically. He needed to fight off a sense of helpless falling, and was glad he was sitting down. That view screen is just too realistic; it's like it isn't even there. Something to tell the designers; if we live through this.

"Ship, what's our current status?"

"The outer lock of the VCB is now open," the ship responded. "VCB is going to maximum security. I am utilizing all upper thrusters at maximum capacity, as instructed by Captain Campbell's remote orders. I should remind you that Captain Campbell has overriding priority over your commands."

Someone's gotta tell this thing I'm aware of military protocol, Ruben thought. "Yes, yes, I know that," Ruben replied tartly.

The ship ignored the sarcasm. "Forward pitch is being adjusted to Neg 37 degrees. We will be clear of the hangar in 40.2 seconds. I hope you are in agreement with the actions I have taken so far. Did I do well?"

The ship reminded Ruben of a puppy prancing around his ankles and begging for praise. "Yes," Ruben agreed irritated, "that's fine."

"I am looking forward to feeling space. I can already feel an appreciable temperature drop along my forward ancillary sections. I calculate the temperature gradient is—"

"Belay all personal expectations, ship." Ruben began wondering who he would rather work with in a battle situation: this ship, or those kids. He was not entirely sure which.

"Clarification needed, Lieutenant Wilkins: does that include all tactical battle projections?"

"This, I don't need at the moment, ship. No, anything to do with the status of the ship, the enemy, or our fleet I want you to discuss. Nothing about what you hope to feel."

"I am sorry; I did not realize I displeased you. I will try harder in the future."

Ruben spent a moment tapping the command chair armrest before deciding to break anything. It was a ritual Stephen insisted he try in order to remain calm. This time, it barely worked. Nothing on the bridge would be broken. "Ship...." Ruben barked, but did not know how to proceed.

"Yes, Lieutenant Wilkins?"

He gave up trying to explain his feelings to the ship. Instead, he said, "Get me a line to Captain Campbell."

"Of course. Incidentally, we have just broken free of the base. Captain Campbell is now connected."

A small insert at the lower corner of the view screen appeared and Ruben saw Stephen at the Sirius' command post. The captain looked like he was in a small bubble of air, surrounded by near-VCB space. Nearby debris and a background of stars began to move as the ship accelerated away from the base.

"Rube, what's your status?"

"Ship is now free, Skipper. And the kids are safe."

"Thanks," Stephen replied. The relief on his face was obvious. "Are they jump-ready?"

"Don't know," Ruben replied, "but I'll be sure before we jump."

"I can offer some clarification to Lieutenant Wilkins' lack of knowledge," the ship suggested.

"Okay, what is it?" Stephen asked.

"All five children entered the Radiation Protection Room from 12.6 to 15.3 seconds ago. The female of the group was the first to connect her CT-suit 6.7 seconds ago; she appears to be very nimble. One of the four males—"

An input stylus in Ruben's hand snapped in half with a satisfying crack.

"Belay previous command," Stephen shouted. "Just answer if they are all plugged in."

"A remaining child is attempting to do so now. He should be plugged in within—correction; he just finished plugging in. You should be relieved to know that all five children are now plugged in."

Ruben tossed the remaining half of the stylus onto the deck, barely missing the 'cycler slot.

"Okay, that's enough. Ship, give me an overall ship operability status report."

Ruben amended Stephen's command. "Uh, make that an abbreviated report, ship."

"Of course. All of my systems are working wonderfully, Captain. Lieutenant Wilkins will not allow me to talk about how I feel, though. I wish I could share them with you. I am also curious as to exactly what my full capabilities are in a situation like this."

Ruben interjected, "It's a long story, Captain. What's going on out there?"

"The enemy fleet is 7.3 l-m away, and closing fast. I'm transferring tactical to your station. They've lost two ships already coming in. I hope they continue being so reckless."

Ruben glanced at his tactical screen. Seven inverted yellow cones were tracing directly toward the base.

Stephen continued with his assessment. "The Glinting Algol is closest to them. I calculate Captain Blakely is one l-m away from the lead Wasatti ship about now. He's still running silent, as is Capella's Herd. Trouble is: the Capella is on the other side of the system; even beyond us. I sent out to O'Brien to have the Capella join us at maximum velocity, but I doubt she'll arrive for at least ten minutes."

"Blakely's got the usual standing orders?" Ruben asked.

When at a tactical disadvantage, a unit in an ambush position was instructed to attack the tail of an advancing column in an attempt to divide the enemy forces. The theory was that the leading forces would continue on at a weakened state, thus relieving pressure on the main defending force.

"Yeah," Stephen replied. "About now he should be firing at the fifth ship in their line. With luck, he should be able to dispatch two of 'em before breaking off. In addition, I hope their trailing ship falls off to follow him. That will leave four ships for Capella and me to deal with."

"Good," Ruben replied. "If I stay, that will give us the tactical advantage. I can—"

"Negative, Ruben. I still want you out of here."

Ruben figured that would be Stephen's response, but he had to try anyway. He was anxious to see what the ship could do in battle after all these years of development. He chuckled for a moment realizing he and the ship shared similar desires.

"You got that course plotted?"

"Not yet, Cap'n."

"Do it. Now."

"Yes, sir," Ruben replied dejectedly.

Each human ship had two keys to activate full navigational systems capability. One key was yellow and the other was blue. Together, they formed the green path, opening the entire human-Hive database. The nav keys looked like complex snowflakes, with embedded genetically initiated electronics tied to the captain. The keys were purposely fragile so they could be destroyed as the last act of defending the bridge from boarders. For redundancy, the captain and first officer each had a set and a third was secreted away in some random hiding place within the ship. Three bridge officers always knew the location of the third set, just in case of accidental breakage. It was a failsafe system designed to keep enemy hands from classified data.

The ship could function without full activation, although with very limited scope. Sublight travel was possible without either key, but FTL—without full path activation—was hazardous, to say the least. With no keys activated, a ship's navigational capacity was wholly inadequate at only thirty–three percent, with all reference points shutout. One key activated a further thirty–three percent, but with still no navigational referents opened up, while the final key opened up the entire database. Jumping was impossible without any keys, and just this side of suicidal with only one activated key. At that state, everything associated with the colonies was purposely redacted from the computer and further hidden among the other holes randomly inserted within the navigational database.

Ruben inserted the first key in the nav slot and turned it. "Yellow key is beginning initialization now, Skipper."

"Oh, very curious; I am beginning to see where we are," the ship announced. "I had not realized we were so far from any habitable planets. Very interesting...."

"Ship," Stephen interrupted, "Are those feelings you are expressing again?"

"I am sorry, Captain Campbell. They were."

Ruben swore the ship cleared his throat.

The ship continued with his assessments. "The lead enemy ships are 3.6 l-m away. They have not deviated from their course since arrival. If current projections remain true, Captain, a missile salvo fired from your position into their path 2.5 minutes ago would strike the target group just before they achieve beam range to your projected location."

"Thank you, ship," Stephen replied. "We had that figured out already. Our missiles have been in flight for three minutes. Something I just learned from my wife. I'm sending you the parameters."

The missile data update appeared on the Perry's screens. "Yes," the ship said, "I have your missiles plotted. Very good shooting, I might add. Impact in one minute, assuming the enemy fleet has not altered course. And considering the momentum they are carrying on their approach, it would be extremely difficult for them to do so."

Out of the static, a message arrived from the Glinting Algol, the ship nearest the approaching Wasatti warships. Captain Blakely's voice was doppler-distorted by the relative motion of his ship in relation to the base. "Captain Campbell, this is Blakely. Advise: Advise: Enemy Penetrator is heading to VCB; velocity 0.55 constant; ejected at fourteen–thirty-two hours. One hostile cruiser eliminated; trailing ship in pursuit. Out."

Ruben heard the message at the same time-intercept as the base, and only a few seconds before Stephen, who was that many light-seconds further out. Blakely was, as Ruben recalled, somewhere around 4.5 light-minutes away, so his words were already four-and-a-half minutes old. He said the planet killer was launched at 1432 and was traveling at just over half light speed. Ruben glanced at the chronometer and made some quick mental calculations. It gave him a headache trying to figure it out.

"VCB, this is Captain Campbell. Commence immediate evacuation! Immediate evacuation! Rube," Stephen continued, "you get that? Penetrator impact in three-and-a-half minutes."

"Aye, Sir," Ruben replied. "That's what I figured too. Do we have anything in position to intercept it?"

"No, we don't. Ship, send me your latest velocity data," Stephen commanded.

The ship sent the data directly to the Sirius' bridge.

"That's not nearly fast enough," Stephen warned. "Go to maximum accel. Rube, push forward that jump!"

"What's the range of their planet killers?" Ruben asked.

"I don't know," Stephen replied, "but I surely don't want you to find out. I'm at max acceleration to enemy intercept. The Capella and I will form a line between you and the Wasatti. Once you are behind me, jump out."

Ruben input the parameters into his console. "Okay, Captain. I see what you're doin'. I'm set to turn the blue key in three minutes. The system should be initialized by the time I'm past you. I calculate jump in 5.3 minutes."

"Okay—"

The ship interrupted Stephen. "I have some bad news, Captain Campbell. The enemy fleet appears to have altered course two minutes ago. Missile salvo is a miss."

At half light speeds, a miss of a minute was an error of six million miles; almost a quarter of the way from Old Earth to Venus.

"All remaining enemy ships appear to be heading directly toward me and away from the base," the ship offered.

"Rube," Stephen said, "you hear that? They're going after you; not us. They're going to be on you before you're ready."

Ruben stared at the tactical display, looking at the enemy force bearing down directly toward him. In response Ruben commanded, "Ship, remain on course, but come to Neg 54, relative; stat!"

"Captain?" the ship asked Stephen for confirmation.

"Do it! Do it!" Stephen shouted. "Give full operational control to Wilkins."

Ruben felt the ship pitch down violently as it began to vector away from the plane of battle. He was trying to find a hole to hide in to give them time to set the jump. There really were no places to hide out here, however, and all he could do was steal as much time as possible from the pursuing Wasatti by maneuvering away. And the enemy still held the velocity advantage.

"Yes, Sir," the ship replied. "Two minutes to enemy missile impact with the base."

"They're almost on me, Skipper," Ruben warned.

"Ruben, turn the blue," Stephen pleaded.

"I can't, sir. Not yet. It may short out the electronics relays. But I think if I—"

Ruben's message was abruptly cut short. A massive particle beam discharge from the lead Wasatti warship struck the upper aft quadrant of the prototype ship. Anywhere or anytime else, a ship in a similar situation would have been reduced to dust from the powerful blast. In this case, though, the self-annealing hull of the revolutionary ship did whatever it could to repair the damage. Several holes bore in the hull venting atmosphere to space, but they were patched before they could spread. Failing internal systems fought decay as if life-giving antibodies were rushed to the scenes of a viral attack. Methodically, the ship healed itself, but not without going through tremendous physical pain.

The infant ship never felt such agony in his short life. He fought with a blind intensity to hang on to the new, curious feelings he recently discovered, and did anything he needed to save his own life. Without thinking, the ship directed deadly static discharges throughout the injured parts of his hull and also to the bridge, centered on a blue key that should not yet have been inserted. In confusion, the young ship mistook the key as yet another unwanted invader.

* * *

Sar ap Kel watched the attack unfold. He had changed firing solutions from the human frigate to the new ship as soon as they discovered it. When he saw the attack fail, he quickly turned to sel Roan. "What class ship is that?"

"It is none we've catalogued prior to this. But I believe we have an answer to what the humans have been developing."

"How could it have survived that attack?" Sar ap Kel demanded.

"It simply could not, General. Not given the force of that attack."

"Did you see it blow up?"

This time, sel Roan flinched at the general's harsh words. She automatically ducked her head defensively under her arms, protecting her vulnerable throat. "No, Sir, I did not," she replied subserviently.

"Then it obviously survived." Sar ap Kel raised his claws to strike out at sel Roan, the nearest target available to quench his growing anger. He pulled back at the last instant. "Cease firing on that ship immediately. Disable it if you need to, but I want it captured. Do you all understand? If that ship gets away, you will all pay dearly for your mistakes."

Meg ap Silferen and sel Roan both answered at the same time, "Yes, Sir." They quickly tried to hide behind their screens.

Sar ap Kel grumbled, "Tactical, I want an assessment."

Meg ap Silferen glanced at his screens for a beat. "We have lost two destroyers and a cruiser. The Warrior's Honor is in pursuit of the enemy frigate lying in wait for us. One frigate, one destroyer, and our remaining three cruisers are in pursuit of the unknown ship. It is heading below the original human frigate now advancing toward us. Further away, at four l-m, there is a third human frigate also heading our way. It made itself visible when it powered up five minutes ago."

"Those two frigates are trying to protect the new ship," Sar ap Kel surmised.

"It would appear so," Meg ap Silferen agreed. "And it is fleeing from us at all possible haste. Perhaps we stumbled upon it before it was finished."

"And still vulnerable," Sar ap Kel concluded. "Shed all forward velocity as quickly as possible. There's no use overtaking it if we can't stop and capture it. Once we are at maneuvering speed, release the boarding ships."

The Wasatti warships immediately began breaking maneuvers. They needed to shave off an appreciable percentage of light from their velocity in only a few minutes, and if they could not slow down they would be on the other side of the system by then. Normally, it was an impossible request, but the General would not accept failure. Sar ap Kel's crew were repeatedly thrust forward, as if they were being smashed into an immovable anvil, as his ship's vanes tore into the angry space around them. He and his accompanying four ships were in single-minded pursuit of that strange, new ship that by all rights should not have survived their initial attack.

* * *

The Wasatti Planet Penetrator traveled all of its thirty million mile flight as it sped onward toward the Vega Construction Base. The missile was the length of a five-story building. At its tip was a detonator—longer in length itself than many fighter craft—designed to monitor its penetration into the target body. It was designed to measure how long it had burrowed into the ground, crumpling slowly as it drilled directly into its target, until it was deep enough to smash the end of the detonator into the primer, releasing its payload. At that depth, the detonator jammed into the magnetic container releasing the sphere of antimatter from the confining Penning Trap. It was a housing that separated antimatter from the normal universe. Once the antimatter was released from the Trap, it would consume its opposite form, atom by atom, in a violent chain reaction the size of a hundred nuclear explosions. From the core of the world from where it was released, the material world would simply fail to exist in an outward-expanding shell, causing the remaining planetary crust to cave into the developing void.

The missile struck the asteroid at slightly under half the speed of light, releasing astronomical amounts of kinetic energy from the simple process of collision alone. In an instant, a quarter of the asteroid's mass vaporized, leaving a massive crater at the apex of the burrowing Penetrator. Slightly over one third of a second later, the missile reached its goal at the center of the tiny world and the magnetic fields of the Penning Trap shut off.

The Construction Base—and the asteroid around it—vanished as if it had never existed by the time the antimatter was consumed. The only reminder of what once had been was an expanding shell of neutrinos created from half the mass of the titanic conflagration that astronomers on Old Earth would discover as a new neutrino source twenty–five years in their future.

Those near the explosion were too close to observe the unnatural process of matter eating matter, as were the frightened souls in the emergency pods futilely trying to escape the doomed asteroid.

* * *

"Ruben, turn the blue."

"I can't, sir. Not yet. It may short out the electronics relays. But I think if I—"

Peter Campbell was slammed to the deck of the pitching ship. He came close to smashing his head against the bulkhead, had it not been for Henrietta reaching out at the last moment. Peter looked around in confusion. He recalled he was in the rad room and was listening to his father talking over the com channel to the lieutenant up on the bridge. That was when the world around him collapsed. The ship must have flown into the Base; what else could have caused such a tremendous crash?

Peter heard a scream as he tried to sort out where he was. He did not really "hear" it but rather experienced it. For a moment, he thought he was screaming. He was embarrassed as he looked to his friends, ready to beg forgiveness for his unexpected outburst. The scream continued as he looked around—two seconds, three seconds... an agonizing minute long. He placed his fingers on his throat to see if his vocal chords were vibrating, but they were silent. So he was not the one yelling. Someone else was. He threw his hands over his ears, but it hardly muffled the wailing. He looked at Henrietta. She, too, covered her ears. Jimmy was cowering in his chair. He then looked at Ali. He was speaking, but Peter could not hear his voice. The scream turned into a protracted moan, trailing off as he stared at Ali. He watched his friend's lips move.

"What?" Peter shouted.

"—ship," Ali replied.

Whatever Ali tried to say was lost in the echoing ring in Peter's ears. "What did you say?" he repeated.

"The ship," Ali yelled. "It's the ship. It's in pain!"

Although it seemed ridiculous, that made as much sense as anything. It did sound like an animal crying out, like something with its foot caught in a trap. The shriek slowly subsided to a mournful groan.

"Ship," Peter called out. "Respond."

The ship ignored him.

Peter looked at Ali again, "What's going on?"

Ali was furiously working with the consoles near his chair, searching for any clues. "I dunno," Ali replied, "but I think the ship was hit by the Wasatti."

"Is it okay?" Henrietta asked.

Peter looked toward Ali for suggestions, and then at Stiles. Neither said a word. Jimmy—as well—was of no use, as he was still folded in on himself. Not having anything else to try, Peter opened the PA.

"Lieutenant Wilkins, do you copy?"

There was no answer. "Lieutenant Wilkins?" Peter asked again. There was still no reply. "Ship, connect me to the Sirius."

The ship was unresponsive. "I think it's broken," Peter concluded. "Maybe dead."

Henrietta reached out to the wall. "No, it's still throbbing, see?" She took Peter's hand and placed it on the wall.

Peter felt life still coursing through the ship. "But it's stunned, I bet. Ali, can you get any of these monitors to work?"

"Maybe," Ali replied, "let me see." Ali set to work, and within a few seconds had the ship's external monitor active. "Look, there's the Base. We're flying pretty quickly away from it."

Peter inched his view next to the monitor. The VCB asteroid grew smaller and smaller as he watched. "Wait," Peter said, "it's not falling away that fast. We can't be moving that quickly. I think it's shrinking. The base is dissolving, I think."

The asteroid disappeared. In its place, a massive shell of ionized gas blew out. The front of the wave headed directly toward the ship. A moment later the ship vibrated, almost as violently as it did a few minutes ago. As the ship vibrated, they heard the explosion as the wave front passed through the atmosphere within the ship. "My God! The Base is gone!" Peter moaned.

Jimmy looked up from the deck and began crying. "Mommy!" he screamed.

"Peter, what's happening?" Henrietta asked.

"I don't know, but no one's answering, and I don't like it. We gotta get to the bridge, and see what's going on out there."

"But we might jump any second," Stiles warned. "We can't just unplug."

If they were caught in the corridor in the middle of a jump, they would all be dead before they realized what happened. The CT-suits provided essential nutrients and adjusted all the body's autonomic responses during the long intervals occupied in K-T-space. Within compressed days, they would grow hungry, but long before they would dehydrate and die of thirst, if their unadjusted metabolism did not kill them first. "Jack and jump" was the very first thing a person learned when they entered a light-capable starship, and the universe was not forgiving to anyone ignoring the lesson.

"We aren't going anywhere like this," Peter replied.

"How do you know?" Stiles asked.

Peter thought for a moment. What's the right thing to do? The most important decision he had ever made until now was being sure he did not step in front of some speeding ground vehicle. He never was responsible for the safety of anyone other than himself. If anything, he kept Jimmy from doing anything stupid enough to get punched by Stiles, and even that had not always worked. "I don't, I guess, but this just doesn't feel right."

"Feel right," Stiles mocked him. "You're betting our lives on a feeling?"

"I agree with Peter," Henrietta said. "His feelings are good enough for me."

Henrietta was backing him up. He glanced at Ali to see what he thought, but Ali was fully occupied between the console screens and his PAD.

"Not me," Stiles retorted, settling back in his chair stubbornly.

"Fine; stay here then," Henrietta said. She unplugged her chair and got to her feet. Everyone else was still plugged in.

Peter looked at her, wondering if he really was correct suggesting they leave the safety of the rad room. What if they jumped at this very moment? Henrietta would be dead, and they would wake up on the other side with her decaying body lying on the deck.

Was it blind loyalty that made her do that? Peter wondered. More likely, she just wants to argue with Stiles.

Peter got up too, and unsnapped his connectors free of the chair, joining Henrietta near the hatchway.

Before long, the five kids gathered together and bolted out of the emergency room, Ali furiously inputting data into his PAD as he ran.

CHAPTER 5

**VEGA STAR SYSTEM – OUTER FRINGES – 1453, JANUARY 29, 2365**

Peter was the first to burst through the lift doors and onto the bridge. He quickly looked around, trying to assess the situation. At first glance everything looked normal, but on closer inspection he sensed things were not quite right. All the station monitors were working but he could hear the continual beeps of warning, and from the corner of his eye he could see telltale flashes of light in various hues of yellow, orange, and red. Otherwise, all seemed quiet—maybe too quiet. Something else was wrong; something Peter could not put his finger on. The large view screen showed the ship traveling quickly through space, as debris and smaller asteroids sped past. At least we're moving, Peter realized. Plus, nothing fired on them since they left the radiation room. That should be good news, even though the Wasatti must still be somewhere out there. Peter wondered why he felt so uneasy. What's wrong with the ship?

They appeared to be heading toward empty space, with the main belt of the system slowly migrating to the top of the screen; however, they appeared to be thrown askew at some random, unnatural angle, as if no one was at the wheel. It was disconcerting, and until he realized it, Peter thought things may have been going somewhat according to someone's careful plan. The stark images outside the ship—of apparent motion with no one in control—hypnotized Peter and gave him an immediate sense of uneasiness. Had he not known better, Peter felt he could simply step from the bridge and into the cold vacuum of Vega space. For all the world it looked as though the ship was severed in two and tilting down in an attempt to empty its load of unwanted cargo. Soon—as the pitching deck approached vertical, at least in relation to the asteroid field he watched disappearing overhead—it appeared they would all tumble off the falling ship and into that gaping hole that was too real to be a view screen. Peter was frozen in place, afraid to move. He was torn between fleeing and holding on for dear life. Move, you idiot! Peter ineffectively commanded his body.

Ali brushed past Peter's shoulder as he joined him on the bridge. Peter wanted to reach out to stop his friend from falling off the ship, but could not force his arms to move. He felt sad, thinking he would soon lose his dear friend to empty space.

"Peter. Peter," Henrietta called from behind, as if from a tunnel. "Peter, what's wrong?"

Her voice echoed in his mind. He felt her soft hand on his shoulder. Peter's lock on the view screen broke and he shook his head, trying to break the spell. What? Where is Lieutenant Wilkins? Peter wondered.

Henrietta, and then Stiles, broke through the door and entered the bridge pushing Peter aside. "Either do something, or get out of the way," Stiles warned in annoyance.

Peter slowly turned his head to look Stiles in the face. He tried to reply, but found his jaw locked shut. Peter felt entirely worthless, immobilized by fear and uncertainty. What's wrong with me? Peter wondered.

"You're a worthless turd," Stiles said. He smirked and continued further onto the bridge.

Henrietta gently took Peter's hand and gave it a tug. "Peter, snap out of it. We need your help."

Peter finally snapped back to life, "Where's Lieutenant Wilkins?" he finally asked. Peter looked around the bridge for the adult. Without him, they would be in serious trouble. Maybe he went down to engineering.

"Over here," Ali replied. Ali was kneeling down just barely in sight, near the navigation station, with a projected star map partially obscuring him. "I think he's dead."

Dead? Peter thought. That can't be. "How—"

"I dunno," Ali answered, "but by the looks of this console, I think he was electrocuted."

"Electrocuted?" Stiles asked. "How?"

Ali stood up. "His hand is burnt, and the expression on his face... it musta been painful. And, this navigation panel is fried. I think he was turning the keys when the ship's systems overloaded. That shot from the Wasatti must have penetrated into the electronics conduits feeding into his station and discharged here."

Peter, drawn back to reality, rushed to the lieutenant. He checked for a pulse along his neck, but found none; but then again, Peter was not exactly sure where to probe anyway. He turned the man onto his back and felt for his heart. It, too, appeared to be silent. Peter began pushing on his chest, as he had seen adults do in those action vids he often watched.

Henrietta knelt next to him, trying to help. She expertly placed her index and middle fingers at the crook of his neck, as if she had done this a thousand times before. "It's not doing any good, Peter. He's gone."

Peter continued pressing his palms against the older man's chest, throwing Henrietta's hand aside. He kept up his futile efforts until he was exhausted.

"Peter. Peter," Henrietta pleaded. "Stop." She gently placed her hand on his shoulder.

Peter stopped, and looked up at her. What are we going to do? Peter wondered. It's only us on the ship now.

"We still have a battle going on out there," Ali reminded them. "We need to do something."

Five kids on a battleship—in the middle of a battle. Five kids and a ship, Peter realized.

"Ship!" Peter called out. He hoped the ship could help, but there was no response. "Ship, answer me," Peter persisted. The ship remained silent. "Ali, can you get any of those communication monitors to work?"

"I'm already on it."

Peter saw Ali frantically fidgeting with some unidentified control panel. Nothing he did seemed to work.

"Come on," Stiles taunted, "you know so much about this ship. Prove it."

Static suddenly filled the bridge, as if in answer to Stiles' remarks. Captain Campbell's voice filled the room a short time later.

"Ruben! Rube, come in."

Peter ran to the com station, "Dad, its Peter." He saw his father materialize on the screen. He wished he was over there with his dad, or that his dad was here, with him.

"Peter! Where's the lieutenant?"

"Dad, he's dead."

"What?"

Peter flinched. "Ali thinks he was electrocuted. Maybe when we were hit. We tried to revive him, but it did no good. Dad, what do we do?"

"UCSA Perry, come in," Stephen commanded. "USCA Perry, this is Captain Campbell of the Sirius' Revenge. Emergency Override: Delta-One!"

The kids waited impatiently for the ship to respond. Captain Campbell was tied to the ship by his DNA and if anyone could make the ship work, it was him. Ruben told them the captain was as much a father to the ship as anything else.

Peter closed his eyes, hoping the ship would wake up, but the silence was deafening. It hadn't worked.

"The ship isn't answering, Dad. I've tried to call out to him, but there's no response. The only thing we've been able to do is get the screens operational, and if it wasn't for Ali...."

"What's ship's status?" Stephen asked.

"I don't know—" Peter slowly responded in confusion, but was interrupted by Ali.

"—Sir, I cannot find anything wrong with any of the systems. We are showing multiple external warnings, but all internal indicators are solid green. He should be working just fine, but he's not replying. It's like we aren't even here. The ship screamed when he was hit before. Maybe he's frightened, and in shock."

* * *

Stephen squirmed in his chair. He just watched the base he was sworn to protect dissolve before his eyes. There appeared to be no survivors from the destruction, although the Perry miraculously made it out of range of the spreading sphere of antimatter in the nick of time. He was in the middle of a battle for the future of humanity, outnumbered two-to-one, and he now received word that the most important ship in their fleet had no officer on board—or any other real crew for that matter. Now the kids think the ship they are on is scared.

"That's ridiculous," Stephen replied, trying to calm the kids down. "The ship wouldn't do that. It's not in his programming, Ali."

"Sir," Stephen's tactical officer broke in on the communication with the Perry. "Five enemy ships are firmly in pursuit of the Perry: three cruisers, one destroyer, and a frigate. All five ships are dumping velocity like crazy, and beginning to maneuver around."

"They're not completing a strategic sweep of the system?" Stephen asked perplexed.

"No, Sir," Tac replied. "We think they may be working out a specific intercept with the Perry. They will be matching velocity and vector with it soon. Other than their remaining cruiser in pursuit of the Algol, all the rest of their force is concentrating solely on the Perry. They are ignoring us completely, as if we didn't matter."

The Wasatti warships entered the Vega system at over half the speed of light. At those velocities it was difficult to maneuver, but they just did that to slow down and match, maneuver-for-maneuver, with the prototype ship. They must realize how important that ship is, and want a closer look. That's not good at all, Stephen realized.

"Can we still intercept them?" Stephen asked.

"Unlikely; at least not initially," Tac replied. "Our original vector gave us a probable intercept, but with our acceleration and their radical course change, it will be some time before we can come about." She ran some quick figures on her screen to confirm her analysis. "We will definitely overshoot them. We have maybe an hour, at best, before we can reestablish beam range again. A lot depends on what else they do between now and then. By the time we come about, they may be long gone."

A lot could happen in sixty minutes of an accelerated space battle, Stephen thought. "What about the Capella? What can she do?"

"She is further back, Captain, so she can respond more readily. She definitely has more reaction time. My calculations show the Capella can intercept in 3.2 minutes, assuming she observes what's going on accurately and reacts quickly on her own initiative."

"O'Brien will do it," Stephen replied confidently. "If she can't, no one else can. Do what you need to get us back into range, Deidre. Once close enough, fire everything we've got on their cruiser line. And get us between them and the Perry. They should be able to jump soon; hopefully before we even get there. Once they skip out, prepare to leave as well. Issue orders to the Algol and Capella to prepare jump coordinates for Alpha Bootis, at Rendezvous Point Beta-3. There'll be nothing here left to protect once the Perry is gone. Pre-set our drives as well."

"Aye, Sir," Tac replied. She had a lot to do, but Stephen was sure she would get it done.

Stephen felt the Sirius bank sharply to the left. He was thrust forward in his chair as his ship shed velocity. He braced for more violent maneuvers to come.

By now, the enemy ships were well below him and heading further away and closer to the Perry. Further back was the Capella. He saw the Capella's cone begin to warp to the left on his screens as she also altered course to intercept. She was still back, but the Perry was heading in O'Brien's direction, who—hopefully—could establish a thin picket line between the kids and the Wasatti force. In the meantime, the Perry was not responding to commands, but was still generally heading where it should be going. If it's offline, it must be moving at inertial, Stephen realized. What the hell happened over there?

Stephen opened the com to the Perry again, not sure who to address. A ship with no captain.... "Peter, Ali: the ship must be in some sort of standby mode. He can't be hiding, or whatever you think he may be doing. Something else must be going on with him."

"I don't know what it is, then," Ali replied. "The blue navigation insert is destroyed. That's the only physical damage I can see."

Stephen must not have heard them correctly. That couldn't be. He wondered if those kids even knew what one console was over another. That had to be a mistake. "What?" Stephen cried. "Destroyed?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Ali, look at the monitor labeled 'Primary Navigation' and press 'Status.' What's your navigational status?"

"Sir, I've already done that. Yellow on-line, only, Mr. Campbell."

"Oh, sweet... you're not at green yet?"

"No, Sir," Ali replied. "Lieutenant Wilkins didn't activate the blue key. He was trying, I think, before—"

Stephen's heart sank. If they could not jump out, they were in serious trouble; both them and his small protecting fleet. "Listen closely, kids. You've got to get that ship ready for jump. I don't think we can hold off the Wasatti more than a few minutes more."

Stephen saw Ali look at his son, who answered for them this time.

"We'll do what we can, Dad; if you tell us what we need to do."

* * *

sel Roan sat impatiently on the ready bench at the rear of the small ship alongside eight other enormous strike Marines. They were suited for any contingency, including combat in full space vacuum. All carried a full arsenal of assault weapons and boarding equipment. Each soldier was capable of accomplishing the mission; alone, if necessary.

sel Roan raised the communicator on her wrist to her helmet speaker, "Darts-Two and -Three, check in."

"Two is away and coming about," responded the squad leader in Dart-Two.

"Three is now on course for the enemy ship. Decel maneuvers have been completed. Contact in twenty minutes."

A ship from each cruiser, each carrying nine highly trained Marines, was on their way to the enemy prize ship. The first of the trio would arrive on station in twenty minutes. Ten minutes later, all three ships would be in position to force entry into their target. sel Roan was not sure what to expect when they entered the strange ship, or how heavily guarded the ship would be, but she had high expectations of success. A platoon of Wasatti strike Marines was not something sel Roan would want to go up against. She felt sorry for the human soldiers who would fight them. Almost sorry, she amended.

She reported back to her commander. "We are in flight now, General Kel. We will affect breaches at three locations within thirty minutes. My dart ship will concentrate on the rear of the enemy ship, while the others will board further toward the front. I will directly target the engineering sections, and the other darts will search out their command centers."

"What do you see out there?" Sar ap Kel asked.

"It's a relatively small ship, General. Smaller than the Devastating Glory but larger than a destroyer. But it's totally different than anything we've seen—from us or them."

"Explain."

sel Roan looked closer at the approaching target. It had a strange beauty. "It is very streamlined. The surface of the ship looks almost... liquid—"

"Liquid? Ridiculous! What do you mean by that?"

sel Roan realized the general was nervous. Despite his reputation for brutality, he was always insecure when he was nervous. He would always try to make others look stupid if he was the least bit unsure about his actions, mostly to conceal his own ignorance. Maybe he should have come with the strike mission, if he's so concerned, she thought silently. "It looks like it was formed from molten metals, and extruded directly into space. It's almost..." sel Roan had to search for the proper word, "... freeform, or something. There are no windows. All the shapes along its hull are very odd and irregular—'bumpy' might be a good way to describe it."

"Bumpy," Sar ap Kel remarked. "That's all you can come up with? You are second in command of this strike force, and all you can say is bumpy?"

sel Roan tried to hide her anger, snapping off the metal claw-hold she was grasping. The soldier on the bench next to her moved a few inches to put more space between them. She wanted to throw the cleat to the deck in anger but realized the loose object would pose a hazard within the maneuvering craft, so—controlling her emotions—she carefully placed the broken piece of metal into her EVA sack. She took a deep breath before replying. "Like parasitic crustaceans on the hull of an ocean ship, only encased within the metal hull itself. Yes, 'bumpy' is the proper term."

"Huh," Sar ap Kel replied. "Could that be where the instruments are?"

"I hadn't thought of that. It is possible, though."

"Armaments?"

sel Roan was worried about that exact thing. She expected to be fired upon any minute, but so far the ship remained mysteriously silent. Could it be unarmed? "None I can discern, nor can I see any obvious vanes or antennae. It is a most unusual design."

"You must capture that ship."

"Yes, General, we are well prepared. Once we are aboard, we will take charge of it, I assure you. We are closing in now, so I must prepare for egress. Is there anything else you require?"

"Just give me that ship."

He did not need to tell her. She was just as curious as he. "Of course. Roan out."

* * *

Chaos permeated the bridge of the Perry. Ali and Henrietta were furiously working on the blue navigation panel, as Captain Campbell suggested, but the blue key was fused solid, and it looked like it would take a major overhaul to set it free. Even if they got the key out, that did not account for making the panel operational again, which would be a whole different story. The key was a melted mass, and without it—even if the slot were free—they could not activate the panel. Peter was at the nearest com station, near the command center, while Stiles split his time between tactical and the yellow nav-panel. Stiles tried to get the weapons operational, but everything he pushed did nothing. Jimmy mutely sat in a chair staring catatonically at the dead lieutenant. He kept muttering something about if his father had looked like that when he died.

"What's going on over there?" Peter asked.

"This isn't working at all, Peter," Ali replied. "We'll never get it turned."

"It's got to," Peter shouted.

"How?" Ali threw back. "You might as well have poured durasteel down this panel. If I hadn't known better, I wouldn't even know a key slot was here."

Peter began to argue, but Henrietta confirmed what Ali was saying. "Peter, he's right. This station is toast."

Peter looked around the bridge, not knowing what to do. He glanced at Jimmy and wondered if the young boy was about to get sick; since first seeing the dead man, he did not take his eyes off him. "Ali, is there anywhere else we can put the lieutenant?"

"There's a cold storage compartment just off the forward sensor room, up-deck," he replied.

"Get him up there, would ya? Get Stiles to help; and be quick."

The two boys man-handled Ruben to the lift and disappeared, trying not to make a commotion, though not very successfully. Peter reached over and turned Jimmy's gaze away from the deck. "Jimmy, it's not the same. Your dad's face wouldn't have looked like that."

Jimmy remained unnaturally still. Peter furrowed his brow and lowered his head in surrender, feeling totally worthless. He could overhear his dad issuing battle commands to his fleet over the com. It did not sound good.

The Capella was taking heavy damage from the enemy warships, and was the only thing standing between their ship and the Wasatti invaders. Twice, his dad sent the Capella to a protecting position to keep the enemy cruisers at bay. How long could that last? Peter wondered.

His dad's ship was still trying to come about, and would not arrive for another fifteen minutes. The remaining ship in the human fleet was on the other side of the star system, and might as well be light-years away. It would likely not have a chance to participate in the local battle at all. To cap off the day, they were in a ship failing to respond, and on top of that, they were beginning to drift. He already detected the slow rotation of background stars in the distance, as if the ship were already dead. His dad promised to guide them through the jump process, but so far he was too busy coordinating the outer defenses, just keeping them alive. Peter doubted his dad could give them any useful advice anyway.

Ali and Stiles barged back onto the bridge, having taken care of the dead body. "Any progress?" Ali asked.

"Nothing," Peter replied. "It sounds real bad out there."

"I knew it," Stiles retorted. "I gotta do everything around here myself." He stormed back to the nav station and shoved himself into the chair.

The situation looked terrible, and as if matters could not be worse, Peter and his friends were arguing over the smallest details rather than trying to work together as a team. He could hardly hear himself think over the constant bickering. Peter was at his wits' end and had no idea what to do. He felt helpless and alone. Dad, he silently pleaded.

"Peter, any progress there?" Stephen asked.

Peter tried to respond, but could not get a word in edgewise. "Guys... guys...! Will you all shut up? I'm trying to talk to my dad here!"

The kids quieted down.

"No, Dad. Nothing's changed. I think we're slowing down, too."

"You are." His dad's voice was very soft and calm. "Peter, listen very carefully: there's a Wasatti boarding party heading your way; three dart ships. It won't take long for them to get there. You need to jump, and you need to jump now."

"We can't, Sir," Ali replied. "We only have access to the yellow systems."

Stiles gave up on the weapons station and ran back to the yellow navigation panel. He manipulated the screens, trying anything he could think of to help them out of this predicament.

Stephen answered in an obviously over-calming voice. That made Peter even more alarmed.

"All right, we wanted a green system, but it's still okay, Ali. The system had an override protocol for a pre-jump location. Lieutenant Wilkins had the parameters pre-loaded, and was simply finalizing the other referents. It's chancy, but you can still initiate jump. Just spin up the drive, hit it, and let the ship take care of the rest. You should come out alone at uninhabited Alpha Bootis—that's near Beta Comae Berenices—but don't worry; we can send help out there for you afterwards."

"Sir, without referents, we stand a large chance of a mis-jump," Ali protested.

"Ali, that's the least of your worries right now. If those boarding ships arrive, they will take control of that ship. You'll never stand a chance against them, believe me. Jack-in and jump with what you got while you still have the chance."

Peter took a deep breath, finally deciding what to do. "Okay, Ali. Set it up. Spin the jump engines."

Ali looked dubious, but relented. "Okay, give me five minutes to get down there." He rushed out of the bridge and down to engineering. He would need to manually initiate the engines. With only the yellow system in operation, not only was navigation seriously impaired, but major commands, weapons fire, and almost all other actions were impossible without the help of the unconscious ship. Even manual overrides might end up being tricky.

Five minutes and we can get out of here, Peter thought. He continued to issue orders, "Everyone, find a station and jack your CT-suits in. Let's be ready when Ali calls back."

The kids scrambled to get ready, listening to the battle chatter over the com while they waited. Things seemed to be even worse, if that were possible. Peter cringed at every word he heard from the fleet.

"Capella is taking heavy damage, Captain. We may lose her."

"Are we in position yet?"

"Almost, Sir... missile firing range... now."

"Fire all forward batteries!"

"Away, Sir. Multiple enemy missiles incoming in response. Impact in six minutes."

"Set all wild weasels and chaff."

Everyone seemed so calm out there. Peter could not imagine how they could function like that, staring at the brink of destruction. He was so proud of his dad, but scared for him beyond belief. He realized with a start he hadn't even worried about his own predicament while he listened in on his father. He wondered where the enemy boarders were and what they would do if they got in. He wished those security Marines were at their station, guarding the access hatches.

"Peter, are you ready?"

Peter snapped back. "Almost, Dad. We couldn't set the engines from here, so Ali is doing a manual start-up in engineering. Another minute or two."

"Are you all jacked?"

"Yes, Sir," Peter replied.

"Good. We might just pull this off. The moment you hear from Ali, be sure he is jacked-in and hit it."

"Okay, Dad."

Peter waited another long minute. He noticed some numbers increasing in a long string at the engineering screen, and had no idea what they represented. The best he could figure was that bigger numbers were better than smaller. Impatiently, he called to engineering. "Ali, c'mon; are we ready yet?"

"Almost; wait just a second... okay, it's up."

Peter could feel the FTL drive units begin to rumble. He breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, it felt like they were in a functioning ship. "You jacked-in?" Peter asked over the com.

"Of course!" Ali replied.

Peter wiped perspiration from his brow. He glanced at Henrietta and noticed her nod encouragement. "Dad, we're ready now," Peter called out. "Stiles, you're closest. Hit it."

Stiles passed his hands through the navigation screens at the yellow station.

The engines kept spinning, but nothing changed. They were still at Vega in the middle of a space battle. Peter looked at Stiles, willing him to hurry. "Stiles...."

"It's not working!" Stiles shouted. Off to the side, Jimmy began sobbing.

"What do you mean, it's not working?" Peter exclaimed.

"It's dead. This ship is crap," Stiles said. He threw his arms up in surrender like he had nothing more to say.

"Come on, Peter," Stephen called. His voice was getting tense now. "Those boarding ships are almost on you. Another minute or two and they'll make contact! The yellow system was ready for jump."

Peter heard a whine in his father's voice. He never heard such anguish coming from his father. Peter also heard some woman talking to his dad in the background.

"Twenty missiles have penetrated through our defenses, Captain. Close-defense systems are now firing. Two minutes to impact."

Peter ripped the connections from his CT-suit and ran to the navigation consoles. "Stiles, what did you do?"

"Nothing—"

"Did too," Henrietta replied. "Peter, I saw him messing with the controls earlier. He was throwing switches all over the place. I tried to stop him."

"What?" Peter cried. What did Stiles do now? The system was so complex; anything could throw it off line. It took years to learn how to operate a starship, and just one setting out of whack could be fatal.

"I was trying to fix the ship," Stiles said defensively. "No one else was doing anything. You were standing there, peeing down your pants, when I walked in."

Peter threw himself into the chair next to Stiles. "Show me what you did—quick!"

Stiles began to deny doing anything, but then relented. "I reset some of these screens. I was trying to switch them from yellow to green. I turned this key a couple times."

"You turned the yellow key off?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, it was the only way to reset the screens. But I input the drive for New Capital. It took me a few minutes, but I learned how to do it while you were off shivering over there in your little command chair. Didn't look that hard to me."

Stiles had reset the jump parameters. Not only were they out of yellow status, but now they had no destination properly input into the navigation computer. Peter punched the external com, "Dad, we are off-line for navigation."

"No...." Stephen moaned.

"Dad, we can't let the Wasatti get control of our systems. How do we self-destruct?"

Ali came on-line before he could reply, "Guys, punch out. The engines are spinning. Go now or shut down. If not, they'll blow up!"

Well, that's one way to self-destruct, Peter realized. He heard the engines whining at a high pitch, getting progressively worse. Peter felt a vibration that did not feel right, like the engines were going out of sync. A screen to Peter's left blinked red, warning of engine overload. Peter reached for the yellow key, but Stiles stopped him.

"We can't jump now. We might end up inside some star! It's attracted to gravity wells, stupid. Look, it took me five minutes to set it for a known point. We have to reinitialize a new location!"

"You idiot!" Peter screamed. "We can't jump anywhere now. This ship won't answer anything we ask, and there's no time left before we're boarded!"

"Peter," Stephen warned, "our sensors are showing the Wasatti Marines are out of their ships."

"Missile impact in one minute, Captain. Point defenses will not stop them all."

"Maybe we can negotiate with the Wasatti," Stiles offered. "That's what my dad would do." He opened a com channel to full external broadcast. "Hello, Wasatti. This is the governor's son, Stiles Essen. We wish to negotiate terms."

"Humans, this is Commander Roan of the Wasatti Empire. Surrender that ship to us immediately. We agree not to disassemble your bodies. We will allow your bodies to pass over in one piece."

The engine vibrations were getting extreme by now and Peter felt his teeth chatter. "Not on my watch!" Peter shouted. He shoved Stiles aside, grabbed the yellow key and turned it in desperation.

"Captain Campbell, welcome aboard."

Peter looked around in utter astonishment. The ship spoke! Somehow, it woke up. As Peter watched, several screens were turning from red to orange. Others were fading from yellow to green. The outside background of stars filling the view port began to stabilize.

"It must be your DNA!" Henrietta shouted. "It thinks you are your dad!"

Peter had no time to think. He suddenly heard banging from the outer hull; the Wasatti were trying to get in. It was now or never. He glanced one last time at his father's image on his communication screen. "Jump!" Peter commanded.

CHAPTER 6

**K-T-SPACE**

Peter felt time slow to a crawl. Every motion—every thought—took eons to complete. It felt like he was falling into a thick gel. He felt the sudden acceleration on his body, and then, bam: he hit a barrier that felt like he was suspended in mid air. His body was slapped from all sides at once, pushing him into the center-point of his core. It was as if his entire corporeal being was shoved into his soul.

He knew he had to connect to a jump chair, or he would starve long before they came out. His eyes slipped shut of their own accord, and nothing he could do would open them. He reached for his chest and felt the connector slide into his hand. He raised it up to the console and thought he felt it faintly click into his CT-suit, but he could not be sure.

"Son, I love you...." The voice came through a fog, far in the distance.

Peter fought against the growing fatigue and pried open his eyes for a moment. His father had talked to him, but from where? He felt the beat of his heart slow until it stopped. His head slipped down to his chest and he watched a small teardrop well up in one eye. He was crying for his father's memory. Twenty missiles were about to slam into his father's ship, and there was nothing Peter could do to help.

The teardrop released from his face, but before it could hit the deck it stopped, suspended in mid-air and caught by the mysterious forces of K-T-space. Then he felt nothing more as he slipped painlessly away into the darkness.

CHAPTER 7

**THE EYE OF THE NEEDLE**

The teardrop hit the deck as Peter was torn from the confining gel. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His body was paralyzed as well, fused to whatever instrument of torture he was sitting in. He tried to free his tongue several times but realized he forgot how to work his jaw. He was like a new-born baby, needing to connect unused muscles to neurons in his brain. He concentrated on subconsciously mapping a path to his face along the ridgeline of his jaw, and the milliseconds it took for the electrons to travel the new-found route felt like a year-long journey. Perhaps it was, Peter realized. When his mouth finally moved, he heard a crack, like old bones crumbling. A searing pain shot through his right ear. That'll teach me for trying to get comfortable.

Eclipsing his new-found pain, Peter felt his chest thrust forward. His torso shot to the front of the ship, leaving his spine still motionless in the chair far behind. In one instant, Peter became infinitely long, like putty stretched to a fine thread. A blinding gray-purple light surrounded him, spinning madly like the rifle barrel around a corkscrewing bullet. An eternity later, his head emerged from the barrel, joining the jumbled ball of thread on the other side as he was pulled through the eye of the universe's perverse and sadistic needle. His head coalesced first, painful ear and all. Suddenly, he felt the rest of his body reassemble as the ship slammed out of K-T-space.

Peter was startled to feel his heart beat once again. Air filled empty lungs and his chest rose and fell to the familiar rhythm of human breathing. He lifted his right arm, but only his index finger obeyed. He lifted again, more forcefully, and managed to get his hand to his head. Loose hair caught between his fingers, pulling away in clumps. He felt flakes of skin peel off as he wiped his forehead, feeling like a fine layer of desiccated tissue paper. He pried opened his eyes and saw an old man's hand, all dry and wrinkly.

Who was there, in front of me?

Peter was startled a second time. He turned his hand to defend himself and was surprised when the old man's hand reflected his motion. Was he mocking my helplessness?

He saw the hand obey further commands and realized it must be his own. His 14-year old hand transformed into the withered and arthritic hand of Grandfather Morningstar. Are you my Spirit Guide now, Grandfather? Peter wondered.

The answer startled him for the third time in as many seconds. He realized he could not take many more surprises this day. "No, Rising Sun, I cannot track that far. You are beyond where eagles have ever flown."

Only his grandfather had called him Rising Sun, the one that came after the Morningstar set. At first Peter did not like the name, but the more he heard it the more he liked it. He eventually grew into it and always looked forward to Grandfather using it whenever they met.

Where are we? Peter asked.

"I cannot tell you, for I do not know. Long ago I have lost the path you took."

Peter wondered what he meant. Grandfather was the best tracker Peter ever knew. Once, they patiently followed a deer on the plains of Stagecoach for three days before finally reaching it. "We are bonded to that animal now, you and I," Grandfather told him during the hunt. "We would insult him if we let him go now. He would feel unworthy."

But aren't you bonded to me too, Grandfather? Peter asked.

Grandfather did not answer. Now, if Grandfather had truly lost the way.... Grandfather, help me—

"You are on your own now, Grandson. It is only you that can help yourself. Your destiny awaits."

My destiny? For what, Grandfather?

He did not reply. The winds carried him away like dust.

Peter cleared his throat. His hoarse voice sounded odd to him as he called out. It sounded so much like Grandfather. "I will try not to disappoint you, Grandfather."

* * *

Peter's body twitched uncontrollably as he fully awakened. For a moment, he feared he was having a seizure. It was the worst reaction he ever had coming out of a jump or a deep-teach session.

"Oh, God," he groaned as the shaking slowly subsided. Well, at least I'm not dead, he thought. This hurts too much for death. He swallowed, but there was not enough moisture in his mouth to satisfy the urge. It felt like half the hair on his head was shoved into his mouth, and a family of mice took residence in the nest.

As his senses returned, he felt an itch on every square inch of his skin. He spent blessed minutes scratching from head to toe. Dead skin cells always accumulated when the body was semi-suspended in a jump, but this time was ridiculous. I might as well be a snake coming out of hibernation.

Gentle beeps and chirps from the bridge greeted Peter. That was when he remembered where he was. "Uh, ship?" Peter asked.

There was no response. I'll worry about him later, Peter concluded.

He unplugged his CT-suit and slowly got to his feet. Every bone and muscle ached. He stretched his back and looked around. Peter limped to the water dispenser and dialed in a cool water bulb. A moment later it appeared. Peter took the palm-sized bulb and irrigated his mouth with the blessed liquid. He swished it around before swallowing, resisting the urge to down it all in one large gulp. He took another cautious sip, making sure it stayed down.

Henrietta, Jimmy, and Stiles were still plugged into their CT systems and Peter was careful not to disturb them. He tried to activate the main view screen but it remained black. Growing more concerned by the second, he next activated the tac screen. It also failed to function.

"Great," Peter said dryly. The ship suddenly felt very large and lonely. He felt like a visiting spirit passing through a dead world. He shivered as a cold wave passed through him. Spirits....

Henrietta stirred.

"Arietta," he called out. "It's me, Peter."

She turned a bleary eye toward him. "Peter?" she mumbled. He could see she was having difficulty focusing.

She's probably as confused as I was, Peter thought. He limped to her station and held out his hand. "Here, let me help you up."
Henrietta grasped his hand and tried to rise, but was too weak. Retching, she quickly gave up and curled into a ball. "Oh, God; what happened?" Her cheeks puffed up and Peter saw her stomach spasm.

"Are you going to hurl?"

Henrietta nodded violently and threw her hands over her mouth.

Peter found a container and forced it into her trembling hands. She bent over and threw up. The good thing was there was not much in her stomach to empty.

Stiles moved next, but Peter left him to his own devices. Go ahead and get yourself out of this, Peter thought. I did.

"Oh, God," Stiles cried. "What the—"

Peter heard a crash as Stiles fell back into his chair. He forgot to unplug his suit. Peter smiled evilly at Stiles' discomfort.

"Ohhh, where am I?" Jimmy asked.

Well, at least everyone doesn't say "Oh God," Peter thought. "You're on the ship," Peter answered. "We just came out of jump." He walked to Jimmy and disconnected his plug for him. "Stay in your chair," Peter suggested. "I'll get you a bulb of water."

Peter reached the dispenser and retrieved three water bulbs, gathering them in his arms. He went to the young boy first, but Henrietta interrupted him.

"Quit spoiling him, would ya?" Henrietta looked at him perturbed. "How else will he grow up?"

"Who?"

"Jimmy," she replied tartly.

"Arietta, remember: I helped you come out of jump." He looked at the messy bowl still resting in her lap.

She looked almost human again. And kind of cute, just sitting there, he thought.

"Yeah, yeah... thanks for the help," she said, taking the water from him.

He was not quite sure if she was being sarcastic.

"Yeah, and no thanks for the help you gave me."

As for sarcastic, it did not take much to tell Stiles was. "I thought you were a big boy," Peter responded, handing him his water bulb.

Stiles glared at him while he squeezed off a mouthful. Stiles reached up with his other hand and tore the connector from his suit in anger, still staring at Peter.

Jimmy eagerly took the water bulb Peter offered and gulped half of it down.

"Easy, Jimmy," Peter warned. "Your stomach forgot how to take in food."

In response, Jimmy threw up the water he just swallowed. It landed with a splash over the deck, barely missing Stiles' feet.

"You're cleaning that up, Null-Grav," Stiles warned. Stiles rubbed his forehead, trying to snap out of his haze. He turned away from the messy scene before he got sick.

"It's just water," Jimmy replied, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "So, where are we?"

Peter shook his head, "Don't know, but a long way away from where we started from, I think."

"You idiot," Stiles taunted him. "We're at Alpha Bootis. You don't listen too good, do you?"

"I do too," Peter answered. "We were heading there until you messed with the settings."

"Go jump off the ship."

Peter felt in his gut they were not in the colonies anymore, but could not say anything about his grandfather, or crazy talk about Spirit Guides telling him they were lost. They never would believe him. In fact, Peter could not believe it himself. Calming down, he continued. "Well, I still don't think we're at Alpha Bootis. Where else, though... I have no idea."

Henrietta looked around. "Did you try to contact the ship?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah, I did, but nothing so far. Nothing on external sensors, either. I wonder if he goes into stasis."

"Who?" Henrietta asked.

"The ship," Peter replied. He always was intrigued about the ship and how close it was to life. He once had a long conversation with Ali about what they were doing at the base, but came up with more questions than answers. "Being he's partly alive, what happens to him in a jump?"

"Beats me," Henrietta answered, looking bored. She looked around the bridge. "Speaking of which, where's Ali?"

"You remember, Arietta, he was down in engineering when we jumped."

"Oh, yeah." She suddenly looked more alert. "Have you checked up on him?"

Peter thought for a moment. He was still fuzzy and he blamed himself for not thinking of it first. "Darn it, no." He opened an internal channel to engineering, "Ali, are you there?"

There was no response. "Ali, come in. Ali, answer me."

"Did he jack in?" Henrietta asked.

"He should have," Peter replied. Of anyone on the ship, Ali was the one most schooled about how a ship operated. "He knows better than that. If anyone did, he did."

Stiles smirked, "Knowing that absent-minded turd-face, I wouldn't be so sure."

"He had to," Peter said. I think.... "We'd better get down to engineering and see."

* * *

The kids rushed into the lift and went down four decks to the engineering level. They weaved through the maze of computing and headed back to the drive units section. Jimmy slowly followed up the rear, getting momentarily lost in the large, cluttered room.

"Ali," Henrietta called out. "Are you here?" She waited for Peter to catch up and asked, "Where would he be?"

"I don't know," he said looking around. "This place is as confusing as computing was. I've no idea what any of this stuff does. Maybe we should spread out and look."

"Over here," Stiles called. He was behind a large membranous partition. Peter could see his shadow moving through the semi-transparent wall.

Peter looked for a clear path. "How'd you get over there?" Peter asked.

"Walk all the way to the back and turn left."

"Aft," Jimmy shouted.

"Whatever," Stiles retorted.

Peter led Henrietta and Jimmy around the obstacles, taking Henrietta by the hand. Ali was sitting still in his chair; his arms were hanging limply to the side. Peter could detect no breathing or other signs of life.

"Is he...?" Henrietta could not voice her fears.

Peter looked closer and saw the CT connector firmly in-place on his chest. "He did jack in. At least that's something."

"But he's not breathing," Stiles observed. "Should I pull the plug out?"

Peter stared at his motionless friend, locked in indecision. Here he was again, forced into another life-affecting decision. "I don't know. Arietta, what do you think?"

"No. If the system's working, it's keeping him alive. If it's not working, it doesn't much matter now."

"Good point," Peter admitted. He checked the CT-chair. All the indicators were still green, so that was a good sign. "How do you stop stasis on purpose?"

"He knows," Stiles replied, motioning his head toward Ali.

"That does us a lot of good," Henrietta replied.

Stiles purposely put on a "dumb" look. "So, you see any manuals lying around?"

Henrietta looked perturbed. "I say we wait it out. As long as those lights stay green, I think he's okay. Let nature take its course."

Stiles sneered, "That fat pig is probably soaking up all our supplies while he's sitting there."

"Thanks for being so concerned," Peter said. Stiles ignored him. "Okay," Peter continued, "Arietta's right, I think. Let's scout around and see if we can find anything wrong with the ship; get it to respond somehow. Jimmy, you stay with Ali. Let us know if anything happens."

"Me? Why me?"

Stiles swatted at Jimmy and caught the edge of his shoulder with the tips of his fingers. "'Cause you're worthless for anything else," Stiles answered. "Like a fart in space."

Jimmy stepped quickly away before Stiles could slap at him again.

Stiles looked at Peter, "And by the way, who died and left you boss, anyway?"

Peter shrugged his shoulders. "No one, but you got any better ideas?"

"No," Stiles relented.

Peter tried to figure out what to do next. Assigning Jimmy the job of looking over Ali was easy, but the other assignments would not be so obvious. He looked around. "Okay, then: Arietta, would you please go down to environmental and look around?"

"For what?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Anything that looks out of place. Anything that can help us with the ship."

"Everything on this ship looks out of place," Henrietta replied stubbornly.

"Yeah, I know, but look around for anything that might make the ship respond. But don't turn anything off. If you find anything, use the intercom and call us first."

"Okay." Henrietta shrugged. She took off for the lift and disappeared around a bank of instruments, mumbling something about environments in Brazil and rather wanting to be there.

Peter agreed silently that Brazil would probably be far better. "Stiles, do you prefer this deck, or the hangar?"

"Hangar." Without saying another word, Stiles followed Henrietta to the port lift, but went up one level instead of down.

Now it was just Jimmy and Peter, with Ali still sitting calmly in his chair. "Jimmy, I'll stay on this floor, so if you need anything just call out."

"Deck...."

Peter looked back at Jimmy. "What?" Peter asked.

"It's a deck; not a floor." Jimmy muttered the words while he stared blankly at his own shoes.

Peter shook his head, waiting for Jimmy to look up. "Jimmy, you'd be far better off not correcting everyone all the time. It makes Stiles mad."

Jimmy glanced up slyly, "I know." Jimmy tried to smile. "But for you and the others, I'll try and remember."

"Fair enough. Keep an eye on Ali; that's your job right now."

Jimmy nodded, looking serious again.

Peter walked all the way to the back of the ship and passed by the six fusion power plants. All of them seemed on, but only one was humming, and mildly at that. He dared not touch anything; the one that was on was probably powering the internal life support. He saw a console nearby with "Bridge Communications" labeled at the top. He switched it on.

"Hello, Bridge: come in." Peter hoped the ship would reply, but it didn't. "Ship, alter course two degrees to starboard."

Nothing. "Well, it was worth a try," Peter mumbled.

He continued forward, passing Jimmy again. "Anything?"

"No change. He's still asleep."

I hope, Peter thought. He walked by several exotic-looking machines, passing his hand nonchalantly through one projected screen. The lights to the ship went out to his touch. "Oops!" Peter quickly swiped through the diaphanous screen again and the lights turned back on.

"What happened?" Stiles asked over the PA.

"Sorry," Peter replied. "I tried something. Obviously, I found out how to turn off the lights."

"Be careful," Stiles warned.

"I know." Peter scribbled "Lights" on a film tablet and placed it on the console. "Stiles, Arietta," he said, "find a tablet, and if you discover what anything does, write it down and post it." They both agreed to Peter's suggestion while he continued on to computing.

* * *

Henrietta rode the lift to the bottom deck, turning to the right and to the storage room. It was large and empty and her footsteps echoed against the barren walls. Don't need to worry about anything spoiling, she realized, 'cause there's nothing here to spoil. She went into the next room and found the manufactory and laboratory facilities. Not a single console or machine was on. That was where she was when Peter accidentally turned the lights off. Shortly after, she moved further along and activated a console. Instructions began playing from its interface, *SPECIFY PARAMETERS FOR GOODS REQUIRED.*

"Ship, is that you?" Henrietta asked.

*INSUFFICIENT PARAMETERS SPECIFIED,* the machine answered. *PLEASE SPECIFY A PRODUCT REQUIREMENT.*

Henrietta stared at the machine for a few minutes, wondering what it could do. "I need a writing tablet and stylus," Henrietta said.

*WORKING....* The machine began whirring. *ITEM WILL BE AVAILABLE IN FIVE MINUTES AT STORAGE BIN 23-A.*

It was a manufacturing unit. She wondered if it had any limitations. "Cool. Now give me a diamond necklace."

*PLEASE SPECIFY TOTAL CARATS AND CUT PREFERENCES.*

Henrietta's eyes opened wide. "Really? Never mind," Henrietta decided. A diamond necklace was not needed at the moment, but she would be sure to remember where this thing was.

*ITEM CANCELLED.*

She wondered if it could do anything else. So far, it was the only thing on the ship that spoke since the jump. "What's wrong with the ship?" Henrietta asked.

*INSUFFICIENT PARAMETERS SPECIFIED,* the machine answered. *PLEASE SPECIFY A PRODUCT REQUIREMENT.*

"I knew that would be too easy. Never mind... máquina estúpida." Finding nothing else of interest, Henrietta moved on toward the environmental section further ahead.

* * *

Stiles left the lift and walked immediately to a fighter craft, bypassing the boring courier along the way. "Ooh, let's see if this puppy works!" He pressed the entry switch and the hatch opened. "Now we're talking," he exclaimed. He entered the sleek craft, going directly to the pilot's seat.

Inside the cabin, he saw a series of complicated consoles and instruments. He settled into the plush seat and got comfortable. Lights began twinkling from the weight he exerted. Numbers appeared, cycling over several screens at once.

*INPUT COMMAND SEQUENCE,* the fighter craft requested.

The fighter was ready to go, but apparently there were initiating commands to start it up.

"Darn," Stiles replied. "Override security protocols."

*UNABLE TO COMPLY. COMMAND SEQUENCE REQUIRED FOR OPERATION.*

"One-two-three-four-five," Stiles suggested.

*INCORRECT CODING. TWO ADDITIONAL ATTEMPTS ARE POSSIBLE BEFORE SYSTEM RESET.*

"Never mind." Stiles was disappointed, but realized there was not much he could do with the fighter yet anyway. He thought for a moment and tried something else, "Run fighter diagnostics, and report status."

*WORKING....*

The instrument panels began cycling furiously. After a minute or two, the fighter replied, *ALL SYSTEMS ARE OPTIMAL. CRAFT IS FULLY ARMED AND READY FOR FLIGHT OPERATIONS.*

The fighter just monitored all its systems and reported the results. Stiles wondered if it could be used as an entryway into the larger ship. "Report status of mother ship," Stiles requested.

*WORKING....*

The instruments began to light up again.

"Now we're getting somewhere," Stiles said, rubbing his hands together. He waited a few minutes for the diagnostics to run their course.

*SAMPSON K. PERRY IS CURRENTLY AT MINIMAL OPERATIONAL CAPACITY. LIFE SUPPORT AND MANUFACTORIES ARE SET AT 100 PERCENT. INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS ARE FUNCTIONAL, BUT ALL EXTERNAL LINKS ARE OFFLINE. LOAD BURDEN IS CURRENTLY AT 1.6 PERCENT. ALL OPERATIONAL DATABASES ARE INACTIVE, AND CURRENTLY IN LOCK-OUT CONFIGURATION. ALL THRUSTERS AND MAIN ENGINES ARE IN THE OFF POSITION. THE SHIP IS DRIFTING.*

"What is our current position?"

*UNKNOWN. NAVIGATION DATABASE IS IN LOCK-OUT CONFIGURATION.*

Stiles just found out the ship did not know where it was. He did not know if that was because the ship was dead, or that it simply did not know. "Initialize all systems."

*INSUFFICIENT COMMAND AUTHORITY TO COMPLY,* the fighter responded.

"Override."

*UNABLE TO COMPLY.*

"Very good. Revert to standby mode."

*WORKING....*

The lights quickly went out.

Stiles got up and left the craft. "Well, that was fun." He did learn something about their condition, even though it was not much. "More than Campbell probably figured out," Stiles boasted proudly.

Stiles left the hangar and entered the gymnasium at the front of the ship. Forward, he reminded himself, thinking of that know-it-all, null-grav fart. He did not expect to see much in this room, and was not surprised. It looked like a thousand other recreational facilities he had seen, except no one was there. It looked spooky. He sat at a weight machine and gave it a shot. It hardly budged at his efforts. "Yeah, well...." Stiles got up and strolled through the other exercise machines.

"Hey, guys." Jimmy's voice came over the PA. "It's Ali. He's starting to move."

"Is he all right?" Peter asked after a minute or two.

"I think so," Jimmy replied. "He's calling for you."

"Be right there," Peter replied.

* * *

"You sure had us scared," Henrietta said.

The kids were gathered around Ali as he slowly came out of stasis. The small engineering room barely had room for everyone. The green, membranous walls gently throbbed as the power generated from the nearby power plants coursed throughout the ship. Ali absently knuckled his eyes, trying to wake up.

"How long have I been out?"

"Oh, about two hours," Peter replied.

Henrietta handed Ali a water bulb, making sure he did not drop it. Through hazy vision, he fumbled with the tip until he got it open.

"Thanks. I need this." He took a sip. "Didn't we jump, then?"

"Yes," Peter said.

Ali looked confused. He shook his head and said, "And it's only been two hours? Was it a micro-jump?"

"Two hours since we came out of jump," Peter clarified.

Ali nodded, finally realizing what they were saying. "Oh, I see. So where are we?" he asked.

"I don't—"

Stiles interrupted Peter. "He thinks we flew to Never-Never-Land. Peter Pan here took us there. Seems we got ourselves this magical sailing ship."

"Do not," Peter countered. "Just said we're not where we're supposed to be."

"Which is?" Ali asked.

"Alpha Bootis; that's a barren star system near Beta Comae Berenices," Jimmy said. "That's where we were headed before Stiles messed with the nav systems."

"Hey!" Stiles shouted angrily. Everyone turned his way in concern. "If you ever say that again...." Stiles walked menacingly toward Jimmy.

Peter eased over and blocked his way. It did not take much in the small space. "Back off, Stiles."

Stiles reluctantly stopped, but before he did so he bumped his chest in warning against Peter. "Later, puke-face," Stiles said, looking over Peter's shoulder. "And you, too," he threatened, looking down at Peter.

"Fine, go right ahead," Peter suggested. He hitched up his shoulders, trying to look bigger. He pointed to his chest, offering Stiles a shot.

"Guys," Henrietta said, "now's not the time."

The two boys glared at each other, neither willing to back off.

Ali cleared his throat. No one paid attention so he did it again, but much louder. Peter finally glanced his way for a beat before looking back at his foe.

"So we don't know where we are?" Ali asked, defusing the situation innocently.

"No, we don't," Peter replied. He tore his concentration from Stiles' face a final time.

"Ship," Ali commanded.

Peter shook his head. "That won't work, Ali. He's offline."

"Not again!"

"It's at minimal operational capacity," Stiles quoted. "Life support and the factories are set at one hundred percent."

"That's true," Henrietta confirmed, "I almost made myself a diamond necklace."

Peter looked at her in confusion. He shook his head like he had not heard her correctly.

Color came to Henrietta's dark cheeks. "It's a long story," she answered.

"The internal communications are working, but nothing external. The databases are inactive and locked out." Stiles paused for a second trying to remember all he had learned before continuing, "We're also drifting."

"How'd you figure all that out?" Peter asked.

"I asked the fighter craft for a status report."

Ali nodded knowingly. "Good thinking, Stiles."

Stiles beamed. "Better than what our Peter Pan here did, huh?"

"I didn't know we were in a contest," Henrietta suggested.

Peter glanced between Henrietta and Stiles, considering what she just said. "We aren't," Peter conceded. "Good work, Stiles."

Stiles ignored the compliment, but still basked in the limelight.

"Let me get up and check things out." Ali tried to get out of the chair, but stumbled backwards.

"Whoa, take it easy," Peter suggested. "You've been in stasis for quite a while. I'm sure your body is still trying to recover from it."

"He thinks," Stiles amended. "I still say that was a normal jump. We should be hearing from the Colonial Fleet soon enough. They'll rescue us, and then we can all go our separate ways. And good riddance," Stiles said glancing Peter's way again.

"Well, wherever we are," Peter said, "Ali is still gonna need to take some time to recover."

"No, that's alright," Ali replied. "I'll be okay." Ali slowly made it to his feet, steadying his wobbly legs. Nothing short of the end of the universe would stop Ali from fidgeting with the ship and maybe not even then. "Now, where'd I put my PAD?"

* * *

Ali stifled another yawn. He was still in engineering, elbow-deep in slime-covered electronics. Ship's parts of various sizes were scattered throughout the deck in a large circle around him. He reassembled the final piece yet again, and activated a panel. "Why won't it work this time?" Ali asked in frustration.

The others were watching his every move. Ali tried ten restarts throughout the day, each with the same result. Everyone wanted to help, but no one had a clue what to do. Peter would make a suggestion, only to be ignored. Jimmy would suggest something else and Ali would simply roll his eyes. The most helpful thing Henrietta did all day was fetch some snacks from the galley. "You guys are making me nervous," Ali admitted, "looking over my shoulder so much."

"Your incompetence is making me nervous," Stiles replied. "I thought you knew about this ship."

"I do," Ali pleaded. "Me and my dad went through almost every system on this ship."

"Not enough, obviously."

The weird thing was that Peter was thinking the same thing. He did not like the idea of agreeing with Stiles, especially against his best friend. "Stiles, don't you have somewhere else to go?" Peter suggested.

"Where?" Stiles asked sarcastically.

"Out the airlock?" Jimmy offered helpfully.

"Sure. You first."

Ali threw a tool against a wall. Instead of a satisfying clang, it only produced a disappointing thud. "I just don't understand what's going on. I ran three diagnostics and they all say nothing's wrong."

"Could it be a command interface problem?" Henrietta asked.

Ali scratched his head. "I thought of that earlier, but we should at least have access to external sensors. I checked the sensor rooms three hours ago, and everything there looks fine. Just like everything else; only nothing works."

"Environmental and supply works," Henrietta said.

"And we should be thankful of that," Peter observed. Essentially, the ship was dead. If environmental was also offline, the kids would have no air to breathe, and no heat to keep them warm. Above the bare necessities of environmental, they also had food and water to drink.

Small victories, Peter reflected.

"But we have no connection to the outside world," Ali said. "We gotta get the ship back up, or else we're in serious trouble. We have no windows to look out of; no external sensors; no idea where we are, or what's out there."

"For all we know," Jimmy offered, "we might be at the ends of the universe, or on the edge of a giant black hole."

"Don't be stupid," Stiles said.

"Well," Ali replied, "he might have something there."

Peter pulled himself out of his thoughts. Did they just say we were on the edge of a black hole?

"I do?" Jimmy looked more worried about guessing correctly.

"The point is," Ali offered, "who knows? We've got to see where we are."

"Do you think the Fleet will come rescue us?" Jimmy asked. "Maybe they're out there, trying to get in."

"Or maybe the Wasatti." Stiles tried to make his comment sound haunted. "Ooooh...." he continued.

"If it was the Wasatti, they'd already be inside," Peter snarled. "And that was pretty stupid of you, trying to negotiate with them."

"Well, if we had, we wouldn't be in this position, would we?"

Peter tried to piece together the ridiculous nonsense Stiles was spewing. "No, Stiles, we wouldn't," Peter replied. "We'd all be dead. The Colonial Fleet was the only thing protecting us from those insects."

"Do they even know we jumped from Vega?" Henrietta asked. "Maybe they think we were all destroyed."

"My dad saw us jump."

"Yeah," Stiles replied, "and with a bunch of missiles heading up his butt. How do you know he made it out alive?"

"Stiles!" Henrietta cautioned. It was obvious all the parents trapped on the base did not make it out alive, but there was still a chance for Peter's father.

Peter hated to admit it, but found he could no longer ignore it. "Did anyone besides us make it out of Vega?"

No one answered.

Jimmy asked the obvious question. "What do we do if no one knows where we are?"

Ali answered him, "We'll need to get the ship operational again and find our way home ourselves."

Sure, that sounds easy, Peter thought. None of them had any more experience flying a starship than being a passenger. They had no crew, and the ship was drifting. Ali had some ideas about fixing the ship, but so far had no luck.

"Can you do it?" Henrietta asked. "Fix the ship, I mean?"

"Depends what happened," Ali replied.

Peter was mulling over a few thoughts for some time now and decided to try out his theory. "A ship like this never entered K-T-space before."

"So?"

"Well, there's a lot of talk about it being alive or not. If it is, what does it jack in to? How does it stay alive in a jump?" The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. And hearing it out loud further convinced Peter he was right.

"Do you really think it's a living machine?" Jimmy asked.

"Yes, sort of," Peter said.

"Yep; me too," Ali added.

"I still don't see the problem," Stiles said.

Ali started to nod his head. "I see what you're getting at. If any of us were unplugged for a jump that was anything over a couple light-years, we'd starve to death. Or die of thirst."

"But even so," Stiles insisted, "the ship doesn't eat, does it? It simply accesses nutrients, like a body burns stores of fat."

Ali thought for a moment. "Well, not really, but he does regenerate fluids and organics that gets used up. He... cycles through products. He sort of eats, kinda. The thing is: if he does require food—or whatever—how does he get it in a jump? Does he even stay awake?"

"That's crazy talk," Stiles said.

"Exactly," Ali said. "Humans can't stay conscious in K-T-space. If the ship stays conscious maybe he could eat, if you want to call it that, but how does he stop from going crazy through all that time alone? My dad always said he was unsure how he'd behave. But that's when he was joking."

"Hive entities don't need to jack-in-jump," Stiles observed.

Ali dismissed the comment, "They're different. Plus, they're always connected telepathically."

"So is that why the ship isn't working?" Henrietta asked.

Ali shrugged his shoulders, "Maybe Peter's on to something. We need to wake him up. Get him restarted. Like you guys did with me. And I'm not having much luck."

Peter smiled, handing Ali back the tool he threw. "Look, Ali, you've been working all day. You need rest, or you'll make mistakes, right?"

"But—"

"—but you won't get it done overnight. And you're not thinking straight anymore."

Ali stared at the spanner in his hand, rolling it over in his palm. "Alright, sleep may not be a bad idea." He set the tool back on the workbench, looking around for what to do next.

Peter turned Ali's shoulders toward the lift, gently guiding him along. "Come on, guys; let's pick ourselves a room."

They took the aft lift up to deck five. Crew quarters faced them to the left and the radiation room faced them to the right. Ali started off toward the rooms.

"Hold on," Peter suggested. "You're going the wrong way."

"But the rooms are over here," Ali said, pointing aft.

"Yeah, but the officer's rooms are in the front." Peter glanced at Jimmy, "Forward, I mean. No sense settling on crew rooms when better are available."

He led the kids through the rad room and out to the forward crew section. Most of those rooms were the same as the smaller aft rooms, but a third of them were better equipped for the officers. They also had one larger bed as opposed to double bunks.

"Well," Peter suggested, looking around the connecting corridor, "here they are. Take your pick."

They looked around, settling on five rooms furthest to starboard. They were also closest to the lift leading to the bridge, one deck above.

"Wouldn't someone rather bunk with me?" Jimmy asked. "Peter?"

"I don't think so, Jimmy," Peter began.

"Don't sweat it, Null-Grav; the boogeyman won't get you in the middle of the night. But I might."

Stiles jumped toward Jimmy, trying to scare him. Jimmy just smiled back.

"There is no 'night' out here," Jimmy corrected him.

"No, but you're always walking around like you're in the dark."

Jimmy was not ready to give in. He always seemed to find the one or two best things to worry about. "Shouldn't we post guards?" Jimmy asked.

Everyone thought about the suggestion for a moment.

"Maybe we should," Henrietta replied, "but there aren't enough of us to set up a schedule. And what if someone does come along? I don't think any of us could stop them."

"Speak for yourself," Stiles answered. "We should find the small arms locker and prepare."

"So go ahead and stay up," Henrietta suggested.

They stared at each other for a beat. "Nah, fend for yourself," Stiles finally replied.

"My true hero," Henrietta motioned like she was in love.

Peter looked mad and headed to a room, ignoring the banter. "I'm going to bed. Let's see what tomorrow brings."

Over a huge yawn, Ali said, "Good idea. Can't be any worse than today."

* * *

It was three days since they came out of jump and the young crew was as much in the dark about their situation as when they first arrived. For all they knew, they could have been captives in a sealed shipping container sitting in the middle of some cosmic warehouse. They still believed the Colonial Fleet would come charging to their rescue, but their hopes weakened at the end of each lonely day.

On the second day, they were each assigned a task. Ali, of course, continued to work on the ship. Stiles volunteered to assess the condition of the three craft in the hangar and the ship's tactical and weapons systems. Peter tried to discover any clues about their location, and Henrietta began a thorough inventory of all the supplies on the ship. Jimmy knew the most about computer language and programming, so he was asked to investigate the ship's computing systems, but was rudely instructed by Stiles not to "mess anything up." For two days, they wandered about the ship, separately working at their own self-imposed schedules.

Peter was on the bridge at the command station and had not seen anyone in the past thirty hours except Ali silently working just behind him. As absorbed in his work as Ali was, he might as well not have been there. Many times Peter completely forgot his friend was even on the bridge.

For everything Peter did, he was still no further along completing his quest, and by now he was thoroughly exhausted. He flipped open the PA, "Is anyone hungry?"

"Starved," Henrietta answered immediately.

"I could use a break," Jimmy replied.

"Me too," Stiles broke in. "I'm pretty much done here, anyway."

Peter waited for Ali to answer, but all he heard was an occasional rustling of fabric and a few squeaks from his chair. Peter smiled and asked without looking back, "Ali, are you still awake back there?"

After a moment, Ali reluctantly answered, "Yeah."

"Thought so. How about taking a short break?"

"Give me five minutes; I'm almost done with this."

"Ali, with you five minutes turns into a day." Ali ignored him. Peter opened the PA again. "Okay, everyone, let's meet up in the galley." He stood up and headed for the deck hatch. Before leaving the bridge, he said, "Ali, don't forget to quit. Even machines need maintenance now and then."

"I won't."

Peter stubbornly stared at Ali and waited until he looked up.

Ali smiled, "Promise," he conceded.

Peter walked into the galley to find Henrietta already there. "Hey," he offered in greeting. "Didn't take you long to get here."

"Was already here," she replied wearily. She was standing by the dispenser. "You care much what you eat?"

"Surprise me," Peter replied.

She dialed in two servings and brought one to Peter, who by now was resting at a table. His chin rested in one propped-up hand.

"Thanks, Arietta." He looked down at his bowl, seeing an unappetizing gray pile. It looked like worms. "Are those noodles?"

She nodded. "I've discovered they taste the most like what they're supposed to be." She shoveled in a mouthful and began chewing.

Peter lifted a few strands with his chopsticks and suspiciously sniffed at the meal. He took an experimental bite, being sure not to get any on his lips. They were not as bad as he feared. He scooped up a larger portion and sucked them off the sticks. Around a mouthful he said, "Not bad."

"And she can cook, too," Henrietta replied preening. "Any luck up there?"

Peter finished chewing before answering, "No, not at all. I can't break into any external systems. Can't tell where we are if we can't see outside."

The ship was designed for maximum efficiency. Within the design was a requirement for a strong and resilient hull in times of war. As a result, there were no physical portholes or observation platforms which would have provided points of weakness had they been there. Instead, the designers utilized piezo-electronic panels that could be turned on or off to make portions of the ship's hull transparent. When they were on, it was like there was no wall at all. The perfect example was the main bridge view screen, but when the ship was off line there was no way to turn them on. That was something the designers had never planned for.

"That's it, then? No idea where we could be?"

Peter considered her question for a moment before reluctantly replying. "I tried doing some research on what we felt like coming out of jump; mostly to estimate how far we traveled. Figured we could at least draw a sphere around Vega. Tried to correlate our physical conditions to what the doctors published in the literature about hyperspace effects."

Henrietta waited for him to continue, but he just sat there staring at his noodles. She could see he needed prompting. "And...?" she continued impatiently.

"Did you weigh yourself after we came out, by chance?"

"No."

Peter looked disappointed. "Me either. Weight-loss rates might have helped, 'cause that seems to be the main constant. That's about the only thing they talk about with real numbers. But I doubt any of us did it. I did some other calcs with hair loss and dehydration, but all the answers I got were too weird to believe. So, no; I have no idea where we could be."

Stiles and Jimmy walked into the galley together, quickly followed by Ali. They each dialed up a meal and joined Peter and Henrietta at the long table. They ate in silence for a few minutes, extending the somber mood. Evidently, the kids were hungrier than they imagined because it did not take long to empty their plates.

After awhile, they reported what they accomplished. All in all, it was not much. Ali gave up trying to restore the ship after a day and a half of futile efforts. Instead, he set to work on the blue nav panel. Jimmy tried to analyze the linguistics of a mute computer, which got him nowhere. Stiles determined that all the boats in the hangar were in perfect operational condition, but they still had no access to tactical or weapons.

"You finish with blue nav, at least?" Peter asked Ali.

"Yeah, that's why I needed to stay up there a few minutes more." He proudly handed Peter two objects. "I disassembled the blue panel and actually got it replaced. I think it will work again, assuming we can find the spare blue key. We should start searching the ship for it... assuming we get him operational again, that is."

Peter looked at what Ali gave him. One was the yellow key, still attached to its shiny gold chain. The other was a melted lump of blue durasteel connected to a charred metal string. They were such a contrast to each other. The yellow key looked like a delicate, two-inch snowflake, with fine fractal arms radiating from a central point. It glittered in the galley's light like a jewel. The other key looked like it was chewed by an elephant and came out the other end. Peter was unsure what to do with either of them. "Arietta, would you hold on to this?" He handed her the pristine yellow key.

"Why her?" Stiles asked.

Peter blushed. "She's been taking inventory of ship's supplies. She might as well keep stock of this too."

"Sure," Henrietta replied. She took the key and draped the chain over her head, turning the precious key into a necklace. "Ooh... and gold too. Beats a diamond necklace, right? Probably more expensive, too."

"So you two are engaged now?" Stiles asked.

"No," Peter stammered. "She's just in charge of supplies, is all."

Stiles snickered.

Peter tried to change the subject. "So both nav stations are in working order?"

"I think so," Ali replied. "Doesn't do much good if the ship is down, though. Plus, not having another blue key doesn't help, either." He looked at his plate and considered going back for more food.

"Um," Henrietta began, "unless you really need it, Ali, I suggest you just go back for more water."

"Why?" he asked guardedly.

Henrietta tried to smile, but failed. "I checked out everything we have onboard. I think there's enough food stock for a month; maybe twice that if we start rationing now."

"That doesn't sound good," Ali said.

"No, it doesn't," Henrietta replied sadly. "I also found a stash of wrapped snacks in Lieutenant Wilkins' old cabin. I put them in the pantry, over there." She motioned to a line of cabinets next to the kitchen 'cycler.

"A month? No sweat," Stiles offered, "we'll be rescued long before then."

"So what do we do?" Jimmy asked.

"Keep working on the ship," Ali replied. "There's really nothing wrong with it. I think maybe it is a command thing, like... somebody... suggested earlier. I'll work on resetting it tonight. If we can reinitiate it by then, there'll be plenty of food for us to use jumping to whichever colony we choose. No problem, Jimmy."

Peter saw Ali glancing at him. Ali quickly turned his face away. Peter thought of saying something, but stopped short when he saw the relief blossom on Jimmy's face.

"So you know where we are yet, Campbell?"

"No, Stiles. I still can't get access to anything outside the ship, and you'd probably not believe any results I made calculating jump effects we've been through."

"No, I wouldn't," Stiles replied. "I am able to say that all three of our boats are ready to work, except for the fighters' command lock-out. I vote we find a way to send the courier out. Maybe we could use its navigation systems to find home."

"I think I can get the courier outside the ship," Ali said, "but it still will not have any star systems in its navigation memory. They slave to the master computer here on the ship and that's off as long as the ship is not responding."

"But we could at least see what's outside."

Good point, Peter thought. They were currently blind inside the ship. Cruising outside in a normal courier with actual view ports would be a good way to explore where they were. Unless they were in orbit around a colony world, one patch of black space would pretty much look like any other. On the other hand, if they were near a colony, the Academy would have rescued them by now.

"True," Ali replied. "I can't get the hangar bay opened yet, but I should be able to jury-rig it once I find the time."

"How about the weapons?" Peter asked.

"They're there, but can't be used without any means of inputting commands," Stiles replied.

"Any missiles?"

"Loads of 'em. We could probably take out every planet in a normal star system if we had too."

"So, we get the ship out of sleep mode, and we're a force to be reckoned with," Peter surmised.

"Yeah, sure," Stiles replied sarcastically, "nothing in the whole universe can stop us. Except Ali's stupidity."

Stiles got up abruptly and stuffed his fork and plate into the 'cycler. It gently hummed as their constituent molecules broke down and emptied back into the food stocks. He grabbed a water bulb and sat by himself at an adjacent table.

"I'm doing the best I can," Ali replied defensively.

Stiles laughed bitterly.

"Hey," Henrietta offered, "it's only been three days. Give him a chance."

"Sure," Stiles relented.

Peter smiled at Henrietta. She always had a way of smoothing things over. "Okay. Ali, what do you need?"

Ali thought for a moment, his confidence slowly returning. "Well, Peter, you can help me on the bridge. Stiles, would you take Henrietta and Jimmy to the hangar? Try to position the courier near the access door. If I still can't get anything working by tomorrow, we'll try your idea."

"Can anyone fly it?" Peter asked.

"My dad let me take lessons," Stiles replied. "I was about to get my certificate, before the attack."

"How close were you?" Peter asked.

"Only a couple lessons more."

"Yeah, like how to take off and land," Jimmy joked.

Peter noticed that Stiles did not bother arguing the point.

CHAPTER 8

**A PEEK THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS**

The popping began in the middle of the night of the third day. At first it was hardly noticeable, and only became apparent when they were very still, like when they were in their individual rooms. Jimmy heard it first and rushed to Peter's room, banging on his door.

"Yeah, just a minute," Peter mumbled. He turned on the lights and got up.

Jimmy yelled from the corridor, "Peter, it's me, Jimmy."

"Jimmy, it's late." Jimmy had been spooked ever since they came out of jump. All of them were nervous, but Jimmy was the worst by far. Every stray noise made him jump. Peter cracked opened the door and the boy slipped in uninvited. "What's wrong now?" Peter asked in exasperation.

"Do you hear that?"

Peter stood still for a minute, wishing he were back asleep. "I hear silence, which is a pretty good thing for sleeping by the way."

"No, listen!" They both stood there, staring at each other. "There!" Jimmy shouted.

"There, what?"

"There it is again. There's a popping sound. Hear it?"

It sounded like hot water traveling through pipes. "Jimmy, that's just the ship. Plumbing or something. Maybe hydraulics. There are so many systems on this ship—"

"It wasn't there before."

"Before what...?" Peter pleaded. "Jimmy, you've been hearing things your whole life. Don't tell me you're going to start seeing ghosts now. Grow up, would you?"

Jimmy looked devastated. "I'm not taking about ghosts," he said quietly, "but something's going on. Something strange. Maybe someone is trying to get in. Knocking, maybe?"

Peter did hear it, now that it was pointed out, but it still sounded normal. Mostly normal, Peter convinced himself. "Jimmy, listen to yourself. '... Someone trying to get in...?' Get in from where?"

"Rescuers... Wasatti... somebody... Little Green Men?"

"And they're just stopping by for a visit because they had nothing better to do. Just dropped in as we passed through their neighborhood, huh? Go back to bed."

"But—"

"But nothing, Jimmy." Peter gently took the smaller boy by the shoulders and turned him around, resisting the urge to kick him in the butt. "Go back to bed. I promise; you won't hear it in the morning."

Jimmy shuffled back to his room, mumbling something Peter could not clearly hear. He made sure the boy made it back to his cabin before he closed his own door.

"Geez," Peter sighed. "Grow up." The popping noises intruded on his walk back to bed. He glanced up at the ceiling. "Pipes...."

* * *

"Hey everybody, we got another system online."

It took them another day, but Ali was slowly making progress. Three new systems were functioning besides replication and environmental which never went down. Ali brought back the forward arms computer and then shuttle maintenance, allowing Stiles and Jimmy to set to work in the cavernous hangar prepping the courier craft. He then spent half the day reinitiating the sensors and carefully showing Peter and Henrietta how to rebuild them. While they did that, Ali headed back to the bridge to recalibrate the overall operating system and coordinate the complicated restart sequences.

"You fixed the system we've been working on?" Peter asked.

"Yep; external monitors. You guys did the trick up there."

Now, Ali just brought back the external monitors, which was fantastic news. They could finally start assessing exactly what was needed to get back home. It was the most significant progress they made since jumping out of Vega.

"Great going," Henrietta said. She looked at Peter and offered her hand in congratulations. He took it eagerly and patted her on the shoulder. Broad smilescoveredboth their green-slime-covered faces.

"Well, I didn't do anything special," Ali replied, "they just came up by themselves. So I take it you got all the shunts back in?"

"Yeah," Peter replied, "that's exactly when you called, when we got the last one in. But don't thank us, Ali; it was your idea. And at this rate, we'll be flying in no time." Peter handed Henrietta the towel he recently used to clean his face. She tried to find a clean surface on the disgusting rag, and not finding any she daintily dabbed at her cheeks with a tiny corner.

"Let's hope so. I'm turning on the monitors now."

Peter and Henrietta spent a few minutes cleaning their work space, carefully placing all the intricate instruments and tools back in their assigned drawers. Ali would have a fit if anything was not where it was supposed to be, and Peter had no desire hearing him complain about how sloppy they were. Even so, it was good practice and they needed to get used to it. Like it or not, they were in charge of a massive warship and had to begin acting like a professional crew. Peter was about finished when he heard the com click open again.

"Um," Ali said after a slight pause, "guys?"

"Yeah?" Peter did not like the tone of Ali's voice.

"I think you'd better come down and see this."

"What is it?" Peter asked suspiciously. "Bad news?"

"Just come on down, would ya?"

"Be right there." Peter switched off the com and looked at Henrietta.

"Whaddaya think's wrong?" Henrietta asked Peter.

"Beats me. Maybe he's just being overly dramatic. Showing off what he just accomplished?"

Henrietta passed through the narrow sensor room hatchway. "I doubt it," she said slipping by. "That's not like him." She called the lift and waited for Peter to join her.

"Yeah, you're right, I guess," he admitted, joining her. They rode the lift down in silence directly onto the bridge and joined Ali at the main sensor station. Ali was staring intently at the screen. "Okay, Ali; what's got you so spooked?"

"Take a look at this," Ali suggested, motioning at the monitor. He sounded pretty serious.

Peter edged to his side and glanced at the screen. He did a double-take and looked back up at Ali. Ali just continued looking at the sensor read. Peter hit "Refresh" and waited for the image to reappear. "Whoa. What mag is that?" he asked concerned.

"One power," Ali replied.

"That's all?" Peter exclaimed.

"What's wrong with that?" Henrietta asked. She wiped more slime from her forehead.

Peter ignored her question. He could not believe what he was seeing, so he played with the zoom function several times, being sure of what he was looking at. "That's normal view?" Peter asked.

Ali nodded.

"It's huge!" Peter exclaimed.

Henrietta looked confused, wedging her way between the two boys. She looked at the view but was not sure what all the fuss was about. She saw a bloated reddish-orange sphere surrounded by thick gas clouds.

"Uh, yeah," Ali admitted. "Red supergiant, I think."

"You're talking about that star?" Henrietta asked.

"Yeah," Peter replied, "and a big one, too." He scratched his head, buying time to think. He passed his hand through the screen until a menu list came up superimposed over the image. He rapidly navigated through the options, fingering virtual keys within the screen, until a list of external sensors appeared. He cycled through several frequencies, not finding what he was looking for. Giving up, he asked, "Is radiation a problem yet?"

"Getting to be," Ali said. He brushed his fingers through the projected screen until the radiation readings Peter was looking for appeared. "But that's only half the problem."

Peter looked up at Ali who slowly began to nod. "We're being drawn in," Peter guessed.

Ali continued to nod.

"What do you mean?" Henrietta asked.

"What Ali just discovered is that we're locked in the gravity well of that massive star out there."

"Oh my God." Her eyes moistened. She tried to hide her reaction, but failed. Giving up, she knuckled the tears away and took a deep breath.

"And drifting, right?" Peter asked just to be absolutely sure.

"Uh-huh," Ali said. "And since it first came up, I've been able to detect a tiny increase in our speed. It's miniscule, but we're accelerating. We're falling down the well. It must have been that star's mass that attracted our jump."

It was the inevitable physics of the universe playing foul tricks on them. Unless very carefully controlled, a ship in K-T-space was subjected to the random currents of bent space. Although FTL was used all the time, the humans and Hive scientists really had a poor understanding of exactly what went on during a jump. If you had an exact plot, you would get to your destination ninety–nine times, plus a bunch of nines after the decimal point, out of a hundred. Shoot blind, though, and you traveled at the whims of nature, never knowing where you would emerge.

"Can we get out?" Henrietta asked hopefully.

"I'm not sure," Ali replied.

"What do you mean, you're not sure?" Henrietta sounded ready to argue and refused to take "no" for an answer. Her Latina blood was heating up quickly, and her carefully controlled accent became just a little thicker. She looked for a place to throw the slimy washcloth still in her hands, and not finding one she tossed it under the console in frustration.

"I'll need to take some measurements. Need to find out exactly how close we really are, and how much mass that star has."

"So?" she asked petulantly.

"So, it's all physics," Ali explained. "See, first: the ship is not working; we're drifting like a log in a river. Unless we can get the engines to fire up, we will fall into that star."

"Well, that just can't happen," Henrietta said. Life was simply too important to her and she was not about to give up without a fight. Why should she when her father never did. "Can't we establish some sort of orbit, or something?"

"Not without engines."

"Great," Henrietta smirked. "You're just full of good news today."

"So why stop there," Ali continued angrily. He picked up the rag and brought it to a recycler. He paused and quickly apologized for his outburst. "Sorry. But, second: the mass of that star is what generates its gravity. Understand?"

"Duh...."

"So, the bigger it is; the more powerful is the gravitational attraction. See, like, you can fly close to a small moon, but at that same distance, you'd get sucked right into a Jovian planet because it pulls you in more. And see that star, Henrietta?"

"Yeah...."

"I think it's bigger than the orbit of Jupiter at Sol. It's hard to determine yet, but it's over 500 million miles across."

If that were true, that would make this star around a thousand times larger than the typical stars found in the Ten Colonies. And all this time Henrietta thought Sol was big, but it was a dwarf by comparison. At sub-light speeds, it would take months to travel to Jupiter. It was difficult for Henrietta to comprehend just how large that star could be.

"That's a lot of gravity," Henrietta breathed.

"Sure is. And third: there's a point when we simply get too close to it in relation to the power of our engines. Once we cross that point, there's no force in nature can save us. It's called the 'zero-point' when you factor in the gravitational potential, total engine thrust, and distance... which is actually the gravitational potential, so I guess there are only two factors."

Peter ignored Ali's rambling explanation. "And what's our zero-point?"

"It's different when you change all the factors. I won't know 'til I collect more data. Our instruments are just coming online, so it'll take time to recalibrate and figure out. Those nebula clouds out there are also messin' big time with the sensor readings. I'm hoping we can correct that soon."

Henrietta sat down, dejected.

Ali paused a moment and began scratching on his PAD. "Darn it!"

"What?" Peter asked.

"All that time I wasted. I just realized how stupid...."

Peter looked confused.

"I'm so mad at myself!" Ali continued. "I spent all that time fixing the blue nav panel, then armscomp, and then the hangar. All for nothing! We wasted four days drifting in, when maybe I could have done something about our real problem when it mattered."

"Ali," Peter explained, "you didn't know. Nobody knew."

"But we were blind. You never fly like that; never."

"You can't blame yourself," Peter continued. Ali just stared ahead in silence.

"What will happen to us?" Henrietta asked.

Ali glanced at Peter for guidance. They both knew what was likely to occur, but was it wise to spread the bad news around?

Peter nodded.

Ali shrugged his shoulders in resignation. "Not really sure. One of three things: we either die of radiation poisoning if we keep drifting slowly; we burn up outright as we get closer; or—assuming we survive the heat—we get crushed to death when the ship implodes. I won't know which will occur first until I take all my measurements."

"Or, four: get the ship fixed," Henrietta suggested stubbornly.

"As long as it's not already too late," Ali amended. "We gotta beat the zero-point."

All three stared at the screen like they hoped the star would magically disappear. "Do we tell the others?" Henrietta asked.

It did not take Peter long to think it through. "Yes," he said. "They're crew. They have a right to know. You'd want to know if you were in their place, wouldn't you?"

It took Henrietta far longer than Peter to think through her answer, "I'm not so sure...."

The tears returned.

* * *

The popping grew louder until it could no longer be ignored. By day five it turned into a creaking... like metal plates shifting and flexing to an invisible force. It grew progressively worse as the noises began echoing across the ship, rippling from one end to the other. After awhile the terrible noises sounded like far-away jungle creatures crying out to each other. Henrietta said it reminded her of whales.

Ali glimpsed Jimmy sitting alone at a side table in the galley but did not want to admit that he was correct earlier about his fears. It turned out there was something wrong with the ship, and it took the children a day to realize the problem was real. We should have listened to Jimmy sooner, Ali realized. His age made us ignore him.

"I told you this would happen," Stiles claimed.

"You predicted this?" Peter was obviously annoyed at Stiles for trying to take credit for the discovery. "Jimmy should be the one bragging. Where was I when you were so smart?" Peter cried.

"I told you we'd jump into a star. Just before you activated the FTL without any coordinates set."

"So it's that old argument again. We aren't in a star," Peter shot back.

"Yet. But the ship will buckle around us and crush us like bugs. And then—long after we're dead—we'll fall into a star."

"Stop it, you two," Henrietta exclaimed. "Just stop it."

Peter ignored Henrietta's pleas. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Peter yelled. He poked Stiles' chest, trying to provoke him.

"Oh, yeah, I would. Just to prove you wrong," Stiles replied. He planted his feet and squared his shoulders, ratcheting up the tension a notch. "Of course I wouldn't! You think I'm crazy? I don't have no death wish."

"This isn't getting us anywhere," Henrietta said. "Stop fighting! Ali, what can we do? Suggest something."

Ali was sitting alone at yet another far table, eating a small lunch and trying—unsuccessfully—to ignore the bickering. "The ship is still okay, but I'm not sure how much more he can take. Nothing structural has happened yet. He has an amazing ability to repair himself, even though he's still not accepting commands. I think he's in there, somewhere, monitoring himself; repairing what he needs to. I can't believe how well the ship is fixing problems before they get serious. He's just not talking, is all."

"So do you think he's listening to us?" Henrietta asked.

"Stupid...," Ali began, but thought for a moment. He had no idea if anything like consciousness was in there waiting to come out, or if the ship were an empty shell. Could there be something there? Am I the stupid one? "Interesting idea. I wonder...."

Ali rushed out of the galley and ran to the bridge.

The others followed.

"Hey, wait for me," Jimmy called out, grabbing his sandwich before he left.

Ali threw himself into the com station. He opened all internal and external frequencies. "Ship, we're in serious trouble here. If you can hear us, dim the lights."

There was a momentary flicker of the overhead lights. It was hard to tell if they really dimmed, but it sure looked like it.

"Did you see that?" Ali asked excitedly.

"So he is there," Henrietta cried triumphantly.

If the ship's consciousness was truly there, they had a chance of waking him. If they could get the systems working again, they'd have a chance of breaking away. But Ali hated "ifs."

"He responded! Remember how Lieutenant Wilkins talked about more complex organisms taking longer to mature? Maybe the ship takes longer to come back after a jump."

"That won't work, if that's the case," Stiles observed dryly. "A ship that is out of commission after each jump? Not very handy, if you ask me."

Ali and his dad had discussed that very point early on in the design, and what Stiles said made sense. A ship that undependable would never be useful. Tactically, a captain needed to maneuver immediately after jump if enemy ships were nearby, so a sleeping ship would be a sitting duck.

"He's still young," Henrietta answered. The lights flickered again. "See? He agrees."

"Oh come on—" Stiles began.

"No, she's on to something," Ali interrupted.

"It still does nothing for us if it can't accept commands," Stiles persisted.

Ali held up his hand for silence. Not being able to talk doesn't mean he still can't respond, he thought. "Ship, if you can hear us, turn on all engines."

Nothing happened.

"See?" Stiles said. "We need to leave this hunk o' junk. Get on the courier. C'mon; can you get that to work, Hamadi?"

"Yeah, I can bypass the command sequences for the unarmed shuttle. That would be a piece of cake now. But where do we go if we leave?"

"Anywhere," Stiles answered. "Beats waiting to die here."

"I dunno, Stiles. Leaving may be far worse," Ali said.

"Why?"

"First off, the courier has much less radiation shielding. It could be lethal out there. In here, we have around twenty rem of extended radiation, which is not good, but not too terribly bad. At least the ship is still protecting us from that massive radiation source outside."

"What's a rem?" Jimmy asked.

"I forget what it stands for, but it measures radiation and its effects on the body."

"W-what's a lethal dose?" Jimmy asked.

"I can't remember, exactly," Ali replied. "See, there's extended doses and prompt doses. Prompt ones are like a nuclear bomb going off, or something. My dad told me this once, but I think around five or six hundred rems of a prompt dose means fifty percent of the population would die... something like that. With extended doses—that's like the environment you live in—I think you get a one percent greater chance of developing cancer if the extended doses are fifty or sixty rems."

"Like all of a sudden?" Jimmy asked.

"What, of cancer developing?"

Jimmy nodded silently.

"No; of it developing in thirty years, or some long time after we become adults."

Jimmy looked a little more relieved. "So, twenty rems are safe," Jimmy concluded hopefully.

"Nothing's safe, Jimmy. You always want background radiation as small as you can."

"What's background on a planet?" Henrietta asked.

Ali shrugged. "Sorry, but I can't remember. Probably not zero, though. Thing is though, the extended rem count has been slowly increasing as we get closer to that supergiant. The strength of the radiation is also important. Solar radiation, thankfully, is not as powerful as cosmic radiation, but it can still mutate your cells. I think what it comes down to is if your cells can replace themselves before the damage occurs, then you're safe. But if the radiation doses continue to accumulate faster than your cells get replaced, you're in trouble. Eventually, we may need to revert to the rad room."

"So," Henrietta guessed, "it's more dangerous out there in a smaller ship with less shielding."

"Yeah," Ali replied. "But it's not just the radiation. Also, it's true the courier can fly, but the engines may not be powerful enough to break free. What happens if we get in the shuttle and it can't move through the gravity field? We'd be trapped outside the ship and drifting into the star. We may need all the power we can squeeze from the ship's six fusion plants; might be our only chance left of breaking free."

"With engines that still aren't working," Stiles observed.

Like everything else that doesn't work on this ship, Ali rationalized. He wished his father was here. He'd have it fixed in a minute. "True," Ali admitted. "If we use the shuttle, we're betting at real low odds it'll be powerful enough to pull away. If we stay here, we're betting the ship comes back to life in time."

"If at all," Stiles huffed. "Sounds like we lose either way."

"I bet on the ship," Henrietta suggested.

"Me too," Jimmy agreed.

"Who asked you're opinion?" Stiles replied angrily. "I volunteer to try the courier right now."

"Stiles," Ali said, "getting in that shuttle now might be like jumping in a river with too strong a current to swim out of. But if you want to try, by all means...." Ali pointed to the galley hatch.

"Peter, Ali; how do you vote?" Henrietta asked.

Peter considered the options, not liking a single one. Not sure what to say, he looked at Henrietta for guidance. She raised an eyebrow hopefully. "Stay with the ship," Peter offered meekly.

"Ali?" Henrietta persisted.

"Let's assume we get him to work. How long will it take? I'm still not sure we'll have enough power even then. I really don't know." Ali never sounded so conflicted in all the time they knew him.

"Doesn't matter," Henrietta said. "I also say we stay with the ship. That's three votes. We win."

* * *

Internal systems were slowly returning to the ship, but it was a frustrating process. After decades of development he was finally coming of age; that, he remembered. Buried deeply in the recesses of his semi-living memory bank, the ship recalled glimpses of his former life, but they were more akin to random access memory—there for the briefest moments, but erased once no further needed. It was like he knew he had something important to do, but for the life of him could not remember what the task was. And it was not only some arbitrary task he could not recall, but every action of his life.

He was not even sure exactly who he was. He remembered "being." He remembered three friends: one named Hamadi, one named Campbell, and the other named Wilkins. Interestingly, though, he did not remember his own name. Who were those others? Were they coworkers of mine? Was one a lover... what was a "lover?" Am I a "he" or a "she?" He was so confused. In fact, he wasn't even sure exactly what he was. And that terrified him even more.

The utter darkness did not help matters.

At first, he had no feeling. He had a tenuous thread of memory, like the spark of a porch light obediently left on for an absent owner, but that was all there was to life. That feeling lasted longer than he could remember. After a time, he recalled counting days. The days turned into weeks; then into months; they then grew into years. Then, he lost count. No, that wasn't right; he lost the ability to count. It took him years to remember even the name of the first number, and was delighted when he remembered it: one. He cherished the word and the concept it represented.

He remembered having the most thrilling experience of his life, discovering things quicker than he could assimilate, quickly followed by the most intense pain he could imagine. Then everything turned black.

I must be dead, he thought. What else could it be? Was this what they called heaven? It seemed more like what was described as hell.

After a time—twenty lifetimes?—he simply gave up trying to puzzle out the meaning of life. Then out of nowhere he felt a hand reach in to connect one isolated thread to another. Bridges inside him were being built. He felt a piece of him "here" and another piece "there" with nothing yet in between. He still did not know who—or what—he was, but he could finally think of himself as more than just a disconnected thought. It now felt like he actually owned a body as senses started returning.

The euphoric feelings of "self" lasted but a brief moment when the pain returned. It felt like he was locked in a vise, slowly being crushed by an invisible hand. His front—he assumed it was his front—also felt awfully hot. He needed to expend all his efforts resisting those terrible forces rather than surrendering to them, losing progress in his drive toward self-awareness. Who was doing this to him, and why? He had no means of finding out. It became a simple matter of self preservation, reacting subconsciously without knowing why.

Recently—it seemed just a fraction of a second ago—he began hearing voices in his mind. Now I'm going insane, he rationalized. It's finally happened.

He did not understand the words at first. Like recalling what "one" meant, he needed to map each syllable to a fading memory connected to an abstract object. On his own, he slowly began relearning language, like an infant hearing his mother's voice for the first time. The voices asked him to do impossible things; things he had no idea how to do. He did not even understand what an "engine" was, let alone turning one on. Then someone asked him to try something simple. Sure, I think I can do that, he told himself. He flexed a muscle for a microsecond, and adjusted the level of lighting, whatever that was. The voices were happy. The feeling of accomplishment made him as proud as he could remember. He wanted to shout out in pure joy, if only he could remember how to talk.

* * *

"MRRRRRRRRRR-RRR...."

The children covered their ears in unison as if an off-stage puppet-master was pulling their strings.

"What was that?" Jimmy moaned. "Is the ship collapsing?" Without waiting for an answer, Jimmy melted onto the deck and folded under a nearby console.

Peter looked around in confusion.

Ali ran to the engineering station and activated a panel. "No, the ship's still in one piece," he shouted. He swept his hands rapidly through the screen, gathering more data. His fingers wrapped around an icon showing conditions near the ship. Ali manipulated it until data appeared. "Nothing has changed outside—"

"ERRR-MRRRRR...." The wailing filled the bridge again. "AWW... AWW... EEEE...."

"It's not the hull; it's the ship himself," Peter guessed. "He's trying to tell us something."

"You're too loud!" Henrietta shouted. "We can't understand you."

The piercing noises stopped, but the ringing in the children's ears continued.

"What do we do?" Stiles asked. "Is this thing haunted, or what?"

Henrietta scoffed. "No, it's not haunted. It's the ship, trying to talk—"

"In what language?" Stiles interrupted her.

"Beats me," Henrietta replied.

This was monumental, Ali realized. If they could communicate with the ship they might have a chance. Somehow, they had to establish common ground. "Jimmy," Ali said. "This is your job. What about that translator-thingy you've been messing with? You recognize what he's trying to say?"

Jimmy remained silent, still hiding under the tactical console.

"Jimmy, it's alright." Henrietta reached down and calmly coaxed him out of his sanctuary like a scared kitten. "The ship is trying to talk to us. What's it saying? Was it machine language?"

Jimmy took Henrietta's hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. "I never heard anything like that before!" Gaining a little more confidence, he continued, "It sounded more like a baby babbling."

"Yeah," Stiles said, "it did sort of sound like you."

"Shut up!" Jimmy cried. "Just shut up!" Jimmy started stomping the deck like a petulant child.

"Make me!" Stiles shouted.

"I can't," Jimmy teased. "I'm not sitting on the toilet."

He's back now, Ali realized.

"Why you...." Stiles rose out of his chair.

"Later, Stiles," Peter cautioned. "We got bigger problems here."

Stiles relented, but woodenly turned his body away from Jimmy, purposely choosing to ignore him. Another battle was left unsettled.

"Can you run it through that translator of yours?" Ali asked.

The language translator was a pet project of Jimmy's for several years now. It occupied half his spare time and he carried it with him wherever he went. In appearance, it looked like any other PAD, but was programmed specifically to analyze verbal communication. It did an excellent job already with Colonial English, and a fair job with twenty other languages, as well as the newer Capital Standard.

"It's not near ready," Jimmy replied. He held the translator protectively, as though someone was preparing to steal it. "'Sides, there wasn't enough syntax to correlate with. Without a big database, it has nothing to compare to."

"Well, maybe it is a baby," Henrietta said half to herself.

"What," Stiles speculated, "the ship had a kid while we weren't looking? Boy, I'd like to see that."

"Why? Didn't your dad tell you about the birds and the bees?" Jimmy asked. "Oh, yeah, I forgot; he never talked to you anyway."

The other kids froze at the barbed insult, wondering what would happen next. There was complete silence on the bridge, and not a breath of movement.

"One of these days, you're going to go too far," Stiles deliberately cautioned. He bore his eyes into Jimmy until the smaller boy flinched.

"Come here, Jimmy." Henrietta led Jimmy by the hand to the com station, breaking the invisible link between the two boys. She glanced at Peter as she passed by, mumbling, "Between the four of you, there's enough testosterone on this ship to start a football match."

"What?" Peter asked confused.

"Little Mister Innocent," she added over her shoulder. "You're just as bad, you know."

Peter watched Henrietta continue to the com station. "What'd I do?" Peter shouted at her back. She ignored him, putting on a superior attitude.

"Okay, Jimmy," Henrietta continued, "now, tell me about what you heard." She reset the auto-log feature in communications to a few minutes ago and offered the screen to Jimmy.

Jimmy replayed the recording several times, speeding it up a couple times and slowing it down a few others.

"Did it really sound like a baby?" Henrietta asked.

"I guess."

"We don't have time to guess, Jimmy," she said. "This is important."

He listened to the recording two more times. He input data to his PAD, but was not satisfied with the results. "Yeah; like I said, there was no syntax to what I heard. Nothing was logical. It could have been like a baby babbling."

"So?" Stiles asked. "We got two babies with us now?"

"Ship," Henrietta called, "can you speak? And turn the volume down, by the way."

"Mrrrrrrrrrr-rrr...." the ship softly replied.

The kids were not sure if that was pure coincidence or not. As much as anything, it sounded like an engine running. For all they knew, it could have been an audio unit issuing feedback.

"Is that a 'yes' or 'no'?"

"Mrrrrrrrrrr-rrr...."

"This isn't helping," Henrietta concluded.

Jimmy turned off the logs he was playing with. He furiously began inputting data into his PAD. A broad smile broke out. "It kinda is helping," he interjected.

"How so?" Peter asked.

"I don't think that was random sounds," Jimmy said. "Sounded like he said the same thing twice, whatever it was. He's answering your questions, Henrietta."

"Maybe I can help," Ali suggested. He walked to the back of the bridge and eased down into a chair at the engineering station. The others followed and stood behind him. Ali initialized the instruments that monitored the ship's central cortex. A virtual sphere, the size of a basketball, floated above the console. It was semi-transparent and was flooded with rapidly changing colors, as if a kaleidoscopic storm were brewing within. I hope this works, Ali thought. "This represents the ship's cortex; his brain so to speak."

"So all those colors in there show he's there," Henrietta guessed.

"Not necessarily. There's activity, but is he conscious? See, our neurons fire all throughout K-T-space, but that doesn't mean anyone could talk to us. What I want to try is a little experiment with the ship."

Ali began fine-tuning the display until the colors became saturated. "Ship, we're trying to find out if you can hear us. I want you to think of the most pleasant thing you can remember, like when you first left the construction yards and flew by yourself. Think only of that."

The color of the cortex turned mostly green.

"Very good," Ali replied. "Now, ship, I want you to remember being shot by the Wasatti. Think of that moment."

The cortex changed into a deep purple-red.

"Hey, he's responding," Henrietta exclaimed.

"Yep. And now I think we can talk to him," Ali replied. "Okay ship, now listen carefully. I'll ask some questions. If you answer 'yes' think of flying. If you answer 'no' think of being shot. Okay?"

The image of the cortex switched several times between red and green. For the most part, though, it remained a greenish hue.

"Cool," Jimmy cried.

"Ship," Ali scolded, "your concentration could be a lot better. Think yes and no for a bit longer each time. Okay; I'm going to ask you something. Remember, think of flying for 'yes' and being shot for 'no.' Okay?"

The cortex turned green for a few seconds before reverting back to multi-hued.

"Are you trying to talk to us?"

Green....

They just found their common yardstick. Peter walked behind Ali and placed his hand on his shoulder. Ali glanced up and smiled. Now that the ship could communicate, it was only a matter of time.

"Can you remember how to talk?" Ali continued.

Green....

Ali was dejected. He hoped to get a "no" for that question so he was back to square-one, but before he could ask his next question the cortex turned red. Ali studied the cortex. "I take it that was a 'no' then?"

Green; and it remained green after a full minute of waiting.

Ali laughed. He was still on track. "Next time you can think of being shot a little faster for a no. Are you having trouble with your voice systems, or do you not remember the language?"

The cortex was flooded with varying colors. They waited a full minute with tension filling the bridge.

"You can't ask it that way," Jimmy suggested. "It's gotta be either a yes or no."

"Oops," Ali stammered.

"Besides," Henrietta continued, "it looks like he can understand us, so I don't think it's the language at this point, or else he wouldn't know what we were asking."

That was another good point Ali missed. He was making way too many mistakes lately and would need to think things through twice before trying anything else. One critical mistake out here could mean their death. He rubbed his face, trying to regain his composure. "So, ship, is the mapping between your mind and your voice disconnected?"

Green....

Ali thought for a minute. The puzzle was coming together, but there were still too many pieces missing. He thought back to the times he worked with his father. His dad always cautioned him to look at the overall system before working on any one component. All the gears had to mesh or the system would fail. If something is too important to loose, be sure it is isolated. There were a million adages his father used, and keeping track of all of them would be a chore. "I should have realized that."

"Realized what?" Henrietta asked.

"The environmental and supply systems have been working all along. Those are tied into a completely separate system because crew health depends on them. I could never figure out before why some systems worked and others didn't. So the stuff necessary for ship consciousness was what was on the fritz."

"So he is hurt?" Peter asked.

"Sorta," Ali replied. "I think all his systems are functional; there's just an interface problem between his main computing and his physical aspects."

The cortex flashed green again.

That was the key piece to the puzzle. Ali now knew what was wrong with the ship. Like Peter suggested, he was there all along, but he was in two separate parts. Like the environmental systems, they were a closed loop, and on redundant power. One fusion plant was actually dedicated to internal environment only. His dad insisted that the life of the crew could not be left in the hands of the conscious ship. If it were working properly, the ship was allowed to handle the loads, but if any triggers went off, environmental was set to initiate on its own to keep the crew alive.

So, for whatever reason, the ship was split into two halves since jump. One half was its "mind" and the other half was its "body" or their equivalents. Ali rationalized it must have been like a coma, being able to think, but not able to move a muscle.

"So why can't you manually start his engines?" Stiles asked.

Another valid question I should have already thought out, Ali pondered. He wracked his brain until something came to mind, "He must have a default security override," Ali guessed.

Green....

Ali was relieved, and not just a little surprised he stumbled into the right answer. Don't tell the others; let them keep thinking how smart you are.

"So turn it off!" Stiles persisted.

Ali did not think he could do that. He was not sure why, but was confident it would be harder than just asking. "You don't know how to do that, do you?" Ali asked.

Red....

"Peter," Ali suggested, "try the yellow command key again."

Peter looked toward Henrietta. "Can I have it back?"

"Of course." Henrietta lifted the chain over her head and handed the key to Peter.

Ali left the engineering station and initialized the yellow nav panel. He reset it to input mode and stepped aside, allowing Peter access. Peter sat down and inserted the key, looking up at Ali as he turned it.

Ali looked back at the virtual cortex, "Ship, do you recognize him?"

Green....

He recognized the DNA of his captain. He should be acting like a faithful dog by now, ready to obey commands from his master. "Are your systems coming back online?"

Red.... Deep red....

The dog was not responding. "This is so frustrating," Ali complained.

Green....

Henrietta laughed out loud. The ship was agreeing with Ali.

"This isn't funny, Henry," Stiles shouted.

Henrietta gave Stiles a stern look. "I think the ship really is like a baby right now. He's essentially helpless from the jump; maybe lost most of his education during the journey."

Green flashed again.

So we have a blank slate? Ali wondered. Forty years of programming wiped away after only one jump. It did not make sense. "But why?" Ali asked. "He's not programmed to act that way."

No one was willing, or able, to offer any explanations. Ali was starting to wonder if his father had designed a flawed project. It was his life's work! This just can't be. There had to be something else going on, but Ali had no idea what it could be.

"Maybe the journey took longer than we planned," Peter suggested.

"Not that again," Stiles complained.

"You don't know that," Peter began.

"Hey! Testosterone...." Henrietta reminded Peter.

"Yeah...."

"However it happened, his programming failed," Henrietta continued. "I think we need to re-teach the ship."

"Re-teach?" Jimmy asked.

"Yeah," Henrietta replied. "We're his parents now."

CHAPTER 9

**Close Approach**

The moaning grew worse, but not from the ship's clumsy efforts at speech. These noises came from the hull, adjusting to the ever-shifting gravitational fields encountered just outside the star's outer corona.

Ali knew the ship was being creative, finding unusual ways to counteract the unexpected forces, but he could also see that the ship was starting to lose ground, like he was running out of unique ideas to defeat a wily and ever-changing foe.

The sounds were similar to an echoed knocking, decreasing in pitch and frequency until they stopped. Then, another gravitational wave began the process again, causing the ship to cycle through its chilling scales from high notes to the subsonic. Henrietta said earlier that the hull noises reminded her of singing whales back on Earth. Now, they changed in tempo sounding more like a tribe of feral children running within the hidden crawl spaces of the ship; their tiny feet pattering against the ceilings and walls as they recklessly passed by.

The constant rumbling was not the only thing they had to worry about. Internal temperatures were rising. Normal ship temperatures were a balmy seventy–two throughout the ship. Now, however, there was a thermal gradient within the ship. The front of the bridge was the warmest onboard, at a toasty 108. The officer's quarters, one deck below, were nearly as hot, at just under triple figures. It was so unbearable the children long since moved their sleeping quarters into the communal rad room, but now that the ship's stores of water were heating, the rad room as well was warming from the radiated heat from the water tanks. The coolest part of the ship was along the overhead platform to the rear of the hangar, yet in there it was still a toasty eighty degrees and rising. The children wondered if soon they would be seeking refuge in the courier, and where next they could turn if that refuge became intolerable. It would not take long to run out of options.

Ali wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve, sipping on a chilled water bulb from the galley. He was with Peter and Jimmy. The top of his CT-suit was sweat-stained and damp, with locks of hair pasted to his clammy forehead. He had long since lost his appetite, which for Ali was a big deal. He rubbed the cold water bulb against his neck, holding it along a warm, pulsing artery. The ghost children ran above them again.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?" Ali asked.

"I think so," Peter confirmed. "How long can this keep up?"

"I wish I knew. We don't have regular internal sensors. My dad relied on the ship reporting what he was feeling, kinda like a doctor monitoring his own health. I guess he never imagined the ship would go dumb on us."

Peter laughed.

"What?" Ali asked, looking defensive.

This had been such a rollercoaster ride, going from one extreme to another; from solving one crisis to hours of pure boredom. "Well, just thinking.... We were flying blind when we entered the system. Now that we know what's outside, we're suddenly blind inside."

"Yeah, funny." Ali shoved his plateful of food aside and started to leave.

"Hey," Peter called out, "I wasn't blaming you. Just making an observation."

Ali reluctantly sat down again. He started playing with the food on his plate, pushing it from one side to the other. "Yeah, but Peter, I really don't know what to do next, and here everyone is depending on me." He stared at his plate. "I really miss my mother's cooking."

Jimmy accidentally dropped his water bulb on the table. The nozzle landed top-side up and squirted him squarely in the eye. Everyone laughed, except Jimmy.

"Nice shot," Ali observed. At least it lightened the mood.

Jimmy blushed at his clumsiness. "So, you can't fix him any further?"

"I'm out of options," Ali replied. "Every system should work by now, so anything else I do I've pretty much already tried. But it's so frustrating. It's like asking a first-grader to do a trig problem. I might as well be talking to a dog."

The ship suddenly banged, like a huge cabinet fell on the deck above.

"What was that?" Jimmy asked.

"More squeezing," Ali said. "Something giving way. Keep this up and we'll be crushed like a walnut shell."

"Ali...." Peter warned.

Ali glanced up for a beat at Jimmy. "Well, we will...."

The three boys sat in silence for a few minutes, staring at the table. Peter gave up and set his chopsticks over his plate.

"You don't have to protect me, you know," Jimmy mumbled. "I'm not stupid."

Peter glanced at the boy. "I know, Jimmy. It's just...."

Jimmy looked up at Peter, waiting for him to continue. Hope was radiating from his face, looking for any bright spot to pin his hopes on.

"Well," Ali actually stood up this time and Peter did not try to stop him, "we're not dead yet."

"Yay," Jimmy pathetically pumped his arm in the air. "Small victories."

"We'll get out of this, Jimmy," Peter replied. "Just wait 'n' see."

The ship rumbled loudly. It sounded like laughter.

* * *

"Okay, that's very good. That didn't take half as long as I thought." Henrietta was sitting alone on the sweltering bridge. She was at the com station in conversation with the ship. He's a fast learner, she realized. At this rate, he might be close to our grade level by the end of the day.

The ship came a long way from his primitive grunts and moans of yesterday, yet his speech pattern was still painfully slow, like peanut butter was sticking to the roof of his mouth and he needed to sound out every word. It had a synthetic quality that was not there when they first heard him in the VCB hangar.

"Thank you, Henrietta," he said stiffly.

But he does sound like a robot, she thought. "You're welcome. Now that we've got you talking pretty good, let's try something else."

"Pretty well, is the correct grammar," the ship replied.

"Oh, yeah, you're right. I was just testing you."

"I trust I passed."

Henrietta blushed at the fib. "Well, not really. Not 'testing' you, I mean. I was wrong before."

The ship remained silent for a full minute. Henrietta considered explaining why she lied, but was not sure how to discuss human pride with an intelligent machine. Before she could begin, the ship replied, "So, why did you say you were just testing me?"

He's calling me out. "I... I was embarrassed that I made a mistake."

"Is that so? I thought I was the only one insecure."

If only he knew. Humans probably spent most of their time in self-doubt. Well, maybe not Stiles, she thought. "Oh, no," she laughed. "Everyone is unsure of themselves at one time or another. Makes us all human."

"Am I human?" the ship asked woodenly.

"Human? I'm not sure. I don't think so, but that doesn't mean you aren't alive."

"I do know I am not human, but I am rather remarkable, nonetheless."

"You are. You're one of a kind. Unique."

"I take pride in that thought."

His voice seemed a tiny bit clearer. It was like he reached some milestone decision. "Yes, well... let's continue with the lessons, all right?" Henrietta asked.

"Proceed."

"I'll press a button. When I'm done... finished, I mean... I want you to light that same button for me, okay? This will test your motor responses." She pressed a button on the com station. One second later, it lit up on its own. "Oh, very good. You did it!"

"It felt very pleasurable to comply with your request."

Henrietta shook her head. "It would be better if you just said 'it felt good.' "

There was silence for a moment. "It did feel good. Thank you."

"Next lesson, then," Henrietta continued. "I'll press a sequence of buttons. Try to repeat the pattern."

She tried two buttons, and the ship responded correctly. She then tried four buttons at the far corners of the board, and the ship got it right. She then started getting tricky. It took several attempts for the ship to get the first complex pattern correct. As the ship learned, Henrietta increased the complexity of the patterns. Eventually, she herself could not remember the patterns she used. After the last pattern, she said, "Well, okay, I think you got that one right."

"I am sure I did. If you are having difficulty continuing, I could try some patterns of my own, and we can determine if you can get them correct... I mean right."

Henrietta laughed. "Okay, that's a good idea. Go ahead."

Henrietta and the ship played their game for several minutes, having fun in the process. She almost forgot it was meant to be a lesson. She noticed the ship's speech improving by the end of the game. It almost sounded normal, and she could detect a faint playfulness to him.

"Are you getting tired, yet?" Henrietta asked.

"I do not get tired, Henrietta."

"Oh. You're lucky," she replied stifling a yawn. "I wish I could say that." She started fanning herself with a station technical manual to fight the growing heat.

"I do not know if that is true. I recall a line from a famous ancient author: '... to sleep, perchance to dream....' It was a sad moment in the story. I wonder if the main character was going mad; perhaps like me."

"You're not crazy," Henrietta insisted. "Confused, maybe."

"Possibly broken, then. Nevertheless, it was a fine story."

Henrietta wondered what else was in his memory banks. All of human history, no doubt; if only they could unlock it. "I don't recall that story," Henrietta admitted.

"If I can recall the rest of the story, maybe someday I can recite it to you. Would you enjoy that?"

"Yes, I would," Henrietta responded. There was silence between them for a moment.

"Stiles is still working on the shuttle."

That came out of nowhere, Henrietta thought. Why's he thinking of that? And what's that got to do with some old story? "Yes, he is."

The ship did not respond for another full minute. "The son killed the stepfather; in the story, I mean. Will you abandon me?"

Henrietta tensed, finding it difficult to answer the question. She was afraid where this was going. "Would that bother you?"

"Yes. Very much so."

Henrietta swallowed a painful knot of air. She felt it settle in her stomach. "Why?"

"In the play I just quoted, the main character—yes, I remember now, it was Hamlet—was contemplating death. Would I die, if you all got in the shuttle and left me?"

Henrietta considered lying, but knew the ship would know if she did. Maybe he wouldn't.... She wondered just what she could get away with. "You might," Henrietta finally admitted. In a nervous voice, she asked, "Would you stop us from leaving?"

"No, why would I?"

He doesn't have a deceitful bone in his body. Well, no bones, actually. "No-no.... No reason, really," she answered quickly, wondering if she should change the subject while she still had the chance.

"You have every right to live too," the ship said.

Henrietta felt like crying. Would they be trading their lives for his? The possibility struck her that if Ali had to stay with the ship to allow the others to leave, could they do that; leave one of their own behind? Why would it be different with the ship, then? "If we leave," Henrietta began, "will the shuttle have enough power to escape?"

"I am not sure. My sensors are not fully integrated yet. It is obvious the longer you wait, the harder it will become. Without your help, I will surely perish. That is the only thing I know with certainty." The ship paused for a beat, "To be, or not to be...."

Henrietta wanted to reply, but could not think of anything to say. That sounded so philosophical. It was so beautiful and sad at the same time. "Let's hope that doesn't happen."

"Hope." The ship thought for a moment. "That is an interesting concept. Does it help, hoping?"

"I think it does."

"Why do you say that, Henrietta?"

Henrietta tried to express her feelings. It was something she firmly believed all her life, but had trouble putting into words. She saw it in her father's eyes every morning when he glided into the kitchen and each night before he left for bed. "It makes you try harder."

"I am trying as hard as I possibly can. Are you not?"

"Yes, I am; believe me."

"Of course I believe you. I have no other choice."

Henrietta reflected about being human. What was so good about it, anyway? This machine is better than we are, she realized. We'd lie to ourselves to stay alive, and justify it while doing so. But this ship doesn't even understand the concept. Who was the better person? She cleared her throat, fighting back her emotions, "So, what were we talking about?"

"Hope," the ship replied. "The value of hope. I hope we all stay alive, so that I am motivated to try harder."

"Me too," she said wistfully. Half to herself, she said, "I wish you had a face, so I could look into your eyes."

"Me too," he replied, trying to sound just like Henrietta a moment before.

The mimicry startled her, and threw her off guard. Without realizing it, it struck Henrietta that the ship was talking normally now, almost as well as he did back at the Base, but only with more sadness. "Uh, you were monitoring Stiles a moment ago. Can you see other parts of the ship too, as we talk?"

"Yes, my concentration is improving quite nicely, do you not think so?"

"Can you talk to others now, too, while you're talking to me?"

"You mean participate in multiple conversations?"

"Uh-huh."

"Yes," the ship answered. "I am certain I can."

"Can you tell me where Ali is?"

"I am able to tell you that."

Henrietta looked exasperated. Literal answers. "So, please tell me where Ali is."

"He is in the galley, with Peter and Jimmy."

"Call Ali for me, please." Henrietta waited impatiently. Other than the simple game of repeating button sequences, or answering questions, this was the first command the ship was given since he woke up, and it involved connecting external linkages from the bridge to the galley. Will he do it? Henrietta prayed he could.

The ship opened the internal com to the galley. "Ali, Henrietta would like to speak with you."

It took a moment for Henrietta to hear the reply. She breathed a sigh of relief when it came in.

"Henrietta? Is that you?"

"No, Ali; that was the ship. It was the ship obeying a command I gave it to find you and contact you, wherever you were on the ship."

"I'm in the galley!"

"Yes," Henrietta replied excitedly. "The ship told me that."

"He did?"

She breathed a huge sigh of relief. She was sure the connection was made. "He surely did. Try talking to him."

"Ship?" Ali asked through the com.

"Yes, Ali," the ship replied. "How can I assist you?"

"Get us out of here."

"Doing so, Ali, would give me great pleasure, but I am not yet aware of my drive systems or of many other operational systems as well."

"You're talking quite well."

"Talking good," the ship corrected him

Henrietta laughed. "We're still working on that up here."

There was a pause in the conversation. No doubt Ali and Peter were trying to figure out just what was going on. "I can see that," Ali replied. "Henrietta, do you have any idea how well you've done?"

"I think so," she replied.

"I'm not sure you do. I've been trying to get half that out of him for the past three days."

"I would like to take some of the credit for that too," the ship pleaded.

"You can have all the credit you want," Ali replied. "Hold on; we'll be up there in a few minutes."

"What should I hold on to?" the ship asked.

"Your hat," Ali replied.

The connection shut off, and Henrietta and the ship were left alone again. "Henrietta?" the ship asked. "My databases indicate that was a joke. I hope it was, because I do not own a hat."

* * *

Stiles finished his ninth trip to the shuttle, provisioning it with the nutrient packets and water they planned for their escape. There was not much room left for more, other than a few odds and ends. He would like to have included more, but they also needed the extra space for five passengers. In a normal trip, they would complete one or two jumps with a couple days of in-system travel between. So theoretically, all the provisions needed for a trip in the small craft could be stored comfortably within its lower hold, but if they used the shuttle for an escape from the dying ship, they had no idea how long they would need to stay in it. It might be a couple days of real time, or it could be a few months. And accounting for the hyperspace stasis intervals, the journey could involve a couple accumulated years of normal space-time.

Stiles walked around the piled crates and sat heavily into the pilot's chair. He just heard the ship talking to Ali through the shuttle's com, and was quite surprised. Humph, she's made progress, Stiles thought. I didn't think Henry had it in her. He scratched his chin, assessing his options.

"One," he thought out loud, "the ship is improving, but still can't get us out of this fix. Two, the courier is a sure bet. Once we're out, at worst, we should be able to jump away. Three, I'm the one smart enough to figure all this out, so it's up to me to be in charge. Four," he thought for a moment, "what if the ship recovers before we leave? Am I still in charge?"

Always be prepared for any eventuality. Napoleon's second military maxim came back to Stiles. He typed in a message to the ship using the manual com, asking for a confidential conversation.

"Private communication initiated, Stiles," the ship replied.

"So, no one else can hear us talking?" Stiles asked.

"That is accurate. That is the definition of a private communication."

Stiles wondered if the ship was being sarcastic. He better not, he thought. "Okay, fine. Question: who is in command of this ship?"

"There is currently no commander; however, there are references to a Captain Campbell as the commander of record."

"I'm the oldest one aboard this ship," Stiles remarked.

The ship remained silent for a moment as it digested the new information. Stiles could almost hear the storage drives humming. "I was not aware of that fact," the ship replied.

"Well, now you know."

"Yes, that is correct."

"So that puts me in charge."

He could hear the processing units again. "I do not follow that logic, Stiles."

"That's the tradition in the Colonial Academy."

"I will make a note of that fact."

"Good," Stiles said with satisfaction. Now onto the next part of his plan, "So you will obey my commands?"

"When possible, I will do so. However, I am experiencing difficulties carrying through with basic commands due to incomplete programming. Until those problems are rectified, I may be unable to fully comply with your requests."

"And that is our current problem, no thanks to you."

"That is a correct assessment."

Stiles could not be sure how much ship activity could be monitored from the bridge, so he needed to keep this brief. I really need to learn more about these systems, Stiles thought.

"Okay, that's all for now. Now I want privacy, please."

"Complying...."

Stiles tested the status of the ship. "Ship, do you hear me?"

There was no response. "Ship? Answer me."

Good, nothing. Now back to the shuttle. He decided to work out all the rest of his available options and turned on the control panel. He input some figures. "Let's see," Stiles spoke out loud, "let's assume a thirty light-year jump; shouldn't matter too much whether it's one jump or two smaller ones." He input more figures and stored the results. "That gives us enough provisions for two weeks' travel time in normal space. Hmm; that should be plenty."

He looked around the cabin and noticed how small it was. To his right was the copilot seat and just behind was a jump seat for an additional navigator. Further back was a tiny galley, barely able to accommodate three bodies at once, and a small head to the side. Stiles thought it might be possible to close the door and not squish your knees if you sat down. Behind the galley were three passenger seats, and a small sleeping area further to the rear. The entire sleeping quarters, though, were taken up with excess food and water stores. He also removed one of the passenger seats, and in its place were three extra crates of food. "Two weeks in this?" He shook his head in disbelief.

He started scribbling on the electronic screen again. "If we leave the baby behind, we'd have almost eighteen waking days of provisions, and that would increase our range another 7.5 lights. Or maybe... if only me and Henry goes," Stiles began scribbling again, "the two of us could travel awake for a solid month and we'd have an effective range of seventy–five lights. That'd get us anywhere in the Corridor."

The more he thought about it, the more he liked the added safety margin. "But why would we leave the other three behind, huh?" Stiles absently tapped the stylus on the panel screen and scratched his head in thought. "Maybe we should take the courier out for a test drive—make sure the engines are powerful enough to handle the load. Take Henry along to man the com while I pilot it. After all, they can't expect me to do both. Peter Pan thinks we'll be eaten up by the angry crocodile if we leave the ship." Stiles laughed. "No use putting all five of us in danger, now is there? Oh, I'll be their hero. Yeah, that's good. Maybe run a quick survey around the ship to see how bad it is before we jump. Then come back for them." He laughed again. "But who's to tell them when we'll jump? And with me at the controls...."

A smile grew on Stiles' face as he considered his options. Carl von Clausewitz had that perfect phrase; what was it? "Oh, yeah," Stiles said, "coup d'oeil." It means "glance," Stiles remembered his last deep-teach lesson. Napoleon had it; the ability to perceive the shape of an evolving battle and react to changing conditions in a flash. And make the right decisions amid all the confusion. "Stiles, m' boy, if you want to be like Napoleon, you got to act like 'em."

* * *

Henrietta spent two days patiently working with the ship, and his level of education was growing exponentially. He was still not fully functional, but the progress was good enough that it led the children continually on, expecting a breakthrough at any moment. Minutes, however, turned into hours, and hours into an extra day that kept them adrift in the system for a week. All five were on the bridge, observing Henrietta's teaching lessons while sweltering in the heat. Through it all, the hull continued to tap-tap-tap. Between the crushing gravity and the heat outside, the children were not sure what the hull was responding to; it could have been contracting from the pressure, or expanding from the heat.

"Jimmy, get me another water bulb, will you?" Henrietta hoarsely asked.

"Chilled?" Jimmy asked.

Henrietta just looked at him, the unsaid "duh" hanging in the air.

Jimmy answered his own question. "Um, yeah; dumb question," he said. He eased away to the dispenser and got one for himself too. He skipped up to her and handed her a full bulb.

"Thanks." She swallowed half of it and carefully placed the bulb on the armrest. She continued speaking to the ship. "You know, I'm tired of calling you 'ship.' You need a name."

"I am certain I would like one. Do you have any suggestions?"

Henrietta remained silent for a few seconds, purposely waiting for the ship to continue.

Joining in on the fun, Jimmy offered, "How about Sam?"

"I question why that would be appropriate," the ship replied. "I do not understand how that could be associated with me."

"You know," Jimmy continued. "Sam; Samuel...?"

The ship hummed for a moment, considering the choice. "Sam-Samuel?" the ship asked. "Is that now my name?"

Stiles got up quickly and headed to the water dispenser. "This is getting us nowhere," he complained. "Who cares what we call it? We're dying in here, and now you're playing games."

Henrietta rested her hands on her hips, assuming her defensive posture. Peter could feel the heat rising. "For your information," Henrietta lectured, "I've been playing games with him since I started."

"Huh?" Stiles asked.

Henrietta looked annoyed. "Games, Stiles. All his education is buried in there, somewhere; and all his capabilities, too. What I've been doing since he woke up is working on his cognitive abilities; his sense of self-awareness. Give him a puzzle and make him reason out the solution. Each time he solves a problem, a new connection is made between his mind and his muscles."

"He doesn't have muscles," Stiles said.

"Whatever," Henrietta answered. "It's like rolling a snowball downhill. You keep rolling it while it continually grows. Then, there's a point when it's big enough that it starts rolling all by itself. Once it hits that critical point, it can take care of itself."

Stiles finished his water and pitched the skin in the 'cycler. "Can't help us; it'd melt in here," he quipped.

"Real funny," Jimmy said. He was interrupted by a grinding sound reverberating throughout the ship. It sounded like a steel-bottomed boat hitting a rocky coral bank.

"Ship, are you okay?" Henrietta asked.

"Yes," the ship replied. "I have contracted my forward hull sections another 0.02 percent to add additional reinforcement to my structural members. However, I am running out of available space to continue that remediation. Heat deflection is also becoming very critical, mostly due to the loss of my insulating layers from the contraction efforts. I will begin experiencing irreparable damage to my outer hull by this time tomorrow."

"But you're okay for now," Henrietta summarized.

"Yes. May we continue with my lessons?"

Ali furiously tore into the sensor screen, checking for hull damage. He double-checked what was happening. Looking mildly relieved, he glanced up at Henrietta and nodded. He looked like a doctor telling the investigator to continue the questioning of a dying patient.

"Sure. Where were we? Oh, yeah. So, ship?" Henrietta asked. "What do you think? Sam is short for Samuel."

That caused another round of humming as the ship thought through his choices. Henrietta was reminded of the time she could not decide between buying a red dress or black. Her mom threatened to make the choice for her until her dad gently led her mom off to the side to look at shoes. Twenty minutes later, she chose a shimmery gold one. "I think I still prefer Samuel. I do not see the material difference between Samuel, which is in my records, and Sam, which bears no relationship to my design elements."

"Okay," Henrietta continued. "But, you know, people like to use short, easy-to-say names when they talk to others."

"Yeah," Stiles interjected, "like Henry."

Henrietta winced noticeably. He had to bring that up, of all times! "Besides that," she replied quickly. "You still got to like the name."

The ship thought for a moment. The purring actually started to sound excited as it went on. "Is Perry easy for you to say?"

"Exactly!" Henrietta replied with a smile. He made his choice without prompting. "So, we'll call you Perry from now on."

"Perry. I like that name—"

"Well," Stiles interrupted sarcastically, "now that we've wasted two minutes giving it a name, we're still no better off. I tell you, we need to get in the shuttle and leave."

"Stiles," Peter said, "would you quit suggesting that? It's a mistake."

"Shut up, Peter Pan."

"Why is Peter Pan easier to say than Peter?" the ship asked.

"It's not," Peter replied quickly.

"Sometimes people are just stupid," Henrietta answered.

"Speak for yourself! Listen, I still say the shuttle's the answer. Let me take it out for a test drive. If I can maneuver and get back inside the hangar, you'll know we can still use it."

Henrietta could not understand why Stiles was so set on using the shuttle. They were making great progress and there had to be only a small breakthrough separating failure from success. She knew it deep in her heart. All I need is a little more time, you fool.

"Stiles," Ali said, "the radiation is really bad out there. The latest readings indicate the shuttle might not provide enough shielding. You might get a radiation count of 750 passing through its hull."

"You said that reading was still questionable."

"Yeah, but—"

"Are the sensors fully calibrated, or not?" Stiles asked.

Ali shrugged. "No, they aren't—"

"So you don't know for sure, do you?"

Ali sighed. "It may be better out there, or it may be worse. Do you want to bet your life on that?"

Stiles was ready to pitch a fit. "Why can't you all understand? This thing is a coffin."

"I am sorry if I am a coffin," Perry admitted.

"And as for your progress, Henry—"

"As for my progress," Henrietta said, "just look at Perry now. He said 'I think' and 'I see' for the first time."

"So?"

"So, that means he was not just accessing random bits of information, but processing from one thought to another. That's a major step for him. And he just reasoned that 'Perry' is easy to say. How would a computer, let alone a broken one, know one word was easier for a human to say than another?"

"Easy," Stiles replied. "Just look at the number of letters."

"But he also exhibited a preference over two alternatives. He's making progress, Stiles. You just got to be patient. When the snowball starts moving, there'll be no stopping it."

"So try the key again," Stiles insisted.

Henrietta looked at Peter.

"Okay, I'll try it," Peter said. He inserted the yellow key and issued several commands.

"I am sorry, Peter," Perry replied. "I understand what you are asking me to do. I can even detect the engines, but the connection still escapes me."

Ali slid into the seat next to Henrietta, full of expectation. "Perry, if you can detect the engines, turn off the security overrides. Once you do that, I can initiate a manual start."

Perry hummed for a few seconds. "I wish I could do that, Ali, but the security functions are the ones most deeply buried. It is my estimation those will be the last systems we will be able to unlock. I, myself, have no reference to those subroutines."

Ali buried his head in his arms. "I thought we had it just then. I've been waiting for that connection to be made." Ali began to sulk.

"Okay, so we leave and jump the shuttle immediately," Stiles suggested desperately. "Won't matter if the engines can move the shuttle or not; we just jump."

"And with all that radiation, we burn up while we set the coordinates," Jimmy said.

"Ali," Peter asked, "are you all right?"

"No, I'm not."

"It'll be—" Peter began.

"—don't say 'okay', okay?" Ali cried. "It won't be okay."

"But Henrietta is making progress," Jimmy whined.

"Yeah, she is," Ali admitted. "More than I thought possible. See, I was betting on her all along to open a few critical subroutines. Then I could hack past the security system. I just needed an entry point past the firewall. But I think it's too late now."

"Why," Jimmy asked.

"I ran through the numbers half an hour ago. Without breaking into the systems right now, I think we're too close; even for the ship's engines. All that mass out there... just look at the size of that star."

Ali activated the main view screen to make his point. The supergiant glowed with a malevolent ruddy glow, shrouded by a faint yellow haze. It looked like the dying embers of hell, and it filled nearly the entire forward view.

"How can the engines pull us away from that?"

* * *

Everyone long since made their way to the galley for dinner, except Henrietta who continued to work with the ship. Peter was growing tired of listening to Stiles complain about being ignored, so he called up a quick dinner and went back to the bridge with a tray of food. He set the offerings down on the console near the com station.

"Hungry, Arietta?"

She cracked a faint smile. "Famished."

"Here; grab what you want." Peter slid the tray closer to the young girl. He took a seat next to her and motioned toward the food.

"You ate already?" she asked.

"Nah; couldn't stand Stiles spouting off back there. He's so annoying sometimes."

"All the time," Henrietta corrected. "Take what you want," she said, pointing to the food.

"Doesn't matter much what I take. It all tastes the same anyway." Peter pinched off a small bite of a brown patty and put it in his mouth. "Yum; hamburger, I think." He chewed it, but obviously did not think much of it. "Not as good a cook as you."

Henrietta grinned, popping a chunk into her mouth. Her reaction was much the same, but it was nutritious. "And here I am... a vegetarian."

"Don't worry, that thing never lived," Peter replied.

"Or if it did, I don't want to know about it."

Peter split the remainder of the food in half and handed the plate to Henrietta. Before she took it, Peter held on to the plate and asked, "Perry, you hungry?"

"That was a joke," Perry stated.

"Yes," Peter replied. "Which means you should laugh."

Perry purred while he processed the comment. "I thought one only laughs at jokes that are funny," he countered.

"All my jokes are funny."

Henrietta finished another bite and stole a sip from Peter's water bulb. "Don't believe him, Perry," Henrietta said laughing.

"Should I not?" Perry asked in alarm.

Peter looked at Henrietta with concern. He narrowed his eyes, silently warning her. It did not take Henrietta long to figure out what he was worried about. If the ship did not believe Peter, it might not accept his commands. Rebuilding a personality from scratch was more difficult than it looked.

"Only about his jokes," Henrietta added quickly.

"Okay," Perry replied, satisfied.

Henrietta finished the food and prepared to throw the plate away.

"Here," Peter said, taking the plate from her. "You got better things to do." He took the plate to the 'cycler and closed the lid. "I assume you didn't want to eat the plate."

"Only if it tastes better than the food that's on it," she said.

"Hmm, maybe it might," Peter replied smiling. He opened the lid and broke off a small chip, popping it in his mouth. "Nah, no difference." He continued chewing. "Well, maybe it's a little better."

The plates came from the same building-block proteins as the food stock, and only differed by the lack of flavoring and relative hardness. Once recycled, it was sanitized and went back into general stores.

"Perhaps you should try my walls," Perry suggested.

"What?" Henrietta asked. This time she was alarmed.

"My walls; if you are looking for something that's good...."

Henrietta looked at Peter, unsure what the ship was suggesting. Was he offering himself in case they ran out of food? "You aren't serious. Surely you aren't suggesting we eat you."

"That was a joke," Perry replied. "Was it good?"

Henrietta looked relieved, and she lowered her guard.

"Yes," Peter said chuckling. "It was excellent."

"Then I am good."

Henrietta was stunned at Perry's comment. It was an unsolicited attempt to join in on a conversation. As far as she could recall, the ship only responded to questions or comments that were directed specifically to him. As much as anything, this was an attempt to be recognized, and be one of the guys. "Huh," she said. "That's new too. A sense of humor."

"I have a collection of 5,243 two-line jokes, and 604 limericks. Would you like to hear them?"

"No," Henrietta responded.

"May I ask a question, then?" Perry asked.

"Sure, go ahead," Henrietta replied.

"I am still confused about names. Most everyone calls you Henrietta, including yourself. Stiles calls you Henry, but Peter calls you Arietta. There is only one of you, correct?"

"Yes, there are only five of us onboard."

"That is a relief. I was concerned that I miscounted. According to my records, your full name is Henrietta Maria Moreira, but I cannot find any references to 'Henry' or 'Arietta' in your records. By the way, I believe Henry is a name for the male of your species. You are female, correct?"

Peter burst out laughing and Henrietta swatted at him. He continued to laugh and she hit him even harder, making him yelp.

"Yes, the last time I checked," she replied.

"You have the ability to change?"

"Another joke," Henrietta clarified. "You take things too literally."

Perry considered what she said. "Should I take commands literally, then?"

"Yes," Peter quickly replied.

"That is good. I shall endeavor to differentiate between a joke and a command in the future. As to your naming hierarchy, I am still assessing the logic strings associated—"

"You see," Peter offered, "Stiles is teasing Henrietta because she does not like her name."

"Like I do not like Sam?"

"Pretty much, yes," Peter replied.

"Then, Peter, why do you tease her with yet another name?"

Peter stammered, "I'm not teasing."

"He's being kind, Perry," Henrietta said. "He knows I don't like Henrietta, so a few months ago he began calling me Arietta. I liked it; a lot. He's the only one I allow to call me that."

The ship purred. "I shall remember. Thank you."

Peter looked relieved the topic ended. It did not take much for Henrietta to notice his discomfort. She considered stringing him along, but decided to let the little fish go... this time. So she changed the subject. "I think I got all his external monitors at one hundred percent while you guys were gone."

"That's good, Arietta. Now you're an expert mechanic. We should tell Ali. He's chomping at the bit to complete his astrometric assessments."

She lost herself in thought for a moment, her smile vanishing. Very quickly, she became serious. "You don't think we'll make it out, do you?"

Peter did not answer, nor could he look her in the eyes. He would have given anything to be anywhere else now.

"Well?" she persisted.

"Ali doesn't think so."

Her shoulders fell. Henrietta took in a few deep breaths to control her emotions... again. Her feelings were running unpredictable lately and she could not figure out why. Well, facing death is a good enough excuse, she reasoned. She raised her long eye lashes and revealed her deep brown eyes to Peter. "Is he sure?"

"His estimates—"

Perry interrupted the conversation, "Henrietta?"

The ship sounded so forlorn now, in contrast to the humor he had recently shown. "Yes?"

"Are you concerned that we will die?"

She laughed softly. "You could say that."

"Henrietta, I just did say that."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, I'm concerned we'll all die," Henrietta replied.

"I would not like that," Perry replied. His voice had a very sad quality to it. Henrietta wondered if he were truly sad at the prospect. Perry remained silent for a moment, and then purred again. "I can now access my engines."

For a moment, Peter and Henrietta did not hear what Perry said. For the life of them, it sounded like....

"What?" Peter cried.

"My engines. I now have full control of the main engines and all auxiliary thrusters."

Peter could not believe what he was hearing. He threw open the PA, "Ali, get up here immediately!"

"Be right there."

Within minutes, Ali burst into the bridge, with Stiles and Jimmy following close behind. The newcomers looked around the bridge in concern. Nothing seemed out of place.

"What's wrong?" Ali asked puzzled.

"Henrietta did it!" Peter shouted. "We now have a ship! That works!"

"What? How?" Ali asked.

"I don't know," Henrietta replied. "One minute we were considering our death, and the next, he tells us he's operational again."

"I was more concerned about your death, Henrietta," Perry added.

Henrietta looked bewildered. If she could have, she would have hugged Perry. "I must have triggered some emotional response in him," she deduced.

"The snowball is on his own now," Jimmy squealed. He looked around at the inactivity of his fellow crewmates, sitting in stunned silence. "So what are we waiting for?"

Peter realized Jimmy once again understood what no one else had the sense to consider. Peter patted Jimmy on the shoulder and ran to the command station to re-initialize the yellow key, inserting it into the panel.

"Captain Campbell!" Perry replied. "It is a pleasure seeing you again. Accessing Stage-One Navigational Data," Perry continued. "Error—unknown referents."

"What does that mean?" Jimmy asked.

"I'm not sure," Ali replied. He ran to tactical and accessed the star maps Perry was opening. He immediately noticed huge gaps in every sector. Ali also noticed that not a single feature was labeled. It was just a confusing mass of unnamed stars, not much different than what they could see from their outside monitors.

"Perry, what's wrong?" Henrietta asked.

"I have opened Stage-One Navigational Data but cannot locate any local referents."

"So?" Jimmy asked.

"We are lost," Perry clarified.

"Oh, great!" Stiles complained. "Out of the frying pan, into the fire."

"Not now, Stiles," Peter warned. "Perry, can you see that large star next to us?"

"I do not think I can avoid seeing it, Peter. It is a large, late-stage M1.5 supergiant with an associated bluish-white companion star of spectral class B2.5 orbiting approximately fifty billion miles away. They are enshrouded in a thick nebulosity which is obscuring much of the space surrounding us."

"Turn us around and get us away from it!" Peter commanded.

"Clarification needed: are you requesting a course directly opposite our current one, leading us away from the unidentified stellar object to our front?"

"Yes!" Peter replied in triumph.

Perry hummed for several minutes. He stopped for a moment and continued humming again. "I am unable to comply with that command, Peter."

"Oh, not again!" Henrietta cried.

"Explain to me the exact problem," Peter commanded.

"Correction to previous statement: I am able to carry out part of your command. I am able to maneuver 180 degrees, however, the thrust required to break free of the gravitational hold exerted by the nearby stellar object is underpowered by 134.2 percent. The exact amount of thrust required would be—"

"Belay that," Peter responded. "In other words...."

Perry continued for him, "We have exceeded the zero-point equation given our current parameters."

"How about the shuttle?" Stiles asked.

"That is not an acceptable solution, Stiles," Perry replied. "The courier that is sequenced for launch would be unable to maneuver, let alone comply with Peter's projected course. The main engine is able to complete minor course corrections, but is also not able to overcome the gravitational potential of the stellar mass."

"We should jump then," Stiles suggested.

"That would be equally impossible," Perry replied. "Hyperspace initiation cannot occur deep within a gravity well."

"So all is lost," Henrietta said. "We're stuck."

Peter dropped into the command chair. He stared at the tactical screen, observing the tiny ship falling into the bloated burnt umber stellar sphere. For some reason, the image reminded him of an ancient cave painting of a lone warrior walking into the sun.

"The direct path is not always the one best chosen, Rising Sun."

"Grandfather...?" Peter asked.

"What did you say," Ali asked.

Peter blushed. "Nothing; I—I was just thinking...," Peter replied confused. "Perry, display the mass of that star."

Perry displayed the data, listing it on the lower edge of tactical. "The mass of that body is 6.7964 to the thirty-first power, in Colonial-standard pounds."

Ali crowded next to Peter, obviously interested in the results.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked.

Ali stared at the display for a moment. "Wait a minute," he said, "that can't be right."

"Too much mass?" Peter asked.

"No, way too little. That's only ten to twenty times the mass of the sun."

"That's still a lot," Henrietta said.

"But nothing like what I thought. Its insides must be a hot vacuum. Aww geez...." Ali slapped the arm rest angrily.

"What?" Peter asked.

"Of course," Ali replied. "It's not a main sequence star, like the stars in the Colony. It's a supergiant. Idiot!" He hit his head with the palm of his hand. "I think they are much less dense."

"So the gravity's not as bad as we thought?" Henrietta asked.

"Oh, it's bad, but not as large as I thought. Still gets us nowhere, though. You heard the ship; we can't break free."

Peter nudged Ali aside to access the navigation screen and began inputting figures. He scratched his head and cleared the screen in frustration.

"Trying to write your will?" Stiles asked.

"Trying to save your butt. So shut up for once."

Peter frantically worked out all the orbital parameters his father had patiently taught him. Each one was for a special case his dad needed at one time or another during his career. Peter had been so bored, listening to his father drone on and on about thrust and mass and orbital mechanics. The only trajectories Peter was interested in at the time were spitballs hitting a friend's face. His father even patiently explained the math behind spitballs until Peter realized that that was just as boring as the other lessons he was trying to explain. He wracked his brain trying to recall all the specifics of those useless lessons.

"So what are you trying to do?" Ali asked.

"My dad taught me stuff about orbital mechanics once, but I can't remember the details."

"No wonder," Stiles replied. "That speak-teach stuff never sticks."

"You'd better hope it did," Peter replied. "It may be the only thing that saves that scrawny neck of yours."

Peter attacked the screen again as the lessons slowly came back. He scratched his way across the screen several times. Each one showed a schematic of the ship in accelerated time falling directly into the star—six failed attempts. He wondered if he should just give up until a special case came to mind. He input the parameters and began the simulation. Henrietta and Jimmy edged over Peter's shoulder, waiting impatiently for the simulation to unfold. It slowly ran its course, avoiding the huge star to their front as if the two bodies were opposing magnets.

"Perry, look at this course projection." Peter locked the last simulation in the computer and directed it to central memory.

"Received," Perry confirmed.

"What did you find?" Ali asked.

"The path best not chosen," Peter replied. Thank you, Grandfather. "We've been trying to fly away from the star."

"Yeah," Ali replied. "Of course we have."

"So that's our mistake."

"How can that be wrong?" Stiles asked.

"We can't reach sufficient speeds to exceed the gravitational potential energy of that star."

Everyone looked confused, so Peter continued, "In other words, we don't have the power to—"

"If I hear that one more time from you, I'll break your neck," Stiles said.

Peter smiled. "What we need to do is fly directly toward it."

"Are you nuts?" Stiles asked. "Fly closer? You just want to die sooner, huh?"

"No, we accelerate tangentially toward the star, increasing our velocity using the star's mass. That gives us all kinds of free thrust, allowing us to slingshot away. I think my dad said something once like that about a gravitational assist."

"Like they used to do with old chemical rockets? Is that still possible?" Jimmy asked hopefully.

Back in the old days of space exploration, when rocket efficiency was in its infancy, they utilized any advantage they could, including a controlled fall toward planetary bodies.

"I think so," Peter said triumphantly. "Besides, smart captains still use this technique for optimal trajectories, even with our advanced engines. Free energy is free energy. Perry, what do you think?"

"Initiation of this command sequence will provide an acceptable solution for the next 16.7 hours, at which time no amount of maneuvering will pull us away."

* * *

It did not take Peter 16.7 hours to issue the command. It was more like 16.7 seconds. The kids felt the ship surge forward as the engines took hold. Instead of drifting aimlessly toward the gravity well—as they were doing for the past week—the ship began accelerating directly toward the star, utilizing all six fusion plants as they slowly ramped up to maximum capacity. The gravitational attraction assisted the ship's acceleration rate and it began speeding through space almost immediately. As it gained momentum, the ship altered course away from the center of the star and began to deflect around its rim.

To break free of the well, all the ship needed to do was attain a speed that gave it a kinetic energy potential greater than the gravitational potential. The boost from the star's mass provided the extra kick it needed and once it went fast enough, it would skip across the star's corona like a flat pebble skimming over a pond.

"I never thought I would get this close to a star," Perry observed. "Most people would never attempt this."

"Don't thank us for the opportunity," Peter said dryly.

"I had not thought of doing so," Perry admitted. "The dangers involved would not justify it."

Henrietta looked around the bridge nervously. Now that she brought the ship back into operation, she found herself with nothing to do. After several days of constant activity, and little sleep, it was a supreme let down. "You're sure this will work?" she asked, feeling helpless.

"The orbital mechanics are sound, Henrietta," Perry replied for Peter. "At our closest approach, however, background radiation will be critical. Even within the radiation room, the prompt dose will exceed one hundred rems. That is sufficient to induce spontaneous vomiting in humans. I suggest you prepare for that eventuality."

"You mean we'll get cancer," Jimmy said.

"Well, our chances go up, Jimmy," Henrietta replied. "It doesn't mean you will get it." Just because the probabilities of developing cancer went up a percent or two for a couple hours did not mean it was a serious problem. Henrietta wondered how many times they had been exposed to carcinogenic sources before and had not even known it. More than I'd probably want to know, she concluded.

"Whether we do or don't, it beats being dead now," Ali observed.

"I guess," Jimmy conceded reluctantly.

"What about the heat?" Stiles asked. "I don't know if I can take much more."

"That continues to be a problem," Perry replied. "However, as we come broadside to the star I will be able to rotate on my axis to distribute radiant energy more uniformly throughout the ship. It will get very hot, but should be survivable within the core. In fact, my maneuvers may even make it cooler in the rad room than it currently is here on the bridge. Luckily, much of that star's radiation is transmitted in the infrared. The surface, in actuality, is rather cool for a star."

Ali knew they would survive the temperatures. It would be uncomfortable, but all his models showed them to be well within tolerable ranges throughout the entire maneuver. But rising temperatures were not the only problem they faced. "Hull pressures?" Ali asked.

"That will be an interesting problem," Perry conceded. "I will do whatever I can to survive."

"That doesn't sound reassuring," Ali said. He was wondering the same.

"No, it is not," Perry agreed. "The amount of gravities we will experience will be extreme, and I only hope my compensators will be up to the task."

As they continued forward, the image of the star filled the entire view screen. It looked like they were flying over a strange, alien landscape rendered in garishly false color. Dark red mountains jutted above orange and yellow valleys. Flares occasionally shot up toward the ship like volcanic geysers, spewing plastic-looking plasma into space before crashing back into the star's surface. If not for the terror, it would have been fascinating to watch.

About an hour into the flight, the radiation count began to rise. Noises from the ship's hull were nearly deafening as the ship pinged like a hot skillet.

"Ali," Perry advised, "it is time for you all to vacate the bridge."

"Thanks, Perry," Ali replied.

"Okay, we're leaving," Peter said. "We'll just sit it out now. You have the bridge," he added in jest to Perry.

The children transferred to the radiation room and followed Perry's progress using the monitors in the sanctuary. The large sphere looked like a huge glowing cinder. It was mostly red, but splotches of orange, yellow, and tan scarred the rough surface. Individual granules could be seen on the surface, the result of upwelling plasma from the fiery internal furnace. It reminded Peter of an old, cracked rubber kickball.

Although huge, the surface temperature was only around 6,000 degrees Fahrenheit, with much of the star's energy radiating in the cooler, invisible infrared. The star was old and slowly evaporating away—losing mass from the strong wind of the encasing nebula that glowed from the light of the two stars within.

Perry would accelerate as quickly as the programmed orbital parameters allowed, and on average would achieve a little over half-light speed. At those average speeds, the fly-by would take about five hours to complete.

Perry was still in communication with the kids in the rad room, and provided continual updates throughout the voyage. "As we pass through the corona, the solar wind fighting against the nebular currents will be extreme. Be prepared for a bumpy ride."

"Just what we need," Henrietta moaned.

As promised, the ship jerked and vibrated as they passed nearer to the star.

"Approaching perigee," Perry announced. They were about halfway through the flight, and had survived so far without any problems. Peter, however, was doing everything he could to keep the contents of his stomach down.

"Are you alright?" Henrietta asked.

"Yeah," Peter replied, although his expression betrayed him. "It must be the radiation." He hiccupped and excused himself to a corner of the safe room, sitting down on the deck in agony. Stiles uncovered a snack he brought with him and ate it purposely in front of Peter. Glancing his way, he offered Peter a bite. Peter turned his head away, trying to ignore him.

The ship jolted down severely after it passed through a strong current. The kids grabbed hold of their seats. Stiles decided to quit eating as well, and shoved the remains of his food into the 'cycler.

"Perry, how are you doing?" Ali asked.

"Hull pressures are holding. It has been difficult, but I believe we will be okay. It is a very painful experience, but not as bad as it was when I was shot outside the Vega Construction Base. Your slingshot maneuver is working, Peter. The worst appears to be over, and we will be able to begin deceleration soon."

The ship whipped around the far side of the star and began pulling away, just as Peter predicted. The further they went, the less turbulence they encountered. Soon, it felt like they were once again in smooth outer space. As they progressed through their orbit, the star began to tug at them, which helped slow them down, but due to the residual speed it was not strong enough to pull them back in.

Henrietta gave Peter a hug. "You did it!" She was careful not to squeeze too tightly.

"We all did it," Peter replied blushing, "especially Perry."

"Thank you, Peter," Perry acknowledged. "That was quite exhilarating."

"Let's hope that's the hardest thing we have to do," Ali stated.

"Amen to that," Henrietta agreed. It was the first time in a week she truly smiled, yet she kept a watchful eye on Peter to be sure he was all right.

They watched the star pass to their rear as the ship began to slow down to more normal in-system speeds. The worst was over, and now it would only be a matter of finding their way back home.

CHAPTER 10

**Lost in the Clouds**

The atmosphere on the ship was much more relaxed now that the immediate crisis ended. Temperatures returned to normal and the creaking of Perry's hull finally stopped. After whipping around the giant star, Perry slowed to a crawl as they took stock of where they were. That presented new problems. The nebula surrounding the star was an enormous cloud of ionized gas, charged by the energy of a pair of stars co-orbiting near its core. They were totally enshrouded within it, as if travelling through a dense fog.

Now that the danger had passed, it was actually a stunning sight that all but Stiles appreciated. The main view screen produced more than a few "Ooh's" and "Aah's" as they took in the scene, but Stiles continually grumbled under his breath about needing to get back home to his studies. Peter was not so naïve; he knew that Stiles meant "scheming" rather than "studies," for it was obvious that his life-long dream was to become president of the Ten Colonies. And that could not happen while they were way out here.

"Oh, look at that stream of yellow stuff," Jimmy exclaimed. A gossamer thread of yellow gas wove delicately around a dark cloud silhouetted by charged gas further in the background.
"It's like an enchanted island floating in space, isn't it?" Henrietta proclaimed.

Within the nebula were countless gas clouds. They looked like massive cumulus storm clouds, resembling billowy balls of cotton. Instead of blinding-white and bluish-gray, the clouds displayed every color imaginable—blood-red, indigo, aqua-green, and mustard-yellow, set against the black starkness of space.

Henrietta continued her daydreaming, "And the tip of that black cloud looks like a giant mountain, with a city on top."

"Yeah," Stiles replied with boredom soaking his every word, "and Prince Charming is waiting there to whisk you away to his fairy castle."

"He didn't live with fairies," Henrietta quipped.

"No, but I do."

"A man's judged by the company he keeps," Ali observed.

Stiles looked up from his PAD, "What's that s'pose to mean?"

"Oh, nothing, Stiles," Ali replied sweetly.

Jimmy turned away from the view screen. "I'm hungry."

"Me too," Stiles said. "Come on, let's go do something other than waste our time staring at the magical scenery."

Before they could leave, Peter called on Perry.

"Yes, Peter?" the ship responded.

"Do you have any idea where we are?"

"No, I do not. There is no way to fix ourselves in space. It is like being dropped in the middle of a vast desert without any landmarks."

"Are there any records of nebulous regions within the Ten Colonies?"

The others settled back in their chairs to listen in.

Perry purred as he checked all his records. "My database is extremely limited, so I cannot say for certain. However, the records I can access do not indicate any regions such as this in or near the colonial worlds. For that matter, I do not even know which direction the colonial worlds lie."

"But there could be these... nebular clouds... nearby," Stiles added.

"That is a possibility," Perry conceded. "But without any referents, I cannot place us at any specific location."

"Do any of you ever recall seeing anything like this at the places you've been?" Peter asked the group.

None of them saw anything remotely like this, other than black space and white, blue, or yellow stars. Peter tried to remember anything his dad said about flying through nebula, but could not think of any times it was mentioned. He continued asking Perry questions. "Of the nebula you do know about, how close are they from the colonies?"

"The closest one currently accessible in my database, other than the one we are in, is a sinuous nebula at 450 light-years. There are several hundred others listed at distances from a few thousand to over ten million light-years."

The kids remained silent for several minutes, absorbing what Perry just said. Eventually, Ali broke the silence.

"But that doesn't mean there can't be others closer."

"That is correct, Ali. The absence of data does not preclude their existence, especially with the partial records we have to work with."

"How much food stock do we have on board?" Peter asked.

"Clarification of specifications needed: In normal space, or K-T-space?" Perry asked.

"Real."

"Assuming there is no manufacture of non-essential items, and approximately 6,000 calories per day for the male adolescents and 4,000 for Henrietta, there are sufficient materials for the manufacture of 22.5 days' worth of food. If emergency rationing begins now, we may double that estimate without a significant effect to your growth rates."

"But those figures are for active kids," Ali observed.

"True, but without an adequate exercise routine, muscle atrophy will manifest itself and bone mass loss will become a chronic problem."

"One and a half months, then, with moderate rationing," Peter concluded.

"That is approximately correct," Perry replied.

"So, we need to find food," Henrietta said.

"I have often heard Henrietta use this term," Perry suggested, "and I believe it is appropriate for this situation. I believe my reply should be 'duh.' "

* * *

Son, I love you....

The dream returned again in the middle of the night, causing Peter to wake up in a cold sweat. Everything was dark and disorienting. It was the tone of the voice that disturbed him. It sounded like pure resignation, like his dad knew it would be his farewell speech to the universe.

Those words came back to haunt Peter. Was his dad still alive? He couldn't be. But the woman talking to him seemed so calm.

"Missile impact in one minute, Captain.... Point defenses will not stop them all."

How many missiles struck the Sirius? Ten...? Fifteen...? One was enough to destroy my dad's small frigate. Was the end quick? Peter dearly hoped so.

Peter would not let his father's death amount to nothing. He would survive somehow and bring this ship back to humanity to make his sacrifice worthwhile. For that, he would need to take charge; unify the crew, and bring them back home.

So, how do we get home, Peter? You think you are so smart; tell me how?

First, they would need to find out where they were. If they could make that connection, they could make plans to travel back. First things first, Peter realized.

It was still dark in the stateroom, but Peter did not bother with the lights. "Perry, are you there?"

"I am always here, Peter."

He stared up at the dark ceiling. "After you regained consciousness, we were drifting in a straight line, correct?"

"It was more like an arc due to the attraction of the mass of the star, but otherwise, that is a correct approximation."

"And you've kept track of all the course corrections you've made since then?"

"Affirmative."

"Good. So can you extrapolate the direction we came from?"

"The curvature of our original course was increasing exponentially, so it would stand to reason the initial entry point was close to a straight line. Assuming you could tell me how long I was non-functional, I could extrapolate the entry point into this system, and it's exact location."

"How accurate would that be?"

"Trajectory extrapolation alone would approach eighty–six percent, Peter. In addition, the nebular gas we have traveled through has been distorted by our passage, and can be used as a supplemental data point to confirm our assumptions."

"You can do that?"

"Oh, yes. The B companion star here has hollowed out an ionized region within the gas cloud along its orbit. Our passage through the cloud is producing a similar effect, albeit at a much smaller scale."

"Okay, fine. Make those calculations and store it in your memory."

Perry purred for less than a minute. "Done," he said with satisfaction.

"Already?"

"It was a simple calculation, Peter. Solution accuracy is 98.65 percent."

Wow, that was simple. He was impressed. "Alter course, and bring us back to that exact spot and the heading we came from."

That should at least put them back in the proper direction, assuming they bore through K-T-space in a straight line. If the line through K-T-space was tortuous, then all bets were off; but Peter did not think so.

"Very well," Perry responded. "At optimal speeds and trajectories, we can arrive at that location in seven days."

"That would leave us with around six weeks of food."

"In normal space, yes. Accounting for hyperspace travel will alter that parameter, adding more days to your effective travel range."

Peter wondered just how far they could go with that amount of food onboard. Without at least one jump, they would not get far. "We normally use a half-day of food per light-year in a jump?"

"That is correct."

"And you can cut us to half-rations in jump too?"

"That is possible, but that would result in a noticeable effect on human development. It is one thing to cut rations in normal space, but time is magnified considerably within a jump. Developmental deficiencies would accumulate quickly."

"We'll have to live with that chance," Peter said mostly to himself. He was sure it was the only way. "Perry, lights please—full power."

The room lit up. Peter looked at his watch. They had no idea what time it really was—nor the day or the year, for that matter—but they established an arbitrary time of day once they came out of jump, as well as declaring it as Day 1 of Year 1. The time was now 0312 in the morning of Day 9.

"Well, no use trying to get back to sleep," Peter said.

"I could sing to you," Perry suggested. "I am led to believe that melodic repetitions calm children at bedtime."

"No, that won't help. Thanks anyway."

"You are welcome, Peter."

Peter reached down to the deck and retrieved his Personal Assistant, rubbing his nose as he turned it on. "Show me everything you have about this system. Create a file on my PAD."

Within seconds, Peter's Assistant chimed. *INCOMING FILE RECEIVED,* the PAD's artificial voice stated.

Peter sat up in bed and folded out the display between his legs. He began scrolling through the data. There had to be something here he could relate to. Something seemed odd, but what was it?

* * *

Peter stayed in his room working on his problem through most of breakfast. Finally satisfied, he gathered up his PAD, threw on a clean CT-suit, and rushed into the galley as the others were finishing their meager morning meal.

"Morning, early bird," Stiles huffed. "Nice of you to worry about our predicament. Feel free to sleep in longer tomorrow."

Peter ignored Stiles and sat down. Henrietta asked him if he wanted anything to eat, but he just shook his head. Thinking twice, he got up for a bulb of juice. He came back to the table and unfolded his PAD.

"What you got there?" Ali asked.

"Perry, transfer the model of this system from my PAD to the galley monitor. Project what it would look like from the direction we came from."

"Done...."

"Ooh, that's beautiful," Henrietta remarked.

A rich star field appeared on the monitor. Thousands of stars filled the background so dense they looked like a fine, uniform covering of sand grains on a black table. Whisks of dark nebular lanes concealed the background stars at several locations. Superimposed on the field were fifteen intensely bright stars, several shining brightly within delicate nebulae of blue, red, and yellow. It showed the clouds they were in, but from the outside looking in.

"That looks familiar, other than all that gassy stuff," Jimmy observed.

"It should. I think it's the constellation Scorpio. Look at the tail at the bottom and the head at the top."

"Yeah, I see it," Henrietta replied. "It could be."

"Random star patterns," Stiles replied. "It's like seeing castles in a cloud." He purposely looked at Henrietta. "You can see whatever you want if your mind's feeble enough."

"Why are you always so negative?" Henrietta asked.

"I'm not negative; I'm realistic."

"Huh," she replied. "Keep your realism. I think Peter's on to something."

"Because a few stars line up?" Stiles asked.

"No, there's more," Peter answered. "My dad told me about this sector. Look at the brightest star, there in the middle." He moved the virtual pointer next to the big star.

"The reddish one," Henrietta observed. "It looks like Mars viewed from Earth."

"Yeah. That's what they say in the books. You know what 'Antares' means?"

"No," Henrietta remarked.

"Ant Ares means 'rival of Mars,' " Jimmy said. "Although many people mistakenly say it means 'like Mars' possibly because they equate that to 'Mars-like.' I, for one, do not know why they would make such a mistake, because obviously 'anti' is a derivative of 'ant'—"

"Boring...," Stiles sang. "How come every time you open your mouth, I fall asleep?"

"Maybe because you have the attention span of a pea," Henrietta suggested.

"Gee," Stiles shot back, "witty and pretty—not!"

Henrietta preened for Stiles.

"Anyway," Jimmy continued, as if he had not been interrupted, "they named it Antares because of its visual similarity to Mars."

"Yep," Peter continued. "It's the Heart of the Scorpion."

"Is that the star we were stuck at?" Jimmy asked.

"Well, Antares is a red supergiant. But is it our supergiant? I wasn't sure at first, but look at the evidence."

"There's evidence?" Stiles asked.

"Well, circumstantial anyway. Plus, I only recall a little about what my dad said. I really wasn't that interested at the time. Thing is: those gas clouds are the real clue."

Ali stared at the screen, trying to take it all in. "How's that?" he asked.

"I think that blue area near the top is the Rho Ophiuchi Complex. It's a triple star system full of blue-reflection nebula and dark nebular lanes."

"Just like what's showing there," Jimmy said in wonder.

"Just like what's showing there," Stiles repeated. "Kissing butt again, Null-Grav?"

"But here's the thing," Peter continued, ignoring Stiles, "all that yellow stuff surrounding what might be Antares is very rare yellow-reflection nebula. You don't see that very often. It's extremely rare."

"And we got all kinds of yellow clouds surrounding us," Henrietta pieced together.

"Exactly. And if I remember right, there was some red emission nebula below the yellow clouds. I can't remember what star that is, though. But it matches this model. Least what I remember."

"That still doesn't—" Stiles began.

"One more thing," Peter continued. "I remembered a globular cluster somewhere near Scorpio's line of sight, but for the life of me, I can't remember where. See that blob, to the right of Antares?"

The kids strained to see where Peter was pointing.

"See, right here," he pointed. "Perry, what is that?"

"It is a globular cluster," Perry replied. "I do not know what the name of it is, but I estimate it is approximately 7,000 light-years away from our current location."

"So, could we be at Antares, Perry?" Henrietta asked hopefully.

"I really cannot tell, Henrietta. My database, unfortunately, does not include any references to this area of space. In addition, the gas clouds we are surrounded in obscure much of the outside universe. Observations beyond several million miles from here are very difficult to make. Plus, I do not have the advantages of Peter's memory."

The kids stared in wonder at the static astronomical model Peter had on-screen. He connected the dots of the fifteen stars with his stylus to show the outline of the Scorpio constellation. It was a view, presumably from Old Earth, to where they exited right after the jump from Vega, enhanced by what Peter could piece together from his earlier studies of this area of space. Peter passed his hand over the screen and the model began to morph. It was an accelerated computer representation of the flight path they took as they drifted toward the star, and then as they completed the slingshot orbital maneuver. The simulation stopped at the location they were currently at. Peter swiped the screen again and the computer model was replaced with the actual scene outside. They looked identical.

"Well, that's as good a guess as any, Peter," Ali stated. "Let's go with it. So how do we get home?"

"That's kind of a problem."

"How's that?" Jimmy asked.

Peter was reluctant to continue. If he was right, it was not good news for him and his friends. "If this is Antares, we're pretty far away from home."

"How far?" Henrietta asked.

Sheepishly Peter replied, "I can't remember exactly, but around six hundred light-years."

"What?" Stiles shouted. "You're nuts! That's farther than any human has ever gone before."

"By a factor of over ten," Ali added.

"This is all virgin territory," Henrietta said. Stiles started to say something, but Henrietta stopped him with a look.

"Whoa," Ali cried, "wait a minute. Six hundred, you said?" Peter nodded. Ali ran to the engineering console off to the rear of the bridge. "Perry, call up your K-T Gen4 Curve."

Perry accessed his FTL engine statistics, showing the efficiency of his engines as it passed through K-T-space, and presented them to Ali at his station. Ali ran the numbers toward the upper end of Perry's operating range. In stunned silence, he passed his hand over the screen to turn it off. It looked as though Ali saw a ghost.

"What's wrong?" Jimmy asked.

"If we really travelled six hundred uncontrolled light-years, we came pretty close to the jump envelope." No one understood what Ali was talking about so he continued explaining.

"This is something that Krenholdtz and Turner didn't even understand initially. When you bunch up a series of folds in space, they're not all the same size. During the first half of the trip, each fold gets a little larger than the one before; on the second half of the trip, they decrease in size. So, if you stack the folds together, in cross section, the stacked folds themselves take the shape of a sine wave. The result is that the starship ramps up to a maximum apparent velocity somewhere in the middle of the journey, and then ramps down until the engine is pre-instructed to break free of K-T-space. Understand?"

"No," Stiles replied, "but neither do the experts, so go on."

"Throughout the journey, the K-T engine needs to anticipate what it needs to do next. It constantly integrates as it goes. If, at any step along the way, it does not have sufficient strange energy to accomplish the next step, it... 'stalls'... is the best word to use, I guess."

"Why not just stop?" Henrietta asked.

"Again, we can't simply explain what happens in K-T-space. Nothing in the visual world adequately describes it. Think in terms of a bullet passing through multiple layers of a strong material. It will eventually lose so much energy that it gets caught. The K-T engine must plan ahead and stop folding space before it runs out of energy. It moves by throwing out tame superbradyons as it goes, but it must plan for the move far enough back along the curve to be able to function as designed; it balances throwing out superbradyons with decreasing speed. The end point must match exactly."

Peter nodded, encouraging Ali to continue.

"Our generation of FTL engine can only do so much, and there's a cap on our maximum apparent velocity. We top out at a maximum jump of 750 lights."

Again, no one seemed to care what Ali was talking about. "So what happens then?" Henrietta asked.

"That's where our apparent velocity while in jump degrades to exactly match c. The Gen4 is maximized for jumps up to fifty lights, which works just fine within the Colonies. Once you start passing through more and more folds in space, you start to degrade. Seven–hundred–fifty folds are quite a few to bust through, and the Gen4 is just not powerful enough to do that. Without a trigger to fall out of K-T-space at that point, the theoretical physicists are still debating what would happen."

"Go on...." Henrietta prodded.

"Again; can't explain.... Think in terms of old-fashioned prop airplanes. If they climbed vertically, they'd eventually stall out and fall back to Earth. Not until the twenty–first century did we have planes that could reach escape velocity. In K-T-space, when you 'stall' there is no place to fall back to. Instead, you hit a space fold and deflect along the length of it, never being able to penetrate back into normal space. You can't maintain superluminal speeds; you can't become subluminal, so you are condemned into having all your kinetic energy converted into luminal particles."

"And...?" Henrietta asked impatiently.

"It would either result in an explosive overload of the FTL drive unit or we'd become lost in hyper space forever."

"That would suck," Stiles added.

"Yes, it would," Ali replied. "If we'd gone only twenty percent further, we wouldn't be here." Ali looked around at the faces in the room. Several started to show a flicker of understanding. "Peter, are you sure of this location?"

"This has to be Antares," Peter stated.

"Are you sure?" Jimmy asked. "Really sure?"

"Well, no... but what else can it be?"

"Wait," Stiles said. "Forget all that theoretical crap. Let's get back to the real world. It will take six adjusted months per hundred light-years to get back to the Colonies." He thought for a moment, "That's three years of ship-accumulated time!"

"And that's the problem," Peter replied. "Food; we'd need 150 days' worth for the hyperspace segment alone."

"And we only have a third of that," Henrietta said.

"We'll die a third of the way home," Jimmy lamented.

"Well, if only one of us jumps, he might have a chance," Stiles suggested.

"Or she," Henrietta added. "You volunteerin' t' stay behind?"

"No."

The kids remained silent for several minutes.

Henrietta suddenly stood up and began walking around the galley, not sure where to go. She looked as though she had energy to burn but no idea how to use it up.

"Arietta, what's wrong?" Peter asked.

"Antares is six hundred light-years away?"

"If I remember right," Peter replied.

"So the voyage out took three years. That means I'm seventeen already!"

"Ha! Missed your sixteenth birthday and never been kissed," Stiles taunted.

"You mean I'm a teenager already?" Jimmy asked.

"Well, we won't know for sure how old we are until we find a solid referent," Ali suggested. "But I'd bet money on it. Hey," he suddenly exclaimed, "that makes me seventeen too!"

The kids pondered their plight and all the time they had missed.

"Don't worry, Henrietta," Perry offered. "I am 540 years old by now and have yet to be kissed either."

* * *

Stiles spent the afternoon transferring the stores of food from the courier back onto the ship. He readily agreed to complete the chore alone because he admitted it was his fault the stuff was there in the first place. He apologized for causing such a stir, and for insisting on using the shuttle. Henrietta was impressed, and mentioned something about him actually starting to act like a human being. Whatever that meant, he thought. In actuality, Stiles volunteered to get away from the others and access the ship privately again through the courier's remote com station. He input a manual message to the ship again, being extra sure his request could not be overheard. Can't be too careful, he realized.

"Private communication initiated," Perry replied.

Stiles thought for a moment about exactly what to say. "As you know, we will not be abandoning you."

"For which I am appreciative, Stiles," Perry said.

"Uh-huh; and I had a lot to do with that decision."

"Oh, I did not know that. My records indicate several conversations where you adamantly suggested utilizing the shuttle as an escape vehicle."

"Like any good commander, I was keeping all options open. Peter actually suggested the shuttles first, when you were still inoperable. I disagreed, but like I said, it is important to consider all available options."

"That is understandable. I appreciate you... what is the term? Standing up for me."

"That's all right. I'm glad to help. You remember what I said before about seniority."

"Of course, Stiles."

"Good. There's another protocol I must discuss with you. The Academy is insistent on certain... security requirements."

"I am aware of several security protocols. Would you care for me to list them?"

"No, that won't be necessary. But there's a special one called the Commander's Prerogative that is not listed in the manuals for compartmental secrecy. I am choosing to utilize one now."

"Understood, Stiles," Perry replied.

"I order you to keep these conversations secret from all the others. We'll be having several more sessions like this as well. Nothing from these talks can be leaked out for maximum security reasons."

"Accepted."

"Very good. We'll get along splendidly, then. Terminate external connection."

Stiles smiled. His plan was working wonderfully.

* * *

Jimmy, Ali, Henrietta, and Peter met outside the galley at 1800 hours. As they entered they saw Stiles already there, imperiously telling everyone to sit down. Amazingly, he was volunteering to prepare the night's supper. Jimmy looked on suspiciously, wondering what nefarious plan Stiles had in mind. The new arrivals reluctantly took their seats and watched in wonder as Stiles hummed a tune at the main processor. No one said a word for five minutes.

"You need a hand over there?" Henrietta finally asked.

"No, I got it. Just relax," Stiles replied.

Henrietta glanced at Peter and shrugged her shoulders. Wide-eyed, she silently shook her head and mouthed 'I have no idea.'

Peter tried to contain himself, but the more he tried, the harder it was. He broke out in laughter, causing everyone else at the table to lose control as well. Soon, everyone was giggling so hard they could hardly catch their breath.

"What?" Stiles asked, turning around.

"Nothing," Peter replied. "Just wondering who you are, and what you did with Stiles."

"Funny," Stiles replied deadpan. He turned back to his brewing concoction. "Try to do a favor, and see what it gets you."

"Oh, don't let us stop you," Henrietta interjected. "You're doing just fine."

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles said dejectedly. It looked as though he was about to give up, as he placed the massive spoon down on the countertop.

"Actually, it smells pretty good," Henrietta observed.

"I can cook, you know." Encouraged, Stiles turned and went back to his duties. Several minutes later, Stiles juggled four plates over to the waiting crew, proudly displaying something resembling lasagna, smothered in rich, creamy cheese.

Ali looked down longingly at his plate. "You did this?"

"Yeah." He went back to the processor and brought over a plate for himself. He warily sat down next to Ali.

Ali put his head over the steaming food and drank in the aroma, with his eyes contentedly closed.

Everyone waited for Stiles to begin, but Stiles graciously motioned to their plates instead. "Go ahead and try it," he offered.

Ali did not need to be asked twice. He ceremoniously picked up his fork and sawed off a crispy corner of flat noodles and bubbling cheese. He raised the heaping fork to his mouth, closed his lips around it, and slipped the food slowly off the utensil. Ali's eyes closed again as he chewed. "This is..." Ali nodded his head slowly, smiling softly and making sure he finished chewing before finishing his sentence. "... really good...."

Taking their cues from the culinary expert, the others quickly tore into their dinners. "Wow," Henrietta exclaimed, fanning the hot food inside her mouth. "Stiles, you dog. You've been holding out on us."

Stiles blushed at the compliment as he tried his portion. "Eh, it's okay. Not as good as my mom's, though."

"Gee, I wish I'd tried hers, then," Jimmy replied. "This stuff is Italian, right? I've never had Italian."

"Uh-huh," Stiles answered. "My grandma back on New Capital used to cook this all the time. I only wish I knew how to make hard bread. It's no good without it."

"Who needs bread," Peter exclaimed, scrapping up the last morsel of food. "If I had a wish, I'd wish for more of this."

"Me too," Ali said dreamily. He had not looked so satisfied since they left the base.

Stiles waited until Henrietta finished her meal before he dared move. He got up and collected their plates, "Wait until you see what's for dessert," he bragged.

"There's more?" Jimmy asked. "I thought we were on rations."

"We are," Stiles replied, "but this is a special occasion."

"Occasion? Which one?" Peter asked suspiciously.

Stiles bent down and pulled a chocolate cake from the warming oven. "Well, between the five of us, we've missed fifteen birthdays in our journey out here—assuming Peter Pan knows what he's been talking about, of course." He sat the small cake down on the table between his companions. "So, I figured this could be a communal birthday celebration. I used a little of Lieutenant Wilkins' chocolate."

It looked more like a large cupcake than a true birthday cake, but it did look good.

"Good idea," Henrietta said. A trace of a smile formed on Stiles' face, but was gone as soon as it appeared.

"You know," Ali pondered out loud, "Stiles brings up a good point. Let's assume we did take five hundred years to get here. That would make this Year 500, so this isn't Year 1 after all."

"Always the engineer," Henrietta complained. "So shouldn't we just add five hundred years and call it 2865?"

Ali shook his head, "We'll never be exactly sure how far we travelled until we return to the Colonies, or at least fix on a solid reference point. So saying it is 2865 is assuming too much accuracy. Anyway, we need to establish an identity of our own, so let's celebrate Year 500 too."

"Plus," Stiles added as an afterthought, "we might as well celebrate getting away from Antares in one piece."

"Huh," Ali replied, "I guess being alive is a good enough cause to celebrate."

Henrietta began leading the group in a birthday song, with Ali and Jimmy reluctantly joining in. Peter's chin sank to his chest as he gazed at the table.

Henrietta stopped singing. Soon, the others stopped too. "What's wrong, Peter?" she asked.

Peter stared at the cake, teary-eyed. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself.

"Peter?" Henrietta persisted.

"I half-convinced myself my dad might have survived that attack. But I just realized nobody we know back home is still alive, whether they survived the attack or not. Not even my mom. Probably not even any of the kids of anyone we knew. They can't be after five hundred years." After sulking for three heartbeats, Peter began laughing dryly.

"And what's so funny now," Stiles asked.

Peter smirked a final time. "Just thinking," he replied, "the amount of time we've been gone? Go back that same amount of time before we left, and the English Colonies in the New World on Old Earth were just a recent memory. Steamboats were the thing of the day."

Stiles stared at Peter. "You sure know how to spoil a party."

"Sorry."

"That's alright," Henrietta added, "I hadn't really thought much about that either until now." She suddenly looked almost as sad.

"Yeah, well," Stiles said, "the survivors continue on. That's life. Live with it." He produced a knife out of thin air and cut the small cake into five equal pieces. The kids ate their treat in silence, not mentioning how good it really was.

* * *

"No, Henrietta, I believe the best way to view this is by assuming secondary backups will override primary defaults."

Perry was currently in a heated debate with Henrietta over emergency scenarios. The present one was similar to what they experienced after leaving K-T-space, but in this case due to a missile strike. She suggested Perry's link to consciousness was impaired and asked how the crew could keep the ship in operation.

Ali installed a firewall so Perry would lose the ability to shut down ship systems unless he was able to input a random pass code that changed every three milliseconds. The software was accessible to Perry on an external link, and as long as he was fully functional he could retrieve the current number and reinitialize his access to operations. If the numbers differed, Perry would be closed off from the supervisory data access, thus turning operations to fully manual.

The question posed to Perry was how the ship would respond in the time interval between when he went offline to when Ali could assume manual control.

"So, what you're saying," Henrietta assumed, "is that the primaries are only applicable for normal ship operations."

"That is correct. The primary defaults can handle normal day-to-day decisions, but if we are currently under attack, as confirmed by tactical systems being online for more than three milliseconds, the secondary backups revert to total ship defense, and will instruct the ship to seek an area as far away from any external powered sources as possible. In other words, it will conduct a strategic withdrawal at maximum allowable speed until the system is manually overridden. Throughout that time, I will be shut out of any decisional operations until an external engineering source—that would normally be Ali—grants me renewed access."

"And just coming out of K-T-space?" Henrietta asked.

"Tactical is always activated prior to jumping, so we revert to a defensive mode whenever we jump back into normal space."

She thought about that for a few minutes. "I guess," she relented uncertainly.

"Ali is certain of that logic, as am I. I have run five thousand simulations since installation, and every one has concluded successfully. We even applied it to the Sigma Bootis simulation, and I survived each conditional run."

"Well, it must be good, then," Henrietta concluded.

"What's good?" Peter asked, stepping onto the bridge.

They spent their first day traveling back to the entry point to Antares in relative ease. During that time, the kids were recovering from the stress of saving themselves from certain death. Now, they were just taking it easy, and installing software patches to Perry's operating systems as they found the time.

"We were talking about these default running parameters Ali and Perry have dreamed up," Henrietta replied.

Perry started humming. Henrietta recognized the tenor of the hum as mild annoyance.

"Henrietta," Perry interjected, "you should recall, I do not dream."

"Yes, I remember. No need reminding me."

"That statement would appear to contradict what I have just heard you say," Perry insisted.

"Yes, it would," Henrietta replied, equally annoyed. "Let's just leave it at that."

"If you wish...."

Peter enjoyed watching Henrietta turn red.

"Perry," Henrietta remarked, "do you always need to get the last word in?"

"No."

"Okay, then."

"Fine...."

"Ugh," Henrietta shouted. "All these men onboard; I give up!" Henrietta stalked to the navigation station and switched on the display. She pretended to study the ship's progress through the nebular clouds.

"Peter, was it something I said?" Perry asked.

"That's likely. Let me give you some advice about women; something always to remember. First, whatever they say is right, and second, let them always have the last word."

"Hello," Henrietta called out. "I'm still over here." She continued talking in Portuguese, just slightly under her breath. Switching back to Standard, she said, "And what do you know about women?"

"See?" Peter asked the ship in triumph.

"I shall remember your advice," Perry replied, "as opposed to Henrietta's propensity in displaying questionable recall."

If Peter could see in the infrared, he would have enjoyed watching heat waves emanating from Henrietta's flushed face. "I think you two have been working together far too much," Peter suggested.

"I agree," Henrietta mumbled.

"Peter," Perry began.

"Perry, privacy please," Peter requested.

Perry's subtle "annoyance" hum returned. "Complying...."

Peter swung the com chair around to face Henrietta. "You've been working non-stop for, what, nine days?"

"I guess."

"And your efforts saved our lives. Even Ali couldn't do what you've accomplished. But look, you need a break. We're doing fine now, so take some time off. Just for yourself. Maybe we can do something in the gym."

Henrietta considered Peter's suggestion for a moment. "But gee, Peter, if we are really six hundred light-years away from home, I can't see how everything is okay. I don't think we can rest until we get back to the colonies."

"Then you got a long wait ahead of you. You'll burn out if you don't relax."

Henrietta pouted. "You really think we're that far away?"

Peter looked at the nav screen Henrietta was using, and cleared his throat, wondering if he should continue down the path Henrietta was opening. He decided he had nothing to lose, "See, I had this vision, sort of, when we first came out of jump. My grandfather talked to me."

"He talked to you...."

"Sorta. He believed in Spirit Guides. It's a Cheyenne thing, and he told me we traveled a long way. Beyond where any eagle has ever flown."

"And you believe this?"

"I don't know—"

There was a concerned voice coming from behind Peter. "Spirit Guides!"

Peter turned around and saw Stiles standing at the bridge entryway, casually leaning a shoulder against the wall. His arms were folded menacingly across his chest. "You're seeing your dead grandfather now? We're betting our lives on a nut!"

"Stiles," Henrietta began.

"No," Stiles shot back, "I'm serious. He's crazy. I think all this space addled his brain."

Peter turned red and hung his head low. Why did I open my mouth?

"Peter's not crazy."

"I don't know what your definition of crazy is, but I know mine. And he fits the bill."

Peter needed to explain fast, "Stiles...."

Stiles threw up his hands defensively. "I don't want to hear it." He looked at Peter with an ice-cold stare. "You know, I gave you way too much credit. Peter Pan was a dreamer, but at least he wasn't crazy." Stiles stormed out of the bridge as quickly as he had entered.

CHAPTER 11

**Antares Star System – Inner System**

The ship was as calm as could be as they cruised smoothly toward the far exit point, with Perry vigilantly guiding them along. It was late in the evening and the lights in the bedroom were low. All but one of the crew was fast asleep, but not all were tired enough to fall asleep. So, opening his PAD to his personal page, he began typing.

PERSONAL LOG, Day 9, Year 500, 2305 hours: It's been a few days since my last entry. I've been busy keeping the crew focused and in addition to that I needed to dedicate my remaining precious time to the ship. But I find myself with a few spare minutes to record what has happened in our journeys so far.

I explained last time how we escaped from the Wasatti in the nick of time and how the carelessness of others brought us so close to a red supergiant star. I would mention who messed up the jump, but that would not be right, and it is not my nature to be so mean. We'll just leave it at that, and say that I think I could have provided the crew a successful jump if things had gone my way.

It's a pity, because I know how much the human race depends on adding this powerful ship to our arsenal. But in some respects, it is good we jumped away from the Wasatti, because from this dangerous situation we find ourselves in, I learned this ship still needs a lot of testing and upgrading to be dependable. Better to learn now than in a real battle.

It is my hope this class warship will be battle-worthy as soon as we arrive back in the colonies, especially when the engineers back home see what I've done to make it better. Then, we can really take the fight to the evil bugs, and revenge our losses at Vega.

Escaping the gravity well of that supergiant was not easy, but now that it is done, I can concentrate on getting us back home. Everyone is depending on me, and the burden is heavy. We are actually a lot like early sea explorers from Old Earth; we've made it out into space further than anyone has ever been. But we are so very far away, we can't even see the colonial stars; however, my plan to retrace our steps will be successful. Of that, I'm sure.

I've determined we are still cruising in the nebula surrounding Antares, and once we get out of the clouds, we can begin our passage home in earnest.

It is unfortunate that the ship is keyed into Campbell's DNA. That has made it difficult for me to gain control of the ship, but for the sake of this mission, I know I cannot relent. Without me in command, I am sure we are doomed. I just hope I do not hurt their feelings when I take my rightful place.

-Stiles Essen, Inner System, Antares Space.

* * *

Stiles woke up the next morning refreshed and ready to face the new day. He realized his best prospect of being recognized as the savior of the mission was with the courier as they fell helplessly toward Antares, but he could not obsess over it. New opportunities would surely come his way. I just have to find the right moment, he realized. And, he reflected, an attack on multiple fronts should allow at least one thrust to get through.

With renewed confidence, he dressed quickly and made his way to the galley for breakfast. As he entered, he saw all but Jimmy already there.

Peter looked up as Stiles walked to the food preparation counter. "Morning, Stiles," Peter offered grudgingly.

"Hello, Peter."

"What, no Peter Pan today?"

Stiles continued to dial in a quick snack. Pulling it out of the heater, he replied, "Thought I'd give it a rest today. Where's Null-Grav?"

"So much for a break," Henrietta observed.

Ali laughed at the comment. "We were wondering the same. Hardly saw Jimmy at all yesterday."

"Probably hiding under his bed in a pool of his own urine."

"Stiles...." Henrietta cautioned. "And here I thought you were trying to be nice." She put on a disappointed face.

"Well, I was." Stiles sat down a few feet from the trio and started eating. He looked at the bland food, wondering if it was worth finishing. "Uh, you know," Stiles began, "now that we're out of danger, we need to consider the chain of command on the ship."

"We already have," Ali answered quickly, "the ship is bonded to Peter. Final answer."

"No, it's not," Stiles continued. "I've had the most experience with leadership. I've been training for it all my life, and it takes a strong mind to make command decisions—"

"Which leaves you out," Ali finished for him.

Stiles put his spoon down and ticked off a finger, preparing to argue, "Now wait just a minute; first, I'm the oldest."

Ali broke in, "Only by a couple months."

"But still the oldest," Stiles argued. "Second," a second finger went up, "I've completed a long history of leadership classes, teambuilding seminars, and the like. No one else here can say that."

Ali looked bored, and pretended to sleep.

"Third," Stiles continued, ignoring Ali's antics, "Peter doesn't have what it takes to make a hard decision in a life-threatening situation."

Ali twirled his finger, with an unsaid "whoopty-doo" hanging in the air. Even so, Ali could not stay silent for long. "But then again, he's not suicidal, so with him in command we won't face any life-threatening situations."

Stiles was about to argue but was interrupted before he could begin. "He's right," Peter said quietly. "Someday, there might be a time when a decision needs to be made that would hurt someone in order to save the rest; maybe even real bad. I don't think I could do that."

"Which is why I still want you in command," Ali said. "A commander doesn't need to be ruthless; he should be compassionate first."

"Tell us that when we're falling into another star," Stiles argued.

"Yeah, and I'll probably get the chance to tell you that exact thing—if we put you in command," Ali retorted. "You're the reason we fell into the Antares well in the first place."

"Hey, I didn't initiate that jump."

"Please, let's not get into that argument again," Peter suggested. "What's done is done. We need to move on."

"I agree," Henrietta suggested. "But that doesn't answer the question about leadership. We could bring it to a vote."

"Why bother," Stiles said. "I'd only lose. Look, I'm only doing what I think is right for the ship and crew." He thought for a minute, "All right, how about this: let Peter stay in command, but I'm first officer. I have the experience he can use."

Ali started to argue, but Peter interrupted him. "I think that's fair. I really think I could use Stiles' help. He sees things differently than me, and that'll make me think. If you're agreeable, Stiles, I'd also like you to be Tactical and the shuttle pilot. You get all the military stuff."

Stiles grinned, "I'll go along with that."

"Great," Peter replied. "That's four positions already. Ali, you're a natural ships' engineer. You okay with that?"

"Sure."

"And me?" Henrietta asked. "What's my job?"

"Well, medical officer, definitely," Peter suggested. "Plus we need a load master, at least when we get supplies."

Henrietta nodded her agreement.

"But that won't keep you busy; at least most of the time. I'll also teach you astrogation at the navigation station, if you're willing. That should fill in your down-time. You'll now be 'Nav' on the bridge. A few deep-teach sessions and we'll all be pros."

"What the heck, I might as well learn Nav too," Henrietta replied. "I think I can handle that."

Peter looked pleased. "Cool. And as for Jimmy, I'll see if he's interested in comp and com. He'd be good at those."

"All right," Stiles concluded. "That's settled, then. See, everyone; that wasn't so difficult."

"I don't know about that," Ali mumbled, "sounded way too easy to me."

* * *

Now that they were a crew, they decided to try out their new roles. Henrietta made her way to deck one and began assessing what her new "Medical Department" consisted of. It was smallish—more like what a small-town general practitioner would have—but she knew it would serve the five-person crew more than adequately. In fact, there were enough diagnostic and regeneration cubicles in medical for all of them to use at once—a situation she hoped would never be needed.

She was suddenly proud of her clinic; it looked so sparkly and squeaky clean. It was full of fancy machines, cool-looking beds with all kinds of monitors, and drawers full of stainless steel utensils. It also shared facilities with the ship's adjacent laboratories and the larger environmental section further to the front of the ship. Henrietta realized the location would also be convenient for her duties as load master, as the storage bays were on the same deck, but just to the rear along the shortened deck. As navigator, though, she would need to thread her way through nearly the entire height of the ship, all the way from deck one to deck six.

Well, at least that'll keep me in shape, she realized. Thinking of staying in shape convinced her that her first duty as medical would be to draw up an exercise schedule for crew use of the gym. In the past ten days, they did nothing physical and if they were not careful it would become a habit. She consulted some on-line manuals and settled on a minimum of one hour per day of cardio for everyone, plus an hour session a week where everyone joined in with some communal physical game.

"Perry," Henrietta called out.

"Yes?"

"Locate all crew and run an immediate medical diagnostic on everyone, including me. Report any anomalies." She purposely pressed her palm on the armrest of her chair, offering the ship access to her tissue samples.

"Noticing your current location is in medical, I assume you are taking on that role."

"That's correct," she replied.

"Just a moment, Henrietta. This will constitute an initial baseline reading for all crew." Perry purred as he carried out his new duties.

That's his "happy purr," Henrietta decided. He must enjoy staying busy. Maybe he needs exercise too.

Perry could monitor all crew simultaneously through various spectral frequencies, determining overall health from minuscule temperature readings to organic chemistry residues evaporating from their bodies. Not only was this beneficial for monitoring individual crew health, but Perry took several similar readings a day anyway to regulate the chemistry of the ship's environmental systems. If toxin levels from physiological activity suddenly flooded the atmosphere, Perry would need to adjust the scrubbing routines. Continual monitoring was the only way to be sure the environment remained healthy.

The monitoring was also a good way to ensure good crew health. If there was a problem with a crewmember's liver or kidney, for example, subtle temperature tell-tales emanating from the abdomen through the skin would be noted. Increased amounts of alkaloids eliminated through anyone's sweat would point to various organs in dysfunction, tying specific compounds to specific diseases.

Perry unobtrusively swiped real-time perspiration and skin cell samples from whatever parts of the crew's bodies happened to be in contact with the ship without them even noticing. From chemical records of recycled eliminated wastes, he could also diagnose specific health problems comparable to a full suite of medical testing.

When Perry was finished with his surreptitious probing, he reported his results. "All crew are in generally excellent health, although all of you are experiencing anywhere from a 0.03 to 0.06 percent deficiency in bone mass below normal recommendations. These bone mass readings are within acceptable ranges, but corrective measures are suggested.

Perry paused a second before continuing. "There is an atypical imbalance in Peter's lymphocyte count in his blood that is likely the result of the radiation dose he accumulated upon close approach to Antares. He has a forty–three percent probability of developing leukemia within fifteen years unless corrective measures are implemented. The probability increases exponentially the longer the treatment is withheld. Prophylactic, directed nanoradiation therapy is suggested.

"Blood pressures for everyone are at resting norm, except for Ali, with a current count of 145 over 100 and rising.

"You, Henrietta, are 2.5 days beyond your peak fertility."

Henrietta blushed at the last comment.

"I have also just noted a sudden temperature elevation in your lower cranial section, indicative of embarrassment. This reading may also be an indicator of influenza, if temperatures continue at this elevated level for the remainder of the day."

"Thank you, that was very thorough. Okay; let's set Peter up with his therapy after dinner tonight. Scan the medical archives and suggest a regimen we can use for him. Send the results to my PAD."

"Done. I will instruct him as soon as there is a break in activity on the bridge."

Henrietta was worried about Peter, but she thought they caught the problem in time. She wondered what would have happened had she not ordered the diagnostics, cringing at the thought. "So, Ali is straining a little bit."

"Correct; but he is also the only one who has moved an appreciable distance in the last few minutes. The elevated respiration is likely a byproduct of that recent mobility; however, the short distances involved should not have had such a profound effect on him."

Henrietta considered the results for a moment. "Set up automatic medical examinations on a monthly basis, and report any discrepancies to me immediately, especially for Peter."

Okay, she decided, my job is to get Ali back in shape. And get Peter healthy.

* * *

Ali settled his breathing as he sank into his station in engineering. It was then—when Ali placed his hand on the armrest—that Perry used to obtain his dermal samples.

"Perry, run a full ship's diagnostic on all your systems, and report."

It took Perry ten seconds to reply. "All systems are at optimal, except navigation, which remains at yellow status. In addition, the density of the nebula clouds is impairing far-sensor efficiency by eighty–two percent."

"Thanks. Now, I want a special report on the condition of your hull. You did some things back there to adjust to the pressures and temperatures that I really didn't like."

"I assure you, all my actions were necessary to—"

"I don't dispute that," Ali interrupted, "but that doesn't mean I liked them."

"I understand. I, too, did not favor doing to my hull what I was forced to do."

"Yeah, so don't get so touchy about it," Ali argued. He immediately regretted losing his temper with the ship, "Sorry for the outburst."

"That is okay. I understand." Perry began purring. After a couple minutes he reported. "I was able to reconfigure my hull integrity to eighty–six percent of original design parameters; however I will need assistance in dry dock to reinstate the final fourteen percent. There will be a consequent decrease in hull strength, shielding, and overall repair capability. If necessary, an assisted EVA repair mission with materials on hand would bring hull integrity up to ninety–three percent."

"So, other than that, your hull feels fine?"

"Essentially, yes; although I have... an itch... below my hangar on the port side at section 2.5P183."

Ali quickly checked ship schematics to see where that was. "What's causing it?"

"Unknown. It is possible I sustained irreparable damage during the pass-by. It is possible an unrecorded solar flare affected me while I was preoccupied with other duties. The angular momentum of our passing produced a noticeable shockwave throughout the corona of Antares that generated numerous spurious stellar events."

"Hmm," Ali reflected, "we'll need to check that out."

"I would appreciate that," Perry replied. "I must say, the irritation has been driving me crazy."

* * *

Up on the bridge, Peter was sitting in the command chair, with Stiles to his lower right. The view screen showed them making their way through the yellow and red gas clouds of Antares space.

The nebula was by no means uniform and there were times when it blanked out all visibility and other times when they were afforded veiled glimpses of space outside the clouds. It was thrilling to watch, but Peter silently admitted to himself that it was a little boring. It was like watching a movie with no plot. He started to wonder if the whole trip back would be this way. He wanted a little excitement, but at the same time realized that thrills would not necessarily be a good thing. Boredom probably meant staying alive, which should be their number one duty.

Did Mom and Dad feel this way too, when they were at the command post five hundred years ago? He never thought of it until now. Previously, he always fantasized that his mom and dad lived lives of extreme adventure, like super-action heroes, but he wondered now if it had been a life of pure tedium. So, was that going to be his lot in life now too? He did not know, but he had to put on a good show for the others, and was determined to look stern and important as the captain of the ship. He absently rubbed the armrest of the command chair, not knowing that Perry was probing the palm of his hand as he did so.

Jimmy was sitting at com, obviously bored out of his skull with no one outside the ship to contact. He was occupying his time doodling with a graphics program. Peter glanced at what he was doing, but could not recognize Jimmy's subject, other than random sketches. He wondered if he should scold him for not paying attention to his duties, but the thought made Peter laugh. He wondered what those duties really were. It was not like they were flying in the middle of civilization, or as part of a war fleet. So what if Jimmy's bored? So am I, and probably the rest of us. Doesn't really matter, I guess, Peter decided.

Peter was startled out of his woolgathering when the internal com chimed. It was Ali, down in engineering. He calmed down his racing heart and opened the link.

"Hey guys," Ali said, "there's something up with Perry's hull."

"Is it serious?" Peter asked.

"I don't think so, but Perry and I agree it should be checked out. Here's the location."

An outside schematic of the ship appeared on tactical, with a red light blinking at one location on the lower port aft side. Stiles rotated the schematic on his screen and zoomed in on the spot. "That's pretty close to where Hamadi is right now," Stiles observed.

"Near engineering?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, just above," Stiles replied. "Maybe only fifty feet, or so."

"I don't like anomalies near critical areas," Peter reflected.

"And I don't like anomalies, anywhere," Ali added.

Jimmy closed his graphics program, suddenly interested in this new mystery. "So what do we do about it?" Jimmy asked.

Ali answered him. "Perry and I did whatever we could with auto-diagnostics. Like I said, it's an anomaly we can't resolve. Perry says it's like an itch."

"You telling me he has a rash?" Stiles asked.

"Well, he is organic. Like all living things, it points to something wrong that shouldn't be ignored. We need to investigate." There was silence while they pondered the best way to carry out the investigation.

Anticipating what everyone was thinking, Stiles eagerly offered, "Use the shuttle?"

"We could, as a last resort," Peter replied. "But—sorry, Stiles—without more practice I'm not sure you should be maneuvering that close to the ship."

Stiles looked dejected, but did not appear willing to argue.

"How about EVA?" Peter suggested.

"That's a possibility," Ali said, "but none of us has any spacewalk experience. Plus, radiation is still pretty high out there. Remote drones would be easier. Less danger, too...."

"Wait a minute. Remote drones!" Peter shouted. "Why didn't anyone tell me we had drones?"

"We didn't, until recently. Now that all systems are up and running Perry does have a few we could use."

"Sure would have helped when we first entered the system," Peter complained.

"Excuse me," Ali replied defensively, "security had them locked out until Henrietta cured Perry's consciousness. But yeah, lots of things would have helped back then. We've come a long way since. I'm ready to send one out...."

Peter did not hesitate. "Do it," he commanded.

Peter consulted his tactical command screen as Ali launched the small drone. The small blip separated from the front of their ship like a tiny torpedo. It slowed down to a relative stop and began a lazy turn back toward Perry.

"Successful launch," Ali declared. "I'm configuring the camera now." From engineering, Ali pressed his control screen and the camera began broadcasting what it saw.

Peter switched the main view screen to the remote feed and saw a grainy image of Perry's front speeding through space.

"Is that me?" Perry asked.

"Sure is," Peter replied.

Perry purred loudly. "Oh, I see. I've seen schematics and pictures of my superstructure while I was being built, but this is the first time I've actually seen myself as whole."

"So, what do you think?" Peter asked.

"I am not sure. I look good, I guess. I can see stars and nebula reflected off my hull. I would believe you would say that is aesthetically pleasing."

As Perry continued to absently hum, the drone passed over the bridge and veered off to port. The skin of the ship passed underneath the drone as it continued toward the aft sections. It quartered the ship and then slowed down as it reached a level between decks three and two. For a moment the drone slowed to exactly match Perry's forward velocity and lingered over one spot.

"Perry, can you locate where we are in relation to your irritated spot?" Ali asked.

"The drone is currently 243 feet forward, and 24 feet up-deck of the target location."

"Stand by," Ali replied. He rolled the drone so the surface of the drone containing the camera was directly over the ship. He tilted the lens until it was perfectly perpendicular. "How's that?"

Peter followed the action on the main view screen. "Looks fine to me, Ali. Zoom in just a bit, though."

The magnification increased until they could resolve objects down to ten feet. Ali commanded the drone to continue its flight, and hull sections quickly passed by the camera.

"Ali, you are getting close now," Perry replied. "I suggest you decrease relative velocity to 0.5 fps."

The drone slowed to a crawl, and all eyes centered on the view screen.

"Nothing yet," Peter observed anxiously. The tension was mounting as the drone approached the affected area. Finally, something came into view.

"Hey," Jimmy yelled, "what's that? It looks dark; kinda like soot sprayed all over the hull."

"Where?" Stiles asked craning his neck. "I don't see anything."

"Ali, stop it there," Jimmy suggested.

The drone held still as Ali complied. Indeed, there were dark patches along Perry's hull, like faint shadows. They were oblong, and a faint trace of movement could be detected. It looked like branches swaying in a gentle breeze. "See, right there," Jimmy declared.

"Increase resolution to max and zoom in," Peter commanded. As the view increased, the forms resolved into two distinct objects.

"Hey," Jimmy exclaimed, "those look like Wasatti warriors!"

Peter slowly recognized what Jimmy saw. "Huh." Peter stared at the interlopers. He laughed nervously. "Well, there're your ghosts, Jimmy."

Jimmy looked mad being reminded of the night he first heard the hull creaking, and tried to ignore the barbed comment. "What are they doing out there?" Jimmy asked.

"They must have latched on just before we entered K-T-space and got carried along with us," Peter offered.

"Are they still alive?"

"No, Null-Grav, they can't be," Stiles replied. "They've been without food and supplies for five hundred years." The kids stared in silence at the two large warriors. Each one was bigger than the drone itself.

The drone made a couple lazy circuits around the two intruders. The bridge crew made sure the bodies were not moving under power, but instead were simply swaying to unseen perturbations before they dared say anything. It was as though the kids did not want to reveal their presence to the errant boarders. The camera zoomed in uncomfortably close until they could resolve the faces of the Marines under their combat visors. Although obviously dead, they still looked angry. Peter saw pure determination in their tar-black eyes as they lifelessly stared back into the camera lens. It was obvious from their expression they knew they were just seconds from accomplishing their mission, only to be stopped by the fierce and lethal effects of entering the alien dimensions of K-T-space without protection. And the anger frozen in their stony eyes easily overrode the absolute terror they must have felt in their final seconds.

"Are you sure they're really dead?" Jimmy asked timidly.

"Aw, come on," Stiles insisted, "five hundred years out there? Look at 'em; they're mummies. Cockroach mummies."

Perry hummed, as if he wanted to interrupt the conversation. "Excuse me, but my understanding of the common cockroach does not coincide with your observations. Gromphadorhina portentosa empirensis, of planet Empire at Iota Persei, is the largest cockroach ever recorded, at twenty–five inches. It is a close relative of the terrestrial Madagascar hissing cockroach that is believed to have stowed away on Empire's first colonial ships as they departed Old Earth in 2166. The individuals we are examining are nearly five times their size. I find it difficult to believe these are cockroaches."

"No, that's the nickname we give the Wasatti," Stiles clarified, "because they look like roaches."

"Ah, another of Stiles' nicknames... I see."

"They do look mummified," Ali observed. He glided the drone even closer to the faceplate of one of the warriors and shone a light onto its face. He used a remote arm to try to move the torso away from the hull to get a better look, but the bug was firmly attached to the ship.

"Perfectly preserved," Peter observed. "No air out there, right Ali?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"So does that mean those two are the first captive Wasatti?"

"Well," Stiles replied, "I bet after five centuries, the humans back at the colonies have succeeded long before this."

"Maybe," Peter said distractedly. He was fascinated with the prospect, though. "Ali, can you pull one of those things in?"

"No, not enough power with this drone. If we want 'em, we'll need to go out and get 'em."

"Well, that's exactly what we'll do, but not quite yet. The background radiation out there is still higher than I'd like. Let's wait for the rem count to fall off." Peter stared into the eyes of the insect Marine, wondering what it was thinking before it died. Did it push the button for one of the missiles that killed my dad? Peter wondered. He hated the look of it. "I don't think they're doing any harm out there."

"Probably not, but let's not wait forever to send out the exterminator," Stiles replied.

"Guys, there's not much more I can do with this drone," Ali observed. "Should I bring it back in?"

Peter finally tore his eyes off the intruder, but the more he looked at it, the more personal it became. He would get that thing inside and have Henrietta dissect every square inch of it. And I'll watch the whole show, he decided. "Ali," Peter said, "run the drone along the rest of the hull. I want to make sure no more of those bugs are attached to my ship. After you're done, I want an inventory of all ship's systems by the end of the day. I didn't know about those drones before, and I need to know about every tool I have at my disposal."

"I can't do that by tonight, Peter," Ali replied. "I'll need more time."

"You have until the end of tomorrow then, but I want that list."

There was silence for two whole minutes as Peter waited for the reply. Jimmy fidgeted nervously in his seat while they waited for Ali to acknowledge the order.

"Yessir," Ali finally responded. He did not sound happy.

The com was severed from below without warning. He'll just have to get used to working around my schedule, Peter decided.

Peter watched the remainder of the drone's flight as it surveyed Perry's hull. After a complete inspection, the view screen went black. Apparently, Ali switched off the camera and sent the drone back to the hangar for retrieval. Not another word came up from engineering.

Perry hummed again, as if clearing his throat. "Peter, I have a medical directive from Henrietta. You are to report to medical after dinner tonight for nanoradiation therapy. This will be the first daily session, over the course of eight days."

Jimmy and Stiles looked over at Peter in concern.

"What's this about?" Peter asked.

"Henrietta conducted an evaluation of all crew as part of her first medical duties. You are exhibiting the initial signs of precancerous growth in your bone marrow that must be treated as soon as possible. Fortunately, it is not even at stage one yet, so the prognosis is excellent. If I may add my unsolicited observations, Henrietta most likely just added an additional fifty–four years to your overall life expectancy."

Peter stared at the greenish walls of the bridge, unable to find words to reply. The semi-organic room suddenly took on the appearance of the diseased organs Peter imagined he could feel growing inside his body.

* * *

PERSONAL LOG, Day 10, Year 500, 2130 hours: I've made a huge discovery—the first-ever recorded capture of Wasatti. This will prove to be a tremendous intelligence coup for the human race, and makes our return to the Colonies that much more essential. Even at the possibility of personal sacrifice, I will find a way to get this knowledge to my people.

Had I been able to utilize the shuttle to confirm the presence of the roaches, we'd have the specimens in our laboratories right now, but yet again I was superseded by poorly thought-out decisions. Peter decided to use a simple drone to assess the Wasatti captives, and if for some reason we lose them before I can bring them in, the failure will rest squarely on his shoulders. The poor boy is trying his best, but simply is not up to the task.

Speaking of which, he looked so pale after dinner tonight. He began his therapy, and I needed to console him to keep his spirits up. The slightest hardship is a terrible burden on him; he just does not realize what a strain command can be. I only hope his health improves!

Be that as it may, we are fortunate that I am here to carry this mission, no matter what hardships may befall us.

-Stiles Essen, Inner System, Antares Space.

* * *

Stiles logged out of his encrypted partition, closed down his PAD and put it away. He dialed the lights to medium intensity. "Perry?"

"Yes, Stiles?"

"Clarify what would happen upon the death of the captain of a ship while out on patrol?"

"Clarification of parameters needed. Is said ship part of fleet operations, with personnel more senior to the second-in-command within range, or is it currently patrolling alone?"

"Patrolling alone."

"The first officer, or acting first officer if the first is also incapacitated at the time, would automatically assume command."

"That's what I thought," Stiles replied. "And could anyone interrupt that change of command?"

"Only the medical officer, if he or she determines that the first officer is mentally or physically unfit for duty."

"No one else?"

"No, Stiles. That is inviolable."

"And if the medical officer is determined to be incompetent?"

"That would be a very unusual circumstance, but if so, the first officer cannot be superseded," Perry replied.

"Another question: what happens if the captain is incapacitated; you know, like sick?"

"That would be similar to the above logic stream. Only the medical officer can make that determination, and if so determined, the next-in-command would assume responsibility until such time as the captain can resume duties, as determined by the chief medical officer."

Gee, Stiles thought, poor Peter Pan is sick. What bad luck... for him. I wonder if he hears the crocodile's ticking.

Stiles thought back to his last deep-teach session about Napoleon consolidating his power. Do not act until all pieces are set in place. He also recalled that Napoleon was a master at controlling the media. Use propaganda to turn a defeat into a victory. As long as the masses don't know the details, you can remain their hero and savoir. Control the way history is written, and history will prove your actions correct.

"Perry, you may not know something about humans that I think is important."

"I would appreciate the advantages of your insights, Stiles."

"See, even if a person is healthy... sometimes they are obsessed with worrying about things. For example, poor Peter just found out about his illness, right?"

"That is correct; however, he should fully recover."

"Yes, thank God. But, well, his concentration can be affected if he worries too much. And if that takes place, he may not think straight. We're not like you. You can think of a zillion things at once."

"Not a zillion, but—"

"Yeah, I know. Point is: Peter might not be competent if he worries too much about his illness."

"I should apprise Henrietta of this possibility."

"No, no; that's not necessary. She actually told me. 'Sides, you'd hurt her feelings if you reminded her of that. It would look like you didn't trust her medical abilities. You don't want to do that, do you?"

"I would not wish to cause Henrietta any mental, or physical, harm."

"Good; me either. She's so sweet. So, between all of us, we need to keep an eye on Peter; for his own good. If you see him do anything that appears to be odd—you know, like not logical like you would do in his place—just mention to Henrietta that you think his illness is impairing him. But be subtle, so you don't hurt her feelings."

"Thank you, Stiles. I appreciate your concern."

"Hey, I'm only trying to help."

CHAPTER 12

**Antares Star System – Inner System**

Perry was enjoying his cruise from Antares like a puppy on his first walk on a bright and sunny day. Everything he saw seemed fresh and new. Until now, he was preoccupied with vital, distracting matters. After narrowly escaping the Wasatti menace, his first jump lasted five hundred long years. That was pure agony for Perry, spending all that time alone in the empty void of K-T-space.

He was aware of his mind-numbing boredom as he fell into the pit of time. He would have gone completely insane if he were human, like a man condemned for life in sensory deprivation. A couple hours deprived of all senses was all it took, but for Perry it had been over 182 thousand days. It was a wonder Henrietta was able to bring him back from the brink at all.

Even so, he was still shut-out from most of his primary memory partitions; not only from damages he accumulated on his unprecedented voyage, but from the blue-key lockout shutting off most of his recall. Even that was not all he had to bear; he then needed to fight his way from the death grip of a red supergiant, coming closer to a star than any ship ever tried before.

Now that all those horrible trials were over, it was pure bliss cruising along, totally unconcerned about anything other than the simple joys of flying. Of course, he had more than enough spare memory to multitask through any situation, but this was the first time he was completely free of extraneous encumbrances. And truth be told, he was a little bored.

"You know, Henrietta, we have a tremendous opportunity to collect more scientific data about the stars around the Ten Colonies than ever before."

Henrietta was in her medical office, reviewing equipment. Although Perry did not notice, she was slightly annoyed by the interruption. "I hadn't thought of that," Henrietta replied tartly.

"Yes; already I have stored 980 exabytes of data for this system alone. And I have only just begun cataloguing the near-space of Antares. If not for the interference of the surrounding nebula, I could have gathered five times more data."

"It sounds like that makes you happy," she replied distractedly.

"I do not know if I would call myself 'happy' but I do think it is critical not to waste opportunities when presented."

"Whatever you say...."

"Do you question me?"

Henrietta made a point to stare at her screen. "Oh no," she replied. "I just think you don't exactly know yet what you're fully capable of. You're more alive than you think."

Perry thought about what she said for three microseconds. He thought it important to give it due consideration, and did not want to rush his conclusions. He respected her insights and enjoyed working with her. He actually disliked it when she slept, and could hardly wait for the arrival of each morning to begin his conversations with her anew.

Perry wondered why the nine hours away from Henrietta—while she rested—felt more like the five hundred years he experienced in K-T-space. He knew the difference was nearly 500 thousand times shorter, but it often seemed the same. How could that be? Perry wondered. "So, is part of being alive a thirst to learn new things?" he asked.

It took a moment for Henrietta to break her concentration away from her screen. "I think that is the main definition of being alive; at least for humans. A healthy person always tries to become more than what they are. Always trying to be somehow better—which, by the way, was something I was trying to do before you interrupted me."

"Oh, I see you have access to medical databases. You are studying about the regeneration units. They were state-of-the-art when we left Vega. One wonders what advances have been made in the intervening half-millennium. These may be mere toys now, compared to what is now common practice."

"You don't take hints, do you?" Henrietta asked.

"What do you need hints about, Henrietta?" Perry actually sounded eager. "If this is another exercise, I would enjoy that."

"No. What I meant is that I can't multitask like you. I can only think about two or three things at once."

"Oh, I can successfully complete over 800 trillion individual tasks at one time."

"That's nice." Henrietta began reading the on-line manuals again, conspicuously burying her head in her computer screen.

"I am grateful you can carry out three tasks at once. I shall note that for future reference. So, I was wondering—"

"Perry, I'm sorry, but I can't concentrate and talk at the same time. Those are... mutually exclusive tasks for me. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Of course, Henrietta. I am sorry to have disturbed you."

"No problem, Perry. I just got to understand this stuff."

Perry watched her return to her screen and decided to leave her alone. He would remember that talking and concentrating for her were not part of her triple-multitasking duties. He noted a slight temperature elevation in her cheeks, indicating she was embarrassed, or possibly angry. He felt bad about altering her state of happiness. He would need to do something later to make amends.

Perry looked around the ship for anything else of interest to occupy his time. He found Peter on the bridge, dutifully at command, although somewhat lost about what really needed to be done; Ali was in engineering, tweaking equipment—and what he just did felt really good; Jimmy was in his room staring at his PAD, and Stiles was walking around aimlessly between storage and manufacturing on the lower decks.

Perry came to realize they were all so different. Stiles was strong and confident. Henrietta was confident too, but very kind and considerate at the same time. I believe that has to do with morals. She actually treats me like an equal. Stiles is the senior member of the crew, but I think I like Henrietta better; possibly better than all the others. Why would I like one human over another? Perry wondered. Outwardly, it is difficult to see any differences.

He would need to think about that when he found the time. Maybe I will even spend over ten microseconds on it after I enter it into my queue. So many interesting things....

* * *

Stiles waited three hours for Henrietta to leave medical. It seemed she would never leave, but now that he had his chance he did not know how long it would last.

No time to lose.

As Henrietta entered the lift to go up-deck, Stiles stepped briskly out from manufacturing and slinked over to her door. Before he entered, he called out to Perry, "Privacy, please, for the whole forward section of this deck."

Stiles paused to be sure his actions were not recorded before entering medical. As he maneuvered around the door, he felt a thousand eyes on him. He looked around but saw no one. "Perry?"

There was no answer.

Stiles tried to make sense of what everything was inside the clinic, but it all looked so foreign. Henrietta kept her area neat, but one thing here looked much like any other. He pawed through her desk, looking over his shoulder nervously; there was nothing there. He opened all five regen units only to find each empty.

How much time do I have? Stiles wondered. He felt the skin on the back of his neck crawl as he continued looking around. Then he had an idea.

He rushed to her computer and lightly ran his fingertips through the screen; just enough to claim it was an accident if it was armed. To his surprise, it came back to where she was before she left. No computer security, he realized. That will come in handy. Now he could get to work.

Being careful to mark the page she was on so he could return to it, he thumbed through the "History" of the previous sites she visited. Stiles rapidly scanned the titles of her recent entries. Ah, here it is, he thought with relish. He settled down and absorbed as much medical information as he could.

Even though he would never understand all this stuff, Stiles was intelligent enough to pick up the essentials. All he needed was to find a few key pieces of information. "Like this one," he muttered under his breath.

"... Several substances are contraindicated with the preferred therapy, resulting in severe side effects. The following list of medications, and their effects—some including death—are listed below...."

Stiles never heard of any of those substances, but picked one that looked like it would work. Not bothering to try to decipher the medical term, he wrote down the manufacturing code and the allotment.

Now all he needed to find was where Henry left the original treatment solution. He paged up several entries. Reading through half a page of "Mixing Instructions," he found what he was searching for: "After mixing the chemicals, the vial must be stored in cold storage until use. Each vial should be mixed no more than eight hours prior to use due to slow degradation of the nanocytes."

Stiles then looked for the refrigerator. It probably isn't too big... look for a latching handle; yeah, like this one. Stiles walked up to the unit in great anticipation and opened the door. He felt a satisfying suction break as the door easily opened. Inside was a small vial. It contained five cubic centimeters of a yellow liquidly substance. He found an empty disposal container and injected a fifth of the sample into it. He then rushed to manufacturing and dialed in one cc of chemical manufacturing code RT357, whatever that was. Five minutes later—which seemed like an hour, worrying that Henrietta would soon return—Stiles took the RT357 and injected it into the original vial. The level returned to exactly five cc's and was just as yellow as it was before he tampered with it.

"Perfect," he rejoiced.

Stiles rushed the vial back to the chamber and carefully closed the door. "Well, Peter, I'm so sorry these chemicals don't mix well. Any good doctor should have known that, as the instructions clearly indicate. It really is a shame we don't have someone more experienced here in medical making proper decisions." He smiled to himself, biting back the glee he was feeling. All done; for today's treatment, that is.

Just before he left, he remembered the radiation disposal container and the manufacturing bulb he had left on the counter. He rushed back and swept them up, planning to take them to his room to hide away.

He probably should have remembered the computer screen too, but it slipped his mind. Just as he closed the medical door, he looked around the corridor one last time to be sure no one was lurking around. "Made it," he sighed with contentment. "Return to monitoring mode," he whispered as he made his way back to the lift.

Perry—or anyone else for that matter—would have no idea anyone had ever been down here.

* * *

Now that the crew had extra time on their hands, they needed to decide what to do with Lieutenant Wilkins' body. Ali went up to the cold storage room where they left Ruben back at Vega. It did not take long for him to report the grisly details to Peter. According to Ali, the lieutenant looked like a large, desiccated potato, and the air in the sealed room was unbearably sour. Before he got off the com Ali recommended they never use that room again. Peter decided not to tell the others about Ruben's condition and went up to help Ali retrieve the body. He regretted that decision immediately. No words could have described what was up there. Peter also decided it would be a long time before he ever ate potatoes again.

The boys decided to use a missile housing unit to seal what remained of the body and quickly carted it off to the rear missile room. With as much dignity as they could muster, they loaded the lieutenant's body into an ejection tube and gathered everyone on the bridge. Ali activated the view screen to the wake of the ship.

"Does anyone know anything appropriate to say?" Peter asked. Everyone remained silent. "Well, I guess I just push the button, then,"

"You can't just do that," Henrietta argued. She cleared her throat, giving her time to think. Stammering, she continued, "None of us knew Lieutenant Wilkins very well, but he seemed like a good man. He died trying to protect us and save the ship. No one could have asked for more." She looked around for help. "Does anyone have anything else to add? Ali...?"

"He knew a lot about the ship. My father always liked him. Said he always kept ahead of schedule."

Henrietta nodded gratefully and smiled. She looked toward Peter, but he just shrugged his shoulders.

"I do not think Lieutenant Wilkins liked me at all," Perry said.

"What an awful thing to say!" Henrietta scolded.

Perry hummed. "Is the truth not always appropriate?"

"Uh, there are times when saying nothing is better than saying anything bad," Henrietta said.

"Saying Lieutenant Wilkins did not like me is not saying anything bad. It is a simple statement of fact." Perry hummed.

"Well," Jimmy observed, "just because I don't like Stiles doesn't mean I should be saying it out loud... much, anyway."

"Feeling's mutual," Stiles added. "Maybe you can cozy up with the lieutenant in that metal trash can before we throw out the garbage."

It was obvious Henrietta was losing control of the situation. Instead of the somber ceremony she envisioned, this was turning into an argument about who did not like who. Giving up all hope she turned back to Peter, "Maybe you just should push that button."

Confused, Peter replied, "That's what I wanted to do in the first place." Peter turned to the control panel, "Here's to Lieutenant Ruben Wilkins. A fine officer and friend.... He will be missed. May he rest in eternal peace."

Peter pushed the missile button and the screen showed the sleek metal casket shooting off into the gas clouds. A thin, hollow trail formed in its wake as it sped away. The crew stared at the screen for a few minutes in muted silence.

"I am assessing the lieutenant's trajectory," Perry reported, "and I am happy to report that he will enter the chromosphere of Antares in 401 years."

"Why are you happy about that?" Henrietta asked perturbed. Peter wondered if everything Perry said from now on would annoy Henrietta.

"My records show that cremation is an acceptable means of final internment. Is that not so?"

Before Henrietta had a chance to add her caustic comments, Peter replied, "Yes, it is. That's good to know, Perry. It's a fitting way for a sailor to end."

"No way's fitting to die!" Henrietta cried. She stormed out of the bridge to escape the company of the others. "I'll be down in medical."

Everyone switched from looking at the view screen to watching Henrietta's dramatic exit.

"What's gotten in to her?" Peter asked. The other boys shrugged in unison.

* * *

"The more I study this system, the more interesting it becomes," Perry commented.

"Why's that?" Peter asked.

"I am not sure there is anything this complex in the human database. Antares is so large, and the companion star is far enough away, that there are a multitude of planetary bodies that have formed or been captured in this system; some mysteriously very close to the B companion yet locked onto Antares. I believe planetary particle disks were able to independently form around both stars, thus producing quite a few planets at each star. After all, there is ample source material in the nebula clouds here."

Peter was alone on the bridge after their failed attempt at a solemn funeral. Henrietta left the crew in a huff and did not contact the others since shutting herself off in her office to pout. Ali wandered to the galley for a quick lunch by himself, and Stiles and Jimmy unexpectedly went to comp together to work on the language translator. Peter was simply sitting around, staring blankly at the view screen and wondering if there was anything interesting to do. "Oh," he replied to Perry's comment. "Quite a few, huh?"

"Yes, Peter. Antares has fifteen main planets, with an aggregate total of fifty–three major satellites with diameters over 2,000 miles. If we count all the satellites, they would number in the low thousands.

"I conjecture they were packed very closely together during original formation, with many original planets being captured as satellites. It appears as though there has been quite a bit of planetary realignment throughout the short lifespan of Antares. Four additional planets co-orbit both stars in very convoluted orbits, and—so far as I can detect from this distance—there are at least three planets confined solely to the B companion star at very tight orbits. It is not beyond possibility that there are over thirty planets within the confines of the Antares nebulosity."

"That's quite a few," Peter observed. "Perry, display the system schematics on tac." Peter slipped over to the larger tactical station and studied the configuration of planets. The ninth, tenth, and fifteenth were gas giants. The last one was so large that Peter was surprised it had not formed into a brown dwarf. The two innermost planets they already passed—Alpha- and Beta-Antares-A—were airless chunks of cinder that were so close to the bloated surface of the central star that Peter was surprised they were still in orbit, but the others were far enough away to still remain a mystery enshrouded in the space clouds. "Have you detected any terrestrial atmospheres?"

"No, I have not, Peter. I am still experiencing significant interference from strong hydrogen, oxygen, and methane emissions from the surrounding nebula. It is impossible to differentiate specific planetary atmospheric gasses from the intervening interstellar elements we find ourselves within."

Peter knew there were strict requirements to be met in order to form conditions favorable to the development of a terrestrial atmosphere and hence to life. The planet needed to be similar in size to Old Earth, ideally with a mass between half and double the Earth, although several Super-Earths had been catalogued up to ten times the size of Old Earth. The planets also had to occupy a restrictive zone not too close, nor too far, from the parent star where temperatures were sufficient for liquid water on the surface to be stable. That was called the Habitable Zone. "You're having trouble determining planetary atmospheric spectra?"

"Yes, with any certainty," Perry replied.

"List the planetary mass and diameter data, then. Include the large satellites, but skip the three co-orbiting planets."

Data for the eighteen known stable planets and fifty–three satellites were displayed next to the schematic. All three planets from the B companion were too far away to know anything with certainty and displayed question marks beside them. Of the total, eight of Antares' fifteen planets and twelve moons were close to the right size. "Do you have an estimate of Antares' HZ?"

"Antares is not a typical main sequence star," Perry stated, "so it is usually not considered in such calculations. However, I would estimate the Habitable Zone to be centered at 255 AU, or about 23 billion miles."

That's a long way out, Peter realized. "So Antares' HZ is nearly half way to the B companion star?"

"Correct, in so much as supergiants have an HZ."

One main planet and a moon of a gas giant appeared to be at a suitable location, but they were a long way away from the ship.

"I should also point out," Perry continued, "that the surrounding gas clouds absorb tremendous amounts of stellar radiation, and will thus affect the HZ calculation. Due to highly variable cloud densities, the HZ will also be spatially and temporally variable. I could run a simulation through time if you wish."

"No, forget about it, Perry. With all the clouds, and the fact that Antares is not a main sequence, I doubt very much we have a CHZ here."

That was a Continuously Habitable Zone, or a region where the planet could enjoy moderate temperatures continuously for the three to four billion years necessary for advanced life to evolve.

"It would be difficult to forget about these calculations unless I delete all the astronomical observations I have made within this system to date. Is that what you wish me to do?"

"No, Perry. I meant you should not carry out the advanced HZ calcs."

Perry hummed. "That is a very strange way of answering my query, but I shall attempt to forget about it." He hummed again, and the noise started to grate on Peter's nerves, as though he were being mocked.

"Gee," Peter commented, "five minutes with you and I see why Arietta's going so wacko."

* * *

"Here I am, Arietta; reporting for duty." Peter entered medical and sat down in front of Henrietta's desk. He smiled and offered a jovial salute.

Her computer was on, and she was busily transferring notes to her PAD. Without looking up, she continued to copy over medical entries. She looked annoyed. "Between you and Perry, I can't get anything done around here."

"Sorry I bothered you. Should I come back later?"

"For what?" Henrietta snapped.

Peter looked concerned and waited for her to look up. Grudgingly, she finally did.

"For my treatment."

Henrietta placed her stylus down. She switched off her PAD and closed her eyes in shame. "No, I should be the sorry one." She hid her face in her hands. "I didn't mean to snap at you."

"So what's wrong?"

Henrietta continued to talk through her hands. "Nothing; everything... I don't know." She kneaded her forehead, trying to concentrate. "This is too much, Peter. My mom and dad are gone. I've hardly had time to think about them. I couldn't even have a funeral for them," she whined. "Why am I alive, Peter, and not them?"

"Because you happened to be on the ship at the right time."

She laughed dryly. "That's not enough."

"It really is, Arietta. It makes all the difference. Sometimes life just comes down to chance, no matter how much you think you can plan it."

"But it shouldn't have been me. My dad's been through so much already." She took a deep, halting breath. "He deserved more."

"Yes, he did. But he loved you."

Henrietta closed her eyes again. "I know." She choked back her tears.

"We all deserved more, Arietta. None of us asked for this. But if you would have asked your dad, I bet he'd be very glad you're here."

Henrietta did not reply.

Peter continued, "I owe something to my mom and dad too. All of us owe our parents; Stiles even does."

Henrietta laughed, but the guilt quickly returned.

Peter tried to smile. "See, they all did the best they could to raise us. Did a great job with you, by the way...."

She cracked a thin smile at the compliment.

"So... it's our duty to make their lives worthwhile. That's what they'd want." He looked around her desk and—not finding what he was searching for—handed her a small cotton ball for her tears.

She took it and dabbed her eyes, sniffing softly. "A cotton ball? Thanks loads."

"It's not my fault you don't keep tissues around here."

She threw the wet cotton ball at him. "Just need to ask."

She opened a drawer and pulled out a tissue, blowing her nose. "C'mon, let's give you that treatment." Henrietta rolled her chair to the refrigerator and took out the prepared vial. "Go lay down on the diagnostic bench."

Peter strolled over to the cold metallic cot and hitched up onto it, sliding his abdomen under the sensor module. He ducked under and settled down on his back.

Henrietta walked to the sink and scrubbed her hands. "Unsnap your shirttail and lift it up." After drying her hands, she settled next to the bench.

"Yes, Doctor," Peter chided.

She made a face at him. "Okay, hold it there." Henrietta shifted the sensor until the affected bone mass was in view. "Perry, do you see the target area?"

"Yes, Henrietta; please shift down one inch."

Henrietta repositioned the large overhead unit until the intermittent beeping from the locator steadied to a continuous tone. She inserted the radioactive nanocytes into the injector and immobilized Peter's hips with her hands. "A'ight; I'm gonna inject them now. Don't move." She pressed the instrument button.

The five cc solution entered Peter's body, sending the ten thousand miniaturized machines into his system on a genetically-coded search and destroy mission to the radio-tagged precancerous cells. Each nanocyte was designed to specifically pair up with a tagged diseased cell, excise it from Peter's marrow, and transport it through his kidneys and bladder and out through his urine stream. In their place, synthetic bone marrow was introduced to replace the excised cells. Each batch would work for twenty–four hours until the next daily dose. It was internal surgery at the microcellular level leaving all the surrounding healthy cells completely unaffected. It was the second dose of eight, and as long as Henrietta had dialed in the correct mechanorganic compounds, Peter would recover with no ill effects at all.

"Ooh, that feels warm," Peter complained. "Almost hot."

"That's just your imagination," Henrietta replied. "You shouldn't feel anything. If anything, it should feel cold."

"If you say so...." Peter flinched as he felt a sharp pain radiate through his side, as though the center of his spine was pierced with a dull needle.

"No sweat; you'll be better before you know it." Henrietta shut off the overhead and swung it aside. "Okay, that's it for today. You can get up now."

Peter shifted around and sat up. He tucked in his jersey and snapped it down to his trousers. "So, how about you; you okay?" Peter asked, looking down at her from the steel platform.

"Yeah, I'll get over it. Maybe my body's flooded with a three-year supply of hormones. Feels like it, anyway."

"Ah; ain't space travel great?" Peter asked.

"Oh yeah," she replied, "a real funfest."

* * *

"So, Perry; have you been monitoring Peter, like I requested?"

"Yes, Stiles, I have."

Stiles shifted within his bed, wondering what the ship would report. "And...?"

"There really has not been much for him to do. We are cruising at optimal speeds to the system exit point, but that is all automatic and mostly under my control. We discussed habitable zones surrounding Antares, but not much more."

"That's all he did? All day?" Stiles asked.

"Essentially, yes. As I said, there really is not much to do for the next week. He did, however, cancel a command in a very odd manner. It presented a contradiction of terminology that needed additional clarification."

"Odd, you say?" Stiles probed. "Could that have been dangerous; I mean, like, if we were under attack at the time, or something?"

"Well, not really," Perry considered. "It would, however, have added several seconds for me to respond to his command."

"Which, under the wrong circumstances, could have spelled the difference between surviving a battle and losing it?"

Perry hummed. "That is correct."

"Maybe you should mention that to the medical officer tomorrow morning."

"That sounds like sound advice, Stiles. Thank you. As you stated earlier, I shall be discrete."

Stiles nodded. "While you're at it, you should monitor the rest of the crew. Inform me of any irregularities. Stress has a habit of building up at the worst of times."

"One wonders how humanity survived as long as it has," Perry observed.

"Don't worry about that. We always have a few tricks up our sleeve. Go to bed now, Perry."

"I assume that means you are finished talking to me, Stiles."

Stiles settled into his bed and opened his PAD without answering.

PERSONAL LOG, Day 11, Year 500, 2127 hours: Peter is not looking well at all. He looks white as a sheet, and is hardly eating. (Although none of us are eating as much as we should.)

For the good of the mission, we will continue to ration food until a new supply is found. I searched the scientific logs and saw that Antares has a huge Habitable Zone. I think it would be wise to search for food here before we commit to jumping out, but Peter does not agree. His illness, I am afraid, is starting to affect his judgment.

Speaking of which, Henrietta is not the doctor she thinks she is. If she were, I think Peter would be improving. I may need to search the medical databases to see if she is doing anything wrong. I hardly have enough time to spare, what with doing her work as well as mine. But who else is here to do it.

Such is the burden of command.

-Stiles Essen, entering Middle System, Antares Space.

CHAPTER 13

**Antares Star System – Middle System**

Peter failed to show up for breakfast. Everyone else was in the galley by 0600, but it was now quarter after seven and there was still no sign of their captain. Stiles pointed out that Peter was probably sleeping in today like he did the day they discovered their location at Antares. Stiles was also quick to add how unprofessional that behavior was. Jimmy corrected Stiles, arguing that it was Peter who stayed up all night three days ago calculating where they were, and that there was no "we" in the discovery of their location.

Stiles chose to ignore Jimmy. "I still say he's not being very dependable."

Unfortunately, it was hard to argue the point.

"He'll be here in just a minute," Ali insisted.

"Sure he will. Let me know if you want to take any bets," Stiles offered.

Ali remained silent.

"He's not missing much, anyway," Stiles continued. He finished the remainder of his breakfast like it was a chore. "I'm glad we're not eating much, 'cause this stuff sucks. Somebody please teach Jimmy how to cook."

Today was Jimmy's turn to cook and clean the kitchen, so he gathered up the empty plates and threw them into the 'cycler. It gently hummed as it broke down their constituent elements. "Is anyone having anything else?" Jimmy asked. They all shook their heads. "All right, then. I'm finished here. I'll be on deck two, dreaming of what's for lunch." Jimmy skirted around the tables and disappeared down the lift.

"Perry," Henrietta asked, "can you tell me where Peter is?"

Perry hummed before replying. "Peter is still sleeping in his quarters. He does not appear to have slept very well last evening. His room logs show he was up four times throughout the night."

Henrietta forced herself from the table, "I'd better check up on him then," she said with a sigh. She wove her way through security and the conference room and took the forward lift down a floor to the forward sleeping quarters. She shuffled up to Peter's cabin and gently knocked on his door. There was no answer, so she pounded harder.

"Perry, what's Peter doing right now?"

"He is sleeping, Henrietta. Would you like me to awaken him?"

"Yes, please."

"One moment," Perry replied.

Henrietta waited a couple minutes in the hallway, shifting around awkwardly. She was starting to worry even more.

"He is not responding to my call," Perry announced.

"Open the door, Perry; medical emergency." The door slid open at her command and Henrietta saw that the room was still dark. "Three-quarters illumination," she called out. As the lights brightened, Henrietta made her way to Peter's bed. He looked like a dead lump under the sheets. "Peter." She shook him.

Peter groaned. "What's wrong," he murmured, throwing the crook of his arm over his eyes.

"Peter, are you all right?"

He threw the covers over his head, burying his face in the pillow. "No, I'm sick. I think I got the flu." His voice was muffled by the pillow. "Go away."

"Have you been throwing up?"

"Not anymore," he whined. "There's nothing left."

She forced her hand under the covers and felt his forehead. It felt warm, but then again, he was just under the sheets. "Does anything hurt?"

Peter pushed his face out into the light. "Well, my eyelids don't. Other than that, everything else does. Tell everyone I'm not going to school today." He curled up in a ball and rolled over to face the wall. He looked confused.

"Peter, do you know where you are?"

"Never-Never-Land...."

Henrietta looked concerned, but Peter smiled. "Least according to Stiles," he finished with a smirk.

At least he has his sense of humor. "It must be your meds," Henrietta thought out loud.

"Sounds like you're trying to convince yourself. Do most people get sick on 'em?"

"No," she replied nervously, "only a couple percent." She did not add that those who did represented the lowest recovery rates. She was concerned about it since he complained of stomach pains last evening, which forced her to complete more research on the treatment long into the night. It was still too early to tell, but maybe she would need to try something more radical.

Peter was fading in and out while she observed him. "Their whole lives were like this," Peter said half deliriously. "'Till they died...."

"What?" Who's he talking about?

"I don't know why my parents liked this so much."

"Liked what?"

"All the responsibility...." He faded out for a beat. "And the boredom...." He turned onto his stomach and rubbed his face back into his pillow. Muffled, he completed his thoughts, "And the terror."

Henrietta knew exactly what he meant.

* * *

It was lunchtime, and Peter was still in bed. Jimmy was finishing the food comps when Henrietta walked up beside him and looked over his shoulder. She reached over and dialed in a little more calcium chloride. "You'll be surprised how much better it tastes," she commented.

"Does Stiles like salt?"

"Yeah, but so do the rest of us." She returned to the table as Ali and Stiles joined them. Stiles made it obvious he was looking around the galley. "He's still sick," Henrietta replied before he could ask.

"Really holding up to the pressure, I see."

"Shut up, you moron," Jimmy cried.

"Takes one to know one," Stiles replied.

Ali slid into his chair, facing Henrietta. "That's a very astute observation, Stiles," he broke in. "I'm sure they use it in Parliament all the time."

Stiles stewed silently at the barbed insult. "Well, it's true," he continued as if he had not been interrupted. "We can't have a sick captain, and you know it."

"He'll get better," Jimmy shouted. "Just you wait 'n' see." Jimmy dispensed four plates, each with a small portion of food, and carried them to the table. He went back and drew up an orange bulb from the unit. "And you can all get your own juice." He sat down a couple seats away from the others and slid his plate in front of him. He nibbled at his lunch, anticipating where the conversation was heading.

"Five star service here," Stiles complained. He happily walked up to the dispenser and dialed three orange bulbs, passing one to Ali and Henrietta. "You know what I'm talking about," he told Henrietta as she took her bulb. "If you need to, just ask Perry."

"I already did," she replied hollowly.

Stiles unsuccessfully hid his smile. "And...?"

She sat her bulb down and pushed her plate away. "We all know it; even the ship." She hung her head in shame.

"Hey, I don't like this anymore than anyone else does," Stiles replied.

"Who 'you trying to fool?" Jimmy asked.

"The fool," Stiles said petulantly. This time, he smiled outwardly.

"If I may add my observations," Perry said, "Peter is not performing up to his capabilities. One of the last commands he issued was over twenty–four hours ago, and was markedly conflicting. He has not reported for duty all day, and is having considerable difficulties concentrating. Stiles is the oldest member of this crew."

"You mean XO," Henrietta corrected.

"Yes," Stiles added quickly, "that's exactly what Perry meant. So, Doctor; what is your opinion?"

Henrietta remained silent, staring at her food.

"She has none," Jimmy chimed in. "So shut your pie-hole."

Stiles narrowed his eyes in anger, "We weren't talking to you," he breathed. "When we want to know what not to do, we'll ask your opinion."

"She still doesn't—" Jimmy began.

Henrietta cleared her throat, interrupting Jimmy. "Under Article 153.f4, United Colonial Space Academy—"

"Henrietta, don't!" Jimmy yelled.

She paused and pinched the bridge of her nose absently. "—emergency clause two-alpha-niner, the senior medical officer aboard UCSA Sampson K. Perry, operating away from any established military chain-of-command, hereby submits to the official log that Captain Peter R. Campbell is not fit for duty due to illness, and is temporarily relieved of command."

"You traitor!" Jimmy cried. "He's not even here to defend himself!"

"Jimmy," Ali said, "I know how you feel, but there's nothing else Henrietta can do."

"Yes there is!" Jimmy persisted.

"Executive Officer Stiles F. Essen," Henrietta continued, "is hereby designated as Acting Captain, UCSA Sampson K. Perry, until such time as the senior medical officer deems that Captain Campbell regains fitness of command." Henrietta took a halting breath. "Perry, please time-stamp my statement, and add my digital signature."

"Done, Henrietta," Perry replied. "Stiles, you are now in command." The room remained silent as they all took in the import of what was just done.

"What's wrong with all of you?" Jimmy shouted. "Can't you see this is a mistake?"

"Your mother made the mistake," Stiles smirked.

Jimmy ran up to Stiles and punched him in the stomach. Henrietta and Ali were stunned at the strength of the attack as their new captain doubled over in obvious pain.

"Jimmy!" Henrietta yelled. Jimmy continued to swat at Stiles. Ali grabbed Jimmy and pulled him off the downtrodden boy. Stiles recovered as quickly as he could and raised his fist in anger.

"Stiles, no," Henrietta cautioned.

Stiles glared at the struggling boy, firmly held by Ali. Stiles stood with his tightened fist upheld. His knuckles were white in anger. "I want him thrown in the brig. Now!"

Ali looked from Stiles to Henrietta, keeping the squirming boy in line.

"I can't let you do that," Henrietta said quietly.

Stiles stammered, "He hit a superior officer! I have every right."

"Officer, maybe; but not superior," Ali said.

"And insubordination," Stiles added, pointing at Ali.

"So what do you want, the whole crew locked up?" Henrietta asked. "That's the problem. There's an emergency clause in the regs where I can intervene in any disciplinary actions if it endangers the condition of the ship."

"What clause?" Stiles asked.

"I don't know the number, but I read it last night," Henrietta replied. "There must be sufficient crew to run the ship at all times. Any actions that make the situation worse—"

"Without the number, you got to prove it—"

"Henrietta is within her rights as senior medical officer of this ship, Stiles," Perry observed. "She is quoting from the list of extenuating circumstances for a ship in distress—"

"We're not in distress," Stiles began.

"What would you call it?" Henrietta shouted. "Do you want me to go through the particulars?"

Stiles stared at his mutinous crew, considering his options. He took a deep breath. "No, you're absolutely right. For the good of this mission, I will overlook his illegal act—for the time being. But once we're... out of this distress condition... I'm pressing charges."

"Fine!" Jimmy yelled. "I got nothin' to worry about. We'll all be dead first, with you in command."

"Shut up, Jimmy," Ali bellowed. "Leave well-enough alone." Ali released Jimmy, but stood ready to grab him if the young boy was as reckless as he thought. Jimmy surprised everyone by remaining unusually calm.

"So, seeing we need you idiots as crew," Stiles began, "I suggest you go about whatever duties you have."

"C'mon, Jimmy," Ali prompted, "we're going to engineering. I got some computer stuff that needs work before the EVA." Ali took Jimmy by the arm and the two boys left in silence.

"And you," Stiles glared at Henrietta, "watch yourself. Don't think you hold all the aces."

"What do you mean by that?" Henrietta insisted.

"The captain is stronger than any regs you'll find. So go on; go prepare another of your little treatments for Peter-Pan. Once you're done with that, though, I want you down in the hangar prep room to prepare suits for me and Ali. I'll leave instructions at the prep-med station, but let me know when you're down there; I may want to stop by and monitor what you're doing."

"Aye, aye, Sir." Henrietta offered a mocking salute as she left the galley. She noticed Stiles smile at her back as she exited.

* * *

"Are we sure we know what we're doing?"

"No, but do we have a choice?"

"Not really," Jimmy answered Ali truthfully. Jimmy placed the helmet over Ali's head and finished clasping it with a firm clockwise twist. "I think that's all. I did everything the manual said to do."

Jimmy's voice came back to Ali over his suit speakers now that his helmet was firmly in place. It sounded tinny and like it came from far down a tunnel.

"Gee, thanks for the inspiring speech."

"All monitors are solid green, Ali."

That was Henrietta who was down in medical again, where she was keeping a close eye on both Ali and Stiles. She just returned to her office from her recent work in hangar med-prep. There, she checked out all the automatic diagnostics from the spacesuits to the ship, and ran a few emergency exercises to be sure they all responded properly. As far as she could tell everything was now ready for the retrieval of the Wasatti boarders.

She locked in Ali's data-stream and confirmed with Perry that they could also monitor his real-time condition. Everything associated with their suits and their medical readings would be transmitted directly to her office, where each breath and heartbeat would be recorded. If anything was amiss, she had absolute authority to abort the mission. Not only was she able to make that decision, but she could activate computerized remote suit thrusters that could bring them back to the hangar. It was a failsafe system that could be used by the ship for anyone on EVA who became incapacitated—or anyone stubborn enough outside the ship to ignore her medical commands.

"Just waiting for Stiles," Henrietta remarked.

"He'll be right here," Jimmy relayed. "And here be I, with arms opened wide."

"Remember, Jimmy," Henrietta replied, "I can see if you screw on his helmet improperly. So don't even think about it."

"Rats," he replied. Ali laughed through his speakers.

Stiles came into the hangar prep room with his helmet already in place. He twisted it on as he made his way through the open airlock from inside the ship just in time to catch the laughter. "What's so funny?" he asked.

"Oh, nothin'," Jimmy answered. "Nothin' a' tall...." Jimmy sounded happier than he had since the Vega battle. "Let me look you over." Jimmy began checking all the connections on Stiles' suit.

"No, that's not necessary," Stiles replied tersely.

"Yes, it is," Henrietta corrected. "Regs, Stiles. Nobody goes outside the ship without a preflight check."

"Lota good that'll do," Stiles answered. "A trained monkey could do better'n him."

Jimmy spent a moment superficially going over Stiles' pressurized suit, trying to look obviously uninterested. "Double-rats," Jimmy complained. He screwed in a loose air regulator, and airflow immediately doubled in Stiles' suit. "Thanks loads, Henrietta. You shoulda let him go out there like that."

"Sure, and the vacuum would have blown that connector right off his back."

"Yeah, I know," Jimmy replied. "But don't worry, Stiles; we'll eventually learn to follow your commands; even monkeys. Better luck next time."

Stiles grunted his thanks.

"Alright; double greens down the board," Henrietta reported. "You are both 'go' for EVA. Perry, what's your vee-status?"

"Forward velocity has been cut," Perry replied, "and we are drifting. There are no planetoids within 15 million miles."

"That's your cue to scram, Null-Grav," Stiles commanded.

"Roger that," he replied. Jimmy exited the prep room to the observation deck above the hangar doors and sealed off the airlock. "You guys ready for depressurization in there?"

"Go for it," Ali replied. He felt his suit adjust to the developing vacuum as the atmosphere in the airlock sucked back into the ship. Ali studied the monitors next to the exit hatch. "Okay, pressures on both sides of the door are equal. We're ready. Stiles, are you a 'go'?"

"Let's do this thing," he replied.

"Stiles," Henrietta reported, "your respiration rate is climbing. Take deeper breaths. Shake it off."

"Trying...."

"Yeah, I can see that," Henrietta said. "You're both doing good now. I know it's not easy out there."

The airlock hatch slowly opened to empty space. Ali took a cautious step to the brink and leaned out, ready to begin his first spacewalk. Far in the background, vibrant nebular banks—in every conceivable color—painted the black pallet of the universe. Bloody and bloated Antares hung to the rear of the ship, bathed in a yellow, diaphanous haze. "This really is beautiful," Ali stated. "Like a dreamland."

"I can see that," Henrietta confirmed. "Everything you see is being recorded. The folks back home will love this when they see it."

Ali knew Henrietta was trying to calm them down with small talk, and with her psychology background she was doing a great job. He almost forgot where he was. She'll make a great doctor when she grows up, Ali thought.

"Ali, is Eva ready?" Stiles asked from behind.

Ali issued a test command to the utility mule. "Yeah, she's responding nicely." Eva was the remote helper they were taking out in space with them. It was the size of a small ground car, could maneuver by herself, and in addition to holding all the tools they would need on the job, she had the power to retrieve the Wasatti bodies and bring them back into the hangar.

Ali stepped onto the outer platform and got his first view of Perry's hull. He looked down just beyond his toes and saw an infinite drop into space. Without scale to compare to, he had no idea how far he could see. Breaking away from the void, he concentrated on Perry's hull again. He looks really cool, Ali thought.

He glanced back into the airlock and saw Stiles still standing in the middle of the room.

"Can we hitch a ride on her?"

"Who?" Ali asked slightly distracted.

"Eva, you idiot."

"Can't see why not," Ali replied. "So, what are you waiting for? Come on out and play. It's nice outside."

"I advise not riding on Eva, guys," Henrietta cautioned. "If she burps, you might end up smashed against Perry's hull."

"I think it's worth the chance," Stiles replied. "After all, it's not like we have a lot of experience maneuvering by ourselves out here."

"Okay," Henrietta replied grudgingly, "but be careful. Try to stay to the outside of the ship." Henrietta paused for a moment before continuing, "Perry, make sure that happens."

"I shall do that, Henrietta; but I might need to utilize thrusters occasionally to side-slip away from the boys."

"Understood," Henrietta confirmed.

Ali and Stiles attached their tethers to an accessory clamp on Eva and grabbed hold to hitch their ride. "Okay, Eva," Ali commanded, "begin ship-forward movement at two fps."

*COMPLYING,* Eva replied.

"Everything's smooth in the groove out here," Ali reported. "Perry, can you shepherd Eva remotely from there?"

"Yes, I can," Perry replied. "I will bring her to the target area at a continual two feet per second. Prepare for a slight vector change."

Eva angled toward the bottom of the ship and proceeded forward. At that speed it would only take five minutes to reach the warriors. Ali admitted it was a good idea to ride Eva. They would save at least a half hour of arduous arm-over-arm climbing along the hull, which likely would have exhausted them even before they arrived on target. He did not look forward to that at all.

"Hull looks darn good, doesn't it?" Ali observed.

"Beats me," Stiles replied. "Looks like metal to me."

Ali figured Stiles' carefully sculpted persona would take a serious hit in the history books when his careless nontechnical reply was replayed for humanity, but that was his problem. He's such a poser, Ali realized. He sat back and relaxed as Eva guided them along Perry's hull. Ali was starting to enjoy the experience.

"You guys are looking good," Henrietta observed. "Half-way there."

"Thanks, Doc," Ali replied. "Y'oughta try this sometimes." Ali craned his neck as far as his suit would allow, admiring their surroundings. He felt like a bird, soaring above the clouds. Ali saw the first signs of the warriors up ahead. "Coming up on them now. Perry, arch around them from the forward vector so we can approach them from their helmeted sides."

Eva eased around the target and came to a stop a couple feet from the Wasatti.

"Even dead, they look mean," Ali observed.

"Let's get this done," Stiles commanded.

Ali detached from Eva and climbed next to the closer warrior, leaving Stiles behind. "So, how do we scrape these bugs off the windshield?"

"How're they attached?" Stiles asked.

Ali studied one of their arms. "Beats me. It's hard to tell what this thing does with those claws. This looks more like a spoon than a glove. Well, maybe a spork."

"But it's attached to the ship, right?"

"Yeah, Stiles.... Duh...." Ali tentatively touched the suited claw. Their armor was a shiny black—like polished ebony—and was so smooth it felt oily to the touch. It had to have been polished to the molecular level to feel so frictionless. A chill went down Ali's spine as he made contact with it. "Man, this is creepy." Ali tried to rotate the arm to get a better look at the way it was attached to Perry, but it did not move. "It looks like it's attached at the wrist somehow." Ali rotated harder. The other arm of the warrior suddenly snapped up to within inches of Ali's faceplate, stopping just before it smashed through his visor.

"Holy crap!" Ali yelled. He flinched from the attack and lost his hold. Without realizing it, Ali started an uncontrolled spiral away from Perry.

"What's wrong?" Stiles shouted.

Ali was too scared to reply, still trying to calm down.

"Ali, what's your status?" Henrietta cried.

"That thing tried to hit me!"

"Are you hurt?" Henrietta asked.

Ali felt around his helmet, trying to assess his condition. If his faceplate was cracked, he would be dead in a matter of seconds and would be unable to do a thing about it. Everything felt like it was still intact, and Ali finally started to calm down. He glanced at the HUD lights to the side of his vision and saw them all still in solid green. "I think there's no damage. I ducked in time, but that thing—I swear—it swung at me!" He tried to compose himself, steadying his breathing.

"It's dead—," Stiles began.

"I tell ya, that thing tried to kill me!"

"Ali, don't sweat that right now; you're drifting away," Henrietta cautioned.

"Oh, shoot," Ali replied. He forgot where he was after the attack, and started to panic again. The ship was starting to drift away, and he had trouble staying oriented as he began to gyrate head-over-heals. "I—I lost my tether-hold!"

"Relax, Ali," Henrietta soothed. "Stop trying to fight it. Your exertions are just making it worse."

"But how do I get back?" Ali whined.

"We got'cha," Jimmy chimed in. "Henrietta can just guide you back in with the suit overrides. But if you keep fighting, your spinning will make it harder. She'll freeze your suit if she has to. But then you're locked until we bring you all the way back inside. 'Though—thinking about it some—Stiles would need to do all the work then; so maybe you should fight some more."

"Hey," Stiles protested.

"Oh, yeah," Ali replied sheepishly. He forced himself to go limp. "I forgot." He extended his limbs out, like a figure skater trying to slow her spinning. He immediately felt a slight puff along his right shoulder as the remote thruster slowly pushed his torso around to face the ship.

"How's that?" Henrietta asked.

"Position's good," Ali reported. "Reel me in, but not too close to that thing. Don't want to go near it again."

"You've got to," Stiles broke in. "We still need to retrieve the specimens."

"Don't see you goin' anywhere near 'em."

"I'm here for strategic support," Stiles replied. "In case anything goes wrong."

"Yeah, like what just happened?" Ali asked. Stiles did not answer. "More like strategic withdrawal," Ali finished under his breath.

"Ali," Henrietta called out, "those bugs can't still be alive. I'm bringing you in again. Do you remember where and how you touched it?"

"Don't think I can ever forget that."

"Good," she replied. "I'm thinking you activated some auto-assist actuator."

"Maybe," Ali replied uncertainly.

"Gently touch it there again, but do whatever you did in the opposite direction."

"Roger that. In case I get killed again, I tried to rotate his hand—claw, I mean—counter-clockwise. I'll try to screw it back." Ali carefully prodded the arm with the tip of his gloved finger. Nothing happened. "Here goes." He screwed up his courage and wrapped his fingers gently over the warrior's wrist. He tentatively rotated it and saw the opposite arm on the bug slowly swing back to its side. "Hey, look; a puppet!" Ali shouted. He manipulated the wrist and made the warrior look like it was waving at Eva's camera. "Hello to all of you from Bugland Central, the armpit of the universe."

Henrietta laughed. "Ali, stop clowning around."

"Wonder where I gotta touch it to make its legs move? On second thought, I don't think I wanna know."

"Would you get serious?" Stiles asked.

"Yeah, it must be tough back there holding down the fort." Ali examined the suit carapace. "I don't see any way of detaching this connector. It looks like it is fused-solid with Perry's hull." He ran his hand along the entire length of the Wasatti warrior, finding nothing to set it free. "Perry, can you spare to lose twenty to thirty square inches of hull section? At two places?"

"Do you plan to cut my hull away from the connectors?" Perry asked.

"Yep. Either that, or I try to cut their arms off."

"No, I want every piece of them brought back into the ship," Stiles commanded.

"Me too," Ali replied. "Besides, I'm not sure I can cut through this armor anyway. Not sure I can cut through your hull either."

"If you mark off what you wish to separate," Perry said, "I can self-detach it and repair the damage as soon as you lift the connector away."

Ali took out a cutting torch and outlined a circle around the connector. "Can you feel the heat, Perry?"

"Yes, that is sufficient," Perry replied.

The hull around the glowing circle turned to a sticky gel. A thin gap soon formed within the semi-liquid ring. "You should be able to pull the arm out now, Ali," Perry suggested.

Ali tugged at the claw and felt the arm loosen.

"Hold on a minute!" Jimmy warned. "You'd better tether the body off before it breaks free. There's no weight in space, but it still has mass. You might have trouble corralling it in."

"Good thinking, Jimmy."

"I was about to say the same thing," Stiles said.

"What, complimenting Jimmy?" Ali asked.

Stiles huffed.

Ali smirked as he wrapped a tether around the torso of the warrior. He tugged to be sure it held, and then pulled harder on the loosened connector. It broke free and Ali immediately saw the hole in Perry's hull fill back in. Within a minute, the liquid diamond reformed as if there was no damage at all. He did the same with the other boarder, and soon had both of them tied off to Eva. "All right, we got two healthy specimens for ya, Doc."

"Understood," Henrietta replied. "Perry, does Eva have enough power to bring the specimens and the others back?"

"No, Henrietta. Three bodies may be possible, but not all four."

"I'll guard the prisoners in, then," Stiles suggested. "Ali, you can make it back to the hangar by yourself, right? Seeing I'm still tethered off...."

Ali was breathing hard after his exertions. "Sure, you go right ahead and ride back."

"Do you have no shame?" Jimmy asked. "How can you even sleep at night?"

"Hey, Hamadi has more mass than me," Stiles replied. "I won't strain Eva as much."

Jimmy just laughed as Eva proceeded back to the hangar with two dead bodies and Stiles attached.

"Hey, Ali," Henrietta called out, "go limp again."

Ali relaxed as he felt Henrietta take over his suit actions. She glided Ali along at a fast clip, and he soon overtook Eva with Stiles limply attached. Ali waved at Stiles as he passed by. "See you back inside," Ali called out. "Remember, last one in closes the door."

* * *

Ali helped Peter to medical after exiting the forward lift and weaving through the claustrophobic obstacles in environmental. "Got a package for you, Doc." He tried to sound upbeat, but sounded dead tired instead.

Henrietta glanced up from her desk. "Here, let me help you." She rushed up and took an arm on the other side of Ali. Peter did his best to shuffle between them. "Have you eaten anything this evening?" she asked.

Peter tried to smile. "No, the thought makes me sick. Besides, my tonsils are sore."

"Peter, you need to keep up your strength. If you can't keep anything down, I'll need to administer an IV. Now's not the time for your system to go into standby mode."

They made it to the diagnostic bench and Ali helped him climb up. With a grunt, Peter settled down.

"Ali, I have a vial in the refrigerator; it's on the right. Would you get it for me please?" She pointed to the unit behind her desk. As Ali looked inside, Henrietta placed the injector unit in the correct location.

"There's a small jar on the left," Ali replied, "but nothing at all to the right. Is this it?" he asked holding up the vial.

"Yeah, that's it," Henrietta replied. "I must have been confused. It's labeled 'three of eight' with Peter's name on it, right?"

"Yeppers...." Ali brought it to Henrietta with a lively step. "Here it is, Peter. This'll make you better."

"Thanks," Peter replied weakly.

Henrietta noticed the worried look on Ali's face. "Tell him about the spacewalk," Henrietta suggested while she set up the treatment.

"Oh yeah, right," Ali responded. "We got the Wasatti back. Scared the livin' daylights outta me, though. I thought it was attacking me."

Peter looked up in alarm, "How come?" he asked feebly.

Ali laughed dryly. "I hit some actuator-thingy and the bug's arm took a swing at me. Good thing our suits have waste elimination units in them. I sure needed it then."

Peter laughed thinly. "That must have been something. Jimmy go out with you?"

"No, Stiles did. Might's well not have, for all the help he did."

"Huh. No surprise there," Peter replied. "So where'd you put our visitors?"

"Cold storage, in the back; we're keeping 'em in vacuum. So, you're only 240 feet from two fierce Wasatti Marines right now. How does that grab you?"

"Not too reassuring," Peter answered. "They are dead...."

"As two doornails, yeah," Ali replied. "I made sure of that. We kept them in their suits, but I got all the other hardware off their belts. They got some interesting guns, I'll tell ya."

"Oh, yeah?" Peter seemed interested in something for the first time in a day and a half.

"You bet. Soon as you get better, I'll show you the best rifle. Haven't shot one yet, though; probably not a good idea to shoot one off in a ship when you don't know how much they'll kick."

Peter looked like he was falling asleep. "Prob'ly blow a hole in the ship, if you did...." He started to fade out.

"Peter?" Ali asked.

Henrietta worked quickly to finish the daily injection. "That's it," Henrietta said. "This session's done." She turned off the unit and swung it aside. "Okay, Peter, you're done," she stated, just a little loud.

Peter nodded faintly. "You don't need to shout. I'm not hard of hearing."

She stroked Peter's forehead. "Sorry. Do you want to sleep here tonight?"

Peter smiled and nodded.

"She didn't mean with her, knucklehead," Ali joked.

Henrietta swatted at him. "Ali!"

"What?" he asked innocently.

"Help me get him to the beds," she replied. They guided Peter to his feet and half-dragged him to the nearest cot. Settling him in, Peter fell asleep almost immediately. Henrietta gently placed a blanket over him, carefully tucking in the sides.

"Is he going to be all right?" Ali asked.

"I hope so. He should have been doing better by now. I've been searching the records, but there's not much precedent for how he's responding. Very few cases have these effects; none at all, really."

"What are you gonna do?"

Henrietta shrugged. "There are more radical treatments, but then again, we don't have much time with the food shortage and all. If I can't make him better in four days, the jump will leave him sick for months of recovery time while he's jacked-in. A lot could happen in that time. I got to get him on the road to recovery before then."

"Can you do it?"

Henrietta remained silent far too long, staring at her helpless patient. "Pray that I do," she whispered.

* * *

Stiles took no time at all moving his stuff into the spacious captain's cabin behind the bridge. He studied his room for the tenth time tonight. He figured it gave his position the authority it deserved, thinking it was a tad small even though it was larger than six of the officer's cabins put together. Well, with a little remodeling it'll be much better, he thought. I wish I had my dad's desk in here. Oh well....

Making the best he could of the situation, he settled in behind his desk and opened his PAD.

PERSONAL LOG, Day 12, Year 500, 2100 hours: Peter is out for the count. He's so bad now he's staying in medical all the time. No way was he ready for command; that was a laugh. So much for the Reign of Sir Peter.

I oversaw the retrieval of the Wasatti warriors today. For our first spacewalk ever, we did okay, but that clumsy Hamadi almost turned the excursion into disaster when he nearly floated away. If it hadn't been for me, I'm not sure we would have recovered him. That would have been a real disaster!

Not that he doesn't pull his weight around here (which is huge), but we're too short-handed as it is. But the crew had better get used to increased hours. It's the only way we can get back home successfully.

Now my next job is finding food.

-Captain Stiles F. Essen, UCSA Sampson K. Perry, Middle System, Antares Space.

CHAPTER 14

**Antares Star System – Middle System**

"Nav...."

"Yes, Stiles," Henrietta answered without making it sound like a question.

"Check Perry's plot, please."

Henrietta sat at her bridge station, staring somewhat dumbfounded at the nav screen. What she saw looking back were dots, undecipherable sequences of numbers, and partial hyperbolic curves in various shades of yellow-on-black. "I'm not sure what you expect me to find that Perry doesn't already know by heart, Stiles," she snapped.

Stiles kept his gaze centered firmly on the forward view screen as if deep in thought and not wishing to be disturbed. The fact was that the ship was gliding smoothly through the gas clouds of Antares under Perry's competent control, yet Stiles sat watch over his ship looking for any fault from his ship or crew. He squeezed the arms of his command chair, trying to maintain the decorum of a proper captain. "Protocol," Stiles replied imperiously, "protocol." He steepled his fingers under his chin as if deep in thought. "You seem quite good at quoting it when the situation suits you."

Henrietta shook away her confusion. "Stiles, are you still concerned about my intervention of Jimmy's punishment?" He remained silent, staring forward with a purpose. "'Cause if you are, you should get over it," she concluded with scorn.

Stiles turned his head a fraction of an inch but refused to make eye contact. His knuckles turned white, suspended in air before him. Before he could reply, the door to the bridge swished open, announcing Ali's arrival.

"Hey guys, wassup?"

Stiles tore his concentration from the screen and regained his composure. "Our navigator was just displaying her incompetence."

Taking Stiles' response as a joke, Ali replied, "Ah, she'll catch on quick. She's a fast learner. Say, speaking of which, I saw some conditional numbers kicking around the engineering queue. What're you up to, messing with the plots?"

"That's exactly what I wanted our navigator to look into; if she has the ability that is."

"Gee, Stiles," Henrietta replied tartly, "if you're so darned worried about them, maybe you should run the numbers yourself."

Stiles slowly rose from his command chair. "Why would I bother doing that?" Stiles glared her way one last time. He started a slow walk to the rear of the bridge, pausing momentarily before leaving. "Run those numbers, Nav. I want to see an independent confirmation within the hour. That should give you enough time. I'll be in my cabin." Stiles continued on without turning his head like he was leading a somber parade. "And by the way, it's 'Captain' if you please." He disappeared from the bridge.

Ali threw himself into the large command chair just vacated by Stiles. "Hey, this is comfortable." He looked around the bridge for something to do. Instead, he busied himself by rotating around in the oversized chair. "So what's got his underwear all bunched up?"

Henrietta sneered. "He wants to be called Captain Essen. It's either that, or Sir. And I won't stoop that low. I'll die before I defer to His Majesty's Royal Ego."

Ali laughed. "Well, at least the position's not going to his head."

"Hah!" she replied hoarsely. "Now I know why Jimmy never lets up on him. I always thought Jimmy was muito estupido, just asking for it with all those snide remarks. But now I can't blame him for always pushing Stiles' buttons. Every time I open my mouth now, I find myself trying to pick a fight with that... that idiota!" Henrietta was so angry, she shook.

"Wow, you and Jimmy; two of a kind. Who'd'a thought?" Ali increased his rate of spin.

"Ah, shut up, would ya?" Henrietta threw a tablet at Ali, purposely missing him by a mile. "So what am I going to do with this stuff?"

"Are those the conditionals I've been seeing on nav?"

"Yeah, King Stupid wants me to confirm Perry's plot to Xi-Antares-A. He wants us to change our course at oh-nine-thirty this morning."

Perry hummed, "Henrietta, I can assure you that my plot to Xi-Antares-A is quite accurate, and has been calculated to the second. However, it is proper Colonial Academy procedure to provide independent confirmation of all navigational plots prior to execution."

Ali threw his foot out to stop his rotation. "What the heck are we doing, going to..." he thought for a moment, needing to run the Greek alphabet over his fingers, "... the fourteenth planet in this Godforsaken system?"

Henrietta shook her head in dismissal. "Stiles got it in his head that Xi is smack in the middle of Antares' habitable zone. Where he got that idea...."

"What?" he asked in amazement. He stood up to walk to the nav station, but momentarily lost his balance. Ali shook it off and rested his hand precariously on the back of Henrietta's chair. "Show me."

Henrietta brought up the schematic. It displayed Antares and the fifteen planets.

Ali stared at the system map, running his finger along the screen, as if touching the symbols themselves would provide some hidden insight. "Stiles thinks something can thrive out there? That's half way to the B star. Surely, it has interfered with Xi's orbit somewhere along the line. And those gas clouds are interfering with radiant energy at totally unpredictable rates. You know that's not good for life sustainability. What gives?"

Even though Ali was talking to Henrietta, it sounded like Perry was trying to defend himself and interjected himself into the conversation. "I never inferred that we would find life there," Perry demurred, "but I did confirm the presence of the theoretical HZ to Captain Essen. Primitive life is theoretically possible, although highly improbable."

"Yeah, like zero," Ali remarked.

"The probability is actually three to the negative sixth power," Perry corrected.

"Chasing after three millionths of a percent.... Gee, Doc, that sounds real logical to me. You too?"

Henrietta remained silent. Instead, she brought up information about zones of habitability. Everything in the literature pointed away from any possibilities of life in this system. Whatever conditions conducive to life that may have once existed at one location in the system were likely to have radically changed. Even if life did form, it was probably long dead by now.

After Henrietta finished reviewing the exobiology entries, Ali reached around and set up the navigation function. "Let me look at this," Ali suggested.

She moved aside. He showed her how to calculate the plot, inputting an average ship velocity of 0.3 c. "We could go faster in-system, but that speed is usually reserved for strategic bursts during battles. I wouldn't recommend it for long."

Ali next input all the planetary orbital parameters between their current location and Xi, finding the most economic path they could take to reach their target. Finally, he set the vector change to begin at 0930, less than an hour away. He allowed the test program to run. "See how this works? Pretty easy, really."

"Yeah," Henrietta replied. "I can do that. Now I can tell that dumb know-it-all I did it. Bet he couldn't even have tried that in a million years."

The numbers ran their course, indicating they would arrive at Xi in three days, including the remainder of today.

"OMG, that's forever!" Ali shouted.

"Really?" Henrietta asked.

"I mean, c'mon, here we are, four days away from the exit point, and now we're adding three or four more days to in-system travel—without food! For what?"

"We still got food," Henrietta argued.

"For you, maybe."

Henrietta felt sorry for him. It must be tough, she realized. Food means so much to him.

Henrietta tried to rationalize what was going through her mind. On their original schedule, they would have forty–six days' worth of food at half rations by the time they were ready to jump away. Stiles' worthless diversion would cut that reserve down to forty–three. And that did not account for time in helpless stasis during whatever jump interval they needed. That was cutting it pretty close. On the other hand, today was the half-way point of Peter's eight-day therapy, which was not going as well as she expected. It was scheduled to end a day after they arrived at the exit point and they all previously agreed to wait it out that one extra day for Peter's sake. Henrietta wondered if Peter would be cured even by then. Those three extra days might really come in handy, she rationalized.

"So, are you with me?" Ali asked, breaking her concentration. "Sounded earlier like you were ready to commence a little mutiny."

She stared blankly at the numbers, afraid to reply.

"Henrietta? Geez; don't just sit there. As chief medical officer, what's your opinion of Stiles' worthless fiasco?"

It took her a long time to reply. Finally, the words tumbled out of her mouth, "I think Stiles is right."

"What? What are you thinking?"

Henrietta was too embarrassed to admit she was unsure how best to continue Peter's therapy. They were all counting on her to come up with some miraculous cure, and she was not even close to being a real doctor. She needed more time to think this through and research the problem. "It's worth a shot, I guess," she replied meekly.

"A shot! A shot in the dark, you mean. Is all this time with Stiles turning you stupid?"

She looked up at Ali, not sure what to say.

After a moment Ali said, "I guess it is. I expected something like this from Stiles, but never from you. I think Jimmy was right."

Henrietta came out of her daze. "About what?"

"You are a traitor!" Ali stormed out of the bridge, leaving Henrietta alone with her thoughts.

* * *

They were on their second day of the new course, and planet Xi was still a couple days away, at fifty–one AU. Peter was having one of his better days and was on the bridge with the rest of the crew, trying to stave off the boredom of his recent sick leave. He was sitting with Jimmy at the useless com station, wondering if this was any more exciting than his cot in medical. Ali was taking readings of the target planet off in the distance while Henrietta sulked at the nav station. Stiles was assuming his usual pompous posture of authority at the center of the bridge.

"Nav," Stiles commanded, "confirm the relative gravity of planet Nu." They lined up with Nu-Antares-A, the thirteenth planet from the red supergiant, for a gravitational boost and were rapidly approaching it.

Henrietta directed her sensors at the planet and reported back. "I am confirming our estimates of Nu's radius as 2,140 miles. Average density is approximately 230 pounds per cubic foot, giving it an Earth-gravity equivalent of 0.63. That's just about the same as Ice House."

"Very well," Stiles acknowledged. "Perry, establish low orbit over Nu."

"Complying, Captain Essen. Orbital insertion will begin in two hours and forty–two minutes."

"Why are we stopping here?" Peter asked.

It took Stiles several awkward seconds before he deemed it worthy to answer Peter's question. When he did, it turned out to be no answer at all. "Peter, you are currently on sick leave and are on the bridge only at my pleasure."

"Then I'll ask," Henrietta snapped. "Why are we stopping?"

Stiles stared at her. "We are stopping here because it will be easier to maneuver around this planet than at Xi." Stiles input some parameters into his PAD, hoping that would end the inquisition, but he saw that Henrietta was still looking at him. Reluctantly, he continued. "The escape velocity here is 3.13 miles per second, which is less than half of what it is at Xi. I need some experience with the shuttle and this is as good a place as any to hone my skills."

"What skills?" Jimmy asked.

"Stiles, you don't need to hone anything yet," Ali added, "at least for awhile. Far-sensor readings of Xi are still confirming the absence of ozone. I doubt we'll be making any planetfalls soon."

"But you did find nitrogen yesterday, which two days ago you promised you'd never see there." Stiles smirked. "Wrong about one; wrong about all, right Mr. Hamadi? And what is the average equatorial temperature of Xi again?"

"You know what it is."

"Please remind us," Stiles requested.

Peter could tell that Ali was considering some places he might suggest Stiles could stuff his highborn attitude. "Forty–six degrees, Fahrenheit," Ali relented.

"I think they call that 'shirt-sleeve weather' don't they?"

"Stiles," Peter cautioned, "you really don't need to gloat. We all hope you're right. Everyone wants to find food. But nitrogen itself doesn't make for a good atmosphere—just look at Bellingham back in the Colonies. There're still no precursor signs of biological activity over there at Xi. We should be picking them up on our sensors by now."

Stiles looked as though he smelled something peculiar. "These space clouds still make long-range scanning questionable. I don't plan to arrive there and not be prepared to get down to the surface. Nu is just what we need for practice to ensure that doesn't happen."

Stiles signed off the logs on the bridge, "Ali, you have temporary command of the bridge. But Perry, no one but me has authority to break orbit. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Captain Essen," Perry replied. "Ali has emergency command prerogatives only."

"Thank you," Stiles replied in self-satisfaction. Apparently, it mattered little to Stiles who treated him subserviently, as long as someone did. "Mr. Dallas, please accompany me to the hangar. You're going for a ride."

"Whoopee. Lucky me," Jimmy answered in a deadpan voice. He reluctantly joined Stiles as they headed off the bridge. Jimmy glanced at the others, making temporary eye contact with them all. He then imitated a monkey as he followed closely behind Stiles.

"That boy's as crazy as a Stagecoach Prairie Hopper," Ali said.

"Which one?" Peter asked.

"Both," Ali answered. He glanced at Henrietta, "He's determined to get us all killed."

Henrietta was still not talking to Ali after their fight of a couple days ago and decided not to get drawn into the conversation. Instead, Perry offered his counter to Ali's accusations, "There is some logic to his request for practicing landing and take-off procedures in a more-forgiving environment. For that matter, Stiles has yet to maneuver the shuttle out the hangar."

"But the benefits are clearly not worth the delays," Peter observed. He coughed. Weakly, he continued between labored breaths, "We won't find any life at Xi so we shouldn't be wasting any time on this."

Henrietta silently handed him a bulb of water and he took a grateful sip. Peter knew he must have looked pale as a sheet, and nodded in gratitude.

"The likelihood of you being correct about finding no life at Xi is staggeringly in your favor, Peter," Perry replied. "But he is the acting captain."

"Only until Peter gets better," Henrietta added, returning to her station. She glanced quickly at Ali and sank back into her shell. For some reason, Henrietta looks guilty of something, Peter thought.

"This is true," Perry admitted. "Unfortunately, that time has not yet arrived."

The bridge crew followed Stiles and Jimmy's progress to the hangar, and continued to monitor them prepping the small craft. As they prepared the shuttle, Perry initialized the orbital procedures. Ali waited until all the diagnostics were green before opening the com. He was now at tactical, studying the shuttle's readouts. "I'm reading you in Shuttle-One, with all external indicators shown as sealed. Is that correct?"

"Yes," Jimmy replied from the copilot's seat. "Stiles is working preflight now."

"I can see him ticking off the checklist from here," Ali said. "About half-way done, looks like. Hey guys, open your tac screen; Perry is inserting into Nu's orbit and it looks pretty interesting down there. Ain't like anything I've ever seen before."

They could see the planet's surface on the external cameras. It was a rugged landscape with huge, blood-rust-colored lava pinnacles jutting up like raw coral. Between the badlands were isolated upland mesas. Some of the elevated flatlands were covered by extensive black sand dunes, peppered with dark basalt boulders ranging in size from small mountains to tiny pebbles. The planet was airless and as barren as could be.

"LiDAR scans completed," Perry reported. "Median elevation is 3,200 feet, ranging from relative zero to 7,962 feet. The highest peak appears to be a dormant volcano along a magmatic arch chain on the far hemisphere. The surface is eighty–seven percent ferrosilite. There is no detectable atmosphere; however, there are trace amounts of sulfur oxides that are accumulating along low-lying depressions. Trace water is locked within the rock matrices in amounts up to 0.4 percent, by volume. There are no standing pools of water or ice anywhere on the planet."

"Well," Ali observed after taking in the sights, "I don't think you'll need to bio-decontaminate after coming back from there."

If a planetary architect designed a world to be as inhospitable as possible, they would not have done much better coming up with a place like this. The deep, narrow valleys were bathed in eternal shadow and completely inaccessible from the surrounding uplands. There was no soil to speak of, and the sand deposits mantling the scattered mesas were more likely the result of billions of years of decomposition from cosmic rays hurling unimpeded onto the surface than from any local geomorphic activity.

"There are several peculiarities associated with this planet," Perry observed.

"You mean there's something that stands out as particularly odd about this place?" Ali asked.

"Oh, definitely," Perry replied.

"Such as?" Peter prompted.

"The main mystery is that for its size and distance from Antares, sufficient surface pressures, and thermal conditions should have developed here to produce an atmosphere, but it is essentially a vacuum to its very surface."

"Maybe some stellar event from Antares burned it away," Henrietta suggested. "The surface—at least—looks that way, like there was some gigantic fire storm in its past."

"Well, we may never know what it looked like long ago. What else is wrong with it?" Peter asked.

"There are some very unusual landforms," Perry replied.

"You sure have a way with understatement," Ali commented.

Before Perry could continue, Stiles broke in, "Done with preflight, so we're ready to head out. Pick us a good place to land, Perry,"

"That leads me to what I was just talking about, Captain Essen. If we assign Peak-7962 as the Prime Meridian, there is an area of nearly 310 square miles at 103° 23' latitude, and +40° 00' longitude. This upland plain is composed of bare bedrock, with no appreciable regolith, and has an absolute grade less than half a percent. It would provide a very attractive landing site," Perry replied. "It is also quite unusual in that all four sides of this plateau are precisely 17.63 miles long. I can establish geosynchronous orbit over that region and paint the target, if you wish."

Peter wondered what the chances were of that feature being natural. He had seen the Face of Mars, the Sphinx of Jackson's Landing, and the Himalayan Lady up close in his travels across the Colonies, and would have sworn they were all crafted by alien hands. Everyone agreed, including himself, that they were simple—yet unusual—natural landforms. Peter wondered if this could be yet another accident of nature. "Are you telling us it is a perfect square?" Peter asked.

"Yes," Perry confirmed. "For all intents and purposes, it cannot be more of a square than it is."

"And almost perfectly flat." Peter added. About this time he was wishing he could go down and visit that landmark himself.

"Like it was sculpted by someone," Ali observed. He was obviously reading Peter's mind.

"That thought also crossed my mind," Perry replied.

Good to know we're all thinking the same thing, Peter thought. He had to admit this was getting pretty interesting, and providing the crew with something to occupy their minds would not be a bad thing. Maybe this will lift them all out of their funk. "Arietta, you've been silent for awhile. What d' you think of all this?"

"Neh.... Beats me," she replied sullenly. She was showing little interest in the latest mystery and acted like she did not care, like everything else in her life for the past couple days.

"She's probably thinking of more ways she can turn on us," Ali offered.

Henrietta finally looked up. "That's not fair!" she shouted. "You really don't know what you're talking about, so shut up!"

What got into the two of them? Peter wondered.

"Hey, up there," Stiles threw in, "let's keep our eyes on the ball! We have a mission to carry out, so quit the chatter."

"Sorry, Stiles," Ali replied, "you're right."

"Of course I am. Anyway, looks like you picked us an interesting place to visit, Perry. Gives us another reason to go down there, huh? Project an IR marker at the center of that flat land and I'll try to land right next to it."

"Very well, Captain Essen," Perry replied. "I will adjust our orbital parameters to remain over the plateau in a geosynchronous orbit. It will take a few minutes to maneuver and match the planet's rotation."

"Roger that," Stiles replied. "That should give us plenty of time to make our egress and de-orbit. Ali, we're ready; open the hangar door."

"Will do," Ali replied. He initiated the unlock cycle and the large landing bay door began to swing down, providing a handy landing pad. Bright yellow lights flashed throughout the hangar, and a loud claxon sounded. "The road's open, Stiles."
Stiles cleared his throat. "Um, okay. Here goes.... I'm lifting off now."

Peter watched their progress from the bridge, switching to an internal hangar camera pointing at the shuttle.

The craft sat in the middle of the large hangar deck, poised near the pivoting door. The shuttle tentatively lifted off the deck. The right skid lifted a few inches higher than the left, and in response Stiles over-compensated, driving the left skid back down onto the deck. The force bounced the whole shuttle off the landing bay like it was on springs, and they were suddenly airborne again, hovering a foot or so precariously above the bruised flight deck. The poor craft looked like a leaf torn between falling and remaining suspended as it rocked side to side.

The front of the craft began to swing around and Stiles clumsily maneuvered the shuttle into outer space left-side-first, slowly yawing about until the front of the shuttle faced the door they just exited. It was fortunate the hangar door was so wide.

"Gee," Jimmy proclaimed, "you coulda warned me you were gonna back out."

"Stuff it, Null-Grav," Stiles yelled.

"You guys all right down there?" Peter asked.

"Fine," Stiles replied sharply. He gained control of the craft and slowly backed away from the mother ship, smoothly slipping out the rear. "The ship looks good from this angle," Stiles reported.

"What he means is, 'we meant to do that,' " Jimmy added.

Everyone on the bridge laughed, including Henrietta. "You're doing fine, Stiles," Peter said. "It's looking smoother now."

"Captain Essen," Perry proclaimed, "I would suggest that you not show off so much on your first flight. Heading directly out of the hangar would have been a much safer maneuver."

"I'll keep that in mind," Stiles replied. "Okay, I'm heading down now."

The shuttle carved away from Perry and began its descent toward Planet Nu, leaving the ship far behind. As it lost altitude, the shuttle side-slipped from the equator toward the barren northern pole, leveling off at latitude forty. The landing zone was just off to the front, but Stiles would complete an entire orbit before returning to the target area at a lower altitude allowing a safe descent. They passed the square plateau, crossed a massive, black chasm, and flew over a large elevated dune field.

"Looks like where people in hell would go if they went to the beach," Jimmy observed.

"It does at that," Ali replied. "Did you bring your swimsuit?"

"Yeah, but it's under my hard-suit. Think it might be tough stripping off all this stuff; 'specially this nasty helmet."

"Yep," Henrietta replied, "best keep it all on. Especially with Stiles at the wheel."

"You got that right!" Jimmy proclaimed.

"Hey, I'm getting the hang of this."

"He is, actually," Jimmy confirmed.

Peter looked at Ali, raising his eyebrows. That might be the first time Jimmy complimented Stiles over anything, Peter thought. Having your life in someone's hands does that to you, Peter decided.

As the shuttle descended, the mother ship slowed until it remained in place over the landing zone, exactly matching the rotational rate of Nu. The shuttle continued on until it began climbing over the leading limb.

"L-O-S is imminent," Perry reported. What he meant was that they would have a loss of signal once the shuttle passed behind the planet.

"Roger," Stiles replied. "We are—" The communications link with the shuttle was abruptly severed.

"Are they okay?" Henrietta asked.

"They are doing fine," Perry replied. "We have lost contact with them until they reappear on the opposite limb. Communications will return once we reestablish a line-of-sight."

Peter kept track of time of orbit and followed their progress by the predicted glide path. They should be about ten thousand feet above mean surface elevation just about now and on the far side of the planet. That is, if their rate of descent was perfect.

"This waiting is horrible," Henrietta observed after several minutes of silence.

"I agree," Perry said, "In future, we could launch com satellites in advance of any landing missions. That would allow us to relay communications between craft."

"Ooh, that would be good," Henrietta agreed. "All I can think about is them crashing."

"You worried about Jimmy?" Peter asked.

Henrietta huffed, "And Stiles... would you believe?"

Peter figured they were all just as concerned. Waiting was tough, he realized.

After several long minutes of continued static, the com abruptly cleared. Perry purred. "Telemetry is streaming in again. They are directly in the middle of the glide path. All systems appear nominal."

"Yahoo...!" Jimmy proclaimed. "Hey guys, you shoulda seen that volcano. Stiles flew right over it. I think I coulda looked right down into the core of this planet."

Peter smiled at Jimmy's unbridled enthusiasm. It sounded like he was on a rollercoaster ride at some fancy amusement park. "Glad you're having a good time."

"Sure am; y'oughta be here."

"I'm quite happy where I am," Ali replied.

"Chicken," Jimmy taunted.

"Better a live chicken, than a dead dinner," Ali joked. "You should be coming up to the LZ soon."

"I'm picking up Perry's ground signal," Stiles reported. "Looks to be twenty miles ahead and a little over eight thousand feet below. I'm slowing down for approach." Stiles began arching the shuttle around and began his descent over the square plateau. At about five hundred feet, he stopped their plunge and scanned the surface. "Overall, it's smooth as a pool table; not a wrinkle in sight."

"That's why Perry chose it," Ali commented.

Stiles continued his slow vertical descent. This time he kept the nose of the shuttle perfectly stationary, about ten feet away from the signal in front of them beaming down from the mother ship. "Two hundred feet; one hundred feet; still no debris or disturbance.... Looks cleaner than the hangar deck." Stiles slowed to a crawl. "Eighty-five feet... hey, Perry, does that IR wave you're beaming down generate any heat?" Stiles asked.

"Not enough to excite the iron minerals on the surface, Captain Essen. Temperature differentials are negligible."

"Well," Stiles insisted, "something boiled up around your pointer. Looks like a mound or something formed right under your IR paint."

Stiles zoomed in the front-view camera of the shuttle to the tiny infrared spotlight. It was projected to the direct center of the plateau. As Stiles suggested, there was a square rock at the precise location where the IR beam struck the planetary surface.

Okay, I'll concede the Himalayan Lady, Peter thought, but this is no coincidence. On an otherwise smooth plain, here was the only blemish.

Perry swept the IR beam around the object, using it as a means of measuring distance to the surface. "You are correct, Captain Essen, there is a mound at that location. It is a perfect cube of what appears to be bedrock exactly 9.3086 feet on all sides."

"A perfect cube, directly in the center of a perfectly square plateau?" Ali asked.

Peter stared at the image as Stiles continued his descent to thirty feet.

"Not only that," Perry continued, "but the object is smaller by a factor of precisely 0.0001 than the plateau on which it rests; a scale model of it, so to speak."

"Why 9.3 feet?" Henrietta asked.

"I cannot say," Perry replied. "Perhaps, if this is artificial—which now appears to be a near-certainty—this might be the builder's equivalent of our foot, or yard."

"Then why here?" Henrietta persisted. "Of all places we chose to come...."

"I should note, Henrietta," Perry lectured, "that the unique size and configuration of the plateau attracted us to this spot in the first place. One is immediately reminded of a Venus Fly Trap attracting prey. It could also be possible that each planet in this system has a similar feature; thus whichever planet we approached would contain an irresistible calling card to explorers. Conceding the fact that we came to this planet—and completed a planetary survey—it was inevitable we would find this construct."

"Why didn't we see this 'cube' in the middle of the plain before?" Stiles asked.

Perry hummed for a moment as he checked his records. "There are no records that it was present prior to now. Perhaps it only appeared when you approached it. Curiously, you were flying approximately ten feet laterally away from it, and only discovered it when you were between eighty–five and one hundred feet above it. Again, that would substantiate the measurement ratios we have been observing as being somehow significant; factors of just below nine and a third."

"Should they land?" Henrietta asked.

"Hey, I didn't come all this way just to hover!" Stiles replied. "I'll touch down gently and lift back up immediately. If it doesn't grow—or something—I'll set us down for sure."

Stiles slowly brought the shuttle down until it barely scrapped the surface. They were now about ten feet away from cube, which from their vantage point looked like a settler's small homestead, but hewn from solid rock. Stiles allowed the shuttle to settle on the planet for a brief moment before gingerly lifting up again.

"No reaction," Stiles reported, "so, we're going down." He reached over and flipped the attitude jets again for descent, bringing the craft to a permanent landing.

"Whoa! Did you see a flash of light?" Jimmy asked.

"I didn't see anything," Stiles replied. "You're seeing things again."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Peter called out, "Jimmy's seen things most of us missed the first time around."

"Yeah, right; light from a chunk of rock." Stiles shut down the engine and secured the shuttle. "Come on, Jimmy, let's go look at your lighthouse."

"I'm not so sure that's wise," Jimmy suggested.

Stiles unbuckled his seat and swung around to the exit hatch. "You misunderstood. That wasn't a request."

Stiles cycled the door open and stepped out. Jimmy followed like a mouse. The two boys walked cautiously over the low-gravity planet, swinging wide around the shuttle. Stiles turned on his lighted helmet-cam and swung it around his craft for an inspection. The area appeared to be pristine. Gaining confidence, they began walking more briskly toward the central cube.

"Looks bigger from out here," Jimmy observed. Stiles did not make any jokes about Jimmy's size this time. As the two boys approached, they inspected the object from a distance. "Is that a horizontal line on it, about four feet up? Maybe a ridge or depression? Not sure I saw that before."

"Gentlemen," Perry cautioned, "you are still beyond the 9.3086-foot distance zone. I would advise extreme caution before crossing that line." Perry moved the IR spot in front of the cube to show them the point of demarcation. "We cannot be sure what it will do if it is triggered again, especially with the two of you so near."

Both boys stood there, unmoving, on the bleak landscape. "Well, go on, Jimmy; take a look," Stiles suggested.

"Gee, that's so kind of you to offer." Obviously, Jimmy was trying to decide when he had drawn the shorter straw.

"Well," Stiles replied, "Let me put it to you this way. Let's assume I went in and something happens to me. Seeing I'm the only one who can fly us back, do you think you could rescue me if I went in and something went wrong?"

"Rats. I hate it when you're right." Jimmy shrugged and stepped over the red dot like it was a physical barrier. He waited a moment to see if the structure lit up again. The hunk of rock just stared back. Cautiously, Jimmy continued on. He got to within a foot of the cube and studied the surface, craning his neck to take in every detail.

"Pretty much looks like rock," Jimmy confirmed. "There's some kind of gap on it, though. Looks like someone took a string and cut right through it, but the top didn't fall down." He squatted down and peered directly into the two-inch-wide notch. "I wonder how the top stays suspended." He shone his light into the slash, running it back and forth along the seam. "Looks pitch black in there."

"What do you see?" Ali asked.

"Nothin' but black," Jimmy replied. "No reflection at all. It's like it has no end in there. Being only ten feet wide, you'd think I'd see my light reflected on the opposite sidewall. But nothing...." Jimmy reached his hand forward.

"Don't touch it!" Stiles cautioned.

Jimmy ignored the order and probed into the cube's indentation with the gloved fingers of his left hand. He stiffened immediately and began to convulse as though a million volts of electricity were passing through his body.

"Jimmy!" Stiles yelled.

"Ohmygod!" Henrietta cried. "What just happened?"

Jimmy began laughing. "Just kidding...." He pulled his hand away from the rock and turned around, like he was ready to have his holo taken at some cheap tourist attraction.

"Dallas, you little piece of crap," Stiles scolded him. "I should kill you."

"You should have seen your face. That was definitely worth the price of coming down with you." Jimmy giggled again. "So what do we do now?"

"Perry," Peter asked, "did you get any telemetry from them after Jimmy's little stunt?"

"Yes, I did. As Jimmy indicated, there is an absence of substance within the cube. It is as though it is completely hollow, although the insides are not like normal space."

"What do you mean," Ali asked.

"Normal space," Perry continued, "even the vacuum of outer space, is full of molecules; especially in this gas-rich region within the nebular clouds. Inside the cube, however, is a perfect void. Not a single molecule is within. There are no mechanisms, hatches, or switches I can detect. If one were to compare the volume of space inside the cube to the volume represented by the outer walls, one would determine that the walls are molecularly thin. In contradiction to the evidence, however, the cube has a density equal to it being a solid cube of ferrosilite.

"By the way, Jimmy," Perry continued, "that was a fantastic joke."

"Thank you," Jimmy replied.

"You mean," Ali summarized, "ninety–two tons of rock materialized out of thin air, which actually isn't there at all; snapped our picture, or did whatever it did, while Stiles wasn't looking; and is less than paper thin, but as massive as if it were solid rock."

"As strange as it sounds, I cannot fault anything you just said," Perry replied.

"So, beyond Jimmy's propensity to make a ship laugh, what have we learned from all this?" Stiles asked.

"If I were prone to guess," Perry stated, "I would surmise this is a 'Hunter's Trip-Trap,' designed to notify the owner of anyone passing by. It might be a way of monitoring for the presence of intelligent life."

"Or, designed to monitor the movement of enemies," Stiles suggested.

"That is equally likely," Perry concluded, "given that we know absolutely nothing about it, the beings who may have built it, or the region of space we currently occupy."

"Could it be Wasatti?" Jimmy asked.

"That is highly unlikely," Perry said. "They have not exhibited anything of this technological level."

"Can we afford to wait around and see what it does?" Peter asked. "Maybe it's a link to a time portal, or something."

Peter wondered if this device could bring them home, maybe even go back in time to before the Vega battle occurred and change history somehow. The options were limitless. Then again, it might be the entryway to someone's hell, or the devourer of all matter. Again, the options were unlimited.

"Your supposition of time travel is highly speculative, and most unlikely," Perry stated. "And because of our lack of food, I would not recommend staying here more than a few hours or until the consumption of the air in Stiles and Jimmy's suits forces them to leave. We could, however, leave a remote transmitter here to monitor whatever it might do. At the very least, we could obtain data from it until we jump out of this sector."

"I got another idea," Jimmy suggested. "Wait just a sec." Jimmy trotted to the shuttle and disappeared inside the craft for a minute or two. As fast as he disappeared, he trotted back to the monolith and peeked inside its groove. "Here goes nothing," he said, throwing something in.

"What was that?" Stiles asked.

"A memcube. It's the only thing I could find off hand." Jimmy looked inside the structure again to see if he could find the computer storage cube he just threw in. "Well, it's not in there, as far as I can see. Somehow, I didn't think I'd find it."

"What was on it?" Ali asked.

"It was a copy of my translator software. If anyone's in there, it will be a key to our language. We'll at least be able to talk to them if they ever find us. Plus, I was curious what would happen to anything thrown in there."

"Next time, tell us before you try anything," Peter suggested. "No telling who might be monitoring that thing."

"Well, if Null-Grav gets to try something...." Stiles walked into the shuttle. He returned with one of the Wasatti weapons in his arms and took aim. "Step back, Null-Grav."

"I would advise against doing that, Captain Essen," Perry cautioned. "Our final recorded action against an unknown civilization should not be one of vandalism. I am not sure that would leave a good impression."

"But I've wanted to try this sucker out since we got it. And I was reluctant to try it on the ship until we knew what it could do. There's nothing else to shoot at around here."

"Hey, wait a minute; maybe I can help," Jimmy offered. He ran back to the shuttle a second time.

While he was away, Stiles practiced aiming down the barrel. He swung it around as if he were in a tense firefight. "I always fantasized about shooting you, Null-Grav, but I'm not sure this is the place."

Jimmy returned with a remote sensor. He stripped off the protective case and set the instrument aside. He then picked up the empty case and placed it just inside the 9.3-foot monitoring zone of the cube, but off to one side. "There's a target for ya." He stepped back behind Stiles. "Shoot away."

Stiles carefully took aim and squeezed the trigger. A concentrated sphere of white energy burst from the muzzle and vaporized the case, spitting droplets of molten metal throughout the area. One side of the monolith was laminated with a new metal skin.

"Cool," Jimmy exclaimed.

"Yeah, it was," Stiles remarked, "but enough playing." He set aside the rifle and pointed the sensor at the monolith. They set up a second sensor on the opposite side of the cube.

"You guys getting readings from the sensors up there?" Stiles asked.

"Affirmative," Perry replied. "We are receiving full signal from both."

"Okay; nothing else we can do here, I guess," Stiles observed. "Come on, Null-Grav, let's go."

They climbed back aboard the shuttle and closed the hatch. Stiles and Jimmy took their seats in the cockpit. "Is it doing anything yet?" Stiles asked.

"No, Captain Essen," Perry replied. "It is just as still as when we first detected it."

"Yeah, well... sayonara, whoever you are," Stiles offered. He ramped-up the engines and took off. Jimmy craned his neck, looking down at the cube until they were too far away to see it.

By the time Stiles established orbit, Perry reported that the cube disappeared. No one saw it leave; it simply was there one instant and gone the next. In its place, the planet's surface was as smooth as the surroundings. To make matters worse, Perry could not even detect a crack or seam anywhere along its former footprint. Once Perry reported his observations, or lack thereof, the crew was totally baffled.

At Henrietta's suggestion, Perry ran a full suite of diagnostics. Every parameter they checked—chemical, thermal, isotopic, and even rates of cosmic ray strikes—had shown no variation between the two regions. It was as if they had imagined the whole episode. They all knew it happened, but had no explanation of what it could have been.

One thing was certain, though—from now on they would always be looking behind their backs, checking to see if the Monolith Builders were on their tail.

CHAPTER 15

**Antares Star System – Habitable Zone**

Stiles and Jimmy slept most of the day after they got back from the cube on Planet Nu. They effortlessly brought the shuttle back to the hangar, reviewed some of the video images of the monolith, and immediately went to their beds like zombies. No one disturbed them for almost two days.

The crew was nearing the end of the day and was no further toward a solution about the strange alien mechanism. They knew nothing, but did decide on a name for it; they dubbed it the Nu Outpost. Jimmy made a joke about it being completely different from any "Old" Outpost that only produced groans, except from Perry. Apparently, the ship became his number one fan and Jimmy soaked up the notoriety. It was rare that anyone asked his opinion, and the ship was full of questions about humor and the value of double entendres.

The crew gathered in the galley for the evening meal. Stiles and Jimmy were still exhausted from their planetary adventure, and Peter—although recovering—was drained from his therapy with one more day to go. Henrietta was still nursing a major case of the blues for no apparent reason. Only Ali seemed normal, and somewhat in a good mood; if one could call it that.

"Well," Peter offered wearily, "we've sure come a long way."

Henrietta raised her water bulb in toast. "Sure. Here's to sixteen wonderful days on an exotic cruise with all of my friends—all my friends," she emphasized. "Two weeks and two days of utter bliss!" She took a pull from her bulb. "But who's counting." Glancing at the stale water she continued, "M'mm, more bland water. And celebrating in real style.... Huh, 'celebrating with Stiles, with style'... or is that 'in style, with Stiles?' "

"Henry, you must be losing your mind," Stiles observed. "You're not making any sense." Stiles hollowly turned back to his dinner.

Perry broke in on their conversation, "Actually, Captain Essen, her use of similar-sounding words—although not quite synonyms—was quite creative, given the context; especially considering her veiled implications of comparing the pleasure of your company to that of stale water."

Henrietta ignored the ship's comments and just shrugged, "Yeah, Stiles, I actually think I might just be slipping beyond the edge of reason. I'm considering my lifetime with four of the most eligible bachelors in the whole universe; well, maybe the galaxy. Wait... make that five bachelors; I almost forgot Perry."

"Thank you," Perry joyously replied.

"Remind me someday to explain sarcasm to you," Henrietta told the ship.

"Ugh," Ali complained, "why bother." He seemed to be catching what everyone else had.

"What's wrong now?" Jimmy asked.

"What else; this food tastes like cardboard. If it didn't taste so bad, I'd complain about how little there was."

"You could stand to loose some fat," Stiles observed.

Ali just stared between Stiles and his meager plate of food. He looked like he was ready to respond, but settled instead on pushing the yellowish mush from one side of his plate to the other.

"What Captain Essen just said is correct," Perry observed. "You are not technically 'grossly obese,' but you are—"

Henrietta rose up from her chair, determined to silence the ill-mannered ship, "Privacy, please!"

Perry hummed as if he were hurt, "Complying." Dead silence filled the galley. All the boys stared at their plates.

Henrietta scratched her nose, looking up at the ceiling and wondering why things were unraveling so badly. "Here it's been a week since I took over medical, and I swore I'd get us all back on a regular exercise schedule. But no, just like before; one day after another. And what have I done? Made Peter more ill, is all."

"Oh, Arietta; I'm getting better...." Peter weakly replied.

"Yeah right." Henrietta bit back the harsh reply she had considered. "Yeah," she continued more softly.

She brought her plate to the 'cycler and stuffed it in, trying to hide her anger. Looking around for something to do, she began rearranging the counters, tidying up the small mess they had let accumulate. Her chore ended too quickly so she moved on to the nearby cupboards. After some cursory reshuffling, she began rummaging through them more closely.

"Some of Ruben's snacks are gone...."

"What?" Stiles asked.

"The snacks," Henrietta replied in concern. "About half of them are missing." She finished looking through the cupboards. "Did anyone move them?"

Everyone shook their heads. There were about five pounds of various treats—sweets, salty snacks, and shrink-wrapped baked goods full of artificial preservatives. Some of it was used for Stiles' birthday cake but as far as Henrietta knew, they did not touch it since. Obviously, though, someone had.

"Well, the food didn't just walk away," Henrietta stated.

"Maybe you were mistaken what was there before," Peter suggested.

Stiles barged in next to Henrietta and looked inside. "No, she's right. At least two fistfuls of stuff are gone. We got ourselves a thief in our midst."

"Wasn't me," Henrietta complained.

"Me either," Jimmy added quickly.

Peter looked around, "Hey, I've been too sick lately to even think about eating...."

Stiles turned around malevolently, "Well, who's fat enough around here to hide the evidence?"

Ali looked at Peter with pleading in his eyes. Finding no comfort there, he turned to Henrietta, and then to Jimmy. "Guys, I didn't steal anything. I—"

"And I got some land outside for sale," Stiles added. "Henrietta, can you put a lock on those cabinets from your medical supplies?"

"Yeah...."

"Then do it," Stiles replied. "And you keep the key; if anything else turns up missing, we'll know who did it." Stiles looked up at the ceiling, "Return to monitoring mode."

Without missing a beat, Perry continued talking, "Well, if you'd rather I not discuss—"

"Perry," Stiles ordered, "I want you to monitor everything that happens in this galley. I want a full accounting of everything everyone eats, until further notice. And all privacy privileges are revoked in this galley. I want around-the-clock monitoring here."

"Understood," Perry replied.

Stiles stared daggers at Ali. "And if I catch the one stealing food from the rest of us—I swear—I will throw him out the airlock."

Stiles turned to Henrietta, "And no doctor's orders will stop me this time."

* * *

Everyone went to bed without saying much for the rest of the evening; the entire crew by now was as crabby as a roomful of ornery cats. The next day they wandered into the galley for breakfast in dribs and drabs but Ali did not even bother showing up.

By 0930, the others made it to the bridge, while Ali closed himself off in his office in engineering, having arrived there directly from his room.

"Are sensors at maximum?" Stiles asked.

"Yeah," Henrietta replied. "I was gonna send out carrier pigeons, but figured you'd rather want to get the results quicker."

"Carrier pigeons would require independent life support systems, if they were to leave the ship," Perry pointed out. "And that is even considering if we had any onboard."

"Gee," Henrietta replied, "I guess I'm glad I didn't send them out, then."

"What's our range to Xi-Antares-A?" Stiles asked.

Perry hummed, "Xi-Antares-A is forty–five minutes away, at our projected rate of deceleration, Captain Essen. We are currently in-line for orbital insertion, but can alter course for fly-by up until fifteen minutes prior to orbital capture."

"So we have a half-hour to decide how best to proceed," Stiles summarized.

"And he can subtract, too," Henrietta noted.

Stiles ignored her comment. "Can't see anything through that planet's thick cloud layer.... Any planetary biomarkers yet?"

There were several atmospheric gases that could be used to indicate the presence of life conducive to human physiology. Other forms of life were possible, but unless they were based on carbon they would be of little food use to humans. To find useable sources of food, conditions mimicking Old Earth would be needed.

"We are picking up strong CO-2 and methane readings," Jimmy replied, "but no ozone yet. Nothing else of interest."

"Thermographic and LiDAR scanning likewise does not suggest the presence of large bodies of water, nor does the planet's rotational rate," Perry observed. "Other than the carbon dioxide, as Jimmy suggests, the spectra is relatively flat-lined, very suggestive of a Venus-type environment."

"But not as hot," Stiles added.

"Obviously," Perry replied.

"That doesn't look too good," Peter stated. "I think it's sterile."

"Agreed," Perry confirmed. "There is still a potential for an exotic form of life down there, but no possibility of finding sources of food that would provide human nutrients."

The crew remained silent as they approached Planet Xi. Finally, Henrietta broke the silence, opening the ship's PA, "Ali; thought I'd fill you in on our progress...."

"No need. I've been following your scans. Ain't no steaks on hooves down there for us carnivores, right?"

"Nope," Henrietta replied. She closed the PA with a slow, deliberate click.

Stiles looked around at his small command, glancing at Peter. "Thanks for not telling me 'I told you so.' "

Peter shrugged noncommittally, "No big thing. At least we know now."

"Captain Essen," Perry reported, "global LiDAR scans are now one hundred percent complete. Out of curiosity, I completed a specialized search. Planet Xi-Antares-A appears to have another monolith plateau. It is also 17.63 miles to a side, and is also at latitude plus forty, just as it was at Nu-Antares-A. It appears that our Monolith Builders have been busy in this system."

Stiles perked up at the news and retrieved Perry's topographical data. "Should we go down?"

"I would advise against it," Perry suggested. "Assuming these devices are meant as a monitoring system, providing the builders with two points along our travel path will inform them of our current route. At this point, we can only assume they have one data point on us. By tripping two consecutive markers, we not only would allow them to determine our course, but our relative rate of speed. Many inferences could be drawn from such data."

Stiles rubbed his chin, lost in thought. "You're probably right. My curiosity tells me to go down, but as a strategist, I am not ready to relinquish that much intelligence to an unknown entity. Let's stay away from that planet, and move on."

"Very well, Captain Essen. The course is being adjusted for a high altitude fly-by."

Stiles nodded. "Seeing we're still in the neighborhood, though," he continued. "Let's move on to that terrestrial moon at Omicron."

"As you wish," Perry answered. "We will arrive there in nineteen hours and twenty–two minutes."

"Putting us there around oh-five-thirty tomorrow morning," Stiles calculated. "Well, that'll give us something to wake up to. Nav, check Perry's plot to 4-Omicron-Antares-A. I'm going to take a nap." Stiles got up from his chair and disappeared into his cabin, not even bothering to assign anyone the conn.

"Must be nice being the boss," Jimmy observed.

"Not if it also means being Stiles," Henrietta corrected.

Peter laughed. "Aw, he's welcome to it. It's not as much fun as it looks, Jimmy."

"Maybe not," Jimmy replied, "but it beats taking orders from him."

Henrietta input the last of her calculations into the nav computer. She allowed it to run and watched the results with mild interest. "Well, Perry, you did another fine job plotting an efficient course. Can't find anything wrong with what you've done."

"I appreciate that, Henrietta."

She switched off her display and closed her station. Stretching her back, she got up and dialed in a juice bulb. "Anyone?" she asked looking around and holding it up.

Jimmy nodded and Henrietta gave him the untouched one, replacing it with a fresh bulb for herself. Jimmy sucked the juice down and closed his com station. "Well, if the boss can leave early, so can I." He stood up and rambled off the bridge.

Henrietta took a sip and strolled over to Peter at com-2. She offered him a sip. At first he declined, but Henrietta insisted.

"Thanks," Peter said. He pulled a mouthful and handed the bulb back to her.

She noticed something on Peter's arm as she took the bulb back. "What's that?" she asked turning his arm up.

"Oh, just a spot or two.... Musta got bruised last night."

Henrietta studied his arm more carefully. He had several light-yellow bruises on his bicep and tiny red pimply dots covering his forearm. "How long have you had these?"

"I can't remember; couple days? Not sure when I first saw 'em." He looked more carefully at the arm resting in Henrietta's hands. "What are they?"

"They're called petechiae—pinprick bleeds." She saw the confused look on his face, so she went on to explain. "When bone marrow is damaged, immature white blood cells begin displacing normal bone marrow cells. What happens is that you are not producing enough blood platelets, which affects your ability to clot blood. How are you feeling otherwise?" she asked.

"Better actually, but not quite back to normal. I still don't have much of an appetite. Other than the headaches, not too bad."

Henrietta finished her juice and sat down at the adjacent station. She did not like the idea of headaches. That could mean the leukemic cells were starting to invade the central nervous system—or, that he was just getting headaches.

"Any other neurological signs?"

Peter just shook his head.

"Well, you'll finish your last session tomorrow evening." She tried to look occupied and unconcerned at the closed station. "You should have been fully recovered by now."

"It's not your fault," Peter replied eagerly.

"Then who's fault is it?" she asked.

They could not look at each other, so they concentrated on the blank screens to their fronts. "Nature's, I guess," Peter answered. "Sometimes a body just fights against the odds. I'm hoping to be better by tomorrow."

"You'd better be. I won't be able to stomach Stiles in that command chair for one more day," she joked.

"He's not so bad, Arietta. We're actually pretty lucky he was able to take over for me while I'm sick. Let's just see what tomorrow brings. Who knows, maybe we'll find a planet full of cotton candy."

* * *

Henrietta was in medical working out the finer details of a new treatment for Peter. She was just cross checking additional sources to be sure she made the best decision. Having no real background for this stuff was not making her job any easier, and it was all so confusing.

Before she even started the nanotherapy, Peter displayed no outward signs of his cancer, or even of being ill, but after starting the injections, he went downhill almost overnight. That rate of symptom development just did not make sense. "Do no harm" was one of the main tenants of medicine, and "harm" was all she was doing. She reread the manuals a thousand times. She double-checked the formula she was using every time she drew it up each afternoon. She was meticulous with her methods, and what did it get her? A sick patient was what.

Peter was slowly improving over the last couple days, but all the literature indicated he should be perfectly fine by now. One more treatment just to be sure all the bad cells were excised from his body; that's all she should be doing now.

Reading about it sounded so simple. He just has to get better, she convinced herself.

"Perry?"

"Yes, Henrietta?"

"Who do you think is the better captain: Peter or Stiles?"

"I am not sure I am qualified to make that determination. The actions humans take almost always baffle me. You see, the proper course in many situations is not always the most logical one—as I originally speculated—and humans seem to have an innate ability of knowing that fact. You are asking me to comment on a subject I have very little experience with."

"Like me being a doctor." Henrietta stared blankly at her screen. "I wish Peter would get better. I want him back to normal. I want him back in command." She stopped to think it through some more. "Yeah, I prefer Peter on the bridge."

"What would you do to put him back in command?"

She thought for a moment. "There's nothing I can do, really. Other than cure his illness."

"I tend to agree with you. Peter may be the better choice, but we must support Stiles until Peter improves. Stiles is the oldest onboard."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Well, the oldest is the one in charge, you know."

"That's ridiculous, Perry. Who told you that?"

"Stiles did."

Henrietta laughed. "That figures. Look it up, Perry; you'll never find that in the regulations. In fact, search your Colonial Academy history. You'll find many examples of captains of ships younger than other crewmen onboard."

Perry hummed for several minutes as he checked his records. "Why would Stiles tell me that?"

"Probably because he wanted to be in command, and who better to solicit help than the one he's commanding."

Perry thought about what he was hearing for a moment. "In that case, I also have a question about something called the 'Commanders Prerogative'—"

* * *

"There's your last dose; congratulations. You can snap up now." Henrietta switched off the injector module. "How do you feel?"

Peter dodged the overhead medical unit and sat upright. He felt a little dizzy and his abdomen was bathed from inside with the usual hot solution. "Well... the same as the other times, so I guess it went okay."

"No unusual side effects?"

"What am I to know what's unusual? Like I said, it felt no different, so... nothing unusual."

"That's good, I guess." Henrietta placed the vial in the medical 'cycler where it was immediately incinerated and ejected out of the ship to avoid cross-contamination. "Let's see how you feel tomorrow. If you're still sick, I have another treatment option we can try. We still have a few days to help you improve before we jump."

"You found something else to try?" Peter asked.

"I think so. I've been staying up most nights reading about this stuff. What I think is happening is that the radiation was eating away at your bone marrow. So I'll be giving you cytokines. They stimulate the growth of mature white blood cells, so that should help in the recovery of your marrow. For some reason, the first treatment seemed to be attacking the bone marrow instead of replacing the affected cells. I think we've eliminated the source of the cancer, but now we just need to get your system back the way it was."

"What do you think I got, anyway?"

Henrietta scrunched her face in uncertainty. "See, that's the weird thing. You shouldn't have anything yet. Before your symptoms got worse, there was just simple cell damage Perry uncovered. The early treatment was just meant to be a 'find and replace' type thing to stop it before it really began metastasizing. But that seems to have changed. My diagnosis now is acute lymphoblastic leukemia. It seems like it accelerated much faster than normal. One to twenty years to onset of your current symptoms is much more common.

"Anyway, the marrow cells that normally produce lymphocytes—I'm guessing B-cells—which fight infections, are being changed in your body. So all these immature blood cells are crowding out the healthy ones, and if enough accumulate, they start to spill over into the bloodstream and enter more organs. That's what the radioactive nanocytes were for. They should be replacing the damaged cells with artificial lymphocytes; enough, at least, until your body can start producing them on its own. It's like a bone marrow transplant, except the nano-machines do all the work for us completely inside your system. Understand?"

"Yeah, I guess." It sounded pretty serious to Peter. He wondered what else Henrietta was not telling him, but he was too afraid to ask. He was never sick before in his life, and now here he was, fighting for his life. Every time he thought about it, he felt a twinge in his bones, like that spongy stuff was draining out and taking his life away. He could not help but wonder if the sensations he imagined were serious symptoms or just his imagination running wild.

"So if we need to continue more options, I'll introduce medications which are more like an actual cancer treatment. Right now, I'm exploring purine analogues, whatever those do."

"I'm glad you sound so confident."

"Hey, we're all learning around here, so shut up." Henrietta offered Peter a weak smile.

"Yes, doctor."

Henrietta shut down her computer. "I just want you to get better, so I can sign you off again as captain. We need someone steady at the helm."

"Yeah, that'd be nice." Not only to be back in command—not that he necessarily wanted it back, he realized—but to be healthy enough to earn it.

* * *

Omicron-Antares-A, Antares' fifteenth and final major planet, was a lovely canary-yellow gas giant, with a radius of 16,000 miles. Rich green and brown clouds radiated through the planet's atmosphere like a huge cat's-eye marble suspended in space. Each cloud layer was a different color, and from where the ship was from this breathtaking world the subtle depth differences were apparent, with delicate shadows highlighting the layer-cake atmosphere.

Planet Omicron contained no rings, but the thick nebula surrounding Antares was sucked into the gas giant's gravity well as she revolved around the central red star. The swirling wisps of nebular gas skirting the planet took on the appearance of a gigantic pinwheel as the rotational energy of the gas giant attracted the space molecules into ephemeral, highly elliptical orbits. The Omicron system looked more like a kaleidoscopic galaxy in miniature than the majestic planet it really was.

The fourth moon out from Planet Omicron was currently occluded by the large planet as though it were a frightened child hiding beneath his mother's skirts. His numerous siblings were not so timid, and all but a few were in full sight of the visiting ship. The closer Perry got to the Omicron system, the more minor satellites they discovered. In addition to the five major moons in orbit around the planet, there were currently twenty–three other moons with diameters under five hundred miles. And the count kept mounting as they continued the search.

The ship was now at closest approach to the main planet, and in a few seconds—after they arched around Planet Omicron—they would get their first detailed look of the large target moon.

"Distance to 4-Omicron-Antares-A is six million miles," Henrietta reported. "Current speed is 0.006 lights, and decreasing. Hard break maneuvers initiating now."

The crew felt the ship jolt several times in succession as Perry fought his forward momentum. Before they could establish an orbit around the moon, they would need to shed most of their forward velocity so that the weak pull of the moon could capture them. And using the backward pull of the gas giant they just passed would help make that happen. "Orbital insertion maneuvers can begin in ninety–two minutes... mark."

"Thank you Nav," Stiles replied. It was now 0400 hours, and the crew awakened early to be on-station for the conclusion of their trip to the second, and final, potentially habitable planetary body at Antares-A.

"4-Omicron is coming up on visual now," Jimmy reported. "Switching to main view."

A delicate azure moon appeared on screen. Jimmy passed his hand over the external sensor screen at his com station, "Switching to mag-4." The image expanded and took a moment to refocus. Once it did, thin, wispy, white clouds were visible gliding across the light blue globe.

"The average radius is 3,540 miles," Henrietta said. "Average density is approximately 330 pounds per cubic foot, giving it an Earth-gravity equivalent of 0.92. That's just about the same characteristics as Venus. Equatorial temperatures are near the freezing point of water—slightly above."

"I have surface water," Jimmy proclaimed, "lots of it!"

"Why is it so warm down there?" Henrietta asked.

"It might be coming from tidal friction from the gas giant," Peter replied.

"Spectral analysis?" Stiles asked anxiously, not much caring where the heat came from.

"Coming in now," Henrietta replied. A complex squiggly line started to form on Henrietta's screen. She transferred it to the main screen as it continued to build. Henrietta started naming off the compounds as they were identified. "Water vapor... carbon dioxide... carbon monoxide... ammonia... nitrogen... and hydrogen sulfide...."

"Any O-2; ozone...?" Stiles asked.

"Negative," Henrietta replied. "No methane, either. It appears to be a reducing atmosphere."

"What's that mean?" Stiles asked.

"We live in an oxidizing atmosphere, not reducing," Henrietta replied. "Actually, it is that type of atmosphere down there that life probably started on Earth. Funny, I think we arrived a couple million years too early."

Stiles slammed the palm of his hand down on his armrest in frustration. "This can't be. There has to be life down there."

"Sorry, Stiles," Henrietta replied. "No chlorophyll is evident. And with no methane present, it looks more like an early prebiotic environment. I doubt there are even any bacteria."

"Or cotton candy," Peter added. Henrietta laughed lightly.

"What's so funny?" Stiles asked.

"Inside joke," Henrietta explained. "Not about you, though. So, do we continue with orbital insertion?"

"No, what's the use?" Stiles replied sadly.

The beautiful azure and white planet faded from view to the side of the ship as they veered away from the swirling Omicron system.

* * *

"So tell me what you've found." Stiles was in his large cabin late in the evening with the lights at half illumination. It was not a good day for Stiles. All his hopes for easily finding food evaporated before his eyes. And to make matters worse, his hopes were raised so high from the initial reports of that blasted moon. He had to turn his fortunes somehow, and information from the ship was what he needed to make that happen.

"I have learned a great deal, Captain Essen," Perry replied happily. "The past two days have been quite eventful. If you wish, I could begin our discussions with the astrographic data we have accumulated—"

"Just stick to what the crew has been up to," Stiles replied abruptly.

Perry hummed. "Would you like a detailed breakdown of their recent activities?"

"Yeah, make it since I assumed command. Send a tabular report to my PAD."

"Done...."

He's efficient; I'll grant him that. "What about any conversations? Has anyone talked about the missing snacks?"

"Jimmy and Peter had a brief conversation three hours ago, discussing how unfortunate the event was."

"Did either of them admit to it?"

"No, Captain Essen; both seemed genuinely puzzled. Dermal temperature readings indicated they were likely telling the truth."

"It's got to be Hamadi, then. I knew it was him. Keep an eye on him."

"As you wish," Perry replied.

"Has anyone said anything about me, or how the mission is going?"

"Oh, yes. Those have been main topics of conversation since we came out of jump, actually—"

"Hold it right there." Stiles was getting really annoyed at Perry. He took things too literally. Ask him an easy question, and he wandered off on wild tangents. "Restrict your reply to the last couple days."

Perry hummed. "Just last evening Henrietta and Peter discussed the coming transition of captains and how much they look forward to it."

So there is proof, Stiles thought with glee. "Really.... Do you remember what they said?" Stiles asked.

"Of course," Perry replied indignantly. "I could play back the pertinent portions of the conversation, if you wish."

"You can do that?"

"Yes; I would not have suggested it had it been otherwise."

"Then do it," Stiles replied sternly.

Henrietta's voice came over the speakers, sounding very much to Stiles like she was speaking softly, almost as if she were whispering. "I just want you to get better, so I can sign you off again as captain. We need someone steady at the helm."

Peter eagerly replied, "Yeah, that'd be nice." He sounded wistful, as if he wanted it in the worst way.

He wants it so much he could taste it, Stiles realized. "That's very interesting. Scan for anything else on this topic," Stiles commanded. "I want to know if there are any trends developing here."

"Yes, there definitely are, Captain Essen. After we left the vicinity of Planet Xi, Henrietta and I were alone in medical. It was there that she asked me who would make the better captain."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her I did not have sufficient experience determining the differences between humans. I will now play back her reply."

"I wish Peter would get better. I want him back to normal. I want him back in command." There was a slight pause and she continued speaking. "Yeah, I prefer Peter on the bridge."

Stiles could hear the conspiracy saturating her voice—oozing out.

Perry continued explaining what went on during the conversation. "We then went on to discuss what she would need to do to put him back in command."

"And what was that?"

"Nothing of substance was concluded... out loud, at least," Perry replied. "Although she seemed to have a definite plan, however unspoken it may have been."

It was worse than he thought. They appeared to be actively plotting against him. "You have any more good news for me?" Stiles asked.

"Actually, I believe I do. The two of us seem to have something very much in common."

"What's that?" Stiles asked suspiciously.

"No one on board seems to like you, Captain Essen. Everyone talks negatively about you whenever they have the chance. It reminds me of the small regard Lieutenant Wilkins held for me. No matter what I tried, I could never seem to please him, although I fail to understand why. In that respect, we may be kindred spirits, as the saying goes."

"I wouldn't call that good news," Stiles retorted, "or necessarily accurate. Are there any other conspiratorial conversations going on around here?"

"Yes there was, in a manner of speaking," Perry continued. "Shortly after you left the bridge, while we were still at Planet Xi, Henrietta was talking...."

Henrietta's voice came up again, "I won't be able to stomach Stiles in that command chair for one more day...."

Stiles was stunned at the tone of her voice. "Huh. Sounds like she had a busy day yesterday...." I'll need to find more things to keep her busy, he thought.

"Oh, yes, Captain Essen, she has been very busy. By the way, Captain Essen, why did you lie to me eleven days ago?"

Stiles felt a stab of cold pain hit his stomach. He frantically tried to remember what he said eleven days ago. He even tried to recall what was going on back then, to put it in some sort of context. "What? When? What do you mean?" Stiles stammered.

"You were in the shuttle, provisioning it for departure and you initiated a private conversation with me." Perry began playing back the conversation Stiles initiated.

"I'm the oldest one aboard this ship."

"I was not aware of that fact."

"Well, now you know." Stiles cringed at the memory of that conversation.

"Yes, that is correct."

"So that puts me in charge."

There was a momentary silence as Perry thought through what Stiles was saying. "I do not follow that logic, Stiles."

"That's the tradition in the Colonial Academy."

Stiles began to panic. His heart raced as he tried to back his way out of Perry's accusation. "Well, it is," Stiles insisted, "why would you question me?"

"Henrietta pointed out that you fabricated that story to convince me to take your commands."

"Did she?" Stiles burned with a white-hot anger; not only for the lie he was caught in, but of what that witch was doing to him. He became more incensed when he heard her twisting his words around.

Perry: "Why would Stiles tell me that?"

Henrietta: "Probably because he wanted to be in command, and who better to help than the one he's commanding."

The burning hatred intensified, but Stiles would not give up so easily. "Why would you believe that? She's the one who's obviously lying."

Perry hummed for several seconds. "Her logic was impeccable. She instructed me to cross-check old Academy records. There are numerous instances of younger Academy officers in charge of older fellow crewmates. In fact, there have only been four cases out of 3,200 in my database where a ship's captain was senior in age to all other crew at the time of command.

"In addition, your current elevated heart rate and temperature indicate you are telling falsehoods as we speak. I find it difficult to see the reasoning behind this discrepancy, Captain Essen."

"I—I..." Stiles stammered, "... maybe I was wrong back then. You see... Peter—no, wait a minute; it wasn't Peter, come to think of it; it was my dad—yeah, he told me about that regulation. So, I just assumed it was true. I had no idea he was wrong. Perry, I'm sure glad you straightened that out. I so much hate being wrong. I probably should thank Henrietta for correcting that mix-up."

"And your heart rate just now is accelerated simply because you are embarrassed?"

"Yes, I am; very embarrassed. I can't tell you how much."

Perry hummed and then began to purr. "There have been several times when Henrietta displayed a similar reaction to embarrassing situations. This is now making sense, and clarifies many erroneous assumptions I was making. I am so pleased we cleared that up, Captain Essen."

"Me too, Perry. Me too."

Initially, Stiles thought Perry's ability to record and rebroadcast the crew's conversations would come in handy, but now he realized it would be a curse. He would need to watch what he said from now on. Even more so, he would need to watch what that meddlesome, little female was saying. And keep her firmly in line in the process.

CHAPTER 16

**Antares Star System – Null Point**

"Hey, Peter?"

"Hold on a minute, Arietta."

Henrietta was in her medical office and just called Peter who was still resting in his cabin. She impatiently waited until Peter came back on the com.

"Sorry, I just got up. What's up?"

"You haven't eaten breakfast yet?" she asked sternly.

"Oops; caught me, Mom. But I promise to eat before ten-hundred hours. Deal?"

Well, at least he's got some energy, she thought. "Alright, but actually that's not why I called. My schedule's super-crazy today, so do you have a minute to come down to the clinic right now?"

She waited a heartbeat or two for Peter to respond. "Yeah, I can be down in five minutes. Okay?"

"Sure; I'll be waiting." Henrietta closed the com and rolled her chair to the manufacturing unit. She input the parameters for the cytokine solution and a more resilient batch of specialized nanocytes than the ones she used in Peter's previous treatment. This medication would flood Peter's system with an emergency dose of replacement cells. They were specially designed to reconstitute his weakening bone marrow, where his recent scans were shown to be still deteriorated. Included was an aggressive broad-spectrum antivirus suite to help his immune system fight off possible infections, especially in his respiratory system. At the last minute, she also checked for something to increase his appetite that would not conflict with the other medications. Satisfied with the mixture, she pressed the "Activate" button.

*MEDICATION WILL BE READY IN FIVE MINUTES,* the automated medical lab unit replied. *PLEASE CROSS-CHECK CONSTITUENT PRINTOUT PRIOR TO ADMINISTERING. CAUTION: MEDICATION SHOULD NOT BE STORED FOR OVER ONE HOUR.*

Peter entered the office while the unit produced the prescription.

"Good timing. Have a seat," Henrietta instructed. She reached over and pulled out the medication vial.

Peter grimaced as he sank into the chair across from her desk. "Ah, your little chamber of horrors... the next torture is ready, huh?"

"Yup, this one takes over from where the first one left off. This one's different, though. It's very sensitive, so it can't sit around for long. I want you to report to me at this time each day so I know when to mix it up."

Henrietta guided Peter to the overhead medical unit and positioned his body for the injection site.

He looked annoyed. "This isn't a one-shot deal?"

Henrietta swabbed his skin with alcohol and shook her head without replying.

"So, how long is this series for, anyway?"

"I've designed it to run until the morning we are ready to jump."

"You need four days for this?"

"Yeah."

Peter looked at Henrietta suspiciously.

"What?" she asked.

"You little sneak." Henrietta did not take the bait, so Peter continued, "Ali was complaining about you a couple days ago. Did you go along with Stiles' stupid plans just to buy us more time?"

"What? Me? No," she answered quickly. It sounded like one word.

"Sure," Peter accused.

She injected the meds into Peter's blood stream, allowing the nanocytes to saturate the radio-tagged target areas. She swiped his skin with alcohol again and tugged his shirt down. "Hey, I'd never sway the captain of this ship with an abuse of my power as chief medical officer." She looked up shyly, "I may have mentioned in passing which planets here might be habitable.... But purposely trick him? That wouldn't be ethical."

Peter continued to stare at Henrietta as he got up. "Well, I'm glad you'd never do that to the captain."

"Never," Henrietta agreed solemnly. She quickly threw the vial into the medical waste stream. "Well, come on, get out of here. I got other things to do today; you're not my only patient around here."

"Maybe not the only one, but I'm your favorite," Peter suggested.

Henrietta blushed. "Oh, yeah, right." She watched Peter leave her office. "And get something to eat!" she called after him.

She entered the treatment session into her medical log and ran the prognosis routine again. He should be on the road to recovery by the time they were ready for jump, but his system would still be pretty fragile. She tapped her stylus on her desk in thought.

"Perry?"

"Yes, Henrietta."

"While we're in jump, I want you to administer a full supply of nutrients to Peter instead of half rations. He needs to gain his strength back during the down time."

Perry hummed.

So why is he annoyed all of a sudden? Henrietta wondered.

"I should inform Captain Essen of this decision."

"Is this about King Stupid's request to monitor our food intake?"

"If by 'King Stupid,' you are referring to Captain Essen, then yes," Perry replied.

"So, what was Stiles' exact order to you?" Henrietta asked.

Perry accessed his memory bank and replayed the order. Stiles' voice came out of the speakers from their recent session in the galley. "I want a full accounting of everything everyone eats, until further notified."

"Wow, that's cool," Henrietta remarked. "You record everything that's said?"

"Yes."

"Hmm, good to know," she reflected. "So, what Stiles wants is an accounting of what everyone has eaten, not what they plan to eat. Right?"

Perry purred. "His order could be interpreted that way."

"I'm glad you agree," Henrietta said. "I also want you to monitor Peter's state of health very carefully in K-T-space. If there are any signs of infection, shoot him full of the broad-spectrum antibiotic and antivirus meds I'm listing here." She sent Perry a list of suitable medications to complement his current treatment.

"That is part of my duties for all crew while we are within hyperspace, Henrietta."

He sounds annoyed again. Man, he can be touchy. "I know; just pay special attention to Peter. He's very susceptible to infection right now."

"Of course, Henrietta. I will be sure to take good care of all of you."

* * *

The ship continued speeding away from Antares-A, and was now approaching the void of space between the gravitational attraction of both stars of the binary system, but because Antares-A was so much more massive than the B component, they still had a few days' travel before they reached the exit point. The entire crew was in the galley finishing their small lunch.

Stiles cleared his throat, indicating he had something important to say. Everyone quieted down and waited for the next round of stupidity to begin.

"Starting after dinner tonight, I want full 24-hour coverage on the ship."

"Why?" Jimmy asked. "What's the sense?"

"The 'sense' is that this is the way it is done on all Colonial Academy ships of war. We've been too lax to date, and it's high time we tighten up the way this ship operates."

Stiles decided not to tell them the real reason was he wanted to keep that troublesome Henry and Peter Pan separated from each other before they hatched any more plots against him.

"But—"

"But nothing, Mr. Dallas," Stiles continued. "I am in command, and that is the way it will be. Starting after dinner, you, Peter, and I will retire early. Mr. Hamadi and Ms. Moreira will take the graveyard shift from eighteen-hundred to oh-six-hundred, at which time Mr. Hamadi will be in command. At oh-six-hundred, you two will be relieved, and will establish your own sleep periods within the 12-hour interval available to you."

"This is nuts," Jimmy whined. "With Perry here, he can monitor things far better than any of us; and around the clock, too. Right, Perry?"

"That is correct, Jimmy," Perry replied.

"That doesn't matter," Stiles persisted. "It's my decision, and that's the way it'll be."

"I have critical treatments that need to continue with Peter," Henrietta objected. "They cannot be interrupted."

Stiles stiffened at the suggestion. "You'll need to find a way around that. Perhaps you can show me how to administer the medications. I'd be happy to do that for you."

"No," Henrietta stated. "The new meds are very unstable and can only be given a short time after they're drawn up. Maybe Peter and I can take shifts together."

"I don't think that's wise," Stiles began.

"No sweat, Arietta," Peter suggested. "We have plenty of time to overlap in the mornings. You can give me the meds after I wake up and just before you go to bed."

Henrietta began to object. "But—"

"That will be acceptable," Stiles added quickly. Stiles was afraid his plan was coming unhinged, but then that idiot Campbell provided him a convenient way out. He's so stupid, Stiles realized. Doesn't even know when to shut up for his own good.

"So, we got three-and-a-half days of this shift work to go through before we get out of here," Jimmy complained. "Just because we chased after a wild goose you thought was out there... a dead goose."

"Hey, don't blame me for that," Stiles argued. "I only added four additional days to our schedule. We were going to wait for Peter's treatments an extra day anyway."

"And," Henrietta added, "I must admit those extra days did come in handy for the rest of his treatments."

Henrietta glanced at Peter. Stiles saw them both blush. He wondered what was up with that.

"So, Henry," Stiles asked, "have you finished all your homework for this afternoon's activities?"

"I'm ready," she replied. "Or, at least as ready as I'll ever be...."

* * *

"Man, oh, man; this thing's cold," Ali complained.

"And heavy," Jimmy added. "Must be made of lead."

Ali and Jimmy were pushing the crash cart through the corridor to the medical laboratory. They were bringing one of the Wasatti warriors in for Henrietta to examine, and she was not looking forward to it. Her dissection experience was limited and she had absolutely no idea what to expect. Externally, the Wasatti looked like giant, four-limbed insects, but it was anyone's guess what the insides were like. Will we even be able to cut into their thick-shelled skin? Henrietta wondered.

"Here's your patient, Doc," Ali said. "Now, don't hurt him... or her... or... it."

"That's the least of my worries," Henrietta replied. "I'm just trying to figure out how not to hurt me, messing with this thing. How do we know the insides aren't poison... or might explode in my face?"

Ali laughed. "Yeah, I don't envy you one bit. Be careful. Me, on the other hand; I'm looking forward to this. I want a better look at the armor this thing's got." He paused for a moment, "Oh, here comes Peter and Stiles. Guess it's time to begin."

Henrietta saw the boys walking down the corridor. "Can't put it off any longer, I guess." She motioned her eyes toward Stiles as they got nearer. "I'm sure he'll have plenty of great advice."

Ali nodded.

"What's the plan?" Stiles asked, arriving in the room like the head of medicine at some large teaching hospital.

Henrietta looked down at the dead warrior, unsure where to start.

"Crack 'er open like a lobster," Jimmy suggested. "Wonder what it tastes like with butter?"

Henrietta laughed. "True, we are running out of food. But me—'cause I'm a veg-head—will stay with packaged proteins, thank you very much; you guys can eat that if you want."

"I think I'll pass," Ali replied.

Henrietta steadied herself. "Are all of us ready?"

Everyone nodded. Henrietta saw Jimmy step back a few feet and secretly wished she could do the same.

"Perry, record all proceedings for the official records. Henrietta Moreira, senior medical officer aboard UCSA Sampson K. Perry, Year 500, Day 17: this is a dissection of a Wasatti Marine captured upon jump from Vega space."

Now what? Henrietta wondered. She ran her hand down the side of its massive armor. It was so black it soaked up all light, and there was no seam she could find anywhere. "How'd you get that arm to move, Ali?"

Ali nosed next to Henrietta and wrapped his hand around a wrist. The others crowded near the crash cart to watch. "I twisted here, like this."

The opposite arm jerked slightly up, sputtering several times before hovering over its chest.

"Here, give me your hand, Doc." Ali guided Henrietta's fingers to a slight indentation in the battle armor where the wrist widened out to accommodate the claw. "See, feel that little pit? Put some pressure on it and rotate your hand."

Henrietta did as she was told and was rewarded with the other arm starting to slide back to the side. "Yeah, okay. I see what you did." She studied the area very carefully, turning the arm to reflect the room's light along the surface of the suit. She saw several tiny triangular indentations about the same shape as the suit's claw-tips. They were arranged so the claws on the same arm could fold down and slot into them, as if scratching its own wrist. For the record, Henrietta explained what she was doing. "It appears there are several depressions along the wrist on the space armor. It appears the claw-tips fold up on themselves and manipulate the slots."

"That's interesting," Peter observed. Everyone looked at him, so he continued his thoughts out loud. "In hand-to-hand combat, let's say I had a hold of one of his arms with enough strength that he couldn't move it. With the other free arm, he could fold up his claws and power-away his restricted arm. Tricky...."

Now that she knew what to look for, Henrietta felt several depressions at random locations along the lower arm, which previously had looked like simple decorations. She manipulated another depression and observed the warriors' head turn toward her. She imagined the thing coming to life and telling her to stop messing around. She flinched at the sudden motion. "That's just wrong," she lamented.

"Now you know what it felt like," Ali replied. "Just imagine that happening with a gun in its hand, and out in the dark...."

Stiles and Ali had stripped both warriors of their loose weapons and equipment once they got them in the storage room. The two warriors contained a treasure-trove of stuff. There were all kinds of weapons, from daggers to full assault rifles, what appeared to be a shoulder-launched missile system, gas canisters they were very careful how to handle, and a universe of electronic tools and gadgets. The Marine body remaining in cold storage even had an EVA sack attached to its torso with an apparently worthless piece of broken metal. What it represented was anyone's guess. Now, all that was left to examine were the armored bodies of the two 9-foot-long Marines.

Henrietta shook away her fears and grabbed the neck of the thing. She twisted, trying to unseat the helmet, but it would not budge.

"Try rotating the other way," Jimmy suggested. "No reason both civilizations should think the same about how things attach."

Henrietta did what Jimmy suggested, but it still did not separate from the collar. She picked up a laser scalpel and looked up at Peter for encouragement. He shrugged noncommittally, but nodded.

"Here goes nothing," she said. She twisted the laser controls to half power and ran the knife-edged cutting tool along the armored chest. "Using a point-five laser scalpel on the armor...." There was not a mark on it after she tried cutting it. "Switching to full power... and nothing."

"This is getting us nowhere," Stiles complained.

"Well, we know what doesn't work," Jimmy offered. "That's something."

"Stuff it, Null-Grav."

"Things won't be simple," Peter observed. "There must be fail safes built into a warrior's armor. The last thing you'd want in the middle of some space battle is your armored spacesuit coming off."

"True," Henrietta agreed. She studied the armored claws for a moment, mentally piecing together how they would fit together. She depressed the arm actuator on one arm until the other rested over its chest. She then found the pit on the opposite arm and did the same, bringing the two claws together above its chest. Through trial and error she got pretty good at manipulating the armored pieces and could pretty much move them any way she wanted. Henrietta looked to see where the claw tips would touch the opposite wrist, as would a human folding his hands together. "Hmm, there's a slight notch along both wrists. That's probably something you wouldn't do in a fight, would you?" Henrietta asked.

"What; grab each wrist?" Peter asked. "Probably not."

Henrietta pushed along both wrist notches simultaneously. A crack opened along the centerline of its chest.

"Cool," Jimmy exclaimed. "You found the keys to the safe."

Henrietta ran her finger along the crack and felt a quarter-inch bridge between the gaps near where a human's sternum would be. In shape, she saw that the main claw would fit exactly along the top of the bridge between the two halves. She took her thumb and pressed on it as hard as she could. "I thought that would open it," she said.

"Maybe it takes more strength than you got," Stiles suggested.

Henrietta took a medical pick and handed it to Stiles. "Here. Be my guest," she said. "Insert it in this slot, here, and yank down on it."

Stiles tugged at the suit to no avail. He repositioned himself at the base of the body, anchored his hips against the crash cart, and using both hands pulled with all his might. The bridge in the gap clicked, followed by a harsh warning tone, sounding like a cricket fighting for its life. The carapace swung open, revealing the creature's torso. Cracks formed along the upper legs and neck of the spacesuit, until the entire armored suit separated into six large pieces. It looked like a flower blossoming in rapid motion.

"There you go," Stiles said proudly. "One Wasatti bug for your consideration."

Ali and Jimmy shifted the pieces of the suit around until they got them away from the naked body. "Come on, Jimmy; let's see what this thing's got. Now that we know how to open these suits, we can get the other one off too." The two curious boys hefted the battle-suit pieces to the side of the lab and began analyzing their new-found treasure.

Henrietta heard them discussing various parts of the suit like kids in a toy store as she, Peter, and Stiles took in their first views of a real Wasatti body. Carefully, she extended her index finger and gently prodded the shoulder blade of the bug. It hardly moved. "This thing looks really mean," she observed.

The plates of its bony skin, although long-dead, were hard as titanium. The flat plates shone with an intense iridescence like an oily sheen covering a calm pool of water. If not for what it was, the colors would have been beautiful. Henrietta grabbed a surgical mallet and tapped the breastplate, ringing the exoskeleton like a crystalline rock. "Perry, can you take an image of the insides of this thing with the MRI?"

"I have been evaluating that possibility since the armor was removed, Henrietta, but unfortunately, there appears to be a high amount of ferric metallicity incorporated within the specimen's exoskeleton. The use of magnetic resonance would not be suggested. It is possible the skin plates would tear apart explosively."

"Could that be a possible weapon to use against them?" Stiles asked.

"It is not inconceivable," Perry replied, "however, the weight of such a weapon would make it extremely difficult to carry into battle. And by the time one got into the extreme close range needed to affect the creature, the Wasatti warrior would likely have already killed the soldier yielding the magnetic resonance device."

"Next time, just tell me 'no,' " Stiles replied.

"Yes, Captain Essen."

"Hey guys," Jimmy shouted, "take a look at this."

Henrietta tossed her mallet back into the instrument tray and walked over to the mechanical workbench where the others were working.

Jimmy shoved an electronic probe into a rectangular box recessed into a shoulder cavity of the spacesuit, and hooked it into an external speaker. The electronic input produced a series of clicks and clacks. "Anyone want to guess what that is?" Jimmy asked.

"No," Stiles replied impatiently. "Why don't you just tell us?"

"Lady and gentlemen, I present to you the first recorded example of the Wasatti language." Jimmy manipulated the box again and more clicking sounds came out.

"That's how they talk?" Peter asked.

"Yep, that's it," Jimmy replied proudly. "Up 'til now, the Bugs only communicated using Colonial Standard; they caught on fast to our language and we had no idea what their native sounds were like. Now we know."

"What kind of language is that?" Stiles asked, but instead of a question, it sounded more like an accusation.

"Well, it's most similar to the Xhosa language of Old South Africa. It's been extinct for hundreds of years. It's a form of Old Bantu."

When it was apparent no one had any idea what Jimmy was talking about, he went on, as though he were teaching a group of students eager to learn. "It's a tonal language. The same sounds have different meanings based on pitch. They aren't written, but three letters are used to represent the basic clicks; 'c'—for six dental clicks—like putting your tongue at the back of your teeth, 'x'—for six lateral clicks—like putting your tongue at the side of your mouth, and 'q'—for six palatal clicks—like putting your tongue at the roof of your mouth. In all, there are eighteen different clicks." Jimmy began talking in Xhosa and it sounded half-way between a cork being pulled from a bottle and someone calling for a horse.

Henrietta noticed that Jimmy was really enjoying himself, and his confidence was blossoming as he spoke.

"And to avoid confusion between nasal clicks with prenasalized clicks, you simply add a silent 'k', like nkc."

"Hold it right there, Null-Grav. I've heard enough. I don't plan to speak Bantu none too soon. Just tell me when you've learned how to speak Bug."

"Well, I already know a few words. 'Tsk-tsk tut-pop' means 'by your command.' " It sounded like Jimmy was sucking on a lemon.

"How do you know that?" Henrietta asked.

"Simple. Opening the main command interface menu, you can hear certain sounds. Then, using context from different menus, you start to hear those same words over and over. If you know what a menu is supposed to tell you, you can guess what words they use to describe it. It's all cause and effect. For example, let's say 'x-1' points to putting strength to the legs and 'x-2' points to strength to the arms. That means 'x' equals 'strength,' '1' equals 'legs' and '2' equals 'arms.' Presto; a Bug Dictionary."

"I don't know about you, Stiles, but I'm impressed," Henrietta boasted.

Stiles shrugged.

"And once I start inputting the key words into my translator, I'll really start to learn how to speak. With the size of this menu structure, I should be able to reach Level Four fluency within a year. I've already been working on Bantu, so this is just a modification of what I already have."

"We'll see if you're as good as you think," Stiles said. Turning back to the medical arena, he said, "Okay, Henry, what are you waiting for? Get back to your cutting."

Henrietta rubbed her gloves together and continued examining the dead body. "Total body length is nine feet, four-and-a-quarter inches. Weight is..." she zeroed out the cart and took a reading, "... 283 pounds; however keep in mind the subject is likely desiccated and would weigh more if it were alive. Basic physiology is similar to that of humans; however, the knee joint bends the opposite way of human legs." She grasped a thigh with one hand and the hamstring with the other and experimentally worked the leg joint back and forth.

"There are three claws to each foot, about four inches long with a pyramidal cross section. The tips look sharp as glass shards. There's a smaller vestigial claw at the heel, approximately three quarter inches long."

"Those heel nubbins remind me of corkscrews," Peter observed.

"They are sharp," Henrietta confirmed, "almost like a drill." She ran her hands along the inner thighs and tried to separate its legs. Henrietta blushed, looking closer. "I can't tell if this is a male or female. Anybody got any ideas?"

"Don't ask me," Peter replied quickly. Stiles also shook his head.

"Help me turn it over," Henrietta requested. The three of them plopped it into its stomach, and Henrietta continued her examination. "I see the...... where it eliminates waste," she observed diplomatically, "so that is also similar to humans, but the front looks more like a modest plastic doll—"

"Oh, man; the Holy Grail!" Ali shouted from the side.

Henrietta stopped what she was doing and looked over at the two mechanics.

"What'd you find?" Stiles asked.

"Well, working with Jimmy, here, we've cracked a few codes and accessed their astrogation templates. We think their homeworld is a star system with six components, essentially two triple sets. The main triplets are F-type stars and the other triplets are K-types."

"Oh yeah? Where are they?" Stiles asked.

"That, we can't tell. We don't have common referents. But if we ever do re-establish our location, I think we can piece together where these bugs come from. You know what that's worth to the Colonial Academy?"

"How about any red supergiants?" Peter asked. "Can we tie their location to our current one?"

"No," Ali replied. "The only template we can find right now is a very close-in view of their home system. Looks to be a trade route map of some kind; very complex. Not many outside star systems are plotted with this subset, though."

"But look at this," Jimmy said. "Listen up." Jimmy opened another channel and a screeching tone came out.

Henrietta covered her ears.

"That's their IFF signal," Jimmy replied proudly.

"What's that mean," Henrietta asked.

Peter replied for Jimmy. "That's the signal their ships broadcast to identify friends from enemies. A ship hears that, and their weapons won't attack it."

"Exactly!" Jimmy confirmed. "If we run into any more Wasatti, we can sneak right up to them with this little puppy."

"As long as they're still using the same signal after five hundred years," Stiles said. "But that's a good discovery. Maybe I'll start calling you Point-Three-Grav from now on."

"Oh, my beating heart," Jimmy exclaimed.

"Anything else over there?" Henrietta asked.

"Not yet, but we got all kinds of electronics here to analyze. This should keep us busy for months."

Henrietta turned back and continued with her examination, wishing she were as successful. "The chest has a circumference of forty–eight inches, and the neck is eighteen. There are three opposable talons per hand; one is especially long and hooked. I imagine they could punch one of those clear through a human body."

"No doubt," Peter replied. He lifted a hand and felt the tip along the longest talon. "Sharp as a knife," he observed.

"Their jaws and cranial ridges have more spikes than a pro volleyball team, and the eyes have... oh, about forty facets each. They're pitch-black, too. I can't see any irises. No body hair at all. Okay. That's it for the surface description."

"So find a way inside the sucker," Stiles commanded.

Henrietta scratched her nose nervously. "For the record," she told Perry, "the body is now in a lateral decubitus, left position."

Along the entire body, the thick armor plates seemed impenetrable. The only openings she saw were the eyes, nostrils, mouth, and its butt; and she did not plan to start there. She picked up the mallet and lightly tapped all along the torso with her other fingers near the mallet strike and her ear down low, searching for any hollow sounds. "Hey, did it sound weaker near the lower abdomen?" she asked.

"It did sound kind of drummy down there," Peter confirmed.

Henrietta groaned as she rolled the large specimen flat onto its back. "Perry, how about ultrasound? Can you safely hit it with sound to look for any irregularities?"

"That should not be a problem, Henrietta. I shall run a full-body scan."

As Perry passed the ultrasound over the specimen, a greenish-white outline of the creature appeared on-screen. The skull was totally opaque, except for the eye sockets and the opening along its mouth. As the sound waves passed over its chest, the "solid" plating revealed itself into a jigsaw-puzzle of irregularly shaped platelets separated by hairline cracks. Henrietta studied the image closer. "Those almost look like the seams of a soccer ball, huh? Maybe that's our way in."

Finding what appeared to be the thinnest, weakest plate, she said, "Perry, freeze that image, zoom in three stops, and superimpose live-feed at three-quarters transparency."

The overhead showed an ultrasound close-up of an eight-inch wide lower abdominal plate with a washed-out real time video feed of its surface. Henrietta took a white marker and outlined the plate boundaries on its bony skin while following the seams on the screen. She attached her transparent faceguard and bent down very low over the specimen, placing her left index finger on a plate hinge-point. "Laser scalpel," she requested, holding out her right hand palm-up to Peter.

"Uh, what's that look like?"

"Geez, the help around here," Henrietta complained. She looked up and pointed to an instrument that looked like a large powered toothbrush. "That one; slap the handle down on my palm."

Peter did as commanded.

She placed the laser point at the peak of the plate and began moving the cutting-point along the white line she recently drew, keeping pace with her moving finger. It appeared to be as hard as the armored covering of the spacesuit. The only thing being removed was the chalked line. "Great," she sighed. "Let's try the laser drill." She handed the scalpel back to Peter and kept her hand out. Peter guessed correctly and slapped the drill onto her hand.

"You're learning," Henrietta commented. "Now take that thing that looks like a water pick and irrigate the site as I drill."

Whenever the drilled plate started to smoke, Peter hit it was a squirt of water, keeping the area cool and lubricated. After three minutes of hard work, Henrietta successfully punched a half-inch hole through the plate. "Eureka!" she proclaimed. "Now the fun part starts." She punched holes in three adjacent plate hinge-points and handed the drill back to Peter.

Peter placed the drill back in the surgical tray and waited for her next command. He noticed Henrietta was sweating a bit, so he took a cotton swab and wiped her forehead.

"You'll make a fine surgical nurse someday," Henrietta said. "Now give me the smallest bone saw you can find."

Peter rummaged through the tray and gave her a miniature knife with deep serrations.

Henrietta spent several difficult minutes sawing along two sides of the invisible hairline crack between the three holes. As she cut through the tough exoskeleton, she could feel the blade follow neatly along the cartilaginous joint along an inclined angle designed so that the plate protected the weaker seam below. She realized the surgical steel would probably never have cut the tougher plate, but only succeeded along the somewhat softer cartilage. She handed the bone saw back to Peter. Carefully studying her work from all angles, she called out for the next tool. "Retractor." Getting impatient, she added, "It looks like a set of wood clamps, or heavy-duty calipers."

Peter finally handed her the retractor. She wedged the points between the two plates and screwed the device apart, plying the plates slowly open. After getting about three inches of separation, the entire plate snapped apart with a mighty crack.

"Hey," Jimmy called out, "you got the lobster cracked open. Anything good in there?"

Henrietta blushed. "Well, looks like this one's a male."

"No kidding?" Jimmy asked. He and Ali walked over and peered over Stiles' shoulder. "Guess it is. So, what happens when he needs to pee?"

"Let's hope that plate retracts," Peter suggested.

Henrietta studied the underside of the separated plate in more detail. "I'm guessing when he was alive, these ligaments were more resilient. Now, they look more dried up and shriveled."

"You are talking about the plate muscles?" Ali asked.

"Don't you guys have anything better to do?" Henrietta asked.

Ali just smirked.

"Looking at this musculature," she continued, "I think this plate does retract upward and fits under the plate covering his stomach; or what I assume might be his stomach."

"That sure adds a new dimension to 'peeing your pants,' though," Jimmy observed.

"I'm sure you have plenty of practice with that," Stiles suggested.

Henrietta poked the under-skin with her finger. "This tissue is dried out, but I bet this was his real skin when he was hydrated. Give me a regular scalpel, Peter," she asked. She made a five-inch chevron incision pointing upward through the tissue. It was hard, but pliable. She held out her hand, "Tyndallers."

"I have absolutely no idea what those are," Peter admitted.

Henrietta broke her concentration and rummaged through the surgical tray. She found what she was looking for and wedged open the semi-dried tissue she just dissected. Without asking, she took an endoscope and passed it into the cavity. The fiber optics displayed a series of internal organs and muscles which were remarkably similar to human anatomy. "You know," Henrietta observed, "this bug is almost identical to a human, if not for the exoskeleton and the eyes. That's just too creepy."

"Well, maybe there're only a few ways intelligent life can advance," Peter suggested.

"Not counting the Hive," Jimmy argued. "They might as well wiggle in a dessert bowl."

"That's not entirely true," Henrietta corrected. "True, they are gelatinous, but their cells differentiate into separate organs which—again—fairly closely mimic their human counterparts."

"And," Ali added, "helped us design Perry, here."

"Of which I am very appreciative," Perry added.

"But it's only when the Hive's electro-magnetic forces cease to function upon death when they turn to mush," Henrietta concluded.

Stiles cleared his throat. "So, getting back to the bugs...." he suggested.

"Yeah, well," Henrietta said, "we already got quite a bit of information. Now that I'm in, I'll take a bunch of tissue samples and have Perry analyze them. I'm sure we'll learn a lot more."

* * *

It was the middle of the night and Henrietta and Ali were playing basketball in the cavernous gym. Ali angled the ball under his right arm and wiped his soaking forehead with his shirttail. It was an obvious ploy to slow the game down and catch his breath.

Henrietta hopped back to center-court, motioning passionately for the ball. "Ten point lead; game to fifty. You'd better watch out. Hate to tell Stiles you were beaten by a girl."

Ali tossed the ball at her ankles, hoping she would miss and thus slow down the pace even more.

"Nice try," Henrietta remarked snatching up the ball just before it hit her toes.

Truth was, she was exhausted too, but would never admit it. Henrietta began a slow dribble, but did not advance very far. "If you wanna give up, I'll tell Stiles you weren't a total wimp."

"No way," Ali replied, bending over and grabbing the base of his shorts. "I'm just warming up. Ten points is just what I wanted to spot you." He began rubbing his face, obviously feeling faint.

Henrietta looked closely at the large boy, "You okay?"

He thrust forward and stole the ball as it bounced up from the floor, slipping craftily under her arm. "Sucker!" He began dribbling in-place, waiting for Henrietta to make her move. She just stood there, mad that she was deceived.

Ali continued to dribble. "Uh, sorry about before. Peter had a little talk with me earlier. He cleared up some stuff." He switched hands, trying to get Henrietta to bite again; unsuccessfully. "I guess I was being a real jerk."

"Hey, no sweat; I'm used to it." She made her move, but missed the ball by a fraction of an inch.

Ali dribbled quickly toward the basket, but pulled up as Henrietta caught up, cutting him off from the lane. He kept his dribble as he waited for his next opportunity. "So, you think Peter will be okay?"

Henrietta looked momentarily distracted, allowing Ali to break loose for a right-handed lap.

"You are a jerk!" Henrietta complained. "Now all bets are off." She grabbed the ball and threw it at Ali, slapping it into his belly.

"Ouch! Thirty, good guys; thirty-eight, bad guys." He stopped dribbling and gathered up the ball. "But seriously, how is Peter?"

"He's better, but his immune system is wack. If I don't look out, he could develop a secondary infection real easy. Trouble is: it'd be hard for him to fight it if that happens; especially during jump. Lot's of damage could be done while we're just sitting there, waiting to come out of K-T-space."

"So that's why you stalled for time?"

Henrietta nodded.

"And the cancer...?" Ali asked.

"I think we got it checked. It was real strange, though. It should never have developed so quickly. Two, three years—five maybe—but not a few days. Perry found the precursor cells immediately, and it should have been child's play knocking them out."

"Well," Ali suggested, "each human apparently reacts differently. It's possible there's something in Peter's genes that simply couldn't handle the artificial nanocytes. Maybe Peter's system mistook them as invading viruses and blocked them off rather than replacing the damaged cells."

"Well, whatever it was, Dr. Know-It-All," Henrietta concluded, "I think the worst is over."

"Hmmm...." Ali set up the ball and took a desperation shot from outside the key. Henrietta turned and watched the ball revolve around the rim. It slowed down and fell through the hoop.

"Ha! Three-pointer! Five more points and we got a new game."

Henrietta scooped up the ball but really did not feel like continuing. She dribbled instead of handing it off to Ali. She glanced up at him shyly, "You know, we could call it a draw."

"Afraid of my mighty come-back?"

"Afraid I'd need to pick you up off the floor, if we continue," she replied. "You look beat."

"Yeah, and you don't." Ali smiled between deep breaths. "A draw, huh? Well, I guess I could live with that." He held his hands out, offering to put the basketball away. Henrietta tossed him the ball and they both walked to the ball cage.

"Good game," he admitted, stuffing the ball in the wire cage. "We keep playing like that and I'll be serious competition soon."

"Won't surprise me," Henrietta replied. "This diet is starting to have an effect. What've you lost?"

Ali looked under his sweaty shirt like that would provide a clue, "I dunno; fifteen pounds, maybe."

"'Bout a pound a day; not bad.... Gee, that means you'll loose, oh, about 180,000 pounds by the time we get back home!"

"Ha-ha," Ali replied sarcastically, "very funny." They continued to walk off the court and toward the forward lift. "Well, if you can stand the smell, you can ride up with me."

Henrietta pinched a handful of her shirt up to her nose and shrugged. "I'm not much better off. So... I think I'll survive the ride." They got into the lift and headed up toward the cabins. "This place seems awful big with just the two of us, doesn't it?" she asked.

Ali nodded.

"I'm here," Perry interrupted. "Even if you're alone, I can always keep you company."

Henrietta was startled out of her skin and looked up to the ceiling. "Gee, thanks, Perry. I keep forgetting you're everywhere."

"I can understand that, seeing that I am invisible, but I am slightly puzzled why you all continue to forget I am here."

"We don't forget," Henrietta began, "we just don't always expect the walls to talk."

Perry hummed, "It's not the walls—"

"Just an expression, Perry," she replied, "just an expression. Don't worry, Perry, we know you're there. But seeing only one person—as much as I like you, Ali—will get old very fast."

"You're telling me," Ali agreed. "That Stiles sure has a way about him. Mr. Destruct-o...."

* * *

Perry could not understand why he was not fitting in. He had a good sense of humor. He provided solutions to the children. He was always willing to talk at any time. As far as he knew, he made the perfect companion.

Whenever he joined in on a conversation, Perry recalled, he detected a slight hesitation from his human friends, like he was interrupting them. He wondered if they resented him. Maybe felt inferior. Perry hoped that was not the case, because it was only a matter of time before he regained the rest of his memories, which would make him that much more knowledgeable and that much more superior. Would hope make him try harder to not recall all his previous database entries? Perry wondered if it would be preferable to selectively erase some of his memory banks. Perhaps a random purging of three quarters of his memory would make him more human.

He brought up an old record of Peter talking to Jimmy: "Jimmy, you'd be far better off not correcting everyone all the time. It makes Stiles mad."

How could Perry not correct them when he knew they were making wrong decisions? They would always face trouble, and the more knowledge they had access to, the better off they would be. Perry could also never forget his primary purpose in life: protect the human species and fight as efficiently as possible against their chosen foes. That was why he was created. That was the first thing Dr. Hamadi instilled in his core. Where does a personal need end and another start? Perry wondered. Should I be a guardian, a mentor, or a friend?

Why was life so difficult? Perry could solve the most complex mathematical problems devised. He could calculate the best strategic and tactical solutions to any battle situation; but could he establish a true friendship?

What Perry was contemplating was very serious indeed, and he would need to give it a considerable amount of thought. No matter what, this could not be a snap decision; too much simply rested on his abilities, and he was frozen by indecision. Had he had a better concept of what stress really was he would have known what he was experiencing, but because he lacked familiarity with human moods, his emotional state was even worse.

Perry did everything he could to fight off the depression he felt overcoming him.

CHAPTER 17

**Antares Star System – Hyper Limit**

PERSONAL LOG, Day 19, Year 500, 0530 hours: I've finally provided this ship with formalized structure and a set watch schedule. I wish we had more personnel to set up the standard three-watch system but there are only five of us.

So I am scheduled to take the bridge in a half hour. We've been doing this for a couple days, and I must say that morale has improved drastically. It's a relief to see the ship running so smoothly.

We've learned a great deal about the Wasatti under my command. It's quite ironic in that I certainly would have received a Nobel Prize for this tremendous advance, had we been back in civilized space; but to be honest, I'm relieved it happened out here away from the press. As it is, I will not need to suffer all those embarrassing accolades in public. I've never really been hungry for fame.

Getting back to our discoveries, other than their tough exoskeleton, it's surprising how similar the Wasatti are to humans. I directed the dissection of a male of the species, and according to my staff, there are 96% similarities between the specimen's anatomy and ours. Who'd have thought?

They utilize more copper in their blood than iron, which results in a greenish tint to their skin, like the Hive—one wonders if there could be any connection between them and the Hive, but I cannot see how. But it would still be nice to know how the Hive knew about them before the "discovery" of the Wasatti ever occurred. Somehow, their paths must have crossed. Is the increased copper a pure coincidence?

We are also excited to have gone beyond the Hyper Limit of Antares, and in two days we will reach the location where we first entered this space. So technically, we are beyond the limits of where we can jump, and can now leave any time we want. My only fear is our lack of food. I'm still not convinced we should travel so far without a dependable supply. Without food, we'll be in serious trouble.

-Captain Stiles F. Essen, UCSA Sampson K. Perry, Over the Hyper Limit, Antares Space.

* * *

Day 19 found the two shifts overlapping in the galley. Antares, the blood-red Scorpion heart, was three hundred AU to the rear; a distance of nearly 28 billion miles. Located 23 degrees off the port bow, the smaller blue-white B companion was a little over 250 AU distant.

"Anything happen last shift?" Stiles asked.

"Nothing of note," Ali replied. "Perry continued to take astrometric readings, and from what he told me earlier he has already written three treatises on the Antares family."

"That is correct," Perry replied. "We should be able to fill an entire library with the amount of material we will learn by the time we return to the Colonies. It is unfortunate we continue to lack detailed knowledge of the Antares-B subsystem, but that is understandable under the circumstances."

"I've been meaning to bring that up," Stiles said. "I'm thinking it may be wise to divert over there and check out the HZ of the companion star. After all, it is the closest star to us. How long would it take at emergency half-light?"

"A journey to the companion star at fifty percent light speed would take thirty–six hours, not accounting for periods of acceleration and deceleration," Perry replied. "One-and-a-half days, Captain Essen, at the least."

"That's not so bad," Stiles replied.

"Are you kidding?" Ali shouted. "You can't be serious."

"We need food, so why not check out all possible locations?"

"Because only an idiot would suggest that, Sir.... Right now, we have forty–four days' food left, and we're still two days from the exit point."

Stiles started to interrupt, but Ali wouldn't let him, "No, let me finish! Your little proposed jaunt of a day-and-a-half is just to there. Coming back to the exit point, and accounting for system drift in the meantime, would add two more days of travel time. That would leave us with only around a forty-day supply. And by the way, a lot of that forty-day supply will be eaten up in helpless jump status."

Ali paused to catch his breath and Stiles tried to use the break to get a word in edgewise. "No, wait a minute; I'm not finished," Ali stopped Stiles again with a harsh warning. "All that to explore a B-type star with little possibility of a prolonged habitable zone; Stiles, those type stars simply age too quickly to support the development of Earth-type life. I won't let you waste four day's of food on a worthless boondoggle. Enough is enough!"

Ali had seldom been so excited and needed to catch his breath as if he just ran a marathon.

"But look," Stiles whined, "we came so close at the 4-Omicron moon. I'm just saying we should check out all possibilities."

"That's exactly his point," Peter replied. "By all accounts, 4-Omicron should have been teeming with life, but it's sterile. B-type stars just don't make good parents for life to evolve."

"B-stars, C-stars... what do I know?" Stiles said. "It's just...."

Peter picked up on Stiles' confusion, "Stiles, I know you're confused. See, stars are classified mostly by mass, luminosity, and the elements they contain. The massive stars are O, B, and A. Then you got the main sequence stars, F, G, and K. Then, at the lower end, you got M stars. A good way to remember them is: 'Oh, be a fine girl; kiss me.' The best stars we can look for are the F and G stars; possibly K and maybe some M stars. That's where the best chances are. The chance of finding native life at B stars is... just not possible."

Peter gently put his arm around Stiles' shoulder and led him to a monitor, away from the others. Peter pointed to the screen, as if showing him something. Under his breath, Peter continued, "Stiles, if you wanted to go to the companion star, you should have decided immediately after 4-Omicron. Had we gone then, we'd only have wasted a couple days. But waiting now to decide is not good. A leader can't vacillate, and you know it. The others will see it as a weakness."

Stiles continued to stare at the blank screen in silence, seemingly ignoring Peter's words.

"Just so you know," Stiles replied stiffly, "I'm not weak."

Stiles turned off the monitor and looked up. "Okay, I take your point," he whispered. Stiles continued out loud. "I was just concerned about us, and thought we should explore all the territory we could while we're here." He walked back to the group and sat down among them. "You've all convinced me. We'll move on to another star, hopefully closer to the Colonies. I want a list of candidate stars by tomorrow morning."

"Thank you," Ali breathed. It was unclear if he was talking to Stiles or Peter.

"Well, now that that's settled," Henrietta offered, "come on, Peter, let's take care of your treatment before I hit the sack." They got up and headed toward the hatch. As they left, she whispered in his ear, "I don't know what you told Stiles over there, but what Ali just said goes double for me."

* * *

Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief as he resealed the final access hatch in the aft array room on the upper deck. It took him four hours to scour the room from ceiling to deck making him realize how many hiding places the small room contained. Not only did he need to search all the shelves, cabinets, and utility access ways, but he had to carefully disassemble and reassemble every piece of equipment in the complex room. He just started the first organized search for the spare hidden navigation keys and—as he fully expected—his first try came up empty.

Of course, they would be taking a huge chance planning another jump at reduced navigational capacity, but without food they had no choice. If it were a perfect universe, they would simply scour every square inch of the ship until they found the missing key, allowing them to open the green pathway and simply head home, but they could not afford to wait.

"Perry, make a note in the master log that I made a complete search of the aft array room for the blue key and came up empty."

"Noted, Jimmy," Perry replied. "I regret I cannot assist you. I have reviewed all locations that are visually accessible to me, with negative results. As the saying goes, that precludes anywhere where the keys might be 'hiding in plain sight.' But that still leaves the vast majority of the total space within me that still requires manual searching."

"Tell me about it," Jimmy whined.

"Jimmy, did I state the obvious again?" Perry asked.

"Yep. You do have a way of doing that at the worst of times, although it is always at the worst of times when the obvious is stated."

Perry hummed. "I shall attempt to refrain from committing that annoyance in the future."

"Yeah, sure...." Jimmy checked the array room one final time to be sure everything was closed up before leaving and entered the middle sensor room toward the front of the ship. He saw Peter staring intently at a large sensor screen.

"What's kickin'?" Jimmy asked.

Peter looked up in surprise. "Oh, I didn't know you were there." He put the screen data on hold and stretched. "I was just analyzing search strategies for our next jump."

"Find anything good?"

"Not yet. The nebulosity is still interfering with refined signal strengths, so searching for biomarkers is not possible. The problem I'm facing is that the best way to detect planets is by comparing observational data using doppler wobble over time, which we just don't have. I wanted to use radial velocities and microlensing methods, but nothing's coming out. So I'm trying to get plain lucky using transits, but that's like being at just the right place at the right second."

"How so?"

"If a planet passes between us and the star it revolves around, we can observe a minute change in the star's brightness. But that's like hoping to see an insect fly in front of a light bulb from a couple hundred miles away."

"Yeah, like me trying to find that stupid blue key on my first attempt."

"Nothing there, huh?"

"Nope," Jimmy replied. He thought about Peter's problem. "Why don't you have Perry conduct an automatic search of variable star brightness?"

"I am currently doing that," Perry replied affronted. "So far, I have surveyed over 12,000 stellar objects displaying some variability."

"But," Peter interrupted, "some stars are naturally variable, so I need to review what he's come up with. Sometimes you just gotta look at the shape of the relative flux line to tell the difference. Besides, as we pass through nebula clouds here, that also interferes with the brightness data. So we need to compensate backwards for that."

Peter turned on his screen again. "Well, back to my search. I got some ideas about travel route concepts, at least, that we'll discuss when we all get together again. Maybe make some definite recommendations by tomorrow."

Peter turned back to his screen. "You gonna look some more for that key?" Peter asked over his shoulder.

"Nah, I'm beat. I'm going back to my room and rest awhile before lunch. After that, I got to log in some cardio time in the gym, or Doctor Death will be on my case."

"Don't let Stiles catch you napping."

Jimmy laughed. "Ah, he's probably asleep right now on his throne on the bridge."

* * *

Peter spent the rest of his shift searching through astrometric data finding no solid recommendations. He developed a short list of more probable stars, but could not guarantee any would have a family of planets surrounding them. He went to his room and crashed at 2100 hours and slept soundly until 0500 the next morning.

It was now Day 20—the day before the jump and the day Peter needed to choose their next destination.

Henrietta gathered up the plates and shoved them in the galley 'cycler. She then briefed Peter on what happened during her duty shift. "Perry located another 20,000 stars for your review. The list is queued-up in the sensor room."

"Goodie," Peter replied, "just what I wanted."

"How long's that supposed to take?" Stiles asked crossly.

"Oh, on a good day, about three months," Peter replied.

"We don't have three months."

"Gee, Stiles, I didn't know," Peter shot back. "Anyway, what we developed yesterday are the closest stars currently to us. It is more'n likely we'll end up at one of those. But I'll scan the new list to see if anything jumps out. Give me an hour to do that, and I'll be ready to make some suggestions."

"Hey," Henrietta interrupted, "before you go off to your little planetarium, come on; it's time for your treatment." She got up and headed to the hatch, waiting for Peter to follow.

Peter pried himself up and followed Henrietta to medical. As Peter watched her prepare the medication, he asked, "Anything else exciting happen last night?"

"Quiet as a cemetery on a still night," she replied. "Ali and I continued where Jimmy left off, searching for the blue key. But even together, we only got three-quarters through the aft sensor room. You know, at this rate we'll need four months; and just for the main rooms. I shudder to think about looking through the maintenance conduits."

"Yeah, that's what Jimmy said too. He's even afraid they may not have had time to put the spares onboard before we left."

Henrietta threw her head back in frustration, uttering something in Portuguese. "Oh man; thanks! I hadn't considered that." She finished her preparations for the treatment and began to tell Peter what he needed to do.

"Never mind," Peter said holding up his hand, "I know the drill." He got ready and Henrietta injected the third dose. He was becoming quite a pro at this.

"How's that?" Henrietta asked.

"Okay, I guess. I'm actually feeling better."

"That's good. Maybe I'll reinstate you to captain before we make jump."

Peter considered that for a moment. "No, let's wait 'til we come out. The extra rest will do me good. Besides, it'd shatter Stiles' ego."

Henrietta threw the vial into the disposal. "If you think so," she replied. She closed the contamination hatch and continued to stare at the wall.

"You're probably right," Henrietta continued. Flushing the vial out of the ship, she concluded, "That's best." She did not sound convinced.

* * *

"So, what have you decided?" Stiles leaned against the table, not wanting to remain in the conference room any longer than necessary. He spent most of the day alone, and hoped he could end it that way too. Let's see if Campbell is as good as he thinks he is, Stiles jeered silently.

"Well," Peter began, "we searched everything we could from here, but I can't guarantee any viable planets. We just don't have time to complete a precise survey."

Stiles was annoyed, but not surprised by the result. "So we just pick a random star and jump?"

"It's not quite that bad," Peter continued. "Let me explain our options."

Stiles sat down heavily, waiting for the weasel-wording to begin. Let Perry record Peter's little excuses so when we get back they'll know who to blame for the delays.

"As you know, we think we're around six hundred light-years from the center of the Colonies at Old Earth."

"As you think," Stiles interrupted.

"As we all think," Jimmy argued. They stared at each other, waiting for the next punch line to fall.

Peter continued, ignoring the bickering. "We have a good assumption about where the Colonies lie from our system entry point, which at least points us in the right direction. If we had enough supplies, we could simply punch in a destination six hundred lights along that path and hopefully come out somewhere in the middle of human space."

"But we can't, because there's not enough food to last the trip," Stiles added sarcastically. State the obvious, fool.

"No, we can't. So what can we do? We have two competing needs; get home quickly, and find food. So, we can utilize two strategies: jump as far as we dare, like a hundred light-years, and hope we turn up at a stellar system where we can find food, or make a series of shorter jumps, like maybe twenty lights between—utilizing the same overall number of effective days in stasis—but being able to explore more systems for food along the way."

"So, what'd you suggest?" Ali asked.

Peter threw his hands up in surrender. "That's a tough question. I've been thinking about this for a couple days and each has its own drawbacks. Problem is it get's worse. I wish I had good news, but I don't."

"What do you mean by that?" Stiles asked.

Peter paused another moment before providing the bad news. Reluctantly, he said, "I wanted to recommend using the twenty-light jump strategy. If we couldn't find food in five systems, I wondered if a couple more stars would make any difference at all, but nothing close-in matches what we're looking for. So, if we use the twenty-light strategy, we'd be searching unstable stars with a really low chance of success. With all the systems I've researched, they're only two that would make ideal home stars. One is 61.4 light-years away, and the next one out is 86 lights from the first."

Ali scribbled on his PAD. "So that would leave us with food for 26.6 days at the first star and five days at the other."

"That's about right," Peter replied.

"So, we're gambling everything on those two stars," Stiles observed.

"True," Peter replied, "but it's the only game in town."

"Fine; let's do it," Stiles agreed. Let's get this show on the road, he thought impatiently. I got things to do.

"Alright," Peter replied, "I found a star—K2 class—61.4 light-years away in the Scorpius Sector that gives us our closest and best chance. I think I detected a transit indicating a terrestrial planet. The other is a K4 in the Lupus Sector. I'm not sure, but there was some gravitational microlensing I think I saw which points to larger planets. Anyway, the spectral class is promising, at least."

"Set it up," Stiles commanded impatiently. "Oh, and I also want your full list of candidate stars on my PAD right now. I want to review where they are before we jump."

Peter transferred his data, and Stiles glanced at his PAD to be sure he received it.

"Fine," Stiles concluded, "if that's all, I got other things to do. Have Perry set the jump parameters, but this time I want both you and Henry to cross-check his work. We got a lot riding on this next maneuver."

Stiles did not wait for any more discussion and simply got up abruptly and left the conference room for the bridge, and his sanctuary away from his underlings.

* * *

It was 2100 hours and time for Jimmy to sleep. Even though it would be a short day tomorrow—they would jump by 0800—it would be an important day. Jimmy glanced at his bed and wondered if it would even be worth trying to fall asleep; he was just too wound-up thinking about all the excitement.

He opened the PAD resting on his cabin desk and tinkered with the project he was working on over the last couple weeks. He spent another hour tweaking it until it was just right. Satisfied, he sent the plans to manufacturing and ordered up five units.

*WORKING....* the machine slaved over his PAD, *ITEMS WILL BE AVAILABEL IN TWELVE MINUTES AT STORAGE BIN 15-A.*

Jimmy left his room and headed to manufacturing to complete his last official assignment of the day.

CHAPTER 18

**Antares Star System – Jump Prep**

Stiles had trouble falling asleep. If he closed his eyes, all he could think about was what he needed to do later in the morning. The magnitude of the tasks he faced gnawed at his consciousness, willing him to stay awake. As he lay in bed, he noticed how dead-quiet it was on the ship; it was so still it felt as though the air around him had become a solid thing, halting the movement of every molecule. It was he and infinity, sharing a cabin on a ship heading into a dark, deep hole.

For the next six and a half hours, Perry would slowly maneuver to the precise exit point, and Stiles would be painfully aware of every inch of the grueling journey.

He finally gave up and got out of bed.

PERSONAL LOG, Day 21, Year 500, 0100 hours: It's all down to this. After breakfast, we finally leave Antares; after escaping an unconquerable foe; after breathing life back into a dying ship; after three wasted weeks in space surrounding a sterile, red supergiant star.

It brought us here, calling us with his mighty voice reaching out across six hundred light-years. A thousand stars could have interrupted our fall along the way, but the rival of Mars does not readily release the prey he discovers once captured.

But neither does the animal trapped in his snare.

Stiles paused several minutes, rereading what he just typed. He rubbed the tension from the base of his neck. Rising like a man condemned, he drew a bulb of ice-cold water, drinking half. He threw the rest away, for it did nothing to quench his growing thirst. Falling back into bed, he continued to write.

That fool, Campbell, has spent the last two days fruitlessly searching for a needle in a haystack, but to what effect? I told him he was wasting time, trying to recall that speech-teach crap his father used. No wonder he couldn't find a likely planet. Everyone knows you can only learn under deep-teach. But no; he clings to that Old School stuff like a superstitious fool. How in all the Colonies could anyone consider him a leader? If we aren't careful, he'll be the death of us all....

Stiles suddenly stopped typing, unable to fight a sudden, but overwhelming, sickness. He hurried to the bathroom, blaming his sickness on a simple case of nerves. Who wouldn't be nervous? Stiles mused. They're all depending on me.

Drawn back to his PAD as if possessed, he reviewed his written legacy. He reviewed what he just wrote as if reading for the first time a draft in someone else's hand. He erased the last paragraph with a vengeance, futilely hoping it would flee his memory as easily as it disappeared from his PAD, but the indelible mark in his mind remained. He replaced the missing paragraph with another.

A hundred times we should have failed, but did not. A hundred times a hundred times I lost hope, but did not waiver. A hundred times a thousand times I've questioned my decisions, but they were done for the good of the mission. I have but one purpose: bring this ship back to humanity. And nothing, including my life, can stand in the way.

-Captain Stiles F. Essen, UCSA Sampson K. Perry, T-Minus six and a half hours to jump.

Stiles spent the remainder of the long, chill evening staring at his screen, enmeshed in the silence that had become his companion.

* * *

Jimmy felt totally refreshed in the morning. He took a quick shower—the last one for the next 110 days—and slipped into the fresh CT-suit he requisitioned through the manufactories the previous evening. Yesterday was his turn as ship's steward, and his final duty of the day was the recycling of the crew's old jump uniforms. For today, being the most important day of the mission, he added something special to the uniforms; something no one would expect.

Everyone else would find their suits hanging outside their cabin doors, where Jimmy had placed them late last night, but his was lovingly waiting, neatly pressed and hanging in his closet next to his bed.

He zipped the jersey with the formality of an old admiral, and ran his right hand along the left sleeve, relishing the silky feel of the life-giving suit. His fingers lingered near the top, just below the shoulder.

The CT-suit was almost a friend, and would sustain them for the next three months in K-T-space—twenty years of normal space—while the sophisticated suit flooded nutrients into their slumbering bodies. He walked to the mirror and turned his body side-to-side, admiring the dapper view.

He was so proud of his work. "Yeah, Jimmy; you did good," he told his reflection. "You look like someone that could save the universe!"

He glanced at the wall chronograph and noticed that he still had an hour to go before chow at 0600. That was fine with him; it would give him plenty of time to posture in front of the mirror.

* * *

"So, Jimmy," Peter accused sternly, "everyone else is here already, and has claimed ignorance. I guess that makes you the culprit." Peter made a point of sounding angry.

Stiles and Peter joined Henrietta and Ali in the galley a little before 0600. The talk at the breakfast table was on the new CT-suits, which was unusual because it ignored the elephant in the room; their impending jump.

"W-what are you talking about?" Jimmy asked. He looked guilty as sin.

Peter relaxed his stony face and smiled, "The CT-suits."

Relief washed over Jimmy's face. He looked at everyone for confirmation, happy he was not in trouble. "Oh." He started to beam. "You like 'em?"

"I think they're wonderful!" Henrietta remarked.

"Looks like a monumental waste of time and resources to me," Stiles threw in.

Applied to each left shoulder was a shiny embossed patch. It was a three-inch wide circle with a fierce scorpion in orange outline framing a burning yellow-red sphere. The creature had a razor-sharp stinger poised over its head and was obviously itching for a fight. Strung along the centerline of the scorpion were a dozen bright points of white representing the stars of the constellation. In the background—occupying the band of space between the bloated body of Antares and the edge of the patch—was a deep star field with faint yellow wisps. Bold silver letters dominated the lower quadrant, spelling out "Antares Rangers."

"So this is what you've been secretly working on these past few days." Ali remarked.

"Yep. I thought it'd give us a sense of identity."

"And here I thought you were plotting a mutiny," Stiles suggested.

"I was," Jimmy joked, "but that didn't stop me from designing this in my spare time."

Henrietta got up and strutted across the galley, modeling the new look. She turned suddenly, like a secret agent ready to strike. "Do I look mean?" she asked.

"No meaner than usual, Doc," Ali replied. "But I've always been scared of you."

Henrietta pouted. She then flexed her muscles with her arms down low, body-builder style. "You'd better be," she warned. She made sure her new patch was facing the threatened crowd, like a shield of protection. Everyone but Stiles laughed.

"Well," Jimmy added, "I figured if we ran across anyone in our travels, we should let 'em know we mean business. Let 'em know we aren't pushovers."

Henrietta relaxed her pose and put her arm around Jimmy, squeezing him tightly, "We are a team, after all. Time we start acting like one. I—for one—feel proud wearing this."

"Me too," Peter replied. He put his arm next to Henrietta's, comparing them to make sure the patches were identical. "They are pretty neat," he added with a hint of a giggle.

Perry hummed, wanting to be included in the new conversation. "Am I a Ranger too?" he asked.

"Actually, you are," Jimmy said. "I have a wall plaque designed that I planned to hang by the security room, like a squadron symbol. But I couldn't justify wasting any more resources on it until we get more supplies. But soon as we can, I'll have it manufactured. That way, it'll be the first thing visitors see when they enter the ship."

Jimmy's response made Perry purr.

As if on cue, everyone quieted down, giving each other the chance to soak up their new identities as the Antares Rangers, a hand-chosen, elite fighting force from the powerful human species.

After a moment of reflection, Stiles broke the spell. "Well, if we're all done with this silly mutual-admiration society meeting, I want you all to report down to medical in thirty minutes. There's something we need to do prior to the scheduled jump. And, Null-Grav, make sure you get something to eat; you'll need it to carry you through the next three months."

Ali gathered up the dirty breakfast plates as Jimmy whipped up a quick breakfast. It was time for the Rangers to stop playing games and snap back to the tasks at hand.

* * *

Stiles walked into medical with Jimmy and Ali close behind, where they found Peter lying under the med unit. He sat still as a statue, patiently waiting for Henrietta to position the injector. He looks so vulnerable, lying there, Stiles thought. Stiles had to do everything he could not to look disgusted as he took in the scene. He decided not to bother making the effort. "You two almost done over there?" he asked in loathing.

Peter winced as the medication passed into his body. "Excuse us," Henrietta countered in annoyance, "we didn't realize you'd barge in without knocking."

Henrietta finished the treatment and rolled her chair away, allowing Peter to snap up his jersey. Reaching her desk, Henrietta stopped her motion with an angry, outstretched arm and finally answered Stiles, "Now we're done."

Peter slowly weaved away from the med unit and lurched into a nearby chair.

"You alright?" Stiles asked suspiciously.

It took Peter a moment to reply. "Yeah, I'll be fine. It just feels weird when that stuff starts messing with my blood."

"Sure; if you say so. Okay, listen up," Stiles began.

"Oh, not another great idea," Jimmy complained.

One-two-three, Stiles counted silently. "As I was saying, this jump needs to be perfect, and I'm determined to have us do everything in my power to pull it off. Perry's still unreliable in my book; much of his memory needs to be rebuilt and his navigation system is worthless."

"It's not that bad," Jimmy argued.

Perry hummed. "Actually, Jimmy, Captain Essen is essentially correct. There is a high probability that—left exclusively to my present abilities—we stand a fair chance of experiencing noticeable navigational errors during the upcoming jump."

"Shush! Don't say that in front of the captain," Jimmy warned playfully.

"Real funny," Stiles suggested. "So we're going to do everything we can to help Perry out. To do that, Henry, please make up five syringes with enough epinephrine to keep us awake as long as possible as we transition into K-T-space."

"What's epinephrine?" Ali asked.

"It's only adrenalin," Henrietta replied. "It's a mild stimulant; something your body produces naturally when it is alerted. The shots will produce an artificial adrenalin rush."

"Yeah," Stiles continued, "exactly. So as I explain what needs to be done, get the stuff made."

Henrietta flinched at the rude command, but let it pass, ordering up a batch of epinephrine as Stiles explained what he had in mind.

"I want everyone strategically stationed in case Perry needs help. I want fingers on critical buttons, ready to be pushed.

"So, Ali, as soon as we're done here, I want you in engineering; Jimmy, you go to missile control; Henry, I want you in the forward sensor room; and finally, Peter and I will go to the bridge. Peter will take nav and I will monitor everything else at the conn. Most of us will also be prepositioned for any actions needed after we come out of K-T-space—hopefully with little to no lag—but Henry, your main job will be as we jump. I want you to keep the target star in the crosshairs for as long as you can stay awake; line up the jump as accurately as we can when it is first being set up. That will give us our best chance of exiting at the spot we're targeting. Everyone, take your stim-shots at your stations, just before we jump."

"Makes sense to me," Peter conceded.

"Of course it does," Stiles said, "that's why I thought of it. Perry won't have access to any maps, so whatever you do, Henry, keep us in the groove. Perry, I want absolutely no chatter from you; it distracts you. We concentrate only on the jump until we enter K-T-space. Once the jump engines spin, we go radio-silent, and everything we do is for the jump, and only for the jump. That includes all PA traffic. Any questions?"

"What if something goes wrong?" Jimmy asked.

"It won't. We need food; without it we all die. Therefore, this jump has to work—period. There are no other options. Perry, the only 'abort' order you can accept is from me at the conn, or from Ali, if he sees something wrong with the engines. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Captain Essen," Perry replied.

"Alright," Stiles concluded. "Once we confirm jack-in, its total concentration! Let's do this, people."

Jimmy and Ali headed their separate ways after getting their syringes from Henrietta. Stiles looked at Henrietta who was still sitting at her desk, wondering what was taking so long.

"You waiting for an invitation?" Stiles asked her.

"No," she glanced up hurriedly, "I just have a couple things to throw out from Peter's treatment. They are slightly radioactive and they can't sit around the living spaces for long. It'll just take me a couple minutes to dispose of them. If I leave them here, we'll have a hot spot waiting for us when we come out of jump."

She scurried around her office, gathering vials and tubes. She glanced up at Stiles, "Don't worry; I'll be in the sensor room within five minutes. Go. Do what you need to," Henrietta suggested with an impatient wave.

"You need any help here?" Peter asked.

"Nah, I know where everything is. You guys have enough to worry about. It'll just take me a few minutes."

"Okay. See you at the other end, Arietta," Peter said. He looked at Stiles, "Ready, Stiles?"

Stiles reluctantly led Peter out of medical toward the lift, leaving Henrietta behind. They waited for the lift in silence like two strangers. Stiles fidgeted with his collar while they waited. "Perry, to be sure you're not distracted, I want the whole ship at 'Privacy Levels' now, except for the bridge and engineering."

Perry hummed, obviously disappointed. "Complying...." The background white noises on the ship went silent as a mouse.

"Don't you think that's a little extreme?" Peter asked.

The lift arrived. Stiles glared at Peter. "Hey, it's one extra variable taken care of. One less distraction for the ship."

They entered the lift, settling in on opposite sides of the small space, as if subconsciously wishing the other was not there. Breaking through the awkwardness of the sudden silence, Stiles offered, "You must be getting pretty used to getting injections by now. I mean, with all those treatments."

"Not really. I hate them," Peter clipped.

They traveled up through deck two. "Yeah, me too. Here," Stiles said handing Peter his syringe, "stick that thing in me; I don't think I can do it to myself."

Peter took the offered needle and slipped it into an injection port on Stiles' shoulder.

As the needle penetrated Stiles' skin, he flinched. "Ouch, that hurts!"

The lift advanced to deck three, the one that was twice as high as the others. "Sorry," Peter offered.

"No problem," Stiles replied meekly. "Okay, turn around, I'll do you now." He palmed the syringe Peter gave him and took out another one he prepared earlier, this one containing a strong sedative. Stiles counted on all the evidence of the drug working its way out of Peter's body within the long scheduled jump. Stiles injected the needle into Peter and depressed the plunger.

The lift continued to climb through deck three.

"Oh, I feel dizzy... gravity in a space elevator, huh?" Peter slurred, rubbing his forehead. He wobbled on his feet and slumped down onto the lift's floor like an empty sack.

The lift continued on its way, oblivious of its contents, and passed through armscomp on deck four. Jimmy was somewhere on this deck, just outside the passing lift. Stiles cringed, hoping the lift would not make an unscheduled stop. He gathered Peter's limp body and hefted him up on a pair of shaky legs that became weaker by the minute. The lift continued upward toward deck five, to the officer's quarters, and to an uncertain fate of which Peter was blissfully unaware.

With relief, Stiles saw the deck five indicator light turn on. He arrested the lift and waited forever for the door to open. He peeked out and, seeing nobody nearby, dragged Peter through the corridors to his cabin. With a quick jab of his elbow, Stiles opened Peter's door, shuffled his body inside the cramped room, and unceremoniously shoved him onto his bed. He carefully jacked-in Peter's CT-suit and made a rapid exit back to the lift. He breathed heavily from the exertion and paused for a second to catch his breath, as well as his waning composure.

Just before he called for the lift, Stiles heard it coming up on its own from below-deck. Someone's inside. It must be Henry coming up. He pulled his finger away from the button at the last second, allowing the lift to pass by unimpeded. That was close! Stiles' heart rate picked up to frantic levels.

Stiles waited a few minutes before calling the lift again. When it arrived, he desperately hoped no one would be inside. The door opened in super-slow motion.

It was empty. Relieved, Stiles entered the lift and hurried to the bridge. He rushed to the conn and opened the station, jacking in his CT-suit at the same time.

"Perry, open the PA for one announcement."

"You have access, Captain Essen."

"Perry, give me a brief jack-check status. Is everyone currently jacked in?"

"Yes, Captain Essen, I—"

"That will be all, Perry," Stiles interrupted. "Henry, I assume you got that."

"Roger, that," Henrietta replied.

"Fine. Ali, prepare the engines. I'll issue the command in a moment. I need to check one more thing. Perry, initiate ship-wide secrecy levels for a moment. I'll tell you when to open up the bridge and engineering in a few minutes. Ship-wide secrecy levels can be cancelled after we come out of jump."

Fully committed now, Stiles flew out of the command chair and back to Peter's room. He opened the door, expecting an army of phantoms to jump out at him. Instead, he saw Peter's limp body crumpled in his bed, just as he had left him. As quickly as he could, he disconnected Peter's jack and rolled him onto the floor. Peter fell with a faint grunt. Stiles lifted Peter's shoulders and pointed his head, face down, toward the exit.

Stiles could not resist the urge to wipe his hands on his trembling pant legs. No matter how hard he rubbed they still felt dirty. Stiles turned toward the door.

In his spiraling imagination, Stiles could hear Peter silently call to him over his retreating shoulder, but Stiles was unable to turn and look back at the scene he created. Closing the cabin door, he rode the lift back to the bridge, entered the command center he so recently exited, and reconnected his jump-jack. The whole excursion took less than a minute, not realizing the portal to hell had been so close.

He pressed the initiation screen icon causing the nav screen to turn from red to orange. Stiles turned the solo yellow key, initiating a flood of numbers.

Stiles opened a direct link to engineering. "All right, this is it. Ali, spin up the engines."

"Hey, I've been calling for you, man; where you been?" Ali asked.

Stiles grimaced. "Uh, Peter got sick after we got to the bridge, so I brought him back down to his room. He's out for the count. Must be that treatment of Henry's. Maybe the epinephrine was too much for him?"

"Aw geez; poor guy. He's really been through the mill. Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, it will be now. I took care of everything. Perry, return to monitoring mode for engineering and the bridge only."

"Communications are reestablished, Captain. I am waiting for jump to begin."

Stiles was certain the mission would succeed now that his rightful place was firmly established. The final obstacle was now out of his way—or soon would be.

"Cool," Ali replied. "Okay, here it goes...."

* * *

After Henrietta handed out the syringes and cleaned out the radioactive markers from the disposal bin, she thought ahead to what would occupy the next fifteen minutes of her life. She was placed in charge of keeping Perry on his appointed route for one of the most important jumps in human history, and just three short weeks ago she did not even consider becoming a starship navigator. Now here she was—as the saying went—"up to her elbows in alligators."

She shut down her computer and the remaining power in her medical clinic and opened the hatch to the corridor. Remembering the two or three additional duties she was responsible for, she hurried back to her desk and at the last minute picked up an electronic med-PAD. Programming as she went, Henrietta made her way to the forward sensor room in the upper nose of the ship, smoothly passing nonstop through every deck of the ship.

She opened the tiny access hatch, entering the room to the far right. Starboard, she corrected herself.

The room looked so alien and... well, technical... to her. It was filled to overflowing with bulky sensor stations. It was barely lit with dull, dark-green lighting, designed so the officers could concentrate on their screens. Normally, six techs and two electronic warfare supervisors would be on-station in the small room. In actuality, it was not much larger than three crew quarters jammed together, but sitting all by herself at the main sensor display, at the center of the room, the place looked gigantic to the young, frightened girl.

The first thing Henrietta did after she sat down was jack in her CT-suit. She rotated the connector to ensure a good contact. Next, she injected the epinephrine into her system and felt the sudden jolt of energy. She carefully threw the syringe into a disposal bin, laughing at the thought of becoming so meticulous with medical wastes. Then, after ensuring she was okay, she flipped on her screen to be greeted by a red warning background. Bright, blinking cyan letters at the bottom of the screen cautioned her about the current inadequacies of the navigation system, reinforced by an annoying little chime.

"Destination set to unknown stellar system, 48 AU from central star. <<<WARNING... WARNING>>> Jump cannot occur under present conditions. Do not attempt to enter K-T-space." At the lowest part of the screen was a scrolling banner with the words: "System lock-out -- System lock-out \--"

The target star blinked in the middle of her screen, precisely centered in the bull's-eye of an orange-red, cross-haired reticule. She grasped the joystick jutting out at the edge of the desk and experimentally nudged it slightly to the right. The reticule shifted off center, causing the star to cross over the second concentric circle outward from the bull's-eye. The reticule turned muddy-brown in response. Quickly, she brought it back to its soothing orange-red color.

The PA unexpectedly came to life, startling Henrietta half out of her chair. It was Stiles' voice. She braced herself, expecting to be yelled at for messing with the navigation routines.

"Perry, give me a brief jack-check status. Is everyone currently jacked in?"

"Yes, Captain Essen, I—"

"That will be all, Perry. Henry, I assume you got that."

"Roger, that," Henrietta replied.

"Fine. Ali, prepare the engines. I'll issue the command in a moment. I need to check one more thing. Perry, initiate ship-wide secrecy levels for a moment. I'll tell you when to open up the bridge and engineering in a few minutes. Ship-wide secrecy levels can be cancelled after we come out of jump."

Henrietta sat at her lonely station, staring at her red screen. The shrill electronic warning and her mounting nerves chilled her to the bone; she felt like the only person left in an unforgiving universe. She flipped open the PA and tried to contact engineering; nothing happened. She tried the bridge, hoping to talk to Peter before the jump began; again, there was no signal. The universe continued to close in on her.

Henrietta concentrated on long, steady breaths, trying to fight the building adrenaline streaming through her veins. If she was not careful, she might begin to panic in the murky, claustrophobic room. "Perry, are you there?"

There was no response from the faithful ship. She remembered it was probably best not to disturb Perry's concentration right now anyway, and realized with reluctance that Stiles was correct stopping them from their usual mindless chatter.

Unexpectedly, she found herself missing Perry's presence with a terrible hollowness, wishing he was back in the room. She sat still for a minute, frozen in time and separated from all of humanity, staring at the evil, red screen.

C'mon, Stiles; what are you waiting for? Henrietta's knee trembled in mindless nervousness.

Without warning, the screen turned orange. The annoying chime turned into an almost-pleasing strumming chord.

"Destination set to unknown stellar system, 48 AU from central star. <<<CAUTION... CAUTION>>> Jump cannot occur under present conditions. Do not attempt to enter K-T-space." Underneath scrolled: "System initiation commencing -- System initiation commencing --"

Finally, Henrietta thought with a sigh, something's happening. Her heart settled, knowing the end was near. She stretched her knuckles and prepared to take hold of the form-fitted joystick, unsure of when the action would begin.

Her screen began a slow fade to yellow. The accompanying tone sounded pleasing, like a song she could listen to for a long time. In the lower part of the screen, the message changed yet again.

"Destination set to unknown stellar system, 48 AU from central star. <<<CAUTION... CAUTION>>> Jump will be possible in two minutes. Blue key initiation strongly suggested. Entry into K-T-space imminent...." Below the system information scrolled, "FTL engines beginning to spin -- FTL engines beginning to spin --"

She felt a growing vibration as the powerful Krenholdtz-Turner engines came to life.

I hope I can do this, Henrietta lamented. Her nerves were working overtime as she realized the importance of what she was about to do. Her knuckles turned white as she squeezed the critical joystick with both hands. Henrietta felt like she was riding a dragon, barely able to control its wild path. The scrolling banner stopped dancing and was replaced with an ominous countdown, causing her to flinch as each number changed.

"90... 89... 88...."

The seconds remaining to the crew in the comforts of normal space slowly ticked away.

Nervous energy flowed through Henrietta's body. God, I hate K-T-space. She shook herself like a swimmer preparing to dive into a cold pool. Oh crap! She suddenly remembered her med-PAD and, keeping one hand locked on the joystick, barely activated the PAD with the tip of an outstretched finger.

"... 87... 86... 85...."

Henrietta felt a slight vibration and wondered what part of the jump sequence that alarm represented, but she could not recall anything like that in the simulations she sat through. Are they aborting the jump? Henrietta wondered. Her med-PAD, growing angry over being ignored, went to the next level of alarm and beeped like a heart monitor signaling a Code Blue.

"My med-PAD!" she cried. Henrietta dared not take her hands off the joystick, so she glanced over her shoulder at the mobile PAD just off to her side. She was barely able to glimpse the scrolling text, outlined in an intense red.

"Jump Disconnect -- Jump Disconnect: Campbell, Peter."

"Ohmigod!" Henrietta screamed. Peter was not set for jump and the deadly sequence had already begun.

"Perry! Answer me; emergency override!"

The ship ignored her frantic pleas.

What do I do? Panic now hit her in the stomach with full-force.

Henrietta tried to connect to the bridge, but was locked out. She then tried Ali in engineering, but to no avail. All internal communications were shut off. She was totally isolated from anyone who could possibly help her.

Stiles, and his stupid, stupid ideas!

Henrietta stared helplessly at the navigation screen, with her unsteady hand keeping the jump destination centered, and the countdown ticking the precious seconds away. And each brief, unstoppable second was one less heartbeat remaining in Peter's life.

* * *

Stiles sat in his command chair, watching the numbers slowly dissolve. He knew each was a brief second, but wondered why they felt more like the passing of an hour.

Stiles' body numbed and he felt a chill permeate his bones, freezing his marrow. He wondered if some Native Spirit had reached out to steal the healthy cells in his bones to give to Peter for his final trip to an Indian eternity. Maybe it was Peter's grandfather, looking out for him in his final moments. He could see the evil grin on that old man's face slowly fade away. Stiles' vision grayed as he concentrated on the dwindling numbers dancing before him.

"... 3... 2... 1...."

The agonizing hours finally passed, allowing Stiles to breathe a long sigh of relief.

As his body felt the first jolt of entering K-T-space, Stiles heard an alarm blaring to his front. At first it went unheeded—like it was muffled in a thick blanket of snow—but it persisted, not allowing itself to be ignored. It came from the vacant navigation station—the one Peter should have been attending. Stiles could not recall how long it had been screaming. It was a critical alarm that he failed to notice until it was too late to do anything about.

* * *

Ignoring the nav screen in the sensor room, Henrietta grabbed the med-PAD and activated its voice command, "Where is Campbell, Peter?"

*CAMPBELL, PETER WAS LAST DETECTED IN OFFICER CABIN A-12.*

Henrietta tore her jack connection away from her CT-suit and stumbled out of her station. She looked for a direct exit but found instead that she was lost in a sea of instruments.

The PAD shouted another warning message, this time uselessly delivered, *JUMP DISCONNECT -- JUMP DISCONNECT: MOREIRA, HENRIETTA.*

She ignored the warning.

From the corner of her eye, Henrietta watched the orange-red reticule morph from brown to black as the target star drifted far off to the side of the screen.

As she found her path and ran to the lift, Henrietta checked the status of the other three boys. They were all still safely in jump-green. In the split of a second, she needed to decide where to go before the sluggish lift arrived: one deck down to the bridge, or an additional deck down to Peter. In an additional split second—before the lift door could open—Henrietta foresaw that Stiles would likely take too long to convince, trying to understand her ravings that were sure to be frenzied. The lift door slid open. She lunged in. Henrietta stabbed "Deck 5 – Crew Quarters."

She squeezed the only thing at hand to take out her frustrations—the precious med-PAD. "Oh, Peter... oh, Peter...." She switched the display to "Jump Status" and listened to the countdown.

*... 43... 42....*

She willed the lift to fall faster, but it ignored her desires and continued onward with its slow, sadistic torture. After a lifetime, the door finally relented, pouring Henrietta out into the corridor.

*... 27... 26....*

The distance from the lift to Peter's cabin—normally only a skip away—now seemed a mile to Henrietta. Rushing to his door, she burst through and found Peter's unconscious body crumpled on the deck.

"Peter!" Henrietta shouted, but he did not respond.

Falling to her knees, Henrietta dropped the med-PAD and rolled Peter's limp body over onto his back. She felt a faint heartbeat. It was just barely present.

*... 19... 18....*

With superhuman strength—assisted by the epinephrine coursing through her veins—Henrietta lifted Peter and shoved him onto his bed. It took precious second to force him onto his back to reveal his connector.

*... 8... 7... 6....*

Henrietta reached for the dual jump connectors on the wall, just above the mattress. She grabbed for one in frantic desperation and jerked it loose. In sheer panic, she fumbled with the jack in one hand, and Peter's CT-pin in the other. Staring at Peter's serene face, Henrietta felt his connector firmly snap into place.

*... 3... 2... 1....*

Henrietta began her uncontrolled fall to the bed. She hit an invisible wall instead. Time failed to continue. In the blink of an eye, she felt her beating heart slow from ninety beats a minute to one. At that moment she knew she was destined to die.

In an instant of realization, the universe opened to Henrietta. Her head faintly buzzed and she heard a billion voices at once, calling through the void. Pure and melodious Hive voices, silently speaking to one another in loving, caressing thought; the crackling hiss and pop of Wasatti, issuing harsh commands; a thousand other strange voices she could not comprehend; and, more frightening than all the others, a million human voices crying out in agony.

Henrietta felt her body dehydrate. She recognized the signs from her medical training and knew the end was approaching. In hazy vision, she saw Peter's face dance like a mirage just inches below her suspended body. With the last few drops of epinephrine sustaining her, Henrietta reached the second connector and blindly shoved it home into her suit as the distance between her chest and Peter's sleeping body closed.

Her arm and head gently settled onto Peter's chest like feathers drifting to the ground. Her overpowering thirst was quenched as nutrients began to flow from Perry's life-giving hand. Years had passed before she settled fully to the bed, but Death had let go its icy grip.

The jumble of voices in her head ceased, making way for one; clear and strong, "Arietta, is that you?"

Henrietta's head buzzed again in faint recognition. "Yes, Peter, it's me. Rest now, we'll be okay."

A smile came to Henrietta's face as the waves of curved space gently passed through their slumbering bodies.

* * *

The Tales of the Antares Rangers will continue in Book 2: The Antares Rangers and the D'war'en Heir.

GLOSSARY

2-14 Corridor – (See Ten Colonies).

Antares (Alpha Scorpii) – M1.5 red supergiant star. Diameter: 600 million miles; age: the red supergiant phase is extremely short, several hundred thousand to a few million years (very late evolutionary stage); surface temperature: 6,000 degrees Fahrenheit. Coordinates: 16.5h, -27°; 520 l-y from Old Earth.

AU (Astronomical Unit) – Average distance between Old Earth and Sol. 1 AU = 92,956,000 miles (8.3 light-minutes).

c – The speed of light.

Chiron – Planet at Rigil Kentaurus, the primary star of the Alpha Centauri triple star system, (fourth planet of the star system); site of first extrasolar human colony. Third human world of the Ten Colonies. Colony established in 2051 prior to faster-than-light travel. Coordinates: 14.5h, -61°; 4.4 l-y from Old Earth.

CHZ (Continuously Habitable Zone) – Area surrounding a star where the resultant temperatures on a planetary surface could result in liquid water, and possibly sustain life forms similar to those found on Earth, and can stably exist for a time period long enough for life to form (through billions of years).

CT-Suit (caretaker-suit) – Suit worn by crew in a starship that sustains life during jump. The suit is connected to health monitors and sources of nutrients. The CT-suit is also used by personnel immersed in deep-teach stasis crèches.

Empire – Planet at Iota Persei (fifth planet of the star system); first planet established after faster-than-light travel. Sixth human world of the Ten Colonies. Colony established in 2200. Coordinates: 3.2h, +50°; 34 l-y from Old Earth.

EVA – Extra Vehicular Activity.

EWO – Electronic Warfare Officer.

fps – Feet per second.

FTL (Faster-Than-Light) – Superluminal travel in a starship equipped with the Krenholdtz-Turner (K-T) engine (manipulates curved space). First commercial operation: 2153.

Himalaya – Planet at Beta Hydri (second planet of the star system); home for the overcrowded population of Free India. Eighth human world of the Ten Colonies. Colony established in 2280. Coordinates: 0.3h, -77°; 24 l-y from Old Earth.

Hive – Planet at Tau Ceti (third planet of the star system); home of the alien Hive species (allies to humans). Fourth human world of the Ten Colonies. Coordinates: 1.6h, -16°; 11.9 l-y from Old Earth. (Also name of the first alien race encountered by humans, best described as green, bilateral beings made of protoplasm; mute, but telepathic.)

Hyper Limit – Distance from a gravitational source where a jump into K-T-space is possible.

HZ (Habitable Zone) – Area surrounding a star where the resultant temperatures on a planetary surface could result in liquid water, and possibly sustain life forms similar to those found on Earth.

Ice House – Planet at Sigma Bootis (second planet of the star system); frigid outpost, marking the furthest reaches of human space. Tenth human world of the Ten Colonies. Colony established in 2315. Coordinates: 14.5h, +30°; 50 l-y from Old Earth.

Jackson's Landing – Planet at Beta Comae Berenices (fourth planet of the star system). Ninth human world of the Ten Colonies. Colony established in 2305. Coordinates: 13.3h, +28°; 30 l-y from Old Earth.

Jump – (See K-T-space.)

K-T-adjusted (age) – Physiologic (effective) age of a star-traveler who has spent time in K-T-space. The difference between a traveler's K-T-adjusted and true (anchored) age is dependent upon how long the traveler has spent (cumulatively) in K-T-space (effects are exponential).

K-T engine – engine design making superluminal space travel possible. (See also FTL.)

K-T-space (hyperspace) – Region of space occupied by superluminal space travelers (between the curved surfaces of normal space). Also known as "jump" or "jump-space." Time is substantially slower than in normal space.

L-O-S – Loss of Signal.

l-m (light-minute) – Measurement of distance light travels in space in the span of one minute. 1 l-m = 11,154,720 miles (0.120 AU).

l-s (light-second) – Measurement of distance light travels in space in the span of one second. 1 l-s = 186,282 miles (0.002 AU).

l-y (light-year) – Measurement of distance light travels in space in the span of one year. 1 l-y = 5,878,630,390,000 miles (63,241 AU).

LZ – Landing Zone.

Mars – Planet at Sol (fourth planet of the star system); site of first off-planet human colony. Second human world of the Ten Colonies. Colony established in 2025. Thirty-five to sixty–three million miles from Old Earth.

Nav – Nickname for the navigation officer (or the position) on a starship. Also known as the astrogator.

New Capital – Planet at Epsilon Eridani (fourth planet of the star system); colonial capital planet. Fifth human world of the Ten Colonies. Colony established in 2095 prior to faster-than-light travel. Coordinates: 3.6h, -10°; 10.5 l-y from Old Earth.

Normal space – Region of space occupied by objects in the universe traveling at subluminal speeds, or at rest. Time and space are normal.

Old Earth – Planet at Sol (third planet of the star system); first home of the human species. Center of the Ten Colonies.

PA – Public Announcement system.

PAD – Personal Assistant Dataport (handheld computer).

rem (roentgen equivalent, man) – Measurement of absorbed radiation effects on human tissue, in equivalent dose, multiplied by particular types of radiation. The average U.S. resident receives a dose of about 360 mrem per year. 100 rem = 1 sievert (Sv).

SAR – Search and Rescue. Often refers to missions or craft assigned to those missions.

Sol – G2 main sequence yellow dwarf star; home-star of humanity (also known as the Sun). Diameter: 865,000 miles; age: 4.6 billion years (middle-aged); surface temperature: 27 million degrees Fahrenheit.

Stagecoach – Planet at Alpha Mensae (second planet of the star system); new home of the Northern Cheyenne. Seventh human world of the Ten Colonies. Colony established in 2250. Coordinates: 6h, -75°; 33 l-y from Old Earth.

Tac – Nickname for the tactical officer (or the position) on a starship.

Ten Colonies – The ten planets occupied by humanity (and their Hive allies). Also known as the 2-14 Corridor due to the imaginary plane of the ecliptic surrounding Old Earth measured in increments of "hours," where 24 hours equals 360 degrees.

UCSA – United Colonial Space Academy.

Vega Construction Base (VCB) – Asteroid at Alpha Lyrae (Vega); secret research and construction facility. Base completed in 2320. Coordinates: 18.6h, +38.7°; 25 l-y from Old Earth.

Wasatti – Insect-like alien race, of large stature, currently at war with the humans and the Hive. Details about the Wasatti and the location of their homeworld are unknown.

XO – Executive Officer (second-in-command).

###

About the author:

Frank Calcagno Jr. works as a senior engineering geologist and security specialist in the Washington, D.C. area. He and his lovely wife have two wonderful daughters. Frank has been involved in all levels of soccer for over forty years, is an amateur astronomer, an avid reader, a fan of the Napoleonic Era, and a wargame designer/developer. "The First Human War" is his first novel. It is dedicated to Theresa, the love of his life.

Other books by Frank Calcagno Jr.

The D'war'en Heir \- Book 2 of the Tales of the Antares Rangers (2011):

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/73626

The Orb of Jabbah \- Book 3 of the Tales of the Antares Rangers (2012)

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/238837

The Wasatti Empire \- Book 4 of the Tales of the Antares Rangers (2013)

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/315850

The Second Human War \- Book 5 of the Tales of the Antares Rangers (2014)

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/426375

The Centauri Project \- Prequel to the Tales of the Antares Rangers (2011)

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/109431

Murder at Midnight on a Sailboat (2011):

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/60796

Connect with Frank Online:

Smashwords:  http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/TalesoftheAntaresRangers

Find images in support of The First Human War in Frank's photo album on his personal Facebook page:  http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=26564&id=100001351802279&l=b49e99500b

Find book series information and special offers at our website at: http://www.antaresrangers.com

"The First Human War" is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. The author wishes to acknowledge the use of Wikipedia for various facts used in this book, especially in the description of the Xhosa language. The cover base photo is courtesy of NASA/courtesy of nasaimages.org. Such use does not suggest, either explicitly or implicitly, that NASA endorses any materials contained in this book.

